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shall we hold hands and head home? — an anthology ft. levi ackerman and eren

mission title: how i met your father (wc: 6.1k) | masterlist

You have a problem.

“Eren, let’s review for the entrance examination!” you call from the living room, straightening your posture after putting a couple of books you borrowed from the library you’re working in (you got the job) on the coffee table.

Almost immediately, you hear a door slam shut. Specifically, the door to Eren’s room.

You sigh, putting your hands on your hips. “Eren, this is the fifth time you’re doing this now.” He doesn’t answer from behind his bedroom door. “Eren.” Again, there’s only silence. You purse your lips as you narrow your eyes at his door.

This has been going on for three days now and there are only less than five days to prepare for Eleutheria Private Academy’s entrance examination. The day after Eren moves in, you visit the nearby bank for a withdrawal . The documents you received alongside the money contain the application forms, appointments for the examinations, and the test itself. The moment you read the first question, you instantly question whether this academy is right in the head for asking about how many hectares of land George owned or how many kilometers James trekked in five minutes with the proper direction. The questions are truly for the geniuses of this generation. It baffles you that at Eren’s age, you never had the proper education to solve or comprehend any of these. This is why you should try your hand at teaching Eren how to be a proper student. But that’s not as fruitful as you think when he’s scurrying away every time you say the word study .

It’s like he’s a kitten. A terrified kitten. And this terrified kitten is peeking through the crack between his door right now. Green eyes narrow at you. You can’t even see it but you know he’s pouting.

“Eren, you have to prepare for the exam,” you coax. The crack between his door and the frame decreases and decreases by the second. You have no choice but to bribe him. You have enough money to spare anyway. Everything you received from your organization has led to this moment. “I’m going to buy you the limited edition Super Spies blanket and a Merry Meal of two cheeseburgers from the local fast food restaurant.” The crack becomes an open door. Eren is now looking at you like you’re responsible for the positions of the constellations in the sky.

“Pinky promise?” he asks, lifting his pinky in the air.

You smile. “Pinky promise.” He runs to you and loops your fingers together. You seal it with a gentle kiss on his thumb, something that has him beaming. “You have to make sure you have to do the end of your bargain.”

Eren nods, that adorable determined look plastered on his face.

“Now, let’s start with Mathematics.”

At the subject, Eren looks like he’s about to shit himself.

Eren doesn’t like studying.

It triggers nightmares. It gives him chills and he freezes. When the scientists finished their experiments on him, they subjected him to rigorous examinations to maintain the maximum brain power needed for his abilities to occur. Every day for almost twelve hours, Eren was studying in a lab like a newly-bought pet in training. No matter how much he cried or had a tantrum, the scientists never batted an eyelash, including that bespectacled man who took part in his existence. After he escaped, he didn’t touch a single book in the orphanage, except for the times the old bat of a caretaker forced him to do so to appeal to the couples wanting to adopt him, which was quite a challenge because he would fight against it and it would lead to him getting a lashing or not getting adopted in the end.

The marks on his back start itching as he listens to you drone about the basic operations of Mathematics. Addition and subtraction he can solve with ease. But multiplication and division? He might as well listen in on the other applicants’ thoughts while answering the exam. Now, you’re moving on to more complicated parts of Math. Eren’s left eye twitches when he sees shapes and bigger numbers jumbled in the problems.

He sniffles at the one-hour mark.

“Eren?” you ask him in the middle of formulating a problem for him to answer.

His bottom lip wobbles in distress. “I can’t do this anymore!”

You gawk at him, your head bouncing between him, the wall clock, and the pile of books on the coffee table. You sigh, the sound encompassing all the incoming exhaustion leading up to the examination. “Eren, you promised, right?”

Eren looks up at you. “But this is hard, Mama!”

“I know it’s hard but you have to study to pass this test.”

“What if I just read—”

You slightly narrow your eyes at him. “Are you planning on cheating?”

Eren purses his lips shut. That’s a mistake; an act of desperation. He almost revealed his powerful weapon. He stays silent as you huff.

I already have the list of answers from this exam thanks to Hange, maybe I should just let Eren memorize them , he hears from your mind.

Eren’s face morphs into a childish wonder. That’s right, you’re an awesome spy like the main character of the show he loves watching when you’re off running errands or doing what spies do. Maybe you infiltrated a secret base with top-notch security, specifically the hidden vaults of the academy he’s about to enter and suffer from, just to get the test papers and the answers. You’re so cool. Eren keeps on staring at your side profile until you have no choice but to glance at him from the corner of your eye. The both of you regard each other, one gaze filled with admiration while the other is painted in confusion.

Then, he comes up with this brilliant idea. “I don’t want to study anymore,” he whines. He makes sure to take glances at you in an attempt to gauge your reaction. When you give him a blank stare, Eren keeps on lamenting his fate. “This is so so hard! I don’t think I’m going to pass!”

He hears a sigh. That catches his attention. “I suppose I have no choice but to do this. Eren, I hope you have room for more than one promise. You mustn’t tell anyone about this.” You fix him a stern stare, your pointer finger wagging in front of him. Eren prevents a grin from surfacing on his face. “What I’m about to do is something against my morals but since we have no time, we’re going to take a shortcut.” You take out an envelope with a stamp that says do not touch . Eren wants to touch it. His eyes brighten at the document. “This,” you wave the envelope in the air, “is an important piece of paper and it has all the answers to your future. All you have to do is to memorize every single letter in here, Eren, and then we’ll be on our merry way. Do you understand?”

“Yes!” It’s not even a second and he immediately answers. He vibrates in his seat as you raise an eyebrow at him. Maybe he shouldn’t have answered that quickly. Oh, well.

“Here you go.”

Eren takes the envelope from your hands and stares at it. All he has to do is to memorize the answers. That should be easy enough.

It’s the day of the exam and Eren doesn’t remember anything from that blessed envelope.

His eyes are shaking in nervousness. His forehead is breaking into a cold sweat. His hands are trembling to the point that he can’t hold the pencil properly. All your efforts of making him look presentable as possible went in vain when Eren looks like he was about to combust and launch himself from the window of the examination room. It’s on the fourth floor of a large Victorian building. His shaggy hair is messier than usual with all the scratching he did just to lessen this funny feeling in his stomach that’s stirring the breakfast you made earlier in the morning. Eren clutches his tummy with a scrunched face. It’s alright that he feels this way because the other applicants look way worse than him. Others are murmuring prayers under their breath, something along the lines of asking a woman named Ymir for guidance (who is that?), while some are already apologizing to their parents.

Eren doesn’t want to apologize yet. He has to finish this test first.

“D-Do you want some ointment?” A timid voice comes from beside Eren.

He turns to the voice and sees a blond boy handing him a tin of aromatic salve. “What?” Eren dumbly asks.

The boy lifts the tin. “Ointment.” At Eren’s intense gaze, he looks down at the long desk connecting their two seats. He starts fiddling with the tin container. It doesn’t help that Eren looks angry when he’s nervous. “M-My Dad gave this to me before I entered the building. He said that it helped my older siblings when they took their exams, too. He told me to open it when I feel too o-overwhelmed with the exam.” He pronounces the big word carefully and tentatively. “Y-You look like you need it.”

Eren tilts his head, regarding the tin container as if it’s an unknown flying object in his favorite show. It’s a mystery waiting to be solved. He watches as the blond boy twists the cap and almost immediately, Eren gets a whiff of something minty, fruity, and soothing all at the same time. His shoulders relax and he inhales a good portion of the air surrounding them. How can this measly item make all the butterflies in his tummy vanish? Maybe he should tell you to buy something similar, one with a container filled with stickers of his favorite cartoon characters. Eren doesn’t realize it but he’s starting to lean closer to the blond boy’s side, his nose adorably twitching the more he nears the tin container of ointment.

“Here,” the blond boy pushes it to his face.

Eren backs away when a cooling glob touches the tip of his nose.

The boy jumps as well, panicking that he probably scared off his possibly new friend. “I-I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to do that!”

Still, Eren looks at him with his tiny hands over his nose. His eyes narrow at the questionable thing that shines underneath the streaming lights of the examination venue. It’s shiny though, he gives it that.

“I’m sorry!” the boy continues to plead.

Eren glances away from the now teary-eyed boy. Great, he made someone cry. Now, if you catch any wind of this, he’s the one crying while going home. He’s never seen you mad. Frustrated, yes, but never angry that has him tucking his tail between his legs. And seeing as he never wants you to be mad at him, Eren tries to stop this boy’s tears by reaching out his hand, palm up, all the while still not looking at him straight in the eye. “The ointment.” Eren pouts. “Can I have some?”

The blond boy sniffles, his blue eyes glistening with tears. “A-Are you sure?”

Eren nods, almost a huff coming out of his mouth.

The boy wipes the tears from his face and flashes him a brilliant smile. It makes Eren squint. It’s too bright. Not as bright as your smile, though. You have the most beautiful smile in his little mind and he doesn’t squint at the sight of it. In fact, he basks in every fiber of your being. The boy says something and it brings Eren back to reality. “You have to apply it near your nose so that the scent can stay until the exam is over.” The blond boy takes a good dollop of the ointment and smears it on Eren’s hand.

Eren follows his instructions and even makes an invisible mustache around his mouth. “I’m going to tell Mama to buy this,” he says, determined to make you buy this.

“I’m glad you like it!”

“Eren.”

“Huh?”

“Eren. That’s my name. What’s yours?” Eren peeks through his eyelashes.

The boy beams. “Armin. My name’s Armin.”

A small hand waits for another. “Wanna be my friend, Armin?”

Now, the lone palm has someone intertwining with it in a handshake. “Yeah! I hope we pass this together, Eren! That way we can be classmates.”

Eren doesn’t expect to have a friend for this exam. But one thing’s for sure, he’s thankful that he was directed to this seat because Armin knows all the answers to the questions. At least that’s what he thinks. After seeing the test papers, Eren wants to go home the next minute. He knows all the answers to this but the nervousness plaguing him minutes before the start of the exam flicks the memorized letters out of his head. So, he tries reading everyone’s mind all at once. It gives him a headache but still, he perseveres. He strains himself but all he can hear is a jumbled mess of children crying in their heads. Until Armin starts mentally narrating his calculations. Visibly, Eren brightens in his seat and vigorously writes on the test paper, the lead of his mechanical pencil a pleasant sound to his ears.

Wait for a second, there’s no 10 in the choices! Armin thinks out loud.

Oh. Now, Eren’s in trouble.

Maybe praying to this girl named Ymir can help him survive this.

He wants to go home and bury himself in cuddles with you. But just like how you have a mission, he has a mission, too. Eren shuts down his mind-reading abilities and starts writing from his memory. It’s a steady flow onward.

You have your hands entwined underneath your chin as you sit in one of the chairs of the ‘waiting room’. With how this area of the academy is constructed, you’d think it belongs to a hospital. The chairs line up the hallway and you’re one of the parents who are praying to some unknown deity just to have your kid pass the exam. You know Eren can do this. Aside from making him memorize the answer sheet, you tutored him in between breaks of memorization just to jog his intellectual and technical reasoning. You still don’t have the heart to break free from your morals of straying from the path of shortcuts. It’s how you achieved where you are right now. You hope Eren took note of that philosophy while you two were studying.

The bell rings, signaling the end of a five-hour exam.

Children crying fills the silence of the waiting room. The doors to consecutive rooms burst open to small pitter-patters of shoes leading the owners to their parents. What the hell? Surely Eren didn’t cry inside his examination room.

You stand from your chair and crane your neck to find that shaggy head of brown hair. After a couple of minutes, you see Eren walking behind a group of rowdy children pushing each other. He doesn’t hold that usual annoyed expression he has when you two go out to the business district. Instead, Eren has his head down, his appearance looking more disgruntled than earlier. Did he battle something in there? You can’t help but think. Like he can feel your gaze, he slowly looks up from the patterned floor. The expression on his face upon seeing you sends a flurry of dopamine inside your body and the next thing you know, a small body clutches your leg in the tightest hug a little kid can achieve. “How was it, Eren?” You gently pull him from your leg before lifting him in the air so that you can carry him in your arms. It baffles you that at six years old, Eren can still be carried like this. He really is too small for his age.

Eren nuzzles himself into the crook of your neck and you catch a familiar scent of an ointment you smell in passing whenever you are with Mike in the headquarters. The big bear of a man briefly mentioned that it’s the rage in the continent after it was patented by someone working in the business district of Liberio, the zone of Eldian people residing in the heart of Marley. “I finished it, Mama.”

Pride settles in your chest. Your hand runs through his hair, fixing the unruly strands popping in different directions. “That’s great, Eren. You’re so amazing like that spy character you very much like.”

He giggles. “I am, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are.”

From across the hallway, you spot a head of blonde hair done in an elaborate bun, and an expensive dress adorning her figure. She is greeted by a boy sharing the same features as her. Blue eyes that are as beautiful as the sky, are the features only the Tyburs wear with dignity. Suddenly, the little boy points in your direction, the girl following his finger to you and Eren. You look down at Eren who swivels his head from your neck. “Did you make a friend, Eren?” you ask, still staring at the child in your arms. You try not to psychoanalyze the actions of Willy Tybur’s children. Hange once told you that you can be intense when you’re observing someone. Better lay low for now. With the way Eren kicks his legs in the air, you conclude that he did make a friend before the exam started.

Eren and the little boy exchange waves at each other before the former looks at you with stars in his eyes. “Yeah! His name is Armin. He’s the one who let me use this ointment. Do I smell nice, Mama?”

You heed his question and playfully inhale the area where he’s ticklish the most, right behind his ear. His giggles are a manifestation of seraphs; it makes you smile. “You do, Eren. How about we buy some of that ointment to help you in the future?”

He beams at your suggestion, nodding like a bobblehead charm.

“Okay then.”

Armin A. Tybur. The youngest in the Tybur family and the reason why it’s highly encouraged for you to put a child in this year’s academy admissions. According to the file given to you, Armin is a six-year-old prodigy who is expected to sweep the academy off its feet. Despite having no appearances in public, the maids and tutors working in the Tybur estate mentioned that the little boy started learning how to read when he was only two years old. He even wowed his family by expressing highly advanced emotional intelligence when normal people couldn’t even begin to understand emotions as adults. The Tyburs already placed their bets that the boy won’t have friends while attending an institution that’s open to the general public (in other words, those who have money and wits).

Yet here’s your child befriending such a genius recluse on the day of the examination no less. Eren can be the key to understanding more of the Tyburs than you originally thought. At first, you planned to be closer to the Tyburs by being a part of the parent organizations but with this opportunity in your arms, you’re presented with something that puts Eren on a much more purposeful path.

“How about some ice cream on the way home, Eren?” you propose.

“Really?!”

“Really.”

“I want the new flavors, Mama!”

“Anything you want, Eren.”

The mail always comes at seven in the morning.

You open them at nine after your morning routine has settled you in a fresher mindset and a new set of clothes.

On the table a week after the examinations is a plate of breakfast, a glass of juice, a cup of caffeinated tea, and the mail that has been delivered hours before. Eren is happily gobbling spoonfuls of chocolate chip waffles into his mouth as if it’s his last day on Earth and you’re occasionally taking sips of your preferred flavor of tea as your eyes trail on the envelopes with various stamps. You recognize a few of them containing codes that only the Wings of Freedom formulated for any undetected letter sending but your eyes unconsciously move to an intricate piece of scented paper with a wax candle for a seal.

The seal says Eleutheria Private Academy in elegant, cursive letters.

Your breath hitches. The result of the entrance exam is here. You take a quick peek at the little boy oblivious to today’s mail. You try calming yourself down — taking a deep breath while closing your eyes. It’s such a waste to open such an expensive letter but you hardly care now that it carries the fate of your mission. It doesn’t even crinkle at your hold. The seal pops off from the paper and the scent of something floral drifts inside the dining room.

Eren now stares at you. “What’s that, Mama?”

You internally cringe. “The result, Eren.”

The boy gulps down his waffles.

You’re acting as if you’re the one who took the exam. You gingerly take the folded letter from the envelope. The floral theme of this piece of paper mocks you. You faintly hear Eren jump down from his seat in front of you, his small footsteps nearing you until he’s leaning on your knees. “Are you ready, Eren?” He nods at your question with wobbly lips. You nod back before opening the letter.

“Good day!

We are so happy to inform you that your child, Eren Jaeger, passed the written—”

“Oh, my God!” you shriek. “You passed!”

Your mission is still on the go.

Without thinking twice about it, you lift Eren in the air like that cartoon he previously watched, the one where the monkey presents the lion cub to all of the savannahs to see and marvel. You’re the monkey and Eren’s your lion cub. The pride you felt during the entrance examination doesn’t compare to the pride you feel right now. It’s all-encompassing. You can take on any villain right now. The rush inside your veins pushes you to plant kisses all over Eren’s face, his giggles coloring the dining area with the most vibrant hues and shades known to humanity. It’s contagious and it has you laughing along with him. You dance with him in this imaginary tune, your journey leading you to the couch inside the living room. The laughter coming from the two of you dies down a couple of minutes later.

“Did I do good, Mama?” Eren asks you against your chest.

You happily hum, hugging him close to your heart. “You did very well , Eren.”

Eren giggles, nuzzling more into you.

As he relishes in your warmth, you finish reading the letter in your hands.

“The second phase of the admissions is a mandatory family interview. Both parents must attend with the applicant. Absolutely no exceptions. Failure to meet this condition will amount to immediate termination of the application.”

Fuck.

Eren flinches in your hold.

“Why?!” you whine. “Why do they need both parents?!” It’s unbecoming of you to whine.

Eren lifts himself from you. “But I don’t have a Papa!”

“That’s the problem — there is no Papa.”

Where will you find someone who will stand in as your husband?

Levi finds himself in a predicament.

Once a dweller of the ‘Underground City’, the most dangerous place in the continent, it’s befuddling to know that he never leaves any traces of himself after a kill. This is why, as an assassin, nobody has ever uncovered his tracks except for the type of wounds he inflicted on his targets. When one sees holes in the chest right above the heart, that’s the work of Midnight. After his tenth kill he realizes that murdering people undetected runs in the family, only this time, he has an edge compared to his uncle who is literally called The Ripper in Marley and her neighboring cities. Levi kills people who are threats to the government or threats to the clients who hire his services even if those who hire him aren’t ideal citizens, to begin with. He doesn’t even like the lifeless eyes staring at him when he digs his stiletto knives into their chests. He does this to purge humanity of the miasma plaguing its core.

If he wants to continue this gig of his, he has to prove to the government that he’s not a spy. Because right now, he stares from the window of his other job in the City Hall. An Eldian employee of thirty years of age is being dragged by the authorities for being an unmarried man. The man’s screams are piercing and the whispers that follow are ruthless. This is what Marley does to Eldians who reach the age of thirty with no house or family to come home to. They think that by being married under their laws, one pledges their life to the cause and vision of the nation, that there’s no reason for them to betray Marley. Levi thinks it’s bullshit.

“Poor man,” a coworker whispers. “Well, it can’t be helped. It’s better to be wary instead of letting them run around here.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

Marleyans.

Levi rolls his eyes and goes back to his desk in one of the large offices.

“Levi!” An irrelevant human being calls for him.

“What?”

The man leans over his divider. “You’re still unmarried, right, and you’re what thirty-five?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Yeesh, you look older,” the man grimaces. “Better hurry up and find a dame or else you’re the next coworker to be tortured by the Military Police.”

You don’t have to say that again . Levi rolls the sleeves of his button-up to his elbows and starts typing whatever document their manager ordered him to do. On better days, Levi would have stabbed that stingy manager in the chest but seeing as he poses this law-abiding citizen with a penchant for tea and hand sanitizers, he chooses to type whatever shit this is. The man continues droning about whoever he finds attractive these days and who he’s planning on marrying but Levi doesn’t listen one bit.

On second thought, maybe finding someone to pose as his wife would be the best solution. Then again, it’s also a win-win situation when this country hunts down all the bachelors and bachelorettes they have their sights on. Preferably, he wants someone who can comply with whatever condition he throws on the table or someone who’s not that noticeable for his coworkers to suspect. Before he can prevent his mouth from opening, he says the stupidest thing he ever said in his lifetime.

“I’m actually married.”

“What?! For real?”

“I heard that! Dom, you owe me fifty bucks!”

“God damn it!”

Now, Levi starts digging his grave for the sake of his other, more important career and life.

This is all he can think about until he’s on his night job.

Bodies surround him in this presidential suite booked by one of the mafia leaders working on the surface. Someone gurgles their blood, clearly alive despite the wounds, and Levi throws his stiletto knife right in the middle of his forehead without looking. It hits its target and the gurgling dies down. Hours before, this suite is bouncing with sound waves of a random Bossanova song. Women are sitting on every bastard’s lap and money is thrown everywhere without care. Now, the women are safely escorted out but not before Levi pushes a specific nerve to make them forget what happened on this night. The bastards create this painting on the suite’s floor, another one of Midnight’s masterpieces. It’s an elaborate abstract one entailing the dirty deeds of humanity — the perfect shade of red splattered on a dark canvas, with no light for days on end.

Levi sighs, his head tilting to the ceiling. He realizes that there are rips on his black suit. Great, he should visit the tailor shop by his apartment first thing in the morning. For now, it’s another sleepless night of never regretting where he is right now. He’ll put the wife-hunting on tomorrow as well.

The grandfather clock of the suit rings through the room.

Midnight welcomes another day and it’s tomorrow already.

“I fucking hate the world.”

“ Midnight ?”

“Yes?”

“ I have a client for you. ”

“...”

“ He goes by the name Lobov and he wants a man named Erwin Smith dead .”

The line goes dead. The dealer is always like this — cutting to the chase, considering no questions. He dials another number as soon as the call is dropped.

“Farlan, I need you to look into someone.”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“Erwin Smith.”

Keyboard clacks reverberate from the other side of the call.

“Hmm. Are you sure he’s a real person?”

“Why would I ask for you to look into him when he’s not?”

“Okay, okay, geez.” Another round of keyboard clacking. “Wow, his files are locked in the database.”

“Who are the people in his close circle?”

Farlan whistles. “Are you going through the “ getting close to subordinates to take down someone” route? Damn, okay.” It takes him a minute. “I found something. Belladonna.”

“What?”

“Someone named Belladonna is his closest ally. Get close to her and you’ll be closer to your target.”

“Belladonna, huh?”

“She’s a spy of Eldia, Levi. Be careful.”

One would think you’re too excited to put Eren in this private academy. With his application still in processing, you’re already taking him to the tailor shop to have his uniform fitted. You’re one pretentious, confident mother who fully trusts her son to further explore his academic prowess in a place full of prodigies and children of those who treat money like passing interests.

“Your son is an adorable one, madam,” the owner of the tailor shop gushes as she takes Eren’s measurement. The little boy is trying so hard to make himself taller by standing on his tippy toes.

You chuckle, leaning on the countertop and watching your son do the most ridiculous faces. “He is. He’s so excited to go to this school that he can’t wait to have his uniform already.”

“Eleutheria Private Academy, huh?” The tailor stands up to write down the measurements on a piece of paper that has the design of the uniform, a detailed piece with the insignia and all. “That’s one fancy school. Your son must be a genius.”

I wouldn’t say that , you silently laugh. You don’t notice Eren swivel his head toward you with a scandalized look on his face. As you open your mouth to retort something practiced, you feel a chill down your spine, your blood running cold in your veins. You inhale a sharp breath, the weight of the gun lodged in the thigh strap beneath your skirt creates this foreboding urge inside you to shoot someone. The door doesn’t ring but a person is walking in front of you, sliding past your senses in a completely predatory-like way, as if they’re a creature of the night. You turn to the person standing beside you, waiting for the tailor to accommodate him in the store. What the fuck?

Levi Ackerman .

A man nearing his thirties and has yet to be married. He’s one of the people on the list of probable marriage partners Hange gave you the night before. His file is too empty for him to be called a citizen of Marley. The only things you know about him are that he’s unmarried, an Eldian, and that he works for the City Hall under the Taxes Department. Oh, and he has no historical background. The more you stare at him in the corner of your eyes, the more he seems suspicious. How did someone like him get past the strict security of Marley? Is he a person of importance behind that office worker facade? You narrow your eyes at his appearance. Black hair neatly styled on his head, a three-piece suit with no creases, muscles straining against the material of his clothes — he’s actually attractive. There’s not a single flaw found in him. His side profile is otherworldly and makes him appear like a sculpture made by the finest artist of the century. He puts all the muses for the perfectly-proportioned man to shame.

Silver irises meet yours.

Your face burns now that you’re caught staring at this man.

“Is there something you need from me?” His voice is blunt and takes no shit. It’s almost intimidating the way he trails his eyes from the top of your head down to the toes of your shoes. “I don’t appreciate the staring.”

You fix your panicking mental state. “No, I just found you handsome, that’s why.”

His eyes widen a little. He fully turns to you. God, did the deities take time in making him? “You find me attractive?” He’s not even skeptical. You nod at his question because it’s the truth. “So—”

“Mama!”

Oh, yeah. Eren.

The man you’re talking to is the one Eren saw when he held your hand for the first time. This future of yours that he got a glimpse of is within a golden hour, lights down low and slow songs serenading the kitchen of a much cozier home. Sizzles coming from a frying pan brought the scent of a multitude of savory smells that had Eren wishing he could have a taste of the food being prepared in this vision of his. The two of you are not alone though. The black-haired man staring at you right now also stared at you in his vision, eyes softer and riddled with an overflowing efflux of love and adoration that remained superior to the present. The man was holding you close to him as you were humming along to the tune of one love song, his more muscular build swaying you to the melody. And Eren was sitting on his shoulders, looking over to watch you stir vegetables and meat, his tiny hands holding Levi's ears in a tight yet harmless grip. It was a picture-perfect family worthy of being placed in a museum.

There’s no doubt about it — Eren has to put you two together so that the future will be met.

Shit, she has a kid? Did Belladonna marry someone? How will I go about this situation now? But she’s the one Erwin Smith trusts the most. Fuck. This is the kind of thing that exposes me as an assassin. I can’t exactly terminate her now.

Eren gasps. This man is dangerous. An assassin and he’s after you? Not on Eren’s watch. But the vision didn’t show any sign of this behavior at all.

He grasps your leg tighter, his viridian eyes glaring at the man that’s supposed to be his father. He doesn’t know if he should trust this man that easily yet.

