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The Gods We Can Touch Chapter Six: Salt and Blood

Masterlist of Series

Summary: The older twin of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, you were a picture of the maiden, untouched and untainted by man's sins. At least, that was what Alicent Hightower believed when she held you in her arms moments after her old friend's labors. You were her shining light, her dream. Though you were never hers, she believed you were meant to be.

What will become of you as time passes and the Queen's shining light grows within the blackened darkness? Will her eldest son's morbid fascination with the light burn the realm? Or will her second son's obsession with the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen change the course of the Seven Kingdoms as we know it?

Author's Note: Alright, everyone. This is the last time you'll see baby Aemond and the reader, so let's cherish it. In the next chapter, we will start where the show did with the characters aged up in Ep. 8. I'm very excited to write for adult MC. I'm not going to lie; I'm a bit worried about writing Aemond's inner dialogue, as I've never written for a male character who isn't obsessed with the reader, but I'm sure I'll do fine. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Chapter Warnings: Alicent being delulu, parentified sibling trauma, and watch me make you feel even worse about Driftmark.

As you journeyed from the gloomy corridors of the Red Keep to the sulfuric atmosphere of Dragonstone and now to the sandy shores and scattered shells of Driftmark, an air of sadness seemed to cling to you wherever you went. You stood at the edge of a cliff, gazing down at the tranquil sea, overlooking the stone coffin that cradled your late Aunt Laena. Two deaths, each carrying its weight of sorrow, yet only one mourned.

You wondered what it would be like to die choked in flames like Ser Harwin and Lyonel Strong did. Would it be the same as suffering dragon fire like your Aunt? Most likely not. Hers was a swift burning of flesh from bones, while theirs was hours of agony and suffocation.

Despite what your family claimed, the idea of dying to your own dragon’s flames wasn’t an appealing end to you. It didn’t seem noble like how stories explained it to be. It was horrifying to have your skin torched from your body, to feel the power of a thousand suns on your flesh. It would be excruciatingly painful, and you wished it upon no one, not even those you despised most. You would much rather meet the Stranger in your sleep.

You barely settled into your new home on Dragonstone before your mother received the two ravens. One bringing news of Ser Harwin and the other of Laena, containing death in the ink. You consoled your mother and father as best you could, hugging and kissing and telling them that you loved them and were sorry. It was an impossible task to do, but you couldn’t help yourself. You hated seeing them so distraught and wanted to make them feel better.

At night, you cried into your pillows in your now isolated bedroom until Jace and Luke entered, watery eyes matching yours. As the eldest, it was your job to hold your family together when your parents couldn’t, and it left you no time to properly grieve the loss of an Aunt and a father figure.

You felt terrible for your cousins Baela and Rhaena. To go to bed one night and wake up the next without a mother was a depth of grief you couldn’t imagine. You didn’t think you could live a life without your mother; you would die with her, and the ability of your cousins to continue without her was admirable as you observed their sullen faces streaked with tears.

Your Great Uncle Vaemond spoke his sermon in High Valyrian, which was too fast and practiced for you to understand. You could decipher some words here and there, but ultimately, you were lost listening to a man you rarely met. You felt your mother straighten her stance from behind, her arms coming to circle the three of you in a protective embrace.

Vaemond’s eyes were on yours, Luke’s, and Jace’s, but everyone else was focused on him—on the coffin with Lady Laena’s face carved into it.

As your eyes wandered to the other people surrounding the funeral procession, fear struck you as you caught your eldest uncle’s eye. It wasn’t very comforting to see Aegon so soon. You had set it in your mind that you wouldn’t have to see him for many years, and yet, here you were, dressed in an obsidian and red-sleeved gown, pearls adorning the collar and your veiled headpiece. Quickly, you turned away, instinctually taking Jace’s hand in yours.

An air of stiffness surrounded your family that you weren’t blind to. It was always there, but now, more than before, you felt it. You thought it was childish to be so locked into familial drama when someone lay dead inside a casket. Though you didn’t remember much of the times you met your Aunt Laena, she still deserved the respect of putting these grievances aside. You knew you were part of it, but more important things were happening than what you suffered.

The cries of your father sent waves of sadness into your heart, and with the sudden urge to get him to stop, you left the safety of your brother and clung to your father’s waist. He lifted you into his sea-worn arms and clung to your frail body as if it was the only thing that kept him from sinking into his grief. You rested your temple onto his shoulder, tears of empathy falling from your eyes as he pressed your head closer.

Afraid of what would become of your father if you let go, you allowed him to crush you in his embrace for as long as he needed it as a scornful laugh broke through the tense atmosphere. You peeked from your position to see Great Uncle Daemon chuckling to himself with a shake of his head at what Vaemond said. You felt annoyance bubble inside you, solidifying your distaste for the man as the Velaryon guards clad in silver armor and blue seahorse sigils lifted the ropes and lowered your Aunt into the roaring sea.

You didn’t leave your father’s side for the remainder of the day, not even when he slowly lowered himself into the sea with his sister as the cold, salty breeze swept through the evening. You wanted to speak with Aemond, if just for a small moment, but your family came first. They always came before anyone else, a fact that your mother instilled into the very fabric of your being.

Sitting atop one of the rock ledges near your father, you dipped your feet into the saltwater, dragging your toes to watch the water ripple and allow time to pass. It didn’t feel right to leave him alone. The image of him falling into the ocean as your Aunt played repeatedly in your mind’s eye. You were afraid in his grief, he would follow her. Only when your father’s squire, Ser Qarl, took your father from his place with his sister did you leave, joining the rest of the goers for the wake late in the evening.

Searching through the crowd of people for your mother and your brothers, you couldn’t find them. Alone with none of your family for protection, you felt fear pull at your chest. Your hands began to scratch at your arms and scalp, attempting to quell the insatiable itch. The fabric prevented you from doing so, and tears of fright soon began to collect at your lashes.

From across the balcony, you saw a flash of green, a color that had never offered you comfort until now. Yet as quickly as you saw it, it vanished, leaving only a head of white promptly running down the stairs. You felt your heart drop into your feet as you watched Aemond run across the sandy dunes like he was running from you.

The call of a dragon you never heard before screeched through the gray skies. It was mournful as if it were calling for a lost pet or child. In this case, it was a rider. As you looked up, you could see the vast shadow of Vhagar’s silhouette soaring through the clouds, flying in the same direction your uncle went. You felt your eyes grow wide with worry at the realization, wanting to chase after Aemond and warn him.

“Let’s get you to bed,” a tender, feminine voice came from behind you as you jolted in surprise. The tall figure of Queen Alicent stood before you, curly auburn hair pinned back into a magnificent updo and clad in her usual green and gold as she put a hand on your back. “Your mother already sent your brothers.”

“Where is she?” you hastily asked. Aemond was no longer on your mind.

“I’m uncertain. Your father is off drowning his sorrow in his cups with his squire,” she answered in the same velvet voice you remembered her having, bitterness you didn’t understand laced in the undertone.

You felt offended by how the Queen spoke about your father. He was grieving. He was allowed to spend time with whomever he wished, doing what he wanted.

Alicent lifted her arm, wrapping it around your petite frame, and led you inside Hightide. It was not as cold or formidable as Dragonstone; its dark magic melted into the walls, yet it didn’t hold the warmth of the Red Keep. Still, you felt unwelcomed here, either by the place or its people. The pale stone walls were filled with bits and pieces of shells from clams, mollusks, and other long-dead shell creatures mixed into the mortar to make it stand the test of salty air.

The Hall of the Nine, where you passed as Queen Alicent, led you to the guest chambers, where you held the Driftwood throne where your grandfather Corlys reigned. You recalled when you visited this place many years ago and how he went on about the many treasures from his sieges and conquests that decorated the room in all its glory. He and his wife, Rhaenys, sat in a heated discussion in front of the hearth.

Once you reached the door to your shared bed chambers with your brothers, Alicent turned to you. It was the first time you had seen her since what Aegon had done to you, and you felt tension. It seemed as if she wanted to speak, to say everything that had been bottled up since the revelation of her son’s transgressions, but she was unable to do so as tears choked her. Instead, the only words that came out were those she couldn’t say to her children.

“I hope you can find the time to visit the Keep. Helaena asked when you would be returning, and it broke my heart to tell her you wouldn’t be,” she confided, stroking the thin black fabric covering your dark hair. “Aemond has turned inwards since you left, and Aegon has become crueler to him. It makes me wonder if he’s always been this way and that my love for him has blinded me from his transgressions.”

You said nothing. The mention of Aegon’s name still felt like a blow to the stomach. “I hope you can find it within your heart to forgive my son for what he did to you and that we may yet be the family we were always meant to be.” Your tongue felt like lead as your breathing began to race, your chest rising and falling at a rapid pace as Alicent kneeled before you, a sad smile on her supple lips as she tenderly swiped your tear-stained cheeks with her smooth thumbs.

“I love you, my shining light, my dream.”

Leaning in, she took your small frame by your shoulders, kissing your forehead as one would do to their babe. You felt sick, nausea churning in your stomach as you quickly opened the bedroom door, hastily shutting it behind you in fright.

It was all too much—Lady Laena’s death, Ser Harwin’s, seeing your father in shambles, and Queen Alicent’s steadfast belief that you should become a part of her family no matter what happened to you. The Queen desired to wed you and Aegon despite the horrors he committed. The realization that she genuinely didn’t see what your eldest uncle did to you as something that would permanently bar you from joining the union pierced your heart. You would much rather marry Aemond or Helaena, but having no ties to her seemed better.

Your brothers peered at you curiously from their beds as you clutched your chest, looking as if you ran the entire way here. They didn’t ask any questions, and you didn’t move to speak, loosening the ties of your gown and shrugging it off until you were only in your smock. You didn’t feel like changing into your nightdress in front of your brothers, deciding to climb into bed and shove your face into the pillows, refusing to cry in front of Jace and Luke as you fell into a dreamless sleep.

When Aemond learned of Lady Laena’s death, he knew it was a sign from the Gods that his time had come. The Seven had deemed this the moment to prove himself to everyone who doubted him and thought him useless without a dragon.

Vhagar.

The largest, oldest, and strongest dragon in the world was riderless.

Aemond believed that once he gained the only thing he lacked, life would finally be what it should have been. He would make his father proud, shove all the taunts and jests from Aegon and his nephews back into their faces, and finally become a man you deemed worthy—your Mors Martell.

As Aemond fled from the wake when the candles had long melted, he thought only of the ichor coursing through his veins. Dusk was upon the island, and the night’s wind blew harshly, strands of his silver-blonde hair covering his face as he climbed over the dunes. Vhagar was further from the castle than he initially thought.

“Fuck.” Aemond released a sigh of exasperation and scrambled across the uneven ground.

When he came upon the dragon, he was in awe. Vhagar was as frightening as she was enormous—a giant, green-scaled, moving mountain that shook the ground and blew sand with every movement and breath from her powerful lungs.

Taking advantage of Vhagar’s resting state, Aemond crept along the sparse grass, feeling each gust of air she created with her wide nostrils, blowing the sand into his face and ears. Anxiety was present in his gut, feeling a slight tremble in his limbs as he closed the distance, wrapping his hand around one of the many ropes draped across Vhagar’s scales. Suddenly, he felt the ground underneath him quake, and the head of the dragon lifted with a low rumble.

Vhagar observed Aemond with tired yet calculating amber orbs, double eyelids blinking. She grumbled as she bore her teeth to him. They were the size of a fully grown adult, sending a shiver down his spine. As if it were an act of divine intervention, Vhagar laid her enormous head back down, seeming disinterested in the young boy before her.

If Lady Laena’s death wasn’t proof enough Aemond was fated by the Gods to claim a dragon, the most powerful beast in the world, laying its head in acquiescence certainly was. Blinded by his small victory, nerves still in his mind, he reached for the rope ladder again, only for Vhagar to raise her head and growl, low and deep. A snarl formed on her great maw as Aemond stumbled back in shock and saw the light of orange flames gather at the back of her throat.

“Dohaerās!” (Serve!) he shouted instinctively, recalling the many lessons he observed in the Dragonpit as he felt the heat of fire on his countenance. “Dohaerās, Vagus! Lykirī!” (Serve, Vhagar! Be calm!)

With Aemond’s commands, the she-dragon relaxed, recalling her flames and closing her mouth. She purred to him like a cat, a sign that she approved his merit while standing in the face of death. Vhagar would allow the Prince an attempt to claim her, but he must prove himself before the eyes of the Gods, before the eyes of a dragon.

Aemond took the ropes and climbed atop the mighty Vhagar’s back, positioning himself in the saddle and grabbing the reigns.

“Sōvēs!” (Fly!) Aemond ordered, and Vhagar rumbled, raising her legs and shaking the sand from her scales. “Sōvēs!”

She obeyed, taking a few giant steps and flapping her great wings, pushing off from the ground and leaving a sandstorm in her wake. Though Aemond told Vhagar to fly, he still had yet to control her as she took to the night sky in a near-vertical position, catching him unaware. The force knocked him from the leather saddle, leaving him dangling in the air with just the reigns for purchase. Aemond screamed with fear, feeling as if his stomach lurched out of his body as he struggled against the whipping wind to regain control.

She tested him as he grabbed the pommel, sat upright, and pulled the ropes to balance her. He felt like he was on a bucking horse, loosening, tightening, twisting, and turning to the left and right to steer her safely. Vhagar ignored Aemond’s movements and continued to fly like he wasn’t there, diving into the dunes of Driftmark before he reared her upwards, dragging her claws across the sand. He squealed in terror, blocking the debris that scratched his face as she soared over the sea.

Aemond knew he needed to prove himself to her, to show the war-hardened dragon that he deserved to ride her. Her chirps and groans from the day earlier called to him like nothing before, singing to the Prince in her dragon song of forlornness and isolation. Perhaps that was why he felt compelled to claim her. They both shared that feeling of loneliness deep within their souls, that same oddness in their families. The dragoness was too large to be held within any structure, leaving her in forced solitude, her only companions being her rider. Aemond was the only one, despite his Valyrian features, not to have a dragon.

That would no longer be his story.

Aemond fortified his mind and will, putting his soul into his movements as he lifted Vhagar higher in the sky. He could feel the blood of Old Valyria coursing through his veins as the mighty dragon obeyed, leveling out her vast wings and soaring over Spicetown and back to Driftmark. He screamed with fear and joy as she flew with him in the skies, a bright smile he was sure you could see in Lannisport.

Aemond had proven himself. He had shown himself and all who doubted and bullied him for not having a dragon that he was capable, that he was worthy.

Everything was as it should be.

Perhaps you would allow him to kiss you again and spend the night in his embrace. Aemond had no doubt you would be proud of him as he listened to your assurances that he was brave, a dragon knight who you could trust with your secrets and protect you from enemies, and that he deserved your heart.

Aemond landed Vhagar with a grace he hadn’t possessed before, climbing down the rope ladder on her side with windburnt cheeks. As soon as his feet touched the sand, he ran straight to the underground caverns of High Tide to wake you and explain everything.

“Jace!”

You faintly heard a voice calling, sounding distant in your dream state. Ignoring it with a groan, you rolled over, trying to return to sleep.

“Jace, wake up! Someone stole Vhagar!”

This woke you from your sleep. You sat up to see Baela and Rhaena hovering over your brother’s bed.

“We need to stop them!”

Jace and Luke quickly threw the covers off and stuck their feet into their slippers as you observed them curiously. Rubbing the sleep from your face, you yawned, begrudgingly following them.

“You cannot steal a dragon,” you countered after a long silence in the pale stone halls, your voice laced with sleep. It felt like you had hardly gotten a wink.

“She is my mother’s dragon! I was supposed to claim her,” Rhaena countered, tears collecting in her dark eyes.

Yawning again as you followed a few paces behind your siblings and cousins, you rolled your eyes, wanting to bite with the remark, “Why didn’t you?” But you didn’t say it. The reason was apparent why she didn’t, and Rhaena didn’t need any more reason to be distraught.

They led you to the caverns of High Tide, stumbling in your sleepless state. They led to the beaches lit only by dim torchlight, your movements groggy and slightly annoyed. On the other end of the tunnel, Aemond appeared before you with a proud grin and windswept hair. You couldn’t help but mirror his expression, a contagious self-satisfaction that spread to you.

He needn’t say it aloud. You could tell by how he carried himself, shoulders back, chin high, and a slight lift to his cheeks, that your uncle claimed a dragon—the mightiest one in the world, Vhagar.

“It’s him!” Rhaena exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at Aemond.

It didn’t deter him, countering with his head high, violet eyes flicking from you to your cousin. “It’s me.”

“Vhagar is my mother’s dragon!” she yelled, hurt as if this reasoning would change Vhagar’s fate. As you moved to Aemond, Jace grabbed your hand, stopping you with an anxious yet demanding look on his face.

“Your mother is dead, and Vhagar has a new rider now,” your uncle replied, and you felt your brows raise in shock. You knew better than most of the cruelty he could commit, but after spending time with Aemond and seeing the softer, gentler, and kinder side of him, it took you off guard.

“She was mine to claim!” Rhaena argued, charging toward him in a challenge. Your skin began to itch, and your breath quickened.

The hatred felt at the funeral carried over into your brothers and cousins. Tension in the air crackled like a fire in a hearth, watching the yellow and orange flames slowly dwindle into embers until someone threw tinder to spark it.

“Then you should’ve claimed her! Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride,” Aemond sneered. “It would suit you.”

Your lips parted in empathetic offense as you looked from your uncle to Rhaena, tears of guilt and shame pricking at your eyes. You apologized about the pig, and you thought Aemond forgave you, but it seems he couldn’t let go of the hurt no matter how close you were. The feeling of joy for your uncle’s feat was as brief as your friendship.

With a surge of rage, Rhaena charged forward, attempting to push Aemond, but he swiftly countered, and she fell to the ground. You jumped back in shock as you covered your mouth, Luke standing beside you. Baela screamed, protecting her sister as she punched him across his face and Aemond yelped in pain. Without thinking, you went toward your uncle, fearful for his well-being in your heart, but he swiftly stood before you could reach him, returning the same swing to Baela. You gasped in horror and moved to the side, narrowly missing your cousin’s body from colliding with yours.

“Come at me again, and I’ll feed you to my dragon!” Aemond snarled at the twins, and without warning, Jace ran to him with a shout, shoving your uncle in offended anger and smacking him across the cheek.

You screamed for them to stop as you watched Luke try to join the fray, but you held him back, scared that he would get caught in the crossfire. He was the youngest and the littlest, most likely to get hurt. You needed to protect what family you could. Aemond brought this upon himself with his words of arrogance, but that didn’t stop you from wanting to defend him, too.

The scene before you was violent, a flurry of white, black, and red running atop Aemond as Luke slipped from your grasp, all pummeling, kicking, and screaming at him as you cried for them to stop. He was helpless as he suffered blow after blow, and you felt your heart splinter. This wasn’t a fair fight. Without worrying for yourself, you jumped on top of Jace, pulling him back from your uncle and giving him a chance to defend himself. You felt like a betrayer, turning against your twin to save your uncle. Your brother grunted as you both fell to the ground, his body on top of you as you struggled to keep him from fighting.

You and your siblings had fought before, but nothing like this. It was so vicious, filled with violence and want for pain, as Jace whipped his head back into yours, causing it to slam against one of the many jagged rocks across the ground, having you see stars. He went back into the brawl with no worry for your safety as you heard the unsheathing of a knife, your eyes blurry as you struggled to see the scene before you.

“You will die screaming in flames just as your father did!” Aemond yelled, suddenly holding Luke by his neck with a rock in his hand.

“My father is alive!” Luke gasped in protest, flinging his arms and blood running down his face.

You needed to get up to protect Luke from physical harm and the threat of discovering your lineage. You didn’t believe Aemond would kill Luke. He was capable of violence, but he wasn’t a murderer. As you tried to move, your skull felt filled with sand, pulling you back down to the ground as you felt the warm trickle of liquid run down your neck. You blinked rapidly, trying to clear your sight and mind.

Aemond spoke again to Jace, seeming to forget your existence and holding a sense of superiority. “He doesn’t know, does he, Lord Strong?”

