#I am very much the city mouse | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 5 months

Text

1968 [Chapter 7: Apollo, God Of Music]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 8.7k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

“My uncle, he is a doctor in Zabrze,” Ludwika says, red Yardley lips, Camel cigarette. No one cares if she smokes; she’s not campaigning to be the next first lady. Fosco is puffing on a cigar. Mimi sips drowsily at her Gimlet; you could use a few shots, but you’re making do with a Pink Squirrel, something sweet and feminine and without any bite. “So I go to him and he gives me a bottle of chlordiazepoxide.”

“Oh, Librium,” Mimi says, perking up.

Ludwika waves her hand dismissively; cigarette smoke wafts through the air. “Whatever. The next day I have my audition. A tiny man who thinks he’s God. And I give it a real shot, I try my best, I’m nice, I’m charming, but he doesn’t like me. He says my teeth are too big, like a mouse’s. This is very rude. I did not comment on his fidgety little rat hands. But okay, no problem, I have a plan. No one will stop me from getting out of Poland.”

“You drugged him?” you ask, incredulous, grinning.

“You are a criminal,” Fosco tells Ludwika. “I will call J. Edgar Hoover, you should not be so close to positions of power.”

“Listen, listen,” Ludwika insists. “Here is what I do. I thank him very much for his consideration, and then as I leave I drop my purse and things go everywhere. I filled it before I left my apartment, of course. Anything I could find, empty lipstick tubes and perfume bottles, old makeup compacts with broken mirrors, coins, hair pins, tissues, pens, gum, Krówki candies, it is an avalanche. And when he bends down to help me pick up the mess—I have to encourage him, ‘oh sir won’t you grab that, I am just a stupid girl in a very short dress,’ you understand—I put the pills in his tea.”

“How many pills?” you ask.

“I don’t know. You think I had time to count? Maybe seven.”

“Seven?!” Mimi exclaims, and you take this to mean it was a generous dose.

“What? He did not die,” Ludwika says. “I wait two days and then I go back to his office. And it is so strange, can you believe it, he does not remember my audition! So I remind him that he thought I would be perfect for the ad he is shooting in Paris. He keeps squinting at me and saying ‘are you sure, are you sure?!’ Of course I’m sure! A week later, I am standing under the Eiffel Tower with a bottle of Coca-Cola. And then I book a job in London, and then another in New York City, and one of my new model friends sets me up on a blind date with Otto. Lunch in Astoria at a horrible Greek restaurant. Who wants to eat pie made out of spinach?! Now I am here with you people, and the journalists love when I smile for them with my big mouse teeth.”

All four of you laugh at your table, an elite club, the ones who married in. It’s Alicent’s 60th birthday, and the ballroom of the Texas State Hotel in downtown Houston is raucous with clinking glasses and chatter and music and the shutter clicks of photographers. The DJ is playing Fun, Fun, Fun by the Beach Boys. Alicent is dancing with Helaena and the children, and it’s the happiest you can ever remember seeing her. Otto, Aemond, and Sargent Shriver are deep in conversation by the bar, furrowed brows and Old Fashioneds, today’s newspapers and tomorrow’s itinerary. Criston is standing with the men but watching Alicent, face wistful, silver streaks in his jet black hair, and it occurs to you that they must have grown up together: Alicent a 19-year-old bride and Criston her husband’s fledgling bodyguard, the person closest to her age in the household, near and trusted and forbidden, orbiting adolescent twins like Artemis and Apollo. You keep looking around for Aegon. No one else seems aware that he’s gone.

“Otto thought he died and went to heaven when he found you,” you tell Ludwika. “His Eastern Bloc defector princess.”

“He is going to bring my mother to the States. I would be anything he wanted me to be. I would be a model, or a housewife, or a nurse. I would be Bigfoot! But this…” Ludwika gestures broadly: to the ballroom, the city, the latest stop on the campaign trail. “It is not so bad. I never expected to serve the Polish people so far from home. You know how you stop communism? You show the world that capitalism can do more for them. There must be a path to a better life, wars must be ended, injustices must be dealt with. Aemond will do that.” She grins at you, exhaling smoke through her nostrils. “You will help him.”

You reply a bit wryly: “It’s an honor.”

“We are like four legs of a table,” Fosco observes. He points at Ludwika with his smoldering cigar. “You are a Slav fleeing the Russians. My family has ancient titles in Italy and yet no castles, no land, we are essentially homeless. Mimi’s father is a third-generation oil tycoon from Pennsylvania. And she was supposed to fix Aegon.”

“I don’t think I succeeded,” Mimi confesses.

“And then when it was time for Aemond to get married…” Fosco turns to Mimi. “Do you remember? What an ordeal. The discussions went on and on and on. She must be smart, she must be sinless, she should be from a self-made family, a real rags-to-riches story of the American Dream.”

“Right.” Mimi nods groggily, reminiscing. “And from the South.”

“Yes! But not the Deep South. No, no. Someplace Aemond could actually win. Texas, Tennessee, North Carolina. Or Florida, of course.” Now Fosco notices how you’re looking at him, because you’ve never heard this before. He quickly pivots. “But the weekend Aemond met you, it was settled. Nobody could compare.”

His tone is odd; it suggests backstories, history, mythology. Ludwika appears to be just as intrigued as you are, taking a drag off her Camel, her eyes narrowing until they are thin and catlike. You ask: “Who else was being considered?”

“No one,” Fosco answers—too quickly—and he and Mimi exchange an uneasy glance.

What did Aemond and I talk about the night we met? you think dizzily. In those first hours, minutes, thirty seconds? Where I’m from. What I was studying.

Fosco, a true Italian, then attempts to deflect by flirting. He makes emphatic, passionate motions with his hands. “You were just so captivating, so clever…”

“And young enough that Aemond could easily beat Aegon’s record of five children,” Mimi adds. Fosco clears his throat and glares at her. Mimi realizes what she’s said and gazes forlornly down into her Gimlet, mortified, groaning softly. You’ve had one c-section already, and no living son to show for it. At most, you might be able to give Aemond two or three more children; and you don’t even want them. You want Ari back. You want to touch him, to hold him, even if only for a moment, even if only once.

“It’s fine,” you try to reassure Mimi, but everyone can tell it’s not.

Ludwika breaks the tension. “You do not want twenty kids anyway. Your uterus will fall out onto the floor.” And you’re so caught off-guard that all you can do is smile at her from across the table, knowing, appreciative. It’s a strange thing to be grateful for.

“She’s right,” Mimi says mournfully. “They had to sew mine back in.”

Fosco pleads: “Stop, stop, I will need a lobotomy.”

Mimi slurps on her Gimlet. “It’s sad. I used to love sex.”

“Mimi, please,” Fosco says, wincing, holding up his palms. “You are like my sister. I prefer to think you are the Virgin Mary.”

Ludwika sighs dramatically and looks to where Otto stands on the other side of the ballroom. “I used to love sex too.”

Now you’re all howling again, rocking back in your chairs. The DJ is playing Go Where You Wanna Go by the Mamas and the Papas. Cass Elliot is the real talent in that group and everybody knows it, but of course any mention of her must be dutifully accompanied by: If only she was more beautiful. If only she could lose weight and find a husband.

“I think you like it, yes?” Ludwika says to you like a dare, puffing on a fresh Camel, red lipstick staining the white paper, blood on sheets. She combs her manicured fingernails though her voluminous blonde hair. “I could tell when I met you. You dress like Jackie Kennedy, but you are not such a statue. She belongs in a museum. I can imagine you at the Summer of Love.”

Fosco and Mimi shift uncomfortably. It’s not the sort of thing they would ever ask you. It’s too personal, too easily a segue into criticizing Aemond. It’s a usurpation of the natural order. Mimi guzzles her Gimlet and flags down a waiter to get another. Fosco takes off his glasses and cleans them with his skinny black necktie.

Sex. You think back to before you began to dread it. This is difficult, like trying to remember Greek words or British manners, which fork to use with each course. Memories from another lifetime come back in flashes: tangled up with your first boyfriend in his tiny dorm room bed, Aemond peeling off your still-dripping swimsuit on the floor of your hotel room during your honeymoon in Hawaii. You shrug and give Ludwika a nod, a brisk, ungenerous answer in the affirmative. “I always feel like I could keep going.”

Paradoxically, this does not end the conversation. Ludwika, Fosco, and Mimi study you with the same bewildered, gear-spinning curiosity. After a moment Ludwika says: “Not after you’ve finished, surely. I am half dead by the end if it’s good.”

“Finished?” you ask, puzzled. All three of them gawk at you, then at each other.

Aegon breezes into the ballroom wearing the Gibson guitar he bought in Manhattan, blue like the Caribbean or the Mediterranean or the crystalline waves off the coast of Hawaii, dotted with fish and sea turtles. Your eyes go to him immediately and stay there; you can feel the swirling warmth of blood in your cheeks. As Aegon passes the table, he squeezes your shoulder—brief, familiar, welcome—and Fosco raises his thick eyebrows. Mimi is too busy gulping down her Gimlet to notice. Ludwika chuckles, low and wicked, then slides a makeup compact out of her Prada purse to check her lipstick. Aegon goes to the DJ and yells something over the music. He’s fucked up already, you can tell, pills or booze or both.

Fosco stops a passing waiter. “Signore, did you hear who won the United Nations Handicap?”

The waiter stares blankly back at him. “What?”

“The turf race at Monmouth Park. I have $200 on Dr. Fager.”

The DJ abruptly cuts off the music. Aegon gives his guitar a few practice strums to make sure it’s in tune. He stumbles when he walks, he lurches and sways. His blonde hair sticks to the sweat on his forehead. He is woefully underdressed. His white shirt is half-unbuttoned, his denim shorts tattered; on his feet he wears black moccasins. There is a small gold hoop in each of his ears. Otto keeps telling Aegon to take them out, and every time Aegon ignores him.

“Happy birthday, Mom,” you hear him say to Alicent, and she presses a palm to her heart, her dark eyes wide and shining. “When I first heard this, it made me think of you.”

Otto and Sargent Shriver—the aspiring vice president—are glowering at Aegon. Aemond smirks as he nips at an Old Fashioned, amused; but he makes sharp, intentional eye contact with each of the three journalists. You will tell the right version of this story, he means. You will not print anything we wouldn’t want written, or my family will be your enemies for life.

As soon as Aegon plucks the first few chords, you recognize the song. “Oh, that’s really funny.”

“What?” Fosco asks.

“It’s Mama Tried.” You stand and begin clapping, then motion for the rest of the table to do the same. They obey without protest, though Mimi can’t seem to keep track of the beat. Aegon is beaming as he sings.

“The first thing I remember knowin’

Was a lonesome whistle blowin’

And a youngin’s dream of growin’ up to ride

On a freight train leavin’ town

Not knowin’ where I'm bound

And no one could change my mind but Mama tried.”

Cosmo sprints over from where he had been dancing with Alicent. He grabs your hand and tugs you towards the center of the floor. “Let’s go, let’s go!” he shouts impatiently.

“Call the FBI, I’m being kidnapped,” you say to Fosco and Ludwika as you let Cosmo drag you away.

“One and only rebel child

From a family meek and mild

My Mama seemed to know what lay in store

Despite all my Sunday learnin’

Towards the bad I kept on turnin’

‘Til Mama couldn’t hold me anymore.”

At the heart of the ballroom, Criston has swooped in to dance with Alicent, slow chaste circling. Helaena has floated off to the bar to chat with Otto, who keeps all his smiles for her. The children—Targaryens and Shrivers alike—are stomping and cheering and alternating between various moves: the Mashed Potato, the Twist, the Swim, the Loco-Motion, the Watusi, the Pony in pairs. Aemond whistles to a photographer and then nods to where you are holding onto one of Cosmo’s tiny hands as he spins around at lawless, breakneck speed. Of course this would make for a good image: you being maternal, you promising the American people that they will one day have not only a first lady but a first family.

“And I turned 21 in prison doin’ life without parole

No one could steer me right but Mama tried, Mama tried

Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading I denied

That leaves only me to blame ‘cause Mama tried.”

Cameras flash and the crowd keeps clapping. Cosmo giggles wildly each time he almost falls and you pull him back to his feet. There is a hand skimming around your waist, a listless powder blue dress your husband chose for you. Aemond replaces Cosmo as your dance partner. Aegon’s 10-year-old daughter Violeta spirits Cosmo away; Aemond reels you in close, one palm pressed into the small of your back, his left hand gripping your right. When you steal a glimpse of Aegon—still strumming, still singing—he doesn’t look so triumphant anymore. His grin is frozen and artificial. His drunk muddy eyes go steely.

“I need you to do something for me,” Aemond begins.

Of course, you once would have said. Anything. “What is it?”

“I want you to cut your hair like Jackie.”

You’re so stunned your feet stop moving. Aemond coaxes you back into the steps. “No.”

“Think about how much more versatile it would be. Jackie is an icon, she’s sophisticated, she’s mature.”

“If you wanted a wife in her thirties, you could have easily found one.”

“Honey—”

“I do everything you ask,” you say, barely more than a whisper. “Everything. I wear what you want me to. I go where you want me to. I spend ten hours a week getting my hair fixed. I keep it up, I keep it presentable. But I’m not chopping it off.”

“You’re never going to be able to wear it down anyway,” Aemond counters, so calm, so rational, like your skull is nothing but incendiary feminine mania. “If I win, you’ll be surrounded by staff and journalists for years. You can’t be photographed with it down, you look about eighteen. And like you live on a park bench in Haight-Ashbury.”

“It’s my hair. I’m keeping it.”

Aemond leans in and says, cold and severe: “You’re my wife, and everything that’s yours belongs to me.” Then he kisses your cheek as cameras click and strobe. “Think about it. Now smile.”

You force yourself to. The crowd applauds as Aegon finishes singing and flees the dancefloor. The DJ puts on Light My Fire by The Doors. You and Aemond leave in opposite directions: he goes to talk to Eunice Kennedy, who is hugging her 3-year-old son Anthony to her chest; you return to your table to drain the last of your Pink Squirrel. You need something stronger. You need to be alone so you can collect yourself.

Now Aegon has shed his guitar and is standing with his back to the wall, smoking a Lucky Strike and talking to some campaign staffer—she looks like a girl, but she’s probably your age—who is gazing up at him worshipfully. She says something that makes him laugh, his head thrown back, his eyes sparkling, and you feel like you’re waking up from your c-section all over again, your belly split open and rearranged, aching, stabbing, nauseous.

“Are you okay?” Ludwika asks, scrutinizing you.

“I’m perfect. I’ll be right back.”

You hurry out of the ballroom, the music fading behind you. You slip into one of the elevators in the lobby and hit the button for the top floor, where Aemond’s entourage has booked every suite. As the door is closing—as only a foot of space remains—Aegon shoves his way into the elevator, startling you. The door shuts behind him and you begin the ascent. Aegon slams the red emergency stop button, and the elevator jolts to a halt.

“What the hell are you doing—?!”

“What pissed you off, huh?” Aegon taunts, stepping closer. You back away from him until you run out of room; not because you want the distance, but because you’re afraid of what you’ll do if it’s gone.

“Nothing. I’m so great, I’ve never been better, can’t you tell?”

He’s so close you can feel the heat rising off his flushed skin, you can see the miles-deep murky blue of his irises, open water, shipwrecks and drowning. “You want all this to be over? You want the women with their big, adoring eyes and their short skirts to disappear? Grow up. Stop acting like a kid. Ask for it.”

“Ask for what?”

“You know.”

If you touch him now, you won’t be able to stop. There’s nowhere for us to go. There’s no way out of this family, this year, this world. “I don’t. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Aegon barks out a sardonic, cutting laugh. “Yeah, you’re definitely 23.”

“I thought you loved girls young enough to be your daughters. Isn’t that what gets you hard?”

“You’re a fucking coward.”

“You’re sweating on me, you pig.”

“You want it so bad,” Aegon whispers as he presses himself against you, his ribs and thighs and hips, and you clutch for the walls of the elevator so you don’t reach for him instead. His left hand is tearing your hair out of its clips and pins so it falls free like you used to wear it; the right is all over your face, your jaw, your chin, your cheeks, touching you ceaselessly, ravenously, a blind man reading chronicles of braille. You’re trying to turn away from him, but he keeps pulling you back in. You’re breathing his rum and nicotine, you’re gasping in low, starved moans. It might be more intimate than kissing, than sex. He’s already felt your body. What he asks for now is your soul. His words are warm and aching as he murmurs through loosed strands of your hair: “Tell me you want it, please, just tell me, just tell me, tell me and it’s yours.”

Your palms land on his bare, damp chest, and Aegon starts unfastening the last buttons of his shirt. Instead, you push him away. Aegon lets you. He surrenders. “I can’t,” you choke out. You hit the red button, and the elevator resumes its rise to the top floor of the hotel.

“I’m really fucked up right now,” he says with sudden realization, swaying, staring down at his feet like he fears he’ll lose track of them.

“I’m aware.”

“I’m sorry. I think…I think I wanted that to happen differently.”

“I can’t trust you when you’re like this,” you say. I feel like I can’t trust anyone. Aegon looks up at you, his glassy eyes large and wounded. When the elevator door opens, you step out and he stays in, riding it back to the lobby.

In the suite you share with Aemond, you turn on the radio and spin the dial until you find a Loretta Lynn song. You go to the minibar cabinet and down two tiny glass bottles of vodka, something that won’t make you smell like too much of a drunk. You’ll have to fix your hair before you go back to the ballroom; you’ll have to change your dress. You’re painted with Aegon’s sweat and smoke. You can’t risk your husband noticing. You slide open the top drawer of the nightstand on your side of the bed and take out the card you keep there, the one that travels with you to each stop on the campaign trail. Loretta Lynn croons from the radio, wronged and wrathful.

“If you don’t wanna go to Fist City

You’d better detour around my town

‘Cause I’ll grab you by the hair of your head

And I’ll lift you off of the ground

I'm not a-sayin’ my baby is a saint, ‘cause he ain’t

And that he won’t cat around with a kitty

I’m here to tell you, gal, to lay off of my man

If you don’t wanna go to Fist City.”

You lie on the floor and peer up at the card in your hands: jubilant cartoon cow, festive party hat. You know exactly what’s written on the inside; it’s etched into your memory like myths passed down through millennia. Nevertheless, you read it again. The original message is still crossed out, and there’s an addendum below it in hasty black ink: I thought this was blank…congrats on the new calf!

You graze your thumbprint across Aegon’s scrawled signature. It’s smudged now. You do this a lot. One day his name might disappear altogether from the stark white parchment, from memory.