Fathers are cursed anyway.

“ I’m your father, Eren, so do as I say! Stay still and let me inject this so you could be the one who saves us all! ”

Eren shakes his head free of that memory. This is no time to dwell in the past. You’re the one who saved him from that path and you’re happy with this man in your future.

“Oh, Eren, are you finished with letting the kind lady take your measurements?” You lean down and pat his head, something that he nuzzles into. It never fails to make him feel warm. So cute , he reads your thoughts.

“Yeah!” he cheers. He loses his smile and looks up at the angry-looking man staring down at him with furrowed brows. Eren uses his so-called cuteness to hide the fact that he just read something life-threatening from this man’s mind. He tilts his head to ask, “Who’s this, Mama?”

You don’t answer the question. Instead, you turn your head to the man standing in front of you with his hands inside his pockets, expectantly waiting for him to say his name. “I believe he hasn’t introduced himself to us yet, Eren.”

“My apologies. My name is Levi.”

“Okay, Mister Levi.” Eren emerges from behind your skirt. The way he stares at Eren can be adorable but you recognize that look anywhere. It’s the same one he had when he was wiping his face from tears as he was memorizing the answer key to Eleutheria’s entrance exam. You saw it when he was trying to imitate the fighting scenes in his favorite shows. During the times Eren is trying to make himself stronger and older than he is, he has that look on his face. Your first meeting with him was there. When you saw him for the first time, it was blazing, and right now, his eyes hold the summer sun. Levi doesn’t even have time to respond because Eren opens his mouth to say, “Be my Papa!”

Maybe having this man as his new father will be the key to preventing you from getting killed, all the while becoming the best son there is. After all, Levi looked so bewitched and besotted with you in the future. Eren will make everything come true.

taglist:

@misslovingpearl

#rory's passages 🌼#spy x family au 🏡#aot x reader #attack on titan x reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader #attack on titan imagines #snk x reader #levi ackerman x you #eren aot #eren attack on titan #eren yeager #eren jaeger

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ackerfics · 1 year

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shall we hold hands and head home? — an anthology ft. levi ackerman and eren

mission title: how to have a genius child in less than a week (wc: 4.3k) | masterlist

“Belladonna, congratulations. Your mission is a success. The reward will be deposited in your account in a short while. We, the Wings of Freedom, thank you for your service yet again.”

An explosion erupts behind you as you slam the door of your car.

You sigh, rolling your shoulders and letting out a satisfied hum once some of the joints popped. With all the running around and fighting you did for the day, your entire body is screaming for you to book a hotel and let yourself sink in the plush mattress of one king-sized bed, disguising make-up gone from your face and shoulder free of secret missions. You take off the wig that’s expertly done around your head, alongside the cap hiding your real identity, tossing it on the backseat without a second glance. Your hair tumbles on your shoulders, its familiarity giving you a momentary period of peace, which was broken when the burning warehouse opened to a flurry of flaming, angered suited men. Already anticipating their arrival, you rev the car’s engine, disappearing into the twilight, and leaving behind curses of a devil stopping all corrupt wrongdoings in this territory.

While driving, you push a button on your earpiece. “Belladonna here. There was an attempted pursuit. I’m sorry for not answering right away.”

There’s a crackle in your earpiece. You can faintly hear a “Hange, no!”

You side-eye the device in your earlobe, patiently waiting for those in the Headquarters to finally talk their piece. You blend in with the traffic as you do so.

“Belle!” A loud, exuberant voice greets your hearing.

Already used to it, you only chuckle at the enthusiasm laced in between the syllables of your preferred alias. “Hello, Hange.”

“Heard the mission is a success!” Hange, the head of your organization’s technological department is one vibrant character. Having joined a few months before you, you gradually developed this sense of camaraderie with them first. It has been years since then and never did you two feel any distance wedge in your relationship, not even the literal distance separating you two because of missions that might take months to finish. Having their voice after this excruciating one makes you feel like you can easily breathe now. Your musings are cut off when you hear their next words, “Head to the train station for the next instructions, Belle. This call might be short-lived but know that you can always contact me with the phone I gave you.” They sigh. “Man, Erwin never lets you take a break, huh?”

You snicker, stopping the car at an alleyway entrance. You stretch to the backseat and take out a bag of your necessities. Thank God for the tinted windows because without any delayed second, you take off the disguise you don and hastily put on an ankle-length dress, white-heeled sandals, and a wide-brimmed hat. The car door behind you makes a loud bang, your heels leading you to the train station. You once again place an inconspicuous hand on your ear, your hair perfectly hiding the earpiece from view. “Tell me about it.”

“Well, then. See you in about a few months, Belle!”

You lightly laugh. You wordlessly thank the employee giving you your ticket. “See you when I see you.” Nothing follows. You discreetly take off the earpiece from your right ear and slide it inside one of the pockets of your bag.

“Extra! Extra! Read all about it!”

A teenage boy with light brown hair passes newspapers to a couple of hurrying passengers running after their trains. Even with the mild cursing, the boy continues to give the people folded newspapers without asking for anything in return. You walk towards him and hand him a couple of coins. In a flash, the boy’s eyes light up at the sight of you. He expertly takes one of the newspapers resting idly at the side of the pile and hands it to you. “Thank you for your purchase, miss!” With that, he scurries off and proceeds to market his newspapers to some passengers.

One of the recruits in your organization is a promising spy already. He’s one of the interns running around trying to keep up with Hange’s jittering nature. You keep a smile on your face as you board your train. Despite the heaviness of your job, there are still moments that you wish are longer than necessary. You only want to see Erwin slouching inside his office after losing a bet to one of the veterans, Hange hissing at everyone when they’re being told to take a bath, or Mike spritzing himself with his new perfume by spraying it in the air and walking through the mist. It might be a difficult job being a spy but you can’t deny that it has brought you an immense amount of experience to last a thousand lifetimes.

The downside to everything is your loss of identity.

You’ve long since abandoned your past the moment you were suggested to join the Wings of Freedom by Erwin. It didn’t even matter because you never remembered the family who brought you into the world. All you know are so many faces standing in the position of a mother and father. Which is why you chose the moniker, Belladonna. You don’t want to associate with the many houses that forced you to call them home, even the people who gave you your name. It’s sad because Hange constantly reminds you that your name is beautiful. Too bad it only gives you fever dreams of a woman caressing your head or a man lifting you in the air in glee.

Having enough of the idle musings, you cross your legs and open the newspaper the teenage boy gave you earlier.

“A pleasant day to you, Belladonna. You saved another plot from arising. We can’t afford a coup d’etat happening when we have another looming threat around the horizon. As much as we want you to enjoy a peaceful vacation on a private island, this next threat needs to be taken care of immediately.” You furrow your eyebrows at that. A picture of a long-haired man in the newspaper catches your attention. “Your next target is Willy Tybur, the true ruling force of Marley and the mastermind behind the new era of war between their nation and the entirety of Eldia. It is advised that you shall get close to him and probe into any seditious activities he may commit.” You figure that you might have to seduce another married man into submission and ruin. It’s what you do most of the time, given the fact that you’re a woman with the necessary skills to bring a man down to his knees.

“But to do that, you have to marry someone and have a child.”

You bristle, “What the fuck?!” You cough behind a dainty hand when multiple eyes flicker in your direction. “I’m sorry.” Hardening your internal resolve, you continue reading.

“There have been no reported public appearances surrounding Willy Tybur and his family. However, according to our intel, he has been attending meetings at an elite private academy ever since his first child. These meetings are for the most influential political leaders, nobles, and conglomerate owners from around the continent. Provided with that information, you are again expected to enroll your child in this school. Do keep in mind that it is a prestigious academy for gifted students. I regret to inform you that the deadline for admissions for this academy is next week.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” You can’t help but exclaim. By now, you don’t care if you garner more curious eyes from around the train. You prevent a groan of exasperation from coming out of your mouth. You can seduce married men any day but to find a child in less than a week and be convincing enough to be their mother? You have limits.

“We call this mission operation Walls. This is the key to putting a stop to the century war we have suffered from Marley. Not only do we get peace, but we will also be free from their belittlement. You and your fellow agents have become the pillar of this continent — heroes behind the curtains. You may not receive any medals nor get your name published in any newspaper like the one you’re reading right now, but always remember that every mission that has led to this point is for the betterment and hope of humanity.”

Another role to play that you never know how. The mothers you have in passing weren’t exactly ideal in any sense. You have a feeling that this mission is going to be something challenging, one that will test everything you’ve learned from being a spy.

For the first time in your career, you start thinking if you can do it — break multiple hearts.

The thought of it doesn’t sit right in your stomach and chest.

Cheers from children on the train resonate as the urban view comes in the windows. You follow their bright eyes to the sparkling city of Marley, her towering buildings gleaming against the sight of a brand-new dawn. You don’t share the excitement. Entering this city makes your stomach churn. In just a few minutes, your new mission will start and it may be the best or worst one yet. And you’re not ready for it.

It’s the first time you ever used your birth name for a mission. It’s a suggestion brought up by Erwin. At first, you expressed your distaste but seeing as this is a new world, he lays out the benefits of using your real name, one that you never disclosed even to the foster families taking you in. All they knew was to call you terms of endearment that never reached your heart. Besides, the only people who truly know your identity are the higher-ups in the Wings of Freedom. Nobody would ever expect that the heartless Belladonna has a name like the one given to you. Even Hange told you it doesn’t match you at all.

[Name]. A woman who moved to the city looking for new beginnings. An applicant for the position of librarian in the main center of knowledge known around Marley, possibly even the entire continent. This is your new life now. The mask that you will wear for the next few months. However, this mask requires a false surname. Jaeger. Hunter. Fitting for a person like you.

The apartment that you’re looking for needs to fit a family of three. It is presented in front of you in one complex in the middle of the city. Its windows, covering half of the wall, are overlooking the bustling cityscape of Marley that never rests even as the clock strikes twelve. There are five rooms in total, not including the main bathroom. The living room is spacious and sleek enough for the perfect balance of comfort and aesthetics. There are even potted plants sprinkled here and there for a bit of greenery. It is already furnished, something that you appreciated from the realtor you struck up a conversation with when you first stepped foot inside the city. After all, you paid more than necessary to have this offer.

“Then, you will need to sign here, ma’am,” the realtor touring you politely hands you a clipboard of important documents. You read through them with a quick eye. Deeming it unsuspicious, you sign your name in an elegant scrawl. You exchange smiles with the realtor as a sign of gratitude. He claps in glee, “This is a wonderful start for your family. Do you have a son or daughter, perchance?”

With your eyes crinkling at the corner, you bestow him a smile that renders him gawking. “Yes, actually. I’m picking up my child from a babysitting company around here since I finally have a place to call home now. I’m sure my sweet angel will love it here.”

The realtor beams. “Glad to be doing business with you, ma’am! May you and your family enjoy your new beginnings here in Marley!”

“Thank you for the warm welcome,” you reply with a hand over your heart.

The first item in the agenda, check.

The next one will be picking a child to foster from an orphanage.

The one Hange suggested to you over the phone is a dilapidated, poor excuse of an orphanage. One of the gates is hanging by its hinges while you enter the premises. Not a single patch of grass is seen around the building. The location is hidden from the main square of the city, which roughly took you nearly an hour to reach via a taxi. It explains why the orphanage looks like it’s begging to be shut down by the authorities.

You ring the doorbell, the shrill sound making you cringe. The door opens to an angry-looking old woman hunching over with her cane as her support. You try smiling to alleviate the tense atmosphere but it only makes the old woman even angrier if that's possible. “Good morning, I’d like to adopt a child from here.” Your face gains a sheen of sympathy. “I read somewhere that this specific orphanage is low on making adoptions. It pains me to think that the children here don't have a home for so long. You see, my husband and I have been trying and—”

“Blah, blah, blah,” the old woman spits.

“Pardon?”

She sneers at you, “Enough with that talk. You wanna adopt here? Just take whichever brat you can find and take them away, for all I care.”

You blink, “What?”

Before you can even add to it, the old woman turns around and hobbles into the main hallway, never bothering to check if you’re following her. You narrow your eyes and let yourself in the orphanage, brimmed hat now tucked in your arm.

The sight of the interior pinches your heart in the slightest way possible. You remind yourself that this is a mission but you can’t help but take pity on the children still sitting here and waiting to get adopted. They’re asking their friends who you are, pointing at your dress and heels like they’re a relic from a near-distant future.

But despite the unkempt situation, this is the perfect opportunity for you to start a faux family from scratch. This orphanage is one of those in the city that’s neglected by the public. Adopting a child without much background is the only way to go if you want to fully pass the image of a mother. Not even the best spies in the Wings of Freedom can impersonate such a role. The Wings of Freedom doesn’t accept recruits below the age of fifteen after all. It’s one of the feats of your organization that you deeply respect. Children need all the imagination and wonder they need before going into the real world. If they grow up too fast, it will ruin them in the long run. You, yourself, are a witness to it by looking in every piece of looking glass.

You perk up to get the old woman’s attention, “Excuse me. I’d like to have a child that’s adept in reading and writing.”

The old woman indignantly scoffs. “If that’s the case, I know the perfect brat for you.” She pounds her cane on the hardwood floor. “Eren, get over here!”

A boy with puffy cheeks and vibrant viridian eyes looked up from building a skyscraper with the building blocks surrounding him. You raise your eyebrows at the number of bandages plastered on his body. They’re everywhere on his knees and hands and some on his face. He’s dressed in an ensemble of a gray loose shirt messily tucked in a pair of dark brown shorts. His hair flops over his forehead, moving even when he tilts his head to stare at you and making him look—

Adorable, you think unconsciously.

Eren’s little shoulders jump, his ears and cheeks blooming with a shade of vermillion. You bite your lip to prevent a chuckle from coming out. His wide eyes become half-lidded and his bottom lip juts out in a pout at the sight of you hiding your smile with your hand. Then, the little boy’s eyes flicker to the old lady and his almost shy demeanor morphs into something angry. You choose to keep that observation to yourself for now. Once this boy is within the comforts of your new apartment will you slowly coax him to open up. At such a young age, he looks like he hates the world right now.

“Greet the woman, Eren!” The old woman snaps.

Eren looks to the side, the pout still present on his lips. “Hello.” His voice is so tiny that you have to slightly lean forward to hear it.

You smile at him. “How old are you, Eren?” You have to ask him. He looks like he’s younger than the cut-off age of the private academy you need to infiltrate. If he’s younger, then you have to find another child—

“Six!”

You blink. “Yes?”

“I’m six years old!” Eren shouts with bright eyes staring intently at you.

“You’re six?” The old woman voices out. “Since when?”

But he’s shorter than the others here, you muse in your head.

Eren’s fluffy face scrunches in determination, standing on his tip-toes.

You breathe out a light laugh. You lose the smile and glance at the old caretaker. “Can he read and write?”

Hearing your question, Eren runs back to where he’s playing with his building blocks and takes out a folded newspaper from a random table. To get it, he jumps; a sight that proves to be amusing to you. Still holding that fiery expression on his face, he runs back to you and points at the crossword puzzle at the back. You raise your eyebrows. This kid really does pull all the surprises for today. He beckons you to follow him with a small yet firm hand around yours.

For a moment, he stiffens, his eyes becoming wider as he stares at you. If possible, his eyes glow a brighter shade of green. His face holds a mixture of awe, admiration, bewilderment, and gratitude. It confuses you. Tears start brimming his bottom eyelids the more seconds tick down the hourglass. It’s almost like he’s seeing you in a completely different light from when he first saw you earlier.

“Hey, little one, are you alright?” you ask him.

Eren vehemently shakes his head. He lowers his face, his hair hiding his eyes.

Without answering your question, he pulls you to the table. He plops on one of the chairs before gesturing to you and the chair beside him. He’s telling you to sit by him and watch what he’s capable of doing. The pencil in his grip stays stationary, his head facing the paper. You can tell he’s waiting for you to plant your bottom on the chair. The moment you do so, he slightly flinches. This kid is jumpy, you surmise. Whatever is happening inside the orphanage must have made him scared at every little sound. You lean over the newspaper in front of you two.

It’s a simple crossword puzzle. You list down the answers in your head, courtesy of being homeschooled in one of your foster homes back in the day and the intense education you had to endure in the Wings of Freedom in place of a regular high school and university. As you mentally answer, you notice that Eren got everything correct, almost like he’s following what you’re thinking.

You hit the million-dollar prize.

Eren is a genius.

You turn to the caretaker after he finishes the crossword puzzle with the word onomatopoeia. “Is there any paperwork I have to sign—”

“You can take the brat.”

What an unpleasant treatment. It doesn’t faze you that Eren perks up at the words. It seems like he’s waiting his entire life to get out of this desolate place. You can’t guarantee a life of rainbows and sunshine for this little kid but at least he can get a taste of the outside world after being cooped up in here. With the way his eyes light up at the prospect of being adopted, he’s almost like a songbird in a cage. Then again, he’s only a part of your mission. With his help, humanity can prosper without discrimination, injustice, and prejudice.

You can even call him Humanity’s Hope.

You place a gentle hand on his shaggy hair. “Is this okay with you?”

Eren peeks from the tips of his hair and grins. “Yeah!”

Humanity’s Hope.

Eren can’t believe what he heard from the pretty woman’s mind. He’s Humanity’s Hope? It’s enough to make him jump for joy. This is exactly what he read in the storybooks lying around the orphanage, ones that depict heroes of great gallantry and chivalry that not even the mightiest of beasts can defeat. He wants to be strong like them, to break free from the chains wrapping around his neck from all the years of being an experiment and being a wandering soul jumping from family to family.

At the age of four, he managed to escape the clutches of an organization experimenting on children for an ultimate weapon to be used against a nation of great threat. These children would then be disguised as their age and infiltrate the nation. Children were never that dangerous after all. Eren was one of the best experiments there was in that organization. A boy was born within the facility; his birth became the opportunity the scientists wanted. He was a product of a night of debauchery between a scientist and a staff member — a mistake to anyone inside the organization. As punishment to the woman who was responsible for his birth, he was taken from her and given doses of drugs in a span of two years until he could read minds and see the future of only Eldian people. He was going to be the one to bring down Marley to her knees. Until he escaped.

Even to this day, he has dreams of a bespectacled man holding a large syringe over his veins while he struggles against the binds around his limbs. These nightmares were the reasons for the lashes on his back, with the caretaker telling him to stop disrupting the peace around the orphanage.

Now, his freedom comes within this pretty woman beckoning him to walk beside her with an outstretched hand.

“Okay, little one.”

“Eren,” he supplies, still looking up at the pretty woman.

“Okay, Eren.”

Eren puffs his little chest in pride.

“You’ll be my child from now on, alright?” You, the pretty woman, tell him, looking him straight in the eye. “As far as anyone else is concerned, you have always been my son. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” the little boy nods.

You smile at him, a genuine display of expression on your face. You inch his chubby cheek. “You are going to address me as your mother. Is that alright with you?”

Eren never had a mother. Or he doesn’t remember one, that is. There’s a blurry image of a brown-haired woman in his head whenever that word is thrown here and there but other than that, he’s always alone. This can be his chance at having one. He takes a step forward and reaches his hand to cling onto your little finger. He tilts his head, saying, “Mama.”

You chuckle. “I guess Mama’s fine. From now on, you’re going to be Eren Jaeger.”

“Jaeger,” Eren mumbles. He doesn’t have a last name either.

“Do you like it? That’s my surname, you see.”

It takes him a couple of seconds to answer, his face glowing with happiness. “Yeah, I like it!”

“That’s great!” You hold his hand properly this time. “Are you ready to see your new home, Eren?”

“Home?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

The word is foreign. The entire journey back to your apartment complex, Eren keeps on mulling over the term. Home. The orphanage isn’t one, that he’s sure of. It’s filled with nasty old women and boisterous kids around his age. It’s not filled with the urge to smile the moment one wakes up because breakfast is wafting from the kitchen nor is it filled with the need to tell someone what went on in one’s day. The houses he’s adopted into were never homes as well. They’re only a reminder that Eren isn’t needed even though he was picked to stand the role of a son. Because ever since he was born, he was branded an outsider, an anomaly in the eyes of many. Sometimes, he was told that he was too intense when playing or too angry with the adults who acted as if they cared for him.

The stairs that lead to your apartment feel like a second to little Eren. Once you open the door to your flat, Eren swears he sees a glimpse of heaven.

“Welcome home, Eren,” you cheer.

Gawking with wide eyes and an open mouth, Eren slowly trails inside the apartment on his little feet. It’s not even that warm but it is marvelous in his eyes. He turns around to face you.

“I’m home, Mama!”

I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?

Eren stops short at the thought coming from your mind. You’re going to regret adopting him? But you’re smiling at him right now. That’s it! Eren makes a determined face. He’s going to make you not regret adopting him. He’s going to be a good boy and make you happy because you’re his mother now. Eren runs towards you, who are still standing by the doorway. You look at him in surprise but you let yourself be pulled by him.

Once you’re inside the apartment as well, Eren beams, “You’re home now, too, Mama!”

It's going to be a comedy from here on out.

#rory's passages 🌼#spy x family au 🏡#aot x reader #aot imagines #attack on titan x reader #aot x female reader #snk x reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader #levi attack on titan #eren aot #eren yeager #eren attack on titan #levi x y/n #levi x you

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ackerfics · 6 months

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to the girls who are failed by the narrative: masterlist | jjk

enclosed here are stories of tragedy; of loving someone too much that his loss becomes your ruination, of waves of blue and black that threatens to wash your cheeks with the colors of summer, of curses trapping you in prophecies not even a red string can break, of unlikely saviours and damsels who fell harder for each other.

note: all of these are connected. every character has their own 'reader' (except for yuta). once we move on to the next character, the previous reader will be given a nickname. i am actually excited about this <5 consider this as my official comeback (?) here on this site.

my love is mine all mine — zen'in toji (later fushiguro) x reader

: 'the glorified womb', 'the heir bearer', 'the blessed flower of the jujutsu society' — they are just some of the titles given to the women of your mother's clan, and all of them eventually fell to you, the prodigal firstborn who has the misfortune of birthing someone who will be stronger than their predecessors. with the fate of someone's clan on your shoulders, there are only a handful of things told to you while growing up; be as demure as you can be, never open your mouth and squash your thoughts, sit with a posture befitting that of a lady wearing an invisible yet heavy diadem. but the one that rings the most goes like this: your only purpose in this world is to be a silent wife to a man who will give you the opportunity to carry the next generation of powerful sorcerers. you remember all of these as you walk toward zen'in ogi in your uchikake, the constricting material around your waist akin to the gripping hold of your cursed technique.

and in fate's funny little ways of fabricating legacies and stories, you forget them when you are spirited away by the man who always welcomes the coming of the seasons with you without fail.

chapters:

i: their redness talks to my wounds

ii: in our circle of green

iii: coming soon !!

iv: coming soon !!

v: coming soon !!

to love and be loved is to rest — gojo satoru (w. geto suguru) x reader

: you knew you will never love gojo satoru, the godling that will make kingdom come if he so wished it, the moment he pushed you into a puddle of muddy water the day your older sister was announced to be engaged to the possible heir of the zen'in clan. with your new kimono drenched in brown splatters and your hair in disarray, the little white rat had the gall to cackle in front of majority of the jujutsu society. that was the day you vowed to always harbour hate for him. yet for some weird reason, gojo becomes a constant in your life — the only one to ever see you at your weakest when your sister abandoned you to become the next bride and the only one who promised to return your youth to you by being your semblance of normalcy among the decaying beliefs and elders of the jujutsu society.

you thought you will never know love until you met geto suguru and all his gentle smiles, warm demeanour, and weird fringe. and before you know it, your little world with gojo expanded to include geto, ieiri, and the colours of summer throughout the year. but summer will always fade away to autumn, a season that chills you to the bone and sets glaciers in your blood, its fingers promising change like no other.

because it was fall of 2007 that you wish you never knew what love is at all.

chapters: coming soon !!

except for your eyes, no blade can control me — fushiguro megumi x reader

: coming soon !!

[bonus] hearts be burned asunder with love — okkotsu yuta x oc

: it's a new generation of sorcerers and the flower of the jujutsu society truly lived up to her fate of carrying new heirs for a dying clan. from her union with the nefarious sorcerer killer comes a blessing and a festival; a shepherd of umbras in the shape of animal curses and the other an amalgamation of opposing energies.

the moment fushiguro matsuri first sung her pleas to the world, the shadows danced and the flowers tried reaching for a speck of light. and it is when she was finally swallowed by the mass of shadows that her twin brother first saw how cruel their part of the world can be.

it's november 2017 and a cursed womb has been spotted hanging like an ominous raindrop of cynicism above a remote forest near a clan compound. all sorcerers near the area are dispatched to the scene but fushiguro megumi has one request to his mentor (begrudging uncle), bring the first-year jujutsu high student he met a few months ago to where the cursed womb is. after all, okkotsu yuta is the only sorcerer megumi openly respects to save his sister and matsuri is the only person everyone expects to neutralize the queen of curses if the time comes for the sword to reap its harvest.

: coming soon !!

send an ask or reply if you want to be added to the taglist <3

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ackerfics · 4 months

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my love is mine all mine ch 2 | toji fushiguro x female reader

part one of to the girls who are failed by the narrative series.

series summary:

'the glorified womb', 'the heir bearer', 'the blessed flower of the jujutsu society' — they are just some of the titles given to the women of your mother's clan, and all of them eventually fell to you, the prodigal firstborn who has the misfortune of birthing someone who will be stronger than their predecessors. with the fate of someone's clan on your shoulders, there are only a handful of things told to you while growing up; be as demure as you can be, never open your mouth and squash your thoughts, sit with a posture befitting that of a lady wearing an invisible yet heavy diadem. but the one that rings the most goes like this: your only purpose in this world is to be a silent wife to a man who will give you the opportunity to carry the next generation of powerful sorcerers. you remember all of these as you walk toward zen'in ogi in your uchikake, the constricting material around your waist akin to the gripping hold of your cursed technique.

and in fate's funny little ways of fabricating legacies and stories, you forget them when you are spirited away by the man who always welcomes the coming of the seasons with you without fail.

chapter title: in our circle of green

warnings: objectifying women, misogynistic beliefs, pregnancy, miscarriage, stillbirth, death

Toji already figured that the Zen’in clan was cruel the moment he could understand words.

