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etfrin · 7 months

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❝ꜱᴏᴜʟꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴄʀᴜꜱʜ❞ — chapter twenty-two | coriolanus snow

「ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ:」 NSFW | canon typical violence, canon typical deaths, murder, coriolanus snow | lmk if I forgot anything

「ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ:」 young! Coriolanus Snow x fem! Reader

「ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:」 Coriolanus and Sejanus have a talk, and oh! Coriolanus has blood on his hands again

「ᴀ/ɴ:」 most of this chapter is directly from the book! Hope you like it!

Beta read by @nowitsmissing 🩷

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Coriolanus Snow and Sejanus Plinth were given the job of taking care of the jabberjays that were sent from the Capitol. It seemed like yesterday he and Dr. Gaul had a conversation about these words. He swallows the bitter feeling down his throat. The things he would do to get that time back.

He sighs, checking out the jabberjays in the cages. Snow and Sejanus didn't talk yesterday when he had stopped him from going after the girl they captured yesterday. Coriolanus looks at Sejanus, only to see him not by his side

Coriolanus finds him a bit further away, near the prison window in which the girl was kept. Coriolanus' eyes widened, annoyance filling in his veins. How stupid was this of Sejanus! Anyone could see him right now and get his ass in prison as well. How fucking typical of him. Of course, he was going to try to be a saint. The privileged stupid fuck.

“Sejanus,” he hissed, “Get here right now.”

Sejanus turns, a surprised look on his face before he relaxes. “Coryo,” he sighed, clearly thinking that it was fine. It's not and Coriolanus is mere moments away from punching him for his carelessness right now.

Sejanus looks at the girl. “I promise I will come back,” he said. Coriolanus frowns as he hears the words. Sejanus follows him near the jabberjays again.

“Are you insane?” Coriolanus asked, his eyes conveying his anger.

Sejanus winces and replies, “She's innocent.”

“She's a rebel!”

“They just wanted to go to the north! They just wanted to escape!”

Coriolanus looked around, nobody was around. “Lower your voice, Sej,” Coriolanus warns. “I have something good going on here. You have something good going on here. Don't ruin it.”

Sejanus' eyes cast down and Coriolanus knows. He knows something is wrong. Sejanus Plinth is gonna fuck up again. Big time.

“What is it?” Coryo asked, trying to soften his voice.

“You told me I could do something. You told me I could make a difference.”

“Like this!” Coryo hisses, “By being a rebel?”

“There is a group of locals getting out of District 12 for good.”

Coriolanus' breath hitches, but he doesn't say a word. His eyes fell to the remote, the button was pressed, then the jabberjays would record the Plinth boys’ exact words. Sejanus is distracted enough by his rage towards the Capitol that he doesn't notice Coriolanus pressing the button.

“You have to impress Dr. Gaul,” your voice reminds him.

Snow signed Sejanus Plinth's death warrant and he prayed that it was enough of a price to get him back to the Capitol. Back with you. Back with his birthright. He is simply taking what is his. This was a golden opportunity. It's really on Sejanus that he's being irrational.

Sejanus continues to talk.

“They're going up North to start a new life, far away from Panem. They need money for supplies. They told me we could go with them if I got it for them. You could come with us.”

“You're giving money to the locals,” Coriolanus said incredulously. His hatred for Sejanus increased greatly, he no longer cared about what he was doing. It was deserved.

“I can't stay here. I won't. They're not planning to do anything dangerous, okay.”

“It’s all dangerous,” Coriolanus replied.

“The leader, Spruce, wants to get his sister, Lil, out of jail."

“Are you insane?”

“Hoff is gonna execute her just because she knows the man. It's wrong.”

‘That’s not your problem!’ he wanted to yell. He doesn't.

“I am gonna help him get her out,” Sejanus continues.

“It's treason, Sejanus.”

“Nobody is gonna get hurt,” Sejanus defends.

“I am just doing what you told him to do at the arena.”

