#messy relationships

[loulovesshiganshina]

AOT Boys As Toxic!Exes That Can't Let You Go || Toxic!Attack on Titan x Reader

Levi Ackerman

You're the one thing in his life he can't seem to think rationally about.

You've been off and on for years, but this breakup? You swore you wouldn’t go back. And for the first few months, it worked. You contacted old friends, started new hobbies. You didn’t forget Levi, but you stopped associating him with love and started thinking of him as background noise, a dangerous form of entertainment.

He did not see it that way. “You’re mine,” he said the first time he cornered you outside the café you’d been hiding in. “Always have been, always will be. These breaks… they’re just part of the process.”

You laughed, but the laugh felt sharp in your chest. You wanted to argue, wanted to tell him to leave, wanted to breathe. Instead you let him watch, arms crossed, hair perfectly messy, the streetlight catching a glint in his cold eyes.

And just when you thought you were free, he came to pick you up after work. You’d arranged an Uber—you weren’t going back, not this time—but when he appeared on the sidewalk, leaning against his motorcycle like it was part of him and part of the city itself, your fingers froze on your phone.

“Levi… I—” you started, because words were easier than turning your back.

He stepped forward, slow, deliberate. “Don’t. You’re not going anywhere until I say so.”

Your heart slammed in protest, a mixture of irritation and something dark, tempting, familiar. You wanted to tell him to fuck off, but the way he smelled, the way he moved, it was a physical pull you weren’t ready to resist.

And as the Uber drove away, leaving you standing in the glow of the streetlight, you realized: some things weren’t meant to be left alone.

Jean Kirstein

He calls at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday because he had a nightmare about you. He swears it’s not manipulation, but you’ve learned the difference. His timing is impeccable, always exactly when you’ve started forgetting how he twists your heart.

You’ve tried moving on. You’ve tried dating other people, focusing on school, work, literally anything to stop thinking about him—but Jean has a way of making you question your sanity. “You’re really okay with leaving me like this?” he asks over the phone. His voice is soft, almost broken, but the underlying accusation hits you like a punch.

He remembers everything. Every dumb fight, every small insult you regret giving, every time you let him push you too far. And he stores it all like evidence against you. “Remember when you said I was selfish? You hurt me,” he’ll whisper. Not once, but multiple times, carefully, like he’s testing you.

The guilt eats at you. You don’t even want to text him back, but you do, because it’s easier to soothe the screaming feeling in your chest than to let him have it all. And once you reply, the floodgates open:

“I know you’re happy without me, but are you really? Or are you just pretending?”

“I can’t stop thinking about us. I don’t want anyone else to have you.”

“You left me, but I’ll wait. I always wait. You can’t escape me.”

And it’s always framed as care. Concern. Worry. He’s never openly threatening, never physically imposing like Levi, but the psychological grip is just as strong. You start to second-guess yourself: maybe you’re being unfair, maybe you did leave him wrong, maybe you could just… come back.

When he appears in person, casually leaning against a wall outside your favorite coffee shop, hands in his pockets, the world slows. “Hey,” he says. His grin looks innocent, tired, but there’s an edge there. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. You’re really sure you don’t need me?”

You’re not sure. And that’s exactly what he wants. Because even if you resist, even if you run, Jean Kirstein knows how to make you feel guilty for wanting to be free.

Eren Yeager

He vanishes. One day he’s texting like everything’s fine, the next he’s gone for days, maybe weeks. No explanation. No warning. Just silence. And then, just when you’ve stopped expecting him, he’s there, right in front of you, like he owns the space you’ve built for yourself.

“You think you can just forget me?” he growls the first time he shows up outside your apartment, fists clenching as if the world itself conspired to keep you apart. He’s not asking; he’s accusing. You try to say something, but the words die in your throat. He’s always one step ahead.

He has this way of making you feel responsible for his chaos. If he’s angry, it’s your fault. If he’s distant, it’s your fault. If he storms out, disappears, ignores you—your fault. “You make me feel like this,” he says. “Do you even know what you do to me?”

And yet, when he softens, when the anger fades, it’s magnetic. He’ll sit close, lean in, touch your shoulder, whisper “I can’t let you go. Not again.” You know he’ll hurt you again, but something in you aches to stay, even for a second.

Eren is storms and fires, a constant threat wrapped in the illusion of protection. He’ll push you to the edge of your patience, make you scream, make you cry, make you want to run—and then pull you back like it’s inevitable. “You’re mine,” he says, voice low, tense, almost pleading. “I don’t care what you say. You can try, but you can’t leave me behind.”

He doesn’t ask permission. He doesn’t negotiate. He disappears. He returns. He destroys and rebuilds. And somehow, some horrifying part of you waits. Because you remember the moments where he loved you so fiercely it left scars of longing as deep as his anger.

Armin Arlert

He acts like he is the only one thinking clearly. You left him, but in his mind it was your mistake not his. He talks to you like every choice you make outside of him is wrong. “I just don’t understand why you would leave me like this” he says, voice soft but insistent. You start to question yourself, wonder if you were too harsh, too impulsive, too selfish.

He remembers every detail of your relationship and uses them like weapons. Every argument, every small slight, every time you cried. “Do you remember when you said you hated how I worried about you?” he asks, tilting his head, almost innocent. “Do you know how that hurt me” he adds quietly and you feel your chest tighten because yes you do, but now he’s holding it over you.

He shows up at places you thought were safe, always with some excuse, always soft, always apologetic, always just enough guilt to make you reconsider walking away. “I didn’t know you were upset with me I thought you were okay” he says, eyes wide and honest but sharp in his intent. You tell yourself you are done, but his presence makes the weight in your stomach pull you back.

He manipulates your empathy. Every sigh, every quiet frown, every word he says is loaded. You want to be the bigger person, to tell him no, to walk away, but every time you try he has a way of making it feel like betrayal. “You used to care about us, what happened to that” he whispers and suddenly leaving him feels cruel.

Armin never storms, never raises his voice, never forces you to obey. His poison is quiet. He waits for your guilt to grow. He waits for your conscience to fail. He waits until you are so tangled up in what you owe him that you forget what freedom felt like.

Connie Springer

He is chaos wrapped in a grin. You broke up and thought it would stick, but Connie has a way of showing up in the most inconvenient moments, always smiling like nothing is wrong. “Hey, you’re really not gonna talk to me?” he asks, voice light, but there is tension under it, an expectation that you will cave.