Some say that the birth of his older brother marked the downfall of a clan so revered they were supposed to be placed on a pedestal alongside two families in the jujutsu society. Born with a cursed energy that didn’t make the shadows dance, Jinichi is the first ink blot on a pristine scroll of names. Their father, ever the people pleaser and the self-proclaimed heir of the clan, tried to appeal to the elders and the head who are all a bunch of stoic people whom Toji didn’t have the mood to list because they are so withered and grey they are almost unforgettable. Zen’in Ichiro begged them to give him another chance to prove that the Zen’in clan still had the potential to carry on the technique that spoke of them being shadow puppeteers.

And then came him.

While his brother earned cursed energy, Toji did not.

His life ended the moment it started.

He is used as an excuse for blows and barbed words. The scars littering his back and upper arms are just some of the few inflicted on him, the others healing with time. When they saw that his resolve wouldn’t easily break, all of the bruises and wounds went to his parents.

The family finally drove his father insane; and with his father spiralling, the suffering of his mother begins.

Then, came the blaming.

His mother, a woman so kind that she even smiles after receiving the end of his father’s verbal daggers, became a target for the elders. With the veins on her hand visible to the naked eye from how pale she is and the purple bags under her eyes from lack of rest, the wife of the assumed clan heir loved her second son despite being the one thing the Zen’in loathed. Dry hands cupped his chubby cheeks often, her chapped lips murmuring sweet nothings to his ears. She told him she prayed to the gods to make him just the way she was—normal and untainted by the world they were living in. They were words that would remain meaningless to him for they rang with false promises. He never understood her spending more time with him when he was younger. Until he saw her getting dragged by the hair after refusing to lay with him for another child that would become another failure. For the months that his mother endured, just this one rippling event made her take her last breath.

The reason for the death of his mother was him—the boon of the Zen’in clan.

All unlucky things revolved around him.

At least that’s what he was told when they pushed him into a room full of cursed spirits to test his strength.

There is a certain air of unparalleled dignity when covered by the rooftops of the Joushou clan compound, the potent air of purity ringing through the pillars holding it together. Compared to the Zen’in clan residence, those who bear the Joushou family name all lived in a small village in Kyoto, a space barricaded by so many barriers that Toji felt like it’s too much for a clan that isn’t within the triad of the Jujutsu society.

They are going to attend a funeral, his grandfather said. There was no mistaking that when the old man announced that everyone should be on their best behaviour, he was directing the words to both sons of his failed firstborn, specifically him, the boy they threw into a room of cursed spirits and the one they left scars on. When the creaking old man finally retreated to his chambers after the announcement was made, Toji could finally roll his eyes at the absurdity of the situation, the action never unnoticed by his older brother, judging by the low snicker Jinichi made.

Now, they are hiking toward the main house, a parade of black under the canopy of green and slivers of light. The chosen members of the Zen’in clan who were honoured (he wants to barf because it was exactly what the ancient old man said) to attend this funeral walked for about an hour; the compound of this family of purity or whatever they are called is that expansive. Toji swallows the complaint rising in his throat the more he feels his feet straining against the straps of his geta, choosing to keep quiet instead. He doesn’t begin to comprehend the complex layout of this clan compound. Why can’t it be a single house like theirs? With all the talk his uncles make about their family, one would think that the Zen’in clan is the epitome of perfection in the jujutsu society. It’s both bewildering and funny that they don’t hold a candle to the opulence boasted by the Joushou clan.

“Hey,” an annoying voice buzzes in his ear like a fly.

Toji stops giving the gravel his attention and places it on his ugly brother. “What?”

“You notice it?” Jinichi asks.

He keeps on looking at the dimwitted boy with hooded eyes. “What?” he repeats. Toji is not a repeater of his words but when it comes to Jinichi, he tends to do it a lot. His older brother has this habit of never fully explaining the context behind his words, one of the many reasons why Toji’s patience sometimes runs so thin it’s almost like a piece of thread now.

Jinichi rolls his eyes. “The barriers; it’s the twelfth now. ” A second of haughtiness passes in his eyes and he jeers at Toji with an air of superiority over him. “Oh, I forgot — you can’t sense anything.”

“Get to the point,” he grits out.

With a concealed smile, his older brother basks in his simmering irritation while gesturing around the towering woods with his chin. “Do you remember the stories that circulate about Father and Uncle Naobito? How they nearly went ballistic because of a woman so beautiful she managed to ensnare the Gojo heir as well?” Jinichi huffs a laugh, his eyes boring through the backs of their grandfather’s eldest sons. Toji’s eyebrows meet on his forehead at all the stalling. He is about to walk ahead when Jinichi continues talking, “That woman has a daughter and she’s about the same age as us. The barriers around this compound are all for her.”

That piece of information is anything but relevant to Toji. All he knows about the clan they are attending a funeral for is that they are so revered because of their strength that they can walk through someone’s Domain Expansion unscathed. This is the first time he has heard a member of his family mention a woman in this kind of light, almost worshipping with no shred of degradation and discrimination. His brother was talking about this girl with a tone similar to that of his uncle when he found the perfect woman to ruin. Toji doesn’t hold back the sneer on his lips, the scar pulsing with a phantom pain that lays out the image of grotesque humanoid creatures crawling on blackened walls and ceilings. He looks away from his brother and fixes his eyes on the nearing building ahead of them. Too bad there are no pockets in his black kimono. He would have buried his hands hours before.

“What’s that supposed to mean, aniki ?”

Jinichi cracks a chilling smile. “That means she could be offered as a wife to me.”

Toji snaps his neck to give the older boy a look painted in incredulity.

“I am the clan heir’s heir; it is imperative that I have a wife as bewitching, alluring, and docile as a woman born from the bloodline of the Hanamo clan. She will bring a new age of Ten Shadow users to our family and the Zen’in name will be stronger than it was before. With twelve—oh, thirteen—barriers protecting her from the outside world,” Jinichi snickers under his breath, “she must be a treasure.”

“Like I care about her.”

“Of course, you don’t,” his older brother scoffs. “You will never deserve a girl with that kind of calibre—you and your title of the clan’s disappointment.”

A vein nearly pops in his forehead. There is enough of the badmouthing Toji gets from the adults in the clan, he doesn’t need any more of it from his older brother who is a kid himself. “Do not test me, aniki. ”

“What are you going to do about it—grovel?”

“I will tear you to shreds like I did to the room of curses they threw me in,” Toji blandly replies with wide eyes. He notices the slight flinch making Jinichi’s shoulders rise but that is not enough to brew satisfaction into his body, which is already catching up to the older boy even though he is two years Toji’s senior. “So, you can shove your fantasies of marrying a wife made for carrying children right up your hairy ass before I do it for you.”

It takes Jinichi a couple of moments to answer, cold sweat dripping over his brow. “You don’t scare me, you little shit. You are just a fucking bug to me—amounting to nothing. Know your place as the outcast before spewing bullshit like that.”

Toji’s voice is kept within his throat, only choosing to look at Jinichi for as long as it takes until his older brother has enough. Jinichi walks past him, remembering to knock his shoulder against Toji’s. The impact feels like a breeze that only brushes on a piece of fabric. Even the force his older brother has to exert will never make him falter, which is why he is the perfect piece to twist in the puzzle that is their clan. How Fate laughs at him, he thinks; the strength given to him by the deities walking on clouds is the reason why he carries blemishes on his skin like battle armour.

He nearly lets out a scoff. All this is because of a faceless girl so fragile that she should be protected by how many barriers the sorcerers of the Joushou clan can produce.

Yet this faceless girl is anything but ordinary, living up to the hearsays passing around the halls of their residence.

She is small and the kimono covering her figure is embroidered with outlines of red flowers. It is the first time Toji has seen something so bright even with her hair covering the side of her face—practically blinding that he looks at the flower arrangements around the small coffin over her shoulder instead of her miserable face.

For someone who should be mourning for their little sibling, the girl never gives a glance at the displayed body in the middle of the room. Instead, she is tugging on the sleeves of her mother’s kimono, calling for her attention, which in turn attracts all those who are present. Toji can hear the murmurs of the adults around him — curious, unwarranted things that should not be said regarding children. There are whispers of her blooming beauty (how she will grow up to become the next bride touched by the fingers of Izanami) and the suffocating yet pellucid air of her cursed technique (calling to the flowers near him); they are all comments made by men who are older than her father.

Then, she turns around to fix her eyes on him and suddenly, Toji finds himself at a standstill—eyes blank and breathing stagnant as the flowers in her irises bloom with curiosity. She blinks and Toji can see that they touch the skin underneath her eyes.

It is only when she faces her father that Toji can breathe again.

He shakily lets out the sigh lodged in his throat.

A memory surfaces.

In the Zen’in residence on a certain day, there are dolls lined up in the main receiving area, all dressed in elaborate kimonos with the sound of their accessories twinkling from a single gust of wind from the open window. Toji remembers transfixing his attention on these dolls when he was four years old, his curiosity pulsing through his undeveloped mind to touch one of them. His fingers reach out and the tip of his toes carry him closer to the girl wearing a headdress that can tangle with a single nudge. The doll is almost calling to him—the crinkling eyes closing because of the smile on her face, the folds on her attire devoid of creases, and the platforms possessing patterns that match her partner. But Toji also remembers feeling a hand crack against his skin, pushing him from peeking through the edge of the display area and to the ground below him. He remembers the pain that erupted after his head roughly bumped on the hardwood floor. There was no time to whimper in pain because the hand gripped the tendrils of his hair in between their fingers. His eardrums nearly burst as he closed his eyes to accept whatever punishment the hand gave him.

The doll gives off the same feeling as the girl walking through the door. He is itching to reach out to make sure she is real but he knows once he does that, the hand will come back again.

“Man, she is perfect for me,” Jinichi muses beside him.

Toji never takes his eyes off the doorway where the main family of the Joushou clan disappears, answering, “Keep on dreaming.”

“You don’t think so?” Jinichi scoffs. “What? Are you planning on taking her? Don’t—you’ll only soil her holiness with your curse or the better lack of it rather. She will give birth to my heirs and the possible holder of the Ten Shadows cursed technique, mark my words.”

He makes no sign of using his voice. Toji flickers his eyes to the body of the little boy that will be burned later on in the ceremony. If the Hanamo clan can bring forth life with their wombs, why would the mother of that girl give birth to something dead? The doll-like girl then comes into mind—her fluttering eyelashes, the plushness on the apples of her cheeks, her eyes that seem to carry an entire flower field, and her air of only existing in dreams. Will she suffer through the weight of carrying death inside her? Will she assume that lifeless look her mother donned?

“What will you do?”

“What?”

He keeps on talking to Jinichi, “What will you do if she becomes her mother?”

“You mean to test our bond as brothers?”

Stupid. “If it comes to a point that she is not who our world tells us she is—giving birth to dead babies. Will you still accept her? Be faithful and not take any mistress like our father did?”

“Father is a coward,” Jinichi answers. “The women who have the privilege of being offered to us are the cream of the crop as the elders have been saying. We are told that they are the perfect women to breed children into and I will do everything in my power to make sure they will bring life instead of death. The Joushou girl is not an exception.” Toji feels his skin crawl at Jinichi’s smile. “In fact, her womb is the best reason to try and try again, am I right? I bet her father will do that to her mother tonight. Have you seen the look on his face?”

All Toji can offer as a response is silence.

“It’s the look of someone with a goal in mind. Maybe the next time we visit the Joushou compound is for a festival, not a shitty funeral for a dead kid.”

It’s another funeral—this time, not for a dead kid, but for the esteemed Lady Joushou instead.

The previous one was not as suffocating as this one and Toji is not an idiot to detect the miasma of tension surrounding the entire compound. With the Lady gone, the clan is in chaos—if the rotting smell of flowers drifting in the air is any indication. He can hear the elders of both the Jujutsu society and this family urge the head to find potential women to replace the one they have lost. It’s not a surprise to him—older men telling leaders what to do with the future of their clan, having lived in the most grappling environment he knows in his life—but it repulses him that they are outwardly discussing it in the Lady’s funeral.

The funeral rites have ended, the ashes are gathered, condolences are given, and Toji leaves it all behind to enter the withering gardens of the Joushou main residence. He may not have the capacity to feel cursed energy but he can tell that this decay is caused by the Lady’s death. With no one to educate him on the many clans in their society, Toji learned everything by himself. One particular scroll has been hidden away in the library of the Zen’in residence and they entail the history of the Heir Makers. It was only a year ago that he was curious enough to learn more about the doll’s familial lineage. Of course, the Joushou made a name for themselves with their impenetrable cursed technique but it is the Hanamo clan that made the doll’s birth possible. Just like their name, they have something to do with flowers and something about the manipulation of their souls—befriending them to follow their bidding. All of these are overlooked by the fact that just like flowers, they represent the essence of life—fertile wombs and precious beauty above all.

While he walks in this grey scenery, Toji is silent on his feet. Not a single sound emanates from his footsteps. The heavens are not that cruel—they still blessed him with an advantage against those who can sense cursed energy. There is no symphony of birdsong here, almost like they feel that their voices shouldn’t tarnish the melancholy dome around the compound. Toji blends in with the silence. His eyes roam around the dropping shrubs and the raining leaves, his hands nestling inside the sleeves of his black kimono.

A splash of green on the stiff grass catches his attention. He follows it. They form a line, stepping stones even, toward her.

The doll is crying in the middle of a pond of grass, her back turned from him. Her hair is pinned close to her head, her black funeral garb once again embroidered with red outlines of flowers that seem to bring colour to this eternal void. Even without facing him, he can tell she is crying from the way her tiny shoulders shake. Of course, she won’t notice him, nobody can, so Toji takes this time to watch her silently and let her heart cry for her mother. The sight in front of him calls all of his attention for her tears bring a solitary flower to sprout from the ground. It’s oddly beautiful, he finds himself thinking. He expects her to grow more flowers from her grief.

What he doesn’t expect is her looking over her shoulder to zone in on him, those flower fields for eyes arresting him in place and rendering him motionless.

The pounding of his heart echoes through the chambers of his heart, alerting the tingles in his stomach to flutter their wings. It’s different from the paced heartbeat he experiences whenever someone pushes him into the mud in the Zen’in estate. This particular reaction from just her making eye contact with him pushes the heat to climb to his face, dusting his cheeks and the tips of his ears. It’s the first time he feels embarrassed about being noticed.

She is as pretty as her cursed technique.

“Who are you?” her voice carries through the dead garden.

Toji nearly jumps in place but he covers it with a cough from behind the sleeve of his kimono.

She cuts him off from answering. “You’re not supposed to be here.” Her eyes cut through the open shoji doors behind him.

“And you’re supposed to be out there,” Toji nonchalantly remarks with a thumb pointing behind him.

The doll blinks, her eyelashes fluttering like butterfly wings on her skin. She looks away from him and blue washes over her tiny figure. “I don’t want to.”

“And I don’t want to be there either, which is why I’m here.”

Annoyance flickers on her face as she juts her bottom lip in a pout. Toji blankly stares at the unwarranted gesture—cute. She really is like a doll; so fragile, dainty, and tiny that nobody has the right to touch her, including him. The distance between them will remain as is; something he will never lessen through weathering seasons. This girl’s existence is everything he is not and she is worth more than him, way more than his family can offer. She breathes life in her tears—who knows what she will bring with her touch. “The elders won’t like it if you’re here,” she finally fills in the silence.

“I don’t care what the elders have to say. I stopped caring a long time ago.”

She thoughtfully brings her attention back to him. “I remember you.”

Toji can’t help but wear shock on his face.

“You’re the boy who looked friendly two years ago. You were at my,” she chokes up, “brother’s funeral two years ago.”

So he did leave a lasting impression on her. For whatever reason, Toji doesn’t know.

“I think you’re the only one who looked friendly, that’s why I remember you.”

Him—friendly? He is described as looking like a demon spawn by many. Not to mention that he inherited his family’s signature harsh look, narrow eyes, and face always set in a scowl without trying. People will say otherwise if they heard what came out of this princess’s mouth.

“Hey, princess, I’m anything but friendly.”

“The flowers aren’t afraid of you, including this one,” she nods at the flower swaying in the wind, the only witness to their exchange and the first one to many to come. There’s no smile on her face but her tone suggests something that douses Toji in a foreign feeling. Nobody has given him this kind of attention before and it’s getting hard not to look away from her. “You’re not like the rest of your family.”

Toji scoffs. “Of course, I’m not—”

“I can tell you have more heart than them.”

He raises a disbelieving eyebrow.

“If other people from your family found me here, this conversation wouldn’t be the same as the one we’re having now. They will tell my father and he will scold me like he scolded Mother. Or worse, they’ll pick me as a bride.”

He remembers his older brother asking their father about his possible betrothal to the treasure of the Joushou clan but Jinichi was instantly shut down by a drunk remark, saying that he will never be good enough for something precious as the girl. Toji also remembers Jinichi letting out his frustrations and anger at him in the dead of the night when the servants were asleep and the night was cold, pushing him out of the residence and forcing him to lay on the garden’s pebbled path as if it’s his fault for ruining a potential alliance—Toji is bad luck as Jinichi stated.

After gaining sentience and understanding, Toji hates everything that his clan stands for. So, he should also be hating this girl. She is the pinnacle of jujutsu and every special case is something to be revered at. However, looking at her right now, how can someone suggest that they marry someone younger than the youngest member of the Zen’in clan?

“You’re too young to marry anyway,” Toji replies while scratching his head. “What good would marrying a kid give to the old geezers I know?” He then sighs, “Besides, aren’t you supposed to be playing with dolls at this age? Why are you already talking about marriage?”

She looks away. “Because my mother is dead.”

“Hah?” he exclaims. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Her eyes dim a little and Toji curses himself for not thinking before speaking. “Father needs good alliances for ruining the one he has with my mother’s family. I’ve heard him talk.”

“And he’s what? Selling you to my clan?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Well, that sucks.”

The doll nods.

Toji clicks his tongue. “If they keep on pestering you to be their wife, you might as well just run away.”

She tilts her head, making her look like an adorable stuffed toy hanging on stalls in festival games. “Mother told me that would be the worst thing to do. Father would be angry and I would be chased.”

Something becomes stuck at the back of his throat. How will those words influence you when your mother is dead, is the unsaid thought lingering in his mind. He chooses to let them bubble inside him. Instead, he says, “If I were you, I would have run away from the moment I heard my father arranging marriage proposals. It sounds like an escape that I would want from everything if I’m being honest. And now that I’m thinking about it, marrying into the Zen’in clan will mean that you will become either my aunt or my sister. I don’t know which of the two I prefer.”

“I don’t think I’d prefer any of that either.”

Toji watches as she fiddles with the petals of the carnation resting on her palm. Hesitation keeps making him twitch, from the tips of his fingers to the shuffling in his feet. The distance between them lessens as he follows the trail of green toward her. His hands are still hiding in his sleeves and he paints a picture of nonchalance on his face, one that doesn’t betray how his heart is racing at the thought of being in the same circle as her. The doll he was reaching for when he was young is finally within his reach. He plops on the spot next to her, far from her and the flower but not that much to warrant any awkward air around them.

“Toji.”

“Hmm?” The girl doesn’t even flinch in surprise at his proximity.

He fixes her a glance, almost grumbling, “That’s my name—Toji. Figured that if you want my help in running away, you should know it.”

She finally smiles, a tiny one but still noticeable within the monochromatic background they are surrounded by, and his hands become sweaty at the sight. The girl doesn’t even know the power she has while doing it. A piece of hair falls from her elaborate hairstyle, draping itself over her shoulder, with Toji’s hand itching to push it behind her ear. What is wrong with him? He feels his face heat up while looking away from her. Unwarranted thoughts circle the caverns of his head, all concerning the girl beside him. Regretting his decision to sit with her in the only vibrant area of the withered garden, Toji covers the bottom half of his face with one hand, finding the gentle swaying of the breeze among the grey leaves entertaining.

“[Name].”

“Huh?”

“Nice to meet you, Toji-san,” she once again offers a small smile that reaches her eyes. “I’m [Name]. Thank you for talking to me.”

He clicks his tongue. “It’s nothing—just thought that you could use some company because everyone seems to be fawning over your father.”

She doesn’t reply, simply looking down at her lap like she is taught.

No words are exchanged between the two of them. The silence is not palpable to push them into creating meaningless chatter.

It’s just the two of them—a boy who has nothing to his name except for being part of a family he wants to escape from and a girl who starts feeling the strings dictating her every move.

As the funeral rites go on behind them and as the afternoon makes way for the sun to peek through the cloud formations, the colour spreads from where they are sitting, and in the space between them, Toji notices a small bush of hydrangeas* touching the tips of his wooden slippers.

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ackerfics · 5 months

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my love is mine all mine ch 1 | toji fushiguro x female reader

part one of to the girls who are failed by the narrative series.

series summary:

and in fate's funny little ways of fabricating legacies and stories, you forget them when you are spirited away by the man who always welcomes the coming of the seasons with you without fail.

chapter title: their redness talks to my wounds

warnings: objectifying women, misogynistic beliefs, pregnancy, miscarriage, stillbirth, death, sexual assault/r*pe (but not to reader)

Each time a girl is born in your mother’s clan, a festival is held — flower lanterns drifting in the inky sky, bells ringing each passing second, and rhythms of geta filling in between the beats of the taiko. It is believed that your mother’s family was kissed by the deity of fortitude and fertility; very much like how the Mother and Father of the Shinto gods created the islands of Japan and brought forth a new wave of deities, the womb of the Hanamo clan will bring an heir to a dying clan. When the inheritance of The Glorified Womb is successful, all of the clans gather to get a glimpse of the future Lady of their estates and bid on who would welcome her to their gates. The festival is both a moment of celebration and sending off.

It’s the start of a new era and it is all ignited by the birth of a little girl whose body is blessed by a flutter of Izanami’s forefinger.

You were told that your festival was the grandest of all the events thrown by your family. No one anticipated the weight carried by your first cry. You weren’t there to witness it but the maids who brush your hair constantly tell you that when you announced yourself to the world like the coveted little Lady that you are, all of the flowers coloured the grounds of the estate with the reverse cursed technique innate in your mother’s bloodline and the utilisation from your father’s. They said that it was the moment the entire Jujutsu world stood still, holding their breath; offers were made, compromises were presented on the table, bounties continued piling on your little fragile head — and you weren’t even a day old. You were the product of a fruitful union between the Hanamo and Joushou clans, they said, a little doll to flaunt and to cradle until a worthy man comes to take you away as his young bride.

You don’t understand it until you accidentally nick yourself while marvelling at the beauty of the blossoms in the gardens of the main family’s house.

The blooming red on the tip of your finger fascinates you, the drops nourishing the soil underneath the carnations intermingling with the short redbud trees. Pain doesn’t even come to you as you tilt your head to follow the trickle of blood on your forefinger, the lines on your palm seeping with the most perfect shade of red you’ve ever seen. The flowers speak to you with the more time you spend letting your blood escape through your skin. You can hear them more — all asking the same set of questions that you pay no heed to. Are you alright, young Lady of the House of Purity? Do you need us to carry you in our petals? Does it hurt you? Who dares soil the most-yearned young Lady? They deserve to shrivel. You don’t notice the foliage of the shrubs going past their trimmed appearance to engulf the bundle of roses right in front of you, threatening to swallow the poor plant whole for hurting you. You’re about to place your bleeding finger in your mouth, curious about the taste of it, when the maids shriek behind you.

“Ojou-sama!”

Your hair follows the movement of your head as you turn around to meet their frantic mannerisms. “Hmm?”

“Oh, my Lord!” One of them swoops down to where you are, unravelling a ribbon from her yukata to wrap around your wound. She then scoops you from the ground, her hand holding the back of your head as gently as possible. “What are we going to tell Yoshiki-sama?”

You place your head on the maid’s shoulder, your eyes catching the retreating shrubbery trying to touch you with their fingers. Slowly, you lift your head to get a good look at them, opting to just wave your small, pudgy hands at the leaves and the twigs and the bark. Curious; they almost waved back. But you discern that it is a product of the gentle breeze entering the large gardens. After all, plants do not talk, at least not in the storybooks the caretakers and maids act out for you. The women around you keep on talking as if you aren’t there nestled in between them.

“Is it bad of me to think otherwise?”

“Mari, his daughter is injured!”

“But he will punish us if he finds out!”

The maid carrying you tightens her hold around you. “Even if the heavens ring malice over us peasants, I would gladly inform the head of this house of anything regarding his prized kin. Mari, I thought you were better than that. We are hired to protect Ojou-sama with every inch of our being.”

A hitched breath comes from the other maid. “Don’t you dare drop my name when you speak of this to Yoshiki-sama!”

“If he brings up the subject of the witnesses, I would speak with utmost honesty.”

The maid whisks you away. It is only when she passes by Mari-san that you take a good look at the troubled countenance wrapping around the worried maid. You don’t know the hierarchy around the household but you definitely know your father is the highest-ranking person here, judging from how people speak of him. You surmise that the maid holding you as if you’re the most fragile thing on the planet is higher in rank than Mari-san and that probably makes her sad just like now. Intending to make her smile a little bit, you raise your hand over the maid’s shoulder to wave at Mari-san, your smile beaming and crinkling the corners of your eyes. The lower maid notices it and her entire demeanour shifts into that of a person endeared. She feels better and you also feel better now.

“Ojou-sama, let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

“What about Papa? Aren’t we supposed to go to him?”

The maid stiffens. “Right after we clean the wound and put some cute bandages on it, Ojou-sama.”

“Can I pick the pattern?”

The woman chuckles under her breath. “Of course; as long as it is in the box Ritsuko bought the other day.”

Ritsuko must be one of the maids as well. You think long and hard about the design you want, the image of cute cartoon characters filling your mind. With a little pout, you suggest, “I want Sanrio.”

“Let’s see if there’s any of the Sanrio characters in the bandages, then, Ojou-sama. Just a little more and—Mutsuki-sama!”

“I’ll take it from here, Aida-chan.”

The most beautiful woman who puts the flowers to shame — your mother. She was once the most desired bride, even threatening to break the close relationship of the oldest sons of the current head of the Zen’in family in hopes of finally giving birth to the sorcerer who will possess the Ten Shadows Technique they are praised for. Because of your father, the current head of the clan bearing a reverse cursed technique so notorious, that civil war was prevented and the Zen’in married other women from lower clans as a way to swallow their shame. All the funnier it was to the adults having meetings in your house when after marrying their chosen brides, the Zen’in sons weren’t blessed by Lady Luck — the eldest son’s children were never that exemplary (one didn’t inherit the Ten Shadows Technique and the other was an anomaly to your society) and the younger one’s wife experienced miscarriage and false positives.