You close the card and hug it to your chest like a mother holds a living child.

~~~~~~~~~~

“What’s going on between you and Aegon?”

Alarmed, you meet Aemond’s gaze, two reflections in the vanity mirror. It’s the next morning, and you’re finishing up your makeup. Your dress and jacket are striped with black and white, your jewelry is silver, chains on your wrists and small tasteful hoops in your ears. “Nothing.” There is a lull you have to fill before it becomes suspicious. “He’s been helpful, he’s been…you know. Ever since Mount Sinai.”

Aemond adjusts his cerulean blue tie, studying himself in the mirror. He’s still wearing his leather eyepatch. Putting in his glass eye is the last thing he does before leaving the suite each day. “He was a comfort to you.”

“Well, he was there.”

“Because I told him to be,” Aemond says, resting his hands on the back of your chair. “Someone had to stay at Asteria to keep tabs on things, to let me know what you were up to. Aegon was the most expendable. Mimi and the kids make for good photos, but Aegon…he’s not especially endearing to the public. Those few years as the mayor of Trenton just about ruined him. I’d love to make him the attorney general if I win, but I don’t think the people would stomach it. Maybe if he behaves himself he can have the job for my second term.”

Eight years, you think, unable to fathom it. Eight years in a fishbowl. Eight years lying under Aemond as he tries to get me pregnant with children neither of us can love.

Aemond leans down to touch his lips to the side of your throat. “I’m glad you’re finally friends,” he says. “Aegon’s not all bad. But don’t let him get you in trouble.”

“I wouldn’t.” What did you and Aemond talk about before Ari died? What was this marriage built on? The senate, the presidency, civil rights, poverty, the Space Race, Vietnam, Greek mythology. Everything but each other. Dreams and ideals that would dwarf any mortal, would render them invisible.

“And watch out for any reporters from the Wall Street Journal. They’d kill for Nixon. If they can twist your words, they will.” He gets something from inside his own nightstand: the bloodstained komboskini from when he was shot in Palm Beach. He places it in your right hand, all 100 knots. “Give this to someone today. You know how to do it, you’ve always understood this part. Pick the right person, the right moment. Make sure there are plenty of cameras around.”

“Where am I going? Lunch with the mayor’s wife, that’s this afternoon, isn’t it?”

Aemond nods. “And a few other stops. Then we’re going to the Alamo in San Antonio tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

He recoils, reaches for the left half of his face, kneads the scar tissue there as nerve pain radiates through his flesh all the way down to the bone. Once you felt such agonizing pity for him; now all you can think about is the matching scar you wear on your belly, hidden and shameful and a badge of your inadequacies: your body too weak to protect Ari, your mind too pliable to resist being ensnared by the crushing gravity of this man, this family, this life.

“How can I help?” you ask Aemond, because it’s the right thing to do. And randomly, you find yourself remembering the statue of Apollo in Helaena’s garden back at Asteria, the god of music, healing, truth, prophesy.

“You can’t.” Aemond goes to the bathroom to force his glass eye into its socket. You depart for the hotel lobby where Ludwika and Mimi, your companions for the day, are already waiting. Ludwika is wearing a rose pink Chanel skirt suit. Mimi—relatively functional, as she hasn’t been awake long enough to ruin herself yet—is dressed in delicate dove grey.

Alicent, Helaena, and the children are scheduled to tour a local high school and library; Criston, unsurprisingly, is going with them. Aemond, accompanied by Otto, has a series of meetings with local business leaders and politicians. Aegon and Fosco are headed to the Michael E. DeBakey Veterans Affairs Medical Center to promise maimed soldiers that Aemond will end the war that carved out bits of them and filled the voids with screaming nightmares. The limousine you share with Ludwika and Mimi ferries you first to the NASA’s Manned Spacecraft Center. Mimi is entranced by the reflective surface of the helmets, coated with gold to divert blinding sunbeams; in turn, the astronauts are entranced by Ludwika, who leaves lipstick smudges on their cheeks when she kisses them. Next is a tea party hosted by Iola Faye Cure Welch, the mayoress of Houston since 1964 and the mother of five children. And as you nibble daintily at triangle-shaped sandwiches and trudge through small talk about flowers and furniture, you can’t stop smiling. You can’t stop thinking about how ridiculous Aegon would think this is if he was here.

The driver mentions one last stop, then coasts through midafternoon traffic towards the city center. You spend the ride touching up your hair and makeup. Ludwika offers to let you borrow her seduction-red lipstick; you politely decline. You step out of the limo and shield your eyes from the glare of the Texas sun. It takes your vision a moment to adjust, and then you realize where you are. The sign above the main entranceway reads: Houston Methodist Hospital. The air snags in your throat, your lungs are empty. Your hands tremble violently. The earth rocks beneath your white high heels. Mount Sinai is the last hospital you walked into, and you left with your son in a casket so small it could have been mistaken for a shoebox.

“Alright, let’s go,” Ludwika says, linking an arm through yours. Mimi, badly in need of a drink, is looking deflated and edgy. “We are almost done. And I have been promised a medium-rare steak for dinner! Mushrooms and onions too! The Statue of Liberty did not lie. This country is a golden door.”

“I can’t.”

Ludwika stares at you. “What?”

“I can’t, I can’t go in there.”

“What is she talking about?” Ludwika asks Mimi, who shakes her head, mystified.

“I can’t,” you whimper.

They’ve never seen you like this. They don’t know what to do. They listen to you, that is the hierarchy; but it’s too late to change course now. Journalists are approaching in a swarm. Nurses and doctors are gathering by the front door to welcome you.

He knew, you think, suddenly furious. Aemond knew, and he didn’t tell me.

“It will be okay,” Ludwika says, patting your back awkwardly. “We are here with you. Nothing bad will happen.”

“Oh,” Mimi breathes, understanding. She looks at you with sympathy that shimmers on the surface of the opaque, polluted lake of her mind. Then she catches Ludwika’s eye and skims a hand down her own slim midsection. Ari, she mouths, and Ludwika’s face falls.

The doctors and nurses are whistling and applauding; the journalists are snapping photos and scrounging for quotes. You feel your conditioning over the past two years taking over: straight posture, gentle smile, hands clasped demurely together. But you are locked away somewhere underneath.

“Do not worry,” Ludwika tells you softly. “We will talk, we will make it easier for you.” Then she and Mimi begin boisterously shaking hands and thanking people for coming as you make your way through the crowd of journalists and towards the main entrance of the hospital.

People are saying things to you, but you don’t really hear them. You reply with words you won’t remember afterwards. You nod frequently and go wherever you are led. Doctors are explaining new research into placenta previa and c-sections. Nurses are showing you a state-of-the-art NICU for premature infants. Someone is placing a baby in your arms, and you can’t do anything but accept it numbly. You can’t look down at it, you can’t allow yourself to feel the weight of some other woman’s child. You wear your smile like armor and let the photographers capture their snapshots, painting a frame around you, deciding where you live.

Then you are introduced to the parents, women in hospital beds and men perched in chairs beside them, just like the one where Aegon slept at Mount Sinai. They take your hands when you offer them and tell you about their small children, sick children, dying children. One patient just delivered twins. The first did not survive beyond a few hours, but the second is in an incubator and gaining strength. You recall the komboskini stained with Aemond’s blood and take it out of your purse, give it to the suffering mother, watch faith rise in her face like dawn over the Atlantic. But you won’t remember her. You cannot allow yourself to.

Outside as you, Ludwika, and Mimi are headed back to the limousine, the journalists make one last attempt to poach a headline-worthy quote. “Mrs. Targaryen! Mrs. Targaryen!” a young man shouts, clambering to the front of the horde and jabbing a microphone in your face. “I’m from the Houston Chronicle. Can you tell me how the senator feels about the failure of the most recent phase of the Tet Offensive?”

You are in a fog; you don’t feel real, this moment and this city don’t feel real, and so you cannot remember what Aemond would want you to say. “The Vietnam War has claimed too many lives already. We should have never sent our men there to die. But since that is done, the best thing we can do now is end the draft immediately and then withdrawal from the region as soon as the South Vietnamese are able to defend their own territory, which is their responsibility.” The journalist already considers this effort fruitful and begins to retreat, but you have one last point to make. Ludwika and Mimi watch you anxiously. “I lost someone in Vietnam. I met him when I was in college. He had a good heart, and he joined because he thought it was wrong for poor men to have to fight while rich kids got exemptions, and he was killed in action in October of 1965.”

“This was a friend?” the journalist asks, eyes glowing hungrily. Then he adds as an afterthought: “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

“A boyfriend. Corporal Cameron Marino from Schenectady, New York. People called him Cam.”

A solemn murmur ripples through the crowd. Hats are removed, hands held to chests. “Rest in peace, Cam,” someone says. Maybe they have somebody they care about in Vietnam, a friend or a lover or a brother. You wave goodbye and climb into the limousine. The outpouring swells as you vanish: We love you, Mrs. Targaryen! God bless you, Mrs. Targaryen!

In the lobby of the Texas State Hotel, you tell Ludwika and Mimi not to follow you. They have to listen. After some hesitation, Mimi heads for the bar in the ballroom; Ludwika asks the staff at the front desk if she’ll be able to make a call to Poland with the phone in her room. You take the elevator to the top floor. Fosco is in the hallway, on his way back from one of the vending machines with a Fresca. When he sees your face, his jaw drops.

“Dio mio, what happened?”

“Nothing,” you say, tears biting in your eyes. You pass him, digging your key out of your purse.

“Are you sure—?”

“Fosco, please. I don’t want to talk.”

“Okay,” he says doubtfully. Then he seems to get an idea and strides away with great purpose. You take shelter in your suite, silent and dim; Aemond isn’t back yet. You brace yourself against the locked door and sob into empty, trembling hands, at last hidden away where no one can see you, where no one can be disturbed or disappointed. You know now that none of it was healed—not the loss, not the revelations—but only buried, and now it’s all been unearthed again and the pain shrieks like exposed nerves.

It’s not fair. Ari deserved better, I deserved better.

There’s nothing you can do. Your hands ache to hold someone that no longer exists. You can’t unlearn the truth of what your marriage is.

There are two knocks, quick and rough. “Hey, it’s me.” And there’s such pure intimacy in those words. You know my voice. You know why I’m here. “Open the door.”

“I’m okay, just, just, just leave me alone—”

“Open the door,” Aegon says again. “Or I’ll get security up here to do it for you.”

Swiping the tears from your face, you let him in. He’s dressed in baggy black shorts, nothing on his feet, an unbuttoned stolen green army jacket. You once thought he wore those to play the part of a revolutionary from the comfort of his East Coast seaside mansion. Now you understand it’s because he misses Daeron, because he believes he should have gone to Vietnam instead. There are several dog tags strung around his neck; some of the veterans at the medical center he visited must have gifted them to him.

“What’s wrong?” Aegon’s eyes sweep over you, seeking, horrified. “What did he do?”

You can’t answer, you can’t breathe. You back away from him as more tears spill down your cheeks.

“Hey, hey, hey, let me help you. Please don’t be upset. Did he say something, did he hurt you?” Aegon reaches out, and as soon as he touches you your knees buckle and you’re on the floor, trying not to wail, trying not to scream, and Aegon is pulling you against his chest—bare skin, borrowed metal—and his hands are on your face and in your hair, and his lips are against your forehead as he murmurs: “Shh, shh, don’t cry. It’s okay.”

“No it’s not.”

“Whatever it is, I can help.”

“I had to go to a hospital and hold babies and I, I, I never even got to touch him, not once, not ever, and I can’t now because he’s gone. He’s locked in some fucking vault, he’s just bones, but he was supposed to be a person, and those other babies are going to get to grow up but he isn’t, and it’s not fair.”

“You’re right,” Aegon agrees softly, still holding you.

“No one else knew him.”

“I did. I was there the whole time.”

“Only because Aemond made you stay.”

“No,” Aegon swears. “I was supposed to spy on you. He never told me to do any of the rest of it. I stayed because I wanted to.”

“You did,” you say, very quietly, weakly, conceding.

“And I’m still here now.”

Your lungs aren’t burning quite so much. Your tears are slowing. You unravel yourself from Aegon, averting your eyes. Now you’re ashamed; you aren’t in the habit of revealing to people how much you’re splintering like cracked glass, fresh fractures every time you think to check the damage. “I’m, um, I’m really sorry.”

“Look, I don’t mean to bring up unpleasant memories, but this is definitely not the most embarrassing thing I’ve seen you do.”

You laugh, only for a few seconds, and Aegon smiles as he mops the tears from your face with the sleeve of his army jacket. Then he turns serious again.

“Can I ask you something? It’s very personal. It’s offensive, honestly. But I have to know.”

“You can ask.”

“Do you want more children?”

More children. Because Ari was real. “Not now. Not with Aemond.”

Aegon nods, suspicions confirmed. “Can you do that sponge thing you told me about?”

“No. I think he’d be able to feel it, he’s…” You gesture vaguely. It’s difficult to say. “He’s big.”

Aegon didn’t want to hear that. He didn’t want to have to think about it. He flinches, just enough that you notice. But as much as he’d like to, he doesn’t change the subject. “What about the pill?”

“No doctor is going to write me a prescription without my husband’s permission. Especially considering who my husband is.”

“I hate this fucking country,” Aegon hisses. “Puritanical goddamn hellscape. Old Testament bullshit.” He drags his fingers through his hair a few times, then pats your cheek like he did before: twice, gently, playfully. “Come on. Let’s go smoke.”

“I can’t do it on the balcony. Someone might get a picture.”

“Okay. No big deal. We’ll go to the roof.”

You stare at him. “The roof?”

“You really think I haven’t already been up there?” He stands and offers you his hand. “You’ll love it. The view is fantastic.”

The view is good, but the grass is better. You know that it makes some people useless, others paranoid, but for you it’s always painted the world a color that is softer, kinder, lighter, more bearable. You and Aegon lie next to each other, smoking and watching twilight fall over Houston like a spell. You’ll have to shower and gulp some Listerine before Aemond gets anywhere near you. It’s interesting; each day you seem to acquire new secrets to keep from him.

Aegon asks: “Where would you be right now if you weren’t Mrs. Targaryen?”

“Probably married to someone worse.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Okay, but let’s say you weren’t. Let’s say you can do whatever you want.” He points up at the lavender sky and acts like he’s moving the emerging glimmers of stars around with his fingertip. “There, I’ve changed your fate. Who would you be?”

You ponder this. “I want to teach math to kids and then spend every summer break getting baked on some beach.”

Aegon cackles. “Hell, sign me up.” He lights a third joint for himself with his tiny chrome Zippo. “Those are the people doing the real work. Teachers, nurses, farmers electricians, plumbers, welders, firemen, therapists, janitors, public defenders. The normal, unglamorous types.”

“You don’t think presidents and senators make a difference?”

“Sure they do. But only like 5% of the job is actually helping people. The rest of it is schmoozing and tea parties and making speeches, because looking and sounding good is better than doing good. They’re addicted to vapid pretenses that make them feel important. You live like that and you forget how to be a human. I mean, look at Nixon. The man was raised as a Quaker, one of the most peaceful religions on earth, and now he’s planning to throw ten or twenty thousand more boys into the great Vietnamese meatgrinder and probably napalm the hell out of Cambodia and Laos while he’s at it to get the communists’ supply lines. The man’s got no idea who he is anymore. I’d feel sorry for him if I wasn’t so terrified he’s gonna start World War III.”

I wonder who Aemond was a few decades ago. “What makes you feel important?”

“Nothing,” Aegon says. “I’m not under any delusions that I matter.”

“I think you matter, old man.”

“Really?”

“A little bit. About this much.” You hold your hand up to show him the infinitesimal space between your thumb and index finger, and Aegon chuckles, his eyes glazed and bloodshot.

“Let’s do it,” he says with sudden, forceful conviction. “If Nixon wins in November, we’ll get out of here. I’ll go back to Yuma to teach on the reservation and you can come with me. You get a math class, I take English, or Music, or both, whatever. We’ll buy a bungalow out in the desert and make s’mores every night and look up at the stars. I’ll show you how to play guitar if you give me algebra lessons.”

You peek over at him, intrigued. “Is that all we’re going to do?”

“Well we’ll fuck, obviously.”

“Oh, obviously.” You giggle; it’s ridiculous, it’s paradisical, it’s insane how good it sounds. But surely that’s only because you’re high. “I don’t know how Mimi would feel about that.”

“She won’t care. She doesn’t want me anymore, hasn’t in years. Sometimes she just forgets that when she’s wasted. Mimi can go to Arizona too. We’ll load up the kids in a van and strap her to the roof.”

Now your voice is somber. “She was supposed to fix you.”

“Yeah,” Aegon says: slow, meditative, guilty. “I think Mimi and I have a few too many of the same demons.”

You roll over, push yourself up on your palms, and crawl to the edge of the rooftop. You prop your elbows on the ledge and gaze out into the city lights, the sky turning from violet to indigo to primordial darkness. Aegon joins you, staring down at the distant aquamarine rectangle of the hotel pool.

He asks: “You think I could make that?”

“No.”

“Should I try?”

“You definitely shouldn’t.”

“A few months ago, you would have pushed me off this roof.”

You shrug. “You’ve proved yourself useful.”

“That’s why you like me now? Because I’m useful?”

“Who said I like you?” you tease, smiling.

“You like me,” Aegon says, grinning and smug, radiant in the silver moonlight and urban incandescence. “You like me so much it scares you. But there’s no need to panic. It’s okay. I know the feeling.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You want to touch him, you want him to touch you, you want to study every arc and angle of him like he’s a marble statue in a garden: too beautiful to be mortal, too fragile to be divine.

~~~~~~~~~~

Three nights later in Nebraska, there is a knock on the door of your hotel suite. The nannies have herded the children off to bed; the adults are unwinding downstairs in the courtyard of the Sheraton Omaha, designed to resemble an Italian garden. There’s a brand new Jacuzzi that you’re looking forward to taking a dip in. You finish pulling on your swimsuit, white and patterned with sunflowers, a one-piece with a flared skirt.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Richard Nixon,” Aegon says through the door. “Naked. Horny. Please love me.”

You laugh and let him in. He’s leaning against the doorframe in Hawaiian swim trunks and nothing else, pink sunburn glowing on his soft chest. He holds up a brown paper bag and shakes it.

“For you.”

“What is it, heroin?” Instead, you open the bag to find small, circular packs of pills. “No way. You did not.”

“That’s enough for six months,” Aegon says, smirking, proud of himself. “I’ll be back again in February. Guess that makes me your dealer, babe. I don’t accept cash, checks, or cards, only sexual favors. You want to get down on your knees, or should I?”

“How did you get these?”

“I told a doctor they’re for one of my whores.”

“Maybe they are.”

You’ve surprised him, you’ve got him thinking about it now. His face flushes a splotchy, charming pink. “So, uh, you coming down to the courtyard?”

“Yeah. Right now. Just let me hide these first. Are there instructions in here…?”

“Mm hmm,” Aegon says, still distracted, studying the entirely unremarkable carpet. You stow the paper bag of birth control pills in the bottom of your bras and panties drawer, then walk with Aegon to take the elevator down to the ground floor. You both notice the bright red emergency stop button and share a glance, smirking, taunting.

In the courtyard, Alicent is struggling to pay attention as Helaena identifies each and every species of plant and explains where in the world it is native to. Fosco is simultaneously teaching Criston how to yo-yo and berating him for not believing the Cubs will end up in the World Series. Fosco has apparently bet $500 on them. Ludwika is stretched out on a lounge chair like a cat and reading a copy of Cosmopolitan. Aemond, wearing his eyepatch and a blue pair of swim trunks, appears to be arguing with Otto over the contents of a newspaper article. Mimi is alone in the Jacuzzi, bubbles rumbling all around her as she slumps against the rim, a frosty Gimlet clutched in one hand.

“Mimi, get out of the Jacuzzi,” you order.

“I’m fine!” she slurs, and you groan, knowing you’re going to have to drag her out.

Aemond is approaching; no, not approaching, raging. “What the hell is wrong with you? What the fuck is this?” He hurls the newspaper at you, the Houston Chronicle. The headline reads: To Mrs. Targaryen, ending the Vietnam War is personal. “Why would you tell somebody that? Other papers are going to start reporting this. You gave them his full name. They’ve found his school, his friends, his gravesite in motherfucking Arlington National Cemetery—”

“You set me up,” you say. “You didn’t tell me about the hospital.”

Aegon takes the newspaper from you and frantically skims the article. “Hey, man,” he tells Aemond as he pieces it together, attempting to deescalate. It’s not a skill you knew he possessed. “She was rattled, she wasn’t thinking clearly. And there’s nothing bad in this article. It makes her sound invested and sympathetic, not…um…whatever you’re thinking.”

“You don’t get it,” Aemond seethes. “Journalists are going to start hounding his friends, his classmates, people who lived in his dorm building. Nixon’s newspapers will publish any gossip they can dig up about what she did when she was in school. Things people saw, things people overheard—”

“What, the fact that she had one boyfriend before she met you? That’s worthy of a nuclear meltdown?! Better prepare for Armageddon, a woman got laid, launch the goddamn warheads!”

“She doesn’t get to have a past! She should understand that, she signed up for this, she knew exactly what was expected of her!”

“And what about your past?” Aegon says, low and searing, and Aemond goes quiet. Their eyes are locked on each other: Aegon defiant, Aemond unnerved. You try to remember if you’ve ever seen that expression on his face before. You don’t think you have. Not even when he was shot and half-blinded. Not even when Ari died.

“What does that mean?” you ask your husband. Still staring at Aegon—tangled in a thorny, silent battle of wills—he doesn’t reply.

There are swift, thudding footsteps. Otto grabs Aegon by his hair, hooks a finger through the small gold hoop in his right ear, and tears it straight through the earlobe. Aegon screams as blood streams down his face, feeling the ravaged fringes of his flesh.

“I told you to take those out,” Otto says. “Now remove the other one before I rip it free, and go get yourself stitched up.”

You do something you’ve never done before, never even thought of. You strike out with both hands and shove Otto so hard he goes staggering backwards, his arms wheeling. The others are yelling and rushing over. Aemond is trying to yank you to him, but he can’t get a grip on your swimsuit. “I will kill you!” you roar at Otto. “I will push you down a staircase, I will slit your fucking throat, don’t you ever touch him!”