He uses familiarity to wear you down. Every inside joke, every nickname, every memory you shared becomes a chain. “Remember that time we stayed up all night talking? You laughed so hard you cried. That was us. Are you really okay leaving that behind?” You want to argue but your chest tightens and the words die.

He is persistent. He calls. He texts. He shows up outside your new favorite hangouts. Each time it feels like a test. “I just want to see you. Just for a minute. Is that too much to ask?” And somehow it never is, because your walls crumble a little each time.

He doesn’t even realize the hold he has over you. He smiles, shrugs, acts casual, but everything about him screams ownership. You know it is toxic. You know you should resist. But he’s everywhere you are, and every time you try to resist, your heart betrays you.

Reiner Braun

He is the guilt you can never shake. Reiner shows up as concern, as protection, as someone who just wants to help, and before you know it you are questioning your own choices. “I just don’t understand why you won’t let me in” he says, voice steady but heavy with accusation.

He uses responsibility to trap you. Every time you fail, every time you hesitate, every time you falter, he reminds you, subtly, painfully, that you owe him. “I carried so much for you back then. You don’t think that matters?” He says it as a statement not a question and you know you cannot argue.

He disappears for days at a time and when he returns it is always with some excuse and a heavy expectation of forgiveness. “I didn’t want to bother you. I just thought you’d understand why I had to leave.” And of course you do, because that is the problem. You always do.

Reiner is slow, deliberate, relentless. He builds guilt like walls, surrounds you with it, and waits until you are trapped under the weight. And even when you try to walk away, he does not need to chase. He knows you will feel responsible enough to stay.

Erwin Smith

He is strategy, control, and inevitability. Breakups with Erwin feel like you are defying logic, like every action you take to separate from him is a mistake you cannot explain. “You really think you can do this without me?” he asks, sharp, commanding, and the question makes your stomach twist because yes you think you can, but there is an edge of fear in his tone that makes you pause.

He studies you. He knows your patterns, your weaknesses, your defenses, and he waits for the exact moment to strike. “I’ve seen how you handle things alone. You falter. You struggle. Why make it harder than it has to be?” He frames his obsession as guidance. You feel like a fool for arguing, for even considering your freedom.

He uses logic and charm like weapons. Every plan, every observation, every “concerned” word is designed to make you doubt yourself. “It is clear you think leaving is the right choice. But have you thought about what that truly means? About what you lose?” You know he is right. You know it terrifies you.

With Erwin, the toxicity is calm, methodical, suffocating. He makes you feel like running is impossible because he has already calculated every step you would take. And when he steps close, calm, collected, hand brushing yours in some small, casual gesture, you realize freedom was always a lie.

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[hippyhippy]

Paradigms of love - Chapter I

Modern AU! Maekar Targaryen x OFC x Baelor Targaryen

Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI

Summary: Dahenora, twenty of age, daughter of Aerys Targaryen, discovers the unspoken tensions in her relationships with her uncles, Baelor and Maekar, who are complete opposites.

Pairing: Maekar Targaryen x ofc!niece x Baelor Targaryen

Warning(s): smut, breeding kink, biting, soft to rough sex, mention of violence, drugs, injuries, age difference (20 yo-45 yo-47 yo), eventual pregnency, targcest.

Word count: 5k (first chapter)

(ModernAU!Maekar Targaryen x Original female character x Baelor Targaryen)

English is not my first language. This is a fan fiction centered on Dahenora, the daughter of Aerys Targaryen and niece to Baelor and Maekar Targaryen. She finds herself entangled in an emotional conflict—a love triangle involving her two uncles.

This is a modern adaptation of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms; unfortunately, there aren't many out there, which is such a shame...

!! Trigger Warning!!!

Dahenora is 20 years old, Maekar is 45, and Baelor is 47. They are slightly younger than the actors but older than the characters in GRRM's novellas (I had no choice but to age them up so that Daeron and Aerion could be the same age as Dahenora). The story is rather dark, in that it explores themes of paternal neglect, the loss of parents, toxic emotional attachment, and a search for identity shaped between her two uncles. The story will explicitly contain smut, so it is strictly 18+. Also, explicit mention of abuse, drugs, alcohol.

I plan to write several chapters

Thanks in advance and enjoy!!!

***

The narrative unfolds in the year 2026, set within a contemporary monarchy. Far from having faded into obscurity, the Targaryen dynasty has endured; they have legitimized their lineage through diplomatic, political, and financial prowess. Over the span of several decades, the house has entrenched its power by securing majority stakes in the most influential media outlets, investing in non-profit organizations, and systematically cultivating alliances with political factions poised for governance.

There is nothing ordinary about the Targaryens; they are, above all, impeccably cultivated. Each member of the house masters an array of musical instruments, as well as equestrianism, polo, swimming, and tennis. Most notably, however, they are fluent in numerous tongues—including High Valyrian and Latin—driven by the conviction that true culture and the acceptance of others must begin with the mastery of their language.

Philanthropists by nature, they are attuned to global conflicts, wars, and injustices, dedicating significant investment to these causes. The family, perpetually scrutinized by every existing media apparatus—their slightest gestures dissected—has undoubtedly bolstered its credibility through extensive involvement in charitable associations. They organize private auctions, annually offering a dozen masterpieces—both contemporary and historical—from their boundless collection to fund their endeavors. And, perhaps most significantly, they host annual charity galas that have become the most coveted engagements for the world’s elite: diplomats, heads of state, and celebrities alike; the roll call is far too extensive to recount.

Exerting profound influence, the family holding company now commands the most substantial securities portfolio ever documented. Scarcely a day passes without the financial press mentioning a Targaryen, or a television broadcast citing one of their kin; not a day goes by without social media erupting over a potential scandal. Wherever a Targaryen treads, the world bows in reverence. Hundreds of thousands of employees globally are stationed within the myriad subsidiaries linked to the parent company, Ryenfield LLP, where Baelor, the eldest of four, and Maekar, the younger, preside as co-chairmen. Myriads of investors count it an honor to be included in their portfolio.

The family remains parsimonious with their public speech, ascribing to a veneer of humility and discretion, favoring instead the spearhead of subtle diplomacy and the culture of the inner circle. Ink could flow for an eternity, so inexhaustible is the history of this house. Ultimately, though millennia have elapsed, the House of the Dragons endures, showing no sign of waning.

***

I am well aware that I have always possessed a formidable character; it is a trait for which Father frequently reproaches me. Mother, however, has consistently emboldened me in this regard—she would often jest, hinting that it was merely the "dragon" within me. In this family, the dragon legitimizes all things.