Judging from the stories you’ve heard of that Zen’in dispute so many years ago, you understand with your little brain that your mother embodies the word pretty through and through — pretty enough to bewitch the young head of the Gojo clan, who is roughly around the same age as her. In the end, it was your father she chose and they were married as soon as she reached the age of eighteen. You graced their life four years after their marriage and she told you in hushed whispers behind a thin shoji that they prayed for your creation — that you are loved way before conception because there was not a night that she didn’t wish to the stars for your existence.

Your mother stands in the middle of the hallway, her maids lowering their heads behind her. The kimono wrapping her figure is anything but simple, one of the many gifts showered to her by your father. Her hair is cascading down her back and her smile is demure yet exuding with so much warmth that it compels you to reach out for her. Her glittering eyes shine ever more at your silent plea to be transferred into her arms.

“Oh, come here, my little petal,” she murmurs while taking you from the maid and in her frail arms. She huffs at the unexpected weight. “Aren’t you getting bigger?” Her voice is soft, almost like she is talking to an easily frightened kitten, even leaning forward to lightly brush the tip of her nose to yours. You giggle at the ticklish sensation and your mother hums a little amused laugh.

You place both of your hands on her cheeks. “Hello, Mama.”

“Hello, little petal.” Her gaze drifts down to the hastily wrapped ribbon around your finger, the red is still vibrant against the muted colours of the material. “Did you hurt yourself while playing in the garden?” Mother tuts under her breath. “We can’t have that now, can we?” The crinkles around her eyes harden into that expected of a Mistress of the house and all the maids present straighten their postures, all the while facing the ground. When the younger women keep their silence, Mother returns to gazing at you with that lovely look she usually has while trailing her eyes over your features. “I suppose it’s expected of children to have a little scratch here and there while enjoying life. After all, my little petal gets her love for nature from me. Isn’t that right, my darling?”

“The flowers talked to me in the garden, Mama.”

“Did they?” Mother glances at the maids before walking toward her room. “What did they say?”

You place a hand on your chin, tucking your head in the crook of her neck. “They were whispering about many things.” You gasp in realisation. “I think they found a little bunny!”

She adjusts you in her hold, her breaths deepening the more she carries you. “We’ll ask someone to fetch that rabbit for you.”

“Will Papa say yes?”

Mother pauses for a moment. The words coming from her throat are carefully crafted to never dim that enthusiastic gleam present in your irises. “Your father is weak when it comes to you; I’m sure he’s going to grant your wish no matter how bizarre it is. A bunny doesn’t even create a dent on anything he holds.”

“I’ll call it Melody.”

“Why the name, little petal?”

“Because it’s the only bunny in Sanrio.”

You watch the long corridors depict the opulence of the gardens of your father’s estate, all of the flowers arranged in a way that is akin to the traditional art of ikebana, making the lifeless plot of land alive. The previous head of the Joushou family decided that for their heir to win the heart of the flower of the Jujutsu society, they have to plant different species of flowering plants to the bland greenery they have in their backyard. It most certainly impressed the standing head of the Hanamo clan, who agreed to give their prized daughter to the man who would least harm her. Now, the garden is a testament to the love sprouting between your mother and father and many maids and butlers say that it is still revered by those who have heard it, all wishing for a love like that to save them from the fate given to them by the higher-ups.

A little honey bee drapes itself on one of the flowers, its wings fluttering rapidly against the purple petals. The flower sneezes though it doesn’t agitate the bee buzzing to get a taste of its nectar. You giggle at the incessant complaints brought by the flower, only to be met by the satisfied buzz of the bee.

“Look, Mama, the flower is talking so fast!” You point at the still-rambling flower, Mother following your finger with her hooded eyes.

“It’s reassuring to know that I’m not the only one to hear them now.”

You lean back from Mother’s shoulder, her hand immediately flat on your back to prevent you from toppling. “Careful,” she mutters under her breath. The crease on her eyebrows vanishes at the sound of your twinkling laughter.

“Sorry, Mama!”

Mother shakes her head. “It’s alright, petal.”

“Mama says she can hear the flowers, too!”

She sighs at your manner of speaking. “You said you can hear flowers, too,” she corrects without looking down at you, the door of her room right at her reach. “You can easily replace the nouns with pronouns, little petal. It’s not appealing to the ears once you get older. Best to remember to stop referring to yourself from a third point of view as well. It is unbecoming of a little lady of this house to have such impaired speech.” Mother hears nothing from you, so she takes a little peek at you before letting out a huff at the deflated posture you carry. “Your father won’t like it, petal.” She heaves another sigh. “And yes, I can hear the flowers because of our family’s cursed technique.”

“What’s a cursed technique, Mama?”

Once you enter Mother’s room, she pads on the tatami and gracefully lowers herself on one of the zaisu with you on her lap. You don’t see any first-aid kits anywhere that can help her clean and dress your small wound. Instead, Mother unravels the ribbon around your finger and holds it up for her to see. The blood has dried now, the wound stark on your skin. You never realised that the nick made by the roses’ thorns travelled from the tip of your appendage down to the line bordering your first knuckle. Mother remains quiet as she rubs the tip of her own finger over your own, making you flinch at the sting. She glances at the harsh movement of your little body and tuts, the sound echoing through the walls of her minimalistically decorated room. With the tenderness only a mother can have, she keeps on brushing her finger against your open skin, her breathing becoming laboured with each passing second.

The feeling that washes over you is ticklish in every sense. Something is coming from Mother’s touch that has you looking over at your joined hands. There is a pulsating glow emanating from between you two — blinding and warm. It travels from her fingertips to your wound, stitching it together like how she sews the tapestries displayed on some walls of the estate. The pain you felt earlier can be a figment of your imagination because when Mother wipes your finger with a clean napkin on the low table in front of you, the magic she did erases any sign of your injury. And right when she finishes doing her magic, the flowers in the ikebana around her room continue flourishing until more than one blossom can be seen. It’s only then that you realise they are singing in a chorus so heavenly that you have no problems hearing them all at once.

With a rugged pattern of breathing, Mother answers your hanging question, “That … can be classified as a cursed technique.”

You lift your hand to your eyes, blinking every so often and examining it for any scar. “Whoa,” you breathe. “That’s so cool!”

“That,” she catches her breathing, “is the reason why you should never be hurt.” She cups your face with her palm, cradling it like the world that you are. “Our very existence, our cursed technique, the way we were born, is proof of how special we are. They are the reason why your father is quite protective of you. Believe me when I say that you lit up the entire compound when I gave birth to you. In this generation, you are considered to be the most valuable possession of the Jujutsu society. There may come a time when a strong sorcerer will be born, but for now, the world will fall to its knees at the sound of your name. Because you have my blood in you and you know what they say about my family?” You sheepishly shake your head and she takes that as a sign to continue, with a knowing smile on her glossed lips, “Men would go to war just to have us. The near downfall of the Zen’in and Gojo clans hundreds of years ago says it all.”

“I don’t want that,” you murmur, now forlorn at the possibility of wreaking havoc in your world.

“It is the way of the world for us, petal,” Mother says, like an afterthought she always kept ever since.

“I want to watch Sanrio all day and look at the flowers and play,” you pout.

“That doesn’t exactly work for us in the future.”

“Then maybe I should run away!”

Now, both of Mother’s hands trap your head in place. Your eyes take her in — the franticness coating her features, the disbelief in the form of the sneer on her lips, and the underlying glint underneath her pupils. Your little heart starts pounding in your chest. Did you do something wrong to elicit such a reaction from her? Your mouth is about to form an apology when she cuts off your train of thought, “Never think of that again. You are the current flower of the Jujutsu society; running away is something that will have you executed. Do you understand me?” You nod, only jumping when that response rings unsatisfactory to Mother. She grits out your name before repeating, “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Mother,” comes your quiet response.

“Now, that’s a good girl,” her words are soft but they carry a weight enough to wilt the smallest of buds. “If you run away, you might as well be a dead woman crawling.”

You’ve always wanted a younger sibling.

You don’t particularly long for a brother to dote on or a sister to frolic in the garden with, all you want is someone to share this loneliness wrapping around every room you venture into. And you have reached an age where you wish you had someone to play with, being eight and now more aware that the attention people give you is devoid of genuine emotion. Father is busy with whatever adult thing he occupies himself with (as usual) and Mother has started becoming ill, staying in her room more than going out to get a dose of fresh air. You’re left in the company of maids, butlers, butterflies, and flowers. With so many festivals that have been postponed, you have lost hope that you will get that adorable little sibling in your dreams — until the spring of 1988 when news spread that Mother is with child and you will finally have the younger sibling she wishes for.

“Congratulations, Lady Joushou,” a passing visitor jovially cheers, their smile reaching the heavens as if it’s their wife who is pregnant with the next heir of the clan. “I hope it’s a boy!”

“Oh, imagine the joy Yoshiki would feel if a boy comes out,” an elderly lady from the branch family gushes with her mouth carefully covered by the sleeves of her kimono.

Mother simply passes them a smile, one that can’t be hidden by the products on her face. Her hand is carefully perched on her protruding belly, just two months away from giving birth.

Father decided that the announcement of the possible heir of the Joushou clan should come at a later date, with the news making an impact on the higher-ups and would eventually give the clan an edge compared to the others. Especially now that the Zen’in clan has failed to produce another child from the oldest couple of the current head, their last child still an odd specimen but a survivor of a room full of cursed spirits. Father said that wasn’t enough for them to be boastful about their prowess, you remember (he adds something along the lines of the entire Jujutsu world would bow before the boy who will carry his Nullification). But you never cared about clan politics or who has the more exceptional children, you just want your baby sister to be out into the world. You want to show her the storybook you created for her eyes and ears only, a story of a little princess in the flowers.

“You should eat more seaweed, dear,” another old lady pads over to suggest. “It would help with milk production if you plan on breastfeeding the future heir.”

“What are you talking about? Of course, Lady Joushou is going to breastfeed the future heir. Breastfeeding is vital for the relationship of the mother and the child after all.” One of the official elders of the clan swatted the lady from the branch family before taking the rein on the conversation, her smile making her eyes crease into lines. “Try some cucumber juice as well! It worked when I was carrying my last child. Your skin will glow when you drink it, too.”

“Dear, now that I see it,” the old lady from the branch family starts while placing her hand on her cheek. “You have been glowing lately.”

“That is wonderful news!”

Mother chuckles ever so slightly. “Why?”

“It confirms that you’re carrying a boy!”

“A boy?” Something lights up Mother’s eyes. “Are you sure?”

The elder of the clan hums, “When a woman looks decayed, it means that they’re pregnant with a girl because all of the mother’s beauty is being sucked by the baby. If the opposite happens like the mother getting prettier by the day, the baby is a boy because beauty is not something he needs.”

Mother blinks out of her stupor. “That’s … informative, Shizuka-sama.”

“But I remember that everyone thought he was carrying a boy when the little flower was born. You had the most noticeable case of pregnancy glow with her that we thought we finally had our heir. Turns out it’s even better — a little lady to carry on the mantle of being the glorified womb—!”

“Enjoying yourself listening to the elders, little petal?” Father’s voice makes you jump from the shoji. You look behind your shoulder to see him standing with his back straight, his long hair that was tied in a low ponytail hanging over his shoulder, and his smile gentle yet firm. Father is a man who commands attention wherever he's placed. You don’t see him without his usual stoicism. Even when he smiles, you feel as if he’s never within your reach. Father was once Papa and when Papa decided it was better for him to long for a child he could pass his technique to, he became Father. When you keep staring at him, Father lightly laughs, something that sounds more like a scoff than anything. “Come here, petal,” he softly says, letting his hands be free from the confines of his kimono to gesture you into his arms. He carries you once you reach him, releasing a playful huff, “You’ve gotten big, huh?” He noses your hair before opening the shoji.”

“Oh, Lord Yoshiki!”

“Did you have a good meeting, Lord Yoshiki?”

“You must be pleased to hear about the possible gender of your child!”

“Finally an heir to celebrate!

“We’ll definitely fix a festival that’s more extravagant than the Hanamo’s—!”

“Ladies,” Father cuts through, his smile glacial enough to make the elderly women freeze. “Can I have some time with my wife? Our precious daughter is asking for her mother and I can’t have our little petal deprive her of it simply because we have a party outside.”

The one from the branch family bows her head in front of the head of the clan. “Oh, right away, Yoshiki-sama! We deeply apologise for taking most of your wife’s time.”

You don’t fail to notice the look of disdain she gives your direction.

“Nonsense,” the higher in position among the ladies tuts.

“Shizuka,” comes from the weak admonition of the lesser lady.

“The girl has her maids, am I right?” The words are like poison on her tongue and her eyes are daggers that pierce through your little bubble. Ever since they didn’t get the heir they wanted the first time around, they find you lowly just like Mother. At the tender age of eight, you already grasp the reason why some of Father’s family look at you in a way that someone looks at an uncoordinated ikebana — with disappointment. Coming from a clan that’s purely known for their blessed wombs, it is easy for the other clans to assume that is all that the Hanamo clan is worth — bearing children with otherworldly looks that can make the entire world weak. The woman continues throwing her daggers, “The child your wife is carrying has more priority than the one you have now. This unborn child may be the next one to inherit our technique—”

“I appreciate the concern,” Father says without saying the name of the elder woman. “But I would like to dismiss you now.”

“Well, I—”

“You have said enough.”

The woman squawks like a chicken and you giggle at the sound. She meets your laughing form and the glare on her face can curdle milk. Your laughter ceases but Father places a hand on the back of your head as if to shield you from her. She chooses to save her life by tidying up her kimono and exiting the room, the other ladies following her like ducklings. Once the room encloses only you three, Father walks to where Mother is and sits at the end of the chaise lounge she is reclined on.

“How is the boy?”

Mother lets out a little laugh. “Not you, too.”

“Is there a problem?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

Father hums, the conversation ending there.

You look at them like a tennis match.

Once upon a time, you longed for a younger sibling, not caring about the sex of the baby. Now, with the weight of the elder’s eyes on your useless form, you start to think that you don’t want a little brother, one that can be a godling among mortals. You want someone to play with and at the same time protect from the harsh realities of the elders — not someone who will take everything from you. It may sound selfish when you let it sink into your brain. You resort to twiddling with your fingers the more silence seeps through the cracks of the room.

“I don’t want a brother,” your little mouth runs faster than your head. You pout as you fiddle with the material of your expensive kimono, embroidered with the different flowers that stand for your late grandmothers and aunts who married into other clans just like Mother. You don’t know what they mean but you figure that since they look pretty to be placed in a ceremonial robe, they might stand for something beautiful as well. While following the outlines of a chrysanthemum with your finger, you continue, “Brothers are going to be mean even if they’re little. I’ve seen my cousins and they’re rowdy — I don’t want my kimono to be dirty. Once, they threatened to push me off the bridge of our garden.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” Father replies, adjusting you on his lap until he can face you while looking down. It’s genuine — the smile on his face; only reserved for his close family members, most especially you. He caresses the fluff that is making your cheek protrude with his thumb, his gaze seeing something that only he can envision. You may be imagining it but Father pulls you closer to his chest. He says nothing for a moment, instead leaning down to press a soft kiss on your hair inhaling that flowery scent your cursed energy pulsates with. “You will have a younger brother, petal. But fret not, your brother won’t be like your cousins because he has us. He will grow up to be sensible and kind and strong. He will carry on our name with him and you will be there as his guide.”

You tilt your head at him. “Won’t the elders do that instead?”

Father chuckles, his eyes fond as he keeps on rubbing circles on the apples of your cheeks. “I know he’d rather have you than those old people. The bond of siblings is something akin to an unsaid binding vow yet there are no conditions to be met because you are connected.”

You turn to Mother and all she does is smile. Looking down on Father’s rather plain kimono, you think it through.

“It’s not as bad as it sounds, petal,” she tells you. “I, myself, have a brother and it’s not the end of the world. Every worry you have will vanish when he’s here with us.”

Your tentativeness comes in the form of reaching for Mother’s belly, curious to feel your potential younger brother. It’s almost like beckoning the bunny in the gardens to your hands four years ago; fur as white as snow and eyes as red as the red spider lilies decorating the inner corners of the foliage and shrubs (bad luck, the gardeners say). Confidence pools in your tiny hands upon finally touching the rough texture of Mother’s kimono under your skin because this time, you know that your younger brother would outlive any of you, unlike the bunny four years ago — the red of its eyes matching the blood pooling from its white coat, maggots squirming from its insides and onto the grass. The bunny died but your brother will live.

At least that’s what you constantly tell yourself when the entire estate is ablaze with the news that the baby boy Mother has been praised for for carrying, comes out pale blue as a stalk of delphiniums.

When your little brother never reached a full day of life and was placed with the ancestors the day after his birth, everything died in the Joushou compound. There is a lingering scent of rotting flowers in the breeze, encompassing the entire protective circle wrapping around the compound’s protective barrier. Mother won’t stop crying during the kokubetsushiki (where everyone says their farewells); not even your comforting tugs on her black kimono can quell the distraught her entire body racks with. Father looks forward as the son he prayed to the gods for will be burned — so tiny and so unfair, an image of a perfect clan head. You see the other clans wearing black like your family does but they don’t cry like Mother does nor grumble in disappointment like the elders do. You look over your shoulder at the clan with sharp eyes and you feel the flowers beside them squirm at their malintent, except for one. It’s a boy already staring at you, the deep green in his eyes reminds you of early spring when the greenery is at its most beautiful. The scar on the side of his lips is stark against his skin, so twisted that even without a smile on his face, it is prominent. He keeps on staring at you with so many emotions that you can hardly pick them out until your name is called.

“Yes, Father?” You look up at him.

Without returning your gaze, he says, “Let’s go.” You follow him through the door but Mother doesn’t. “Wife,” he announces, causing Mother to flinch.

“I-I’m going to say g-goodbye to hi—”

“Come.”

Her breathing hitches, having no choice but to always be obedient in front of so many prying eyes. “O-Of course, husband.”

The world carries on but Mother has never come out of her room ever since.

Nobody has ever entered it except Father, stoic but tumultuous, and the screams that follow are enough to give you nightmares at night — bone-chilling and grating.

“What were those screams, Aida-nee-san? It sounds like Mama is in pain.”

The maid finches at your question one morning while rubbing your skin with a soft sponge.

“For there to be blessings, one must suffer first, Ojou-sama — they were just making your baby brother. Your mother will be praised if the union becomes fruitful once again.”

You wish you never wanted a baby sibling at all.

You are nine when you are introduced to members of Mother’s family.

Your uncle, Hanamo Hatsugu, stares at you from across the table with eyes glistening with expectation. The table is painted with a variety of sweets from all parts of Kyoto, some intricate with their decorations (candied sugar moulded into swans on top of whipped cream) while others are the simple desserts that you see in catalogues (nothing but fruits as their jewellery, though also glistening with melted sugar). You have never owned a sweet tooth in your life, courtesy of the maids who think of your health, constructing nutrition charts for each day of the week, something that has to do with preparation. You think through all the possible things you can say to your uncle and all of them lead to him dejected or angry for your lack of enthusiasm at the spread he prepared. The most you can do is sit straight and let nature do its singing outside the window. Hopefully, it will drown out the silence you’re causing.

“So,” your uncle drawls out like a child, his eyes never dimming — they’re the same as Mother’s, which means they’re the same as yours, too. “Do you want the panna cotta? The roasted strawberry crumble? Ooh, ooh, the black forest cake from this cafe is absolutely divine, one bite and you will see heaven, I would say!” At your wide-eyed reaction to the chocolate-coated frosting on the cake, he pauses with a smile before brandishing a saucer of a smooth cake topped with berries. “How about some angel food cake? No one can resist a slice of good angel food cake!” You make no move and you think he finally reaches his final straw because he leans back and groans in frustration. “Come on, sprout, you have to eat something! It’s been hours since you’ve been here.”

Oh, so, that’s what it is. You look down at the desserts he arranged on the table (at least from what he boasts about earlier, saying that it’s something he comes up with like flower arrangement). There’s nothing displayed here that’s not overly coated with sugar or drizzled with too much syrup. You might as well accept your fate.

You pick the dessert that you assume to be the least sweet of everything here — a dark chocolate glazed doughnut with dried blackberries on top. The eyes drilling on your forehead can be quite imposing but you take a bit of the confection nonetheless. You carefully chew on the bittersweet piece of candy, letting it melt on your tongue until you get a taste of it combined with the blackberries. You can’t even deny that they complement each other.

“Huh,” comes from your uncle.

You raise an eyebrow at him.

“You can look like a kid your age,” Uncle Hatsugu muses with his chin supported by his hand, “I’m glad.”

You don’t understand, tilting your head to the right.

“Now that’s downright adorable,” he points at your scrunched-up nose, furrowed eyebrows, and jutted lip. “I understand why some of our relatives spread the word that your father can never refuse you anything. You are like a tiny mouse.” He reaches out over the table and the display of desserts to pinch your cheek but you evade the possible harmful gesture. “And a flighty one at that. You know, that’s useful when harnessing our cursed technique. Do you know a thing or two about it?” While he speaks, he waves at one of the maids stationed at the shoji of the room before signing something that awfully looks like a drink.

With your mouth nibbling on the doughnut, you nod in response. At the sight of you still eating the dessert, Uncle Hatsugu brightens like a child witnessing their first rain of fractals on a chilly, grey day.

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

At that, you knit your eyebrows even more.

“Hah, you’re so much like Onee-chan when we were young.”

You gulp down what you’ve been chewing. “Mama?”

He grins when he finally makes you speak. “Yeah, Onee-chan is a curious individual. I never quite grasped what she is like but,” he emphasised the word, “she is the most adept at utilising the healing potential of our cursed technique — actually every woman who earned the title of Heir Maker has the ability to do that. You may be too young to be told this but I guess it’s better than later.” The mirthful air surrounding Uncle Hatsugu disappears and what is left are heavy lines making up his sharp face. “You and all the women before you are considered to be anomalies in the Jujutsu system made by the old gaggle of men who call themselves the higher-ups and because of that, you are unofficially given the title of Special Grades.”

“Special?”

“Yes, little sprout is special,” he forces himself to smile. “And it is because of our family.”

“What do you mean, Uncle?”

“Have you ever felt like the plants around you talk or relay their thoughts?” You nod and he puffs his chest in satisfaction. “Perfect, then, that means you inherited it. Our cursed technique lies in continuously seeing the world in a positive light, which means you will always have the opposite of cursed energy.” He flicks his hand to let blue flames cover his entire appendage, right to his elbows. You gasp at the hostility coming from Uncle but he only laughs at that and erases any sign of the flame from sight. “That is regular cursed energy. This, however,” this time, he cups both of his hands in front of him, putting more concentration than before, and instead of the blue flames from earlier, his hands carry white flames edged with green, “is the pinnacle of our cursed technique — the reverse of cursed energy.”

“Woah,” you gape, forgetting the doughnut in your hand and leaning forward to catch a glimpse of the white flames that only seem to grow brighter the more Uncle looks at you with fondness.

“Yeah, remarkable, isn’t it?”

You can’t help but nod in awe. “Mama healed me with it once when I got myself hurt from the gardens.”

“I heard from our elders that Onee-chan possesses the highest output of our cursed technique in centuries but she can only heal instead of attack,” Uncle Hatsugu ruefully smiles. “Too bad she is pushed to marry first before pursuing a career of fighting and protecting. But now,” his eyes that he shares with Mother gleam and you swear you see flowers bloom in his irises, “this is my chance to teach you how to use our cursed technique — Floral Anima.”

Only the men in the Joushou clan have the right to be sorcerers, that is if they successfully inherit the Nullification. As of now, you recall that there’s not a single woman sorcerer in your family. Being a sorcerer—no, wielding a cursed technique at most—is a figment of one’s dreams.

“But there are no girls in my family who can do cursed techniques,” you supply with your eyes on the crumbs on your saucer.

“The Joushou clan is not the only family you have, sprout.”

You peer at him through your unbound hair, trepidation still lingering in your limbs. You can’t even begin to think how Father would react to you dabbling in something only men can do. But then again, Mother has a cursed technique, some of the Hanamo women have cursed techniques, Hell, even the kinder old ladies you passed by earlier in the extensive gardens have cursed techniques (they made some of the flowers extra flourishing as a welcome to the Hanamo compound). All your life, you never wanted anything. Maybe this can be it — the one thing that will carve out who you are. Learning a cursed technique will give you the identity that has long since been stripped from you. The Joushou clan is not the only family that you bear the blood of. You’re a Hanamo as well — the known shepherds of the forests and blossoms of Japan.

With a deep breath, you lift your head and say, “What do I have to do?”

Uncle Hatsugu has that blinding smile again. You can smell the amalgam of floral scents in the air wafting from outside the engawa. “Come here!” He pats on the zabuton beside him.

You stand up and plop yourself next to him, making your hair bounce before framing your face. You look up at Uncle Hatsugu, who sits carefully to face you.

“Now, hold your hands together like you I did.” You do so and await his next instructions. “I want you to close your eyes,” you close them, “and think of what makes you happiest—it doesn’t matter when, whether it will be in the future or stuck in the past; it’s up to you.”

You think of making your own garden, with flowers that you have planted and cultivated yourself. You think of Mother healthy again, skin glowing like she did so many years ago. You think of the baby brother you once wanted, running around the cut grass on his stubby feet. Lastly, you don’t think of Father and his family. Yet nothing happens. You open your eyes and blankly look at your uncle in disappointment.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

You huff. “But it didn’t work.”

Uncle Hatsugu pushes on your forehead with his forefinger, making you cover it up with a glare. “You’re not trying hard enough.”

“Then what am I supposed to think about?”

“I don’t know,” he admonishes. “Happiness is subjective to every person.”

“What makes you happy? What do you think about while making that white fire?”