You forgot how cruel Aemond could be. Your stolen moments of reading and kisses in the night had closed your eyes to it.

“Aemond, don’t,” you mumbled, skull pounding as the excruciating sounds of your brothers and uncle’s shouts pierced your ears like needles.

You blinked your eyes into focus, seeing Jace wildly swinging a knife at Aemond as you managed to kneel. Your brothers didn’t realize how dangerous what they were doing was, that a knife wasn’t something to use against someone who was armed with only a stone in hand. While Aemond was bigger and had more combat experience, a dagger would kill him. Being upset because someone claimed a dragon wasn’t worth murdering over.

Reaching your arm out with a soft grunt, you grabbed Jace’s ankle as Aemond pushed him over, holding the same rock above his head as he did for Luke. You thought Aemond knew better than this. You gave him the perfect opportunity to run and get help now that Baela and Rhaena huddled into a scared, crying mess, but he was too far gone into his anger to see reason, blinded by it.

“Aemond! No!” you shouted hoarsely, trying to stand but failing as your head pounded like a drumbeat.

He turned to you then, lowering the rock to his side as he stared at you with the sudden realization of what he had done. Your uncle was filled with a surge of superiority inside him. He couldn’t think straight, and when he happened upon the five of you, people he was always told that he was above, something inside him that lay dormant finally broke free. He knew he was always capable of violence, but felt remorse when he saw your bruised nose, tear-streaked cheeks, and blood dripping down your throat.

Did he do that to you?

Suddenly, Aemond was blinded, sand thrown into his eyes as he stumbled back and heard the yell of Luke, unimaginable pain soon following. You watched in horror as your brother savagely sliced into your uncle’s left eye, blood pouring and splattering across the ground.

Aemond couldn’t remember if you were amid his attackers. He surveyed the bruised and battered bodies before him and realized what he had done as his stomach fell to his feet.

He hurt people, just like Aegon. You would never entrust your secrets to him. His hands committed violence, but his heart desired to tell a different story—one of a strong and noble prince who went through many trials and tribulations to prove himself worthy of the princess's heart.

All you could hear were screams. Screams from you, screams from Aemond as you crawled towards him, sobbing.

“Aemond!” you cried as he doubled over, falling into your body as he screeched in pain.

“It hurts!” he wailed into your chest, his free hand clawing into your back. “It hurts! Help me!”

You trembled, arms struggling to keep yourself upright against his weight as the flurry of guards rumbled inside your skull like thunder. Unable to make out their words as they moved, it seemed like you were watching the world from outside your body, from the lenses of another, as Ser Harrold pried Aemond from your embrace.

It hurt. Everything hurt—your heart, stomach, muscles, and head. You weren’t sure who led you, Baela, Rhaena, Luke, and Jace to the Hall of the Nine as a flurry of people gathered, pushing and shoving as you clutched your skull. The room was so bright, so loud, as you heard your uncle’s screams. You felt sturdy arms grab you by your shoulders, roughly moving you as if you were nothing more than a doll, as it felt like your eyes were about to burst. Steel blue fabric blocked your eyes as you saw the hazy image of a seahorse stitched into the fabric.

“Father?” You reached out, small digits feeling along the fine silk until the texture of scruff scratched at your skin. Blinking, you saw the aged face of your grandfather, Lord Corlys, as he gathered you and your brothers behind him.

Where was he, and where was your mother?

You felt sick as people scattered around you like seagulls when they discovered a bloated whale carcass, all trying to see the injured Prince, who cried until the Maester poured Milk of the Poppy down his throat. It felt like when you accidentally drank the water from Blackwater Bay, like a cold, nauseous sensation that sent beads of sweat rolling down your spine.

“I don’t feel good,” you whispered to Jace as you leaned into his side, clutching your head and gut. He paid you no mind, peering behind your grandfather to see your other one appear, bearing total weight upon his dragon-head cane.

“How could you let such a thing happen?” Viserys questioned Ser Harrold, examining Aemond as you heard the sickening squelch of flesh and rattle of metal tools. “I will have answers!”

Despite it undoubtedly being a harrowing sight, you wanted to be by your uncle, to hold his hand through it, to feel his pain with him, but you couldn’t. You needed to be with your brothers. What they saw and experienced would haunt them for the rest of their lives. Luke had taken Aemond’s eye.

“The princess and princes were supposed to be abed, my king,” the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard explained, shame woven in his words.

Viserys wouldn’t allow his knights to show such carelessness, surveying each of them with critical eyes. “Who had the watch?”

“The young prince was attacked by his cousins, your grace,” Ser Cristion nonchalantly replied. His words angered you for reasons unknown, and you felt a lump rise in your throat.

Viserys turned to the room, looking between the two Kingsguards on opposite sides of the family as he hobbled on his cane. “You swore oaths to protect and defend my blood!” he boomed in a way you hadn’t seen before. You were afraid he would direct his anger at you, Jace, and Luke, wrapping your arms around them like you were in any state to protect your brothers.

“I’m very sorry, your grace,” Ser Westerling said, head hung low in unimaginable disgrace. You felt bad for him. There was no way he could have stopped this. He was doing his duty and serving his King. It was Ser Criston who should be blamed.

“The Kingsguard has never had to defend princes from princes before, your grace-”

“That is no answer!” your grandfather yelled at Ser Criston, causing a clap of pain to thunder inside your skull.

You wanted to go to bed, sleep for eternity, and be awake to everything as it was yesterday. Your brothers and cousins unbloodied and Aemond dragonless and with an eye.

“Where’s mother?” you noiselessly questioned Jace, leaning into his ear and almost losing your footing. You needed to stay strong for them.

“It will heal, will it not? Maester?” Queen Alicent asked, velveteen voice quivering with pain for her poor son. Maester Kelvyn finished stitching Aemond’s skin, throwing the needle and thread into a bowl with your uncle’s fleshy, viscous eye.

“The flesh will heal. The eye is lost, your grace,” his nasal voice replied matter-of-factly.

You were going to be ill.

Quickly, you ran through the multitude of people, pushing past Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys, who tried to stop you before you vomited all the contents of your stomach onto a person’s unsuspecting shoes. The crowd gasped in revolt, those not close to you jumping back and clutching their chests in shock. You found yourself before the fireplace, basking in its comforting warmth as you leaned onto the hearth and looked at the unlucky soul you retched on.

Perhaps the Gods had a twisted sense of justice as you saw the disgusted face of Aegon before you. You didn’t hide your amused smirk.

“Tend to the Princess!” the King shouted to the Maester, seeming to forget about his injured son and throwing his cane in your direction.

A flurry of green came before pale gray, tenderly cradling your visage in her palms as if you were her child, inspecting it. You grabbed the Queen’s wrists and attempted to push her away as if her touch burned, but she resisted, struggling against your childish strength until she grabbed your shoulders. Her touch reminded you of Aegon as you burst into tears, muscles going limp and at Queen Alicent’s mercy. She turned your head in her grasp, examining you with the utmost care that made another wave of nausea through you.

The crowd observed in anxious silence as Aemond turned to watch his mother treat you with the affection he wished to receive. Familiar hatred bloomed inside his heart, swallowing his dry mouth as he thought resentfully. He would still have his eye if he hadn’t been so concerned with you.

“I want my mother.” you whimpered, lips quivering in fear as the Queen lovingly wiped the blood from your neck.

The Queen released you from her grip as if you had struck her, chest heaving and wide brown eyes watering as she turned to her eldest son. Your mother was here; you didn’t realize it.

“Where were you?” she interrogated Aegon, smacking him upside down before he could answer.

“Ow! What was that for?” he questioned, incredulously rubbing at the afflicted area grimly. You held no sympathy for him as you hugged your sides.

“That was nothing compared to the abuse your siblings suffered while you were drowning in your cups, you fool!” she whispered heatedly so only he could hear, shaking his gangly body in rage. You looked at the Queen with confusion, thinking she had gone mad with grief when she said “siblings.”

As the grand Hall doors creaked open, a shaft of golden light spilled into the room, casting long shadows on the marble floor. With an air of elegance, your mother swept into the room, her silk gown trailing behind her. Following closely was Uncle Daemon, his formidable presence filling the space. Amidst the whispers and murmurs, your name and that of your brothers floated through the air, drawing your attention. Without a second thought, you moved toward her, the sensation of fingertips brushing your bicep as if a ghostly hand had tried to hold you back, sending shivers down your spine.

“Show me, show me!” your mother ordered you and Luke, softly running her digits across your body as you sobbed with relief. “Who did this?”

“They attacked me!” Aemond yelled before you could get a word out, leaning from behind his chair.

You saw his wound on full display. An ugly crisscrossed row of stitches lined up his eye socket and onto his forehead, the flesh puckered and pink as it fought the infection. Your mother moved your face before you could stare any longer as a chorus of accusations from your brothers and cousins sang. You couldn’t get the image of his gash out of your head.

“He was going to kill Jace! I didn’t do anything!” Luke loudly shouted as you scrunched your eyes with a painful wince.

“Enough!” you heard your grandfather yell, and you looked at him with helpless, watery eyes, but no one listened.

“It should be my son telling the tale!” the Queen protested, fist pounding against her chest with conviction over the voices.

You continued to look at your grandfather in anguish, the King of The Seven Kingdoms, whom everyone ignored except you. “Silence!” he yelled, voice rattling inside his hollow chest as flem flew from his decaying mouth.

The Hall went silent, quieter than the Stranger himself, as everyone looked at one another, stunned at the turn of events. People came here to mourn the loss of a daughter, an aunt, a niece, a wife, and a sister. Viserys looked at you and then at his son, his ivory staff sounding with every movement as you swallowed, the taste of bile strong.

“He called us bastards.” you silently whispered to your mother, wiping the tears and snot from your face.

“Aemond, I will have the truth of what happened.” The King approached your uncle as he slumped into the armchair, stepping swiftly and with a newfound curiosity. “Now.”

“What else is there to hear?” Alicent questioned, clutching at her neck as tears threatened to spill. “Your son has been maimed, and her son is responsible.”

“Twas a regrettable accident,” your mother countered, moving her body to shadow the three of you from the onlookers.

“Accident?” the Queen repeated, astonished. “The Prince Lucerys brought a blade to the ambush! He meant to kill my son!”

You realized the truth didn’t matter now. All that did was what people perceived it to be.

“Twas my children who were attacked and forced to defend themselves!” your mother argued as she placed a comforting hand onto Luke’s shoulders. “Vile insults were levied against them!”

Your grandfather turned from his son to the four of you as you inhaled a shuddering breath. “What insults?” he questioned, a dangerous lilt to his tone that you had never heard before as the Hall went silent. It raised the hairs on your arms.

“The legitimacy of my children’s birth was put loudly to question,” your mother replied, her chin high yet holding a nervous waver to her voice.

As she turned towards you, your mother’s eyes conveyed a silent but insistent demand to verbalize what you previously whispered. She wished everyone to hear these words from you—the compassionate and considerate eldest daughter known as The Gods’ Light among the common folk. With tears streaming down your cheeks and your chest heaving with emotion, you gazed at Aemond with a sense of guilt. You knew the words you were about to utter would carry an extraordinary weight. Both sides sought someone to bear responsibility for the turmoil, but you recognized the unspoken truth.

At that moment, honesty seemed inconsequential. Aemond had suffered the loss of his eye due to Luke’s actions, and you keenly felt your failure to shield your brothers from harm. You would never fault at your duty again.

“He called us bastards,” you confessed, lacking the anger and conviction of your siblings as you sniffled, refusing to look at Aemond.

You watched as the Queen’s auburn tresses bounced with the slight affirming nod of her head, a look of disbelief and recognition crossing her face. At that moment, it became clear that she had informed Aemond about the deception, hardening your heart with betrayal. You had believed that she was different and loved you like family, and it stung to realize that she didn’t hesitate to spread lies that would hurt you.

“My children are to inherit the Iron Throne, your grace. This is the highest of treasons,” your mother reasoned, stepping forward to her slouched father as you attempted to reach for her hand to keep you hidden. “Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such awful slanders.”

As you gazed at your mother, her expression eerily mirroring that of Alicent’s, your lips began to quiver with unease. Was your mother implying that he should be subjected to torture? It seemed unfathomable. She couldn’t possibly be serious.

“Over an insult?” the Queen asked, shaking her head in disbelief. You knew she was trying to protect herself as you glared at the woman you once thought held the moon. “My son has lost an eye!”

“Tell me, boy. Where did you hear such lies?” the King seethed, face a hairsbreadth from Aemond as you whimpered.

“The insult was training yard bluster,” Alicent swiftly reasoned, eyes flicking desperately from her son to her husband. “The lot of boys. ‘Twas nothing-”

“Aemond,” your grandfather interrupted, ignoring his wife’s explanation. “I asked you a question.”

Your uncle sat in solemn silence, his lone violet eye unwaveringly fixed on the ground while his father awaited his reply. Before he could utter a word, the Queen unexpectedly interjected.

“Where is Ser Laenor, the children’s father? Perhaps he would have something to say on the matter,” she jeered.

Your grandfather turned, sparse brows scrunching together as he turned to Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys. “Yes. Where is Ser Laenor?”

“I do not know, your grace. I… could not find sleep and decided to take a walk,” your mother answered for them, smooth palms wiping across her crimson skirt.

The Queen let out a derisive laugh, her disbelief evident as she shook her head at her old friend. It was impossible to ignore the precise timing of Daemon’s arrival into the Hall of the Nine, trailing just moments behind Rhaenyra with her tousled strands of golden hair. Alicent bore the knowledge of her friend’s calculated machinations, even as Rhaenyra’s children stealthily slipped out of their beds to perpetrate the heinous act of maiming her son. She couldn’t dismiss the nagging suspicion that Ser Laenor was likely engaged in equally treacherous activities.

“Entertaining his young squires, I presume,” Queen Alicent sneered like before, making you feel the same deep-seated ire.

As no one dared to voice their opposition to her words, a glint of silver caught your eye from the corner, revealing Ser Criston Cole’s silent laughter. Like Ser Harwin, you felt the urge to wipe that smug grin off his tanned face, even though you knew it was impossible.

“Aemond, look at me. Your King demands an answer,” your grandfather began, staggering before your uncle. “Who spoke the lies to you?”

Everything went silent; the roaring of the fire and the crashing of the waves in the darkness were all that could be heard in the Hall. You understood that whoever Aemond implicated might not live til the next morn. You felt your throat grow tight and struggled to breathe, clutching at your throat as you swallowed the acrid taste in your mouth. Queen Alicent told him as you recalled the time in Helaena’s room. It confused you at first why she would spread such gossip as she seemed to hold a tenderness for you. Claiming your brothers were bastards went without saying you were, but you realized that whatever contempt she had within her heart weighed far more significant than any affection for you.

Some of you wished to shout that it was her, but you realized that was something Alicent would do without a second thought if the roles were reversed, and you did not want to be like her. She was wicked and cruel, just like her eldest.

“It was Aegon. He told Aemond to call us that,” you answered as every pair of eyes flocked to you. You didn’t like how close your grandfather was to him, afraid that he might strike him for the consequences of his mother. You felt your heart lurch into your throat as you gained the courage to speak the words aloud of all the bad things he did to you. “And he… he”

Before you could finish, your mother tucked you into her waist, kneeling and pushing your face into her shoulder. You tried to pull away from her when his hand rested on your head, the welt sensitive to touch.

“Don’t,” she whispered into your hair, disguising it as a kiss. They deserved to know. Everyone needed to know what awful Aegon did to you. You wanted to move against her, but your mind was foggy and muscles weak.

“Me?” Aegon exclaimed with shock, wide amethyst orbs looking at you with a broken expression.

“And you, boy,” your grandfather crept towards him, the rhythmic tapping of his cane piercing your skull like an ice pick. “Where did you hear such calumnies?” Your uncle refused to answer him as his gaze bore holes into your being. There was no remorse in your heart for him. “Aegon, tell me the truth of it!” Viserys shouted, causing you to flinch and cover your ears.

“We know, father,” Aegon replied fearlessly, refusing to remove his stare from your quivering form. “Everyone knows. Just look at them.”

Feeling the stares from the guests, you admired your uncle for not implicating his mother like a coward, removing your body from your mother, wiping the snot from your lip. Let them look, you thought, inhaling a deep breath as you felt your mother bring you closer. They would stare at you for the rest of your days. It was best if you grew accustomed to it now.

“This interminable infighting must cease!” the King declared, banging his walking stick off the pale stone floor. “All of you! We are family! Now, make your apologies and show goodwill to one another. Your father, your grandsire, your King demands it.”

You grimaced at his words, and though you loved your grandfather, having been his favorite granddaughter, you disagreed with him. You refused to apologize for your family trying to defend themselves, and the Queen couldn’t help but agree more.

“That is insufficient,” Alicent said, gesturing to her son. “Aemond has been damaged permanently, my King. Goodwill cannot make him whole.”

Aemond’s fingers dug into the wooden framing of the armchair, and your chin quivered at the thought of what he might be feeling.

“I know, Alicent,” Viserys sighed, “but I cannot restore his eye.��

“No, because it’s been taken,” she sobbed, clutching at her chest, flicking her hair back in a manner that reminded you of Aegon. “There is a debt to be paid. I shall have the hand of her eldest to one of my sons. To mend the rift and unite the House of the Dragon once more.”

“Alicent,” your grandfather breathed in a warning, yet still turned to his daughter, having a hint of hope in his violet eyes.

You looked at your mother, shock overcoming any sadness you felt as she shoved you behind her skirts like a hen would do to her chick, too stunned to speak. “I refuse.”

The Queen shook her head, a sneer curling her plump lips and wet cheeks. Rhaenyra was a selfish, wicked woman with no inclination of decency. Why couldn’t she see this would be solved if she returned Alicent’s rightful daughter to her? The Queen steeled herself to the belief that she would have to fight for her right to have you. She knew deep in her bones that you would one day be by her side.

“Then I shall have one of her sons’ eyes in return. The Princess is innocent,” the Queen declared with a desperate wave of tears.

Aemond looked to his mother, face impassive, and senses dulled from Milk of the Poppy. He didn’t recall telling her about what you did for him, though it was very little. It felt like he was becoming a second thought to his mother, who seemed only to be scheming on how to insert his niece into their lives. Aemond realized then that he would always be second in his mother’s heart to you, and he felt hollow at the thought, the love that once filled it for his niece ceasing to exist.

“Do not allow your temper to guide your judgment,” your grandfather warned Queen Alicent. She said nothing as her chest heaved, brown orbs flicking between her husband and old friend.

Believing the matter finished, the King backed away, but Alicent wouldn’t allow this to be the end. She looked to her sworn protector, an apathetic expression on her visage.

“If the King will not seek justice, the Queen will. Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon.” Ser Criston looked to the Queen with a startled expression as Luke cried for your mother. “He can choose which eye to keep, a privilege he did not grant my son.”

“You will do no such thing,” your mother steadfastly declared, ensuring the three of you were behind her.

“Stay your hand,” the King commanded as the Queen shook with rage, desperately looking between her husband and sworn protector. She reminded you of a deer cornered in a vast forest, listening to the distant howls of wolves closing in for the hunt.

“No, you are sworn to me!” she yelled, finger pointing to her chest indignantly. All waited for the knight to respond, the Lord Commander slowly bringing his hand to the hilt of his sword.

“Protect your brother,” your mother whispered, never straying her eyes from the Queen. Without further instruction, you stood before Luke, gradually backing him away from the group of people unnoticed. You understood Alicent would not hurt you, as did your mother.

“As your protector, my Queen,” Ser Criston replied with a wary head tilt.

“Alicent, this matter is finished. Do you understand?” your grandfather declared, seething, his face centimeters away from his wife before he addressed the room. “And let it be known that if anyone’s tongue dares to question, the birth of Rhaenyra’s children should have it removed.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, you let go of Luke, coming to take your place beside your mother as she thanked the King. The unsheathing of a blade cut through the room as the form of Queen Alicent charged toward your family, startling you, the King’s ancestral dagger in her grasp. Luke screamed as she reached the four of you, but your mother stepped in her path before Alicent could enact her rage.