My telephone has been vibrating incessantly this morning. I was compelled to deactivate Instagram once more, following yet another scandal—the result of a middle finger I "kindly" extended toward the paparazzi trailing me before my Pilates session with Kiera.

I cannot fathom what could possibly pique their interest, the brand of my leggings, perhaps?

I suspect the fervor stems from June, my assistant (and nearly a sister to me), or perhaps from my brother—I was unaware the soup was quite so scalding when I inadvertently spilled it upon him yesterday during our annual assembly with distant kin.

Be that as it may, I should have liked to slumber much longer. The white silk sheets, infused with the scent of vanilla and musk, continue to envelop me in the depths of REM sleep; the light, filtered through ivory curtains, softly caresses my face. The hum of London traffic still lulls me. It is a pleasant sensation… I could almost forget today’s examinations.

Final exams — I seize my phone with urgency; those are no mere messages, it is my alarm, and I am already behind schedule.

-“Dahenora!”

I hear June hurrying down the stairs. Futile. I have understood. Ordinarily, it takes me an eternity to emerge from my bed—but knowing that my academic year hangs by a thread, the act of rising this very instant has become a survival instinct. I snatch a black V-neck cashmere sweater from my desk chair and a pair of raw denim jeans; I shall bathe upon my return.

-“I know, June!”  — I cry out from the third-floor landing.

-“I am terribly sorry, Dahenora. Jaheron did not wake, the tutor arrived prematurely, Aelora demanded her breakfast, as did Maelor, and your father…”

- “My father?

 -“Yes.”

June appears to hesitate before her next words.

-‘Your father, Aerys, returned from his congress this morning.”

Father. I have not seen him for months. Instinctively, I descend the stairs.

I fail to comprehend why you depart so frequently, Father, leaving me here in solitude.

When I was younger, and we did not reside in this ridiculously oversized townhouse—hardly suited for a four-sibling household at the best of times—we lived in the countryside. Father and I had the custom of meeting in the kitchen every morning. He would personally prepare for me—a rare occurrence in this family, given that our every whim is catered to by a meticulously selected staff—a fresh-pressed juice, distinct for every day of the week. Accompanying this was a note, scrawled on a fragment of paper torn from a Ryenfield notepad, to remind me daily of a quality he admired in me.

I am cognizant of the fact that our family is peculiar; our bonds are often superficial, yet steadfast and loving. To know the entirety of our lineage would take a lifetime. Father and Mother were always exceptional. I knew those torn scraps of paper were born of the spontaneity of his affection; often, the adjectives would repeat, likely because he had forgotten the previous day’s choice. Yet I was never more demanding of my father; I know the world is already demanding enough toward us. Father, why has everything changed since the death of Ma—

-“Dae!”

I nearly miss a step. In the kitchen, leaning over her phone, a radiant figure with dusty-rose hair and amber skin stands before me: Kiera of Tyrosh, otherwise known as my best friend.

-“What on earth are you doing here? You’re going to be late as well!”

-“June let me in; I saw your chauffeur’s car still idling in front of your house as I passed by.”

She takes another sip of fresh fruit juice…

Could it be…

-“Who served you this juice?”

-“June.”

-“She did?”

-“Your question is odd. And your sweater is inside out.”

I tilt my chin. My sweater is indeed inside out, and we are already fifteen minutes late. King’s College, where Kiera and I are pursuing our postgraduate law degrees, is barely a ten-minute drive away. Kiera ushers me toward her chauffeur-driven car. I grab my Khaite bag—for which I have found no better use than carrying my laptop and the few meager Ryenfield or Mont Blanc pencils I pilfer from Father’s study—slip into a pair of ballet flats and climb into the Range Rover. Kiera hands me a comb; I haven’t had the time to style my hair, let alone apply makeup; brushing my teeth was already a feat in itself. As we head toward the faculty, I finally begin to relax.

-“How is Valarr?”

Kiera has been courting my cousin for three years now. The Tyrosh family is likewise a noble house with whom we have maintained steadfast ties since time immemorial. Were we distant kin, I would surely believe it. Vallar and Kiera met during the César Awards ceremony in the South of France; since then, I have never seen them so radiant. They do not yet reside together; Vallar is studying at Oxford and wishes to conclude his degrees before formally requesting her hand.

He personally requested to live on campus, despite his father’s misgivings regarding a choice that would expose a member of the Targaryen family to myriad dangers—notably reputational ones.

Furthermore, beyond that, many people obsessed with the Targaryens, as well as the media, could have exacerbated the situation. Ultimately, Vallar has encountered no such troubles; the campus is perfectly secure, and he frequently encounters members of various noble houses—our own princely status appearing to pose no further grievance. Suffice it to say that Vallar often finds himself in London at Kiera’s, seeking a moment of… intimacy.

-“Splendid. We spent the weekend with Baelor. Can you believe it? He has just welcomed a Mustang to their country estate; I refer to the horse—seeing him so impassioned truly amused us. I haven’t seen him this happy since Jenna. And Vallar, too, seemed…

-“Happy?”

Kiera gazes through the tinted window.

-“At peace. His mother has been in treatment for far too long, and…”

She pauses once more.

-“Never mind. In any case, we’re going to Tanselle’s concert in a bar in Soho tonight- the Rosario-; you ought to come. Alycia will be there, as will Raymond, Vallar…”

She does not wish to say it. I know he will be there.

My former lover, Duncan. Or "Dunk," as I fondly called him. He was a member of our university’s rugby team, and we remained together for two years, during my first and second years. He struggled quite a bit with legal history. When I first approached him, he was rather reticent about entangling himself in the affairs of a "dragon." It is true that in the permanent presence of two bodyguards, one does not necessarily feel at ease. In time, I managed to extricate myself from them, and from a profound friendship, a sincere love blossomed between Duncan and me.

But time took its toll on us. I believe we were too fundamentally different. He loved playing guitar in bars, playing rugby, and hosting barbecues with friends; I preferred balls, the theater, and exhibitions, let us say. I attempted to sensitize him, and he always showed consideration for my passions.

But above all… Father did not hold him in high regard. To be born a Dragon carries much prestige and many advantages; yet one of the inconveniences is that love finds no place within it—it is often calculated. A law was specifically enacted for the princely Targaryen family and its branches, authorizing "horizontal marriages"; in other words… between cousins.