Coriolanus subtly rolls his eyes. He didn't mean it this way. This was all Sejanus. “I was just trying to save you,” Coriolanus snarls, “the first time you did stupid enough to ruin my life.” Coriolanus questions, “What if they catch you bringing this woman off base?”

“It's worth the risk to do the right thing.”

“For you,” Coriolanus emphasizes, reminding Sejanus of his privilege, “Your father will just buy your way out of it like he always does. While I'll be hung just for knowing you.”

Coriolanus takes a deep breath, “Don't do this.” Despite everything Sejanus was his… friend for a lack of words. He would throw away the remote if Sejanus agreed with him. Instead, Sejanus walks away. A silent protest. He will do it. And that leaves Coriolanus with no choice.

He stops the recording before checking if it recorded every word. It did. He places the jabberjay cage on the supply train, knowing that it is to go to Dr. Gaul.

Coriolanus did what he had to.

✧ ▬▭▬ ▬▭▬ ✦✧✦ ▬▭▬ ▬▭▬ ✧

Coriolanus was in The Hob, along with you. Your head was on his shoulder, his arm possessively around your waist. You both were in the corner, listening to Lucy Gray sing. Coriolanus wondered briefly if he should tell you what he had done but decided later would be a better time.

Coriolanus sees Sejanus walking inside the back door of The Hob. Coriolanus' eyes narrow. “I'll be back,” he murmurs to you, his lips kissing your temple before he leaves you alone to follow Sejanus.

As he took a step in, he froze, suddenly aware of the barrel of a shotgun positioned inches from the side of his rib cage. He drew in his breath and was beginning to raise his hands slowly when he heard the quick tap of shoes behind him.

“So you guys slip in,” Lucy Gray said behind Coriolanus. Before Coriolanus can say anything, Spruce pulls him in and Lucy Gray follows without understanding the danger.

Sejanus jumps in, “No. It’s alright, Spruce. He’s with me. They’re all with me.”

The rebel looked them over. “Thought we agreed this was between us.”

“He’s like my brother,” said Sejanus. “He’ll cover for me when we run. Buy us more time.”

Coriolanus had promised to do no such thing, but he nodded.

Spruce redirected his barrel to Lucy Gray. “What about this one?”

“I told you about her,” said Billy Taupe. “She’s going north with us. She’s my girl.”

Coriolanus could see Lucy Gray clench her fist, then drop it. He had forgotten that she and Billy had dated. “If you’ll take me,” she said.

Spruce considered it, then shrugged and lowered the gun, releasing Lucy Gray from its hold. “I guess you’ll be company for Lil.”

Coriolanus’s eyes fell to the cache of weapons. Two more shotguns, a standard Peacekeeper rifle like the ones they used in target practice. Some sort of heavy piece that appeared to launch grenades. Several knives.

“That’s quite a haul.”

“Not for five people,” Spruce replied. “It’s the ammo I’m concerned about. Be helpful if you could get us some more of that from the base.”

Sejanus nodded. “Maybe. We don’t have access to the armory. But I can look around.”

“Sure. Stock up.”

Everyone’s head snapped toward the sound. A female voice, coming from the far corner of the shed. Coriolanus had forgotten about the second door since no one ever seemed to use it. In the pitch-blackness outside the lamp’s circle of light, he could not say if it was open or shut, or make out the intruder. How long had she been hiding there in the gloom?

“Who’s there?” said Spruce.

“Guns, ammo,” mocked the voice. “You can’t make more of that, can you? Up north?”

The nastiness helped Coriolanus place it from the night of the brawl in the Hob. “It’s Mayfair Lipp, the mayor’s daughter.”

“Trailing after Billy Taupe like a hound in heat,” said Lucy Gray under her breath.

“Always keep that last bullet somewhere safe. So as you can blow your brains out before they catch you,” said Mayfair.

“Get home,” ordered Billy Taupe. “I’ll explain this later. It’s not how it sounded.”

“No, no. Come in and join us, Mayfair,” invited Spruce. “We’ve got no quarrel with you. You can’t choose your pa.”