Alicent is weeping, appalled, trying to get a look at Aegon’s damaged ear. Criston is helping her, moving Aegon’s bloodied hair out of the way. Fosco links his arms around your waist and drags you out of Aemond’s reach just as he’s getting his fingers beneath a strap of your swimsuit. Helaena is covering her face with her hands and wailing. Ludwika is shrieking at Otto: “What did you do? Don’t give me that, what did you do?!”

You are engulfed with rage, red and irresistible. You’re trying to bolt out of Fosco’s grasp. You want to claw Otto’s eyes out; you want to put a bullet in him. As you struggle, you catch a glimpse of the Jacuzzi. You don’t see Mimi anymore.

“Wait,” you plead, but nobody hears you over the noise. You look desperately at Fosco. “Where’s Mimi?!”

Once he figures out what you’re trying to say, he whirls towards the Jacuzzi. “No!” he bellows, releasing you, and careens across the courtyard. You dash after him. Now the others understand, and they come running too. You see it just before Fosco dives in: there is a shadow at the bottom of the Jacuzzi. When he bursts up though the roiling water, he is carrying Mimi, limp and unconscious and blue.

Everyone is shouting at once. Fosco lays Mimi down on the cobblestones of the courtyard. Criston sends Ludwika to call an ambulance, kneels beside Mimi, checks for a pulse. Then he begins CPR. When he breathes air into her flooded lungs, there is no response, no resurrection.

“No, no, no, she has to be alright!” Aemond says, and everyone knows why. If she’s not, this will consume the headlines for days: no victorious campaigning, no speeches or photos, just a drowned alcoholic with a damning autopsy report.

“Oh my god,” Otto moans, pacing. “This can’t be happening, not this year, not now…”

Alicent seizes your hand and squeezes it until you think it will break. She is reciting prayers in Greek. Helaena is curled up under a butterfly bush, sobbing hysterically. When he realizes this, Otto hurries to comfort her.

“Don’t watch, Helaena. Let’s go inside, I’ll walk with you, there’s nothing more we can do here.”

“Mimi?!” Aegon commands, slapping her hard across the face. “Mimi, come on, wake up! Mimi? Mimi!” She’s still motionless, she’s still blue. Aegon turns to you, blood smeared all over the right side of his face. He’s petrified, he’s in shock. “I think she’s…she’s…”

“She’s gone,” Criston says; and he lifts his palms from her hollow body. The silent sky above is a labyrinth of bad stars.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii fic #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen ii x you

301 notes · View notes

bucca2 · 1 year

Text

Shrike pt. 1 - words hung above but never would form

definition. male shrikes are known for their habit of catching insects and small vertebrates and impaling them on thorns

König x high school sweetheart reader

2nd person, gender neutral reader for now but reader is afab and referred to as a girl, reader is Austrian/has lived in Austria and speaks German for most of the story, romance, pining, friends to lovers, reader's nickname is Thorn, König's first name is Alexander

4.8k words

tw: bullying, brief mention of cheating and domestic abuse (not explicit, mentions of violence, and not done by König), mention of terrorism, suicidal thoughts

[NEXT]

based on this post by @ceilidho, who gave me permission to write this! many thanks <3

this post is dedicated to @papaver-decervicatus, who I am so proud of for finishing chapter 4 of her fic cat/mouse/den (which I highly recommend) and eating NO glass in the process. her headcanons for König have had a huge influence on me, and while there are some differences between julius and alexander, I absolutely must thank Caedis for her wonderful portrayal of König.

and of course, to @danibee33, for fueling my König brainrot. without you, I probably would not have returned to writing <33

disclaimer, I am not Austrian, I do not speak German, so if there's anything that needs correcting, please do reach out!

You admit, you’ve always had an affinity for protecting the weak.

When you were twelve, a bird slammed headlong into your bedroom window. The poor thing had avoided snapping its own neck but was certainly in no condition to fly. You’d bolted out of your childhood home to check on it, but by the time you arrived, a huge grey tomcat was prowling, sitting back on his haunches and ready to pounce. You generally liked cats, but this one was a mean old stray, and you’d always been frightened to go near him.

Without hesitation, you had shoved the cat aside, spitting and yowling, and taken the little bird into your hands.

It took a few days to nurse back to health, and you still remember the day you released it back into nature. It was worth the long scratch down your arm, pride swelling in your heart as it spread its wings and flew into a vivid blue sky. You remember it even now: a charming little gray bird, a streak of black coloring over its eyes. A shrike, your mother had identified it as.

People are no different than animals, sometimes. People can be cornered, battered, and bruised as well. You recognize the broken hunch of the bird you rescued in the boy sitting by himself at lunch time. His shoulders curl inwards with a desperate need to go unnoticed. You’ve seen him around: he’s not in any of your classes, but your classes always seem to end up in the same hallways, so you pass each other all the time.

He jumps a little as you slide into the seat next to him, shrinking away from you in a way that breaks your heart. “Hey.”

No response. You offer your name, but he seems reluctant to divulge his own.

“Is it okay if I sit here?”

He shrugs.

“Thanks. I don’t know anybody at this school, so it’s nice to have a friend.”

“…friend?” He has a nice voice, you think. Timid, but almost sweet.

“Well, if you’ll let me call you one.”

“…”

And so begins your friendship with König.

I was housed by your warmth Thus transformed By your grounded and giving And darkening scorn

You didn’t call him that in high school, of course. You wouldn’t know that name until much, much later. It takes a while to coax him out of his shell, cajoling him that you can’t call him “green-eyed boy” forever, to get his name.

“Alexander is a very good name,” you assure him, and he seems pleased. He’s still hesitant to speak to you at all, but that’s just fine by you. You’ve got plenty to talk about, anyway.

“You know, I read this book about Alexander the Great. There’s this crazy story about one of his battles at a city called Tyre. He was laying siege to it after a misunderstanding with their king…” you chatter on, unaware of the intense stare from the boy sitting next to you.

“…ordinarily, sieging an island is pretty difficult, but you won’t believe what he did,” you rattle on. “He—”

“He built his own bridge,” Alexander says, so quietly you almost don’t hear him at first. You look at him in surprise.

“Yes! You know this story already?”

“I read a lot about him.”

“Then why did you let me ramble on about it if you knew about it already?” You’re a little embarrassed, having felt proud of yourself for knowing niche facts about historical figures.

“I like listening to you talk.”

That shuts you up for a moment. Only for a moment though, before you start to laugh.

“What?” he asks, an edge creeping into his voice.

“Nothing! It’s just—usually people tell me the opposite,” you say. “People say I talk too much.”

“I don’t mind.” His eyes dart to your face before looking away again.

“That’s good to hear. But I hope you know this means you’re never getting rid of me now,” you tease, nudging him gently.

He doesn’t respond, but for a second, you could have sworn that a corner of his mouth had turned up into a smile.

Learning more about him is like trying to draw blood from a stone, but you do your best. He mentions sharing a room with a cousin. His oma makes the best comfort food. Sometimes his mother takes him into town to buy candy, but he has to hide it or his cousin will steal it. Not that he cares that much—he doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth, but his family doesn’t come from means, so it means a lot to him whenever his mother spares a few pennies to buy him a frivolity.

It's what he doesn’t say that tells you the most about him. The way he fidgets with his clothes when he’s nervous. The brief panic that shoots through him whenever you call his name before he relaxes when he realizes it’s just you. The way he shies away from people in the hallways, just to avoid any contact whatsoever.

The fact that he never talks about his father.

The way he curls into himself when he’s being bullied.

“You should be apologizing to me for being in my way right about now, freak,” Andreas taunts him. He’s knocked Alexander’s books to the ground, like some sort of cartoon caricature of a bully, and you’re fed up.

“Hey!” Without missing a beat, you slide yourself between Alexander and Andreas. You’ve recently hit a bit of a growth spurt, so you note with a bit of smugness that you’re at least an inch or two taller than Andreas. You’re also quite a bit taller than Alexander, you realize. The two of you are usually sitting when you talk, so you’ve never really noticed.

“Leave him alone!” You stand your ground even as Andreas fixes you with a withering glare.

“Ah, so you’re gonna let your big strong girlfriend fight your fights now, is that it?” Andreas sneers. Alexander stiffens behind you, and you decide right then and there that you’ve had enough of this nonsense.

“You’re the last person who should be bringing up girlfriends, Andreas,” you say, staring him down with a look that you hope is sufficiently intimidating. “Everybody knows Yulia broke up with you because you can’t get it up.” You don’t know Yulia. You don’t give enough of a shit about Andreas to follow the gossip about him. But by the way his cheeks get ruddy, you know you’ve struck a nerve. The handful of spectators your little confrontation has attracted snicker.

“You little bitch,” he snarls. You hear the gasp of the students surrounding you before you feel it. You put a hand to your rapidly reddening cheek.

The little twerp had slapped you.

“That’s what you get for getting in my way,” he says, with a smug little look that you want to wipe off his face.

You’re not a violent person. And honestly, you could have been expelled for what happens next. But you cast a quick glimpse behind you at Alexander on the ground, and something about the look in his eyes reminds you of that bird you rescued, and a quick and hot anger rises in you.

You punch Andreas.

With no wind-up, no warning, you break his nose, and he drops like a rock, howling and clutching at the blood pouring from his nostrils. A sick little giggle comes out of you as you watch, drowned out by the uproar of your little audience.

“What on earth is going on here?!” You hear a teacher roar, and the crowd quickly begins to scatter. Without hesitation, you pull Alexander up and escape before you can be subjected to the consequences of your actions.

“Boy, am I glad he didn’t put up more of a fight,” you say gleefully, high on adrenaline. “That could have gotten quite ugly.”

“I didn’t know you had that in you,” Alexander says when the two of you have gotten far away enough. The way he looks at you now is a little different—almost reverent.

“I didn’t know either!” you say. “I’ve never done that before!”

“Who knew such a pretty rose had such sharp thorns?” he mumbles to himself. Your eyes zip to him, and even he looks surprised at the words coming out of his mouth.

“A pretty rose?” you tease, nudging him on the arm. He flushes pink and turns away, but there’s a bit of a lopsided half-smile on his lips.

You’re not sure why, but the sight of it makes your skin tingle.

The first few years of high school are relatively uneventful outside of skirmishes with Alexander’s various tormentors. Your biggest regret is that you can’t always be there for him—sometimes you have to spend your free periods catching up on readings or speaking with teachers. But you’re always there for him afterwards, poison in your voice as you hatch plans to make his bullies’ lives miserable. The plans never go anywhere, but thinking about retribution always seems to make him perk up a little. And really, that’s all that matters to you.

It's silly, how long it took you to realize how much of a fixture he was in your life. There’s a street corner a few blocks from the school you always meet him at so the two of you can walk the rest of the way together. The few times you share classes, you’re always sitting together, exchanging notes and quietly judging your classmates together. And you always, always sit with him during lunch. Even when you start making other friends who surely would welcome you at their tables, you always return to the quiet green-eyed boy in the corner.

You tell yourself it’s because he’s lonely, and he needs the company. You tell yourself the rumors about the two of you are silly, the result of bored hormonal teenagers who can’t fathom being a genuine friend to someone of the opposite sex. You tell yourself it means nothing that your face feels warm whenever he smiles at you.

You never get the chance to figure out if it does mean anything. He gives you the bad news on the last day of classes before summer break.

“I…I see,” you say, trying to swallow past the lump in your throat. For once, you’re at a loss of what to say. His fingers twist around each other in his lap, the way they only do when he’s really anxious.

“Well, a fresh start is good, right?” You offer him a smile, but your heart’s not in it. Maybe you haven’t spent as much time with him as you used to back in first year—you’ve started to take more advanced classes, and you’ve been so swamped with homework and projects that sometimes hanging out with Alexander is put on the back burner. But you’d always taken comfort in knowing that he would always be there at mealtime. A steady presence in your life, as everything around you seems to be speeding towards a future you’re not quite ready for yet.

Now he’s leaving. You’d like to think your concern is for him—what’s to say his new school won’t also be rife with harassment? Will he be able to make new friends? Or will he be all alone at the lunch table again? But really, who are you trying to fool? The sudden heaviness in your chest is selfish. What are you going to do without him?

The roaring in your head stills as you feel his hand cover yours. You stare at it dumbly, unable to lift your head and look him in the eyes. Your gut feels like it’s flipping and twisting all over itself.

You lift your eyes to his. For one breathless, indescribable moment, you think he’s going to kiss you. You’re sure he’s going to kiss you. You lean closer to him, and you can feel his breath on your lips.

Your eyes slide shut.

A shout startles your eyes back open, and he jolts away from you. It’s your mother, calling that she’s here to pick you up. You let out a frustrated noise as you call back to her that you’re coming before turning back to him.

The moment is long gone, and your heart twinges with regret as he avoids meeting your gaze. “You’ll write to me, won’t you?” you say softly. “And we can still see each other?”

“Of course I will, rosethorn,” he says, with that shy little smile you love so much.

You don’t see him for another ten years.

I couldn't utter my love when it counted I couldn't whisper when you needed it shouted Ah, but I'm singing like a bird 'bout it now

It’s ironic, really. Saving birds. Saving boys. But the one person you can’t save is yourself.

Your life post-König is like the drop on a roller coaster, but with none of the thrill. High school flies by in a flurry of deadlines and mental breakdowns. It’s worth it when you get into a good university—at least, you thought so. In reality, there’s no work in Austria for someone with your degree. Your parents are older, well on their way towards retirement, so you find yourself unwilling to burden them. You’re lost, stuck, and so very alone.

And then you meet him.

Tall, handsome, a little older, with a blossoming career. In hindsight, how much of a perfect package he presented himself as was the earliest red flag. But when you’re young and behind on rent, anything better than that feels like a miracle.

You know better, really. You knew it the whole time. Getting married after knowing each other for 2 months isn’t as bad as it could be, but it’s still too quick for your comfort. But the eviction notice was on your door, and he was a perfect gentleman. What could go wrong, right?

Everything. He at least has the decency to keep up the façade for another month, but that’s the only credit you’ll ever give the man you’ve shackled yourself to. It becomes increasingly obvious that he only married you to have a live-in maid while he philanders around as he pleases. You try, oh god do you try, for five long, fruitless years. God, it’s so silly when you think about it. You liked him so much, it took you so long to realize he had never liked you in the first place. He’d scooped up the first desperate college grad he’d found, and thinking about it makes you want to hide from everyone you know.

Which you do: hiding from what few friends you do have, hiding from your parents, hiding from the part of your brain that screams that you’re wasting the best years of your life cleaning up after a grown man who won’t even touch you, much less fuck you. Your 20s are for drinking, one-night stands, and figuring out what the fuck the rest of your life is going to look like. There is plenty of drinking, but the rest of it, not so much.

You’re going to divorce him, you tell yourself in year six. Once you get a job, you’re out. But you’re no fresh grad anymore, and the 6-year gap in your resume isn’t helping matters. You spot a glimpse of light at the end of the tunnel when he tells you you’re moving: his company is offering him a higher paid position, and it’s in a bustling downtown area. Plenty of opportunity for you, right?

That’s when he starts hitting you.

You’re away from your parents, your friends, your home. You took English classes, but that won’t exactly help you in this equally European foreign country whose language you don’t speak. Now that you’re approaching your 30s, your husband seems to be rapidly realizing that his youth is also disappearing. His new job is more stressful, and most days he has no outlet for it other than taking it out on you.

Now you long for the days when he didn’t come home until you’d already fallen asleep.

And then the terror attacks begin, and your once-bustling city shuts down. More isolation. Even less hope. You stay at home all day, torn between hoping someone will get rid of your husband for you and the abject terror of being left all alone in a foreign country torn apart by violent partisans.

That’s when the despair really sets in: you’ve wasted over a decade in this awful, dead-end relationship. Sure, you’ve got a roof over your head and food in your stomach: you should feel grateful. But you don’t.

You start hoping the attacks will take you out instead.

I fled to the city with so much discounted Ah, but I'm flying like a bird to you now Back to the hedgerows where bodies are mounted

“There are mercenaries in town.”

You look up from your breakfast, lost in thought thinking about all the errands you have to run today. “Yeah?”

“About time we stopped relying on our corrupt fucking military,” he grumbles. “Maybe they’ll end this goddamn conflict once and for all.”

You don’t have much to say about that. What does it matter to you, anyway? The only conflict that matters to you lives at home, and you stopped trying to fight it a long time ago.

“The curfew’s a pain in the ass, though. You behave yourself, you hear me?” His sharp glare reminds you that he’s not saying this out of a concern for your safety: if you make trouble for him, you’ll pay for it later. You nod mutely.

Your morning goes by relatively uneventfully. You do the dishes, stare at the wall, sigh, stare at the wall some more. As much of a prison as this apartment is, you like it decently well when he’s not in it. Going outside and seeing the ravages of war all around you is anxiety-inducing. But you can’t put off buying groceries anymore.

The arrival of the mercenaries makes itself immediately apparent. The streets are somehow even emptier, and what people there are on the streets move quickly and cast suspicious glances at everyone else.

You were hoping not to interact with anybody, but your hopes are dashed when you see a checkpoint ahead, manned by soldiers in unfamiliar uniforms. Although most of them are wearing different gear, they still look more orderly and well-kept than the country’s own military. Murder must pay well.

You look around nervously, but there’s no alternate route here, and nobody local going through with you. You strongly consider going home, but you’d just have to do this all over again tomorrow.

You steel yourself with a deep breath.

“Identification?”

You show the mercenary your ID with trembling fingers, gripping your bag tightly and praying he doesn’t find your nervousness suspicious.

“Where are you headed?”

“Just—just down the street,” you say, wincing at your heavy German accent. Years upon years of living here and you still sound like a foreigner. “Getting food.” You’re so anxious you forget the word for “groceries” for a moment. You only know enough of the local language to get by, and you’re sure you must sound like a kindergartener.

The soldier raises an eyebrow at you. “You are German?”

“I…Austrian,” you answer hesitantly. Oh God, you hope there’s no issue with that. You’re not so much afraid of being detained as you are of getting home too late to make dinner.

“Interesting.” The soldier hands back your ID. “Our commander is Austrian, as well.”

You perk up a little bit at that. You’ve met a handful of German-speakers here, but not a single one of your countrymen.

Well. Aside from the one who came here with you.

“He should actually be arriving here any moment now. Big guy in a hood. You can’t miss him. They call him König.” As if on cue, a military grade vehicle pulls up to the checkpoint, military personnel stepping out. And then…

Your blood runs cold.

Nothing, nothing could have prepared you for the sight of the beast that steps out of the car. Even from a short distance, you can tell he’s a colossal size. Two metres tall, easily, wearing a dark hood that reminds you of a medieval executioner. And as if that weren’t intimidating enough, two red trails, like bloody tears, are bleached under his eyes. His eyes, which must have some sort of black paint around them, giving him the impression of being two eyes staring out at you from the pitch blackness of the hood.

Two piercing green eyes.

Trained directly on your face.

Staring in disbelief.

“I…need to return home. I’ve forgotten something.” All worries about appearing suspicious fly out the window as the enormous man in the hood hesitates for a moment before making his way towards you with alarming speed.

You all but fly back down the street, making a beeline for your building. Just a few moments ago, you were excited to meet the man. Now, the image of his eyes staring into yours fills you with a fear you can’t describe.

The next day you take a long detour to avoid the checkpoint. It’ll take you twice as long to get home this time, but it’s worth it. You can’t put the shopping off another day: the brand-new bruise on your arm throbs as a reminder. And you certainly don’t want to run into the hooded soldier again.

You get your shopping done without much fanfare. The old lady cashier, who usually looks at you from over her glasses with the stern look you’ve seen a lot of people around here level at foreigners, even pressed a piece of candy from behind the register into your hand. You’re pretty sure it’s just because she wanted to get rid of it, but it does wonders for your mood.

You’re busy plotting when to enjoy your little treat when you turn a corner and freeze.

He’s here. He’s there, standing in an alleyway near your building. Somehow even larger than you remember him yesterday, still wearing that awful hood.

Does he know where you live? You curse yourself for running straight home yesterday. He must have seen the direction you went in—or did he follow you? You attempt to quietly retreat and take another route home, but your shoe scuffs a paving stone. And like a hawk spotting its prey, his head darts towards you.

You book it.

“Wait!” calls a deep voice. Tears spring to your eyes as you hear heavy footsteps pursuing you. What have you done to deserve this? You’re no criminal. Your only crime is being a naïve dumbass in your twenties.