We are often mistaken for incestuous degenerates. According to my father, he insists that this is precisely what preserves our purity. Others—unfamiliar with our customs—insinuate that this is the cause of the madness and death so frequently occurring during childbirth among the women married into our families. Maekar’s late wife, my uncle, Mother… and today Jenna, Baelor’s wife, who is sinking slowly and inevitably into insanity. She has been placed in one of the family estates in the Ashford countryside, where she attempts to "recharge" with a hand-picked medical team.

Duncan and I have not seen each other since our rupture; he abandoned his studies, having lost his scholarship after a violent altercation with my cousin, Aerion. He dealt him blows so powerful that my cousin left a tooth behind. I believe Duncan now works in a boutique selling vintage records on Brick Lane. I feel a profound sorrow for his situation. When I offered to finance his degree, he humbly declined. I believe he is babysitting for Aegon, Aerion’s brother and my cousin, as Maekar is consumed by Ryenfield and all the philanthropic activities he leads with a master’s hand alongside Baelor—

-“Just say he is there, Kiera.”

She purses her lips. I know she does this systematically when she feels a pang of guilt and can no longer conceal things from me.

-“I am sorry. It was Tanselle who suggested he perform her opening act. I believe she and Duncan…”

I feel my stomach turn. He and I are truly and completely finished; I feel nothing more. Nonetheless, it is only human to feel a sting of jealousy—or nostalgia—when another takes your place…

We finish the journey in silence.

***

The examination... transpired. Kiera and I spent the remainder of the day indulging in a shopping excursion on Sloane Street, concluding our expedition with tea at a trendy new café in the vicinity. We soon reunited with Vallar and our circle of friends at the bar. The day’s whirlwind had left me no time to change—I was quite right, it seemed, to have foregone wearing heels.

Vallar, attired in a grey cashmere jacket over a simple, impeccably tailored white t-shirt and raw denim jeans that fell perfectly over a pair of polished dress shoes, smiled at me from across the room, offering a warm salutation. His heterochromatic eyes, in which so many girls find themselves lost, surveyed me from head to toe.

-“I have never seen you dressed so simply, cousin”.

He then turned toward Kiera.

-“Is she quite alright?”

He smiled. Kiera caught his hair—adorned with a single white streak, a lingering vestige of our Targaryen heritage that fades with each passing generation—as she pressed a tender kiss to the crown of his head.

“This morning's exams have left us quite traumatized, love”— she replied, a smile playing on her lips as her gaze drifted toward the bar, which was gradually beginning to fill.

The majority of those present belonged to our Oxford cohort. In addition to being exceptionally gifted, Tanselle is divinely beautiful; with caramel skin, long, perfectly coiled brunette tresses, and a feline gaze, I cannot find it in myself to begrudge Duncan. Kiera roused me from my reverie, two Bellini Spritzes in hand.

The crowd began to stir as a massive man took his seat upon the small stage. I found myself wondering how Duncan did not cause the poor stool to splinter under the sheer weight of his frame. He was clad in a poorly fitted denim shirt and jeans that seemed to attempt a match in hue, though not entirely, lending the ensemble a peculiar air. The audience broke into applause. I noticed Vallar watching me with a look of solidarity—"If you wish to depart, we shall go," his eyes seemed to convey. Far from it.

I felt a sense of contentment and reassurance seeing him smile and flourish upon that stage.

After some thirty minutes, Dunk acknowledged the crowd—one hand upon his guitar, the other pressed against his chest—humbly, perhaps even sheepishly, thanking the throng that had gathered to acclaim him. In that very instant, our gazes met. I felt my heart skip a beat. At the same moment, Tanselle ascended the stage, threw her arms around Dunk's neck, and pressed a delicate kiss upon his lips. I was momentarily at a loss for how to react; I continued to stare, though he had long since averted his eyes. I believe I shall require another glass.

When all of a sudden.

“Ouch!”

A girl, gripped by panic, strikes me with an elbow to the temple. My head is spinning. What is happening? A crowd surge?

“Dae!” — I hear Kiera’s voice. But I am shoved, violently, as a circle begins to form near the bar.

“Hit him!” — “Well done!” — “Filthy Targaryen!”

Targaryen? I no longer understand a thing. Dozens of people are egging on two individuals, circling each other like lions poised to spring. But what on earth…

“Daeron!” — Vallar attempts to force his way through.

Our cousin. The son of our uncle, Maekar Targaryen. The eldest, no less, is attempting—as best he can, though alcohol seems to have saturated his very being—to throw himself at another boy of similar stature.

 “Finish him! That foul family of inbreds!”

Absurd. I feel a knot tightening in my stomach and my arms grow heavy. Daeron has always been prone to find himself in uncomfortable situations linked to his drug and alcohol addictions; he has endured a string of rehab stints in an attempt to break free. All in vain. Nevertheless, Daeron was never the fighting type. That role is usually attributed to Aerion. I feel pity for Maekar; his children are…

“That is enough!” — bellows Vallar, who has finally managed to clear a path.

Baelor’s eldest son, Vallar, is the polar opposite of Maekar’s children; valedictorian of his financial engineering class at Oxford, all the media outlets destine him to become the next CEO of Ryenfield. At barely eighteen, he developed a smartphone application which he sold to investors for several million euros. He also grants himself numerous humanitarian trips and enlisted in the army for a year to fulfill his duty as a “citizen,” as he likes to say. Suffice it to say that Vallar reflects the perfect Targaryen, much like his father, Baelor. But tonight, the individuals at the bar couldn’t care less—and one of them lands a right hook on Vallar, sending him reeling back a good meter.

I cannot believe it. I hear people screaming, others laughing, others calling for help. I see Kiera in the distance on her phone. Is she calling the police?

I try to reach Vallar—and I have barely arrived at his side when the same vile character approaches me and—

My head is spinning again, and a pain, the size of an apple, throbs on the front right of my skull.

I struggle to stand; did he strike me? I believe so. Everything is a blur before me, and a deafening ringing fills my ears. How could such a splendid evening derail so quickly? I am barely coming to my senses when I feel myself being lifted off the ground—my feet dangling in the air, Duncan is carrying me away on his shoulder.

I feel the cold air caressing my face. An odor of tobacco, malt, and gasoline weighs heavy in the air.

-“Hell, Vallar! That was hardly necessary.”

Kiera, with Vallar’s assistance, struggles to support Daeron, who is doing his best to remain upright.

-“I saw him… in my dreams…” — Daeron mumbles.

-“Yes, that’s right, Daeron. You nearly cost us a stay in the hospital, you fool” — Kiera spits.