“We won’t hurt you,” said Sejanus.

Mayfair gave an ugly laugh. “’ Course you won’t.”

“What’s going on?” Spruce asked Billy Taupe.

“Nothing. She’s just talking,” he said. “She won’t do anything.”

“That’s me. All talk, no action. Right, Lucy Gray? How’d you enjoy the Capitol, by the way?” The door gave a small creak, and Coriolanus had the sense Mayfair was backing away, about to flee. With her would go his entire future. No, more than that, his very life. If she reported what she’d heard, the whole lot of them would be as good as dead.

In a flash, Spruce lifted his shotgun to shoot her, but Billy Taupe knocked the barrel toward the floor. Coriolanus reflexively reached for the Peacekeeper rifle and fired toward Mayfair’s voice. She gave a cry, and there was the sound of her collapsing to the floor.

“Mayfair!” Billy Taupe bolted across the shed to where she lay in the doorway. He staggered back into the light, his hand shiny with blood, spitting at Coriolanus like a rabid animal.

“What’d you do?”

Coriolanus gave her a push, and her feet started moving toward the door. “Go back. Get onstage. That’s your alibi. Go!”

“Oh, no. If I swing, she’s swinging with me!” Billy Taupe charged after her.

Without hesitating, Spruce shot Billy Taupe through the chest. The blast carried him backward, and he crumpled to the floor.

In the stillness that followed, Coriolanus registered the music coming from the Hob for the first time since Lucy Gray had finished her number. Maude Ivory had the entire warehouse caught up in a sing-along.

Keep on the sunny side, always the sunny side.

“You better do like he said,” Spruce told Lucy Gray. “Before they miss you and someone comes looking.”

Lucy Gray couldn’t take her eyes off Billy Taupe’s body. Coriolanus grabbed her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him. “Go. I’ll take care of this.” He propelled her to the door.

She opened it, and they both looked out. The coast was clear. “You were never here,” Coriolanus whispered in Lucy Gray’s ear as he let her go. She stumbled across the pavement and into the Hob. He slid the door shut with his foot.

Coriolanus hears a knock on the door. “Coryo?” He hears your voice call out. Against his better judgment, he opens the door. Letting you walk in. “She's my girl, she won't do anything,” Coriolanus lets Spruce know.

“I…” You gape at the bodies before saying, “You don't have to murder everyone you're jealous of, Coryo. You know that me flirting with Billy Taupe was just me getting back at you, right?”

Coriolanus feels his cheek getting hot, a boyish embarrassment taking root in his mind. “I didn't kill him!” He defended, “It was him.” He points at Spruce. “I killed her,” he reveals.

“That bitch? Good riddance.”

Sejanus whispers your name, with tears in his eyes. You immediately soften, and Coriolanus wonders if he should kill Sejanus as well because he got you to react like that. Then Snow remembers Sejanus' impending future and lets it go.

“It's gonna be okay, Sej.”

Spruce stuffed the weapons back into the burlap bag. “They’re dead. I’m planning to keep this to myself. What about you three?”

“The same. Obviously,” said Coriolanus. Sejanus stared at them, still in shock. “Him, too. I’ll make sure.”

“You might think about coming with us. Someone’s going to pay for this,” said Spruce. He retrieved the lamp and vanished out the back door, throwing the shed into darkness.

You watch the rebel go. He’d successfully made it in and out of the shed without touching anything with his skin. Except for the gun he’d killed Mayfair with, of course, no doubt covered in his fingerprints and DNA — but Spruce would take that when he left District 12, never to return. The last thing he needed was a repeat of the handkerchief scenario. He could still hear Dean Highbottom taunting him. . . .

“Do you hear that, Coriolanus? It’s the sound of Snow falling.”

You and Sejanus follow him. Until Sejanus goes back to the hob to be with Lucy Gray and Coriolanus goes back to you in your room. “What was that? Do we need to hide the bodies?” You asked, “I can do something.” Coriolanus shakes his head, as much as he wants the help. He didn't want you involved, not when he was so close to getting out of here with you.