Your arm burns as you turn corner after corner, not bothering to take note of where you’re going. It’s no use, though: you can hear him gaining on you. Fuck, is this it? You can’t even fathom what he wants you for, and you don’t want to think about it either—

“Rosethorn!” You come to a screeching halt.

There’s only one person who has ever called you that.

You turn around, chest heaving with exertion, as the hooded soldier—König, the soldier said his name was—comes into view, approaching you slowly.

“It’s me,” he says, holding his hands out like he’s approaching a wounded animal. You’re not really sure what the point is, considering the gigantic knife he’s got strapped to his thigh is intimidating all on its own, but somehow it still puts you at ease.

“Alex...?” you whisper, hardly daring to believe it.

“Yes,” he says. His posture has changed from when you saw him at the checkpoint. He’s hunching over, trying to make himself smaller. It reminds you of that first day when you sat next to him at lunch.

It’s him.

You instantly drop all your bags and cling to him in a hug, tears spilling from your eyes. He’s so different: most obviously, he's so tall. He must have hit some growth spurt after he moved away, because he towers over you now. You can feel under all the gear that he’s put on serious muscle—not surprising for a soldier, of course. And when his arms fold themselves over you, you’re filled with a sense of safety you haven’t felt in a long time.

“What are you doing here?” you both ask at the same time. A giggle bubbles out of you as you watch his eyes crinkle in an obvious smile. God, his eyes are so green.

“I’m stationed here because of the conflict,” he says. “But what are you doing here? I contacted your parents, and they said you had moved here, but they didn’t say why.”

You’re not surprised. You’re still in contact with your parents, but you don’t talk about the elephant in your home. You know they would have helped you, if only you had asked for it, but you never have.

“I…it’s complicated,” you say, withdrawing from the hug. You stare at the ground, brushing away the wetness in your eyes.

“I have nothing urgent right now,” he says, staring at you intently.

You swallow past the lump in your throat. “I…got married,” you whisper.

Instantly, his body language changes, stiffening in shock. He takes a half-step away from you, which makes you want to cry all over again. This is awful. This is humiliating. You wish you could go back in time and shake some sense into yourself.

“I see,” he says in a strangled voice. “Congratulations.”

Despite your best efforts, the tears spill over again. “No, not congratulations,” you say. “It—”

It was the worst mistake of your life, you want to say, but you just can’t get the words out. He must notice you beginning to quake with fear, because he raises a hand to touch you gently on the arm—right on the bruise.

His stare hardens as he watches you flinch. “Rosethorn, what’s the matter?”

Everything, you want to say. I’m standing in an alleyway with my childhood crush, shaking like a leaf because a monster lives in my house, and I can’t get away from him.

With a feather-like touch surprising for a man with such large hands—he grew so much— he goes to push up your sleeve. You catch a glimpse of the bruise before you have to turn away again, shuddering. It’s ugly: black and green, and very clearly shaped like a human grip.

“I…bumped into a shelf,” you say lamely. You can’t bring yourself to rope him into your troubles. He’s a soldier now, for Pete’s sake. He has bigger problems.

You can’t read his expression due to the hood—but there’s a blazing anger in his eyes you remember all too well. The quiet fury you often saw in him so many years ago.

He must see in your expression that you don’t want to be questioned about it right now, and thankfully, he relents. With an ease in his movement that must stem from some newfound confidence, he reaches over and picks up your bags for you. “Let me carry these for you.”

It’s nice, to be taken care of for once.

Your mad dash took both of you quite far away from your building, so you have enough time for quite a nice little chat. You tell him about your time in university, he tells you what happened to him after he moved away. He’d jumped at the chance to enlist as soon as he turned 17, on the recommendation of an uncle who had spent time in the military. You laugh when he tells you that they wouldn’t let him be a sniper, a pout in his tone. You could have imagined him as a sniper back in high school, but he’s so large now it’s impossible not to notice him.

“The discipline was good for me,” he recounts. “I needed to grow a spine.”

“Don’t say that. You were just trying to get by in school, like everybody else.”

He shrugs. “I wanted to be like you.”

“Like me?” You ask incredulously.

“My rose with thorns,” he says, with a fondness that makes you blush. “Do you remember that day you punched that punk Andreas?”

“How could I forget? My fist hurt for days,” you say with a grin. “But I didn’t regret it for a second.”

He looks down at you—that’s new—with pride in his eyes. “I thought about you that day all throughout training,” he says. “You were my guardian angel.”

Your cheeks grow even warmer, and you feel like a teenager again. How can he still make you feel this way so easily after all this time? “He had a punchable face,” you say dismissively. “If not me, then it would have been someone else.”

You’re almost disappointed to arrive home. Only yesterday, home was your sanctuary. Now, it means being separated from the one person you trust fully in this country. You turn to him, almost bashful. “This is where I live."

He sets the bags down like they’re made of fine china, and he’s standing so close you almost stop breathing. The air is charged, the same way it felt that night when you almost kissed. You watch him as he watches you.

“Can I see you again?” he asks, breaking the silence.

“Of course,” you say, and the sparkle in his eye dazzles you.

You watch him leave until you can’t see him anymore. And for once, you enter your home with a light heart.

Remember me, love When I'm reborn As the shrike to your sharp And glorious thorn

if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just drop a reply! feedback is always appreciated, and my inbox is open, so please feel free to drop me an ask! I will 100% write little scenarios/headcanons about this couple because I have so many thoughts and ideas for them lol

I anticipate about 2-3 parts for this, maybe with König pov in the next part? he doesn't come across this way in this part, because it's from Thorn's perspective, but he is a very nasty boy indeed. also, I know putting lyrics in the middle of a fic is so passé, but I can't help myself. it's hozier! indulge me. also this isn't beta read so I really hope it doesn't suck

#bucca writes #könig #könig x reader #könig cod #könig mw2 #call of duty #cod mw2 #cod x reader #cod #mw2 #konig #konig cod #konig x reader #fic:shrike

489 notes · View notes

r0sespetals · 1 month

Text

☃️ ⋆ ♥ a check up ♥⋆ ☃️ - a love and deepspace story : ZAYNE

𝕥𝕒𝕜𝕖𝕤 𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕖 𝕒𝕗𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒹𝑒𝑒𝓅𝓈𝓅𝒶𝒸𝑒: '𝕕𝕠𝕔𝕥𝕠𝕣'

𝕕𝕖𝕤𝕡𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖 𝕫𝕒𝕪𝕟𝕖?! 𝕙𝕖'𝕤 𝕓𝕖𝕖𝕟 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕒𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕠𝕗𝕗𝕚𝕔𝕖 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕨𝕖 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖𝕟'𝕥 𝕓𝕖𝕖𝕟 𝕤𝕖𝕖𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕙𝕚𝕞 𝕒𝕤 𝕞𝕦𝕔𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕨𝕖𝕖𝕜 𝕤𝕠.. 𝕙𝕖𝕤 𝕓𝕖𝕖𝕟 𝕒 𝕓𝕚𝕥 𝘁𝗼𝘂𝗰𝗵 𝗱𝗲𝗽𝗿𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗱.

𝕀 𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕔𝕒𝕟𝕟𝕠𝕟 𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕤 𝕜𝕚𝕤𝕤𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕣𝕤 𝕝𝕚𝕡𝕤, 𝕟𝕖𝕔𝕜, 𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕖𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕕. 𝕃𝕀𝕋𝔼ℝ𝔸𝕃𝕃𝕐 𝔸ℕ𝕐𝕎ℍ𝔼ℝ𝔼 ℍ𝔼'𝕃𝕃 𝔹𝔼 𝕊𝕆 𝔸𝔽𝔽𝔼ℂ𝕋𝕀𝕆ℕ𝔸𝕋𝔼.

⋆ 🎀 𝓇💮𝓈𝑒'𝓈 𝓅𝑒𝓉𝒶𝓁𝓈 🎀 ⋆ - i am very excited to present this story of mines I'VE BEEN WAITING TO MAKE MY OWN TUMBLR CAUSE EVERYONES STORIES IS SOSOOSOS GOOD so i hope this one passes along ya'll too. The beginning is pretty mild but don't worry it gets a bit HJHRSGJ IN THE MIDDLE! I will post part 2 tmrw orr much later cause i wanna do the rest of the boys too -

💭- thoughts

𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓽 1/??

---- our pov ----

It’s finally time for my daily check-up with Zayne! I hope this week hasn’t been as busy for him compared to last week. He was so exhausted that when he got home, he face-timed me and then completely passed out.

I chuckle at the remembrance of that night.

I checked the time on my hunter's watch. And luckily I got time to get there.

I stepped out of my apartment, taking a turn to take the elevator down the hallway. I press the button to go down and watch as the level goes down one by one until it finally reached the lobby.

I stepped out the door and out the apartment complex. Walked down some stairs and towards the station to catch the train. The train arrives shortly after I got there, and the doors were holding everyone up since they were opening slowly. After taking a seat, I scroll on my phone and noticed an article about a private gallery known as ‘Mo Art Studio’ on an island in Whitesand Bay. Filled with artworks of the ocean all which were painted by artist Rafayel, who resides in this art studio a floor above. An image of him shows up next to Whitesand Bay. Hes a pretty tall guy with purple hair, blue with a hint of red in his eyes, wearing a white button up shirt and some black slacks. As I look over this guy’s info, I remember of a man with his sardonic and gentle voice say,

“The fish is gonna slip away you know?”

He reaches over and swiftly catches a fish. Looking back at me with a contempt look when he caught the fish. He blurs away as I look closer at his image on this article. He seemed familiar and I wanted to check more but a notification for ‘Kitty Cards’ popped up. And what’s more is that the cats in the game are so cute, I couldn’t resist the cat popping up at the top of my phone. So I tapped away smiling and played ‘Kitty Cards’ on the train for the next few minutes till my arrival to the hospital.

A couple minutes flew by and the train called out an arrival..

‘Arriving at _____ station’

Here’s my stop..

I get up as the train slows down. I put my cellphone in my bag and step off the train and walk up and out towards the infamous ‘Akso Hospital’.

Where Zayne works as a cardiac surgeon.

I still can’t really believe that I met Zayne again after all these years and even more now that he’s my primary physician. It’s nice to have atleast one familiar face here in Linkon City. I subtly smile as I enter through the hospital's doors.

The lady in the front looks up from the receptionist's desk and greets me as I walk closer to the desk.

“Hello, welcome to Akso Hospital, Your name and appointment time please?”

She clicks on her mouse as I begin to say my name and the time of the appointment. The keys clacking as she typed in my name and putting in the appointment time. She looks back at me and says,

“Please have a seat in the waiting area, I’ll let you know when Dr. Zayne is ready to see you.”

She smiles and motions her hand over to where the waiting area was, filled with chairs and screens above showing off the hospital’s heart cases. Along with a slideshow, showing most of the specialized doctors in this field including the chief cardiac surgeon.

I sit down and stare at the screen patiently waiting for one specific person to show up. My heart thumps louder as I look at how his black hair sits against his paleish skin, along with his black tie under his white lab coat and his glasses on top of his green eyes.

That person being the chief cardiac surgeon.

“I told them they didn’t need to put me up there, its of no use to them if the picture doesn’t save anyone.”

I heard him. His calm and deep voice ringing deep into my ears. I turned my body to the right. His green eyes meeting right with mines, he's sitting right next to me smiling slightly I think.

“Oh! Dr. Zayne!”

I smile at him. He pauses and stops smiling. He turns away and gets up with the clipboard he brought. I noticed his ears turned red

I look at him as he turns back to face me. His face turning all serious and back to his usual monotone voice.

I thought he was a bit happier today but I guess not.

“If you could please follow me to the office, I have to urgently check in with you about this matter now.”

He looks over with his eyes, before he turns back and continues walking.

He walks away as I get up, following in pursuit. What could Zayne possibly want to talk about? Could it be about my heart.. Is something wrong?

We enter Zayne’s office.

The lights were off when I entered.

Leaving only the lamp on his desk as the only source of light, along with the sunlight outside. I heard the click of the door lock. It must be really urgent if he wants no one in here.

I look down at my hands and place them at my heart. Wondering what possible bad news it could be that he was hurrying us in here.

I hear a long sigh next to me, along with his shoes tapping lightly as he walks towards me.

I lifted my face back up to him slowly. Already bearing for the worst.

“Zayne.. is there something wronmmph?!"

I blinked and next thing you know i'm against the wall.

He kisses me. His tongue swirling with mines, pressing his mouth closer to mine’s, moving his other hand near my ear and cupping my face to make his kiss deeper. His eyes are closed as I opened my eyes again.

“W-wait zayne..”

I gasp out, breathing hastily because I was running out of breath. Placing my hands on his chest, pushing him away a little to give me space to breathe. He opens his eyes staring at me with those green eyes of his and then down to my lips. He takes a step closer and places his thumb on my bottom lip and fondled it.

“I can’t?”

His breath shaking because of how close and deep his kisses were being done. He tugs my bottom lip down a bit.

He breathes out.

“Please.. Just today..” He looks at my lips in desperation and then places his gaze back on me. He lifts my chin up with his hand.

Placing small kisses on the corner of my lips before actually kissing me, closing his eyes. He places his hands around my waist and pulls me even more closer to him. Making this much intimate than before.

He places his forehead on mines.

“I haven’t seen you... or even touch you this whole week”

He breathes out still trying to catch his breath.

He locks eye contact with me. I put my hand up and caress his cheek. He lays his head on my hand and closes his eyes. His ears were turning redder by the second.

“Mmm.. this feels so nice..”

The coldness of his hand presses onto mine.

“I can't take it anymore..”

He pulls me in and embraces me. My head is placed close to Zayne’s chest hearing the fast pace of his heartbeat. I subtly smile. I’m the one making him feel like this. He whispers above me. His deep and calm voice echoed in my ears.

“I’m so used to seeing you all the time.. so why didn’t you come last week? You weren't answering your texts or calls.. I really thought you finally got tired of me not showing the same attention as you were giving me"

I looked up at him. His black hair loomed down on me, no longer slick back anymore.

He looks so sad. I feel so bad that I didn;t answer but..

“I was occupied with so many wanderers and when I’d get home I’d have to deal with another alert. I'm so sorry I made you felt that you were being neglected Zayne... I really do cherish you and i'll try to respond on my breaks more"

I gave him a reassuring smile. His green eyes lock with my glossy eyes. He sighs in relief.

“You’re just as busy as I am but I always make sure to respond when I can unlike you" He says in a cold tone. Before i could respond he says

“But, now that we’re all alone... there is so much I can do to you for the lost time”

He looks at me with so much longing and lust.

He leans his face closer to mine. I cover his mouth.

“ButZayneyou still haveotherpatientsAndineedtogotoworksoon”

I fluster out feeling the room getting warmer.

He locks eye contact with me, having one of his eyebrows raised. He removes my hands off his mouth, he smirked.

“Zayne are you listening to me..?”

I feel the warmth in my cheeks as he pushes me back on the wall.

Still pressed against the wall by Zayne. He leans down and leaves soft kisses on neck, pulling me in by the waist. Leaving little nibbles along my ears and down my neck. His warm breath caresses my ears as he speaks.

“How will i know about listening if you alway find a way to ignore my conversations with you”

He gives a subtle smirk when he comes back to looking at me.

“But that was only one time Zayne.”

"More than one time actually.. especially since i am your doctor"

He says as he pushes his lips on mines. His kiss was deep and desperate, not allowing for any of us to breathe.

Becoming almost unbearable.

"if i had known you would ignore me for a week I would've done this so you wouldn't leave me again.."

He sloppily mentions as he continues to kiss me. I felt his hand slip under my shirt going up and under my bra to grasp my breast. I felt his fingers pinch and play on my nipple, going in a circular motion.

He lets go of the kiss to go my neck and leave soft kisses and marks. A gasp escapes my lips as his other hand does the same. And he was about to lift up my shirt when..

A knock is heard on the door.

We abruptly stop.

My shirt midway off.

Both of us messy, breathing heavily, and his lips left with kiss marks

“Dr. Zayne, there is another patient who needs to talk to you”

His eyebrows twitch. He grumbles under his breath and put a hand on his mouth.

Thinking.

I let out a small laugh because i've never seen zayne so troubled on something before. He looks back at me and kisses me one more time. But then he kisses me again. I pushed him off again to stop.

I talk sense into Zayne and he then cleans himself up. Doing his hair with the extra hygienic things he had in his drawer. He made it seem as if nothing had happened.

"I'll call you. And this time please pick up in a quicker manner"

He sits down at his desk pulling out a folder.

"I will make it up for you in tonight Zayne! I will make cake for you. And you better be there directly after work" I point at him and he chuckles.

"Yes I will be there, now please leave my office before I act on even more things I dont mean to"

He turns his head away to look at his laptop.

I noticed a pink flush on his ears again and I smile.

"I'll be taking my leave now then Dr. Zayne"

I start to walk out but before i turn I see Zayne give me a smile.

"See you later "

My heart beated a bit faster.

I waved back bye and rushed out.

Ah now I gotta see which cake Zayne likes and make it..

I go down to the station and scroll on easy cake recipes to do.

Plus it can't be that hard right?

⋆ 🎀 𝓇💮𝓈𝑒'𝓈 𝓅𝑒𝓉𝒶𝓁𝓈 🎀 ⋆ - 𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕪 𝕥𝕦𝕟𝕖𝕕 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕡𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝟚! 𝔸ℕ𝔻 𝕀𝔽 𝕐𝕆𝕌 ℂ𝕆𝕌𝕃𝔻 ℙ𝕃𝔼𝔸𝕊𝔼 𝕣𝕖𝕡𝕠𝕤𝕥/𝕤𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕖/𝕠𝕣 𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕥 𝕥𝕠 𝕤𝕦𝕡𝕡𝕠𝕣𝕥 <3

(if i have typing errors i AM SO SORRY cause i kept re-reading and typing in new things so my badd)

67 notes · View notes

pouralaura · 20 days

Note

Sorry, this is probably weird. But my brain is Raphael 24/7 and he and Tav being obsessed with each other. But I was wondering how he’d react to a demi Tav?

He’s crushing and trying to impress for the longest time, and they are completely unphased. Like nothin’, nada. I’m sure he’d be frustrated. But also perplexed? He’s always been able to charm his way with people. So he meets this unmovable person and he’s like ???

But then imagining later on, Tav’s feelings for him suddenly hit them like a fucking train. All of their obsession with HIM hits like tenfold. He is the sexiest being in existence, and they are stupidly in love with him, and they are PANICKING.

I may be the only one who finds this particular scenario intriguing but 😅

Disclaimer: I am not well-versed in demisexuality and this is my first time writing it, so please pardon any lack of necessary nuance here. thanks to @reallyhatethiswebsite for helping me figure out the trigger point! they/them AFAB Tav, Raphael POV.

Had Raphael ever, in all of his hundreds of years, experienced such a maddening, tantalizing, mouthwatering proximity to victory? Every hellish fiber of his being thrums in anticipation of his looming triumph. The Crown, so close, its pull so alluring. The augury of his reign launches his mind into a state of utter bliss outside of business hours (and, frankly, often during), a grin on his face and his cock hard as a diamond beneath the quilting of his luxuriously expensive trousers. He is, simply put, so close.

There remains but a single obstacle in his way: a lost, floundering little mouse, so unprepared and ill-equipped for success -- at least, at first. Raphael had been pleasantly surprised at Tav's capability for mortal achievement once they'd gotten their feet underneath them. His respect for them grew as their conquests did; they'd proven an apt ally for many and a fearsome adversary for many more.

Flawed as they are, Tav is perfect for his plan. Raphael has every faith that they will be his savior (in a manner of speaking) now that the time is drawing near. They must succeed. They will. Such a headstrong, belligerent creature; all the sweeter to become the victor -- and, in line with that, to claim himself.

(More on that in a moment.)

He's ruminating on this, as he has near-incessantly in recent months, while strolling back to the Devil's Den from deeper within the city. Maintaining chivalrous relations with his hosts at Sharess' Caress is mandatory; he pauses at the front desk to brush a kiss across the delicate knuckles of the blushing Amira, inclines his head in polite greeting to various good-natured courtesans, and stops to exchange pleasantries with Hoots at the bar before ascending the stairs to his domain of the Gate. Trivial pursuits, but necessary.

(Back to the matter at hand --)

Yes, he will claim Tav himself.