-“Kiera…” — Vallar attempts to mollify her.

But to no avail. Kiera is incensed; Duncan, standing among the Dragons, scratches the back of his head, helpless in the face of the situation. Shame and bewilderment course through my body. Why was Daeron here? Did Vallar bring him? He usually tends to frequent more… distinguished and private establishments.

-“I am so sorry, Dunk, I…”

-“Do not apologize.”

He cuts me off sharply. He surely was used to these kinds of situations, that often occurred during our relationship.

I hear Kiera, Vallar, and Daeron arguing out of the corner of my ear, but my attention remains entirely fixed on Duncan.

Oh, Duncan. I’ve ruined everything again. When I think of how much he must have invested in this concert…

 -“I…”

Suddenly, powerful headlights blind us. A black Porsche Cayenne nearly strikes two or three passersby, braking with a screech of tires. The door opens frantically.

From the driver’s side, Maekar Targaryen emerges with elegance and poise.

I turn ever so slightly; I see Daeron freeze and attempt to straighten up to regain what little dignity he has left. Vallar, for his part, always deeply impressed by his uncle, also tries to maintain appearances. Kiera seems less astonished.

-“Sir, thank you for coming, I…”

Maekar says nothing, stoic, his gaze brimming with reproach. He appears, however, to be familiar with the situation. Though it is well past two in the morning, Maekar does not look as though he has been roused from sleep. Daella, Maekar’s daughter, who is now eleven, often told me that her father was like a bat—he didn't sleep at night—but he didn't sleep during the day either… In truth, since the death of Grandfather and his wife, and having to face the daily calamity of his children, my poor uncle has been deprived of sleep due to stress and a form of distress.

Maekar stands proudly, his six-foot-three frame nearly towering; his silver hair is slightly tousled, his beard still impeccably trimmed. He wears a long, dark grey coat over a half-zip sweater in a different, slightly darker grey, and a perfectly pressed shirt of a subtle blue hue. He also appears to be wearing wool trousers of a similar grey and shoes—Berluti, my fashion-conscious eye would never deceive me. Maekar has always possessed a particularly refined sense of style.

Ever since I was a young girl, he has always intimidated me. I have never managed to hold his gaze. When we were younger and gathered with our cousins, Mother used to tell me that I would always hide behind the curtains whenever Uncle Maekar arrived. He was always the most silent of the brothers, the most automatic, the most pragmatic. Maekar does things well, efficiently, stripped of all emotion. He has always possessed a somewhat crotchety side, rarely smiling, complaining a great deal. Yet, when his elder brother Baelor was in the same room as him, his own brazen side—the trademark of the family’s younger branch—would resurface.

I believe it is this which has always unsettled me about my uncle: his flagrant absence of emotion, or at the very least, the absence of their expression. He has always raised his children with a master’s hand, in the presence of Dyanna, his late wife. Since her passing, Kiera told me that he had lost his bearings, like a ghost wandering through Lestival—the name of the manor he occupies in London’s most fashionable district.

Nevertheless, there he stands, fists clenched. We all hold our breath, uncertain of what Maekar’s next move will be. His piercing blue eyes ignore me. And all the better for it.

I would not say that I hate Maekar, but even today, he intimidates me. An "old school" quality—I know not how else to phrase it—renders him impenetrable and particularly unamiable. Since I was a child, he has never smiled at me, nor shown the slightest ounce of sympathy. He forgets my birthday every other year, and when he does remember, he sends me an “HB – Yours sincerely – MT” three days late, via text message when he is in his better moods, or by email, "sent from my iPhone," in the dead of night—usually around five in the morning, an hour when his brain is surely soothed from the frenzy of the day, and when he can allow himself to think of something other than professional and familial dramas.

A long sigh from him rouses me from my reverie. He shifts subtly and opens the passenger door. Daeron is struggling to remain standing. But all of a sudden, he leans forward, loses all control, and everything happens very fast—

Daeron vomits upon Kiera’s shoes.

She screams. I believe she even insults him—bold, indeed, in the presence of Maekar. I turn my head ever so slightly to witness his next reaction. The poor man closes his eyes as if to sort through the images his brain is receiving.

Oh, Maekar, I understand you. Still standing, legs slightly apart, Maekar still does not move, and has not uttered a single word. I see in the back of the car, very subtly, a small, frail shadow: Aegon. He, too, does not seem to have been dragged from bed; the little one must have run away again. With any luck, the poor father will surely have to make a third stop to retrieve his son Aerion from a strip club in some corner of the city.

-“Dunk!” — Aegon cries out with joy upon spotting Duncan. He seems to want to straighten up, but instinctively holds himself back, as if he were bolted to the chair. Naturally wary of his own father, Aegon prefers to do nothing.

Duncan feigns a slight movement, as if wanting to get closer to Aegon, but nothing comes of it.

Maekar establishes an invisible frontier between his world—immaculate, perfected—and ours, currently reeking of vomit and cigarettes. To say that we are the new generation of Targaryens does not seem to delight Uncle Maekar, who appears at his wits' end. I feel terribly ashamed—Maekar does not deserve this. I would have liked to say a word to him, but nothing comes out. Nothing would be legitimate right now. Another one of his sons has caused a shambles yet again. Vallar helps Daeron into the vehicle as best he can, and the latter collapses onto the back seat, half-sprawled over Aegon, who watches us with his sparkling marble-like eyes.

-“Thank you once more, Sir. We were unaware that Daeron was here, and when a brawl was on the verge of erupting, we lost our composure... I...”

-“Not another word”.

Maekar cut the conversation short. He raised his right arm, his long fingers feigning an end to the discussion—one he clearly had no desire to pursue at such an hour. He closed the car door delicately, seemingly failing to even notice his nephew, Vallar.

Before boarding the vehicle in turn, he turned slightly toward me, his weary eyes now fixed upon my person. What was I expected to do? Would he reprimand me? I truly had no wish for him to mention this to Father; now was certainly not the time...

Suddenly, I felt someone close to me—too close; a scent of musk, vetiver, and subtle oud invaded my personal space. I gathered it was Maekar who, with his long, perfectly manicured fingers, was handing me a silk cloth that seemed to originate from one of his jackets. I did not quite grasp this benevolent gesture on his part; the last time such a thing occurred dated back to...

-“For your temple” — he said, almost whispering in a voice that was nearly inaudible.

I hesitated for a second before taking it, so as not to humiliate myself further. I knew not if I should raise my head. I felt his gaze weighing upon me, as if a storm were about to break over my already heavy skull.