Suddenly, a person shoved into you, disregarding your existence as you found yourself on the floor. You noticed how the stone seemed to ebb and wave like the flow of the tide. Lord Corlys appeared beside you, lifting you into his arms, securely bound around your torso as he took you into the circle of your cousins and brothers, your mother struggling against the Queen.

“You’ve gone too far!” your mother admonished the Queen as tears burned her eyes. She pushed against Alicent, and she jerked against her, trying to get to your brother.

“I?” Queen Alicent exclaimed, voice thick with anguish as you attempted to push out of your grandfather’s arms, kicking your legs into his side. “What have I done, but what was expected of me? Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, and the law while you flout to do as you please?”

“Alicent, let her go!”

The Queen still poised the dagger to strike, its new path being that of the heir to the Iron Throne as your mother looked helplessly to the onlookers. No one made to separate the two as they all stared in shock, the fire illuminating their faces like wraiths of death. Landing a hard smack to Lord Corlys’s neck, he dropped you as you shoved through the onlookers toward your mother. She put her life for yours and your brothers, but who would put hers before theirs?

“Where is duty? Where is sacrifice? My happiness and dreams? It’s templed under your pretty foot again!” the Queen sobbed, her form trembling with hurt and rage, everything that she bottled inside her for years.

“Release the blade, Alicent,” Lord Otto commanded, a man you hadn’t met until this morn, but she paid him no mind, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she pushed against her old friend.

“Wasn’t taking her, my only light, enough for you? And now you take my son’s eye, and to that, you feel entitled,” she confessed, tears making the Queen’s mouth thick with wetness as you shouldered your way to the inner circle of people.

“Exhausting, wasn’t it? Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness,” your mother interrogated, a bitter grimace on her sharp lips. “But now they see you as you are.”

Alicent stared at your mother with an enraged offense that wrinkled her brows as she felt fire surge through her, and with a loud cry, she unthinkingly swung your family’s ancestral dagger. You screamed, running to your mother as you pulled her back, seeing a gash on her inner arm that gushed with blood.

“Mama,” you wept, tenderly holding her limb as if it would break.

Dropping the dagger, Alicent took an instinctual step toward you, a blanched, horror-stricken expression across her round face. She longed to go to you, to dry your tears and stroke your head against her bosom like your true mother would, but she could not. The terror and fear in your wide brown eyes that resembled her own sliced through her chest and laid her heart and soul bare as she felt a small hand slide into hers. The Queen hoped to see you standing beside her and thought herself mad before she securely took her son’s fist.

Much like you, Aemond knew his parent needed him. “Do not mourn me, mother. ‘Twas a fair exchange,” he expressed with a maturity beyond his years. He turned to you, a violet gaze once filled with joy now devoid, hollow, and one less eye. “I may have lost an eye but gained a dragon.”

You wished Aemond hadn’t claimed one this way and felt a hiccup wrack your lungs as you cried into your mother, Jace, and Luke coming beside you. You sadly realized this was the end of the fleeting companionship you cultivated with your uncle. All the stolen moments of reading, ideas, philosophies, and aspirations you shared under the cover of privacy were nothing more than air the moment he ran across the dunes. You would have still cared for him without a dragon, as before, but his pride wouldn’t allow it, and now he stared at you with an eye that you knew far too well.

Aemond hated you. He loathed you and your brothers with a fire that would never cease. This was your fault. He lost an eye because of you—because he cared about his bastard niece and had the foolish dream of becoming the man you loved. You did not deserve it. You were nothing more than a common girl born from sin, undeserving of your station. He would despise you for the rest of his days no matter how his heart screamed to have you by his side when darkness fell and all that was left was the ghost of your touch.

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Happiness never lasts in ASOIAF. I'm going to miss writing for baby Aemond and reader. They were so cute! From now on it's going to be messed up young adults with severe mommy uses and mental illness. I'm not going to say who has which XD. Thank y'all so much for reading and I hope to see y'all in the next chapter!

Tagged Peeps: @millies0bsimp, @britt-mf, @marvelescvpe, @haikyuusboringassmanager, @discofairysworld, @lottiemsgf , @nessjo , @fiction-fanfic-reader , @qvnthesia , @hotvillianapologist , @p45510n4f4shi0n, @theendlessvoidofdarkest , @readerselegance , @gothamgurl2024 , @aleemendoza2425-blog , @vaylint

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komoboko · 6 months ago

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𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬

Muichiro tokito x gn!reader ・can be read as platonic or romantic ・heavy angst ・muichiro lives in this scenario hurt no comfort ・major kny spoilers ・major character death

Am I a bundle of joy be honest

The day of your death was something Muichiro didn’t think he would ever forget. Memorization was never his strong suit but he knew this would be something that would haunt him.

He never thought of the possibility of loosing you. He knew the mortality rate in the infinity castle was low, even lower when it came to putting yourself on the front line. He just never thought that you would fall along with the many other slayers that loss their lives that same night. He never thought about coming back home alone, how you wouldn’t be making the journey back to see everybody along with him.

His mind is burnt with the image of your body mutilated, blood poured out of you. There was so much blood, to much where anybody would know you were beyond saving. Uppermoon 1, his ancestor had finally crumbled into dust but at what cost? The cost of you being left to rot on the floor until the castle would crumble and destroy itself underneath its own weight? Why did you have to suffer? Why did you have to leave him behind?

7 days. It’s been 7 days since you died and Muichiro struggles, moving slowly through the stages of grief.

It’s difficult for him to look into any photos that included you. His grief that morphed into anger that he expressed alone in the defeating silence of your room. It hurts him to be in there, the memories of you and your presence weigh him down. He doesn’t want to accept the fact you would never return. That your body would never find peace as it was crumbled and turned to ash. That you had to leave him alone on this earth. It hurt him alot it was difficult for him to handle so much grief. It reminded him of the detain of his brother, a memory he didn’t want to remember either.

Death was something that seemed to follow him. His blood flowed with the remains of the Tsugikuni family lineage. A bloodline that was considered some sort of curse, a force of evil and failure for 500 years. Muichiro only lingers in your room, standing in the middle of the room while his eyes face down on the floor. He didn’t want to look up, be met with photos where your eyes were filled with so much light. He couldn’t find it in him to look at your face, the memory of your body still so fresh inside of his mind. It hurt, a pain he didn’t want to bare.

1 month. It’s been a month since the final night before demons were vanquished. It’s then when muichiro memory problem begins to fail him.

When he looks at flowers his chest stings but he doesn’t know why. He walks past places that feel so familiar to him but he can’t remember why it hurts to be around there. Details about you that used to come to him like second nature slowly seep from his mind. He knows your name, your face, your occupation, your birthday, your death date but after that he doesn’t seem to remember anymore. He knows you but knowing you to such a personal level slowly starts to decline.

Your room is still left untouched despite all of this. Your haori that you left on the bed before you went to the infinity castle still lays there untouched. Everything in place how you left it like you would come back and fix it. It hurts him still to walk in there. A burden in his shoulders, one that he doesn’t know how to get rid of. Death was a heavy weight he’s always has had to carry and he wishes he never had to in the first place.

3 months. Things seem to get worse, Muichiro now begins to question even more about things in his own home.

Your room is some place where he’s filmed with less pain and now more confusion. He looks at the things left inside of your room and wonders why they were there. He stares at pictures of you left in there, he knows who’s in the picture yet he doesn’t know why he has it. He knows it’s you, he remembers you but why were you in his home? Why was there a portrait of you and him together that was left on the counter. Why was there a picture of you left on his bedside table.

He knows he couldn’t forget you, he mustn’t but he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know why you play such a signifiant part in the space taken up in his estate. He doesn’t know why you take up such an important place in his heart. Why it hurts so much to see you, even if you look so happy in the picture he has right next to his bed. Why does somebody make him feel so much pain even if he has yet to see them in so long?

6 months. 6 months has gone by since the final battle and muichiro has changed.

Tanjiro who was fully healed now, took the liberty to go and visit muichiro once again. He’s sent him letters in the mail multiple times in the past but it’s always good to see people in person. Tanjiro was happy to see Muichiro outside of his estate, taking up on his request to go out and grab something to eat. Maybe visit some of the now retired hashira’s along the way.

The boy went to muichiro estate to start their trip. He waited by the door for a minute but it wasn’t long for Muichiro to come and open it. He smiled greeting the long haired boy before taking the liberty to step inside. His eyes follow around to see some things have changed. Furniture has moved around and there was boxes near by the door, what tanjiro had assumed was things he planned to get rid off.

His eyes fall onto one box that catches his attention. He strolls over before leaning down to grab a picture that was left on top of the box. Blowing off the dust that covered the photo he found a picture of you. A smile fell on Tanjiro’s face before he turns to muichiro pointing towards the photo. “They were always such a lovely person weren’t they?” Tanjiro says looking down at the photo catching Muichiro’s attention.

Muichiro only stares at the photo in Tanjiro’s hand. His face blank, a usual expression to be seen on his face. Muichiro stays quiet for a moment before opening his mouth, he only had one thing to say.

“Who?”

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sweatygardengoatee · 2 months ago

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Hope in the Face of Pain: The Story of Faraj and His Struggle with Cancer and Displacement

Every person carries a story. Some are told and heard, while others remain in silence, etched deep within the heart. My story goes beyond pain; it is a continuous battle with cancer, set against the harsh backdrop of displacement, the loss of my father, and our home that once served as a safe haven for my family.

My Journey with Illness and Displacement

Cancer entered my life uninvited, adding a new layer of suffering. Every moment of treatment is challenging, and pain accompanies me constantly, but I hold on to patience and hope for my family and for my child, who needs me. While I fight the disease, displacement was forced upon us, and we lost the home that represented safety and stability for us.

Losing my father, who was my support, only added to the weight of my suffering. We now live day by day, trying to adapt to the difficult conditions in the absence of security and stability. The memories of childhood that fill every corner of our lost home make each step in this journey even harder.

Fatherhood Amidst Pain

I waited nine years for my child, and when he came into the world, I couldn’t be by his side as I had dreamed. The hardships, the illness, and the displacement deprived me of precious moments with my child—moments every father yearns to experience. But here I am, burdened with the pain of separation, trying to find my way back to him, to be the father he deserves.

Every bit of support you offer is not just a financial contribution; it is a message of hope. It’s a reminder that there are people standing beside me, reaching out to help, and wanting me to reclaim the moments I’ve lost. Your support eases the weight of this battle and brings back a piece of the life my family deserves.

Why We Need Your Support

We’re not asking for the impossible, nor are we seeking luxury. We just need a fresh start, a simple life that brings my family together, far from fear and pain. Every donation from you is a new life for us, a new beginning that allows us to build a better future and face the difficulties with strength and resilience.

My story is not merely a personal one; it’s a voice for everyone who suffers in silence, for everyone who struggles to survive and hold onto hope. With your support, we can realize the simple dreams we seek, and we can regain even a little of the life we lost.

How You Can Help

You can be part of our journey through your donations, which bring us hope, and by sharing our story with those around you, so other hearts may respond to our plea. We need you; you are part of our strength in this battle, you are the hope that drives me to continue.

In Conclusion

My story is just a small example of a greater suffering, but I believe that your kind hearts can change this reality. Every bit of support, every word of encouragement, every prayer gives us hope and brings us closer to the life we dream of. My deepest gratitude goes to all of you for your support and for standing by us in this difficult time.

@apocalyptic-dancehall @jdon @creating-something-stuff @quantumshade @queen-bitchiest @qattdraws @q @quotemadness @woven-birds @wescravns @womenintheirwebs @wet-paiint @wlw359 @earthmoonlotus @elizabeth-karenina @eccentricwearsgoggles @euphcme @egg-on-a-legg @reaperlight @rukafais @rcpunzel @roguelov @rhaenyra-the-gracious @tamamita @the-swift-tricker @thebroccoligoblin @tierras @taylorswift @yukirinne46 @yeetsintovoid @yaoichad @your-childhood-tree-come-to-life @yelyahwilliams @unmeinoyoru @user610138 @u @understands @urbanoutfitters @instagram @iglovequotes @indieteen @inspiring-pictures @ilovecharts @oswednesday @omtai @o @oldaddictedtophoto-blog @onedirection @prisonhannibal @pierppasolini

#tumblr milestone #cancer #free palestine #gaza genocide #gaza strip #leave me alone #agatha harkness #billford #thank you #5 reblogs

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vivmaek · 2 years ago

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SOLAR RETURN OBSERVATIONS: PART TWO

Sun in the 1st House - This is a great year to center yourself and to focus on your needs. This is the start of a new chapter, and the influence of this placement gives the native enough energy and hope to bring about positive change. You might feel more excited about daily life and waking up every morning will feel a little bit easier. Enthusiasm comes naturally, and this placement will ease any other negative influences seen within the solar return chart. You might have several lightbulb moments in regards to your identity, and at the end of the year you’ll be feeling more confident than ever.

Jupiter in the 10th House - Opportunity is on its way. Jupiter is expanding all themes regarding the tenth house. The native is going to develop a strong sense of reputation and will notice a change in status by the end of the year. Their ego may inflate a bit, but this can be good if used wisely. Getting recognized, promoted, or an increase in salary are to be expected with this solar return placement. If the native travels under this influence, they will receive a lot of attention for their journey. Gaining favors from people in authority should also be relatively easy.

Venus Conjunct Ascendant - The native is going to feel a lot of affectionate feelings and a need to express them. A sense of love is going to be elevated within all connections and the native will benefit from this influence. This is a great time to take on relationship problems. The native will seem especially attractive during this time and will probably go through a glow-up of sorts. Their personal style is being defined, and they’ll have the energy to put extra effort into their appearance. Negotiations will go well and will work in their favor.

Sun Trine Midheaven - During the course of this year, the native is gaining an understanding on who they are and how that aligns with their wants and desires. Garnering achievements or some sort of reward is to be expected with this influence. The native is going after their goals and has all the support and tools on hand in order to do so. They are being encouraged to use their skills and resources in a focused manner.

Moon Square Saturn - This aspect points to a lot of frustration. The sign of both the Moon and Saturn can give indication of what exactly the source of contempt is. The native might be lacking emotional control and is learning how to manage this.

Pluto in the 6th House - A change in routine is very much needed with this influence. The native might take on a new position at work, giving them a new list of responsibilities. Or, they might start developing a workout routine or exercise plan. The native may start to notice changes to their body, ranging from weight gain/loss to aging. If you have any health issues, make sure to get checked up sometime this year. Physical trauma to the body might occur this year. The native could find themselves being more accident prone than usual.

Saturn in the 9th House - There isn’t going to be much adventure this year. In fact, vacations or travel plans may end up delayed or canceled. If you are in college or university, this might be an especially hard year for you. Expect restrictions in school and from mentors. Assignments that used to take no time at all might start to take days instead. It would be a good idea to take a gap year during this time, or just a break in general. Saturn does reward hard work and effort though, so this decision is up to you. If you know you have it in you to keep pushing, then don’t give up.

Mercury in the 4th House - Now is the time to make plans for future stability. Natives under this influence need to start thinking about domestic issues. Home renovations and fix-ups are a good idea when Mercury is in the fourth. Redecorating your home is also something that should be done during the year. The past is going to weigh heavy on the mind, and it would be good to focus on comforting your inner child.

Moon in the 12th House - Mediation is a skillset that absolutely must be used and developed during this time. A lot of emotional fulfillment can be found through charitable work and spiritual practice. Emotional cycles and chapters in your life are going to be coming to a close. This is a time to retreat, reflect, and recharge. Embrace solitude.

Mars Conjunct Uranus - Be cautious of accidents. Please drive safe and follow directions when using machinery.

Mercury Trine Mars - Expect a lot of speed and energy entering your life. If this is a tight aspect, then this year is going to fly by. The days will go by quickly, and there is going to be a lot to do.

Moon Trine Pluto - Go to therapy! This is an excellent time to connect with the subconscious. Deep rooted feelings and emotions are going to reemerge, but this will be beneficial and help aid the healing process.

Uranus in the 11th House - If you’ve been feeling drawn to social justice and activism, this would be a good year to start getting involved. You might make some unexpected friends or unexpected changes may occur within your friendships. A wish fulfillment might randomly manifest during this year. The native will be able to come up with solutions for whatever setback might occur. You might realize that the straightforward path you were once trekking isn’t as straightforward as it once seemed. Issues within society might be affecting you on a more personal level.

Chiron in the 11th House - Your connections with friends, and your hopes and dreams might undergo some damage. This might be a lonely year and the native is going to face rejection at one point. They are going to be told “no” over and over again, it is going to be a painful process. You might not fit in where you currently reside.

Mars Square Ascendant - Unfortunately, the native is going to have to put up with a lot of bullshit under this influence. They might get bullied, harassed, or violated. It is important for them to avoid arguments and for them to try and walk away first during disagreement. People might assume they’re in a bad mood when they’re actually not.

@courttt-xo

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fadyelj · 2 months ago

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All Summers End In Beirut

That summer in Beirut was never meant to be a journey inward; it was a time to shed the tension that had been building for years, a silent rage caged behind words, waiting for release. If I hadn’t confined it to words alone, that rage might have carved valleys out of stone. Instead, Beirut had to become the channel, blurring into nights spent chain-smoking in dimly lit pubs, romances that ended at dawn, and goodbyes that lived only on social media — Adieu, my dearest Beirut, though Beirut would know better.

I didn’t come here to romanticize the city or to make sense of my past. Beirut was simply the stage for a deliberate escape, a place to lose myself, not to find myself. Depth? I didn’t want it. Self-discovery? Even less.

You go to Paris to find yourself, not Beirut.

They say romantics run from reality, but I think the opposite can be true. Sometimes, it’s the realists who are drawn to it, clinging to the poetry of a place like Beirut, knowing full well the inevitable heartbreak. Still, they chase it, how can they live knowing that the greatest art has always been born from the agony of others.

Most who know me now might think I loved Lebanon from the very start, that my attachment was unshakeable, rooted in my childhood. And yes, I loved it — loved the version my father painted in late-night stories, those poetic tales he’d spin after slipping me a few bills for my Arabic lessons. My American-born Lebanese mother would look on, quiet but approving, as if to remind me that the language, the culture, was theirs, and that I was the inheritor of this beautiful burden. I memorized Ana esme Fady, w ana mn el Lebnan before anything else, words embedded as deeply in my identity as my own name.

My childhood was grown around Lebanon , a world away, yet vivid, woven from stories passed down like folklore. For years, my father’s tales could hold a magic of their own, sketching a distant land in colors bright and cinematic . But as soon as I began to think critically, that magic wore thin. I dug deeper, searching for something beyond his poetic recollections — and, yes, I found it. I just didn’t like what I saw. The stories, once so full of promise, started to feel threadbare, unable to hold up to the truth I’d uncovered. Resentment crept in. I felt the weight of belonging to a place I’d barely touched, a version of Lebanon that felt faded, passed down like an old newspaper, each retelling dulling its colors.

My father never wanted us to inherit his hate for the ugly parts of Lebanon. But the more I learned, the more I felt its grip on me. My God, as I fell down the rabbit hole of history and politics, the anger took root. I hated it. I hated my people. How could they turn heaven into hell? What gave them the right? I was only a child, but even as an adult, I still can’t find the answers. The unfairness of it all punctured me — the idea of a “home” drilled into my mind, yet always out of reach. Baba’s explanations never quite satisfied me. How could they do what they did? This new idea of Lebanon felt like a burden I hadn’t asked for, a heritage as heavy as it was distant. My anger grew as fierce as my love once was, aimed at my parents for planting this identity inside me, one that felt both too far away to reach and yet too close to escape.

When you’re a child born to the diaspora, there’s a harsh awakening. The stories you once loved take on shadows, and you begin to see yourself as part of a fractured history. A life in the diaspora is unforgiving, forcing you to carry a culture defined by survival and loss, a homeland that calls to you just as it keeps you at arm’s length. And yet, you’re expected to honor it, to love it. But where the hell was it for me all these years?