“The rebels will take the gun with them. There will be no evidence left.”

You nod. You pressed your lips against his lips, giving him the softest kiss he had ever received. “Be careful, Coryo,” you whispered.

“I will. I am sorry that this happened,” Coryo said.

“It's fine,” you smirk, “It's not like I cared about them.”

‘Do you care about Sejanus? He wanted to ask. 'Are you going to leave me for his fate?’

He didn't. He smiles back at you, before leaving.

Tomorrow is a new dawn.

Hopefully, Coriolanus' luck will work out this time.

NEXT PART

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simsthetica · 4 months

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Dr. William Lancaster, 32, Capricorn

The city’s most eligible bachelor; Heir to the Lancaster textile empire, William rejected his birthright to pursue his dream. At 32 years old, he is now Myshuno Medical Center's youngest neurosurgeon. Even with his refined palette, he remains grounded in his duty to patients. Despite his busy lifestyle, he will stop at nothing to become the modern Renaissance man.

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seren-knight01 · 1 year

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The dichotomy of Ganondorf thinking that his strength, power, authority, and identity comes from conquest versus Rauru’s identity and power coming from his willingness to lay down his life and soul to protect those Ganondorf deems too “weak” to deserve to live.

Ganondorf’s very masculinity coming from the dominion over others; his birthright to royal power being tied to said masculinity. Ganondorf, thinking that a harsh world is needed to produce powerful people with “fighting spirit” while Rauru nurtures and protects in order to grow greatness. Gentleness and compassion being mistaken for cowardice and weakness rather than true strength. Ganondorf’s masculinity is based on conquest, subjugation, and utter domination.

“Do not look away: you witness a king’s revival!”

And Rauru’s based on selflessness, sacrifice, and compassion. Rauru’s masculinity founded upon love, wisdom, and determination to protect those who needed him. Rauru knows exactly who he is and what he’s capable of, and what responsibly he bears to those who do not have such power as he does.

“We are the king and queen who founded Hyrule, or we were the last time I checked.”

They are such perfect foils for one another, and Link is Rauru’s true successor in that regard. The masculinity that is selfless, that is built upon integrity and kindness and the willingness to be helpful and protective instead of an all-powerful conqueror. Link (and Rauru) fight for Hyrule’s future, knowing that he is strongest with his friends by his side, and that he fights for the safety and happiness of those who are not as strong as he is. Both Link and Rauru know that they cannot succeed alone.

Oh, the poetry that gentle, kind, fierce Rauru is the one who wins in the end.

Tl;dr: Rauru and Link are pinnacles of masculinity and Ganondorf views them as a primal threat to his very identity and that’s why he resorts to such desperate measures throughout Hyrule’s history, right to the end.

#tears of the kingdom #loz rauru #legend of zelda #princess zelda #zelink #link #breath of the wild #zelda breath of the wild #ganondorf #mini rant

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sejanusarchive · 28 days

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I love that no matter what, Coriolanus can’t get fully rid of Sejanus. Their identities are too intertwined.

Heirs to a munition empire with a cold father and a loving mother, except Sejanus got to keep his parents and a life of luxury which he didn’t want and Coriolanus, who desired exactly that, resented and envied Sejanus for having what he believed was his birthright. And in the end he caused his death and stole his entire life; stole his parents, the education he could have had, the money and the industry he would have inherited. And he has to live with that, knowing that everything that’s now his, is tainted by the blood of the kind boy who trusted and loved him, whom he replaced. Everything he has, he owes it to Sejanus dying. And he might not care, but it doesn’t change that it’s something he can’t not acknowledge.