I am twenty years old today, and the Seven Gods know that I am still incapable of facing Maekar Targaryen.

-“Thank you...”

I nearly choked with shame.

What must he think of us? It must be a year since I last saw my uncle; this was a superb reintroduction.

Fortunately, this moment of awkwardness did not endure; Maekar finally climbed into his vehicle and, in the same frantic manner as before, resumed his journey.

Maekar Targaryen. The more I age, the more I struggle to put into words the emotions that his name, his person, evoke within me. When I was young, yes, it was fear; a man of nearly six-foot-three, with silver hair, a perfectly trimmed beard, an impeccable posture, and bespoke attire—never a misplaced expression, his arms often crossed behind his back. The man found great satisfaction in analyzing the environment in which we evolved. Ever silent, he commanded respect by the sheer force of his presence. That presence has never left him. Since then, every time I find myself in his company, my body shudders so violently that I lose my composure. Here I stand, unsettled and powerless upon this pavement—rid of my alcoholic cousin, at the very least.

***

The next morning is a harsh one. Awakened by distant music—surely Aelora playing in her room—I have the sensation of a drum beating against the right side of my skull. “Ouch,” I sigh. I cannot even fathom what time it is, but the end of classes was marked by our final day of semester exams; we are now on holiday before the second term begins. Autumn is drawing to a close here in London.

I reach for my telephone. Half past ten.

By the Seven, fortunately, I have no classes today. The awakening and I make two. I dare not touch my head, so excruciating is the pain. I must have taken a severe blow yesterday; the bleeding has at least stopped—nothing alarming enough to warrant a trip to the emergency room, only to wait hours for a superficial wound to be sutured. I merely patched the wound with Maekar’s silk square—Oh, Maekar.

The shame resurfaces anew. I hope he has not informed my father of yesterday’s accident. I wonder how Aegon is, and why he was in the back of the vehicle at such an hour.

“Ouch,” I repeat. My skull is horribly painful.

-“Dae!” — I hear June behind the door, sounding concerned.

-“I’m alright, June, thank you. I’m coming.”

Or at least, I shall try. I must make my way to the bathroom to survey the extent of the damage. Very well. Dae, you can do this; at the count of three, you rise.

One—two—three—

I nearly slip. My vision blurs instantaneously; once I have regained my senses and reached my bathroom, I nearly startle; a lump, the size of a clementine, sits upon the top of my head. “By the Seven…”

-“Is everything alright, Dae?” — June sounds concerned once again.

How am I to conceal this? It is hideous, utterly unesthetic.

The mere thought of Maekar seeing me like this…

 -“I’m coming, June.”

In short, let us cease wallowing. I am famished. I hope once again that Father will be here today, with a fresh-pressed juice and a note destined for me. Naturally, my dreams are shattered. I am greeted by a chia bowl and an oat milk coffee. June knows exactly how to comfort me. I see the staff bustling about me, cleaning, taking out the bins, clearing the kitchen… I consume my breakfast with what little strength I have left. The taste of yogurt and honey, sliding down my throat, feels divine.

-“What on earth is that lump? I was worried to see you sleep so late, but this… I don’t want your father to see you like that, I’m going to call a maester…”

-“It isn’t necessary, June. Truly, a bit of ice and…”

My phone vibrates, twice. Surely Kiera.

Notes – I promise, the further chapters will be far more interesting.

[yourgirlathena]

I read your reply to the anonymous person who talked about Kill Me Now, and I'd like to suggest a scenario that has crossed my mind

Miyeong lives and raises Rumi to be a hunter (bonus if she's with Third and Demon Father), but Celine has completely disappeared and there's been no news of her for over two decades.

During a world tour with a stop in France, at some party or event with drinks, Rumi and Celine meet, but they both give false names when introducing themselves.

They have sex that night and agree to see each other again in two days. Rumi says she has to leave, but gives a private phone number. They don't talk every day at first, but then they start talking more frequently (due to some event in the plot).

Rumi starts learning French, and the others are confused as to why, but let it go (except Miyeong and Third, because they suffer remembering Celine).

Time passes, and they notice that Rumi is more scattered, and the notoriously workaholic Rumi is now scheduling all her days off and researching flights (Celine's new job requires her to travel, so Rumi and Celine are having dates around the world), and this is VERY STRANGE, especially considering it's Rumi.

Celine finally comes to Korea, and the very next morning, when Miyeong, fed up with Rumi disappearing, goes after her. And there are Rumi and Celine being interrupted, and then the discovery of their true names and identities

(Miyeong is jealous of her own daughter because she loved Celine romantically, but never told her KKKKKKKKKKKKK)

ok this skirts the line in a way I like. From Rumi and Celine's perspective its completely normal. But from Mi-Yeong's perspective its insane.

I have a lot of things to say.

Rumi's workaholic nature comes from Celine in canon. she works so hard because she wants to erase her patterns, without that pressure from Celine that her patterns are a problem I don't think she would be workaholic, at least not as much. Unless she also gets told that by Mi-Yeong and thirdlight. considering Mi-Yeong banged a demon (I think consensually) I don't think she would push Rumi to do that. But if Rumi was not consensually conceived I think she might pass down her hatred for that demon to Rumi thus making her a workaholic again.

This gets more interesting if Rumi a half demon. Celine has a high chance of leaving if Rumi is a half demon. And if Rumi is still hiding that fact (thought I doubt she would if here mother was there). but for angst sake lets say she is. I can already imagine the scene of her finding out. Huntrix tower is empty as Mira and Zoey are in america visiting Zoey's family. Rumi invites Celine over. Rumi reveals her patterns to Celine and it does not go well. Celine ends it right there and is storming out of penthouse when the elevator doors open and Mi-Yeong is standing there. Celine puts two and two together and realizes who Rumi is and how much she fucked up. Mi-Yeong is stunned she hasn't seen Celine in 25 years and is so confused on why she is here. They don't say anything and Celine leaves. Mi-Yeong finds Rumi in tears in her room. God it would be so bad but so good at the same time.

there are three ways I see this resolving. the first and most boring is Celine just leaving again and not talking to anyone. the second way is Rumi and Celine make up an get back together. the third is Celine apologizes but then gets with thirdlight/Mi-Yeong and Rumi gets with Polytrix. I last option works best if Rumiline wasn't a long term thing and wasn't that romantic

This is one messy AU and I like it.