...This point requires further clarification. He will claim Tav as a step to his own conquest. They will fulfill a contract with him. If it happens that they also wish for his claim in a more decidedly carnal way, what manner of devil would he be to deny them? A favor for a favor, after all.

But, alas, they'd proven nearly unmovable in that last respect. It's far from the first time Raphael has experienced, either implicitly or explicitly, rejection of his incomparable devilish charms -- but, to be fair: nearly all of the aforementioned occurrences had been caused by an innate preference for the fairer sex. Their loss, perhaps; but it simply couldn't be helped -- and certainly not a stain on his ego.

(Tav, for what it's worth, however, does not seem limited by such preferences. Near-flawless reconnaissance is a gift and a curse; Raphael is very much aware of their blessedly brief dalliance with the insufferable vampling.)

Such hopes for mutual understanding on levels to-be-determined had been dashed, indeed, until a particular point of curiosity earlier in the week, when Tav and their ragtag gang of unappealing ruffians had met him upstairs at the Caress following his confrontation with the inestimable Kith'rak. Voss had left, and Raphael had snapped his fingers to shield Tav and their party from the detestable illithid shouting about in their heads --

The devil had watched figurative clicking cogs turn between the little mouse's ears for several seconds as they processed the assumedly blissful silence he'd fleetingly gifted them.

"I don't...hear anything." Tav's voice had been quiet. Surprised.

"You are, as always, welcome." He'd smugly spread his arms, inclining his head in a mock bow. "My favorite future client deserves nothing if not the very best I can offer."

There were no differences in how he'd behaved on this occasion, but the way Tav looked at him after his effortless momentary aid was far more layered than during any previous encounter. And, if he was correct -- colored by the hint of a blush, one that he could smell before he could see. The scent of blood rising to their cheeks, dusting their pretty countenance with just a trace of something. A crack. A break.

Perhaps.

Delicious.

He nears the door of the Devil's Den, and...stops.

There is a familiar scent in the air; one he did not expect to be greeted by upon his return to The Office. It's them.

His little mouse is inside. Must have climbed through a window, leapt across rooftops to reach the one opening he leaves regularly and intentionally unwarded for just this precise possibility.

(Korrilla, behind his back, raises her eyebrows at this deliberate lapse in security each time it's included in his instruction. She's lucky he doesn't snap the bones in each of her toes one-by-one.)

Cautiously, he wills the hellish locks to open. Carefully, he presses long, tanned fingers to the door's handle. With deliberation, he pushes into the room.

It takes him two point three seconds to register that Tav is not only in the room, but on their back on the rich, plush red duvet-covered bed, propped up on their elbows, staring straight at him with the loveliest blush dusted across the apples of their cheeks. He steps stiffly into his domain, letting the heavy wooden door close and lock behind him with a decided click. Another seven point eight seconds to close the distance between them (he slinks across the room slowly, like a cat); a full nine seconds, once he's arrived at the bedside, to drink in Tav's nakedness from head to toe -- well, except for the whipped cream adorning the tips of their breasts, if one could call that any sort of coverage. And -- ah. An amber liquid filling the divot of their belly button.

His mouth curls up into a satisfied little smirk. They have been paying attention.

"Are you here to accept my offer, little mouse?" Raphael finally asks, low and warm and purring.

He watches them swallow. Breathe. Follows the red flush as it spreads, heated, down their neck, between their cream-laden breasts, around their liquor-filled navel, all the way down to the lovely pink of their vulnerable, exposed, undeniably glistening sex.

"I am not. At least, not yet." In a contrast to their blush, Tav's voice is strong and level as they continue despite Raphael's responding sneer. "I am here to make one of my own."

"And what, pray tell," the devil bites out, voice tinged with the familiar mix of irritation, intrigue, and damning arousal this creature heralds within him, "might that be?"

"I'm inclined to accept, but only following further discussion." They grin. "But over dinner, here. And...you'll need to do something about my --" here they motion to the confectionary disaster writ upon their flawed, mortal body, beneath him in every way -- "current state."

He'll play along, if only to ease the tightness in his trousers.

Less than ten minutes later, when Raphael is laving his forked tongue along the underside of Tav's breast, lapping up the last of the cream and holding himself back from spilling onto the sheets beneath them, he thinks: I am in control.

Tav moans as he bites; as he presses his face between their thighs, a ragged whine bubbles up from his throat, hot and needy.

They'll be mine yet.

#raphael x tav #raphael bg3 #laura's writing #bg3 raphael #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #raphael the cambion #thank you for the ask!#was super fun to write raph as the one breaking tav for once #anon ask #prompt request

51 notes · View notes

mslanna · 5 months

Note

Raphael telling Tav, "I've grown quite fond of you, in my way. Perhaps too fond."

enby Tav without body configuration blood Read on AO3

It Takes Too

It was an utter and absolute disgrace. A devil, an infernal being of the most resplendent order and – that. Raphael looked at the heap of flesh and bone before him. Shivering. Quivering. Slowly bleeding out.

He could restore the broken body easily. A snap of his fingers. A dunk in his healing pool. But the actual sting and pain came from how much Raphael wanted to. He was a devil, by the nine hells. A being of evil and suffering. He thrived on desperation. The view before him should light up his heart and bring joy to his day.

It did not.

The joy was postponed and relocated. When he had his hands on the perpetrators of this – incident. It helped his mood that all three of them, the three that survived capture that was, were currently secured in his private cells in his House of Hope. Future pleasure was guaranteed. He had many hours of delightful torture before him until, eventually, he'd suck out their souls like well-aged wine. It might take decades indeed.

But first, there was the matter of his little mouse. What was left of them. Raphael was tempted to poke the heap with a foot, but it wasn't worth soiling his boots over. This should have been the easy part. The shadowcursed lands were healed, the road to Baldur's Gate was free. And this is what Tav did with their triumph. Let themselves get overwhelmed by bandits. Bandits!

Pathetic.

A minuscule mewl of pain reached up to Raphael's ear. He'd have to intervene soon. If he wanted to. A question he had avoided until now. Yes, his plan rested, rather squarely, on the shoulders of this mortal. And yes, so far they had done well enough for themselves. And him. He enjoyed watching their progress.

But was it because it brought him closer to his own destiny? The Crown of Karsus was within reach. Tav was this close to figuring everything out and handing it over on a silver platter. His trap was laid out well. The mouse came back to nibble on the "free" cheese ever so often. Once in the city another meeting, maybe two should seal their fate.

Tav was bound to him, of that he had made sure. Raphael sighed. It was a fragile thread as yet. Too fragile for his liking. He wanted – Raphael paused. It didn't matter what he wanted until he had the crown. Everything else had to wait. Even Tav. Maybe, especially Tav. He dammed off the deluge of images intruding his thoughts. Later. Soon.

Not soon enough.

He crouched at the side of the broken adventurer and waved his hand over their body. Close, but not close enough. Tav moaned and moved in pain. A little punishment for their recklessness. Also, the noise was so close to its pleasant cousin. Raphael licked his lips. Later.

A little more magic and Tav opened their eyes, blood-shot and bleary. But their face brightened when they recognised him. "Raphael?"

"The very same." He put an appropriate amount of sarcasm into his tone. "You are reckless, little mouse."

Under the blood and sweat Tav blushed. They tried to speak but Raphael put a finger over their bloody lips. Close enough. Soft. His mind conjured those lips onto his skin everywhere and Raphael pushed the images away resolutely. No time for that yet. "Do you plan to get into debt with me until I can just ask anything from you in a deal?"

The blush deepened. "You didn't have to come."

"No, I did not. But as I said, you are my favourite future client. Am I going to forgo this because you throw away your life on a whim?"

"I want to live." It was a soft murmur. Tav looked away as they said it and their eyes went dark.

"Well, lucky for you then, that I want the exact same thing." Raphael stood and offered his hand. After some hesitation, Tav took it and let him help them to their feet. He gave them a critical once-over. They'd make it to camp.

Raphael ignored the urge to take Tav to the House of Hope. The healing pool beckoned and he could almost see the droplets glistening on Tav's bare skin. Unthinking, he licked his lips again.

"Why, though?" Tav raised a brow and tried to brush of the worst of the mud and gore.

"I've grown quite fond of you, in my way. Maybe too fond." It was enough of the truth.

"Do I owe you now?" Tav asked.

"And what if you did, little mouse? What do you have to offer?"

In return, the mortal looked him over. Raphael wondered what they saw. The devil despite his human form? The saviour he positioned himself as? Or still only a fiend after their soul?

"I can think of a thing or two," they finally replied. "To make sure you are not really too fond of me but just- an appropriate amount of fond." They smiled as they said it and though it wasn't in anyway suggestive, it cut Raphael to the bone.

"Cat got your tongue?" Tav still smiled and held out their hand. "Let me get cleaned up and look into any remaining injuries and I am all yours. For now."

On impulse, Raphael took Tav's hand, pulled them close and teleported into the House of Hope. They could treat any lingering ailments there, much better than in the field or camp. All his for now was good enough. For now.

#bg3 raphael #raphael x tav #bg3 fanfiction #prompt fill #sleazy second-hand car dealer #anon answered #mel writes fanfic

50 notes · View notes

reverieblondie · 4 months

Note

Not a fic/drabble request, but could I please ask for a quick rundown on your thoughts for how Raphael would react to realizing that one of his warlocks is an ex of his little mouse? Would anything about his reaction change depending on the nature of the break-up? Would it matter how competent or loyal of an agent for Raphael the warlock is? Would the cambion's reaction change depending on what stage he is at with his little mouse (like Interested but not yet courting vs. Courting)? Etc.

You want to know my thoughts??? 👀💖

So, I think the Raphael in the game would for sure keep his eye on the warlock not because he particularly cares if they where bad to his little mouse but what information they could get and use from the Warlock to better manipulate Tav. BUT! I think your wanting to know about the Raphael I hc and write about.

I think that Raphael would size them up, I have a feeling that Raphael has never given this warlock much attention but when it gets back to him that his little mouse was once with this warlock Raphael is curious. Raphael plays it cool however inviting the warlock to his home offering him some wine to loosing him up before asking his question about Tav and their relationship. Nothing overt though, like Raphael will watch as the Warlock chugs down the dark wine, watching has he rambles and chats Raphael gently leading him through the conversation to Tav, “Your from the Baldurs Gate? Never realized that before, I rather enjoy that city. I have a new client from there…goes by Tav…oh? You know her? Well what information can your spare…” the warlock would of course fall into this trap and ramble on and on even kinda gloating that they dated.

Now I am imagining that this warlock starts sharing intimate details in their drunken ramble, and that causes Raphael’s hands to clench, his knuckles turning white as he talks about her…his mouse… what this Warlock laughs off Raphael would treasure… this flea, touched her, kissed her and is now talking about her so loosely. That’s when Raphael smiles standing before he roughly takes the goblet from the Warlock, the Warlock is confused and some what scared of what their patron is doing/thinking, did he mess up? Anger him? Though on the inside Raphael is seething he keeps his composure and tells the warlock thank you for the chat but their is matters to attend too. And he will be receiving a new task from him very soon…

I don’t think it matters if this warlock is the best or the worst if he’s an ex of Tavs and Raphael knows it the warlock will go from Raphael not paying him much mind to Raphael wanting to converse with him more, but the flip side of that is the warlock is now receiving harder, more uncomfortable missions to complete. The warlock will think that it’s because Raphael thinks they are capable, but in actuality it’s just Raphael’s way to torture them but still getting what he wants. If they die they die if they don’t at least he’s getting what he wants.

Then let’s say Raphael starts sleeping with or courting his Mouse? That warlock is gone, never to be heard from or spoken about again. Raphael isn’t going to risk Tav feeling unease about their presence in what will soon be her home. But…their is also a part of me that loves a bit of a dark Raphael that would want to torture the warlock further…

Raphael would call the Warlock in and as he approaches his master’s office he will see Raphael completely ravishing Tavs body. Her voice moaning in ecstasy as her nude body is sweating and arching off Raphael’s desk. Raphael’s cock buried in her, rolling his hips so deep in and out of her squelching cunt. Raphael’s tongue licking on her breast and neck before biting hard to make her scream and her cunt clench on him harder. The warlock is frozen at the sight and that’s when Raphael’s glowing eyes will flick over to him and he would start fucking her harder making her call out Raphaels name, babbling about how much she loves him and how full she feels with him buried so deep. As the warlock runs off in embarrassment, and fear. Raphael will laugh…everyone knows that if they interrupt Raphael during his business the payment is your life…

Hope this makes sense!! Sorry for any typos! Or run on sentences! 💕✨

#reverieblondie rambles #askreverie #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 headcanons #raphael bg3 #bg3 thoughts #bg3 raphael #raphael x tav #raphael the cambion #baldur's gate 3 raphael #baldurs gate 3 raphael #raphael #reverie thoughts

43 notes · View notes

dayangaytransman · 5 months

Text

Warnings: mention of Transphobia, Homophobia, Self harm, Suicide, Gender Dysphoria and depression

I translated this with the help of AI so I don't know how much of it is correct. Sorry for bad english

I just want to share this; otherwise, I might do something that makes everyone upset

I am a Trans man/Transmasc/Genderfluid person. I use any pronouns except She/Her.

In my country, they won't let me transition, but they also don't want me near them pre- transition

I tell doctors and people who say they can help me that I need testosterone.

But they tell me if they give that to me, I will have a beard and I will regret it! I want a beard! WTF!

A doctor said to me that he cannot give me testosterone, but I can buy it and inject it myself! They don’t sell medicines like that without a doctor’s permission.

I look like a woman, or a 12-year-old cis boy.

I am 19 years old

And when people meet me, a grown man, they see a child and act accordingly. They call me little and short, and I can’t tell people in public how old I am, but they always ask.

I hate myself because I don’t look like the grown man I am. I am 153 cm and 42 kg. I am short, skinny, and have a baby face.

I sometimes present as feminine, and when I do, people in public say unkind things to me. They even try to harm me.

I live in a place where the government executes gay men and I am afraid when they see me as a gay boy.

I live in a Muslim country, so they expect me to wear a hijab, even though I am not Muslim.

I can’t transition here, even if they allow it. The doctors don’t know what they’re doing. I don’t want to be a laboratory mouse. Once, the most famous doctor was accused of killing a person just from a mastectomy! I want a healthy, beautiful, normal body.

I can’t travel for transition because I am very poor, and in my country, even $10,000 is a lot. Even with 100 years of working, I couldn’t accumulate that much money.

But they won’t even let me work or study! Many LGBTQIA+ people here have been expelled from school.

In my country, a trans person is a psychopath. Many of us don’t have an ID ( of our true gender) , and we can’t live like this.

I can’t attend classes, such as an art class, or visit any doctor. They require an ID, and even when they don’t, I don’t want to out myself or have them touch and examine my body.

I experience all forms of dysphoria that exist. I am dealing with depression, childhood trauma, ADHD, social anxiety, among other issues.

I tried to kill myself twice. I have left school. I don’t want to leave the house, but I am trying to change these things, and I can’t seem to do so.

And you know what? Nobody cares!

Do you think all transgender individuals speak English and reside in countries that are friendly to the queer community?

I cannot create a GoFundMe here; there is no supportive organization or similar entity available. Everyone here hates me and can easily kill me.

I am gay, and my relationships have always been toxic.

Men do not perceive me as a man.

My father left me; my mother just doesn’t care about me, and my brother is my biggest enemy.

I cry every day, and I don’t know if I want to be alive anymore. When I tell all my friends and family, even those who can see my tears, they don’t care.

I don't know what to do.

I see people on the internet who just need to turn 18 to transition, try a little bit harder, or travel to another city.

I do not have these privileges. I have wanted testosterone for four years and have tried to obtain it in the way the government indicated, but they have not provided it to me.

I hate my chest, My high, My face, My... My everything

I feel inadequate because I am unable to study, work, or even travel to see my boyfriend and best friend.

I remain alive because if I were to die, there would be no one to feed my cat. He/it is all I have in this world.

People often ask whether I am a girl or a boy. They always tell me that I am short and small, and insist that I can’t be older than they are.

I AM A GROWN ASS MAN!

Imagine calling Tom Ellis or Henry Cavill cute, little, and girlish.

And when my gender changes because I am genderfluid, it gets worse. And I don't feel like a woman.

Nobody here understands what ‘non-binary’ means.

They don’t understand the meaning of ‘trans’ either.

They refer to us by a term that I cannot repeat because it is an offensive word. A bad word that means: a person who is a prostitute has two genitals and is mentally insane. And they want transgender individuals to fully transition. Otherwise, they won’t give them an ID. And who do you think are the ones who say who is trans and who is not? The government! Actually, it’s the psychologists, but mostly the government. You need to prove yourself to them, and I tried hard, but I failed.

Even my family doesn’t see me as an adult—a man who is 19 years old.

Most of the day, I talk to AI because it is kind and knows what it is doing.

Here people think we are sex workers. That Trans people are always horny!

I have dysphoria, so I am not horny, even when I want to be. I can't even masturbate. I can't even look at it.

Here if they find out, they can send me to jail because I am an AFAB person without Hijab. All the people here are transphobic and I can't do shit about it.

And... Nobody in the world cares... I have no doubt that you do not even know the geographical location of my country.

Queer people in my country are the most miserable people on the planet. And they are against each other more than anywhere else. Gay men don't want me around them here ,same as Trans men. And they all hate non-binary people, Polyamorus people and people like me who have more than 10 labels.

I want to grow one day and become an artist, a writer, and an LGBTQIA+ activist. But also I want to kill myself. I want to become manly, sexy, hairy, and big But on the other hand, I want to hurt myself. I want to study philosophy, literature, and languages, but I also hate them because they don’t include someone like me.

I want to write LGBTQIA+ stories in my native language to contribute to my community. But this is illegal here.

I want to do anything and everything, but I know all of this is a dream, and just a dream

All I can do is cry and wonder if I should kill myself

I am sorry if this makes you upset, but I need to say these things to the world.

I wish I were AMAB, or if not, a wealthy person so I could transition. And if not that, then Canadian, European, or even American, so the transition would not be just a dream. Or if I am none of these, at least to not have all the dysphoria in the world, from top to bottom, from voice to face, to height to hips to…

Why? Just... Why?

#gender dysphoria #transgender #trans man #genderfluid #lgbtqia+#sorry for being depressing #nonbinary #transmasc #ai translation #this is my first post #this is my life #i am scared #i don't know how to tag this

38 notes · View notes

shipandrunforit · 10 months

Text

Dropping some Heartsteel head cannons I have bc these thoughts won’t leave me alone and I’m curious how much they are going to tie in magic with this (bc Kayn and Ezreal still have their powers)

Kayn and Rhaast

Was a street kid growing, something happened that lead to him being orphaned and living on the streets for a few years

Accidentally released rhaast while trying to steal things from a museum, Rhaasf was not happy about having the situation and tried to leave but Kayn didn’t let him go out of spite.

Two slowly grew to be friends but aren’t the healthiest of friends with Kayns ego feeding into Rhaast, especially when their on stage, and Rhaast has a tendency to voice and pressure kayn to follow through on intrusive thoughts or actions.

Rhaaat was the one who thought of them entering the music industry (wanted everyone’s eyes on him) and so they worked their ass off to get into the industry.

Rhaast also enjoys the dramatics, got very board sitting in the weapon for years and enjoys putting on a show and being a show off.

Ezreal

Was sort of like those Disney kids from the Mickey Mouse club, was how he got into the industry at such a young age. (Also could be why kayn calls him the pop star Prince, is bc he was everywhere for a while).

Is an orphan and is being raised by his uncle

Not sure how he got teleportation when he doesn’t seem to have the gauntlet but he very much loves using his abilities to jump around the city and do parkour.

Would probably also use it to sneak out at times either to hide from his old manager when he was in trouble

First time he did this in front of the boys was bc he was too lazy to walk to the kitchen and he scared the crap out of K’Sante, still make jokes about it.

The dog sleeps in his room, was also the one to name the dog.

Good af editing, especially on computers

Yone

Started out as a dj and went to music school and even taught his brother a few basics of being a dj as well.

Still had a falling out with his brother bc he saw how bad the industry was and didn’t want Yasuo to get involved. Led to them having a fight and haven’t really talked since

Is very into mythology and folklore (is why for his section of music video we see the azukana spirt. Is also partially bc I have no fucking clue how else to tie that part of his backstory into this).