In those years of resentment, I lost myself in what you might call the most “American” ways possible — masking everything behind a polished exterior, where emotions were kept in check, and vulnerability was a distant concept. I crafted a composed, respectful façade, presenting a calm demeanor to the world while slipping in and out of identities like costumes, each one leaving its mark until the reflection in the mirror became unrecognizable. Certain truths I’ve kept buried, tucked away, left unspoken for the sake of the moshtamaa and a culture that expects us to live in quiet service to its ideals. Those years were a season of cold, each step pulling me further from warmth, further from a true self I could barely reach. Even today, I find myself still living in service to the moshtamaa. If I weren’t, wouldn’t I be writing freely?

But the moshtamaa wins, as it always does, leaving two choices: pretend and save face, or die by its sword. So, I’ve learned to play the game we all know too well, the one practiced behind closed doors. I walk the line between what’s true and what’s accepted, balancing carefully, learning to give just enough to satisfy but not enough to betray what lies beneath.

Today, though, I’m grateful to have found warmth again, in places I least expected, maybe even in Beirut itself. If this story is about anything, it’s about laying the bricks for a return that would come later — a return built on facing myself under a different sun, through eyes altered by time and distance, in a city that doesn’t promise forgiveness but offers, perhaps, the faint hope of reconciliation.

I’ve always considered myself a pessimist — or at least I was. Now, I’m less certain. Do you believe in naseeb? In the idea that everything is maktoub? Most days, I do. When the world throws me down, leaving me to stare at the pieces of something I thought I’d built, it’s almost comforting to believe this was fate, set out by some higher power. It’s a rational way to face my failures, a way to soften the edges of my shortcomings — and my friends, there have been many.

But then, there are other days, those rare days when my focus sharpens or when I’m medicated enough to believe fully in my own power. On those days, I don’t believe in naseeb. In those moments, it’s up to me to seize the world, to mold it, to make it my own. I’ve tasted the highest highs and endured the lowest lows, and somewhere between them, naseeb lingers in the background, watching, almost amused. Funny thing, this naseeb — it’s there when you’re at your worst, a crutch to lean on. But at your best, you realize it’s only ever been a story you’ve told yourself to make sense of things.

That’s why, sometimes, I hated this culture — or is it society pretending to be culture? I haven’t spent hours dissecting the difference. But I still wonder why this culture sometimes feels like a weight. Kindness can be a strength, yet sometimes it feels like a burden, a weakness we carry with pride. We’re so polite, even in revolution, so restrained, so respectful. We humanize everything. As Lebanese, we’re raised to be hospitable, welcoming, open-handed, even to those who come to tear us down.

It’s birthed into our history, in the very fabric of who we are. We’ve been the greatest lovers, poets, philosophers, building legacies out of words, hospitality, and resilience — but at what cost? We’ve shown grace to invaders, generosity to those who left scars, keeping that welcoming face, even as our eyes are gouged out . This hospitality, is it a survival instinct or our own self-inflicted wound?

We offer kindness to those who have broken us, a habit we can’t seem to shake. And that, more than anything, reminds me I’m Lebanese. Not through resilience, but in this weakness, this tendency to submit to fate and rationalize everything through comforts like naseeb. We’ll rationalize until it destroys us, convincing ourselves it’s out of our hands, that we’re powerless in the grand scheme. Maybe that’s the true Lebanese trait: cloaking our wounds in politeness, surrendering to the story we’ve been told is maktoub.

That summer in Lebanon was meant to last just two weeks — enough time to keep my mother from losing her wits and for me to avoid getting too attached. Lebanon was on the brink of a full-blown economic collapse, but somehow it was still the kind of crisis you could strangely enjoy. We Lebanese have a talent for squeezing joy out of hell itself. But the food poisoning was relentless; I swear I had more bouts of it than actual meals. Gas was scarce, leaving me stranded in the Chouf for two weeks alone. The electricity cuts, ones I’d later learn to base my schedule around, were already routine.

In 2021, Lebanon was cheap if you had U.S. dollars. “You could live like a king,” they’d say. A king, perhaps, but in a crumbling kingdom, a decomposing throne on shifting ground. That short, two-week escape stretched into five long months, a summer that took on a life of its own.

What do you do for five months in Lebanon? You put Baba’s folklore to the test. He’d told me he’d lived ahla eyam — the best days of his life — there, so I set out to see if his glory days held up, with my own modern twist, of course. The summer had to commence with the usual formalities: endless relatives streaming in daily (we were foolish to think two weeks would ever be enough), a parade of faces remarking on how much I’d grown, offering life advice I’d never follow, cursing the country I was born in, and reminding me, insistently, that I was Lebanese. Looking back, I wish I could’ve handed them that reminder with the same smug tone they’d given me. They needed to hear it, not me — after all, they weren’t the ones constantly reminded of where they came from. And it showed.

Then, finally, the real summer began: the clubbing, the drinking until I felt out of body, the strange sensuality of Beirut’s nights washing over me. Chain-smoking until my lungs felt scorched, wild kisses with strangers whose names I’d forget, tasting the city on every tongue. By dawn, I’d come home smelling like a chimney, my mother half-wrinkling her nose, half-smiling.My mother, first experienced Lebanon in the aftermath of the civil war, under Syrian occupation. Her homecoming was to a Lebanon in ruins, where she endured nasty, sexual remarks from Syrian soldiers on the streets — a Lebanon that had barely survived yet clung to the hope of reconstruction. For her, the country had weathered war, and through its scars, she could still see its beauty.

I am as doe-eyed as she was, hopeful for Lebanon’s rebirth. Yet, it saddens me to think of her early hopes — built on resilience but weighed down by reality. My mother loved the Lebanon I experienced that summer, perhaps even envied it. Watching me live it seemed to offer her a glimpse of the dream she’d never fully held. But her Lebanon never stood a chance, whether from the war or the expectations placed on her as a Lebanese woman raised in the diaspora.

It’s impossible to put into words how much my mother sacrificed to raise her children as Lebanese. She learned Arabic alongside us, prepared the traditional foods that connected us to our roots, and carried the weight of social expectations with grace, kindness, and love. If my father gave us Lebanon, my mother, in countless ways, taught us what it meant to be Lebanese, especially within the diaspora. For this, she’s rarely received the credit she deserves.

The summer grew lonely fast, and with time on my hands that I barely knew how to use, where better to spend it — or rather, who better to spend it on — than the faces on dating apps? I downloaded them all, swiping through profiles like browsing a gallery. I skipped anyone listing philosophy or psychology as interests — the very subjects I read into alone but had no desire to mix with summer flings. A philosopher would kill my buzz, and a psych enthusiast? Probably too eager to “read” me and fail.

I’ve never bought into zodiac signs, thinking we mold ourselves into those traits if we let them define us. As a Cancer, I’d rather avoid that “complicated” stereotype. And yet, you, my Beiruti lover, slipped through the cracks. There were plenty before you, and to be clear, I am no sex symbol — quite the opposite, really. But I have a certain charm, a mask I wear well, though, it unravels fast when the right string is pulled. I have a bad habit of being too deep for those who don’t care, and maybe too blunt for those who do.

This wasn’t supposed to be a journey of depth, I remind you, but I made an exception. After all, I was the ajnabi, the foreigner with broken Arabic, overly polite, saying please and thank you into every sentence, careful not to get too personal. The one who always leaves.

In a world where everything is instantly accessible, connections too often die before they’ve had the chance to truly live. A few minutes on an app, both revolutionary and tragic, now seem enough to define intimacy. But then again, everyone before you faded into irrelevance; after you, they simply ceased to matter.

You appeared unexpectedly in my swipes. Looking back, it almost disappoints me that it began there, as if it’s an insult to everything that came after. Whatever this was, it broke every boundary of digital connection, beyond anything an algorithm could contain. You shattered every rule, challenged each line I’d carefully drawn to keep people out. I may never write like the legends, but I would later love you with the urgency of those who inspired them.

Have I sold you the groundwork for a coming-of-age love story? God, I hope not. Those stories aren’t written for people like us, and they’re certainly not meant for places like Beirut. I won’t say if we broke that rule, but if we did, it was a story lived in the soul, never meant to be captured for the eyes- certainly not yours.

The dating app was our first encounter, our first in-person meeting the second — both unfolding in a single, impulsive night. It was the only time I allowed myself to be that spontaneous, that open. For once, I let go of who I thought I should be; I just let myself be.

I wish I could reach back, shake that past self, urge them to stay present, to see things as they truly were. Over the past two years, I’ve rewritten this story more times than I’d like to admit, asking myself: What was it about you that’s so hard to release? What keeps me searching for traces of you in others, only to come up emptier than you left me? The answer should enrage me, but instead, it humbles me. I could have cast you as the villain, and in many ways, you were. You shaped so much of who I would become: how I’d love, the person I’d grow into. And yet, here I am, sparing you, as if you were a debt I owed for sins from a forgotten life.

You were never the villain; we were just kids, and all summers start and end in Beirut.

That night replays in my mind like a vinyl on loop, the needle pressing down, cutting through the haze of a post-pandemic fog. I wasn’t nervous, and neither were you. In Beirut, no one knew me yet. Does that sound pretentious? Maybe so, but that probably means you don’t know Beirut. I didn’t — not then, not until a year after that summer. But I learned quickly: in Beirut, everyone knows everyone. It’s a city stitched together by connections, faces you know by name, names you know by rumor. That’s what makes it beautiful and, just as often, unforgiving.

Did we have dinner? I can’t remember. But I remember the abandoned home we tried to climb — somewhere in Gemmayze, or Mar Mikhael, maybe Sodeco. I was hesitant, still too green to embrace the thrill of Lebanese lawlessness. But you, with that maddening confidence, climbed as if you belonged there, as if the city, its people, and even its emptiness were yours to claim. You wore that boldness well, like armor, until, like all armor, it eventually cracked.

We ended up on a bench in Mar Mikhael, talking into the night. I let years of pent-up anger spill out, pouring words over you like gasoline, almost hoping you’d catch fire. Was I that fragile, that quick to unload it all? You, though, you kept your calm, saying so much with so few words, holding back just enough to keep yourself safe. I’d learn to play that game eventually, but never as well as you.

That night, we seemed to live a hundred lives in a few hours, time expanding until it felt like it might never end. But, of course, it did. Something shifted in me as it drew to a close, like a new wire connecting deep in my mind, a change I’ve carried ever since. It ended with a kiss, messy and unapologetic, pressed against the walls of Mar Mikhael under a blue streetlight, your confidence outbidding mine, as if we were two revolutionaries daring the world. A soldier watched us, but we didn’t care.

Beirut was a different time then. The soldier couldn’t even feed his kids, let alone care if two strangers kissed in the street. Beirut today, the soldier beats you just so he can feed his kids — and somehow, you understand.

I’ve written about this too many times, penned it as if it were my will and the country its witness.

I‘ve only given you the beginning, and though the story doesn’t end here, for you, it must. Perhaps I haven’t left you fulfilled; Beirut has that way about it — a love in extremes, a city defined by the unfinished, and inhabited by those merely passing through. That summer felt endless, with stories I’ll never put to paper. I’ve come up with countless reasons why all summers must end in Beirut, but in the end, they’re only theories. You’ve seen my contradictions laid bare. Whitman was allowed his contradictions, so why not me? Am I Whitman? No, not in this life, and not in the next. But I’ll contradict, freely.

In the end, there will always be three sides to this story — yours, mine, and the truth.

What I know to be true is this: you shook me in ways I never expected, and here I am, writing about a time that perhaps should have been left unwritten, simply lived. Maybe it was my American politeness, or my Lebanese hospitality, that softened each retelling, but no matter who you are now, you will always be my Beirut.

The summer of 2021 has never returned, yet it left me with more than I bargained for — lessons about life, about myself, about the person I longed to be and what I must never become.

You offered me revolution but gave me meghli ice cream, and I forgive you.

A year later, I moved to Lebanon, learning to love Beirut as you once taught me to , holding it like a secret, forgiving its sins, and embracing it as if I were your sacrifice to the city. If that’s what I was, then I’ll honor it. Beirut always knows better.

I promised myself not to search for you when I returned, not to wish for you in the eyes of strangers. But when I broke that promise, every face fell short — not because of them, but because of us…

My dear, this city without you is like nurturing a lone flower in one hand while severing its roots with the other.

#arab #lebanon #beirut #coming of age

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 2 years ago

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Consequences | Three

Word Count: 5.7k~ | Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, dark, medieval-canon sexism, heavy dub-con/noncon, DD:DNE, mean Aemond, manipulation, abusing power, gore, blood, violence, major angst, oral (m receiving), fingering, oral sex (f receiving), Aemond being a possessive horny weirdo with a power complex, thigh riding, virginity loss, p in v, spit kink, religious guilt

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A/N: This was a journey to write. Warnings highlighted, fgs READ THEM

Just like her heart, the clouds had descended over King’s Landing, covering the sky with a thick blanket of grey.

Sometimes in her quiet moments inside his chambers, she would stare out at the outside, watching the various Lord and Ladies go about their day, wondering what their lives were like as opposed to her own.

These days, especially since Prince Aemond had taken it upon himself to torture her emotionally more regularly, as well as engaging in acts unbefitting of an unmarried man and woman, the little maidservant was more melancholic than ever. A heavy weight swayed in her chest like a pendulum, striking back and forth against her ribs as if her heart were so weighed down with despair, that it ticked out of rhythm.

The other maidservants, with the exception of a select few, whispered behind her back. The common words being ‘whore’, ‘slut’ and all the other denominations of the slurs. She wondered if they knew, could see it on her face. Had she changed in the many weeks since starting her employment? Perhaps it was the way her words had little feeling behind them now, and she had always been shy and quiet, but this was beyond shyness. With everyday she spent inside Aemond’s chambers, hair down from their confines and serving him with her mouth and various other ways, a little piece of her was taken. And she feared that if it continued, there may be nothing left.

That morning, she sent the neighbour the additional copper coins she’d requested, albeit begrudgingly, fearing that the next letter would just be asking for more. Simply because she could.

She missed her brother and sister. She wanted to go home. Be a child again. Perhaps meet a man and talk idly and innocently about marriage, and where to put their home, how many children they would have together.

The dream was a nice one. But the more time she spent within the stone walls of the Keep, the more blurry and further away it seemed to become. It was like being in a small room, surrounded by people, and they are all too close, and the music just seems to get louder and louder. Suffocating. Can’t breathe. No room to even expand your chest just a little. It was like being crushed.

This is what she thought about as Aemond’s hand curled into her hair at the root and tugged harshly, using his leverage there to fuck himself into her mouth, imagining it was her tight little cunny instead. The only sounds he emitted were the occasional grunt and ‘fuck’ when he felt himself getting close. She had learned by now that the best way of making it more bearable was to relax her mouth, and just allow him to guide the pace himself.

“Fuck” he hissed as he fucked her mouth faster, chasing his climax that he was just on the precipice of. She shut her eyes, expecting the flood of warm spend to hit the back of her throat. And a few moments later it came and he’d pressed his hips hard against her lips, feeling his cock twitch within as he came. She inhaled through her nose, as he’d told her to do the first time and she could smell the heady, lusty scent of his flesh and the smattering of hair tickled her face when he’d pressed flush against her.

He pulled his softening cock out her mouth slowly and used his thumb to wipe the tear away from her cheek, before softly swatting her cheek, almost in praise. It was not the emotions inside that made her tearful, it was the force of which he used her that made them fall, and how hard his member hit the back of her throat.

Aemond sighed contently, his hand curling around her throat but not squeezing, he just wanted to feel her swallow. Once she did, he swatted her cheek softly again. It was almost affectionate.

Almost.

In the corner of her eye, she heard Aemond sighing as he pulled his breeches back over his hips. She did not spare him a glance as he did and slowly began braiding her hair once again to go about her daily duties, otherwise people would talk.

Whore.

Slut.

She could still feel his spend on her mouth, the residue it left behind, the saltiness and muskiness of it. It smelled of sex and arousal, making the room feel hotter than it actually was. Her jaw ached from having Aemond’s member inside her mouth all morning. He’d been relentless in his desire to constantly be seated within her mouth, but she was at least thankful it was only that, and not another part of her.

Although she knew it was only a matter of time before he would want that as well.

“Leave” he said simply. And once she had her braids all set she obeyed without another word, not meeting his eye. She used her fingers to wipe the outline of her mouth, trying to get rid of the taste of his spend that lingered there.

The maidservants were beside themselves, busy with preparing for the arrival of Princess Rhaenyra, her husband Prince Daemon as well as her small army of children. Hedi was instructing the various staff to their stations, ever the leader. Freiya briefly made eye-contact with the little maidservant, but her expression was different. That usual playfulness in her young face was gone, replaced with a look that wrinkled with judgement. It filled her heart with dread that someone she thought could be a friend was now judging her.

Whore.

Slut.

“You are on wine duty tonight” Hedi said with a smile, her eyes dragging both concerned and suspiciously over her face. Since Hedi had found her crying in the hallway a few nights ago, she’d been overly-attentive, so much so that it was difficult sometimes to avoid her.

“I am to attend to the table?” she asks nervously. Hedi nodded,

“Shortage of staff, my lovely. I know it will be nerve-wracking but I have every faith in you” Hedi gives an encouraging smile in response. But the smile isn’t returned. Instead she is to imagine what it will be like to see him. Outside his chambers. It almost makes her want to vomit.

The next few hours are a blur of preparations for the large table for supper, at the request of King Viserys. Everyone felt it, the tension in the air. With the arrival of Princess Rhaenyra came the conflict of the past, and no doubt there would be plenty of heated words exchanged this evening.

She’d worked to get a few barrels of wine from the cellar to the main floor, filling various decanters with the bitter, red liquid in preparation of their supper. Her arms were tired from bringing up the barrels, sleeves turned up, but she quickly bought them back down to appear presentable once she heard the shuffled footsteps of multiple figures entering the main hall.

She steadied her breath, making sure she looked presentable and with two decanters of wine in her hand, albeit shaking, she came out to the main hall. The table was laid with place settings, goblets, plates and candles for lighting. If not for the latter, it would be terribly dark, and it all felt extremely close, uncomfortably so.

She placed one at the side of the room, going around the table with the other to fill up the goblets. At the moment, only half of the seats were filled and she noted that Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra were already seated. And the two blonde Princes were talking idly with one another on one side. She dared not look up, scared that if she did, he would already be looking at her. Perhaps he’d be confused that she was here. Or perhaps he was thinking of all the things he might do.

For a moment, Aegon followed Aemond’s line of sight. She floated around, filling the goblets with wine like a ghost, undetected, with the exception of the two Princes. Aemond gave Aegon a look that she did not see.

When the other figures began to sit down in their spots, she walked quickly to her station, in the opposite direction to Aemond luckily and stood, trying to calm her breath, eyes glued to the floor. Her curiosity could not be contained when the rest of the family, such as Prince Daemon, Prince Jacaerys and Lucerys entered and her eyes dragged up, having never seen them before. Landing lastly on Aemond, who was already deeply staring at her with such a look in his eye that it stole her breath.

He looked stressed, uncomfortable but most of all, angry.

She watched as his eye flit from her to the curly-haired brunet at the other end of the table, the muscle in his jaw clenching. The entire evening was stressful and luckily with the tension of the room, she was not called upon very often to refill their goblets, so she simply stood, eyes downcast and pretended she wasn’t listening.

Eventually though, as the fight broke out, she was ushered out of the room by Hedi, who had come out knowing she was attending to the main feast. The little maidservant gave Aemond a brief, afraid look, one he met with his own eye, with a level of disdain as Prince Daemon approached to break up the tension. Her heart had shuddered at the look he gave her. As if he’d singled her out, felt all the rage and anger in his body build up, wanting to unleash it on someone. Someone who didn’t matter.

Her.

“Seven Hells, I knew something would happen but never this” Hedi huffed as she gathered all the maidservants, “back to your normal duties, I shall find you all if I need you”

She couldn’t possibly have said how much time had passed since the feast. But what she knew was that she felt a certain dread inside, anticipating something. She didn’t shake, or tremble, but she had known she was afraid. Of what, there was no need to say out loud. So instead of focussing too much on it, she busies herself with various tasks, such as lighting all the candles in the now dark chambers. Her hair, as per his request, fell over her shoulders in waves, swaying softly in the idle draught.