His eyes glazed over as if he were watching a scene only he could see. A smile painting an arrangement of periwinkles and forget-me-nots creates itself on his lips, blues and purples shifting around each other and creating a sentimental mess. It takes him a moment to reign himself back to the present, with you patiently trailing your eyes over his face. “It’s always about simpler times. Like Mom cutting watermelon slices on summer days, growing my first flower for the first time, or,” he trails off, “wishing for a memory that is impossible to happen because you are here, the proof that it did happen.” His face contorts into a rueful smile, reaching out to pat the crown of your head. “I always imagine my sister never getting married, staying right here in our estate, and not having children — she is—”

“The happiest you’ve seen her,” you finish for him and he pales. “I know.” You look down at the kimono you have, a miniature copy of Mother’s. “I sometimes wonder what it would be like if Mother is not the mother I’ve grown to adore. Maybe I could be a different child.”

“Hey, I apologise for putting that thought in your head—”

“It’s alright, I’ve grown quite used to them.”

“What do you—”

You quickly lift your head. “Can you help me now?”

“U-Uh, sure,” Uncle Hatsugu stutters. “Try another memory. If you don’t mind me asking, what was the first one you used?”

You pout. “Mother being healthy again and my baby brother being alive.”

He nods in understanding. “How about this? Can you think of a place where you feel like you can breathe more easily?”

“I can try.”

“You will,” he fixes you with a playfully stern look, “and I won’t take no for an answer.”

You nod in determination. “Okay.”

“Okay! Now, do it all over again.”

You close your eyes and this time, you’re calm. Suddenly, you feel a gentle breeze covering your hands. The sensation urges you to open your eyes. On the palms of your hands is almost like that heart-fire demon in a movie you once watched. You expect the fire to burn your skin off but you’re thrown back to the memory of Mother healing your wound — that ticklish thing travelling through the lines of your skin. You did it.

“Oh, gods, you did it,” Uncle Hatsugu breathes. “You did it, sprout! What did you think of this time?”

Still mesmerised at the white fire, you say, “A forest. An evergreen forest that seems to know both everything and nothing. It’s like that forest I’ve seen in a movie with cute spirits, filled with life and a possibility of a blight inside.”

Again, you never want another sibling.

The Joushou clan is in an uproar.

Another boy went to the depths of the earth. Fingers pointing at the useless Hanamo clan whose only worth comes in getting bred by strong sorcerers. Your uncle nearly grows poisonous vines at the baseless accusation. Father stoically faces the storm. The Zen’in clan, especially a man with a bottle of sake for an accessory, laughs at Father for bearing the irony of possessing The Glorified Womb yet never having a son—an heir.

Yet one thing remains in your mind.

An image of Mother crumbling to her knees with a pool of blood for a moat surrounding her.

You’re ten when Mother finally departs from the world in a flurry of red spider lilies, leaving behind a younger sister instead of a brother. Both disappointments and blows to your father’s family. Everybody is clad, once again, in mourning black but you feel as if you’re the only one who genuinely grieves for Mother. Her family is not even present at the funeral services, purposefully banned from ever entering the Joushou clan’s gates for sullying their name by introducing their failure of a daughter to their head. You can feel the tension in the wooden panels of the house, the harsh whispers of the elders, and the animosity behind closed doors.

All of the flowers in the estate withered with her, you notice. It is only when you step out to the lifeless gardens that with each barefoot step you make the colours bleed through. You stop in front of the carnations that once made you bleed. They were the flowers you’ve seen Mother plant without using her cursed technique. She talks to them, you once saw, whispering sweet nothings as if they were her children just as much as you are. You realise that you have your younger siblings all along but the role of the protector fell on them.

“Watch over my little petal, alright? She may be reckless but she is kind and understanding, worthy of being the flower who will tend to this garden once I pass.”

You blankly stare at them now while lowering yourself to the ground, sitting like you were once on the engawa watching the butterflies jump from flower to flower, never realising that tear tracks start to form on your cheeks like the trails of fallen stars. With each tear that drops on the soil, a sprout pierces through the soil, growing and growing until a solitary carnation comes from a carefully tucked bud and brushes the tears on your left cheek away. That only makes you cry even harder.

You don’t know how long you’ve been there while the services are still ongoing in the estate but you startle when the carnation squeaks at you to look behind you.

Heartbeat lodged in your throat, butterflies making your stomach queasy, and time standing still, you find yourself staring at a black-haired boy at the entrance of this part of the gardens — his eyes wide, chest too still to indicate any breathing, and scar a sharp contrast to his pale skin. He’s dressed in black and only one colour is standing among the dreary coldness of the once vibrant foliage.

A pair of evergreen forests for eyes.

additional notes:

Joushou — Reader's last name; Mainly from the term shoujou since reader is almost like a protagonist of a shoujou manga (born to be in a shoujou, forced to be in shounen rip). Kanji: 浄聖; 浄 (clean, pure, beautify, unsullied) + 聖 (holy, sacred, imperial); Prides themselves for possessing a CT named Nullification, which stems from their constant renewal and flow of reverse cursed technique, even going as far as creating a barrier that can render any cursed energy attack useless or to break a domain expansion, hence, getting the moniker of the House of Purity.

Hanamo — The maiden name of Reader's mother; Kanji: 花茂; 花 (of the flowers) + 茂 (lush, abundant, thriving, outstanding, diligent); The women in this clan are most known to be Heir Makers since the Golden Age of Sorcery, having possessed the Glorified Womb after being blessed by the goddess of creation.

Floral Anima — comes from the Greek term anima, which means the soul or the irrational part of it. Its principle comes from the belief that all life possess a soul, even plants. By having this CT, those in the Hanamo clan can manipulate the anima or souls of the flora to their liking, with them only influenced if there is a constant output of reverse cursed technique (positive). This allows the sorcerer to grow plants in varying degrees, make them burst forth from spots of cursed energy, and create safety spots or prisons when absolutely necessary. They can also make use of the type of plant they have around them to create a multitude of attacks than can be gentle but highly offensive as well.

taglist (send an ask or a reply if you want to be added !! )

@booblikerlhc @sugutoad

#— rory's passages 🌼#toji x reader #toji x you #toji x y/n #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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ackerfics · 2 years

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your friend group finds it so funny every time they send you a random picture of them because eren always looks like a model fresh out of a magazine in every single one. well, he has the looks for it but we're talking about his poses. while the others simply smile with peace signs here and there (connie throws an occasional backward finger heart for something quirky), eren acts like he's on a photo shoot; hand through his hair, chin slightly lifted, eyes hooded, and tongue peeking out from the corner of his lips. all of them have an inkling as to why he does this but they choose not to voice it out. it all comes down to the reason why the picture is taken.

the first time this happened, mikasa and armin stared at him before taking the picture.

mikasa took out her phone from her tote bag. "guys, lean over the table."

eren looked up from liking your tweet about studying for the entire day to stare at mikasa, who was flipping the camera so that the three of them fit on her screen. "why?" he asked.

mikasa flicked her head as a way to tidy her hair. "i wanna take a picture."

"sure," armin straightened his clothes and leaned over the table so he could be seen from behind mikasa. he spotted eren staying still on his seat. "you don't want to be in the picture, eren?"

eren typed something on his phone. "nah, you guys have fun taking photos."

"this is for [name]," came mikasa's response.

eren opened another button on his black button-down shirt, giving way to another view of his bare chest and the daisy necklace he borrowed from you (saying that it looks pretty). he then ruffled his hair, messing his man-bun and causing thin strands of hair to cover his eyes. he didn't say anything, staring into the front camera of mikasa's phone, and completely missing the silent exchange of exasperated looks between his two best friends. "why's it taking so long?"

mikasa inwardly smiled. "oh, sorry." it sounded like she wasn't sorry at all. after taking the picture, she hastily typed on her phone. "and sent. [nickname] wanted to ask where we're eating. conveniently, we're sitting under the sign." she glanced at eren. "you didn't have to flash your chest, eren. it's only for [nickname]."

it continues that way during your entire stay at university. if you can't make it to your friend group's hang-outs, one of your closest friends sends a picture to you to make you feel less alone during your study sessions and eren is just posing in the corner. you can't deny that he looks amazing, with your fingers zooming on him out of your control. yet you stay clueless because you always thought that eren takes extra care of his appearance on photos, given the fact that some of your friends post them on any social media platform known to mankind. well, you don't know eren that much, unlike the others. you've only known him in your second semester of freshman year since you two share a gen ed class. it was mikasa who introduced you to everyone else, having shared a dorm room with her and now an apartment near campus.

so, you don't pay attention to how weird eren is at photo-taking. you don't even mind that when you're in the group photo, he's always beside you, an arm around your shoulders or candidly looking down at you while the timer stops ticking and the picture is finally taken.

and it's perfectly fine with eren. it's just his way of letting you know that he's thinking of you way differently from the others. it's only a matter of time before you eventually realize it because he's so obvious with it; you're just looking past it for fear of having too many assumptions that could be false. by that time you do realize, he won't have to hide behind subtle actions that always have your friend group laughing or shaking their heads.

#— rory's passages 🌼#serotonin boost (◍•ᴗ•◍)♡ ✧*。#it's so obvious that this is inspired by those tiktoks of being extra when knowing who's the picture for :>>#ngl i had fun with this #forgive me for this short ass attempt of being slightly back here mwehehe #aot x reader #attack on titan x reader #eren yeager #eren attack on titan #eren x reader #eren x you #eren x y/n #eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader #eren yeager x y/n #eren fluff

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ackerfics · 8 months

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i carry your heart with me (i carry it with my heart): gojo satoru

— i fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet)

gojo satoru x reader

notes: first time writing for jjk and it's for our pretty boy !! based on that one b-99 scene between jake and amy

being on the same year level with gojo satoru means having to put up with the spontaneity of his man-child tendencies. while it is true that he is the pinnacle of the entirety of the jujutsu society from his first wail to the world --- a god amongst mortals; tipping the equilibrium with his very existence, there are moments embroidered in between his rambunctious nature that makes him almost human. key word being almost. such as betting on the most random missions to prove a point like regular teenagers.

"am i going to regret this bet, suguru?" you ask the person yaga assigned to be your pair in capturing the rest of the 2nd-grade curses loitering around the area, with the possibility of a 1st-grade intermingling with them, which puts the entire chase into a total of nine curses. you two are in one of the more desolated areas of tokyo, having split up from the usual group of four your school boasted since the start of first year.

before starting the circle of exorcism your group is about to unleash on these curses, satoru used this opportunity to dangle a proposition between you two, a tradition before embarking on a mission.

it goes this way this time: if he exorcised more curses than you, you're going to do anything he wants (nothing sexual, but judging from the grin on his face, you nearly shivered). he emphasized his words with those black sunglasses of his reflecting your astounded face. you instantly felt the world cave, because your life is on the line. why would you ever date such a person who has no regard to safety and is always known to be obnoxious to the point that you wished you were never a jujutsu sorcerer in the first place? however, if you win this round (which you never won since the first time you two started this whole charade), he's going to be a bit more honest with you. for other people, your condition is as simple as letting impulsivity carry on their choices; but for satoru, it's a moment of weakness. you were left stunned when you saw the tiniest budge of hesitation flicker on his face, almost as if he knew what you meant in your conditions, but just as quickly as you saw it, it vanished. so, he wears false confidence like a second skin and accepts the bet with a handshake, partnering up with shoko instead of suguru. he said something along the lines that you need all the help you can get and that because he's so good, he's going to give suguru to you to at least even out the two parties. what an asshole. he doesn't even give you a chance to utter a rebuttal because he vanished in thin air with shoko waving and pumping her fist at you.

"well," suguru draws out the word.

you throw him a look. "oh, come on, i know that tone --- i'm going to lose my monthly allowance, right? i know he's going to ask me to buy anything sweet he can find on our next mission."

suguru hums with that smile of his, never dimming, never fading, and always warm to the touch. he takes out one hand from his pocket and pats you on the crown of your head. "i'm with you on this one."

you look up at him. "what?"

"i want to see satoru stop all this dancing around he's been doing with you. i mean, the rest of us are even confused if he really does hold feelings for you or not. i think it will do him some good for once in his life."

you look down on the gravel, your hair doing its job covering your features.

ever since you introduced yourself to the other first years in the tokyo branch of jujutsu high, satoru has always sparked this inexplicable interest surrounding you. you like to think it's because of your upbringing, being from one of the more noble jujutsu families who bears the technique of forming contracts with curses, very much like how suguru goes about his technique. the difference between you and suguru lies in the fact that most of the curses your family has made a contract with are special grade, embodiments of the japanese folklore rather than the regular blobs and flies; and that everything is consensual between the sorcerer and the curse. so, stepping inside the room housing three other teenagers like yourself, the flare of your cursed energy captures their attention, one of which possessing the legendary six eyes, having sparkled like no other the moment he placed them on your figure. this rather random fascination of you he had since day one morphed into something that of courting, as yaga once called it (quite so done with it actually), since the boy started calling all the most absurd adjectives and phrases and attached them to your name. beautiful, pretty, heavenly, utterly graceful, stealer of my heart, owner of my attention ... darling, honey, kikufuku, mochi ... anything exhausting really. everything was so abrupt and out-of-the-blue that you had no time dwelling on when this all started.

you now want it to stop.

it doesn't do well because it's blurring all the lines you've drawn between you and your classmates. you don't even have the time to think about the number of times a passerby remarks how wonderful of a couple you two look (any elderly people really) and gojo would boast that yes, my girlfriend is so beautiful and i am lucky enough to have her, ma'am; we started dating last year; it was love at first sight --- you just want to punch him.

then comes the unexpected, lingering touches he brushes against your skin; a pinky finger intertwined with yours, his hand lightly hovering at the small of your back, his knuckles caressing your face and remarking how you look nice for the day, an invading hand tucking a stray bundle of hair behind your ear, nearing his face so that you can whisper something to his ear without any difficulty, and anything that sets your heart ablaze. not to mention he looks at you with something indescribable; eyes reflecting you and only you and sunglasses sliding from the bridge of his nose. it's all softness, no rough edges like how he is with suguru or shoko, and he treats you as such. he once mentioned you are his haven, the only person he doesn't mind turning his infinity off for and the only person to touch him without having the need to let him know.

"i think it won't be good for him if he tells you how he really feel," suguru's voice takes you away from contemplation. "at most, you would benefit from it as well." you turn to him and he wraps an arm around you for good measure. "i want my friends to find solace in our bleak part of the world. and hey, if you two do get together, i will be so proud!"

"yeah, right."

"i would!"

your two groups are tied.

the last curse is right at the end of the intersecting alleyway and what sets your blood pumping is the figure of gojo running from the opposite entrance, shoko cheering for him at the back. great, he managed to convince shoko that his conditions are worth supporting. you grit your teeth and you push forward with more speed that you ever did in a physical activity. god, you're definitely going to feel the repercussions of pushing yourself too hard after this.

feeling the taut connection of your contracted curse, you summon her, "amanozako, go."

the image of a beastly woman slithered from within you, hungry to satisfy her cravings of lesser curses. you watch with narrowed eyes as gojo laughs, teleporting himself closer to the last curse you four have on the list.

then, the most bizarre thing happens.

you somehow reach the curse first than him, leading to your contracted curse to swallow the target in one swoop. she disappears from view and you can only see him --- standing there with a huge grin on his face, the sky of his eyes shining brighter than a beacon.

you blink, breath shuddering from all the running. "w-why--?"

gojo shrugs. "you have it first."

"but you're faster."

he glances behind shoko, who knowingly nods her head. his eyes flicker back at you. "i like you."

all air seems to escape you. everything is silent and all you can hear is the thudding rhythm of your heartbeat. you're pretty sure you look like an imbecile with your mouth open in shock but with the way gojo stares at you from over his sunglasses, one will think he's staring at the most pulchritudinous being he has ever laid his eyes on --- the first blossoming of spring in april. because even with the others lingering in the background, gojo has his six eyes focused on you. you can't even manage to utter a word when he repeats those three goddamn words that will haunt your daydreams.

"i like you, [name]. i'm willing to lose against you if that's what it takes to say my feelings. figured this is the better route compared to the cowardly one i wanted."

"thank me, you idiot!"

"ignore her," gojo casually says after hearing shoko's words, his steps taking him closer to you with his hands snug inside the pockets of his slacks. once he stops in front of you, he takes one of his hands from his pants and brushes the back of his knuckles over your cheek. butterflies seem to bloom on the areas where he leaves behind his wordless declarations. "so, what do you say, sweetheart? wanna give this a shot?"

#— rory's passages 🌼#jjk x reader #jjk gojo #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #jjk x you

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ackerfics · 1 year

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hype boy of the day: eren jaeger

— they can't have you no more; wrote my name right here, so everyone knows i'm yours.

eren jaeger x female reader

eren wonders how you're more beautiful each time he sees you.

a girl like you is sure to catch the attention of a passing person. who wouldn't when you're such an angel in his eyes? always so sweet and kind and lovely to the point that he starts questioning whether he deserves the raw love you unconditionally shower on him. you're so full of life, always looking at the more beautiful side of things and making him exert the effort in being a better person. for having a shitty personality when push comes to shove, he has you by his side; a glimmer of light that contrasts his brooding nature, a pairing that turns heads when you two pass by. every single day, his chest will fill up with admiration and adoration for you (infesting it with unbridled flora, all dedicated to and named after you) that it has him smiling at his phone during his times in the library when you text him how bored you are of your ongoing classes. (armin tells him to stop it because it looks like he's plotting something. eren doesn't know his smile can even be creepy.) you occupy his mind more than he measures it. he is so in love with you to the point that he lets your hold around his heart suffocate him in everything that is you.

a daydream coming to life — that's what you are.

you are so fucking perfect. too bad he's not the only one who can see it.

he's heard so many things whenever he's around the university, one of them how you're a collective subject of affection among a good number of students. he sees people taking a second look at you when you two pass by. not to mention armin counts the number of times people greet you in the hallways, library, or cafeteria. (it reaches fifty since the start of the semester. he only records those moments he catches.) eren understands everything but when someone has the strength to act upon their feelings for you, it's the time for him to step in.

here he is, listening to the way you recount your day.

it's an every day occurrence for the two of you to tell each other about how your days went, whether it be during cozy dinners in your shared apartment or meet-ups in study hubs or cafes. you tell him how frustrated you are that there's a growing pile of lab works you have to finish despite the incoming midterms. then, you tell him that you have no right to complain since this has been going on for three years and your complaints will fall on deaf ears when directed to a member of the faculty. eren is amused through it all yet he still empathizes with you because he's in a major where laboratory instructors think they're worth every damn second. his chin is propped on his hand, his free one blankets your wrist that sits idly on the table while you're putting spoonfuls of his experimental fried rice inside your mouth. (thank God, it came out great or else he'd have to testify for accidentally poisoning his beloved girlfriend aka you).

he swears he can drown in the siren-like quality of your voice alone.

that's until you mention something that snaps him out of his reverie.

"someone," he sputters, "paid for your coffee order earlier? are you close with this guy?" like the way you're close with me and the rest of our friends? he wants to add but he bites the inside of his cheek.

you blink, making sure to swallow the delectable dinner your boyfriend made for you. "i was shocked, too. he offered, ren. i couldn't say no to free drinks or food."

"but are you close to him for him to do that?" eren presses, brows furrowing in incredulity.

you hum, looking up at the ceiling. "now that i think about it, i don't think so. i don't share a class with him but he's a roommate of one of my classmates in Intro to Virology so he tagged along to our study session. he even told me to keep the free drink a secret between the two of us. i thought it was a nice gesture." you shrug.

eren leans back on his seat but his hand stays on your wrist, his thumb now writing random scribbles on your skin. "did he tell you the reason why he bought that large cup coffee for you? not to mention the food on the side?"

"no. i was curious, too, ren, believe me."

"yeah, yeah, i believe you, baby." eren looks at potted plant lining the windows of your kitchen. he wants to say that's how others flirt but he doesn't want to sound too condescending when you're absolutely clueless when it comes to these things. hell, eren has to work for an entire year for you to notice him. thank mikasa for helping you piece everything together. he knows whatever this guy is doing is hinting at something romantic because that's what he did when he was trying to get rid of the friend label back in freshman year. he constantly bought you your favorite drink even though you insisted that you have to pay him back. if that wasn't enough, he also went with you in your study sessions. "just," he sighs, "tell me if this guy does something like this again."

"sure," you prolong the word, slightly narrowing your eyes at the calculative glint present in your boyfriend's irises. you lift his hand to your lips and presses a gentle kiss on his knuckles. you grin, eyes crinkling with genuineness when he lifts his head to look at you. "don't worry, okay?"

of course he's going to do the opposite. apparently, this guy keeps walking you back to your apartment and eating meals with you (but never alone or else eren has to walk all the way across campus to be in your department). armin keeps telling him that this is probably just an overly-friendly person, but why did you come home one night with some gifts from this nameless person? they're not even regular gifts. they're boxes of your favorite candy. you tell him that the guy insisted in you receiving these packages and it's much worse because he gave you plushies as well, which you clearly rejected. you see, eren is not an overly jealous person because he knows he's yours and you're his but when someone tries to win you over with their company, that's the time he's going to do something out of impulse.

and it's the best decision he ever did because when he picks you up from your department building, he hears you talking to this guy with your group of classmates.

"so, what's that written on your bracelet?" the guy casually asks.

"oh, this?" comes your soothing voice. you lightly laugh before flashing the most radiant smile that has everyone pausing in their tracks no matter who they are. "this is from my boyfriend. it's his name."

"you have a boyfriend?!" your loudest friend from this class squawks. it's understandable that she doesn't know given that you only know her since the start of the semester.

"yeah. actually he's heading here."

eren bites the grin tugging on his lips. "baby," he calls out.

you turn around almost immediately. eren chuckles at how pretty you look with that excited gleam in your eyes. "i'm sorry for not telling you guys but now that he's here, everyone, meet my boyfriend, eren," you tell them.

eren gives them a boyish nod, which doesn't erase the loose jaws and red cheeks of those who are caught off guard with his appearance. he can practically hear some whisper how attractive he is. eren chooses to brush the comments away as he smoothly wraps an arm around your waist once he reaches you, ducking down to slant his lips against yours in a slow kiss that makes you both sigh in bliss. he slightly pulls away, his lips brushing against yours as he says, "hey, pretty girl, ready for lunch?"

"yeah," you murmur in a daze. "are mikasa and the others tagging along."

"yep." he smiles at your hum before meeting the gaze of that guy, who looks like he's lost a lot of blood with how mangled his heart is. eren prevents a snicker from coming out of his mouth. instead, he takes your bag from your shoulder, the bracelet on his wrist catching the sunlight and making it gleam.

yeah, this guy will definitely stop trying to woo you now that he saw your name as the pendant for eren's bracelet.

#— rory's passages 🌼#— serotonin boost 💐#eren x reader #eren x you #eren x fem!reader #eren x y/n #eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager #eren yaeger x reader #eren fluff #eren attack on titan #aot x reader #attack on titan imagines #attack on titan x reader

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ackerfics · 10 months

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family line — a house of the dragon fanfiction | aegon ii targaryen x oc — masterlist

AESIRA TARGARYEN is not her father’s daughter.

He may have played a part in how she wailed in her first duet but she doesn’t crave bloodlust the way he did when he slayed the masked monsters that terrorised minds and cut off men’s cocks for their crimes. She’s sure that when the gods flipped her father’s coin, it never landed, still flying in the air — he was both a slayer of men and a natural doer of sins and debauchery; a figure so loved and so stigmatised by those who weren’t likened to the deities of the Old and the New. She doesn’t have the urge to swipe the throne from underneath the court’s eyes, doesn’t have the urge to soil and taint the innocence of her younger nephews — straying them from their birthright. Though named after a fairy tale warrior children revered so much, she steers clear of anything that her father ever touched. The way of the sword and warfare circulates her twin brother’s blood. Being the best dragonrider is her little brother’s dream, never hers.

She is not her father’s daughter.

While the second prince who had nothing to inherit (but the cries of the people) wore their House with pride, she thought it was a burden to carry. She knows the gods knew on which side her coin landed but she tries hard enough to erase it. (Can she truly change her fate, though? When the whispers in between the red bricks haunt her so about how deep her parentage is?) Instead of wearing the blood red and the coal black of their colours, she chooses everything easy on the eyes; pastel demeanour and soft disposition — I am light and he is dark; I am separate from the blood running in my veins; I overcome him through thick and thin, as the novels and the sayings go — Light conquers Darkness whichever way you see it.

She is not her father’s daughter.

Why would she be if he abandoned her and her siblings as he married the next innocent thing? Why would she consider him as her father when her twin brother cried about him never loving their mother one night when they were five name days old? Why should she be his daughter when he couldn’t even look her in the eye when the day required the family to be together?

She will never be her father’s daughter.

But she is in every way her mother’s. The lies flowing from her mind are all inherited from how her beautiful, lovely, caring mother crafted them as the woman stroked her slender fingers through the waves of her hair, “He will come back to us, darling sweetling; He loves you both so much and this little one I’m carrying as well.” Because of her mother, she can lie to save millions.

However, the anger she holds for her father makes her burst all of the edges of her being. She wants to stab him with her brother’s sword, make him hurt like the way she has been hurt when he gave them his back. Scream at him until he becomes deaf with how loud her thoughts are. The more she thinks about what could have been, the more she can see the coin the gods flipped at her birth. The madness of loneliness is truly the most pitiful thing. She’s surrounded by people who claim to love her but she longs for the family in her distant nightmares — the one that lights up a hearth in the cold of the longest winters in the lands, sharing blankets on the carpeted floor; one that rings laughter and padding feet on stone floors and expansive windows; one that has a father and a mother to cherish. She wants to burn down everything with her dragon’s flames so that everyone can feel the heavy, suffocating grips preventing her heart from breathing. She wants to claw her eyes out after hearing the remark that she has that lilac shade everyone keeps saying a certain prince holds, just as she carries the last name he is so proud of.

We are not the same. We are not the same. We are not the same. We are not the same—

And as she stares into the looking glass, all she can see is her father’s face.

There’s nowhere to hide from the truth.

AESIRA TARGARYEN is truly her father’s daughter — a piece of greatness and madness meshed into one.

AEGON TARGARYEN, the second of his name, is not the prince that was promised.

The weight of being the unnamed heir is too much for even the Skybearer to handle. He doesn’t want the moulded circlet of heavy stones simply because he knows he is the living embodiment of a disappointment — to his father who wistfully stares at the only piece his first wife left behind, to his mother who he stole a girlhood from, to his grandfather who had dreams bred out of greed and thirst for power, to everyone who dares glance at the king’s firstborn son with irises lined with disbelief. He doesn’t have to hear their words to know what they were thinking. This poor boy with wine for his blood and daring exhibitions for a daily schedule … is the most awaited son of The Peaceful King? The blasphemy is horrendous.