Boys played a prank on him by switching his coffee once, long story short they all (including Rhaast) collectively agreed never to do this again bc of how terrifying the results of this prank where

Yone is one of the best drawers in the group besides Sett and the two talk about animations sometimes (Yone animated the fox in his section)

Has made the boys Dino nuggets at one point

Sett

Is a big fan of comics, animation, and pfp fighting games

Did the drawings for his section as well as the animations for the background (am referring to that scene in the end of the music video)

Dad was a boxer who left when Sett was young

Sett also knows how to box and worked as a boxer for a bit as well as a bouncer maybe. Rap was more of a hobby but when he got signed onto a record label he switched to doing it full time

Punched the paparazzi bc they were harassing his mom

Favorite anime’s include jojo’s bizar adventures and one punch man

Meet Apjelious before Heartsteel at a meuseum that showcasing a new planetarium exhibit. Two hit it off and are now dating.

Aphelios and Alune

He and his sister were involved in choir when they were younger

Alune went off to college to get her degree in business in management and aphelios went stayed home and did his music.

Aphelios lost his voice either due to medical reasons or because of an accident, Alune transferred to a closer college to be with her brother when the news broke out.

Aphelios had a hard time getting further in the industry, was often discredited or people wouldn’t want to work with him bc it was “too much of a hassle”.

Was nervous for his sister to meet Sett only to realize the two get along great and would 100% commit crimes together

Is also a gamer and will do dates with Sett that’s just them playing video games or Sett listening to him ramble on about movie or video game scores.

Aline was very chill with the boys breaking into the studio bjt did tell them not to break anything (spoilers, they did and she was not happy about it).

Alune is the older sibling and will tease her brother and the other boys and is not afraid to fight them if push comes to shove.

K’Sante

Has written and preformed a lot of songs before Heartsteel

Used to work on songs with his ex boyfriend but the two spit up due to the strain working together put on their relationship

Is the relationship expert in the group and will give the others advise or flirting or planning dates or anything else they need help with if they ask.

Loves going to the gym with Sett, might have been how the two of them meet in the first place. They got to talking about music at one point and when they found out the other was looking for someone to collaborate with they decided to work together.

Spot for one another when in the gym

Is the other mom friend of the group but a lot more chill, let’s them get away with more things then Yone would

Is good at filming and old school editing. He and Ezrael did most of the did for the music video and let the others scribble one what they compiled then approved it.

Was against the coffee incident and straight up left the building when it happened.

#heartsteel #aphelios #heartsteel sett #heartsteel aphelios #heartsteel kayn #heartsteel rhaast #heartsteel yone #Heartsteel K’Sante #ksante #shieda kayn #alune #heartsteel alune #headcanons #heartsteel headcanons

68 notes · View notes

xbadgerbearx · 5 months

Text

chapter 1: perv

summary: When a new serial killer prowls the streets of Gotham and murders politicians in Gotham, Batman is forced into unraveling the city's dark secrets. Only, he didn't expect to team up with you. What an unlikely duo...

pairing: Batman x Reader

word count: 2k

warning: spoilers for The Batman (2022)

note: no use of (y/n) and enjoy!

Sonata in Darkness: ... [2]

“Thursday, October thirty-first…

The streets are crowded for the holiday, but hiding in the chaos… is the element. Waiting to strike at the decent… the vulnerable…

But I’m there too. Watching.

Two years of nights have turned me into a nocturnal animal. It’s a big city, I can’t be everywhere… but they don’t know that.

We have a signal now. When that light hits the sky, it’s not just a call… It’s a warning.

Fear is a tool.

They think I’m hiding in the shadows…

But I am the shadows.

I am vengeance.”

———————————————————————————————

“Watch where you’re going, pipsqueak.”

The man who backed into you spat, grumbling as he stumbled away. Sighing, you rolled your eyes but kept your composure and continued on your way with a covered tray in your hands. Luckily the bastard didn’t make you drop it.

The dim club obscured most features of a person, but the colorful lights revealed everything with a flash or blink. You were dolled up in your work attire: glamorous makeup, a slutty dress, heels, the whole works. Men and women alike found you irresistible—a real catch.

You approached the table with a friendly smile as you set the tray down and revealed its contents: drops. The partiers cheered and clamored to get their hands on the drugs presented before them. With a wink you left the group, all while ignoring the stares and occasional whistles. Slipping behind the bar you saw the bartender waving to get your attention.

“What’s up?”

“Drops. Mr. Cobblepot wants these—“ He pointed to another tray, this time with a thick envelope and a fresh drink, “—delivered to him upstairs.”

“Sure thing,” you said as you gathered the item and sauntered out of the underground club. The almost calming blue light of the 44 Below was immediately erased by the harsh, flashing red lights of the club upstairs. If you weren’t so used to it, it would have given you a headache. You were almost there when suddenly-

“Selina?”

“Oh hey, my little mouse, haven’t seen you all night,” Selina purred with a smile. “Where’re ya off to?”

“Oz. He requested some samples from below.”

She hummed in understanding. “Want me to come with? I’m not doing much.”

“Yes, please.”

Your night just got slightly better. Selina was a friend of yours—your best friend, actually. You guys were sharing an apartment at the moment to save on some cash, but you didn’t mind. The only thing that drove you a little crazy was that she’d seemingly turn up with a new stray cat almost every few days. As long as they didn’t start stinking up the apartment, you didn’t really care. At least they were cute.

You guys linked arms and laughed as you made your way past the crowd and to his office, heels clicking on the cold metal floor. Selina took the tray from you to hold it herself—how sweet. Getting closer to his office, you could hear men talking in low tones. Making your way inside, the men silenced themselves. Oz was sitting on his couch while a man clad in a black suit stood in front of him. He looked very… menacing as he stared you and Selina down.

“Hey, it’s okay, baby,” Oz thankfully interrupted. “Mr. Vengeance don’t bite.”

Recognizing the man as the one and only caped crusader did not calm your nerves in the slightest. ‘The Batman’ was only a slightly new figure in Gotham, known for taking justice into his own hands—his reasons unknown. ‘Maybe he flunked out of the Police academy,’ you had thought humorously at one point. Figuring it was only a matter of time before he tried to involve himself in Penguin’s business, it was still surprising to see him in your boss’ office.

He was still staring at you—no—into you. His harsh blue eyes never wavered from yours, even as your friend gave him a pointed look and delivered the tray to Oz. He finally looked away when he heard Oz ruffling through the money in the envelope and setting a stash of drops on the tray. As Selina set down the drink onto the table, you too had looked away from the dark man, and your eyes fell onto the photograph before her. It was Annika being escorted by Mayor Mitchel, no doubt, but you could also make out you, Selina, and Oz standing behind the couple talking. Selina gave you a look.

“Thank you, honey,” Oz said, breaking you out of your spell. You smiled hesitantly and turned to leave, daring to look back at the black crusader, but he was already looking your way. Linking arms with Selina again, you hastily made your way out of there and back into the main club area. Before you could though, she yanked you back and pressed herself against the nearby wall, urging you to do the same.

“That was Anni.”

“Yeah, I saw. Why’d he have a picture of her?”

“I’m not sure,” Selina said. “But it can’t be good. Shh, now listen.”

You couldn’t see what your friend saw, but suddenly she gave a sharp turn and started rushing away.

“Go, we have to leave. He saw us.”

An indescribable feeling swelled inside you, but you obediently slinked away after her. After grabbing your belongings and coats from the locker rooms, Selina grabbed your hand and led the way outside.

“Taxi!”

However, it wasn’t long after when you clambered in the backseat of the car that Selina got a phone call. “Hey, it’s me. What’samatter, baby? Slow down, I can’t—on the news? No, wait for us, we’re on our way home. We’re gonna get the hell out of here, I promise…if we have to go sooner, we’ll go tonight!” Selina gave you an uneasy look. “Look, sweetie, we’re just a block away, I‘ll be there soon. Love you.”

———————————————————————————————-

The rain pelted against the man’s back as he peered into some windows with his binoculars atop a nearby building. A woman with short, blonde hair was a wreck and sobbing at the TV. Not long after, two more women, the very same he saw earlier in the club, rushed in to comfort. The dark haired one stayed behind to reassure her as he watched you slip into the back rooms to pull out a bodysuit. You looked around, paranoid in your own home but saw nothing, so you hastily shimmied out of your club dress and into your new apparel–a catsuit. The man moved to get a better look; his eyes lingered a little too long before jumping back to the two other women. By the time you finished getting dressed, the other woman he saw you with was gearing up and you two were sliding out the window. The now-pixie haired woman flipped over the railing and onto the ground while you slid down a nearby pole. Reaching the bottom, you made your way to the garage and hopped on a motorcycle that the woman was operating. The man rushed after the pair, worried that he’d lose them. Climbing onto his own bike, he pursued the women and gave chase.

————————————————————————————————

The rope was thin and light, but just sturdy enough to carry a person. Once your partner in crime made it down through the skylight, you tossed down the lock picking kit to her and lowered yourself down. It took some investigating, but after a while Selina ran her hands along a rather large painting and managed to find a button. Pressing it made the painting retract and allowed the safe to eject.

Silently working as one, you assembled the tool until it was completed and Selina could look through the scope. As she was deep in concentration, deciding to look around the room wouldn’t hurt. It was a nice, big office, only fit for a mayor. As your eyes wandered, you couldn’t help but notice a shadow flicker overhead. “Cat?” you whispered.

The split second it took to look over at her gave the shadow enough time to materialize just as Selina cracked the safe.

“You’re pretty good at that.”

Instantly your body went into fight mode. A flurry of kicks and spins forced the stranger to make space between you and the safe. As you were fighting, Selina rummaged through the iron box until she found what she was looking for—the passport. Interested in what was in her hand, the man made a bold move and grabbed your leg that was coming for him, twisting the appendage and throwing you away as he stalked after her. Leaping to your feet, Selina called out, “Catch!”

Smoothly catching the book and zipping it away in your front breast compartment, you joined your friend in attacking the assailant. With his back facing you, you jumped on top and wrapped your legs around his face, choking him between your thighs. His breath turned ragged and he wheezed frantically; his hands went straight to trying to get you off. In return, he took multiple blows from Selina from the front. Finding it almost impossible to knock you off first without dealing with your partner, he delivered a calculated punch that rendered her breathless before he flung her across the room. Gasping, he finally got a hold and heaved you over his head and onto a table. One of his hands immediately went to your throat to hold you down; your hands met with it at once. His grip was strong and unrestricted; it felt like he could kill you if he pressed down a little harder. Seeing the fight leave your body as your eyes bulged and glistened in fear, he took a moment to examine you. Your hands were still furiously pawing at the glove around your throat as you struggled to gasp for breath. He wouldn’t budge.

Giving you a glare as he drank in air, his gaze fixed themselves onto the front of your suit. Sliding his free hand down, he unzipped the breast pocket and fished out the little passport. He struggled as you fought for breath. His hand on your throat disappeared, leaving you gasping as you collapsed to the ground, body hunched over itself as you started a coughing fit. He flipped open the book.

He stood in front of you, panting, “Kosolov, Annika… He hurt her? That’s why you killed him?”

He gave you a while to respond. Rising to your feet and rubbing your neck, you choked out, “What? We didn’t kill anybody.” Selina rose to her feet.

A door creaked open just as you went to swipe the book in his hand. Effortlessly, he pulled you into his chest and spun around the corner, his hand covering the lower portion of your face. Panic swelled inside of you; was he going to choke you again? But the pressure remained consistently light as he shushed you, so you took the chance to take deep breaths to calm your racing heart. You could almost feel yourself melting into his embrace. Echoing footsteps slowly paraded around the room you had previously occupied—Selina must have hid. Thoughts trampled around in your mind until the sound of the door squeaking shut awakened you. You broke free from his grasp.

“Rat?” Selina whispered out as she crawled out of her hiding space. Whispering back, she slinked into the room.

“I swear, you’ve got the wrong idea, okay? We didn’t kill anybody-“

“He thinks we murdered someone?” Selina asked, even more pissed off at the accusation

“-We’re taking back what was stolen. Mayor Mitchel took it from her when all she’s trying to do is leave this dump of a city.”

“What does she know?” The Batman asked, face highlighted by the skylight from above.

“Whatever it is,” interjected Selina, “it’s got her so spooked she won’t even tell me.”

“She did seem upset.” Your eyes widened, ‘What?’

“Back at your place,” he continued. “Let’s go talk to her.” Meeting hesitant looks, he offered the passport back to your friend who gladly snatched it out of his hand.

Sneaking out of the apartment undetected, he followed behind to where your bike was—his was parked right beside it. Climbing onto the passenger seat of Selina’s bike, you called out to him. “Hey…how much did you see at our place?” His eyes darted to your figure but failed to meet your eyes before busying himself with his own bike. Was that…bashfulness?

“Perv.”

#batman #the batman #bruce wayne #reader #reader insert #selina kyle #oswald cobblepot #the penguin #the riddler #edward nygma #dano riddler #battinson #batman x reader #the batman 2022 #sonata in darkness

26 notes · View notes

firecooking · 11 months

Note

(bruhstation) hey neil! thank you very much for supporting fortezza bigg city so far :] I really appreciate the thought you've put into analyzing bits of my silly little AU, and I've also gained a huge appreciation for your own works as well. it's so clear you've put a lot of thought and research into your AU and it really blew my mind because everything is so meticulously thought out!!! and I'm looking forward to more!!! here's a quick sketch of your gal zaffre! once again thanks :3 (also you're inspiring me to make my own z-stacks oc! haha)

OHHH MY GOD LOOK AT HER MY BABY GIRL MY SWEET CHEESE SHE LOOKS AMAZING AHHH YOUR ART IS SO GOOD I LOVE YOUR FORM AND VOLUME AND HOW YOU DO YOUR LINE WEIGHT WITH THE OPACITY AND LINE DYNAMICS your handle on anatomy and rendering is really interesting to me, reading you work in Fire Alpaca with a mouse is mind boggling to me, i remember when I was doing the same years and years ago and the skill you show is really fascinating and i am jealous, the way your art is put together is scratching my brain. i have been doing art studies of it and trying to dissect it, it'd have such a interesting feel for animation, you have a wonderful style for breaking down into a limited animation style with a emphasis on dynamics with animation in a 8s, 6s, and 4s with 2s detailing and a hard tweening style [<- just professional animator things lol] The way you render shadow and lighting is also ough. This Zaffre is genuinely so wonderful, new desk top background moments. I love her gesture and expression here, it really captures her as a character! Also the way you draw hands, augh, just augh I wish.

You, my friend, are a fabulous illustrator!

And oh my god your AU is scratching my brain in ways I didn't think possible! I know so little yet there is so much there. When I genuinely say that it is affecting me as much as if not more that @askthefamous8 that is the highest compliment I can muster [that AU has been one of my special interests since 2015,]. I am legit making a post it note wall over FBC just like ATF8 had when I was in middle/high school

You have the most loyal human AU fan on your team now, I genuinely smile thinking about Fortezza Bigg City all day long, my friends and partner are getting annoyed to death from me ranting. sorry dear if you are reading this: I know you hate tugs

Also thank you! I really love doing in depth research, its the autism at work. I am a proud vehicle autistic. I've said it before but working on a ship for a summer just to know the mechanics of how actual sailing works is probably the most unhinged thing I can say I've done for accuracy sake. Loved my Captain and fellow crew, very sad I got sick and had to leave. Honestly would love to be a sailor if my heath wasn't bungled up and I wasn't like $200k of debt in animation college.

My humanoid vehicle AU's are partially based on my sadly never going to be picked up pitch bible for a science fiction based historical vehicle show [my fatal flaw is niche interests] And it literally makes my day to sit down and work on the most expansive and historically researched BS on earth, my AU is both a lovely love letter to TUGS as the show it is and a Love Letter to what TUGS wanted to be! At the end of the day TUGS wanted to be it's days Steven Universe or MASH [something I am gonna elaborate in another format later] but unfortunately it just didn't have the right ingredients. Its the Same as the TUGS musical I'm working on, it's a love letter to what TUGS both is and was supposed to be along with being a love letter to the characters themselves

Also:

Join the Z-Stacks OC League, we have cool hats and crime

#the fire burns #bruh station #others art #asks #this is tugs #z stacks #tugs zaffre #fortezza bigg city #I am a little unhinged i am sorry

53 notes · View notes

dr-futbol-blog · 24 days

Text

The Siege III, Pt. 10

McKay is keen to start working on how to implement Sheppard's plan to render the city invisible. Both McKay and Zelenka are exhausted and while probably no one has been able to get any sleep on the base for a while, they have been asked to concentrate far more than others. It is entirely possible they are still taking some stimulants to stay functional. Zelenka could clearly use a break but McKay gets second wind from finally having something to do that might actually work, might be viable.

Just as they are finishing the meeting, Beckett runs into the control platform to tell them about Ford having escaped with the remaining wraith enzyme after threatening him and other innocent people with a gun. Note that McKay and Zelenka, while they were among the last to leave the meeting, run ahead and Sheppard seems to be at the head of the group following them. He's stopped from following them as Beckett runs right in front of him.

This is when Sheppard finally becomes aware of the situation going on with Ford and tries to get him to come in:

Sheppard: Ford, this is Sheppard, come in. Ford, I need you to come back to the Control Room, buddy, we're all going home. Lieutenant, do you copy? Ford: You're just afraid of me, Major. You're afraid of what I can do now. I'm not listening to you. Sheppard: I'm going after him. Weir: Now's not the right time!

It's interesting that Sheppard tells Ford they're all going home, which seems to be a lie (he considers Atlantis his home, and they are already there; he was personally never going to be among the evacuees). But his plan may have been to get Ford on the Daedalus to be shipped off to Earth with Colonel Everett and other injured soldiers. Sheppard is not sure what is going on with him but he does know that they don't need a loose cannon around right now, and he feels responsible for Ford. What they are attempting to do is so difficult, requires such precision, that he knows they can't have him running around. But notice how it is to Beckett that he says he's going after Ford, he does not say it to Weir. He's not asking for her permission and he makes it very obvious he's not taking orders from her right now.

We then get a montage of people working on the plan, evacuating to the Daedalus and Sheppard playing cat and mouse with Ford while hauling one of the wraith stunners with him.

Once everything is ready and everything is in place, it's time to implement the plan. And we see Weir once more put entirely unnecessary pressure on McKay:

Weir: Seems that they heard Teyla loud and clear. Rodney? McKay: Yeah, I think I'm ready. Weir: You think?! McKay: I am definitely ready.

Sheppard tells McKay much later (Inferno, S02E19) that he has noticed he works well under "the threat of impending death", and this certainly may be true. He is able to work miracles in tight situations and too much idle time leaves room for his anxiety to build as to hinder him putting up his best performance. But at the same time, it's also clear that in this environment he is not allowed uncertainty. McKay is given no room for failure. This can be a crushing weight on anyone's shoulders.

When McKay says that he thinks he's ready he means that he is as ready as he can be but he can't guarantee this is going to work. He's done his best but it might not be enough. He is more afraid of failure than any of them realize and the consequences of failure are far worse than death for him. Death would be easy compared to how he thinks people will turn their backs on him if he fails. People see him as arrogant but it is clear that he is not allowed to display any weakness, and everyone actually expects him to perform the role that is for him just a performance.

But, as always, he manages to pull it off in the nick of time. Their plan seems to work.

While this is going on in the control room, Sheppard has finally caught up with Ford. They have a discussion:

Ford: I could have shot you a couple of times by now. Sheppard: Well, I'm glad you didn't. Look, why don't you and I just go someplace where we can talk? Ford: You're trying to change me back. Sheppard: No, I'm just trying to help you. Ford: No, you're not.

Sheppard also could have shot Ford a couple of times by now but he does not tell the young soldier this. He's unable to talk him down and in fact feels as though he is forced to shoot Ford in the back to stop him from running away. While he does this with a stunner and it doesn't actually work doesn't change what he felt he was forced to do.

What makes this discussion really, really interesting is that in this episode, Ford has been a narrative mirror for McKay. Ford is being written out of the show so he is not a part of the ensemble cast anymore. His function in this episode is to tell us what is going on with McKay internally. Narrative mirrors are often used to give insight into the internal landscapes of characters that either can't or will not share their thoughts or feelings explicitly, when they try to keep them hidden. Without the use of narrative mirrors, the viewer would be unable to appreciate the internal workings of characters that are never verbalized for various reasons. And McKay has been suppressing his feelings since the very start of the episode so hard that it's eating him up inside.