Aemond had fire in his blood during the entire walk back to his chambers, fists clenched in pure rage. He remembered the way that little bastard had laughed at him. Remembered the way the other bastard had struck his face, albeit with little effect, but it had still irked him that he’d touched him in any case. And most of all, he’d remembered the look Daemon had given him. How the Rogue Prince had stared him down, an amused look on his face. How Aemond had been forced to stand down.

He felt humiliated. Powerless. Like that night so many years ago all over again.

He never wanted to feel like that again, but he did.

The doors to his chambers opened so quietly and shut so softly, she didn’t even realise he had entered. He stood at the door, watching as she lit the rest of the candles, tiptoed on a stool.

It was only when Aemond began to unbuckle his doublet that the clinking of silver urged her to turn around. She scrambled to her feet, curtsied and straightened her back.

“You grace” she said softly.

They met eyes, his were still as they raked over her and hers were darting across his face, trying to figure out what he might be thinking. Usually, he would be pensive, but there would be clear anger on his face and in his body language. But this night, where she had seen him visibly distressed at the feast, he was eerily calm, movements precise as all his buckles had been undone. And she wasn’t sure which side of him she preferred. She knew what to expect before, but now, she couldn’t predict what he might do.

He let his arms fall when his doublet was unbuckled, still looking at her. He motioned with his head for her to come to him. To undress him.

She had never done that before. He had always been clothed, or at least partly so. She swallowed nervously, but let her small steps go to him, small hands smoothing under the leather doublet to shuck it from his shoulders. The only thing underneath was the cotton undershirt, and through it, she could feel his skin, how warm it was. It was as if she was discovering for the first time that, as much of royalty he was, as much a Targaryen, a dragon, he was a human. A living thing that lived and breathed. Somehow her heart beat just that bit faster.

Folding the doublet over the head of a chair, she moved with scattered breath to unlace his breeches. Aemond felt himself become aroused merely at the thought of her hands on him, but his hand came to hers to push them away.

It was clear he'd changed his mind and did not want her to undress him after all. Perhaps the motions were too intimate. Foreign.

“Wine” he instructed simply.

She was more than happy to oblige instead of undressing him completely. So she turned around and filled a goblet of wine, the only sound in the chambers was the rush of wine to the cup and the muffled sound of clothing being dropped to the floor, and then the soft thump of a mattress.

When she turned back, filled goblet in hand, Aemond had rid himself of his breeches and undershirt, now entirely bare as he sat on the end of his bed. Even his eyepatch was off. Aemond wordlessly outstretched his hand to take the goblet and finished the bitter, red liquid within in a single gulp, licking the remnants of his lips a moment after, his eye fixed on her.

Her eyes were downcast, tracing the patterns of the floor. Of course, she had seen his most intimate areas, he had done the most intimate things to her. But seeing him completely naked was something else entirely and she felt her entire body become hot, uncomfortably so. Aemond’s jaw twitched in annoyance, dropping the silver goblet to the floor which made a shrill noise that made her jump.

“Look at me”

His eye was brimmed with fury. And it terrified her. He was so calm.

“Are you frightened of me” he asks coldly.

Her hands clasp around one another tightly.

“No, your grace” she says, her voice small, “Rather, I am afraid of what you will do to me”

Her honesty shocks both of them equally and she internally scolds herself that the words came tumbling from her mouth as quickly and thoughtlessly as they did. Perhaps she should not have said it. He did say before that he 'would have her fear if he could have nothing else'; she'd had nightmares about those words since.

Aemond stays eerily still. Processing her response.

"Take off your dress"

Her nerves were struck, and her eyes that were previously fixed on his were still there. Her lips parted in shock. She had never been bare before anyone before, much less before a man. Before a prince.

He could see her clasp her hands tightly, fingernails digging into her skin.

She considered saying no. For a split second.

But then she'd remembered what he said.

'Do you like this job, sweet girl. You will do as I say if you wish to keep it'

How he'd threatened to let her go. What would happen if she did say no.

Slowly her hands came to her apron, pulling the string and letting the fabric pool at her front. Aemond's eye watched intently, as if it were a show he had to be quiet for. Her apron folded on a chair, she took a breath and began unbuttoning from her collar, each one that came showed more and more of her chest, smooth and flushed pink with embarrassment.

Pretending to be preoccupied with her undress, she doesn't want to look up, but her eyes catch the smattering of hair that leads down to his hips, where she sees his slow, languid pumps of his cock. The angry head of his cock poking through his fingers with every slow thrust of his fist, a small, breathy sigh escapes him at the contact he's granted himself.

She steels her nerves and opens the front of her dress, pulling the open collar over her shoulders. Once the fabric is over the curve, she lightly lets go and the fabric falls to the floor, at her feet, the slight chill of his chambers hitting her now naked body. Her nipples perk up hard from both the temperature and the slight friction of her dress.

Aemond stops his movements as soon as the dress wafts against the floor, his eye going from her neck to her feet and back again, settling on her face. So much time passes that she wonders if he will say anything else at all and wonders if there's something wrong with how she looks.

Embarrassed, she looks down, crossing one arm across her chest, trying to hide herself. Aemond half sits up, pulling her harshly by her arm towards him and snatching it away from her.

"Do not hide yourself from me"

She swallows nervously at the way he speaks to her, the way his voice is lower now. It was as if he could command her solely with the tone of it. He could feel her trembling slightly, but his hand remained around her tight, no doubt leaving a mark. Touching her now, her bare form right in front of him completely for the taking, he can feel himself painfully hard. She is his, completely and entirely his.

He loves that stupid, doe-eyed expression she gets on her face whenever he’s making her do something. Loves the way her lips part, as if she’s going to complain or tell him to stop, but knows she has no authority to do it. He is much larger, stronger than her. What could she possibly do to shake him up.

Nothing.

He pulls her to his lap, letting her legs straddle his broad, muscled thigh, his breath tickling her bare breasts, making the skin around her nipples erupt with gooseflesh. He can feel the warmth of her cunt against his skin, even though there is no contact. She’d be so warm around him. Tight. His mind almost doesn’t work thinking about it. What will happen once he’s inside her. Would it feel like the clearest, purest paradise? Or would it spur on the darkest parts of him, pulling him back into that deep, ancient place that men go to when they see blood for the first time?

“Bring yourself to peak”

Her chest is tight.

Say no.

Tell him no.

He pulls her hips down, so that she sits on his thigh and he outright groans at the feeling of her warmth on him, wet and hot. His thumbs press almost painfully into her hip bones, shuffling her back and forth. Again…and again…

Say no.

She can’t bring herself to utter the words, even though his touch is bruising and the pain is there, the pleasure of her bundle of nerves rutting against his thigh is starting to cloud it.

This is wrong.

But who is she to say no.

She is nobody.

History would not remember her.

Just try and enjoy it.

Her breaths became more hurried the longer he guided her against his leg and she hated the fact it gave her pleasure, shooting warm sparks inside her belly at the friction. One of his hands comes to her front, pressing against her clit to give additional pressure, drawing lazy circles with the aid of her slick, which somewhat betrayed how she felt inside.

“That’s it…” he whispered, his face close to her breasts.

Aemond leaned forward, knowing that now she would not stop and his other hand massaged her breasts in his palm, moulding the flesh harshly. They felt better than he’d imagined they would, a perfect fit for his hold. And he’d heard the way her breath hitched when he brushed over her rosy bud, still rutting her cunt against his thigh like a bitch in heat. It almost made him laugh. His sweet girl, fucking herself on his leg like a whore.

He hummed as his tongue came to massage her other nipple, giving it the attention he felt it deserved, the vibrations rumbling in her chest. He sucked and grazed his teeth against it, and she whimpered, in pain or pleasure he didn’t care much.

“Touch me, sweet girl” he ordered, bringing her hand to his erection standing proud against his taut stomach. Her small hand wrapped around him but could barely encircle it, stroking his length in tandem with the fucking of herself against his leg, in the same languid rhythm. He kissed her breasts, thinking he could live in this moment forever with them against his face. He groaned against her as her hands squeezed the tip every time she thrust her hand against his cock, focussing his pleasure on that sensitive spot.

He could feel her legs trembling and the warmth of her slick against his leg. She was close and he knew it. He wanted her to peak at least once before he laid claim to her. Dragging her nipple through his teeth as he pulled back, she kept her pace stroking his cock and almost outright moaned when he moved his leg to assist the faster rhythm.

“Give it to me” he whispered to her.

He reached up and wrapped his fingers around her neck, not applying pressure to the front as such, but rather to the sides to keep her there. Against her will, she lets out a quiet moan at the constriction, the coil in her belly tightening unbearably so. And it only takes one squeeze, one movement of his leg against her for her to completely fall apart. Her limbs briefly go numb, warmth flooding them a moment later, her lips parted in a silent scream as her climax completely obliterates her. He keeps the pace with his leg the entire time, prolonging the soft tingle of arousal.

Aemond lets his grip go ever so slightly, hearing the way she sucks in a breath, clarity engulfing her mind once again. Her breasts move softly with the force of her breathing, her heart beating quickly and he admires her like this for a moment, smirking and swatting her cheek softly, praising her.

“Good girl” he coos.

She barely has time to open her eyes to look at him, to process it, before he throws her to the mattress. The sheets are soft against her front, softer than any bedsheets she’s ever slept on, but there’s not a moment to appreciate it when she feels Aemond’s hand thread through her hair at her nape, dragging to her crown to grip. She gasps as he yanks her hair up, his other hand grabbing her face tightly, forcing her mouth open.

“You are mine. Understood?” he growls lowly in her ear, setting her survival instincts on edge.

She nods, unable to steel herself to say no. Not when he has her like this, his broad body looming over her back, fingers grabbing her harshly. His words right now upset her more than they should.

She is his.

But he will never be hers.

She has no right to that and never will.

“Open” he grips her jaw tighter and when she obeys, eyes softly shut, still recovering from the warmth of her peak, she feels his warm saliva land on her tongue. It sends a bolt of humiliation through her, one that settles in between her legs now that she can feel his hardness against her backside, hot and heavy. She mewls at the feeling, which makes him smirk.

“Mine”

His hand keeps hold of her hair, shoving the side of her face into the sheets as his other trails down her spine, tracing the feminine dimples at the top of her buttocks, perfect for his thumbs to rest in once he fucks her. He thinks she looks so perfect, small against him, but he would never tell her that. She whimpers in something akin to pain as he grips her buttock hard, smirking as he smacks it, leaving a pink mark behind. He’d love to mark her. Every single fucking bit of her. Maiden or not. He didn’t seem to care.

“Be a good girl and stay still for me”

She feels the hot whips of panic at her neck when Aemond knees her legs apart and he rests between them, even more so when he runs the head of his cock through her folds, gathering the wetness there. The room smells of sex already and his hand tightens in her hair.

This is it, she thinks.

And she can’t help but begin to cry, her tears wetten the sheets and a quiet sob muffled into the fabric. How would she find a husband now…now she had been tainted. And that was the only thing on her mind.

Aemond pushes the head of his cock inside her, the head disappearing between her folds and moaning outright at the immediate tightness as she tenses around him at the foreign feeling, trying to pull her hips away. It hurts too much. It stings. But it doesn’t seem like he cares.

“Fuck…” Aemond hisses, ever-so-slightly pushing further in but pausing when he hears her quiet whimpering, “Be quiet”

His voice is forceful, deep, primal. Like if she didn’t obey, he might just snap.

Her hands fist the bedsheets, face hot as well as her tears. She holds so much in that it’s borderline painful to do just that. He hadn’t made her peak before to make it easier for her. He’d done it to make it easier for him. So she would complain less.

One hand on her hip and gripping tightly, he pushes all the way in, until he can no longer, his chest flush with her skin. He tips his head back at the feeling of her cunt squeezing him so tightly, so much so he felt as if he could climax right there and then, the head of his cock kissing her cervix. He did not look up to her face as he began moving his hips almost instantly, sliding all the way out of her, only to slam back inside. All she gave was one quiet whimper.

It was a strange feeling, like no other, to be filled like this. She felt every bit of his member, the veins, the shape of him inside and even his warm stones hitting her when he thrusted quickly. The sounds of the room were quiet, only the fire and the sound of hot, moist flesh hitting again and again.

She felt like she disappeared somewhat, the only movement was his hips against her backside and thus her body with it. There was no pleasure tightening in her gut. All of this…was for his own means.

“Those fucking bastards…laughing at me-fuck” he hissed, thrusting into her tight, hot cunt, the blood of her maidenhead streaking his length sent a jolt of excitement up his spine, “not a fucking boy anymore-fucking cunts” he punctuated this words with a particularly hard thrust, one he knew would hurt.

He pulled her head up slightly by her hair, seeing her tear-stained face.

“Tell me who I am” he hissed, bringing her back to his chest, moving his hand to the front of her neck. And whereas previously he had been somewhat soft, this time he squeezed tightly, her breathy moan becoming caught in the in-between.

“Pr-ince Aem-ond” she replied, struggling against the harsh grip of his fingers on her neck, coupled with his devastating thrusts up into her, which never let up their pace.

He shook her briefly, “I am Aemond fucking Targaryen, you little cunt”

He was like a man possessed. Like not a man at all.

Inside, there was deep rooted humiliation. A search for some control that Aemond did not have. He wanted it. Gods he wanted it so badly. And if this is what it took to have it. So be it.

He didn’t understand it. This was meant to be an outlet, but he was just becoming angrier and angrier. Pushing away those thoughts meant they rounded back even faster and harder and he thought that perhaps the harder he fucked the little maidservant, the easier it would be to push him down.

The old version of him.

The scared, maimed child. Eye aching in agony.

“Aemond Targaryen…” he grunted as he continued to pound his cock into her, savouring the way her sex sounded and the way he slick was wetting his pubic bone.

He flipped her over, finally being able to see her face. Her cheeks were pink and glistening from her tears, her chest is dotted with flushed skin from the hot air in the room. Her eyes were wet and it should have done something to him, should have told him that this was wrong. But it didn’t.

He hooked his hands under her thighs and pulled her towards him, plunging mercilessly back inside with a strangled moan. He loved the way her walls quivered around him, squeezing him. And his hands went to the inside of her thighs, smiling at seeing the faintest amount of blood mixed with her essence. His thumb smeared the rich liquid over her skin, sinking into the lines of his fingers.

His pure little maidservant.

All his.

Ruined for anyone else.

"You should be fucking grateful, whining fucking peasant" he spat, delivering another harsh thrust which made her half cry and half moan out. He loved seeing her head tipped back, holding back how she really felt. He knew he made her feel good. The little slut just didn't want to admit it.

"I know you like this. Fucking cock tease" he leans down right to her face, his sapphire eye blazing with mockery and a sick sense of fulfillment, "Know you love it when your Prince fucks you"

He squeezed her breast painfully, making her crack her bleary eyes open to look at him.

Should she be grateful?

For this?

It didn't feel like it.

He dragged her legs up onto his knees, hitting a new spot inside, a rough patch he'd found with his fingers last time. If it's possible, she squeezes around him tighter, a soft moan tumbling out her mouth.

"You were made for me to fuck you…sweet girl…all mine…" he said it almost to himself, bullying the newly found rough patch, the one that made that coil within tighten painfully.

"You're going to fucking take my seed, understood…?" he asks breathlessly, feeling his own climax approach quickly. Too fast for his liking.

"No…please…" she whimpered softly, pushing against his chest weakly. But the prince simply grinned and pushed her arms away, pinning them down with one of his hands.

"Shut up and fucking take it"

His other hand came to her clit, rubbing furiously, insistent on making her peak at the same time as him and her face contorted in painful pleasure. It was all too much. She could feel how ruined she was. How ruined she would be. The mind was at odds with itself. There was guilt but also pleasure.

Aemond leaned down, his head in the crook of her neck, hips slapping against hers sloppily. He whispered and she was sure she wasn't meant to hear it. But she did.

"Come on, give it to me-please-I fucking need this" he whispered, so quietly. It was like he was pleading. And for a moment the tone of it caught her off guard, it was so soft and gentle sounding.

His finger pressed harshly, speed ever increasing and she felt her body spasm and tremble around him. He whispered praises into her ear that she was meant to hear. All while his cock relentlessly punished her still, rising out her climax with more of the delicious drag of his cock against her sensitive walls.

It cannot be.

She thought she heard the voice inside her head. Had it been the Mother? Her mother? Or had it been her thoughts? Had she said it out loud?

She felt her resolve, her grasp on herself, slipping away.

Aemond came with a shuddered groan, a moan that came in waves of breath against her neck, as if he'd never done anything so exerting in his life. She stayed utterly still, feeling the warmth of his seed paint her walls.

No…she thought.

It cannot be.

There was that voice again. It wasn't hers.

Silent tears began to roll down her face as Aemond remained there, seated within her, keeping his seed in her. His body was steady on his elbows, his hair tickling her hot, sweaty skin.

She couldn't help but whimper as he rose in one swift motion and pulled himself out of her, standing by the end of the bed and watching as his spend leaked out of her, pulling his breeches back over his softening cock.

She swallowed the lump in her throat as she also felt it, felt the wetness of the sheets beneath her, staring up at the canopy. The room filled with silence.

Aemond pulled his doublet back on hastily, making for the door.

"Be gone when I get back" he ordered, his tone voice of passion of any kind. But she could tell he was still out of breath. He was gone a second later.

She didn't reply. Couldn't.

She wondered where he'd be going so late. He'd never been the one to leave. He'd always ordered her to. But it seemed like she was unable to move.

It felt empty, inside.

Tomorrow she planned to go to the Sept, to pray. To hope.

"Forgive me…" she whispered.

Although she did not know who she was asking.

There was nobody but the voice, which sounded so close as if it were inside her ear.

It cannot be.

General Aemond Taglist: @risefallrise @valeskafics

Consequences Taglist: @iiamthehybrid @manitskatrina @dahlias-and-marigolds @okfashionista @the-common-cowgirl @toodlesxcuddles @darkenchantress @magnificentdelusionr @tinykryptonitewerewolf @tssf-imagines @mandiiblanche @xdeath-soulx @daemonlover @iiamthehybrid @thedamewithabook @hiatuswhore @apollonshootafar @ladymarg0t @hopeless-addiction-love @leeleebabe101 @babyblue711 @croatianprincess @what-is-your-wish @55gyi53vtnquwziq5 @garnetbutterflysblog @queenmizuki

*Bold means I couldn’t tag, if I can't tag you you can always turn on notifications for when I post. DM me if you wanna be removed besties

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valkyriexo · 6 months ago

Text

Invasion of Privacy | Ep. 7 -Truth or Dare

ᑉ³SYNOPSIS; In the dazzling world of fame, you have it all—a beautiful home, devoted fans, and Chan, the love of your life. But when cryptic messages start arriving, the line between adoration and obsession blurs. With each note, you feel increasingly unsafe. Now, you're on a dangerous journey to uncover the truth before it's too late.

ᑉ³PAIRING; Chan x Idol! reader. Ft. Stray Kids

ᑉ³GENRE; Smau, FF , Angst, Hurt, Comfort, mystery

ᑉ³GENERAL WARNINGS ;Violence, Sasaeng (Stalker). Mentions of a knife, mentions of blood, Home invasion, cursing, Kissing, Pain, death, Implied female reader, Certain episodes may be Suggestive MDNI ᑉ³EPISODE WARNINGS : dirty talk, swearing, use of ' 'whore', 'Good girl' , 'Slut', unprotected P in V, teasing, fingering , oral ( f. receiving), begging, edging, Aftercare, Smut. SMUTTTY SMUT, minors do NOT interact. Smut is in between the -- if you wish to skip.

EPISODE WORD COUNT; 5.6k

AUTHOR'S NOTE ; 1 more episodes left! Who's your guess?

If you enjoyed this episode, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Whether it's through comments, reblogs, or sending an ask, your feedback means the world to me. Remember, none of this is real. It is a story. It is fiction. You can choose not to read it if it will make you uncomfortable.