He is not the prince that was promised.

Because of how his father doted on his older sister even when the woman gave birth to two bastards and is pregnant with probably another one, he’s not the heir — Seven Hells, he’s not even the spare. A large part of him is whispering that it’s better this way. More time to inebriate and find himself in the places that he felt most comfortable with, where adventures welcome his insatiable need to discover. The thing about never being the apple of his father’s eye is that he can be free or as free as Mother and Grandfather allow him to be. It means he can marry for love (prays to the gods that he does; he can only think of one person anyway), and have spontaneous trips to the streets of King’s Landing with his closest friend — it means breathing through the littlest areas of his life. Yet a smaller (most likely better) part of himself dyes the roots of his static silver hair into the most melancholic shade of blue at the fact that it’s easy for Father to be this neglectful of his other children that don’t bear the name of his greatest delight. Everything he did, it was for Father. All of it to feel the sliver of pride he reserved in a waterfall for the loved child.

He is not the prince that was promised.

It’s seen in the way Mother looks at him. He’s convinced she doesn’t love him. Mothers are supposed to love their children, people say; but not when you’re the reason why she has to accept the heaviness of reality. Her anger manifested the more he grew up. A single misstep is all it took for her to shout his name. All of the things he did (he tried learning a different language in the dead of the night, read the books recommended to him by the Septa, practised the sword until he perfected the right grip, tasted dirt in his mouth with how much he stumbled) but it will never be enough like his entire existence isn’t enough for her. And despite wishing she could love him more, he strayed even further to not feel the harsh sting of her rings, which resulted in Mother taking back the smallest amount of love she has for him.

He will never be the prince that was promised.

The first sip of alcohol, when he was a babe, cemented his dependency on his eleventh name day. The numbness, carefreeness, and the occurrence of fading into black that it brings is absolutely freeing. He’s the god of intoxication and the patron of exhilaration. Nobody can touch him.

Except for one.

His personal Maiden, the girl who sauntered in the Red Keep clutching her baby brother close to her chest, the beauty every beholder says is the image of salvation, the hands that he doesn’t mind cupping his face — the remembered princess of the realm. She is in every gasp of air he intakes; in the corners of the halls; in the whispers at the back of his head, urging him to look at her from the corner of his eyes as if she’s the secret the castle never tells; in the thoughts plaguing him; and in the dreams that paint different kinds of smiles on his lips. She always smells like the lemon candies her brother munches on, the pastels she wears are ingrained in his core memory; the books her hands have touched are extraordinary; the scrunch on her face, when she finds something borderline revolting in her walks across the castle, is beyond adorable; and the way her face lights up as she picks the next ugly insect that she will give to his own sister stuns him in place. Fuck him to the Sevel Hells and back, he’s consumed with her. It’s amazing how because of her, he is willing to change. Why consume all the cups in all the lands, when a single glance at her, he’s already under the influence of her existence? It’s a fact he only realised upon reaching a certain age.

One look at her and he sees himself being a better man and a better competitor for the throne.

She is a constant in his life.

AEGON TARGARYEN, the second of his name, is not the prince that was promised, oh, no.

But with his AESIRA by his side, it will be through his bloodline that this promised prince will breathe their first breath.

And with all this chaos, there is you.

contents:

act zero: the prince and the siren

act one, chapter one: aesira and aether, aether and aesira

act one, chapter two: the red-bricked road

act one, chapter three: little boy gone

act one, chapter four: first, a dead wife; second, a dead mother

act one, chapter five: the birth of the golden

act one, chapter six: the queen of love and beauty

act one, chapter seven: ravens caw, dropping strings on smooth palms

act one, chapter eight: matters of the heart

act two, chapter one: the story has yet to be written ...

an aegon x oc story bc my love for what could have beens overpowered my need to enjoy my vacation <33

reply or send an ask if you want to be added to the taglist !! mwa

#— rory's passages 🌼#hotd #house of the dragon #hotd x oc #hotd x reader #aegon x oc #aegon ii x oc #aegon targaryen x oc #aegon ii targaryen x oc #aegon x reader #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen

164 notes · View notes

ackerfics · 1 year

Text

just say it, ditto: eren jaeger

— i got nothing to lose, i keep falling for you; ra ta ta ta, there goes my heart.

eren jaeger x female reader

summary: each note eren's heart sings is about you. it's only a matter of time yours sing about him, too.

word count: 6.8k

notes: i am proud to say that this is my comeback in posting full fics here. now watch me never posting one after months. jk. but still, i'm rusty when writing longer fics so i hope you enjoy this one! treat this as a gift for being one of the 2,000 people who made this blog possible <3 + it's pretty obvious newjeans is my favorite kpop group rn oop

— You’ve long since given up on relationships.

How many partners has it been since the start of university? With how that sounds, one will think that you’ve been breaking hearts around Paradis University; notorious for being a heartless individual with no value for the depth of emotions. That assumption rings false. One hand can sum up everything romantic you’ve experienced but these relationships felt longer than the time span they actually had that you’ve lost count of them. Everything becomes hazy to a point that everything morphs into a misty film reel, unlike the rose-colored lens you’ve always seen the world with even without the pretense of falling in with someone. You’re not one to be desperate for this fickle thing called love but every once in a while, you crave blanketing words that make you see flowers, unbridled laughter amidst piles of note revisions and readings, and hugs that feel like a warm cup of coffee in a chilly night of loneliness.

Your relationships always end in the same way — they couldn’t handle the way that you see and do things; the way you have to be the last one to have the say in an argument, how you should be left alone when you’re too immersed in finishing your tasks, or when you have the tendency to be absent despite being there for them (if that makes any sense). They say you’re too focused on your goals (there’s nothing wrong with trying to finish college just to be in one of the country’s best medical schools) or you’re too snarky and blunt for them to handle (you have a bad day when this happens).

So, you just let them go. Let them win.

It’s not that you’re tired of those repeating circles of words but because they’re right. You’ve been too snarky, picky when you’re eating something, focused on your future, never clingy for someone to be called a significant other — you just don’t have the strength to continue having those relationships even though you’ve seen the world in pink when you’re with them.

The break-ups all end on a sour note, like the time you’ve been given a piece of candy without being told it’s the sourest shit on the planet. Maybe that is why you’ve been scared of romance, to begin with — the appearance may seem sweet but you’ve taken a bite, and everything takes a turn for the worse. Yeah, you understand that relationships can have their ups and downs; but when you’ve heard your boyfriend talk to his friends about how you’re so irritating and downright rude most of the time, him crossing the line as he said that this specific girl from the other class is far sexier than you can ever be and that he wants to fuck her instead (coupled with a few explicit crafting of words that disgusted even your most open-minded friends) … You have already dropped the paper bag filled with his favorite food.

That’s just one of the break-ups. God knows how much patience you have for going through much worse.

Besides, you like spending your junior year with fewer worries than the previous years.

But sometimes, you always think of how lonely you are; like what does it feel like to have someone so patient that they assure you they’re always there for you? Or to feel so secure in a relationship that it’s like a warm fireplace, which can go on for so many hours keeping you warm and safe? You swear you don’t want your heart broken again but you still crave that rush love brings to you.

It doesn’t help that you see these things in your best friend.

Eren Jaeger is someone who you completely met by chance back in freshman year, back when you were all about making sure that your marks are pristine and that your parents can have another opportunity in being the proudest that they can get.

You remember him lingering in the doorway of your dorm room, something that you were wary about until he turned around to face you with this comical teary face that didn’t fit in with his overall broody aesthetic. He claimed that Mikasa, his best friend, and practically sister since they grew up together in the same house and your roommate, accidentally took his wallet back to your dorm room. One thing you know about Mikasa in the three weeks you’ve roomed with her is that she sleeps like a bear in hibernation. So, you unlocked the door to your dorm room and told him that there was nothing to worry about because you’d get his wallet and attached keys. That way, he could have his merry way home and he would be a passing face in university. Until he invited you to have dinner with him as thanks.

You accepted since it was free food and you just got out of a three-hour lecture.

The rest is history. It was there you got to know Eren as more than just Mikasa’s childhood friend. He asked you why you picked your major, you asked him how he was faring in his — the night ended with you two exchanging numbers and following each other on your socials.

He’s seen all of your failed relationships. While Mikasa tears up with you and Armin consoles you by rubbing your back, Eren is the embodiment of anger.

He once threatened to storm out of your dorm room to fight your ex after one break-up that had you picking up the broken shards of your self-esteem and confidence. He didn’t even hear Mikasa shouting for him to calm the fuck down but all it took was for you to plead for him to stay and never make a wrong decision.

“Eren, just stay,” your breath hitched with how hard you were crying. The break-up drained you for an entire day. Your ex dared to lay out every wrong and insecurity you felt to make him feel protected — that he would have a better relationship if he went out with the girl he met a few weeks after you two started dating. You look up at Eren, your bottom lip wobbling. “Don’t go out there.”

His entire demeanor softened. Walking to you, he sat on his haunches in front of you, his stare never wavering as he regarded the way your tears made your eyelashes clump together. Why’d you had to be pretty even when crying? He pushed the thought away and clasped the hands wringing the material of your skirt into both of his. The door behind you two closed — an indication that Mikasa gave you two the privacy you both needed, the girl decided to spend the rest of the day with Armin, who was begging to be updated on what was happening to you. Eren was sure the two of them would buy some groceries, anything you prefer, just to make you feel better. They’re awesome like that. Everything blurred into nothing when you’re in his view. You kept silently crying and while he still found you beautiful, he was itching to start a fight with that asshole of an ex you had.

Eren lifted your entwined hands to his lips, kissing them and making time stop. “I’m going to beat him,” he murmured against your knuckles.

You shook your head.

“He made you cry.”

You still shook your head, bowing to curtain your face with your hair.

“I hate it when someone makes you cry.” He gulped down the nervousness clogging his throat. “I fucking hate it when they managed to make the most amazing person fall in love with them and just break her heart after. Sweetheart, you don’t deserve to be treated like this.” The term of endearment flowed from his tongue like it was meant to — natural. “You deserve so much more than this. You deserve…” Was he about to say, me? What the fuck was he thinking? Now, he was the one who shook his head, mainly to dispel the thought from his head. “You know,” his voice was so quiet, “someone is willing to give you the love you deserve and it will take some time to meet them.”

You took your hands from him and he panicked. Did he say something wrong? Synonymous thoughts pulsed through the walls of his head, that was until you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. With the way he was still sitting on his haunches, his face became buried in your chest. It was almost like you were the one comforting him and not the other way around. He should be the one doing the comforting but God damn it, your warmth made him melt in everything that you encompassed — scent, presence, just you and only you.

“I’m tired of finding that love.”

“You have me — us, Mikasa, Armin, and the rest of our friends,” the way he saved himself was pathetic.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“You know I love you, right?”

Damn, there went that squeeze around his heart. He knew the meaning behind those words. You meant it in a more platonic manner because you never once said those three weighty words to your ex-boyfriends. Those who had the luxury to receive the phrase from you were your friends and it sadly included him. He didn’t want to walk around in this position. He wanted to be more. But that would mean you discovering his feelings for you. And yes, they ran deeper than the trenches discovered by mankind. You made him feel that kind of love — the type that gave him butterflies, tornadoes, bonfires, and all the seasons combined. You were the reason why he smiled most of the day, the reason why he looked at everything through a lens that presented all the colors in the spectrum and not just the usual hazy pink.

“Eren?”

He buried his face deeper in your chest, the song of your heartbeat lulling him. He wished it was faster like the way his own tapped inside him.

“I know.”

He once again masked everything by saying the words back, with more ferocity and affection and intensity than yours did.

“I love you, too.”

That day was the reason why you stopped entering into relationships not worth your time.

You deserve a love that is more than what you seek from forgettable faces.

So, you focus on yourself … and the way Eren makes you question these budding feelings now that junior year rolls around.

“Where did you get this?” Eren asks when he trails his eyes on your hand sitting idly on top of the desk the private study rooms of the library offer.

He’s sitting beside you trying to get some work done before finishing the study session and getting some food from the nearby restaurants in the university town (which is a short walk from the library you both chose). What should be a group session becomes a pair because apparently; Mikasa has to go prepare for her mock trial with the rest of her class, Armin has to finish the pending experiment his group is doing for one of his laboratory classes, Jean has to be a fucking responsible teaching assistant for once in his life, Sasha has to cover some restaurant for her review (the deadline being later at midnight), and Connie has to attend his goldfish’s funeral (he doesn’t have a goldfish; their dorm building doesn’t even allow pets).

You find their excuses plausible except for Connie, bless his soul and his imaginary goldfish. So, now you spend the rest of the free day with Eren in the library, booking one of the study rooms for some well-deserved peace. You’re listening to some of your favorite songs when he speaks, catching his lips moving at the corner of your eyes.

“Hmm?” you hum while pulling down your headphones around your neck.

“This.” The moment he takes your hand in his, your heart starts pacing faster. “Where did you get this?” Eren carefully and softly runs his finger on the spots of red on the skin of two of your fingers. The scars seem fresh because you flinch. “Sorry,” he whispers.

“I didn’t realize I had that until Mikasa pointed it out actually,” you answer him.

He winces. “You don’t have any band-aids?”

You shake your head. “I forgot to buy some.” The way he stares at you makes you pout. “I did forget, Eren.”

“Yeah, yeah, got that.”

You’re about to go back to studying when you feel a pair of lips graze the scars on your hand. Time slows down and you swear you witness the room illuminate. Eren has his eyes closed, his long eyelashes tickling your skin. You forget to breathe when he opens them to give you the sight of his teal irises reflecting your wide-eyed image. His lips are still on your hand, the tingling sensation of his growing smile traveling through your arm and to your chest, warming up every part of your body until you feel your face flare. The gesture is completely new to you.

“There,” Eren says. “Tell me if the pain starts acting up,” he pulls back and leans on his chair, your hand still tenderly cradled on his palm. “I’ll take it away.”

You take your hand from his and hide it from behind the sleeve of your fluffy cardigan. You try to bring back your concentration but all you can think of is the feeling of his lips on your fingers. While you’re berating yourself, you never notice Eren grinning beside you, his heart thankful that your friends ditched you two in this study session.

It’s only when you two walk to your favorite restaurant that you register how annoyingly cheesy all that was.

Today is not your day.

You’re walking in the halls of your department building and even with the flow of liveliness surrounding you, all you hear are muffled noises and the deafening footsteps echoing on the floor. You were doing fine when you entered your first lecture of the day — more than usual it seemed. The friends you made in some of your classes saw how you cackled near tears at some unfunny joke that shouldn’t warrant that much hysterical laughter. Nobody would even suspect that you feel so sucked of all the vibrancy you always carry in the pockets of your jeans after continuous periods of sitting on different-structured chairs and having to participate in some impromptu recitations. You love being in university — you really do. It’s just that there are certain aspects of it and specific time frames that you have to admit how exhausted you are. So, as your friends chatter around you, you keep your head angled to the floor, your hands keeping the laptop case close to your chest.

The conversation unfolding in your presence is interesting but all you can manage are tiny hums of agreement or weak chuckles. The subject switches from enduring another period of recits, to the laboratory reports that needed to be turned in, to how there should be another store in the university town that sells any kind of food, and to who is the reddest flag among your peers. It’s almost like you’re watching shows with your father — always flipping the channel until he finds the one he’s most comfortable with.

Your mind is both empty and running a thousand miles per step. Sleep beckons you in a way that you have no say over. You’re pretty sure Mikasa is going to cook something delectable as always — that’s one thing you’re looking forward to when you go home to your shared apartment. A heavy sigh comes out of your chest, lifting your shoulders from the weight Atlas transferred on you.

Looking at the floor becomes bland and you have to lift your eyes to what’s in front of you.

Right at the end of the hallway, where the building lets the outside light pass through the entrance and exit doors, are Eren and some of his classmates, probably just coming out of a recent class, judging by their sluggish nature. You two share the same department building despite having different majors — him with his pre-med and you with neuroscience. You recognize some of them in the group photos Eren was tagged in on Instagram, like that boy with auburn hair who sneers every time someone so much as breathes within the same space as Eren or that boy with the slicked-back blond hair and army green bomber jacket. And in the middle of the group is one of your best friends, teal eyes hooded with boredom and hair tied up in that effortless bun he likes so much. He doesn’t see you yet and you have the urge to call out to him but you don’t find the energy to. Your social battery is already on the brink of shutting down and guilt starts dripping into your stomach.

Almost like he senses you, Eren meets your eyes.

He stops in the middle of the hallway with his hands in his pockets and eyebrows furrowed. You keep walking with your now curious friends. Who is this guy staring at us? Wait, he’s kinda hot though. Damn it, now I have another crush in this stupid university. You can hear them talking but you see nobody but him, your sneaker-clad feet carrying you closer to him.

With only a few paces separating you from him, he retracts his hands from his pockets and opens his arms with that lax posture of his. His friends are looking at him like he’s crazy but you know what he’s doing.

Your lip wobbles and you let out a shaky breath. You’re walking faster now. Just a couple of steps away.

Eren wraps his arms around you once you reach him.

He threads his fingers through your hair, cradling your head close to his chest, while his other arm secures you to his body, silently pleading for you to never stray far. There’s a pounding in the air, with you not knowing whose heart composes the vivace tune; because right now, you can feel your heart racing despite the calm Eren induces in you.

You two stay like that — suspended at the moment. Nothing in the world matters except for you two. Words aren’t exchanged. The moment Eren sees you walking that way, he instantly knows. You have that connection with him. One look is all it takes for him to swoop in and let you feel that you have someone to lean on as he leans on you. You feel that sentiment in the way he slightly tightens his hold around you, pressing you more so that all you can hear is his breathing and his unsaid thoughts. The scent he carries entangles with yours, similar to how your hearts beat in complement to one another. You bury your face in his chest and he buries his own in your hair. The exhaustion makes your joints creak and your dim world seeps away the longer he softly scratches your scalp with tender strokes.

You nearly cry as his lips seal this moment with a firm kiss on the crown of your head.

“I got you,” Eren whispers to your ears only. “I always got you.”

Shit, there goes your heart.

“Your next lecture is still an hour later, right? Let’s go get some coffee.”

For the first time in months, hope blossoms and you willingly let it fester.

“You okay?” Mikasa asks you as soon as she gets inside your shared apartment. She slides her tote bag from her shoulder, all the while never taking her eyes off you as you stare at nothing in the living room, your revisions and notes scattering the coffee table. “Babes?” The term of endearment is so natural between you and Mikasa but you’re so out of it that you don’t hear her call for you. “[Name].” She taps your nose with the tip of her finger.

“Oh, welcome home,” you greet once you get out of that daze.

Mikasa looks at you a second longer and places her hand on your forehead.

“Mikasa?”

“No signs of fever,” she murmurs, cupping your face in her hands. “You’re not overworking yourself again, are you?” Her voice gains that stern tone. Trust Mikasa to always pull you to the ground whenever you have one of those study sprees, only having coffee for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. “You know it hurts me to see you overworking. Hold on, let me whip up something for you.”

How can you tell her that you’ve been feeling unproductive because of her closest person? Because of that little heartstopping moment earlier, you’ve been in a constant spiral, neglecting your school work even when you already laid out everything in front of you. This isn’t like you at all — you’ve never been distracted because of a guy. You wonder what’s so different now. Eren has hugged you multiple times in the past and you even initiate most of them. So, why are you starting to sift through your memories with him and watching them in these pink-hazed 3D glasses? Every smile, every laugh, every eye contact that has you feeling like you’re the only person in the world for him … or just the way he makes your day better just by being there. You remember all the times he was about to storm across the cafeteria upon seeing one of your exes and the anger he embodied when he thinks of the way you’re always hurt.

This is bad — you’re seeing him differently after that hug and impromptu cafe hang-out.

The weight of that realization makes your heart race in a completely new tune, much clearer and melodic than the times you thought you experienced love in one of its forms.

“Mikasa.”

“Hmm?”

You can hear a pan sizzling from the kitchen. You remain looking at the coffee table, right at your phone lighting up with a notification, showing the world your wallpaper. Eren changed it to a picture of you two for fun. He was kissing your cheek, with you captured in a beautiful candid shot. You were laughing at the tickling sensation coming from his lips smiling against your skin. You never changed it. Mikasa chuckled to herself the first time she saw it. You could almost hear her say ‘idiots’ under her breath.

“Am I allowed to feel love again?”

You can sense your roommate turn around. It’s silent until she speaks in a clear voice, “You’re always allowed to feel love, [Nickname].”

“But what if I ruin it?”

Mikasa purses her lips. “You have never ruined anything. You might have small faults in those relationships but if your exes appreciated you just like they claimed, you wouldn’t hurt like this.” You’re still quiet and Mikasa thoughtfully turns back to make you a proper meal while continuing, “It’s okay to be afraid, [Nickname]. Falling in love is always a risk but it’s not good if you prevent it from happening. If that right someone comes, the jump you took to follow your feelings will be worth it in the end. It might cost you more heartbreaks along the way but everything will be amazing when that person is by your side.”

“And if I think I found him?”

The sound of Mikasa’s spatula stops, and the sizzle of the onions, garlic, and other vegetables persists through this pause. You take a peek at your roommate from behind the curtain of your hair, her back rigid and her hand holding the spatula hovering over the pan. “Miki?”

The girl shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I just remembered something,” she hastily tells you before swiveling to face you. Mikasa only displays emotions around certain people and you wish you could laugh at the disbelieving yet confused face she gives you right now. “You found him? And you think he’s the right someone for you?” She makes sure she doesn’t sound that skeptical to not hurt you anymore but she can’t help but feel like she’s been missing out on this recent development in your life. You've been roommates since freshman year and every time you fall in love, Mikasa is a witness to it, but not this one. This is a shock for her.

You nod at her, choosing not to use your voice this time

“Do I know this person?”

Your heart makes a flip in your chest. “Why do you ask?”

She shrugs. “Just checking. You know, to make sure. So, tell me about this lucky guy.”

“He … wears his heart on his sleeve.” A small smile tugs at your lips. “Even though that’s considered a weakness by some people, he manages to come this far by doing that. It’s one of the many things I adore about him.” You laugh a little. “He’s a little reckless most of the time. Oh, and he’s so brazen and sometimes broody, too. Those are some of the reasons why he gets into arguments with our friends. But even with all of that, he’s so attentive. The thing about people who wear their hearts on their sleeves is that they know when someone needs solace. He does that all the time and even without saying anything, my day just gets better with one hug from him.” You gain a blue blanket over yourself. “I just wish that I can give him the affection and care he’s always giving me. I know I’m bad at giving but … I’m willing to try for him.”

You look up and you feel your face heat up when you see Mikasa gawking at you. You watch as her face morphs into a rare smile that reaches her eyes. If you squint, you can see her holding back her squeal.

“And for that, I’m making this even more delicious just for you!”

And before you can call out to her, she’s going back and forth in the kitchen like a madwoman. Bewilderment is an understatement. One will think that Mikasa is the person falling in love inside this apartment and not you. A puff of laughter comes out of your lips, endeared by the sight of your best friend slash roommate being this ecstatic at the possibility of you in a stable and healthy development of feelings. You perch your chin on your propped elbow. Maybe you should hit up her favorite restaurant in the university town as a token of your gratitude, one that stems from three years of bonding.

“Confess to her.”

“Well, good-fucking-morning to you, too, Mikasa.”

It’s six in the morning on a Saturday. Eren deserves a full ten-hour cycle of sleep after that horrifying week he just survived.

“Oh, did I wake you up?”

Eren pulls away his phone from his ear and glares at it, hoping that the girl on the other side of the call picks up on this ominous atmosphere he‘s starting to create. “What do you think?” He spits, particularly snappy at anyone, even the person he grew up with, for disrupting his previously-earned slumber (for once in university, he finally has the chance to enjoy sleep without worrying over deadlines). He internally cries when he feels the last tendrils of drowsiness seep out of his skin and onto the open windows letting in a new dawn. He wants to go back to sleep but with Mikasa’s call, he pitifully kisses that goodbye.

“Sorry.” She doesn’t sound sorry.

“You don’t sound sorry,” Eren grumbles. “Why’d you call?”

A maniacal giggle tickles his ear, sending a shiver of fear down his spine.

“What the fuck—?”

“I have news.”

“Really?” He incredulously exclaims. “At six in the morning? Can’t you wait until like, what, later at noon to tell me? You know it’s my day off right now.”

“It’s about [Name].”

That catches Eren’s attention and he nearly throws himself off the bed.

“What?” He hastily stands up and fumbles to his closet for some decent clothing. “Is she alright? Is she hurt? Where is she right now? Does she need me to pick her up?” Silence is his answer. Eren again looks at his phone before putting it right next to his ear. “Mikasa? You still there?”

“Eren.”

“Yeah?”

“You have to confess to her.”

“What?”

He can feel Mikasa roll her eyes. “It’s just like I said. Confess.”

Eren slowly takes a few steps back until his knees hit the mattress, letting him on the plush mattress. “What brought this on?” It’s not the first time his best friend tells him to pour all his well-kept emotions into you, the reason for his giddy smiles and sweet nights. Just thinking of letting you know of this three-year worth of feelings makes his heart beat faster. What if you reject him? He’s seen you swerve from any romantic advances a person sends your way, he’s seen you cry over assholes who thought it was best to play with you, and he’s seen you content with this relationship you have with him. Eren sighs out a breath tainted with the scent of the yellow tulips and pink camellias sprouting in his ribcage. It’s almost pitiful how heavy his sigh is. “And why are you so sure about this?”

“I know things you don’t.”

He scoffs, running his hand through his hair, the wavy brown strands falling over his collarbone. “Look, Meeks,” the nickname is always there when he’s feeling unsure of himself, “I’ve thought about it, okay? But I can’t. I just can’t.”

“Trust me on this one, Eren. Maybe you can even thank me in the future.”

“Mikasa,” he warns.

“Eren, you have nothing to worry about. She said some things to me last night and I think you have a chance. This will be the time you can finally be with her and this will also be the time she can have someone who’s going to wholeheartedly love her in a way that she should be loved. This is your chance—”

Eren tightly closes his eyes at every word Mikasa spews out. His chest is rapidly going up and down until, “I’m scared.”

“What?”