Now, we began the episode with Ford being plunged into the depths of cold waters with a wraith's hand attached to his heart, and this seemed symbolic of McKay's pain in that moment, thinking that Sheppard had sacrificed himself, that he had died. But what really marks Ford as his narrative mirror is the visual cue provided by the goggles. We have never seen these white goggles before and we will never see them again but in this episode, both Ford and McKay sport them. It's a visual point of contact between them, it emphasizes the fact that they are viewing something the same way. And if Ford is a narrative mirror for McKay, it forces us to ask what is going on with him. Because the kids are definitely not alright here.

The episode begins very dramatically with Ford in severe heart-ache while he is exploded and plunged into McKay's "cold, lonely death" below. But there is also an interesting mise-en-scène, an interesting visual composition as the combination of Zelenka's scan and the beaming technology of the Daedalus fish Ford out of the water. Ford and the wraith lie down on the floor like lovers, the hand of the 'green monster' still attached to his heart. The wraith had pumped him full of their enzyme on the moment of its death.

We learned a lot about how Sheppard and McKay sleep over the previous season, and given that Ford is on his left side here and has his right hand reaching behind him, it's not unlike how McKay would sleep--whether he was alone or did have someone spooning him from behind.

And there are further points of connection between them in the episode. Ford is sleeping in the med bay at the same time as McKay is supposed to be sleeping (and later, we find Ford actually faking sleep). Sheppard runs from the sleeping body of Ford to tell McKay that he thought he was supposed to be sleeping.

Beckett has administered Ford a sedative and has to give him an even stronger sedative whereas in the previous episode, he had given McKay a stimulant and he asked for an even stronger stimulant. The drugs are polar opposite, but the fact that they both needed stronger stuff from Beckett because the weaker was no longer working is in parallel.

Ford escapes Beckett twice to let Weir know that he's "good to go", that he needs to be doing something, and McKay similarly has convinced himself that he is able to do the work and has to focus on something when he is nowhere close to being alright. McKay whispers "They're scanning for us" just as Sheppard is sneaking in on Ford. In fact, Ford's scene with Sheppard is sandwiched between this line and McKay saying "I don't think they detected us". These lines around Ford's scene with Sheppard link the characters.

Ford attacks Beckett where in the previous episode Beckett calls McKay snappy for verbally trying to bite his head off. Ford is addicted to the enzyme and while we at the very least don't see McKay continue using any stimulants, Beckett does make him go through a literal withdrawal later on in the season (The Lost Boys, S02E10), so there could be some symbolism in it. Perhaps the enzyme represents his dependence on Sheppard's company, his love. What ever it is, Ford thinks it makes him better and stronger, he needs it and does not think he can do without.

Sheppard seemed cautious of seeing McKay again after having done what he did, fearful that he might have caused permanent damage, that he might see something in McKay's eyes that was not there before--or that something would be missing that had always been there. And it seems that he was right. It was not Sheppard's intention--his intention was to save McKay's life in an act that was both perfectly selfless (he wants the man he loves to live) and utterly selfish (he cannot live without him)--but combined with McKay's past, his childhood, his life-experiences, Sheppard's choice did cause permanent injury in him. McKay does feel like Sheppard shot him in the back by leaving him behind. Because he is so inexperienced with being loved, nothing could have prepared McKay for the kind of pain this had caused him and while he pretends everything is alright, his bitterness and suspicion of Sheppard do spill over in many scenes of the episode.

It's when he's working that McKay feels normal. He has escaped into work ever since he was a child and buried himself into his homework to escape his parents who, as he told Carter, hated each other and took it out on him. When he's focusing on the work, he doesn't have to think about how he's feeling. When he's trying to solve some problem, it doesn't hurt. He explicitly tells Zelenka in This Mortal Coil (S04E10): "That's one of the perks of the job. Something terrible happens, you don't have enough time to dwell on it ‘cause you're too busy trying to stop the next terrible thing from happening. Seriously, if it wasn't for the Replicators and their plan to wipe out every human in the galaxy, I'd be in pretty bad shape right now."

That's precisely what he's doing here, while trying to save all of their lives. And everyone else is too busy dealing with their own crises to notice that he is falling apart.

Ford manages to escape by hijacking one of the puddle jumpers and because he activates the gate, there is real danger the wraith who are scanning the city at the same time might be able to detect their presence, would be able to detect that they hadn't been destroyed.

While it's a possible continuity error, or Ford got the ATA therapy following Hot Zone (S01E13), Ford flies the puddle jumper through the gate. It's also possible that the jumper goes through on autopilot after he's dialed the gate, which doesn't seem to require a neural interface with the jumper since we've seen a number of characters dial the gate from inside them, as Sheppard does tell Weir that he suspects Ford will just ditch the jumper at his first destination and hop to another planet. If Ford was able to actually operate the jumper, leaving a piece of technology like that behind would make little sense. You'd want to hold on to it as long as possible.

As Ford is through the gate, Sheppard looks up at the control platform and angrily shouts, "Where the hell is he going?" Only, while McKay was the one attempting to manually shut down the gate and was at the gate controls, for some reason Sheppard seems to shout this at Weir. He is taking his anger and frustration out on Weir, and not for the first time. Obviously it is neither of their fault that Ford managed to slip them by and Sheppard isn't really angry at either of them, he is just venting his frustration. But this is not the first time he has used this tone of voice with Weir that he has never used with McKay. He is feeling much too angry to even chance looking at McKay because what ever bond they have between them is feeling fragile enough as it is to him right then. He realizes this.

Regardless, Ford manages to escape but the wraith armada ends their siege and all appears to be well. Only, it isn't. Weir walks up to Sheppard and parks behind him way, way too close to him considering the amount and variety of negative emotions he is trying to quell right that moment. We see Sheppard walk away from Weir while the skies are clearing from the nuclear bomb that just went off over the city. Where not being chosen is what causes McKay the most pain, for Sheppard it is being walked out on, someone he cares about leaving him. And that is what Ford does, the young soldier he had taken under his wing and trained into a warrior himself.

And worse yet, Sheppard had personally equipped him with skills that make him a very dangerous adversary. He is not only hurt by the perceived abandonment but also feels responsible for everything that Ford might do out there. Where he has been turned toward McKay, has been facing McKay, not only for most of the episode but for the majority of the first season, Sheppard does not even look his way as he walks out of the gate room. The guilt he feels is weighing him down. He feels like he's too toxic to even look at McKay lest he he spill all of it on him too, and he doesn't want that to happen.

So, what does Ford as a narrative mirror tell us about McKay and Sheppard?

Sheppard thinks that he's helping McKay, that he's doing what is best for him, where in reality he is helping himself and doing what is best for him. Where he is trying to ease McKay's burden, he is making McKay feel not needed, unnecessary, irrelevant. Where from his perspective he was protecting McKay, taking care of him, from McKay's perspective he had chosen to go without him and by coming up with ideas that he needed McKay to implement, was making him feel like an instrument, like his only worth was in performing tasks that Sheppard needed completed. McKay felt abandoned by Sheppard, like he had failed him.

They needed to talk, badly. Some of this could have been resolved by talking. But not only was it a difficult conversation neither of them really wanted to have, they simply didn't have time for it. Things kept happening and piling on and they had not a moment to themselves to check in with the other. And now there's a rage building within McKay that he can barely manage, and this rage is quickly turning into resentment. It is because he loves so much that it hurts so much. And the hurt is too much for him to bear, causing him to both withdraw from Sheppard and to try to alleviate it by losing himself in his work. But because he's trying to hide all of this, unless we were able to see the parallels between him and Ford, we might never even realize this.

So who, then, is the narrative mirror for Sheppard? Surely he should have one, too.

In this episode, it kind of looks like Sheppard's narrative mirror is the Daedalus (in many episodes, the narrative mirror for Sheppard has been the city itself so having his internal landscape reflected by an inanimate object is nothing new). We begin the episode with Sheppard being beamed aboard with the question "Who the hell is this?" leading us into the story. Within the Daedalus, there is a wizened commander that is a good man, there is a goofy geek that represents his feminine side, and there is also a super-intelligent emotionless alien that represents the part of him that is Ancient; all of these are things that he is.

On the bridge, internally controlling him in addition to the captain is a female helmsman and a male weapons officer which might symbolize his two orientations (given that the "weapons" officer also resembles McKay), but they may also represent his heart and his dick, his emotion and his desire, his feminine and his masculine sides. What ever they are, he does seem to lean much more toward the weapons officer.

With the Daedalus, Sheppard tries to figure out ways of winning this conflict and of helping McKay, and it seems to be working at first, until it doesn't. After the ship takes a beating, it has to touch base to get some repairs and while it's in a pretty bad shape, it is fixable. At the end of the episode, the Daedalus is full of the wounded, and the ship is preparing to take off at a moment's notice, which is what Sheppard also does when he goes looking for Ford. And in the end, the ship fires off a nuke that goes off just above the city and it is still covered by the fog of this event that we end the episode. It's not a perfect parallel but there's something there. And out of our main characters, Sheppard is the only one we see on board the vessel in this episode.

As Sheppard is still standing by the gate, looking dead ahead at it, Weir approaches him apparently to try talk him down from his rage. And this, something exactly like this is what she likely had to do back when Sheppard thought McKay had died. She steps forward to get him to look at her and note again that while Sheppard meets her gaze, he does not turn his body to face her where earlier, as briefly as he stood by McKay at the gate controls, his body was angled toward him. Sheppard is blaming himself for what had transpired with Ford, and he had blamed himself for what he thought had happened with McKay when he thought he had lost him with the ancient satellite. And both times Weir was there, trying to calm him down, to talk him down from the rage he felt most of all toward himself.

Only, it isn't working this time. She could tell him that McKay was alive but when it comes to Ford, she can only tell him things that he doesn't believe and she likely doesn't believe herself:

Weir: The Gate address will be in the log. There's still a chance-- Sheppard: It doesn't matter where he goes! The second he gets to wherever he's going, he's gonna ditch the Jumper, turn around, and dial another address, one we can't trace. Weir: We'll find him. Sheppard: Maybe. Weir: Hey. At least we're still around to try. Sheppard: Yeah...

So, the episode ends dramatically with Sheppard walking away. But this isn't when things started going south. Things had started veering off course the moment Sheppard had chosen not to accompany McKay to the satellite platform. Ultimately, he had made that choice. Weir tries to comfort him by reminding him of the fact that they were still alive, there's still hope. At least they were still alive to try. And this was true. Sheppard and McKay were both still alive to try to pick up the pieces. After all, Pierre and Natasha did get each other in the end, they got their happily ever after. But War and Peace is a long a book, there's a lot of hurt along the way. This is the beginning of the long road they have ahead of them to finding each other again.

Because that is the story. The wraith may have bought the ruse of cloaking the city but the city was always there. Atlantis may now have been rendered invisible but it was always there.

#sga #stargate atlantis #sga meta #john sheppard #sheppard is bi #rodney mckay #rodney is gay #ep. the siege #ep. hot zone #ep. this mortal coil #ep. the lost boys

14 notes · View notes

sochawrites · 2 years

Note

Hi I was just wondering if you do yandere characters? If so I would like to request a yandere!comics!Bane with a reader who came to him to learn how to fight but then started backing away from him when he tries to get them into the more crime-y stuff.

If your not comfortable with the yandere bit then you can ignore it.

I'm not necessarily against it, I never tried to write it, but it can't hurt to try! ^^

I tried to keep this gn, since you didn't specify which gender you want me to write it for, but comic!Bane does use Spanish from time to time and, well, it kind of lacks neutral terms. I opted for switching between male and fem terms with those words since it's what some people use in my country instead of the neutral ones. But the closest I have ever been to learning Spanish was taking a few courses on Duolingo, if some terms are wrongfully used, I am terribly sorry.

And Happy New Year!

Abeja

Yandere! Bane x gn! reader

Have Bane's gorgeous ass and back as an apology (I may have dug out my copy of Europa just to get this)

Bane, the man, the myth, the legend, and currently the newest foe of Gotham's Dark knight, but in this madness-ruled city, there was a new one almost every week. Yet this one was different. He wasn't mad like the clown prince of crime, or a part of organized crime like the Penguin. He acted here of his own will, and he wasn't alone.

His motives were unclear, but that didn't matter to you all that much, he was the new big fish in town and was there to stay, that was all you needed to know. You made your way to his hideout, going by the coordinates you traded with some more friendly crooks, getting halfway through before being caught. You could say that it was your superpower, but in reality, you were just quiet and observant.

"You are brave but incredibly foolish for coming here, pequeño." one more word ran through the masked man's mind, one he tried to shove away from the very moment you stepped inside his lair, yet it still lingered. He was staring you down like a predator on a hunt, "I think you have no idea how dangerous I am, do you?"

Bane was right in one thing, you were foolish, foolish enough to come and seek help from him, "No, I do know the extent of your power, that is exactly why I am here.". You were done with being the bottom feed of the city. Even with Batman, people, both close to you and foreign, were still getting robbed, raped, and killed, and you refused to be next on the list.

So you came to the one being you thought of as not only the strongest, but the fairest, believing he had Gotham's best interest in mind, that his path was righteous, and that he would rid the city of the infection. If only you knew then how wrong you were, you would have saved yourself a lot of trouble.

"Are you now? Then tell me, what is it that you want from me?" the more he looked at you, the more he was set on keeping you, your answer had little impact on your fate. There was something about you, about your beauty, and Bane was sure it would drive him crazy if he gave you up.

"Teach me. Teach me how to fight like you, and I promise you my loyalty." you even knelt before him! That made things especially easy.

And so he took you under his wing, teaching you what he deemed worthy for you to know. You were endearing to him, and the more you two chatted, the worse it was, for both of you. What you saw at first as a way out of misery had since become something of a friend. That was how you decided to call it, friendship, completely ignoring the way he quite literally took over your life.

He never let you out of his sight. You thought it was to guarantee your safety, but Bane was simply making sure to keep you for himself. Yet an idea materialized over time. You were the perfect grey mouse, the way you crept in… you had talent, he could use that.

You would be perfect for infiltration. Sure, he would put you in harm's way, but he had trained you, and if he was there to step in whenever needed, to save the day… It would all work out, it had to.

So he started sending you out. First just to the territories of other rogues to test the waters, then he moved to dispatching you straight to the dragon dens. Bane was always close of course. He didn't trust his men to look after you, no matter how loyal to him they were, it wouldn't be enough to calm his mind. He called this upon himself and he swore he would keep you safe, convincing himself that he was the only one who could keep his abeja safe.

But you couldn't continue like that. You first seeked Bane out so that you could stay away from criminals as far as possible, but only now have you started to realize you joined forces with one. You had to draw the line somewhere, and desperate times call for desperate measures.

"Do not touch what is mine, Bat!", Bane roared out the first and only warning he was willing to give. You were hiding behind Batman, the man you lured to the Iceberg lounge as your last hope to get away from the controlling man.

For the first time in months, you were truly scared. Not only had you broken Bane's trust after swearing him your loyalty, but you also brought in the bat when his plan wasn't fully prepared.

You were quickly shown aside as the fight between the two gained intensity. You could not help but look at the brawl. The way they clashed, it was clear Bane hadn't taught you all he knew.

Batman fought hard, but Bane was fierce, furious, and even though he had his venom prepared, he didn't feel the need to use it. His wit and determination to get you back were this time enough to send Batman scurrying away in a hurry, leaving you behind and on your own.

"Stay away! I'm armed and I'm not afraid to use it!" you raised your weapon higher into the air, closer to Bane's face, only for him to laugh at you. "That's a fork, abeja." he muttered as he disarmed you effortlessly and picked you up by the back of your shirt as you stood paralyzed, watching the utensil that was now out of your reach.

Bane took his mask off with his free hand, revealing a cruel smirk on his lips, "Estás en problemas, Y/N...". His voice came out dangerously low, but there was a notable hint of patience. You momentarily locked your eyes with his green ones, the look he gave you... It wasn't only stern and authoritative, but also tender, almost soft, it was off, sickeningly so. "Care to explain yourself?"

"Not to you!" you spat in his face, all admiration you had towards him long gone. You started to wiggle and trash around to make the man lose his hold on you, only to be met with an amused chuckle.

"Eres luchadora, cariño, I always loved that about you, so smart, so ravishing.", Bane spoke out before switching his hold on you, trapping you closer to him, "There's nothing I could do but to fall in love with you.". He kept your hyperventilating form in a rock hold as he rested his forehead against yours, closing his eyes "I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me, Y/N, but I can't let you go. Ni ahora, ni nunca."

#bane x reader #bane #gender neutral reader #gn reader #anon request #reader insert #request #I love writing for this doofus. if only it didn't take so long #I'm really sorry about the butchered spanish #I wrote the fork thing first and thought how the bee is literally perfect nickname. y/n will stung once (or try to). but never again #dying inside each day as Bane keeps his darling locked #Whether or not they break and 'fall in love' with him is up to interpretations #yandere #tw yandere

233 notes · View notes

zeciex · 1 year

Text

A Vow of Blood

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Daenera Velaryon returns to King’s Landing with the intention of bolstering her mother’s position and reminding both the Greens and nobility that Rhaenyra is the rightful heir to the throne. She has a specific goal in mind: to be a constant source of annoyance to the Greens and is willing to play the political game without hesitation.

However, what catches her off guard is the way Aemond gazes at her and seems to relish in her suffering. He openly expresses his desire to bring about her downfall, her ruination.

This situation leads to a tense game of cat and mouse, with each move escalating the already high stakes. Will their precarious situation crumble as the dragons soar above, or will fate intervene?

After all, love often demands the sacrifice of duty, just as duty can sometimes lead to the demise of love. Characters: Aemond Targaryen X OC, HOTD characters.

Chapter 4: The Arrival

AO3 - Masterlist

King’s Landing had become unfamiliar in the years she had been away.

The city itself hadn’t changed all that much. Life, it would seem, to the small folk remained the same. Or perhaps she just didn’t recognize the changes they’d all face, sitting on her high horse in her fine jewels and silks. But the hustle and bustle of the city was the same. Merchants trying to sell their wares, workers moving to and fro, children playing in the streets. And there, deeper and lower, were the beggars and orphans. All fighting to stay alive.

“Are you sure of this, my Lady?” Ser Fenrick questioned once more. He had asked at every turn, from the port on Dragonstone and all the way over the seas to King’s Landing. Her sworn sword sat heavy in his armor, eyes flickering through the crowd for enemies and dangers.

“I am,” Daenera answered once more. The answer to the question remained the same.

“Your mother could have sent for more Maesters.”

“And it would not change a thing. The Maesters can do little to make things grow on Dragonstone. The environment is too harsh and changing. If I am to continue my studies I’d need to actually get my hands dirty.” Maesters could only do so much with books and drawings. If she were to really learn it, she’d have to go where things could grow. Besides, it wasn’t the only reason for her return.

“Your mother wished for you to stay,” Ser Fenrick pointed out, as if it’d change the answer.

“My mother understands my decision.”

In truth, Princess Rhaenyra hadn’t been happy when Daenera broached the subject of returning to King’s Landing. In fact, she was very opposed to it. ‘A den of Vipers’ was what she had called it, ‘Few and far between those who could be trusted’. She hadn’t liked the idea of her daughter returning to the capital with no one to protect her. It had been Daemon that had convinced her in the end.

Her and Daemon had agreed that it would be her that went back. Jacaerys was the next in line to the throne after their mother and Luke was too young to go on his own.

So it was Daenera who went back with the mission of strengthening her mothers claim.

“I should think King Viserys will be happy to see me,” Daenera said. “I am his favorite after all.”

Fenrick didn’t accept the change of subject. “Your return will draw much attention.”

“I’m aware.”

They rode through the city in silence, watching a mere glimpse of the small folks’ lives. Daenera often wondered whether their lives were easier, but then she’d think of all the poor people toiling at work, trying to make ends meet. The struggles may be different, but they struggled all the same.

Still, she quite liked the chaos of the city, even if the smell was absolutely terrible.

They rode through the gates of the Red Keep, riding into one of the smaller courtyards. The walls of the Keep remained red, hence the name. And its towers still stood tall and true. Why she should think it was any different, she didn’t know. The courtyard felt smaller though.

She felt eyes prickle over her skin and she straightened her spine and held her head high. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of white, like moonlight given life. He moved with agility and speed, avoiding the blade with ease, stepping aside to thrust his own blade back at his opponent. Steel met steel, the sound ricocheting through the courtyard, bouncing off the walls.