Master Post | Teaser | Suspect Cards

The night had been restless, filled with uneasy dreams and fragmented thoughts. You woke with a start, the early morning light filtering through the curtains. Sitting up slowly, you rubbed your eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep as you considered your options.

Chan was gone, that much was true. The dorm room felt emptier without his presence, the air tinged with the echoes of your heated argument from the night before. Staying here alone felt daunting, but the idea of returning home filled you with a different kind of dread.

Glancing at your phone, half-expecting a message from him, there was nothing. The silence between you was loud, laden with unresolved emotions. Sighing softly, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and stood up.

The dorm was quiet, the usual sounds of morning routines absent. It was as if time had slowed down, allowing the weight of recent events to settle in.

Deciding to freshen up, you made your way to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face. The coolness was refreshing, a brief respite from the turmoil swirling inside you. Staring at your reflection, you wondered how everything had spiraled so quickly. The award, the mysterious gifts, the confessions, and the loss—all seemed like an overwhelming blur.

All the events were reminders that trust was a luxury you couldn't afford right now.

After a quick shower and change of clothes, you decided to head out, feeling slightly more composed. Standing in the doorway, hesitating before locking up, your phone buzzed softly in your hand. It was a message from Aera, your assistant, whose concern warmed your heart amidst the chaos.

"Hey, how are you doing? Do you need anything done today?" Her message read.

You smiled faintly at her concern, typing out a quick reply. "I'm okay. I will let you know if anything comes up."

Leaving the dorm behind, you stepped out into the crisp morning air, the city awakening around you. People hurried past, lost in their own worlds, unaware of the turmoil churning inside you. You walked aimlessly for a while, seeking solace in the familiar streets of Seoul.

Seungmin remained in the hospital, his condition stable but unconscious.

As you walked through the bustling streets of Seoul, you found yourself drawn towards the hospital where he lay, a silent figure in a sterile room.

Arriving at the hospital, you navigated the familiar halls with a heavy heart. Nurses bustled about, doctors exchanged quiet words, and families sat in waiting rooms, their faces etched with concern. The atmosphere was one of subdued tension, a stark contrast to the vibrant city outside.

Finding Seungmin's room, you paused at the doorway, hesitating before stepping inside. His pale form lay still on the hospital bed, machines softly beeping in the background. The sight of him like this, so vulnerable and fragile, brought a lump to your throat.

Pulling up a chair beside his bed, you took his hand gently in yours. It felt warm, reassuring in its familiarity. Memories of happier times flooded your mind – his infectious laughter, his unwavering support during difficult moments, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

"You're going to be okay," you whispered softly, more to reassure yourself than anything else.

As hours passed in the hospital room, you remained by Seungmin's side, lost in your thoughts. Aera's messages occasionally buzzed in your pocket, but you couldn't bring yourself to reply just yet.

The hospital had become a refuge of sorts, a place where time seemed suspended, allowing you to confront the whirlwind of emotions inside you.

Lost in your contemplation, a familiar voice broke through the quiet. Minho, stood in the doorway, his expression a mix of concern and reassurance.

"Hey," he said softly, stepping inside. "How are you holding up?"

You looked up, grateful for his presence but feeling a wave of awkwardness wash over you. Minho had always been a good friend, someone you could rely on, but the recent events had left everything feeling strained and uncertain.

"I... I don't know," you admitted quietly, your gaze drifting back to Seungmin. "It's just... a lot."

Minho nodded understandingly, pulling up a chair beside you. His usually easygoing demeanor seemed tempered with a sense of solemnity, acknowledging the gravity of the situation.

"Seungmin's doing okay. The doctors say he could be out soon," Minho offered, trying to provide some comfort.

"That's good to hear," you replied with a breath of relief, grateful for the positive update on Seungmin's condition.

After a moment of silence, Minho spoke again, his voice soft and hesitant. "I... heard about what happened between you and Chan."

Your breath caught in your throat, surprised. "You did?"

He nodded, briefly glancing at you before returning his gaze to Seungmin. "Yeah. He came to the hospital late last night. Looked like he hadn't slept."

Guilt washed over you, not knowing that your argument with Chan had affected him deeply. "I didn't mean for things to get so... heated."

Minho sighed softly, his expression sympathetic. "Chan... he cares about you a lot. Sometimes that passion can come out in ways that surprise us."

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words. "I know. I just... I didn't handle it well."

"He'll come around," Minho reassured, his voice gentle. "Give him some time."

"I hope so.."

Minho nodded understandingly, standing up and stretching slightly after hours spent in the hospital room.

"We've been here a while," he said, glancing back at you. "Changbin will be here soon to replace me. I can take you home, if you're ready."

"Yeah," you replied gratefully, giving Seungmin a final glance. "I think I'm ready."

Minho nodded, standing up and stretching slightly. "Let me grab a few things, and we can head out."

As you both gathered your things and prepared to leave, Minho glanced back at Seungmin, his expression softening with empathy.

Together, you walked through the quiet halls of the hospital. The city seemed to hold its breath, the usual chaos muted.

As he drove you home, the atmosphere inside the car was tinged with a somber calm. The streetlights flickered past, casting fleeting shadows across his face as he focused on the road ahead. The silence between you was companionable, yet heavy.

As the silence lingered, your thoughts drifted to the unease of returning home alone. The recent events had left you feeling vulnerable, the safety of your own space compromised. The idea of installing security cameras had crossed your mind more than once, a desperate attempt to regain a sense of control.

Chan had taken the initiative to install security cameras for you the day he found out, a gesture that had should have eased the anxiety of being alone at home. His thoughtful act had provided a layer of reassurance during times when the presence of 'Stay' seemed to infiltrate even your most private moments.

"You sure you're going to be okay here on your own?" Minho asked softly, his voice filled the quiet space.

"Yeah, I'll be fine. I have security cameras installed."

he glanced at you, his brow furrowing slightly. "Cameras?"

"Yeah," you continued, feeling a bit self-conscious. "With everything that's been happening... I just... I don't feel safe anymore."

He nodded slowly, understanding dawning in his expression. "I get that. But wouldn't that be a bit... paranoid?"

You shrugged, looking down at your hands. "Maybe. But... I don't know what else to do."

Lee Know sighed, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "It's your call. Just... be careful not to let fear consume you."

You nodded, grateful for his honesty, even if it wasn't the encouragement you had hoped for. "I'll think about it."

As you arrived at your house, he pulled up to the curb, the engine humming softly. You hesitated before stepping out, silently thanking him before making your way into your house.

The days had passed in a haze of tension and uncertainty since your argument with Chan. Despite the passage of time, his absence weighed heavily on your heart, the echoes of his words and your own lingering in the quiet corners of your mind. Each day felt like a struggle to maintain normalcy, the absence of his presence a constant reminder of the rift between you.

Each night, you find yourself waking with a start, heart racing from nightmares that seem all too real. Normally, Chan would be there to comfort you, to reassure you that you're safe. But now, with him gone and no word of his whereabouts, you feel different.

Alone.

The days blur together, filled with a mix of worry for Seungmin, guilt over Chan, and the unsettling presence of 'Stay' lingering in the background. You've tried to maintain a sense of normalcy, focusing on work and keeping up appearances, but the fear of being watched, of something lurking just out of sight, is ever-present.

One evening, as you sat alone in your living room, the soft glow of the security monitors casting flickering shadows on the walls, there came a hesitant knock at your door. Startled, you glanced at the clock

—late enough that unexpected visitors were unusual.

With cautious steps, you approached the door, heart racing with apprehension.

Opening it cautiously, you were met with Chan's familiar figure standing on your doorstep. His expression was a mix of apprehension, exhaustion, and remorse, his usual confidence replaced by vulnerability.

You stood there for a moment, stunned into silence as you processed the sight of Chan standing before you.

"Chan," you breathed, the name escaping your lips in a mix of relief and disbelief.

"Can we talk?" he asked quietly. You hesitated, unsure whether to let him in, but something in his eyes—perhaps a glimpse of the hurt you knew mirrored your own—changed your mind. Nodding silently, you stepped aside, allowing him to enter.

Chan stood awkwardly in the center of the room. You waited, arms folded defensively across your chest, unsure of what to expect.

"I'm sorry," he finally began, his voice barely above a whisper. "I shouldn't have left like that."

You sighed softly, feeling the weight of his words. "I don't blame you. But... I invaded Hyunjin's privacy."

Chan looked at you, his expression softening with understanding. "But you had your reasons. You felt unsafe. I can't be mad at you for that."

You nodded slowly, grateful for his understanding yet still grappling with the guilt of crossing that line. "I know, but it wasn't right."

"I know," Chan replied gently. "We all make mistakes, especially when we're scared."

"but I... I shouldn't have said those what I said to you." he continued. " I was... I was scared. Scared of losing you."

His admission took you aback, the raw honesty in his words catching you off guard. Despite your own hurt, you couldn't deny the sincerity in his voice.

"I was upset," you confessed softly, your gaze dropping to the floor. "When you left... it felt like you were abandoning me when I needed you the most."

Chan's expression softened further, regret shadowing his features. "I'm sorry," he whispered, the words heavy with remorse. "I never meant to make you feel that way."

You sighed, the weight of unspoken emotions hanging in the air between you. "I know you didn't... but it still hurt."

"I never meant to hurt you," he continued, his gaze pleading. "I just... I let my emotions get the better of me. And I know that's no excuse."

You watched him carefully, the walls around your heart beginning to soften in the face of his vulnerability. His apology was genuine, his regret palpable in the air between you.

"I don't expect you to forgive me right away," he continued, his voice cracking slightly. "But I want you to know... I'll do whatever it takes to make things right. I'll give you space if you need it. I'll... I'll grovel if that's what it takes. I want to be here for you, no matter what."

He took a deep breath. "Can we... move past this?" he asked hesitantly, searching your eyes for reassurance.

You searched his eyes, seeing the sincerity and determination etched in every line of his face. You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his words and the weight of your own conflicting feelings. The road ahead seemed daunting, filled with uncertainties and the scars of recent wounds. But in Chan's earnest plea, you found a glimmer of possibility—a chance to rebuild what had been fractured.

"I want to," you admitted softly, your voice trembling with both fear and longing.

Chan's eyes softened with relief, his own hand finding yours, fingers intertwining in a silent promise. The air around you seemed to shift, charged and electric as you leaned in, hesitantly closing the gap between your lips.

The kiss was tender, tentative at first, a gentle exploration of shared forgiveness and connection. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer as if afraid to let go. For a moment, the world outside faded away, leaving only the both of you.

Chan's hands began to roam over your body, teasing and caressing you, pulling you even closer to him.

"God I love you so much." He said between kisses. You hands mad their wayt o his face, cupping his cheeks softly.

" Y/N.... I want you so bad," he growled.

"Then take me," you replied, your lips never leaving his. "I'm all yours."

Chan didn't need any further encouragement. He picked you up and carried you to your bed, kissing you all the way there as you straddled him, until he laid you down gently on the bed.

You removed your shirt and pants, laying before him in nothing but your cute red underwear, feeling vulnerable and exposed. Chan's eyes roamed over your body, a look of pure lust on his face. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "God im so lucky."

You reached out and took off his shirt, eager to feel his muscular body against yours. He kissed you harder, more intensely, as his kisses slowly made his way down your neck and chest.

His mouth found your nipple, and he began to suck and nibble on it. You moaned softly, your hands tangling in his hair as he teased and teased you with his tongue. As you writhed in pleasure, Chan's hand moved between your legs, his fingers gently rubbing your pussy through the fabric. You moaned louder, your hips bucking against his hand.

"Please, Chan," you begged, your voice ragged. "I need you."

Chan didn't reply. He simply smirked at you and began to remove your underwear, exposing your bare body to him.

"So wet.. And so pretty." he growled, his fingers sliding between your folds to find your clit. You cried out as he began to rub it in slow, teasing circles, his other hand gently massaging your breasts. You could feel your orgasm slowly building.

Chan's fingers were working their magic on you, and you were close to cumming. But you wanted more, you wanted to feel his hard cock inside you.

"Chan..." You whined," Please fuck me." You gripped his hair tighter.

"Hmm? What was that?" he said. His fingers going faster in you, his breath warm against your skin.

"Fuck... Please… please Chan," You cry out. "Fuck me.... please. I need you," you say, whining to his touch.

Chan chuckled, a low, seductive sound that sent shivers down your spine. "What a whore… Look at you.. Whining for my cock. Are my fingers not enough for you?" He inserted another finger, the stretch becoming almost too much to bear.

"Fe-feel so good." You managed to say. You moaned as Chan pushed his fingers deeper into you, hitting your g spot.

"Oh-Oh my God, I'm so close, Chan.." You said, your voice a soft whisper. Your hips bucked against his hands.

"Not yet, baby. I want to taste you," he whispered, his voice filled with desire. "I want you to cum in my mouth instead."

His head found its way between your legs, his tongue finding your clit as his fingers plunged deeper and harder into your pussy.

You were close, so close, and Chan's tongue and fingers were bringing you closer and closer to the edge. He hummed against your clit as your fingers tangled themselves into his hair.

"Chan, please...I'm going to... "

Chan smiled, as he continued his actions. His tongue teased your tight hole as you reached your orgasm and your cum oozed out of you and down your thigh.

"Good girl," he purred, cleaning you up with his tounge. He pressed sweet, soft kisses to your clit and you whined.

Chan's lips trailed back up your body, kissing and nibbling their way to your mouth. He finally kissed your lips and you could taste yourself on his tounge. Your hands found their way to his clothed cock and you rubbed his hard member.

He quickly grabbed your hand to stop you. "Tsk.. Tsk ..Tsk..." he said. "This is about you. I want to make you feel good."

"No.." You said, trying to stroke him. "I want to make you feel good too."

Chan groaned and his hands went to his pants, unbuttoning and removing them, along with his boxers.

"You do make me feel good.." he said as his hands gripped your hips, lifting you and teasing his cock at your entrance. You took this opportinity to surprise him by flipping you both over, putting yourself on top.

You began to grind against him, mixing your cum with his pre cum.

"Oh?" he purred, his hands cupping your ass. "My baby wants to be on top?"

You leaned down and kissed him, as you slowly sank down onto his cock. You gasped, his length filling you completely.

"Fuck," he moaned, his eyes closing and his face contorting in pleasure.

You started moving up and down, your hips grinding into his as his cock slid in and out of you. Chan's hands roamed over your body, caressing and teasing you as you rode him.

You saw the bulge of his cock in your stomach with every bounce. "Mmm. That's it baby. That-Thats it. Good girl. Good Fucking girl." He said as you bounced faster and faster on his cock.

You began to clench around him, a tell tale sign of your coming orgasm. Groans leave his lips, dick throbbing deep inside you. Chan cursed lowly under his breath as he watched you look down at him.

You continue to grind your hips down against him, loving the look of desperation on his fucked out face as his leaking tip twitched in your warmth.

“Fuck” he said, feeling you clench more and more around him. "Fuckkkk. Fuck.. oh-" He said as he closed his eyes. Chan's hands remained on your hips, holding you as you moved.

Suddenly he presses his hands down on your waist forcing you to stop.

You whined from the sudden stop, on the edge of cumming. Chan was so thick. So big.

SO big.

Cockwarming him was almost painful. You wanted to keep moving, to keep feeling him hit your cervix over and over and over again.

"Get off" he said sharply. "Get-get… get off. Please" he whimpered. His hips bucked against you, contradicting what his words were saying. "Please.. I-I can't take it. I'm gonna cum if you dont- fuck.....If you dont get off i'll cum inside you."

"You don't wanna cum in me?" you purred, looking him straight in the eyes with a pout. He gulped and looked away, his breathing laboured.

"Tell me how bad you want to fill me up, Channie."

"Baby..please," he begged, his voice low and needy. "We have no protection and-"

"Cum inside Channie" you said, interrupting him. You slowly moved your hips, making sure he stayed deep inside you. And GOD did he feel good.

"Baby…Please," Chan said, his eyes pleading. "Please. You feel so good, and tight and warm and - arrgh.. If you keep going I won't be able to stop myself. "

He looked at you, his face filled with desperation. "You want me to cum inside you? Are- are you sure?"

"Please, Channie." You said, leaning forward and pressing a kiss against his lips and your hips moved a little faster. "I need you.." You begged him.

Chan moaned loudly and he pulled your hips onto his, his cock fully twitching inside you.

"Oka-Okay, baby." he said as he began to thruste up into you, harder than ever before, hitting your g-spot and cervix at the same time.

"Oh-oh-Ohhh.. oh my god" You said with every thrust.

"fuck, fuck, fuck." Chan cursed, his pace speeding up. "You're a slut you know that? wanting me to fill you up? Cum inside you huh? Such a fucking whore"

"yes! yes! YES!!" you scream, his dirty talk making you even more wet.

"You want it inside? Beg for it." He said, his voice strained.

"Channie..Please...I need your cum in me." you said, looking him straight in the eye.

Chan moaned loudly and his thrusts became erratic.

"Please" you whined, your walls clenching around him.

"Baby..Baby" he moaned, his hips snapping into yours.

Chan cursed again, his thrusts becoming erratic and wild, losing control.

"Chan.. I'm-I'm."

"I know baby. I can feel it. Cum with me." You came first, unable to fight it any longer. "That's it good girl.. good-mmh good fucking girl."

He followed quickly after, burying his cock inside you, his cum painting your walls..

"Fuuuucckkk" He whined. He kept pumping inside you, making sure you took every last drop. You collapsed on top of him, his cock still twitching inside you.

Chan's arms wrap around you, his hands caressing your back as you both try to catch your breath. Chan kissed the top of your head, his fingers gently running through your hair. "I love you," he whispered, his voice filled with emotion. "I love you so much."

"I love you more" you said, content.

Chan’s arms pulled you close against his chest. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, His breath slowing down. His hands moved slowly and soothingly up and down your back, each touch gentle and reassuring.

He nestled his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. "I love you," he whispered again, his voice a soft murmur.

You sighed contentedly, feeling his fingers on your body. You both stayed like that for a while, the silence between you filled with unspoken words of comfort and love. Chan's hands continued their gentle caresses, tracing small, soothing circles on your back. His touch was tender, each movement conveying his care and affection.

Your legs tangled together under the covers, your bodies fitting perfectly against each other. You could feel the warmth radiating from him. He held you with a strength that was both protective and gentle, making you feel safe and cherished.

As you nuzzled closer, you felt his lips press a soft kiss to the top of your head.

"Let me get you some water and a snack," he said softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

You nodded, feeling the warmth of his love enveloping you. "Thank you, baby."

He kissed your forehead again before carefully untangling himself from you. "I'll be right back," he assured you, his eyes lingering on yours for a moment longer before he got up and walked to the kitchen.

The quietness of the room was soothing, and you closed your eyes, allowing yourself to bask in the afterglow of the comforting moment you had just shared.

Suddenly, your phone dinged, breaking the tranquility. You furrowed your brow in confusion, reaching over to the bedside table to grab it. It was a notification from the new security cameras you had installed recently, informing you that there was someone at the door. Your heart skipped a beat as you read the alert. You weren’t expecting anyone.

Curiosity and a hint of anxiety swirled within you as you opened the app to check the live feed. The screen loaded, revealing the figure standing at your doorstep.

In the dim light, their silhouette seemed familiar. The person shifted slightly, adjusting their stance. You saw distinct features—strong jawline, and calm demeanor.

His profile was momentarily illuminated by a passing car’s headlights, casting a shadow across his face. He stood there, unaware of the camera, his expression unreadable in the ambient light. But as he shifted you could see his face.It was...

....Minho?

Your mind raced. Why was he here? What did he want?

You watched intently as Minho lingered for a moment, then bent down to place something on the doorstep. You tried to zoom in on your phone hoping to provide a clearer picture.

It was a gift box, or at least you thought from what you could make out.

Without ringing the doorbell or making any attempt to announce his presence, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the night.

Confusion and curiosity mingled as you watched him leave. What could be in that box? Why didn't he want to speak to you directly? Why was he here at 2 am?

Your thoughts were interrupted by Chan's return with a glass of water and a plate of snacks, his face lighting up with a gentle smile as he approached. “Here you go,” he said, placing the items on the bedside table.