Doesn’t change that he grew up alongside him and there are going to be countless places, situations, smells and colors that are inevitably going to remind him of him. Doesn’t change that he has to look at Ma everyday and see the pain and grief in her eyes, listen to her talk about her baby that he ripped from her. Doesn’t change that the money and fancy clothes Strabo gives him would have all been his. That he’s able to fill his stomach everyday and still live in the Snow apartment because of him. Doesn’t change that he has to attend yearly dinners filled with sorrow, to commemorate Sejanus’s passing and birthdays; has to walk through the halls and rooms of the Plinth apartment and feel Sejanus's eyes pierce through him and follow him everywhere, from the portraits hanging on the walls and the pictures sitting in pretty frames on furniture. Has to hear his angry voice in the back of his mind when he’s working with Dr. Gaul and try as hard as he can to silence it and push it down without always succeeding.

And it doesn’t change that Sejanus is not a life he wanted to take. Sure he wanted him out of his and ultimately his death was positively life changing for him, but it’s still not what he wanted. And we can also see from small, sparse, moments in the book when Coriolanus didn’t let his envy and sense of superiority cloud his mind, that deep down a part of him actually cared about Sejanus. His death is possibly the only one he never actively wanted to cause and the only one he mourned to some extent. Only one that caused him to break down in violent sobs and that made the weight of everything else, which he had once alleviated with his presence, finally be too much.

Whether he likes it or not, his life is too tangled with Sejanus and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it, if not try to push that knowledge down. But Sejanus is everywhere, haunting Coriolanus’s every step and he’ll never be able to get his looming presence out of his life. And it’s exactly what he deserves

(was thinking of this and this and ended up writing all that at like one am last night)

#sejanus plinth #coriolanus snow #snowjanus #ballad of songbirds and snakes #the hunger games

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77ngiez-archive · 1 year

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ive mastered the art of drawing on 1 layer <- lying

#amia’s art #junko enoshima #mukuro ikusaba #usami nanami #akari nakajima #luni yonaga #angie yonaga #masahiro nidai #danganronpa #dr1 #bloodlines #dr birthright #drv3

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fleetingcalypso · 4 months

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Hello love! i'm absolutely enraptured by your writing. If i could, i'd love to request a Henry Winter x Reader enemies to lovers? Like an absolutely cut-throat academic rivalry that culminates in a dramatic fight and reconciliation at Francis' house? Thank you!

≋ Sometimes attraction blossoms even in the most hostile of places. I'm sure having Henry's life could only benefit from having a rival, turning his world upside down, keeping him on his toes. This is one of my longest works yet, also one I'm not too keen on, nonetheless I pray it captures your interest.

≋ Henry Winter x GN!Reader ≋

≋ Word Count: 4582 words.

≋ TW: mentions of dr*gs, consumption of alcohol, violence (Henry receives a slap in a moment of ire), Edmund "Bunny" Corcoran.

I remember when I initially stepped foot in Julian’s office: most of the words he spoke are lost in time but one thing is forever stitched in the fabric of my memory, he patted me on the shoulder as an affectionate mentor would and with an award winning smile he said, “You’ll fit right in.” It made me feel validated at the time, like I had a place in the world, a bird fallen out of its nest reunited with its family at last. He wasted no seconds in telling me how he would usually limit his students to the odd number of only five, but he could tell there was something about the way I carried myself that would not disturb the peaceful routine he had meticulously crafted.

Classes with Julian were anything but peaceful, to my displeasure, not because of him, not at all. He was a splendid instructor, I often found myself on the edge of my seat with each one of his words. With no surprise, I was not the only one placing him on a crystal pedestal.

One single man made each class feel as though I was being tortured by demons, poked by sharp pointy tails. Each of my comments was brushed off, deemed useless and void of meaning, each paragraph, line, even a single word I read was followed by a deep voice interrupting me and correcting my pronunciation with great emphasis. Thankfully, I had found friends as well, other than a snake spiraling around my ankle, threatening to consume me whole.

The root of all of my headaches, as much as I’d love to strip him of his name, is called Henry Winter.