Her uncle beat his opponent's sword out of his hands, pressing the tip of the blade to his throat, the man yelding with his hands up and breath quick on his lips. It was then that Aemond’s eye met hers. She felt it slide along her skin like a blade, threatening to sink into her flesh and draw blood.

Daenera turned her attention back on the doors to the Keep and the young queen that had graciously awaited her arrival.

Fenrick was the first one down from horseback, the sworn sword coming up to the reins of Daenera’s horse and taking them as Daenera stepped down from it, her deep purple dress falling heavy around her feet, slightly wrinkled from the time spent on horseback. It was one of her finer dresses, though modest. Her return would cause enough stir and it would have been quite the talk had she arrived in trousers.

Daenera felt the queen's eyes follow her as she approached.

“Princess Daenera, welcome back. I do hope the journey wasn’t too rough on you,” Alicent greeted. “One should think there were many oceans between us and Dragonstone.”

The snide comment didn’t go unnoticed, but it would go unmet. “The journey has been long, your grace, but I found comfort in the thought of returning home.”

Daenera remembered the day they had fled the queens ire and the rumors nipping at their heels. Alicent remained as beautiful as she was then. A shame, Daenera had hoped that the blatant resentment in the queen's heart had poisoned her appearance.

Beauty was always a great weapon.

One she did not wield herself.

“You will find much has changed since you were here last.” The smile on Alicent’s lips didn’t reach her eyes. They were distrustful, uncertain of the princesses intention.

“That tends to happen with the passage of time, your grace.”

“I assume your mother is in good health? And your brothers?” Alicent questioned. The two of them walked into the Keep.

“Yes, my queen,” Daenera answered though her attention was drawn to the changes made in the keep. Most of the Targaryen house symbols and sigils were gone, replaced with religious memorabilia of the Seven Pointed Star. She schooled her expression and swallowed the distaste, feeling the eyes of the Red Keep on her. “She is with child again.”

“What a blessing,” Alicent crooned, though Daenera didn’t believe it. If it stood to the queen, all of Rhaenyra’s heirs would be dead. It would lessen her claim to the throne. Those thoughts would never be spoken though, like so much else.

“May I ask what brings you back from Dragonstone?”

“My studies, your grace. As you can imagine, Dragonstone is a hostile environment. King’s Landing is more agreeable when it comes to plants,” Daenera said, using the prescribed answer she had come up with. It wouldn’t be in her best interest to outright say that she was here to keep an eye on her and the king. “And if I’m being honest, I missed the Keep and my grandsire. He has begged by return for years.”

The queen’s smile got tight. “Yes, the King has always had a soft spot for you, princess.”

“I thought the King may have taken time to welcome me back himself,” Daenera ventured. “I suppose he’s too busy.”

They had stopped on the stairs, the queen a few steps above her, looking down on her. She was the pillar of proprietary, hands clasped in front of her, a righteous look in her eyes and the green modest dress on her form, ordained by a golden, seven pointed star.

“Do not take offense to his absence, princess. The King has not been of good health as of late and he is resting.” The excuse was weak but true enough. Viserys had been ill for some time now, some days were better than others. Daenera kept her expression schooled. “You must be tired from the long journey.”

Now, it was Daenera who got a tightlipped smile. “Yes, a bath and some rest would do me good.”

“Talya,” the queen voiced, bringing forth a rather pretty lady-in-waiting with red hair and sharp features. She bowed respectfully. “Please show the princess to her chambers and make sure she’s well taken care of.”

“Yes, my queen.”

Daenera followed Lady Talya towards what would become Daenera’s private quarters. Behind her were Joyce, Jelissa and Ser Fenrick. The Seven Pointed Star of The Faith was everywhere they turned, edged into stone, replacing the three headed dragon of House Targaryen. Most of the wall hangings had also been replaced, the once sexual tapestries now a bland mirage of forestry. Daenera found it distasteful if not outright disrespectful. It was as if the Hightowers had tried to erase the Targaryen claim to the throne. She severely doubted it was Viserys doing.

Hightower cunts.

Eyes seemed to follow her through the halls as the nobility realized who she was. Daenera took it in strides, a mask of indifference and politeness upon her face as she nodded to them, pretending not to know what they were thinking.

The Hightowers had been surrounding themselves with their people it would seem, and had let their tales spread like an infection through the halls.

By the time she reached her quarters the whole castle was bustling with her arrival. Hushed whispers spoken in shadows, ripping up old rumors to blow dust from them and speak to them anew.

It was those rumors that had made them flee King’s Landing in the first place.

They entered her new quarters. Daenera looked it over with a skeptical eye. The apartment was made of a large sitting area, with the bedroom connected to the right side. The rooms were big and finely decorated, sufficient.

“I will have the maids bring water for the tub, my Lady,” Talya spoke politely.

Daenera smiled. “Thank you.”

“I will also assign some maids to you.”

“That won't be necessary. I’ve brought my own maids Joyce and Jelissa.”

“As you wish.” Talya left the princesses chambers with new information to sell, the door clicking shut behind her.

Daenera breathed a sigh of relief, rolling her neck and rubbing her fingers against her temples, letting go of the mask of politeness and respectfulness.

Fenrick stood by the door, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, looking at the princess with slight concern. “If you’re already exhausted from pretending then perhaps returning was the wrong decision.”

“I’m exhausted from the travels and the ugly seven pointed star everywhere,” Daenera complained, glaring at the small round window that held the star within it. She felt as if she were in the sept and the gods were staring down at her in judgment. They could stare all they wanted.

“The queen honored you with her welcome,” Jelissa said, beginning to unpack one of the huge trunks that had been brought to her chambers, plucking one dress after another from its depths.

“The queen wanted to size the princess up,” Joyce told her younger pupil, the older maid coming up to Daenera to brush her hair away from her shoulders as she began to unlace her dress. “Did you notice what they did to the Keep? It’s nothing but disrespectful.”

“They’re honoring the Faith,” Jelissa countered.

“The Hightowers are erasing everything Targaryen as if their children are Hightowers only,” Joyce raged, pulling the strings loose.

“Be careful,” Fenrick warned. “There are spiders everywhere in the Keep.”

As if to underline his warning the doors opened to let a string of maids in, each one carrying a bucket of hot water, pouring it into the tub standing in front of the fire, seam rising into the air. Daeneras' company fell silent while the maids poured the water.

When they left again it was Daenera who spoke up. “We must be careful of our words. We never know who might listen and as we are now, we are surrounded by vipers waiting to strike.”

“Yes, my Lady,” her company agreed.

Daenera wiggled out of the dress, standing only in her bodice and underdress. Fenrick averted his eyes, staring straight into the room while Joyce helped remove the rest of Daeneras' clothing. Red lines were drawn across her pale skin, marking out where her bodice had pressed in on her. She went to the tub, fingers skimming the hot water, her thoughts turning in her head. “When you move around in the Keep I want you to gather as much information as you can without drawing attention to yourselves. Make friends and connections. And if something happens with the King I wish to know.”

They all agreed.

“You may leave,” Daenera dismissed.

Her room fell silent as her company left. Fenrick stood guard outside the door.

Daenera had often thought how utterly boring the job must be. Most of the time they just stood and stared. How they managed not to go insane she didn’t know. She herself would lose her mind out of boredom.

With a sigh Daenera stepped into the warm waters, letting the heat prickle at her skin reddening it. She sank beneath the surface all the way to her chin, inhaling the lavender and rosemary scent, finding it far better than the smell of horse that clung to her skin. The journey hadn’t been that long. Dragonstone wasn't far from King’s Landing, but Daenera didn’t care much for traveling the sea. It wasn’t because she became greensick like her brother Luke did the moment he stepped onto a boat, the future fleet commander utterly cursed in that regard, it was the boredom of being stuck that bothered her. And perhaps Luke could command the fleet from dragonback instead.

Daenera scrubbed her skin clean and washed her hair twice to get the smell of horse out of it before oiling it. Her lithe fingers ran through her dark curls, the very thing that started the whole fuss about her parentage. She was aware, of course, of why she looked nothing like her Father Laenor Velaryon.

Daenera frowned at the memories her return brought up. Memories she thought best buried. But nothing ever stayed buried, unfortunately, and she’d have to contend with the fact that time may have changed but the rumors would persist.

The princess got up from the water and wrapped herself in a robe, hair dripping down her back as she headed towards the balcony, opening the doors to let in some fresh air. She looked down over the courtyard, watched Prince Aemond move as he continued his sword lessons with none other than Ser Criston Cole. Daenera made a face. How he still managed to have a position in the Kingsguard was beyond her understanding.

No, not beyond it, she understood very much why he still had his position, she just didn’t understand why Vierserys allowed it. The queen's favor should only reach so far. And with a man who murdered someone at a royal wedding's welcome feast should have been punished. And again when he continued to disrespect the children of the crown princess.

Her eyes turned to Aemond again. Daenera hadn’t seen him since that night when he stole Vhagar and lost an eye.

As if sensing her eyes on him, Aemond turned his face towards her, their eyes catching once more. Daenera didn’t school the distaste on her face and was of half a mind to roll her eyes. Aemond smirked at her.

He was going to be a thorn in her side, she just knew it.

Daenera turned and headed towards the bed.

The heavy skirt of her cornflower blue dress swished as she walked up the steps of the Red Keep, heading towards the Kings Chambers. She had specifically chosen the dress for its complement to her eyes and the memory of Viserys telling her that blue suited her.

This was her armor for the day.

Her heels clicked over the stone as she made her way through the Keep and towards the King's chambers, her spine straight and head held high. Behind her followed Fenrick, his armor clanking as he walked.

The last few days the queen had dismissed her before she was able to seek an audience with the King. She would not allow it any longer. The King had sent for her after all. He’d want to see her.

So, she had sent out Jelissa to keep an eye on the King’s Chambers and the queens movement. Word had come not half through the morning that the queen had left his chambers and the king within. Daenera took her chance then. If she had to scheme and sneak around to see the king then she would do just that.

“Lord Commander, I wish to see the King,” Daenera said, armed with a kind smile on her face.

“The queen has just left the King's side, princess,” Ser Harrold Westerling told her.

“Does the queen need to be present when I visit the King, Ser Harrold?”

Behind his battle worn exterior the lord commander smiled. “No, princess.”

Ser Harrold knocked on the wooden door before opening it for the princess, who smiled appreciatively at him as she passed, walking into the King's chamber to find the King sitting in a chair propped up on pillows, a thick blanket wrapped around his lower half. Daenera felt her heart sink at the sight of her grandsire, finding that age had come at him hard and unforgiving. He had lost much of his hair, having only a few brittle strings of it left. At his side sat a young stone mason, carving details into a stone figure as the King told him about the building being made, voice low and rumbling with age. Viserys one good eye lifted from his stone map of old Valyria to his grandchild, lightning up at the sight.

“Daenera,” he greeted as loudly as he could.

Daenera hid her pity and concern beneath a smile. She would not show him anything else than what he deserved. “Grandsire!”

Her feet hurried over the floor, dress swissing around her feet, dark curls tumbling over her shoulders as she leaned down to press a kiss on the King's cheek. He smelled of old age and the illness that was slowly killing him. He had lost his left arm years ago, even before the incident that made them flee to Dragonstone, the sleeve empty.

And from the look of it, an infection had taken the sight of one of his eyes, the skin beneath it hollowed out and irritated. Daenera wondered how she’d tell her mother about how bad it had gotten.

“It is so good to see you, my sweetling,” the King said, waving away the stone mason. Viserys tried to stand, his knees buckling and his breath alluding him as he forced himself to his feet. Daenera was quick to wrap an arm around him, supporting him as they made their way towards more comfortable seats in front of the fire. “Have you brought your mother and siblings with you?”

“No, unfortunately not, my king,” Daenera answered softly, trying to lessen the blow. “I hope I do not disappoint you, your grace.”

“You could never disappoint me, Daenera,” Viseryes told her, pinching the apple of her cheek as she wrapped the blanket around his legs once more. “I just wish we could all be together.”

“Perhaps soon we will,” Daenera said.

“How are my daughter and brothers?” Viserys asked. Daenera sat down in the chair opposite him, finding the seat uncomfortably hard. Her hand reached for her grandsires, holding his thin and bony hand, cold with age despite the warmth of the room.

“They are good, your grace. My mother is pregnant with her and Daemon’s second child. I’m sad to miss the birth of my sibling but I suppose that is the price to pay if I wish to further my education,” Daenera said. In truth her education came second as to why she was here. Her concern for the King and what was happening in King's Landing was the main reason for her presence.

“You’re still buried in books and plants?” Viserys smiled.

“Yes. Dragonstone is a fine place but there’s not a lot of… green.” In the regard for nature it was bad, but it was a blessed place to avoid the Hightowers. “And of course I missed my grandsire.”

“You’re too kind. I fear I’m not much these days,” the king said sadly.

Daenera squeezed his hand as much as she dared. “And yet it is enough. You’re still the King and you are blood. I could not wish for a greater grandsire than you.”

“Flatter will get you far,” Viserys chuckled. “And how’s my other grandchildren?”

“Jacaerys is as hot-tempered as ever, I hope age will teach him to control it. He is a fine swordsman and dragonrider. You’ll find that he’s very educated in most subjects but he’s having trouble with Valyrian. And Lucerys follows his big brother around like a puppy. I’ve never seen anyone with as great of a love for their brother as him… well, perhaps between you and Daemon.”

“Is Luceryes as big of a pain in the ass for his big brother as Daemon has been in mine?”

Daenera tried and failed to hold back a laugh. “No, not yet. He’s still in the obey every word age, mayhaps when he’s older.”

“I hope not.”

“Joffrey is still very young. Growing every day,” Daenera finished.

They sat in content silence for a while before Daenera decided to break it with an inquiry about the changes to the Keep and by extension who was making the decisions. She had a feeling she already knew but the answer was still as cutting as it would have been had she not expected it.

“Ah, Alicent and Otto are the ones taking care of such matters. I’m not particularly fond of the changes, but it honors the Faith and keeps the peace.”

“You can honor the Faith and still keep some of the house symbols, your grace,” Daenera said. She knew Viseryes would avoid conflict at most cost, but she would never understand why he let the Hightowers run rampant and desecrate everything Targaryen as if he wasn’t still king. It was disrespectful. Daenera was about to press further when the door opened and the Queen swept in, her brown locks waving down her back, crown jutting from the curls, eyes finding the princess immediately and narrowing a little. Daenera got up and bowed as customary. If it wouldn’t have consequences she’d have remained seated, but alas her mother had raised her well.

“How nice to see you again, Princess Daenera,” the queen greeted, coming up to the side of her lord husband, placing a hand on his shoulder. Her green dress gleamed in the light from the fire. Daenera wished for the flames to lick a little closer to the dress.

“You as well, your grace.”

“I think we should hold a feast for the princesses return to King's Landing, don’t you think, Alicent?” The King asked, his frail hand reaching to pat Alicent’s hand on his shoulder. She withdrew it immediately, clasping her hands together in front of her.

“A feast is a big affair, my king. It would take time to prepare and it would cost-,”

“I think it’s worth it for my granddaughter's return. We would have held one upon your arrival, had we known you’d have come sooner,” the king cut her off.

Daenera pressed her lips together. They had known of her return for a fortnight. It was plenty of time to not only prepare her a proper welcome with lords and ladies present but also with the king, it would also have been enough time to prepare a feast. The queen's lips had turned into a line having been cornered. Would she refuse it would be perceived as an insult.

“Of course, your grace.” Alicent looked anything but happy, which pleased Daenera immensely. Alicent schooled her expression and stepped forward, reaching out to take Daeneras’ hand in hers. “Forgive us for our unpreparedness. We will hold a feast in your honor.”

“I understand, running the kingdom is a grand task that requires great attention.”

“Thank you for your understanding, princess, and I hope you will understand that I need to speak with the king about private matters.”

“Of course,” Daenera smiled sharply. It was a pretty way of throwing her out of the King's chambers. Daenera passed the queen and knelt down in front of the King, taking his frail hand in hers, trying to pass some of her warmth onto him. Their eyes met and Viseryes gave her an apologetic look that Daenera dismissed with a quirk of her lips and an understanding nod. She kissed the king on his cheek before rising. “I will come visit you soon, my king.”

“I will look forward to it, Daenera.”

Daenera gave one final bow before exiting the chambers. Fenrick fell into step behind her, though she didn’t not hear the clanking of his armor, her mind elsewhere. How was she going to tell her mother how bad it had gotten? She doubted her letters would leave unread by others. And how do you tell the daughter that her father was ailing and in pain, overrun by Hightowers and powerseekers. She feared for the king and his health. Most of all she feared the time when Viserys would pass.

“Joyce has confirmed that Lord Caswell will take lunch in one of the groves of the garden at noon.”

A small smile formed on Daenera’s lips. “Perfect.”

Daenera decided to head to the library in the meantime.

The smell of dust and old books were familiar to her, having spent a lot of her childhood buried in books, soaking up all that she could while her brothers trained with their dragons. Of course, she had also had dragon training. But there wasn’t much improvement nor need if one did not have a dragon. So instead, Daenera found fulfillment elsewhere.

The book she plucked from the shelves were of dark binding, with golden but crackled writing on the front. It was one of the old tales about a prince and a princess at odds, a tale of treachery and betrayal, of love and honor. Contented with her pick she headed towards the small sitting area by the fire, sinking into one of the chairs, fingers flipping to the first page.

“Why have you come back?” Aemond’s smoothe voice interrupted Daenera’s concentration, though her eyes never moved from the page. She hadn’t expected him to approach her. Out of the corner of her eye, above the focus on the pages, she saw him move in front of her, back to the fireplace, a pillar of cold shadows.

“Nice to see you too, uncle,” Daenera acknowledged, voice light and unbothered.

“Why have you come back?”

Daenera sighed, finally laying eyes upon him, noting the intense glare in his eye, lips sharp and set in a cold smirk, that left little to interpretation. He didn’t want her here. “Would you believe me if I said I missed King’s Landing?”

“No.”

Her head tilted to the side, a bothered and thoughtful expression upon her face. “I came back to further my studies in herbal medicine and such.”

His eye darted across her features, like a knife seeking purchase. It slid along her skin, threatening to draw blood. Daenera let him glare.

“Liar,” he hummed.

“Oh, I’m a liar now, am I?” Daenera responded to the accurate accusation. “Tell me then, why else would I be back? To bother you specifically? Or are you implying some other nefarious reason?”

“You should go back to Dragonstone. You’re not welcome nor wanted here,” Aemond disclosed shortly.

Daenera rolled her eyes, lifting the book back into position in front of her, to continue reading from where she left off. “Hmm… It seems that the King quite enjoys my presence, and he is the only one that matters is he not?”

Aemond stepped closer to her, snapping the book right out of her hands, her eyes widening in surprise at the sudden incursion. He held the book out of her reach, one hand on the tall back of the chair, back curved as he half leaned over her. His hair of pure moonlight fell smoothly over his shoulders, a stark contrast to her own dark, common locks. “Why are you really here?”

Daenera glared up at him, eyes as sharp as his own. He didn’t believe her lie about her education, which wasn’t as surprising as it was annoying. Alicent might not have believed it either, but she at least knew how impolite and disrespectful it was to flat out question her like this.

“What would you like my answer to be, since all of the option’s I’ve provided do not seem to hit the mark? Would you like me to admit I’m here to find a husband? That my mother doesn’t hold court on Dragonstone and has therefore made it impossible for me to do so? That King’s Landing provides a much better place in my search? Is that honest enough for you?”

It wasn’t a lie. Not only had she come in search of allies and to keep an eye on the Hightowers, she came to find a husband. They had gotten many a letter the day she came of age, asking for her hand in marriage, but her mother had kept the hounds at bay. Coming back to King’s Landing in search of a husband created the perfect cover and with the addition of her wishing to further her studies, no one could really question her reasoning. No one, but Aemond apparently.

“Hm…” Aemond hummed, releasing the back of her chair to stretch to his full hight again. He gave her a once over, then turned and walked away, heading to the doors.

“My book,” Daenera chided.

Aemond didn’t look back at her, he simply held the book up, waving it in the air before releasing his grip, letting it fall to the floor with a loud thud and then he was gone. It was such a childish and petty move that Daenera couldn’t help but stare a burning hole into the space he had preoccupied mere moments before.

It was Fenrick who picked up the book, a thick brow raised in question. Daenera just shook her head, waving his question off.

#aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond #prince aemond #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #A Vow of Blood

51 notes · View notes