“I’m scared,” he enunciates as if talking to a pesky sibling (which is how she’s acting right now). “I’m fucking terrified, alright?”

He curses when he feels a stinging in his eyes. He’s not about to cry right now — not when Mikasa is on the other side of the phone. He knows how she is when he cries. Eren remembers that one time he bawled his eyes out when his mother decided it would be nice to keep all his games away for one night because he was acting like a brat. Mikasa sneaked into his parents’ room in the middle of the night and successfully took his game from their closet. Thank God his parents weren’t about to give him a baby sibling that night. Nonetheless, Mikasa’s protective instincts for her friends flare when they cry. She does that with him, Armin, and especially you. You’ve practically replaced Eren as her top priority. So, right now, Eren hopes Mikasa doesn’t hear the wobble in his voice but that’s highly unlikely.

He continues, “[Name] swore off relationships after her last heartbreak during sophomore year. I’m not about to go up to her and tell her ‘Hey, I’ve been crushing on you so so bad since we were freshmen and I know you probably see me as a friend but how about that date? You look lovely by the way’. It’s not that easy, Meeks. I … freeze when those words come up.” And when you look at him with those eyes he dreams about waking up to every morning — curved like crescents with genuine happiness and love for him, Eren’s a goner. You have that effect on him. Time slows and everything dissolves into nothing when you’ve only done one thing, and that’s smiling at him. God, he’s so in love with you that the thorns are starting to sprout with the flowers. “It’s pathetic.”

With the pause on the other side of the call, Eren would think that Mikasa drops it.

“Mikasa?”

“... She’s ready to love again, Eren, and she’s ready to do it with you in the picture.”

A goddess of time, that’s what you are, because, at those words, Eren’s entire world stops.

“I won’t say exactly what she said because that would mean telling on her but,” Eren hears a smile on Mikasa’s voice, “she told me she found the right someone for her and I think, scratch that, I know it’s you, Eren. So, take the risk and confess to her, you idiot.”

“Do you think she’d accept it? My confession?”

“I’m confident that she will.”

The moment Mikasa hangs up to cook you some breakfast, Eren is already out the door.

You’re in the process of placing things in your school bag for your study session in the nearest library when the doorbell rings.

Mikasa is in the kitchen cooking up a storm, something about giving you a bento box for your grueling revisions so that you won’t have to spend a couple of dollars for a cafeteria ticket, so you’re the one closest to the front door. You leave your bag and belongings on the couch, thinking that maybe Sasha wants to join you and Mikasa for some early breakfast. But then, the girl wakes up in the middle of the day during weekends. You now wonder who’s incessantly pressing the doorbell like they’re a kid in the Halloween season begging for the owner of the house for some free candy that they will neglect after a day. You refrain from grumbling out profanities and quickly open the door without a word. The irritated cloud hanging over your head clears at the sight in front of you. It’s replaced with warmth and a soft tune emanating from your chest.

Eren looks like he’s run a marathon, hands on his knees and hunching on his back to catch his breath.

“Eren, what are you doing here?” You ask him, looking back over your shoulder to check on Mikasa. You turn back to him once you see her preoccupied with cooking. “Come in. I’ll get you some water.”

“No,” he straightens his posture, “I’m alright.” He takes a couple of deep breaths, almost like he’s trying to gather courage. You never take your eyes off him. You’ve seen him with unbound hair; but seeing it after admitting to yourself that you’re having feelings for him, it’s not exactly kind to your heart. The glow of the early sun illuminating the window at the end of the hallway creates this illusion of a halo around his head. With the smile on his face, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and lets his little dimple peek through, you can’t help but think that he’s here to conduct this song beating inside your chest. You only blink when he sheepishly scratches his nape and says, “Can you come out here for a sec?”

You’re about to peek at Mikasa when he adds, “Please?”

His eyes flicker behind you but he tenderly wraps his hand around your wrist before you can even turn your head and pulls you out of the doorway.

“Eren, what is this about—?”

“I’m in love with you.”

Your heart is beating a song and each note is about Eren Jaeger.

“And I have for quite some time. Since freshman year exactly. I’m so fucking in love with you that you’re the first thought I have in the morning and the memory I replay in my mind to sleep at night. You consume me, [Name], and God, I don’t know what I’d do if you start searching for love again. I don’t want you to find the one you’re looking for in someone that’s not me. Call me selfish but I decided that I'd gladly be that just to tell you my feelings. I don’t want to make a regret that will haunt me my whole life onward so, here I am, telling you how much I love you and I don’t want you with somebody else.” He’s breathing heavily again. “Woo, that feels so good to let out,” Eren murmurs under his breath, his head tilted back to blink away any sheen of tears.

Now that he’s said his piece, it’s your turn.

You can’t comprehend looking for any shed of love since you started university when it’s right in front of you — holding your hand when you cross the street, attentively listening to you as you ramble about your newest hyper fixation of the week, hugging you in the middle of the hallway when you have a bad day, kissing the scars you’re unaware of having, giving you the love and appreciation you deserve above all else … love has always been in the form of Eren, one of your best friends. You regret never seeing it come to light sooner. You place the palm of your hand over your trembling mouth. His expression wilts when he sees your teary state. They finally trickle down your cheeks as his large hands cup your face in a hold that says you’re more fragile than a lone bubble drifting in the air.

“Hey,” Eren breathes, his head ducking to meet your eyes. “Don’t cry. It pains me to see you cry.”

“But you—”

“It’s the truth. But if you feel like it’s making you sad, I’m taking it back.”

“No!” You cover his hands with yours. He blinks in surprise. “I’m just so happy, Eren.” You let out a watery laugh in between his palms.

Eren feels his breath taken away. “What?”

You nod with a large smile. “I’m happy you said those words. I,” you choke up; you haven’t received this intense of a confession in your lifetime, “because I—” he looks so expectant that a little laugh bubbles in your throat. You lean into his touch and beam the most radiant smile you ever give someone, “I’m starting to fall in love with you.” At his stunned silence, you continue. “And I’m sorry for being so late at reciprocating, but don’t worry because I’m saying it back now, Ren.”

Eren explodes, “Fuck yes!”

And then, he hugs you close, letting you hear the tumultuous beat his heart is telling you. His laughter beckons yours to bubble from your chest, molding together harmoniously as the sun fully waves her greeting to the world. He blankets you in one of his embraces, but this time, he’s taking this chance to pull you closer than usual. Eren is this happy to know you are accepting his confession and returning his feelings, how much more if you’re going to build a slow romantic relationship with him? You’re not going to lie, the thought of you and him being each other’s partners spurs spring to grow inside your chest. You place your forehead on his chest for a moment, only pulling away when he once again cups your face in his palms. The melodic laughter coming from you sings its notes with every kiss Eren gently presses on every inch of skin his lips can find. Your forehead, temples, cheeks, eyelids, nose, the corners of your mouth — and all of them tickle each butterfly tingling your stomach.

He only pauses when he’s in front of your lips. You open your eyes to find Eren staring at you with the immutable essence of love within his limbal rings. His pupils cover the majority of his iris until only a tiny ring of emerald peeks through. Your reflection is clear enough to see your wide-eyed expression. You expect him to kiss you breathlessly, erasing every thought in your brain so early in the morning, but instead, he nuzzles his nose against yours, all the while maintaining eye contact.

“We’ll take this slow, okay?” Eren whispers only for you to hear, not even the potted plant idly sitting by your apartment’s door can listen in. “I know you’re tentative but I’m willing to be patient. I will wait for you no matter how long it takes like I’ve waited three years for you to finally see me differently. And you don’t have to worry because, sunshine, I’m always here to catch you, to care for you, to love you with everything I have. So, are you willing to give me a chance?”

You hum, wrapping your arms around his neck. You nod, “Yeah. If it’s you, I’m ready to give romance a chance again, pretty boy.”

His grin can make a thousand moons shine.

“We have nothing to lose.”

“Yeah.”

“I finally have you with me.”

“I’m now with you, Ren.”

“God, sunshine, I’m so in love with you.”

"And I'm falling for you, pretty boy."

#— rory's passages 🌼#— serotonin boost 💐#eren attack on titan #eren x reader #eren x you #aot x reader #attack on titan eren #attack on titan x reader #eren jaeger x reader #eren jaeger #eren aot #attack on titan imagines #snk x reader #shingeki no kyojin #eren x y/n

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ackerfics · 10 months

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FAMILY LINE — a house of the dragon fanfiction | aegon ii targaryen x oc

act zero: the prince and the siren (wc: 1.3k) | masterlist

note: oh, and i forgot to mention, there is past daemon x oc in this oops | this is also posted on ao3

Ink on olden paper says two children were born from a great love that shook the realm.

A dragon rained fire, mountains were threatened, men were slayed — all were stepping stones to a hand being asked in marriage, to a union witnessed by the Fourteen Flames and the Seven themselves. The heavens rejoiced, sang their choruses high in the clouds bathed in ever-golden rays, as they blessed the kiss that bound their souls, bodies, and hearts into a single entity, as seen in every birth of their blood — the midnight hall shattered, igniting the spectacle of celestial bodies every pair of eyes marvelled at and years later, the most tumultuous of storms, carpeting the land with the most vibrant shade of viridian that lasted moons on end.

The Rogue Prince and The Siren of the Vale.

Daemon Targaryen and Aellara Arryn.

Every story started with a bold declaration.

For someone who loathed the jadedness of the Vale, Daemon found himself enthralled with the enigma of The Siren of the Vale who was rumoured to be the most bewitching woman to exist in this age, having only heard reminiscent tales from his good-sister, Aemma Targaryen, and songs spread from the mouths of bards. Men would trek the highest mountains to reach Eyrie in hopes of catching a single glimpse of the veiled beauty. It was the very reason why he blatantly rejected his grandmother’s impending proposal to a Bronze Bitch he wouldn’t dare touch in this lifetime, with that fucking sneer on her face as if he was the dirt and she was the god. If only he could shovel her face into the dirt and be done with it. Instead, he longed for the object of everyone’s desire, and that was the youngest child of the House that boasted a falcon for their sigil. Having The Siren by his side would surely sway the public’s favour to lean more toward his side. It would mean ensuring his place as his brother’s Heir; she is of Targaryen blood after all. To have the woman of everyone’s dreams as the Queen Consort would give him the power he never thought Daemon had, which had him singing prayers to the gods he believed in even though he wasn’t a pious man.

With no potential bride linking to him since The Good Queen Alyssane nearly betrothed him to Rhea Royce, Daemon had all the freedom a young man could ever want and need. Pleasure houses were frequented (he had more lovers than any of the noblemen combined — probably even had bastards running around), lands were flown over by the Blood Wyrm, and positions were given to him by his brother (all of which never actually reached a moon at most — fucking Hightower cunt). He had it all. But all it took was a little slip through one of the towers of Eyrie while on dragonback and he was back to the first tile.

There was no other reason for him to propose a marital union with one of the Arryn daughters than to solidify his claim on the throne.

That was all.

There was nothing captivating with the periwinkle blues owned by such a woman of ethereal enchantment. He didn’t trail his eyes from the effortless waves of her white gold hair (every piece of ornament she tangled with her tresses was pure art) down to the pleasing curves that couldn’t be concealed with her flowing dress. (It was almost like the Maiden was born in the realm; Daemon nearly groaned in front of Eyrie’s family seat). His mind wasn’t occupied with conjuring the most sinful images concerning the young woman — he didn’t picture out mapping a constellation of red peonies on her skin or tasting the drink of the gods she very much possessed. Of course, he didn’t gulp down an unnecessary collection of nervousness down his throat when she placed her godly gaze on his worshipping, undivided attention. Fuck, she was so beautiful that he was now covering his crotch with linked hands. Her father was talking yet their joined eye contact sent an impulse of static energy, just enough for The Rogue Prince to feel a jolt down his spine.

But he wasn’t the only man this ambitious to steal the Maiden from her heart and home.

“Prove that you’re devoted to taking my daughter’s hand under your protection, Your Highness. Prove that you are a worthy man of my greatest treasure.”

Bloodshed reigned; there was a battle between the suitors of Aellara Arryn. It was almost called a tourney if not for the condition that for a victor to emerge, the opponent must be decapitated and unable to make a sound except for noises of demise. And with too much blood on his hands, Daemon Targaryen walked away from the bodies as the winner, hastily taking a single stem of a sapphire rose from a jittering squire and (surprisingly) placing it behind Aellara’s right ear with the tenderness befitting a man ensnared by the most dangerous curse known to the realm (but not before making sure there wasn’t a single drop of blood on her skin; as much as he loved seeing blood on someone’s skin, it was almost a crime to see it on hers). Daemon crowned Aellara as the Queen of Love and Beauty without being told to, seven Hells, this trial for her hand in marriage wasn’t even a tourney needing a beautiful woman to be crowned. Yet he did it anyway. All to sway her to his side.

But was it really?

He found his breath hitching when Aellara smiled. It was seeing the glory of Old Valyria right in front of his eyes. His chest pounded against his will as she lifted a dainty hand, a handkerchief in between her hold, and dabbed it on one of the blood splatters on his cheek, erasing a sign of his ruthlessness with her divinity. The shade of blue owned by the rose contrasted deeply with her blonde hair, lighting up the shine innate in the periwinkle hues of her eyes. She was a fucking vision and he never desired anything more in his life until he met her.

With the Siren out of the chambers of her House’s seat, Daemon Targaryen wed Aellara Arryn at the beginning of the 105th year After the Conquest in the ways of the Seven and Old Valyria.

The premise of this romance was worthy of ballads yet it was the start of something so cruelly beautiful for one of them.

From wailing a loss of a person so dear that a large part of your soul broke away; going away because of a loved one’s exile; bearing the heir of the Prince of Dragonstone and relishing in the cocoon of appreciation in enveloped you; gaining two stolen dragon eggs for the twin babes; watching the love of your life flying to war while giving birth under the shattering night sky; suffering the betrayal of your husband’s unfaithfulness and disloyalty, breaking every bit of the vows made in front of fourteen pairs of eyes; to accepting yourself leaving this world in the same way it took your sister.

And it left behind three children with no titles, no protection, no family — it was the world against their little faces, so naive at the slimy fingers of faux niceties and always on the receiving end of reptilian smiles and hollow pity. The hourglass is letting the sand trickle in, waiting for the moment the scavengers pluck out the lingering, pulsing ache that will never be forgiven and forgotten. Because all the while The Rogue Prince created another bubble of domesticity across the seas, a son grew up too soon, a daughter stepped up to become the caretaker, and a young babe never had the chance of a complete family.

rory speaks !!

the reason why this sort-of prologue is so short despite carrying so many things is bc daemon and aellara are not the main focus of this story. i wanted to give a glimpse as to what is the nature of the main characters' parents' relationship; the main thing summarising everything is that daemon is a huge whore and is power-hungry for the title that given to him ... so, poor aellara. and having her die from childbirth is another thing to add to daemon's suffering bc this man has seen enough of it to last a lifetime (his mother, his sister-in-law, wife, and future wife; don't know how he keeps fathering children when this is what he experienced yikes). another reason why this is short is bc we're mostly seeing the events play out in the kids' (aesira, aether, aegon, and aemond; the furious ae's) eyes so, the information is limited when it reaches the twins' ears. bc let's face it, we always sugarcoat things when we tell a little bit of info to kids.

damn, and i had to post it here; let me prepare myself for the backlash woo

#— rory's passages 🌼#— family line | hotd ☀️#hotd #house of the dragon #hotd x oc #hotd x reader #daemon x oc #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon x reader #aegon x oc #aegon ii x oc #aegon targaryen x oc #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen x reader

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ackerfics · 2 years

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levi swears he doesn't like you.

there's no way that the tickling done by the butterflies in his rib cage, the flaming of his cheeks, the clamminess of his palms, and the muddled thoughts rampaging in his head are all because of you. but why are they sparked only when you're around?

he's had his fair share of relationships here and there throughout the three years he's in university, ones that didn't last because of his aloof (almost indifferent) nature, which earned him teasing remarks from hange that he's the resident heartbreaker (who always receives a hard punch in the arm or a slap in the back of the head for bringing up his failed romances). these relationships mostly started since as much as he's a snarky individual who likes to sip his coffee bitter or enjoys a warm cup of tea at two in the morning, he's not the type to say no to those who profess their feelings for him. it might be a jerky move but it's only now that he starts to realize that he is that kind of asshole boyfriend who drives their partner insane by being apathetic. (at least he's come to that realization. kudos to him.)

which is why he can't begin to explain the emotions you're stirring in him.

you're someone he's only introduced to when erwin appeared with you by his side while he was waiting for the blond during one busy lunchtime in junior year.

then came the first inexplicable thing. he couldn't take his eyes off you. while erwin was babbling about how you were a close friend of his since sophomore year, levi seemed to have fixated his glaring eyes on you. he watched as you graced him with a blinding smile that had him squinting a little bit. to any outsider, levi looked like he was planning on so many ways how to murder you on the spot. however, the truth was clear; you captured his attention. because of the way you talked during that time? you were captivating as you relayed to erwin about having to defend an otherworldly topic in a mock trial. the way you fabricated your words made you golden in his eyes. even as erwin threw him questioning glances, you're the subject of his reel. not to mention, you were so fucking nice to look at.

the first inexplicable thing becomes the second, then the third, and a fourth. they just keep piling up until levi loses all sense of reason and blocks them out because they're distracting him. the nature of your relationship with him never changes, seeing as you don't have a foundation, to begin with, except for the occasional meet-ups with your mutual friend (plus hange and mike). but there's a part of him that craves being near you. it has come to the point that he's in this stage of denial, which always ends up with him lingering at your photos in his instagram timeline or mentally pointing out things that you might like while he's roaming around the university town. sometimes, he finds himself opening your contact info, making up a message in his mind, only to click his tongue in aggravation.

but this storm cloud of his morph into something ethereal when he passes by your apartment in the university town in senior year.

it's an early class for him so here he is, walking in his chosen outfit while occasionally sipping on his tall cup of black tea. for some reason, his eyes linger on the glass windows of your apartment. you're staying in this cozy residence in the uni town, a nice deal you got since your space is also on the building's second floor. while levi is lost in his thoughts, you suddenly open one of the sliding windows. his eyelashes flutter in mild surprise, heart pattering at a rapid pace. it only intensifies when you catch him looking at you like an idiot.

you smile that fucking smile of yours that has his cheeks flaring with heat.

you perk up and gesture for him to wait. now, he looks like an idiot standing in front of this apartment building. he discreetly looks around the still-empty street, eyes narrowing at one student who stares at him from the resto across the street. the poor person looks away for fear of him and waits for his breakfast to be served.

levi looks up once you re-emerge from the window. you're carrying your black scottish fold cat until the feline is snug under your chin. you named the little fella vi after hange pointed out that the cat looked a lot like levi, both having that judgmental look in their eyes. the cat is staring down at him with the same hooded pair of eyes. but all he stares at is you. you who lifts an adorable cat paw in the air, making the cat wave at him despite the cat's displeasure.

the smile is still on your face as you mouth, "vi is saying hi," to him.

even though you're not by the window anymore, levi still stands like an idiot in front of your apartment building, hand covering the bottom half of his face and eyes wide and unfocused.

levi swears he doesn't like you.

because he's now starting to believe that he's fucking falling in this ocean named solely after you.

#— rory's passages 🌼#serotonin boost (◍•ᴗ•◍)♡ ✧*。#the cat scene is inspired by a manga panel i saw on twt :>>#aot x reader #aot x y/n #aot x you #levi attack on titan #attack on titan imagines #attack on titan #levi x reader #levi x you #levi x y/n #levi ackerman x y/n #levi fluff #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman x reader

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ackerfics · 10 months

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FAMILY LINE — a house of the dragon fanfiction | aegon ii targaryen x oc

act one, chapter one: aesira and aether, aether and aesira (wc: 5.2k) | masterlist

ACT ONE: nigredo

— primordial matter births the beginning of a magnum opus. the threads of the greatest misery is woven into a beautiful existence rising in a sky of a thousand bursting nebulae. the darkening of her soul will never put a stopper on the divinity flowing in her veins, dim the glow of her cheeks kissed by the gods, nor snuff out the constellation illuminating with each step she makes. for this is how a relic reaches its zenith; there would be no story unless the heroine crawls on bloodied elbows and weeps out tears enough to nourish the realm.

112 AC

Aegon didn’t know he had cousins from Father’s side of the family until the funeral of the Siren of the Vale.

Strangers are everywhere and all he could do was hold onto Mother’s skirt with one of his hands while his younger siblings cling with both of their arms as if Mother is going to disappear with the mummified body in front of the people. Helaena is crying, squeezing her eyes shut and her mouth murmuring nonsensical things that Aegon doesn't pay any attention to on a given day. They’re probably weird statements about the spine-crawling insects she’s starting to show interest in — Aegon doesn’t need to hear that, thank you very much. Aemond, his youngest sibling, turns away from the sad sight and presses his face on the crook of Mother’s neck. Aegon can see that the action causes her discomfort, with her belly round with another sibling, yet she runs a gentle hand over the back of Aemond’s blond head in an attempt to prevent his cries from surfacing through the silence of the burning ceremony. The oldest of the family looks away and instead focuses on the Septon conducting the final farewells to the once enchanting Aellara Targaryen.

He’s never met her but just like Father’s first wife, she surrenders to the flames as is any member of the Targaryen bloodline.

Once the Septon finishes his preachings, a cry rings out in the crisp salty air of Dragonstone, the final place to witness the glory of the honoured deceased. Heads turn and almost immediately, a look of sympathy and pity washes over their faces.

At the centre of the babe’s wails isn’t Aegon’s younger brother. The little boy is too old to cry without any reason. The source of the cries comes from a newborn babe protected in a black swaddle lined with embroideries of little birds clutched against a girl’s chest, a girl only at the same age as Aegon. Beside her is another boy of their age weeping with shaking shoulders, tiny fists furiously rubbing his eyes and leaving behind messy tear tracks and red-rimmed skin.

Mother gasps a hitched breath. “Oh, gods.”

Aegon looks back and forth between Mother and the children, two of which have tears streaming down their faces in a never-ending spectacle while the girl only stares at the mummified body with burning eyes that are likely to shed tears at any moment. She keeps bouncing the babe in her arms but it wasn’t enough to quell his shrieks. Despite that, Aegon finds her pretty, which isn’t the most appropriate thought for the severity of the ceremony. So, he looks away from blatantly admiring the girl’s aesthetics. The babe is crying for his mother. The boy of five name days is also crying for his mother. Aegon is left wondering why the girl isn’t doing the same. He glances at her again from behind Mother’s skirts, trying to imagine the smiles that could light up her face. He thinks they would be no doubt the most radiant thing he’ll ever see. Aegon was told snippets of the children’s mother, how she is—was—the most beautiful woman in the realm, and thousands of ballads dedicated even at her passing. Surely the woman’s beauty will live on in her daughter.

Teary lilac irises framed with curling, pale eyelashes arrest his cornflower ones, fully making him look away with burning cheeks.

“Where is their father?”

“The Rogue Prince?”

Little Aegon’s ears perk at the title.

His uncle is built from the Smith’s mould of the Warrior. He’s only seen the man a couple of times growing up. With the way he walks, Aegon instantly wants to be like him. The confidence and smugness oozed in waves with every step — he dreams of stomping the bricks of the Red Keep with those. But Mother doesn’t have any good things to say about him. He always hears her grumbling to Father about his atrocities, and how it affects and dishonours his lady wife. Aegon’s little stomps stopped right after overhearing Mother’s words. Guilt seeps into his little body. He doesn’t want to become someone that ignited this much reaction from the members of his family, especially Mother.

“He’s not even with his children. Poor things. It’s like he holds no heart. Look at how they’re shedding their tears.”

True enough, Daemon Targaryen is standing at the back of the small gathering. Aegon inconspicuously tilts his head to look at his once idol. The man looks nothing like the dashing prince the men and women of the court are either fawning over or fearing. There are no tear tracks like his sons nor the devastated look possessed by his daughter. Aegon’s uncle stares at the body with eyes rivalling that of the souls crying for salvation. His eyes hold nothing of the fiery glint of mischief he always carries while sauntering in the Red Keep. The usual manic grin tugging at his lips is reduced to a flat line, almost a frown. As Aegon looks closer, he can discern a sheen of cloudy mist covering the limbal rings of his lilac eyes. What is his uncle seeing?

“It’s time for the cremation.”

The responsibility lies with the husband. The Blood Wyrm is trilling right at the top of the hill with two dragons the size of a house and a little one that looked like it just emerged from its egg, most probably those of the children. (Aegon feels the rising jealousy at how their dragon eggs hatched; his egg turned stone cold after his third name day.) Even with the snake-like dragon emitting noises for his bonded, Daemon makes no move to remove himself from his perch, his hands tightly grasping each other in front of him. The clicking in the blood-red dragon’s long neck increased in volume as the silence stretched. (Aegon heard stories of how dragons resonate with their riders’ pain after having bonded so deeply. Father told him that Daemon’s bond with Caraxes is one for the history tomes. Maybe Caraxes wants to end this suffering sooner than later.) With the husband indisposed despite his presence in the funeral ceremony, the Septon turns to the children with a troubled visage.

“Young Lord Aether, as the heir of Aellara Targaryen’s bloodline, it is with heartfelt humility that we request for you to initiate the cremation.”

Aether, the boy’s name, tenses at the statement.

Aegon feels Mother’s hand on his shoulder.

“Take your time to collect yourself, my Lord.”

The girl takes one hand from their swaddled younger sibling’s head and intertwines it with her twin brother’s. Aether blinks at the contact and meets the girl’s gaze. He crumbles, it appears that another sob is bubbling in his throat. Aegon presses himself deeper into Mother’s skirts. He can hear Helaena whimpering from Mother’s other side. The eldest son of The Peaceful King continues watching the lonely twins. He takes in every tremble in the boy’s shoulders and the wordless looks coming from the girl. It must be extraordinary to have someone share a soul with you in the womb; having to communicate with mere thoughts is a feat in itself.

Finally, Aether separates himself from his sister. Little steps start the cremation. One of the smaller dragons at the hilltop stands straighter than before. The red of the scales only glints once the sunlight perfectly hits the beautiful creature at the right angle. Just like his bonded, the dragon stalks with small, pounding steps until it stands at the bottom of the hill. At the same age as the little boy, its wings cover the entirety of the people attending the ceremony, encompassing everyone under the shade of its protection. It waits for the command. Aether lets out another cry, his hiccups wrenching the hearts of many, even Aegon’s. The dragon leans forward at the sound of its bonded’s weeps.