It’s not to say that I’d let him walk all over me. On more than one occasion, I was victorious after our heated discussions about the accuracy of a translated text or if we were to choose one of the five Greek cases over another. Following each argument his jaw would clench and he’d let out a curt “Very well, then,” before turning his head away and acting as if nothing had happened, although I could without fail notice the tension in his body. It was rather easy, for some unknown reason we’d always find ourselves sitting next to each other, so close our knees touched.

“Henry, is there anything you’re unable to do?” One day I asked him, in Julian’s momentary absence, the question felt only natural to pose: with his expertise in various languages and his familiarity with the world in Ancient Greece being so fascinating. The taunting tone in my voice caught the attention of not only my interlocutor, but the rest of our classmates as well. Six pairs of eyes were fixed on me, some looking more amused than others. His response came only after Bunny elbowed him, egging him on, “Ensuring you will not plague my days, apparently,” he said, pushing his glasses further up his nose. The venom he spat failed to enter my system, nonetheless it makes my gaze narrow.

“You always know what to say.” It’s not a question this time, but an observation which he rewarded with a “Of course I do. Lack of words is for the uncultured.” Our interaction was cut short due to Julian returning, but that would not be the end of it.

That very same day, after our lesson was over we all stood to leave, his hand found the spot on the small of my back as he walked past me, as if it belonged there by birthright. Sometimes I still feel it, the memory creeps up on me in the middle of the night, it keeps me awake whilst making me want more and more of him, like a cruel, vicious, thrilling drug I am unable to have a sober day from.

Class wasn’t the only occasion of the day where we would have contrasting thoughts: once, it happened during a morning when all seven of us sat in the library, open books and notebooks scattered all over our table, “This is going nowhere,” groaned Charles pushing the wrinkled paper he was writing onto towards my direction, “Take a look at this. What do you think?”

It stroked my ego that he chose my opinion over Henry’s and by a flying glance I noticed a slight surprised glint in his blue eyes, though he was quick to conceal it by focusing onto the fountain pan in his hand. I wasn’t the only one surprised by our friend’s choice in who should aid him in his translation.

After a short look, the mistake was clear, “Ah, here it is. Your writing is not inherently wrong, ‘Who dares think one thing, and another tell, my heart detests him as the gates of hell,’ while it is correct, it could be worded in a different way, try: ‘For hateful to me as the gates of Hādēs is that man who hides one thought in his mind, but speaks another.’ That should flow better.” Just to be certain - and perhaps to bother him just a small amount - I turned to Henry, “Shouldn’t it?” He didn’t move for a second before humming and nodding, although I might have overheard him whisper “You’re doing too much,” under his breath. When I handed the paper back to its owner I could spot Francis with his hand over his lips, trying to mask a grin, obviously amused by my exchange with our friend.

The amount of times we’ve debated over the littlest of things, it would take all the stars in the universe to count, and it still would not be enough.

“You’re slow today.” He whispered to me one day, when I hadn’t jumped at the opportunity to answer one of Julian’s queries about the Iliad, his breath tickled my ear and sent goosebumps down the back of my neck. It's true, I was slow. Henry's cologne for some insane reason was all I could think about: his closeness to me, as much as it was far by greatly affecting my attention, it certainly was reluctantly occupying a part of my mind. “Have you considered that not every thought should be spoken out loud?” I argued, the left corner of his lips lifted into a crooked half smile, “Interesting. You could benefit from your own advice.” He said, and it ended there. It left me with something I can’t quite recognize.

Ultimately, every day turned into a competition: petty, small things that held my heart hostage, like who was the first to enter Julian’s office at the beginning of the day, who turned in an essay the fastest, whose penmanship was more aesthetically pleasing and whose comments in class were rewarded with more praise.

Another episode in which I thought our rivalry was set in stone, from the very moment he laid eyes on me, happened during a quiet Wednesday, and we were enjoying a delicious lunch at the twins’ place. Camilla had cooked lamb chops, the rest of us had brought refreshments and some side dishes. Henry got a hold of my chair before I could grab it, he pulled it out for me then took a seat in the chair furthest away from mine.