He noticed the change in your expression and the phone in your hand. “Is everything okay?”

You quickly composed yourself, hiding the unease. “Yeah, everything’s fine,” you replied, trying to sound casual as you placed your phone face down on the table.

Chan handed you the glass of water. “Drink up. You need to stay hydrated.”

You took the glass and sipped, the cool liquid soothing your dry throat. “Thanks, Channie.”

He sat down beside you, his eyes filled with concern. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded, managing a smile. “Yes, just a little tired.”

He looked at you with a sleepy yet sincere smile. " Okay sweetheart." He said as he crawled into bed with you.

You nestled closer to Chan, feeling the familiar warmth of his presence. "I missed this," you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Chan pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his fingers gently stroking your hair. "Me too," he murmured. “I was thinking... how about we go on a date tomorrow? Just the two of us. We could use some time alone together.”

Your heart warmed at his suggestion, and you smiled back at him. “That sounds wonderful, Chan. Where do you want to go?”

" What about dinner? Just you and me, dressed up, enjoying a meal at that new French restaurant downtown."

Your heart skipped a beat at the thought of an elegant evening together. "That sounds amazing, Chan. I'd love that."

He grinned, his fingers now gently caressing your cheek. "I thought you might." He pulled you closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I’ll take care of everything.”

Chan wrapped his arm around you, pulling you close. “Let’s get some rest yeah? We both need it.”

You leaned into him, grateful for his comforting presence.

In the quiet of the room, you let yourself relax fully for the first time in what felt like ages. His steady heartbeat beneath your ear was a steady rhythm that soothed your mind. You thought about tomorrow night's dinner, imagining the elegance of the French restaurant and the joy of sharing such an intimate moment with Chan.

A small smile played on your lips as you realized how much you trusted him, how much you leaned on him for support. Tonight, there were no nightmares, no fears—just the comfort of his presence, wrapping around you like a shield.

But as you settled back into the warmth of his embrace, your mind kept drifting back to the box at the door. You knew you would have to see what Minho left, but you decided to wait until Chan was asleep.

As the night wore on, you found yourself thinking more and more about the contents of the box, The image returning again and again to your mind. Finally, you decided to sneak out of bed, careful not to wake Chan. Quietly, you made your way back to the living room and to the front door.

The box sat on the floor in front of the door, its presence casting a silent, haunting aura. It was a simple but elegantly wrapped package, tied with a deep crimson ribbon.

The weight of its contents beckoned to you, stirring a mix of curiosity and apprehension within your heart. You picked up the box and brought it inside to the living room.

The lamplight cast shadows across the room, dancing around the edges of the box as you set it down on the coffee table. For a moment, you simply stood there, hands resting lightly on the lid, grappling with your thoughts.

You carefully untied the ribbon, setting it aside with deliberate care. The soft rustle of paper and the faint scent of memories stirred as you lifted the lid. Your eyes widened in surprise and awe at what lay nestled within its depths.

Resting on a bed of delicate tissue paper, you discovered a beautifully crafted dress made with a corset. The fabric was luxurious, and the design was intricate, a perfect blend of elegance and sophistication.

As you examined the corset, a sense of familiarity washed over you. You recognized the craftsmanship, but you couldn’t quite place where you had seen it before. The more you stared at it, the more confused you became.

Why would Minho drop this off?

Your mind raced, trying to piece together the puzzle.

Why now? Why in this way?

You sat back, the dress draped across your lap, and took a deep breath. This wasn’t just a random gesture. There had to be a reason, something you were missing. The corset felt like a key to a memory just out of reach.

You knew you needed to get some answers, but it was very late into the night. You carefully folded the dress back into the box and returned it to its place. With a final glance at the mysterious gift, you headed back to bed.

On your way back, your phone buzzed again, breaking the silence of the night. The screen lit up with a message from an unknown number:

...What?

Could Minho be the stalker? The thought was almost too much to bear, given your complicated history with him.

Confusion swirled within you. You had been so convinced it was Hyunjin—the unsettling letters, the feeling of being watched, the inexplicable incidents that seemed to point in his direction.

Wait.

Wait. Wait.

The letters. You never opened them. You hid them and ran out so quickly that you completely forgot about them.

They were still in your jacket pocket, where you had left them. With Quick steps, you returned to the front door and reached into the pocket and retrieved the unopened envelopes.

Sitting back down on the couch, you carefully unfolded the first letter. The handwriting was elegant and precise. But instead of being addressed to you…

it was addressed to someone else?

Hyunjin had feelings for you? You knew that but that was a long time ago.. right? Why was STAY bringing it up now.? Unless.....

Unless the feelings never left like he told you they did.

You had believed that Hyunjin's feelings for you were a fleeting crush, something that he had supposedly gotten over quickly, according to what he had told you.

The letter realved that it wasnt just a crush.

Hyunjin was in love with you, and Chan didnt know.

As you re-examined the letters and their ominous contents, a sinking feeling settled in your chest. Each letter not only threatened to expose Hyunjin's feelings but also outlined specific actions STAY wanted him to take to keep his secret hidden. Among them were references to Hyunjin's sketches, songs he's written about you, paintings, and selca's together, indicating that STAY had been leveraging these to coerce him into compliance. This oviously meant that this wasn't Hyunjin's doing. Why would he write such threatening letters to himself?

The realization hit you like a weight. The cameras and sketches found at the scenes were likely part of Hyunjin's desperate attempts to appease STAY, to protect his secret at any cost.

You felt a surge of empathy for Hyunjin, realizing the depth of his predicament. He wasn't the stalker you had feared; he was a victim, like you, ensnared by STAY's cruel machinations.

More important than ever. you needed to figure out who STAY was and put an end to their manipulative games. Not only were they messing with you but now with the boys as well. Who knew which others had also recived letters?

You carefully gathered the letters and placed them into the box, and put the box in the closet away from view.

Quietly, you made your way back to bed, slipping under the covers next to Chan. His presence brought you a sense of security, a reminder that you weren't alone. As you closed your eyes, you knew that tomorrow would bring difficult conversations and revelations, but for now, you allowed yourself a moment of peace.

Ep.8 if the shoe fits..

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mychoombatheroomba · 1 month ago

Text

An Eye for An Eye

Between the Bones (Leon x GN! Reader) - Chapter 54

Leon and the squad grapple with the weight of their loss while you learn what you mysterious ally has given you.

(Cross-posted from Ao3)

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter (Coming Soon!)

Chapter Index

“You look like shit.”

Valeria had never been one to mince words. Whatever else had changed in the last week, that had remained the same. At least something had.

Leon wasn’t sure he wanted the company. He had gone outside to escape the droning fluorescent lights and ever-present eyes inside the CIA facility. He’d gone out to be where his thoughts could have a quiet place to wage their war. His friends should have brought him comfort.

He hated that they didn’t.

“Don’t worry, I feel worse.” His response was dry as his friend leaned against the wall beside him, sliding down to sit at his level. She hummed what might have been a laugh, once. Now, the sound was muted. A gray tone where once there had been vibrant color.

Leon could sympathize.

“Good to know we’re all in the same boat.” Dina lowered herself onto the ground at Valeria’s side, the three of them looking out towards the dimming sky.

The shorter of the two women scoffed, shaking her head. “Can’t fucking sleep. Every time I close my eyes, it’s just . . .”

She didn’t need to say it. Leon knew. Maybe that was why they’d sought him out. Maybe they hoped he’d have some advice. Some secret to help them through it all. As if he hadn’t been cursed with this for months now. Just when he’d thought he might finally be free of it-

“You guys hear the official story?”

Leon turned his head towards Dina, who looked up at the sky like she had a bone to pick with whoever was up there. He knew what she was talking about without having to ask. The base. How the Army would spin so many lives lost all at once.

“They, uh . . . they’re saying it was a fire that got out of control. Someone smoking without authorization. Summer heat, dry brush . . . fwoosh .” She motioned with her hands, then let out an empty laugh. “Probably easier that way. Don’t have to send home any bodies if they’re all ash.”

A fire. The same excuse used for Dorne base. More lies. More deaths kept hidden.

It was a bad joke.

“You know, they put all this money into this,” Dina droned, shaking her head, “training us to fight monsters, teaching us to spy and shoot and whatever else. And then none of it fuckin’ matters.”

“It’ll matter,” Leon shook his head, surprising himself. He sounded like you. Like you used to, before everything had crashed down around you all. He just wished he believed the words more. “It’s gotta mean something.” His life hadn’t been torn open and rearranged for no reason. You hadn’t been made to relive the worst night of your life for nothing. He had to believe that.

“I don’t think any of this means anything,” Williams shook her head, digging her heels into the dirt and pushing her legs out in front of her. “I don’t think watching your friends kill each other has some greater purpose behind it.”

“Dina,” Valeria spoke, her voice softer than Leon had ever heard it, “he wanted to go out on his own terms.”

It didn’t matter how right she was, though. The words, the memory of you lowering that gun, of that look of nothingness in your eyes, and a pool of crimson framing Logan’s head . . .

“Shouldn’t have had to, though,” Dina shook her head. “He should be right here, telling us some stupid shit about tanks, or singing fuckin’ Journey.”

The world blurred a bit, as tears stung at Leon’s eyes. He clenched his jaw tight. He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t let it out, or he’d crumble. These last few days, he’d learned very quickly in the solitude of his room that once he started down that path, there wasn’t much that could stop it.

None of this should have happened. Leon almost spoke it aloud with a bitter laugh, feeling his heart beating at a faster pace. His mind running in desperate circles, trying to escape the thoughts that nipped at its heels. None of this should be like this.

All the wishing in the world wouldn’t change it, though.

“But he isn’t.” That was all Leon could manage to say.

Dina shook her head, her mouth pressed in a thin line. “But he isn’t.”

Silence blanketed them for a few long seconds, before the covers were torn off again.

“Sarge said anything about it?”

The question was meant for Leon. Who else? He was the one you spoke to most, before. If you would have said anything, it would have been to him. Should have been to him. As it was . . .

“No.” He couldn’t decide if he wished you had or not.

Dina didn’t look like she could decide, either. She bit at the inside of her mouth, shaking her head. “I know why it had to happen . . .” she said, nodding like she was trying to convince herself of it even now; that you putting a bullet in her friend’s head was the right thing to do. That it was mercy. “I just . . .” she just couldn’t fathom it.

Leon nodded in turn. “Yeah. I know.”

There was only so much rationalizing one could do. Only so many times a person could tell themselves that it had to be done. Leon knew he would either be broken by that fact or become numb to it. He wasn’t sure which one he dreaded more.

Nor was he able to dwell on it for long, before a figure approached, winding around the edge of the building. Leon and his companions looked up just in time to see a guard there, his face pulled into a tight expression. Leon didn’t even get to ask what brought him there before the guard spoke, gesturing for them all to stand.

“Everyone needs to come with me. Now.”

He didn’t hide it very well - the worry in his voice. The urgency.

“What happened?” Valeria asked, her eyes suddenly sharpening as she picked up on the new energy brought to the moment.

There was no real answer given, only a sense of looming dread as they were ushered back to their rooms. A sense of dread that was becoming all too familiar to Leon.

⧫⧫⧫

Fate hadn’t given you many of the things that you’d hoped for.

In fact, lately, it felt like life had been gorging itself on you, rather than practicing charity. What it had given, you found, had only led to hurt. Or it surely would. This would be no different. The gift you’d just been given would bring pain, but it was the kind you would gladly endure. You wouldn’t refuse something you craved with all your being - that you had paid for in blood and bruises and a breaking spirit. You gave in to a dark faith that now, finally, fate had thrown you a goddamn bone.

Not all those around you shared that sentiment.

Including you, there were five in the room - a room that was completely sealed off from the rest of the world. Simmons watched the room from the edges of it, twisting the gold ring on his thumb while he focused. Hellman and Benford were more focused on the computer screen in front of them. As for the fifth . . . you could never remember feeling so much weight behind Major Krauser’s gaze. He’d done a poor job of hiding his concern when you and Hellman explained what had happened. That concern had so quickly turned to rage, and you had wished you could return to being blind to the cause of it all. Things had been less complicated, then.

You wished a lot of things could go back to the way they had been.

But with no way to go but forward, you set your focus to the information in front of you. A hound being given a scent.

“I don’t like this.” Benford shook his head, the computer screen in front of him reflected in his glasses.

The images on it, the text . . .

Coordinates. Overhead images of an island - Kolguyev, it read. A sizable but mostly unoccupied piece of land in the Barents Sea. Russia. The island itself had a small town on one side, and on the other, a fenced perimeter. Four buildings were tucked in, surrounded by more open expanses of land. Ranges, you realized. You could see vehicles, even what looked like a tank, and well-carved pathways for them to use. It was a familiar layout even if you’d never seen the island before - you’d spent the last several months in places just like this, after all.

“It’s a training facility,” you breathed, your voice raspy. Crushed down to size by the man’s hand around your throat. A man who, it seemed, had given you a target.

It was all but confirmed when Benford scrolled down, and names and faces you didn’t recognize passed the screen. Service records, you realized, though not for any one country’s military. No, they were unified under a different banner.

𝚄𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚂𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚂𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎

𝙰𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝: 𝚁𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝙲𝚒𝚝𝚢

That was not surprising. Instead, what caught your eye was not who they served, but where they’d come from.

𝙱𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚌 𝚃𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝙺𝚘𝚕𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚎𝚟 𝙵𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢

Benford leaned back in his chair, his mouth set in a thin line.

His silence only served to fuel your anger. You weren’t alone in that.

“You said Reed was heading to Russia?” Krauser sounded just as viciously pleased as you were. It only made the senior agent at the computer more uncomfortable.

Benford nodded. Once. Reluctantly. “But there are Umbrella facilities all over the world. We don’t know-”

“We don’t have to know.” You straightened up, feeling something rise in you. Potential energy, the need to do something. And now, you’d been given a heading. “If this is a training facility, then we can start to level the playing field.” You could take from them what they’d taken from you: their future. And if Reed was there, then you could kill him. You could show him the failure of his cause as he died and-

“The risk is too high,” Benford shook his head. “Not when we have so little concrete information.”

“But you can get more information.” Krauser sounded almost as certain as you were, tearing open holes in Benford’s argument.

He’d taught you to press the offensive, so you did. “You wanted to fight Umbrella. You trained us to do that, and now what? You’re too scared to use the weapons you built?” You met Benford’s eyes, and felt some little satisfaction when you saw him waver under your stare.

His response was measured, even so. “It’s not that simple, Sergeant. It’s how we were given this information that concerns me.”

“You mean the man who broke your perimeter like it was made of tissue paper?” Krauser’s words bit hard into their target, as they so often did.

Benford just turned the attack into more ammunition. “Exactly. This man broke into our facility without issue. He overpowered you and Hellman both, and left just as easily. This kind of intel isn’t just given without motive.”

“Umbrella has enemies besides us,” Simmons pointed out, finally entering the conversation with a cool voice. “Their facility on Rockfort Island was destroyed by a paramilitary organization a few months ago, was it not?”

So Krauser hadn’t been given all the reports after all, because that name didn’t sound familiar to you. By his reaction now, it wasn’t because the Major had omitted any information when it came to you.

“It was,” Benford confirmed, “but I would argue that makes this more suspicious. Not less.”

It was Hellman who spoke next, incredulous. “If Umbrella has an enemy in that man, why is he not the one storming Kolguyev?” There was something to that, you supposed. He’d crushed a knife blade in his hand. Lifted you off the ground like you were nothing, and moved with a speed you couldn’t hope to match. Even so, even with all that power, he was handing this off to the likes of you. “He wouldn’t let us take him in for a reason. He’s setting us up to be pawns.”

“Does it matter?” you found yourself asking, the words not your own. Did it matter whose pawn you were, so long as Umbrella was dealt a blow?

Benford turned to you, already-present frown lines deepening. “There’s a good chance that this is a trap. If this is a training outpost, there will be soldiers there-”

Fire rushed through you, your gaze turned to a branding iron. “I’m counting on it.”

A laugh followed your declaration, and Simmons pushed off the wall. Satisfaction curled his lips into a smile. “ That right there. We need more soldiers like that if we’re to stand a chance against this corporation. Sometimes risks must be taken in a fight such as this one, and we need those who will do what it takes.”

“So glad you approve,” Krauser snarled under his breath, but the conversation went on as if he’d said nothing.

Benford snapped his attention to his fellow agent, then. “Derek, we don’t have many people who know about this conflict left. If this operation goes wrong, we could lose all of them.”

It was true. You knew it. This was enemy territory. No reinforcements, no solid intel, nothing to go on but what you held now. And it was worth it, for the exact reasons that Simmons spoke now. “And if this really is a training facility, if more records like these are available there and we got ahold of them,” he pointed his chin towards the screen, “then we could root out Umbrella’s personnel.”

People like Reed. People like the man who’d driven a knife into your gut, and the team that had been with him. If there was a chance you could find them - track them down . . .

“So send me.” The room turned towards Krauser, the Major pulling attention with his declaration. One forged in iron. One that embedded itself in your gut.

“By yourself, Major?” Simmons asked. The bastard had a talent for sounding patronizing, one that Krauser didn’t appreciate, if his biting tone was any indication.

“Benford’s right. You’re down too many men to send them. I’m the most experienced soldier you have who knows about all of this. One man has a better chance of not being spotted than a team.”

No. You felt a surge of something rise in you at the suggestion, because you knew how that would end. Whatever was happening with Krauser, whatever his feelings for you and however you felt in return, you knew that if he went out there alone, he would likely die.

That was unacceptable.

Even so, you stopped yourself from voicing that thought. You stopped yourself because all of the people in this room seemed to think that there was something between you and the Major. Something you couldn’t give credence to. You had to act as though you didn’t care, as though the man who’d saved your life, who’d given you so much, meant nothing to you.

So, just like with Alenko, you dug deeper into the hollow of yourself.

“So,” the Major went on, blue eyes boring into Benford’s own, “send me.”

The most horrifying part was that the men around you considered it. You could see them making the mental calculations. Better to lose one man than an entire squad, that was the brutal calculus of it. One that you couldn’t exactly argue.

“No.” Your focus snapped elsewhere, and you never, ever thought you would be grateful to Hellman of all people. Still, the agent, wielding the guilt you’d buried in his gut, went on. “You’re a good soldier, no one can deny that, but this is about infiltration. Information retrieval. That’s what I’ve been trained for.”

Krauser scoffed, somehow making a laugh sound dangerous. “You couldn’t even tell that your friend was an Umbrella plant.”

“Neither could you, Major,” Hellman reminded him. “Not until it was too late.”

“You watch your mouth-”

Hellman went on, undeterred. “I’m in the best position to make it right. I can scope things out and see what’s there.” It was an idea that sat with you no better than Krauser going alone. Not because you cared about Hellman’s safety, but because he didn’t deserve this vengeance, as far as you were concerned.

“Noble of you,” Simmons nodded, still twisting the gold band on his thumb, “but that doesn’t solve the problem of one man not being enough to take down an entire base. A small team could assess the facility covertly and then infiltrate it if need be,” he went on, eyes sharp as he planned.

“The Umbrella facilities we’re aware of thus far have always been more than they appear on the surface,” Benford pointed out. “There could be more than what’s depicted here. They would be on enemy territory, going in blind, fighting a force they’ve never faced before.”

“How fortunate then,” Simmons just went on, his fingers twisting his ring while his lips were twisted into a smile to match, “that we have individuals with experience in such matters. Individuals who understand the value of knowing one’s enemy, and will stop at nothing to take the fight to them.” He looked at you, then, with the expression of a man who gambled and won more often than not. A man who didn't mind betting, especially when he wasn't the one who stood to lose.

You didn’t mind that he was gambling with your life, though. Not so long as you got what you wanted.

The only trouble was that Simmons wasn’t the only player in this game.

“I don’t like the idea of sending just the two of them,” Benford said, another opinion added to the mix. One borne of mistrust - that much you could see plainly. You and Hellman were untrustworthy in his eyes, even now. You couldn’t blame him, you supposed; this mysterious man with too much information on Umbrella appeared out of nowhere and gifted you exactly what you needed. Anyone with a brain would find it suspicious.