“Dr—” Another sob. Fast-paced breathing.

“Aether,” the girl calls out in a wobbly voice, trying to calm down a restless babe in her arms.

“I-I can’t do it, Aesira,” he replies while rubbing his eyes.

Aesira.

The Septon intervenes. “My Lord.”

“I-I don’t want to do it.”

“You have to, my Lord.”

Aether cries out. Now, both of his fists cover his eyes.

Aegon sees Father shedding a couple of tears.

“Everything’s going to be alright, Aether,” Aesira’s voice is tiny but it carries through.

At his sister’s words, he takes a deep breath. “Dra—” Aether makes eye contact with the gold-flecked emerald eyes of his dragon. Maybe Aegon is imagining it but the dragon tilts his head down as a form of encouragement for the young boy. “Achilles,” the creature of legend stretches its neck to the heavens, mirroring its bonded, who lifts his chin in the air, “Dracarys!”

And to fire Aellara Targaryen succumbs to.

From ashes we were moulded, to ashes we will return.

“The wild will find itself in the jaws of the beast it created. First delight against first delight. From within, the three-headed dragon sprouts from a bud.”

“Will you stop doing that?” Aegon snaps, nearly breaking the writing tool he has in his hand as he looks up from writing basic words to fix a horrified look on his sister.

The third child of the King blinks away the stupor that clouds her eyes. Her fingers are twitching on the tabletop, the army of ants bringing crumbs of honey cake going around her still appendages. Helaena is always doing that — being creepy and staring at something for too long. Aegon caught her looking through him but most likely never seeing him at the same time for she was too busy mumbling things under her breath like the witches he read from the fairy tale books in the royal library. It never fails to drop a chill down his spine. It doesn’t help that she appears to mirror the dolls she receives from the court ladies for her name days; with those wide, soulless eyes of glassy blue and clothes elaborate, pieces of thick material sewn together to accentuate the ruffles and gems. So, while Aegon wears disdain clear on his face, Helaena simply stares and stares, huffs for a moment, and goes back to guiding the ants to their destination and giving them more honey cake crumbs.

What an oddball.

Days spent learning lessons with Helaena are always bathed in silence. Or heavy murmurs coming from his sister. Yet both of them have certain quirks that will make their Septa place a hand on her forehead. Aegon is too restless. Helaena is too out of it. Both of them never finish their work for the day, so it keeps piling up on the tabletop of the study. Today is the same as always. Except that there is the prospect of The Keep accepting three permanent residents at the end of the moon.

One moon after the funeral of The Rogue Prince’s lady wife, the question as to where the children should be warded is brought into the light. Apparently, Prince Daemon Targaryen disappeared without any note, only leaving on dragonback and leaving behind large prints on the ground. The children aren’t orphans but in all rights, with a dead mother and an absent father, they are considered as such.

Mother expresses her worry each time she visits the nursery, exchanging hushed whispers with her handmaidens. They were children, she says with brown eyes that carry too much emotion for a Queen. Father, on the other hand, asks Aegon and Helaena, Aemond being too young to understand, if they would ever like it if there are more children for them to play with. Aegon thought that there are more than enough children for him to share his dragon figures with; Mother is pregnant with his youngest sibling after all. Father dismisses that with a light laugh that Aegon has never seen. Your cousins need a home, he says with a reminiscent sheen covering his words, they’re children born from the sister of someone I will always hold dear. This dearest someone is the beautiful blonde woman enclosed in four gilded frames at the atelier of the castle. Her portrait is the most extravagant among the rest and it glows right when the streams of light hits it perfectly.

To preserve the memory of King Viserys’s first wife, The Red Keep is open to welcoming her niece and nephews, never to be sent to the jaded regions of the Vale.

“Do you think they’re going to play with us?” Aegon asks with his eyes set on the letters of the common language he was assigned to follow. He hears Helaena whisper something in the wind. “What was that?”

Like somebody catches her sneaking her hand in a jar of newly baked treats, Helaena stops. She keeps his gaze on the table, following the scuttling of the ants. “I hope she likes ants”

Aegon knits his eyebrows. “The girl?”

Helaena nods.

He then laughs. “What girl would like insects?”

His younger sister purses her lips. “A friend.”

“Well, that’s boring. And gross. And weird.”

Helaena keeps quiet before continuing her little conversations with the ants.

The scribbling of a writing tool against the stiffness of the paper fills in the silence. Until his sister once again opens her mouth in a dreamy drone for a child of four name days, “Hearts are cradled within the palms of the abandoned.”

She’s holding the babe close to her chest again.

Aegon stands beside Mother’s seated form in the nursery, her hands once again seeking solace on the swell of her belly. He remains the only child that has to be present while the others toddle with the wetnurses. But that doesn’t stop him from being restless. Aegon keeps on fidgeting in his spot, only stopping when Mother slightly pinches the skin of his upper arm in an effort to make him as still as a five name day old boy can be. The jut in his lower lip is apparent as he looks at the children of the same age as him. The both of them are a little shorter than him but for some reason, little Aegon doesn’t have the heart to meet their eyes. This is not the time for you to be shy, Mother tried telling him moments before the handmaidens escorted the new residents to the nursery, where they will be settling in since they’re not at an age where an entire bedchamber is given to them. Aegon spots new mattresses on the floor and another crib for the babe.

“Hello, young ones,” Mother greets them with a good-natured smile.

“Your Grace.” The girl crosses her ankles and curtsies in a grace that puts dancers to shame. She notices her brother not paying any respect to the monarch sitting in front of them, so she nudges him at the side, eliciting a loud groan from him. The boy bows down with one arm on his heart and the other behind his back, but not before glaring at his sister at the corners of his eyes.

“Your Grace,” the boy mumbles, which earns him another dirty look from the girl carrying the babe.

Mother’s smile slightly grows at their manners. It pleases her. They straighten when she waves a hand. It’s an action that showcases Mother being a Queen in every way. Aegon doesn’t like it. It means she’s dismissing him away. “Aesira and Aether, am I correct?” The both of them nod. “I hope your visit to the King comes out fruitful.”

Aether nods while Aesira adjusts their little brother in her arms. She’s the one who answers Mother. “Uncle is a kind man. We deeply apologise for making you wait, Your Grace; he showed us a beautiful model of Valyria and we exchanged stories that took up most of the time.”

“How do you like the model?”

A spark lights up Aesira’s eyes. Her shoulders lift in purely concealed enthusiasm. Her brother snorts a little before painting a smile on his lips like he finds this sight a constant in his life yet it never fails to amuse him. “I find it intriguing, Your Grace. It’s a subject I will always find myself drawn to.” She looks down at the small tuft of hair peeking through her brother’s swaddle. She carefully tucks it in, making the babe squirm and nuzzle into the crook of her neck, his tiny hands gripping the material of her dress. “The model must have taken so long to assemble. I notice it’s not even finished yet.”

Mother nods. “When I first saw it myself, I thought it was a marvel that the King’s passion radiated from. You can ask one of the Maesters to lend you more books about it.” She then fixes her attention on the silent Aether beside Aesira. “What about you, little Lord? Has anything captured your interest? Is it not the model?”

“None yet,” he answers. Aesira once again nudges him. “Your Grace.”

“This is my eldest son, Aegon,” Mother says with something inside her throat, right at the word son. She gestures for him and he takes it as a cue to stand a little closer to her and the pair. Her hands are flat on his shoulders. Aegon prevents himself from squeaking at the weight of them. “He’s eager to have new playmates.” Mother then looks down at him, her brown eyes reflecting his wide-eyed stare. “Aegon, won’t you show him your toys? I’m sure he’s going to find joy in them the same way you do.”

Aegon wants to cry. In the years that he remembers, he has always shared things with others. No moment was purely dedicated to him that was tickling his brain. He counted himself as lucky when Helaena was born because that would mean his toy dragons and soldiers were still his. Those crumbled when Aemond followed two years after his sister. Now, he doesn’t have anything left because if you’re the eldest child, you don’t exactly have a constant thing in your possession. The attention that wasn’t already on him was taken away. Mother never looked at him twice again with two siblings in tow (with a third coming around any moon now), fighting for her appreciation and Father’s glances. With three new children running around the Keep, getting both of those is merely a far-fetched dream. How can he compete with more people who look like the pretty portrait in the atelier?

It takes him longer to answer, the hands on his shoulders weighed more than he can fathom. “Yes, Mother.”

The answer satisfies Mother for the smile on her face is something he sees for the first time. There’s pride mingled in the small pools of her irises, glinting ever so slightly that Aegon finds himself awe in. He wants to be at the other end of that look. It makes him feel like he has done something right at such a young age.

“Now, I will leave you children be. I will retire in my chambers until we sup. Aegon,” she calls out. The little boy can’t hide his pout. “Be nice.”

There are no pats on the hand, no caresses of a mother’s touch in between his hair, and there is definitely no trace of that prideful look Aegon caught a glimpse of. With the flutter that of a butterfly, Mother exits the room, bringing along with her the train of her red day gown. Aegon remains staring at the door, not knowing what to do next but fiddle with his fingers, he’s taken out of his stupor by someone clearing their throat. It’s a high-pitched sound that has him nearly jumping out of his skin. He turns around and finds himself in the centre of an expectant gaze.

“Your mother told us to play,” Aether supplies, with eyes void of any emotion except expectancy. He’s staring at Aegon the way Helaena does it. It jolts him and he nearly shouts for the boy to stop doing that if not for Aesira interrupting.

“Aether, don’t be so disrespectful,” she lightly scolds. “This is not our home. We’re only guests.”

“This is our new home, Sira,” Aether rebuts. “And I want to see if his toys are better than my old ones back in Dragonstone.” Like it’s more of a priority than anything.

Aegon takes a step forward. “I have wooden dragons that we can play with.”

Aether’s eyes narrow. “What dragons?”

“Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes. Though Aemond took Vhagar and he’s never returned it since,” he scrunches his face as if the idea of his wooden dragons being stolen is a rancid thought. Aegon never forgets to throw a dirty look at the young babe sleeping in the older cribs of the nursery. In between Aemond’s pudgy hands is Aegon’s Vhagar. He’s long since given up on taking it from his little brother, seeing firsthand how strong a babe’s grip can be. Plus, his cries are not the sweetest to listen to either — they’re piercing and if possible, can shatter even the thickest of glass. After his attempt at taking it back, Aegon experiences Mother’s anger that nearly made him cry as well. So, now Vhagar is Aemond’s and the other two are left within Aegon’s toy chest, wherein the contents have significantly dwindled through the years. “Don’t bother taking it from him; he can be a bit of a banshee.”

They’re like gems — Aether’s eyes. Aegon has only ever seen such a colour on a lady’s neck, encrusted with the finest of glittering gold, and ears where they are dangling for their lives. They glow under the dim light of the nursery and Aegon doesn’t know what to feel about it. It is reminiscent of how his uncle Daemon stares at the things he finds interesting during his visits to the Keep (before he was exiled, again, as told by Mother when he asked about Daemon’s whereabouts). A little half-smile tugs on Aether’s lips, almost elfish in a way that it’s full of mischief.

“I want Balerion then.”

Aegon feels his world crumble.

“Aether,” a soft voice nags.

He finds himself staring at the pretty girl carrying the babe. Aesira has her eyebrows in a downturned arch, her lips mouthing that she’s sorry for her brother.

“What?” The younger blond boy swivels to his sister. “We’re guests, as you say, right? I think Mother told us back then that guests always have to be attended to by the hosts. Aegon,” he waves at him, “is clearly the host.”

“Mother also told us to be decent and mindful.” Aesira stops glaring at her brother and softens her entire face to make Aegon feel better. “Do you want him to take Balerion from you, my Prince?”

Aegon’s face burns at the undivided attention given to him by the girl. While the violet of Aether’s eyes is startling, all wildfire without calm, Aesira’s is a soft lilac, the serenity upon contact. His little heart pounds away in his chest. The squeezes are enough for him to twist his face in a grimace and one of his hands to cover the area above the racing organ. The sensation spreads from his heart to every part of his body until it reaches his eyes, altering his vision to see this girl in a different light. She’s all sunrays and stardust — so bright that little Aegon has no problem being blind.

“No,” Aegon answers her question after a few minutes of stalling (staring).

“Stop looking at me like that, Sira.”

Aesira giggles. It’s a sound akin to a choir of seraphs. “I think Balerion suits Prince Aegon quite well.”

Aether fixes him with a disbelieving expression. Aegon holds himself so that he won’t squirm because Aether shares the same judgmental mask on Mother when she’s not satisfied with his appearance; always fussing about how his vest doesn’t match with his eyes or how his hair seems unruly to be called neat. It’s akin to being cut open and being spectated. The younger boy shrugs, making a sound at the back of his throat that Aegon likens to a goat. Aether, the dragon’s diet, befits the image Aegon has in his mind regarding this weird boy. “He doesn’t seem ‘conqueror’-like to me. I still prefer to play with his Balerion toy dragon. I look more like a warrior than him.” He puffs out his chest as if his words require him to be prideful.

Aegon leans forward with his fists clenching at his sides. “I am named after The Conqueror. Of course, Balerion goes to me.”

“... I don’t see it.”

He wilts.

“But just this one time.”

The world is bright again.

Aegon runs to his toy chest and pulls out Balerion and Meraxes, carrying them like potato sacks under his arm. He chooses not to mind the grin of elfish mischief on his new friend’s face. He’s eager to have a new playmate that doesn’t mumble creepy things or cry when they get hit by a little bump. Aegon can tell — Aether is a fun person to be around with. And if Aether is present, Aesira is sure to follow, which means Aegon has something pretty to look at. Maybe he can convince her to play the princess kept in the tower, so he can act out one of his dreams as a worthy prince who rescues the fair maiden from her prison. That way, she can give him a kiss on the cheek as a reward and a handkerchief or piece of her dress as a favour for winning her hand. The thought of it sends Aegon in a rush of excitement.

“Play nice,” Aegon hears Aesira whisper to her brother. He tilts his head like a puppy.

Aether only snickers.

The younger boy, in fact, did not play nice.

What should be a nice game of conquering the territories of the Seven Kingdoms becomes a fight between the two dragons who are supposed to be allies.

It’s a miracle that Aemond doesn’t wake up from his deep nap at the noises Aether makes while trying to make Balerion surrender. But Helaena looks up from drawing random scribbles on her bound journal because of the sounds of wood scraping against wood. She looks down at her journal when she finds nothing interesting. At one point, Aegon’s hand gets included in the fray, biting his lip to not let someone hear his cry for pain. This is a game that his new friend is enjoying; he doesn’t want to spoil the fun.

Aegon matches Aether’s enthusiasm. For all the times his hand is hit and the bursts of giggles Aether did, Aegon manages to pin down his Meraxes toy dragon on the floor. He expects the younger boy to feel dejected but much to his surprise, the giggles only increase. For once, Aegon doesn’t hide that he’s enjoying this roguish scene of child’s play. He doesn’t bite his lip when his hand is pressed between the wooden material, Aether doesn’t either. Their laughter rings out through the nursery that they don’t notice a certain babe’s fussing.

“No!” Aesira exclaims.

Aegon immediately turns his head to look at her.

“Ha!” Aether cheers. “I win! How about it? My dragon can beat any beast as long as I’m the rider.”

He doesn’t pay attention to his new friend’s self-celebration. His hand is limp around the wooden Balerion dragon.

Across from him, Aesira is in tears, bouncing the wailing babe in her arms. “Don’t cry, Daemian!” The babe keeps crying. Aesira is frantic now that the sound increases its volume. Her eyes keep flickering between the babe in her arms and the fussing toddler in one of the cribs. “Shh, Daemian, please. You’re going to wake up Aemond.” Aesira tries everything she can think of — patting the babe on the back, humming a lullaby that doesn’t help, cooing at the babe’s screaming face, and firmly hugging him close to her. Before long, she’s crying with him yet she’s more silent than him. “I don’t know what to do.”

Like a saving grace, a wet nurse barges into the nursery, movements distressed and searching for any mishap surrounding the Queen’s youngest child who is sleeping soundly after finding the most comfortable position, pudgy fingers still around one of Vhagar’s feet. Relief washes her face for a moment until she realises that the cry comes from the newest wards of the royal family. The wet nurse presses a hand on her chest, face scrunching in phantom pain before walking toward the three children forming a triangle on the rug-covered floor. She kneels in front of the weeping little ones, slightly leaning forward to give the girl all her attention.

“My Lady, I believe the babe is hungry,” the wetnurse placates.

“He always cries back in Dragonstone,” Aesira sniffles, “but he stops when I’m the one hugging him. Why won’t he stop now? Does he hate me?”

The wet nurse ruefully smiles at her. “I’m sure that isn’t the case, my Lady. He’s simply looking for his mouth to latch on. See how he presses himself on your chest? That is what babes do when they get hungry. Now, he’ll be as quiet as a snoring sheep once he’s drunk his fill. That is if you’ll let me, my Lady?”

The hesitance is clear on her face. If possible, she pulls the babe closer to her.

Aegon interjects, “Aemond always stops crying after he’s been tended to by his wetnurse. I’m sure it will be fine, A-Aesira.” He bites the inside of his cheek for the first time his tongue ever dares form the syllables of her name.

“Yes, Sira!” Aether cheers with a spurt of energy. “Damy is safe and you can play with us! You’ll be the maiden we’ll rescue in the battle.”

“I-Uhm,” Aesira looks down. “I’ll be with Princess Helaena instead.”

Her brother nods. “Alright. Just promise that you’ll be playing with us next time.”

They join their pinkies together and Aether goes back to facing a bemused Aegon while Aesira shyly introduces herself to Helaena.

“Don’t look so glum, Prince Aegon, Aesira never breaks her promises,” Aether forces a grin. “She’ll eventually come around.”

Aegon begrudgingly looks away from the little girl clad in the simple red dress that seems to outshine Mother. The boys continue their games with lesser enthusiasm than moments prior. This time, it’s Aegon who initiates the rowdier plots by bumping Balerion’s head into Meraxes’s. It garners a smile from the younger boy but it’s subdued.

That night, when Aegon tries finding a comfortable position for him to sleep on his mattress and is left staring at the drab ceiling of the nursery, he catches Aether silently getting up from his mattress to sleep beside Aesira, who insisted that Daemian, their baby brother sleep next to her. It’s only as Aether wraps his arms around the girl and the babe that he realises Aesira’s shoulders are shaking. From then on, the children who unfortunately found themselves in a completely different world, one that’s separate from their own, only have one another against all odds.

Aegon turns away from them, ignoring the abysmal hole swallowing him from the inside out, and gives them the luxury of having their moment as theirs alone.

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ackerfics · 1 year

Text

a devoted believer (lover) like no other: levi ackerman

— let the world ridicule me, for life anew i still pray; whether earth or heavens, my place is by your side.

levi ackerman x reader

when levi first saw you, he thought you were a blessing sent from the heavenly realms.

you were in the middle of the most gilded of cities, the one above the rotting pathetic excuse of a home for a young boy of thirteen, dressed in the most luxurious woven material that didn't just accentuate how beautiful you were, but also showed how you were almost one of the deities overlooking the continents. you were a literal blessing from above, a miracle born from a dying, withered hand while the typhoons thundered the mortal realm. the reason behind your miraculous existence that had scholars praising odes of your achievements was not because you emerged a thief of your mother's life, but because you silenced the raging winds and drained the flooded villages — almost like your birth calmed the celestials above with your cries of greetings. and for a miracle reaching a year of another age, you're a spectacle in a sea of worshipping eyes, waiting for a smile from their revered crowned heir.

among those was him, a street rat who escaped from the undercity to quench his curiosity of what colors a festivals boasts or what extravagances the illegal traders below-ground have witnessed in the past. he was in the middle of pushing individuals screaming for the next in line for the throne of the city, in hopes that their handkerchiefs could wipe the moving shrine you're seated in. levi thanked his smaller figure because he could squeeze in between bodies as well as snatch a couple of trinkets from unsuspecting citizens here and there. what he didn't expect was to be pushed to the large road, right in the middle and in front of the gigantic shrine carrying you.

your brilliant distinctive eyes that were once jaded flashed with alarm, meeting levi's that were shadowed with what remained of his fate. talks of how ruthless your father, the king, was spread far and wide. everything that would pose a threat to you and your precious being would be eradicated. even a measly street rat who simply stumbled amidst your birthday parade. levi accepted that he would be beheaded at the prime age of thirteen. though, it was too soon for him to meet his mother again in the land without ends.

instead, the entire festival stopped.

you descended like a deity punished with mortality, your ethereal garb trailing like the waves against the shore. the guards stationed around you stood on high alert. you sat on your haunches in front of levi, his eyes wide almost as if he was ingraining every feature carved on your face into memory. he was tense, more wary than he ever was in his entire lifespan. all that vanished like the healing hands of apothecaries when you place a small, gentle hand on his head. the smile you had on your face could be akin to that of homely warmth that soothed every miserable memory levi had in his head. you were like his healing and it was only his first meeting with you. maybe you were truly a miracle born from the highest stars or a deity wrapped in mortal skin to grace people like him a taste of the heavenly realms.

"are you alright?" carried your euphonious voice.

levi might have looked like he was about to assassinate you but he was only gobsmacked.

"do you need some help? that was quite a fall."

"no, i'm alright," finally, he had the strength to answer your queries.

the smile you donned grew, crinkling your eyes in relief. "that's good. how about taking a ride on the shrine? it seems like you gained an injury from the fall." you glanced behind you and gestured for the guards to calm themselves. "don't worry, they won't do a thing to you. come, don't be afraid, i'll be sitting there with you."

he ignored the jeers from the crowds and let himself be pulled by you up the stairs of your moving shrine.

it was that day when he swore that you were worthy of being worshipped for you have a heart that was unlike any he encountered. you were truly a polished gem among ragged stones and pebbles.

years cultivated your relationship with him, the witness being your retainers and the walls of your palace. every day since that fateful parade and festival, you welcome levi into your home, offered him the best delicacies and clothes, basically ridding him of his past, which he greatly accepted without a second glance. you were offering him a chance to redeem his life of killing and stealing and just like breathing, he would follow. it came to a point that you appointed him as one of your guards, an act so baffling that it required you to bow in your father's throne room just to have levi by your side. being your guard, you became a teller of fascinating stories for him, introducing knowledge, both foreign and local, that he never head of before. then, he picked up on the smallest things about you — how you fidget with your fingers when a potential suitor walked in, how you look away when you were overwhelmed with emotions after he told you something borderline romantic, how you smile a little wider around him, and many things that he could list and never be bored.

you were like an existence he wouldn't dare erase.

every moment with you is a memory until the downfall of your great city. a war broke out and your city was the target.

when levi first saw you bloodied and vulnerable, he thought he heard a painful cry somewhere.

enraged with the need to protect you, levi wreaked havoc in the vicinity, ultimately beheading the soldier who pierced their sword into your torso. what was once the beautiful garb he loved seeing on you, became something that only an abstract painter could conjure.

it was only then that he realized that painful cry was coming from his lips.

he cradled your dying body into his chest, his tears dripping like starlight on your cheeks. despite the pain raking your limbs and muscles, you lifted a hand and gently caressed his head the same way you did when you two first met. cries spilled from levi's lips — his face open to those who wish him harm that his one weakness had always been you.

"levi," you said in your dulcet tone.

"no, no, no," he murmured against your forehead, his hands already stained with your blood. it made him sick. "don't you fucking dare close your eyes."

"but the light is too harsh, levi. i'm tired."

"no, i beg you, please don't."

"i've defended this city to my last breath, just like what my father and mother always drilled into me. i hope they get to witness my zenith before they passed on and meet my ancestors in the land without ends." you were looking above like it was an old friend. levi gripped you tightly to his chest, closer to his heart, in hopes that your staggering breath becomes stronger with each thundering beat.

"don't say that!" he was angry but he had no idea who to direct this to.

"but, levi, it's why i was born."

"fuck them! i want you to live — longer than this stupid city did, than any of your ancestors ever did."

you smiled, your hand trailing down to his cheek. "oh, levi. thank you for being with me, for giving me a chance to experience something blinding when my life was too hopeless to shine some light to."

levi covered your hand with his warm palm. "and i want you to be here with me, please, my love."

"i promise to be with you in the heavenly realms."

"no, no, no, NO!" levi shouts the syllable as each one comes out of his mouth. you were losing light, the smile still on your face. his face contorts into the worst pain he felt in his lifetime, much worse than the poisoned dagger he took for you during one assassination attempt. desperate to breathe life into you, levi pressed his lips into yours. he thought so much of finally connecting your lips with his but instead of the warmth he envisioned, he only felt the cold. he continued fitting your lips together but you were still limp in his arms.

and when the hand that was on his cheek met the ground, levi screamed so loud that even the heavens pitied him.

it felt so wrong that the moment you were brought to the heavenly realms, the entire courtyard where your death happened bloomed with flowers as if the seasonal deities decided that spring should be welcomed. the scent of flowers could only mean one thing — a new deity is born.

in the years that you're gone, levi became a vengeful spirit, vanquishing dominions and territories like a mind game. he misses you deeply, waiting for any sign that you might be here in the mortal realm. he watches the trees change color a thousand times. and it's also a thousand years that he does his pining. and with it comes the news that a deity descended, doomed with the punishment of collecting millions of believers.

"a beautiful flower-like deity, dressed in this distinctive garb that existed a millennium ago. i think this deity was known for eternal kindness and empathy so, why would the heavens banish such a feat?"

that's enough for levi to venture the next sighting of this descended deity. however, at the entrance of one isolated village teeming with spirits, he thinks. it would be best to conceal his identity for the meantime. changing his appearance, he musters the strength to face you.

when levi first saw you after a thousand years, he thinks you're still as beautiful as the day you made the festival stop.

"traveler, do you need any help freeing spirits?"

you turn around, an amiable smile painting your face. "are you a citizen of this village? if so, will you accompany me?"

"always."

#— rory's passages 🌼#— serotonin boost 💐#— inspired by my new fixation that is heaven official's blessing <3 #levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #attack on titan x reader #aot x reader #attack on titan imagines #snk x reader #levi x you #levi x y/n #levi ackerman x y/n #levi attack on titan

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