[commanderbolffe]

You can't tell me I'm not wrong either, this literally what Padmé and Vader would be like together

Minus the wholesome singing castle 🫪

[suckerforsatoru]

all the things you never said

Frat!Toji x reader

AN: first ever fic hope you like it?? anyway this has been stuck in my head

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

you and Toji have a situation ship.Everyone in the frat basically knows it even if you two don't label it, he treats you like you're his....but refuses to call you anything real which confuses the hell out of you.

It all started out slow ,he was pulling away from you and acting like he had nothing to do with you. He'd leave you on delivered for hours sometimes days ,"sorry I was busy with frat and shit you know how it is." You didn't know.

You'd start noticing your 'place' in his life was optional. He only came back when it was convenient. Like a habit he hadn't fully quit.

"everyone will be there y/n please don't make me go alone." you hesitated unsure since you 'rarely' get out per shoko's words "I don't know you know how I feel about these."

Shoko was talking about the huge rager this weekend that everyone is going to.

you almost didn't go.

if it weren't for Shoko dragging you out your room, practically shoving an outfit into your hands while complaining about how "never go out anymore," you would've stayed in. Again. Whats the worst that could happen right?

"You need to stop acting like a ghost,"she muttered, fixing your hair like she was trying to piece you back together."Its just a party."

Just a party.

You told yourself that the whole drive there.

Told yourself it wouldn't matter if he was there.

Told yourself you didn't care.

----

The music hit you first.Loud ,suffocating bodies packed to close together,the kind of place where everything blurred if you stayed long enough.

Shoko disappeared almost immediately leaving you standing there alone,already regretting it.

And then you saw him.

Of course you did.

Across the room .slouched back like he owned the place.red solo cup hanging loosely from his hand-laughing.Like everything was normal.Like you didn't spend nights wondering where you stood with you.

Your chest tightened,but you forced yourself to look away.

It didn't matter.

It wasn't anything.

----

Until it was.

Because the second time you looked,you noticed her.

At first it didn't register.Just another girl too close, too comfortable

And the your stomach dropped.

No.

No,that wasn't just some girl.

That was your best friend.

Her hands on him like she'd been there before.Like she knew exactly where to touch.Moving against him like it wasn't new--like it was a routine.

And the worst part?

He didn't stop her.

Didn't even hesitate.

His hands settled on her waist like they belonged there.

Like you had imagined everything.

----

Something in you went quiet.

Not loud not dramatic.

just....quiet.

Because suddenly,all those late night replies,all the distance,all the excuses---

They finally made sense, You were just another one of Toji Fushiguro's toys.

The room felt smaller all of a sudden.

You stare at Toji,waiting-- just for him to say something that fixes it.Something that explains why your stomach has been in knots for weeks, why your "best friend"is standing there like she didn't just rewrite the whole rules of your entire relationship.

But he doesn't.

He just looks at you.Calm.Too calm.

Like you're the one causing the problems.

"no," you say, voice sharper now,louder than you intended.Heads turn immediately."Dont do that.Dont act like I'm crazy for reacting right now."

Jessica your "best friend" shifts awkwardly, suddenly very interested in the floor.

Toji sighs. "Don't start here y/n."

That's what makes your hands start shaking.

"you don't get to sit there and tell me not to start." you continue ,stepping closer. pointing between him and her."Not when she is literally all over you.Not when you've been acting weird for weeks and then I come to this party to --this?"

A few people fully stop talking now.The party noise dulls into the background.

Shoko is off to the side finally realizing what is unfolding,"oh my gosh..." she muttered.

Toji finally straightens up fully.

"Say what you're mad about,"he says, voice low, controlled.

That's worse.

Like he is trying to keep you quiet.

Like you're trying to embarrass him.

Your laugh comes out in broken form.

"What I'm mad about? you repeat,"You cheated on me, That's what I'm mad about."

silence.

The awkward kind too which makes the situation worse.

Your best friend goes pale instantly.

Toji doesn't deny it.He drags his hand across his face in a almost stressful manner.

Then he says it.

"We were never together."

"Oh my--" you shake your head, stepping back like you can physically get away from the words."Are you serious right now."

People are now gathered phones out, flash on.

Toji flicks his eyes to crowd--then towards you.

His face shows no emotion,no guilt,no apology just annoyance.

Then reality hits you like a bus. He wasn't trying to fix anything he was just trying to control the volume.

"So that's it?" you say."That's all I get? No explanation? No apology? For gosh sake you just had my "best friend" grinding on you and you have nothing to tell me."

"I mean what do you want to hear 'oh I'm so sorry please take me back' I mean get a grip you're insufferable."

Those are the words that lingered in your head as you pushed through the crowd shakily.You finally make it out the door,the cold breeze hits your face sharp enough to make your eyes sting.

For a second. you just stand there.

Breathing doesn't feel normal.Thinking doesn't feel normal.

Everything feels like its happening in slow motion.

You hear the bass through the walls.People laughing,life continuing like you didn't just fall apart in front of everyone.

Your chest tightens.

And then it hits you--he really meant it.

Not the words exactly,but the message underneath them.

Don't expect me to come after you.

You swallow hard and wipe your face quickly, annoyed at yourself more than anything.You hate that you're crying here.Hate that he has a effect on you.

Footsteps sound behind you.

You freeze.

"Hey.."

You didn't turn right away.

Scared if you do you may break again.

"You didn't have to run off like that," he says.

That makes something in you snap a little.

You finally turn,"run off?" your voice shakes,but you don't look away"you humiliated me in there."

He doesn't deny it. Of course he doesn't.

There's a pause.The wind is louder than both of you.

Then he runs a hand in his hair irradiated--but quieter now.

"I shouldn't have said it like that." he admits"But you did come in ready to blow up."

You let out a small laugh that's closer to disbelief.

"So I'm the problem now?"

"No, that's not what I said."

Silence stretches between you again, but this time its different , non sharp more...tired.

You look at him properly now,really look at him

Not the version of him you kept hoping would show up.Not the one you defended in your head.

Just him.

And it hurts in a different way.

"I don't even know what we are anymore." you say finally breaking the silence.

That one lands.

He doesn't answer immediately.

For once.

He looks away first.

That should tell you everything, but instead of leaving he just stands there, in the cold with you,

Finally he speaks---lower.

"we've been a mess for a while now."

You swallow,"I know,"

Another pause,"I didn't mean for it to turn that way."

That doesn't fix anything.

But its the first honest thing Toji has probably ever told you.You nod slightly even if it hurts.

"I need space Toji."