You understood that, you truly did. The only trouble was, what you knew was coming next. What you felt in your bones.

“Kennedy has been inside Umbrella facilities before,” Benford went on, and it was clear to you then that fate had not, in fact, thought you’d paid the price for this gift. No, it demanded ever more. “And they worked well with Soto and Williams. That would keep the team small enough to avoid attention.”

Your jaw tightened as he spoke their names, eyes going wide, showing off the red that had crept in when your air was cut off.

But before you even had the chance to speak, Krauser huffed, incredulous. “Then I should go with them.”

“I would be inclined to agree,” Simmons took a moment to formulate his counter, “but you and Hellman here are the only two instructors we have left with knowledge of bioweapons.”

“You can just tell someone else. They just destroyed an entire base, it’s not like it’s going to be a secret forever.”

“The President has made it clear,” Benford said this time, “the fewer people know about all this, the better.”

It was a losing argument. A fight not worth spilling blood over. That didn’t stop Krauser, though. “You’ve got to be joking,” the Major shook his head, looking between you and Simmons. “You wanna send a bunch of shell-shocked rookies out there? You’ll get them killed.”

Simmons tilted his head to the side. “Many of these ‘rookies’ have service records before STRATCOM, Major. With the exception of Kennedy, I suppose. Though I would imagine his experience in Raccoon City makes up for that fact.”

“They’re not ready-”

“Are you implying that your training of them was insufficient?”

“Damn it, you’ve seen them!” He was talking about the entirety of your squad, but he looked at you. And in that moment, you had a realization: this wasn’t the Major you were used to seeing. In the last few months, he’d been a steadying force for you. A leader you could look to for guidance. Now, in this moment, all you saw was a scared man, clinging to whatever control he had left. Control that he’d given up the moment he gave you those reports. The second he admitted his guilt in doing so. “They’re afraid, and angry, and if you send people like that out there, they’re going to slip up. They’re going to get themselves killed.”

He’d told you so many times to never show weakness. To never bear your scars and wounds. Now, here he was, doing it without meaning.

A blunted blade would do them no good. Whether that was Krauser or Leon or you.

So, no matter how much you wanted to insist that Leon be left behind, that he wasn’t suited to this mission, you knew how that would look. You knew that, to Simmons, that would be blood in the water for him to scent and salivate on.

Not that it mattered what you or Krauser wanted, anyway. The decision was already being made, you could see it in Simmons’ eyes.

Leon’s fate and yours, your friends . . . you were all tied together. At least you could spare one person you cared about. He’d saved your life once, after all. You hadn’t expected to return the favor this way.

You hadn’t expected so many things.

“You’re angry, sir,” you said, finding your voice again, however hollow it may be. You’d seen many expressions on Krauser’s face that you’d never thought to see, lately. The surprise you were greeted with now, almost like betrayal, was one of them. He wasn’t the only one that had a claim to that betrayal. Still, you carried on, reminding him of a fact he should have known well. “Your judgment would be just as compromised.”

You’d never been on the receiving end of Major Krauser’s anger, really. Some part of you had hoped to never experience it. When faced with it now, though? You were surprised by how little it affected you. He’d taught you to face down worse though, hadn’t he?

“My judgment?” He asked, stepping closer. “You want to talk about emotion clouding judgment? All you’ve ever done is let what you’re feeling control you. The only reason you’re here is revenge. That’s it. You want to kill the people who took your Captain. Your friends-”

“Umbrella didn’t kill them,” you said, your expression blank as you stated the truth that had eaten away at you. The truth that had carved a well in you and taken up residence there. Because as much as Umbrella had turned your friends into monsters, as much as Reed and the man who’d driven a knife into you had done, they hadn’t pulled the trigger on Rain.

Or Reynolds.

Or Alenko.

“I did.”

Krauser, for once, looked disarmed. He stared at you - him and the other men in the room. Men who had either helped shape you into the dagger you were, or would wield you.

“I did what I had to do. And I will keep doing that, until Umbrella is buried.” That had been your vow, all those months ago. As you lay in a hospital bed, clutching a dog tag that would be all that remained of the man you considered a father. You’d lost sight of that goal, and the world had reminded you of it now. So, you looked at the computer screen in front of you, at the image of the base there. Your chance, not to make it right, but to strike a blow. “That’s all that matters.”

And to these men who would be your commanders, who would now dispatch you across the globe, hunting your targets, that was enough.

⧫⧫⧫

Hours passed, and still there were no answers. No justifications for why everyone had been taken back to their rooms, but it was all too clear to Leon that something had happened. The guards - rigid even on a good day - had been tight-jawed and tense as they’d guided Leon and the others towards their rooms. Something was wrong, because it seemed like something was always wrong, now.

The only question was: what?

That night, he was allowed to imagine just how wrong things were. By the time their cell doors were opened again, the worst possible scenarios had flooded his mind, memories amplified by a sudden and gruesome abundance of imagination. It didn’t amount to the horrors he feared. There was no attack. No undead.

All Leon was greeted with was a pair of eyes framed by glasses, set in the aging face of the man who’d ruined his life. “Agent Kennedy, if you’ll come with me, please.”

Agent Kennedy.

He was an agent now, wasn’t he? He’d passed his final test. He was theirs to send wherever they pleased.

Him and you, it seemed, because you stood just behind the agent, and you weren’t alone. Hellman, Dina and Valeria were there too, each of them looking like the hangman had called their names. Not you, though. You were stone, as you so often were.

Even with a handprint bruised onto your throat.

Leon felt sick to his stomach as he saw the mark, the skin on your throat turned a dark purple from the pressure of someone's grasp. He’d worn a bruise to match after Raccoon City, courtesy of the silent monster that had stalked him that night. That had come too close to killing him too many times.

That handprint had been larger than a human’s hand, though. The one on your throat could have belonged to anyone. Who then? Who had hurt you? Who had done this to you?

There were no answers to be found from Benford, who simply gestured for Leon to follow, before pausing a moment. “And if you may . . .” he held up his other hand, one that had been clenched at his side. One that, as his fingers uncurled, Leon realized held little plaques. Three sets of two, linked by chains, numbers and letters stamped into the metal. Three sets of two, and one chain that linked three plaques, the name REYNOLDS clear to Leon’s eye, just as your name was.

Their dog tags.

Benford was collecting them.

For a moment, Leon felt fear surge through him. With the group gathered before him, he worried that the feelings present among the group had finally been laid bare. He worried that, at last, their luck had run out and their places in STRATCOM had been taken as punishment.

As he hesitated, Benford spoke a clarification. One he sounded solemn about. “You’ll get them back when you return.”

“Return from where?” Leon felt numb even asking the question.

Benford didn’t look any more pleased as he took a breath in, but Leon saw your expression shift. You didn’t look up from the empty space you stared off into, but your eyes darkened all the same as the agent answered. “I’ll explain elsewhere, but . . . you have a target.”

A target.

A mission.

His first.

And wherever you were all going, your identities couldn’t follow.

He had little choice, so did as he was told and reached up to his neck. A moment later, his name was pressed down beside yours and those of his friends, hidden from view as Benford closed his fist around them.

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Chapter Index

Tag List: @greywardensaywhat @torchbearerkyle

#leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy #jack krauser #resident evil x reader #resident evil 2 #resident evil 4 #resident evil #between the bones #gender neutral reader #leon kennedy x you #no y/n #derek c simmons #adam benford

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2stepadmiral · 1 month ago

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So every year or two, I go through a period of reconnecting with my high school Trekkie interests, rewatching some Star Trek clips, episodes, and movies, and during this particular period, I have to voice my main criticism of the reboot films: namely, the treatment of the Enterprise.

To be clear, I think the reboot Enterprise had a nice redesign. She looked very clean and futuristic while capturing the original design in broad strokes. The lens glare is certainly annoying, and it doesn’t have the same heart and retro feel as the original, but I feel they generally did a fairly decent job with the design. I’m talking about how she is treated throughout the films, namely, how she’s treated effectively like just another ship.

In the original series, the Enterprise has a certain heart coming across almost like a character in of herself. You get a clear feel from the characters that they consider the enterprise almost to be home, and Kirk and Scotty in particular see her almost like an actual woman, one who they cherish and will protect at all costs. This sentiment is magnified in the first three movies, particularly in the motion picture and in the search for Spock. When Kirk first sees the refit Enterprise, you can see how much he loves the ship, and when the Enterprise is plunging to her final resting place, the mourning on all of their faces, especially Kirk, makes this moment particularly powerful and truly hammer home that the Enterprise was a character in and of herself. The original Enterprise felt like a character fans had grown up with, and her destruction felt almost like the loss of an old friend. And at the end of the voyage home, when the crew has that last-minute surprise reveal of the Enterprise-A, the triumph and homecoming feeling is so clear that even the audience shares the sentiment, almost as if the character has been reborn.

The enterprise in the reboots was never portrayed this way. She was treated like just a ship, one that might’ve been nicer and fancier and more advanced than the others, but not really all that special beyond that. In the first movie, that’s acceptable, as the focus is on bringing together the crew and getting them where they need to be for the start of their journeys. The second one focuses more on the captaincy, and what it means to really earn that seat, so it’s excusable that this one focused more on Kirk and how seriously he took his responsibilities, though they could’ve put more emphasis on the ship as part of that arc. Yes, the ship almost crashing was an emotional scene, but that had everything to do with the characters aboard and nothing to do with the ship beyond it being the place where the characters were and it’s damage being the reason that they were about to die.

And then in the third one, they just blow up the ship in the first 30 minutes and try to portray it with the same sentimental weight as the destruction of the Enterprise in the search for Spock. Which would’ve been fine, if it weren’t for the fact that they spent the last two movies treating the enterprise like just a thing, just another tool in the characters belt. She had no heart, no soul, no feeling that she was a home, or that she was the thing that brought the crew together, and kept them together, the thing that made them a family. She was basically just a big car, there to get them from point A to point B and occasionally shoot at some bad guys, and then, we’re supposed to feel devastated when she goes down for the final time.

The reveal of a reboot version of the Enterprise A was a nice surprise, but it lacked the emotional payoff of the original version, largely because of how ordinary the first Enterprise had been in this timeline. You can’t really celebrate the revival of a lost character when the character was never really there to begin with. They might as well have put the crew on an entirely new ship, like maybe a rebooted version of the Excelsior, and it would’ve had the same basic impact.

My point is that classic trek, as well as the next generation and DS9, did an excellent job of portraying the dynamic between captain and ship to the point where the ship felt almost like a real character. And that worked really well. It made the crash of the Enterprise D in generations a shocking scene, and it made her surprise return in season 3 of Picard a heartfelt and deeply nostalgic scene (Even if I wanted the Enterprise E, sorry but she’s my favorite). It made the loss of the Defiant in season seven of DS9 a powerful and emotional moment. I haven’t watched a lot of Voyager, so I can’t comment on that, but I can say with decent confidence that they couldn’t have done worse than they did in the reboots.

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runawaycarouselhorse · 10 months ago

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Our pure-hearted, all-loving hero... he can be a little brat (especially back in OS/early in his journey, when he was much more of a hot-blooded boy hero), but his heart's worth its weight in solid gold and he grows into such a kind, patient character with strong ideals, which is why Hero of Ideals suits him best (even the movie manga opted to adapt that version of the movie, rather than the one where Ash is Hero of Truth, and expanded on it!)

[I hope you have "long post" and "image heavy" muted if you need to, because this post's a doozy and given tumblr, if my blog's ever deleted, posts with read mores will be rendered inaccessible forever, so I don't like to make them!]

A lot of people complained about how young Ash looked in BW! (and complained even more about Sun & Moon's very divisive art style... and we wound up seeing great growth for his love of a whole region, and achieved a goal integral to achieving his dreams), but from the first episode of BW!, my first impression was of how mature and calm Ash is with Iris and Trip in regards to their initially abrasive and varingly aloof personalities.

Iris was friendlier and more excitable, more childlike, but Ash took her barbs in stride and patiently waited for her to open up about her dreams (she keeps it secret in the first episode, using that cute, childish word "naisho" instead of saying it's a secret "himitsu"--the same childish word she uses when asked about what Kairyuu/Dragonite told her in their reunion episode) and background (we don't know she ran away from the academy or what her hometown was like until season 2!)

The way Ash handled Tory (who was a traumatized, younger child--and Ash wanted to fight him at first, before understanding him!), Lucario (also traumatized, insulted Ash and Pikachu's bond--Ash fought him and fell off a hill, wrestling with him, before he saw Lucario's memory of being "abandoned" and broke down in tears, apologizing for what he said when he didn't know anything...), Chimchar (a traumatized Pokemon, Ash was patient, kind, and loving to him, even when he lashed out while out of control due to Blaze, which he previously could only use to save his life...), etc., is very different from how he handled Iris (who was bullied subtly by being completely ostracized, no one would sit or eat or play with her at the academy, she was so depressed, she stopped eating--this is canon and not lingered on, but she plainly says it and that her dorm mother making her food that would remind her of home, just berries skewered on a stick, "saved her") and even Trip.

(By the way, Ash apologizing to Lucario, in tears of regret over what he said to Lucario when he didn't understand him is when I first started to truly love and respect Ash's character and growth! Before that, I really was only a big fan of the TRio.)

By contrast to those rockier beginnings with other kids, Ash was patient and encouraging with Trip, even while Trip purposefully kept him and everyone else (even his Pokemon who loved him, as Alder said...) at bay and rejected all his attempts at friendship, before he got the answers he needed from Alder and slowly stopped shutting others out. He had every right to lash out at Trip for making fun of him, but kept trying to befriend him and showed interest in his journey and growth.

(Trip was also his youngest main rival at that point, even if he is a very book-smart child prodigy type who was an excellent battler from the start, he still fell apart in front of unexpected, unorthodox techniques like Bell/Bianca and Satoshi/Ash's out-of-the-box strategies.)

Naturally, there's also his very patient and encouraging bond with Lillie, who also had her trauma-induced fear of Pokemon (much like Tory!) and dissociative amnesia, the early loss of her father in infancy, and the distance between her and her mother (too wrapped-up in work and her obsession with Ultra Beasts to notice her own child's trauma and falling behind her peers...) to overcome, but the focus of this post is BW! I already write a lot about Lillie, she's another favourite of mine. <3

It's worth noting, too, that Pikachu was Ash's first "problem Pokemon"... even if it's usually the Fire types who are traumatized, Pikachu has abandonment issues like Chimchar and Tepig did. Pikachu famously hates being inside a pokeball and Ash always repesects this boundary and becomes very, very upset in XY when he believed Pikachu was forced into a pokeball... the pokeball factory episode was, otherwise, a very light-hearted episode, but Pikachu's boundaries and possible trauma is taken seriously.

This scene mirrors a similar breakdown Alain has when he finds out all he's done, under the impression he was protecting his loved ones, was aiding Lysandre's genocidal plans... both smash their fists into hard surfaces, blaming themselves for failing to protect loved ones.

In a very early Kanto episode, Sparks Fly for Magnemite, we learn Pikachu has abandonment issues so bad, he doesn't want to be separated from Ash for even an overnight stay in the Pokemon Center. It seems Pikachu (fortunately) quickly become much more secure in his bond with Ash and no longer fears being separated for medical treatment, but this is very, very sad and telling!

Although we never delve very deeply into that for most of the series... (an early magazine scan has Ookido-hakase/Professor Oak theorize Pikachu's previous trainer abandoned it), we were finally given some answers late in series!

In the AU movie, Pikachu says* his reason for not going into the pokeball: "It's because I always want to be with you." ;O;

... unless this is a dream or hallucination, given Ash is on the verge of unconsciousness when it happens--but if we really want to believe it happened, maybe his latent Aura post-cognition abailities kicked in and he understood Pikachu's feelings, like when Victini slept in his lap, crying, and Ash saw Victini's dream of his past.

As for the main series canon, in the first episode of Pocket Monsters 2019 (Pokemon Journeys), we learn Ash's Pikachu was a lone, possibly orphaned, Pichu, who was briefly raised by a Kangaskhan, carried in her pouch with her child, until he grew too heavy and quietly left at night (without saying goodbye) to live by his own strength, evolving into Pikachu as he did so.

If Lusamine not taking Lillie's (because they're irrational or not logical) feelings seriously gave her a complex where she always needed to claim her stances are "logical" even when they're based in emotion... I wonder what it tells us that "child prodigy" Trip defaulting to blaming his loss to Alder on him doing something wrong or being inherently lacking ("What did I do wrong? What do I lack?"), because he doesn't ever consider a simple difference in experience is all it is... that Alder's many years of wisdom and Pokemon training give him an advantage over rookie trainer Trip, who's shown to be averse to being called a "child" (Iris ropes him into battling Ash twice by calling him a kid), because he always has to prove he's an adult. He thinks there's something inherently "lacking" in him or "wrong" about his method if he doesn't achieve.

All of that is canon, but if you further analyze his character, Trip has a superiority complex, which is very often a defense mechanism to mask feelings of inferiority. He canonically places a lot of worth in the image he projects and constantly puts down others. Add that to being a child prodigy and his preoccupation with proving he's an adult (but doesn't bat an eyelid at someone calling him "unjust" for his violent methods in the Venipede episode, like he's already accepted being a terrible person, because he thinks striving for peace like idealistic Ash is "naive"--Trip has a very cynical view of adults, yet thinks of himself as such...)

Trip only cares to be seen as strong and mature, not good (he's not even surprised to be called bad, he's already accepted it, he doesn't care), and if he fails, he blames his lack of knowledge or his inherent nature as lacking.

Because his self-worth is in being a genius and being better than the rest, so he seeks outside validation, namely Alder's, who Trip behaves so jealously about, Alder canonically compares him to a fickle-hearted woman (well, he messes up the phrase 'Onna-gokoro to haru no sora.' "A woman's heart is as fickle as the sky of spring" because he was hitting on Junsa-san/Officer Jenny earlier, so he says "fickle as Junsa-san"... Freudian slip. ^^;;;;)

Trip, when asked what he was battling for, what he wanted to prove... he said it was to prove his strength to Alder.

That's all he wanted! To prove his strength and be acknowledged by his hero. Alder even asks him if he likes him. Adeku frankly asks it in the Japanese version, but the dub dances around with "do you have any admiration for a man such as myself"--which Trip doesn't answer verbally, although he really doesn't have to, because the scene makes it clear and is a lens that clarifies all his past behaviour.

That's all Trip wants: love and acknowledgement. Which he believed he could only get by becoming stronger, smarter, and more mature as fast as possible, likely taking Alder's to be some stronger and grow up quickly too literally, as head animator Iwane said, Shootie was just "a little too grown-up."

It takes a long, long time for Trip to unlearn prioritizing battles over anything else and to embrace childhood (which hey, is one of the main themes of BW!), because it's a precious time which we can never return to... so, Alder's current idealogy is to enjoy life, make friends, love Pokemon, and not dwell on the past. Ash's approach to being a Pokemon Champion and Master is the same.

Alder's introductory episode made it very clear he and Ash are very, very similar characters... and we see this again in Journeys, in the kind of advice Champion Ash gives younger kids. Ash and Alder have a similar wisdom they'd like to impart, I know, it's funny calling Ash wise, but he has high emotional intelligence and is incredibly wise in that respect for his age... it took Alder many, many long years to arrive at the same conclusion Ash reached.

Ash's Japanese name, Satoshi, means "Wisdom." (Another cute detail: Ash's little brother, Lei, whose Hawaiian name means a "Garland of Flowers-- in Japanese, would be pronounced as Rei, which also means "Wisdom." Lei likely has a name chosen to have meaning in both Hawaiian and Japanese. ^^)

Bonus shout-out to Ash, Iris, and Cilan all protecting Keldeo until he finds the courage to face his fears, correct his mistakes, and save his friends...

Ash is a very good friend, AG, DP, and BW! are all part of his development into the kinder character he became today. Some people might miss how rude he was to his friends in OS, but he can still playfully dish it out, he's just calmer and more sure of himself, so less likely to sweat the small stuff and recognizes when someone, whether Pokemon or trainer, just needs time and patience.

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