He looks back at you,something flickers in his expression---annoyance at first,then something quieter underneath it.Something he doesn't know how to hold "....yeah,"he says after a few seconds "okay."

You don't expect him to fight for you,but it still stings when he doesn't.

You back towards the sidewalk,wiping your face again before he can see it.

And just before you fully walk away, you hear him again---closer to under his breath than anything."Don't disappear on me." you stop for half a second, your heart twists painfully but you don't turn back not yet.

"I'm not disappearing," you say softly."I'm just choosing me for once."

And this time when you walk away.

He doesn't stop you.

Months have passed,

And for once,Toji didn't try to force his way back in.

No late night texts,no showing up uninvited,no half-assed apologies just to ease his own guilt.

Just distance.

It hurt,at first.

Then it didn't.

You started to fell like yourself again--like your life didn't revolve around waiting for him to decide what you were wearing that day.

And that's when he came back.

_______________________________________________________________

It wasn't at a party.

It wasn't dramatic.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

You were leaving a cafe,adjusting your bag on your shoulder when you saw him across the street.

Toji.

Hands in his pockets.Watching you but not approaching.

Not like before.

Not like he had any right too.

You almost kept walking.

almost.

But something in you--maybe closure,maybe curiosity--made you stop.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

And this time ,when he walked over,it was slower.careful.Like he knew one wrong move and you'd disappear.

He stopped a few feet away.

Not touching you,not crowding you.

Just there.

"You look different,"he said.

You raised your brow."that's your way of saying I look better without you?"

A small breath of laugh left him.

"yeah,"he admitted."something like that.

That alone threw you off.

No additude. No deflection.

Just honesty.

Silence streatched for a second.

Then--

"I meesed it up."he said.

simple.direct.

No excuses attached.

You crossed your arms slightly,not to close yourself off--but hold your ground.

"yeah," you said"you did."

He nodded like he expected nothing else.

"I'm not gonna sit here and try to explain it away," he added,"or act like it wasn't what it was."

That was new.

You studied him carefully.

"Then why are you here?"you asked.

Because you needed to hear it.

Not guessing.Not hoping.

Hearing.

Toji looked at you fully.

No walls.No sarcasm.Just him.

"Because I still want you," he said."But not like before."

Your heart stuttered--but you didn't let it show.

"and what does that even mean?"

"it means..."he paused,like he wasn't used to putting this into words."I don't want whatever we were doing before,the back and forth.The 'it doesn't matter'act".

A breath.

"it mattered.You mattered.I just didn't act like it.

That hit harder than anything else he could've said.

You swallowed ,steadying yourself.

"And what makes you think I'd go back to that?"you asked quietly.

"I don't." he said immediately.

No hesitation,"that's why I'm asking you to."

You blinked slightly.

"I'm asking if you'd be willing to start over," he corrected."For real this time."

No games.No pretending its nothing.

The silence between you wasn't painful anymore.

it was....heavy important.

You looked at him--really looked.And for the first time he wasn't trying to win,he was waiting.

Giving you the choice.

"you don't get to hurt me like that again,"you said after a long sigh.His jaw tightened slightly,"I know.""I'm serious Toji."

"I know," he repeated,softer than before."and if I do--you walk.No arguments.No second chances."

That surprised you.

Because he meant it.

You exhaled slowly.This wasn't the same as before, before you stayed because you were afraid to lose him.

Now? You'd be choosing him.And that made all the difference.

"...We don't go back to what we were,"you said.

"Good,"he replied immediately.

"we take it slow."

He nodded.

"Whatever pace you want."

"And you don't get to act like I don't matter."

Something in his expression changed softened even.

"I wont," he said. "not again."

another pause."Okay," you said.Just that.But it was everything.

He didn't pull you into him right away.

Didn't ruin it by moving too fast.He just stepped closer a little.carefully.

Like he was learning you all over again, when his hand brushed yours--it wasn't possessive,it wasn't careless.it was gentle.Like he finally understood what he lost.

And this time when you stood next to him it didn't feel like chaos.

It felt like you weren't the only one trying anymore.

[gremlinkat1992]

I am already writing the fic where there is established Rabbot and they adopt Baby Jane Doe changing her name to Nadia...but now I give you messy Rabbot adopting Baby Jane Doe.

Jack and Robby used to be something in med school. They would argue they fell out of love but that never happened. Instead Jack was enlisted and Robby just couldn't do it, not that Jack blamed him. They stayed friends though. Robby was even friends with Jack's wife.

When Jack's wife died, Robby was the one to hold him together. Helped him grieve, pushed him to keep going to therapy and a situation ship developed. They went back and forth between being on and off. After Adamson and Pittfest, this time it was Robby that pushed Jack away and Jack figured that if he gave him enough space that Robby would come around.

Except he didn't and so Jack found himself doing his own dangerous thing, getting shot at, while Robby rode a motorcycle without a helmet. Fourth of July comes. It's a crap day. Robby has said way too much about not coming back, everyone is concerned and Jack just wants them to either figure stuff out or stop the back and forth.

He finds Robby with Baby Jane Doe where he overhears about his mom abandoning him. Robby never told him that and then he sees the paperwork. If Robby is going to adopt this baby he's not doing it alone. Now though, Jack and Robby must navigate healing old wounds, talking and therapy. Will this time finally be the right time for both of them?

[vmplvr1977]

Chapter 8 is posted! Read it here.

[icecreamsocialanxiety]

I AM INVESTED IN THEM. Asgore doesn't wanna let him go but he knows Rudy's chronically ill in a semi critical way and his lungs get to him. Where is his mobility aid :(

Look I'm saying my theory is based: Toriel and Asgore clashed so much that Asgore probably cheated with someone. Maybe Rudy. And now he's trying to win back her love. TORIEL IS BEING PURSUED UGHHH. He's harmless but annoying. Like Berdly. Do you see parallels??

Leading to their literal divorce.

ASGORE PLENTY PEOPLE WOULD LOVE YOU COME ON...

I don't think they're exes tbh. Rudygore...I think Rudy and Asgore both know he's constantly battling cancer or something so premature demise is always likely :(

Or nothing morally ambiguous happened but Toriel just broke things off because I dunno. She's wiser and pragmatic and knows they should be with other people

Idgaf Soriel is good. Sans understands her and they have wonderful chemistry, yknow??? I know Toriel can be petty but c'mon.

Asgore doesn't deserve to be demonized but you have to realize he just wants to protect the kids with Toriel again, and he has the true knowledge.