In the middle of our meal, as I was diving in for seconds, Bunny interrupted the calm atmosphere that had formed by being his usual exasperating self and kicking my leg from under the table, “You know,” He began waving his fork in my direction, with his lips still dirty with food, “I’ve always wondered, whenever you look at Julian with stars in your eyes, is it because you truly care about what he has to say, or is it because you’re trying to suck up to him and get easy marks by being a teacher’s pet? He’s too old for you, you know?” From the seat next to me I swear I could hear Charles choke on his food, Richard’s jaw fell open, Francis looked positively disgusted, Camilla -poor soul- pushed her plate away, as the mental image of me being in love with our professor was plastered into her unwilling mind. The only one with no visible reaction was Henry.

“That’s what I thought as well, at first,” He noted, dabbing his lips with his napkin, “Class with Julian is not a slice of bread even the dirty pigeons on the sidewalk can stumble upon. It is only a matter of time before you realize what blessing you’ve found.” He was a master of masking a mocking undertone in his voice, along with an air of superiority which implied that the one thing he was waiting for was for me to blow up, to storm away, pack my stuff and leave Vermont for good.

“Don’t you think assuming my inability to follow lessons with the rest of you is an insult to Julian’s ability to tell whether someone is worth his time or not? If I were him I’d be quite offended, if I can say so.”

The glare he shot at me, with his blue eyes piercing through his glasses, was enough for me to know I had won; the way he was gripping his fork, his knuckles white as ever, let me know that this was not only a win, this was one of his battleships sinking. This was war, as far as I was concerned, it could only end either with an impossible truce or until one of us was dead in a ditch.

Not wanting to entirely ruin lunch, Francis was the one to change the subject. What he said I do not remember, as I was too busy basking in my own subtle victory to pay attention, but it did work and Henry made no further jabs at me that day. The same cannot be said for Bunny, who seemed to find it exhilarating that I would stand up to Henry the way I did and spent the rest of the day testing my patience.

Since that day, life has been notably bloodless between me and the human thorn in my side, with the occasional exception. I’ve come to notice that, when he is not wasting his time trying his best to get on my nerves, he passes as a truly handsome man. It might be something about the sheer size of him, or it could very well be the way he looks at me,his gaze permanently deeper than the ocean itself, as well as his hands, veiny and large, yet rarely rough in movements. I’m ashamed to admit I’ve spent far too many instants passing glimpses at his fingers, as they slide along the pages of books.

If I have to stand in front of a jury of Gods, though, and speak my naked truth - with no censors - I’d probably reveal that what is so fascinating about Henry is the way he is a bottomless well of knowledge about Ancient Greece. He is devoted to it, as he is devoted to Julian and in some sick twisted way I can’t help but find that veneration attractive.

Against my better judgment, I find myself missing our banter more than anything. The way he stared me down used to give me goosebumps, it still does when my eyelids close and I imagine it.

Summer comes faster than I imagine, faster than lightning striking the Earth, and in the blink of an eye I find myself at Francis’s aunt’s house. All of us fell into a comfortable rhythm while residing here, it was a breath of fresh air compared to our daily life. Playing the piano, reading in the vast library, excursions out to the lake, we kept ourselves busy, enjoying the countryside, keeping what -at the time- felt like the biggest secret of our lives from Richard.

At my awakening I was delighted in discovering everyone else was still deep in sleep. I took it as permission to make some breakfast. I had placed two cups of coffee on the table when he made his way into the kitchen, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and not a single sight of his usual exhaustion on his face. Morning sunlight shines onto his skin, giving it a warm glow, he looks positively saintlike. An archangel descending from the heavens, waiting to be welcomed to my mass, just to notify me that the end is coming sooner than I expect. “I made coffee.” I said, setting a cup in front of him. He looked at it for a moment, just for a moment, before his doubt shrouded eyes met mine, “I have a feeling you’ve poisoned this.” As he was debating whether to accept my offer, Charles joined us. He accepted a cup without a moment’s hesitation, downed it while throwing his head back, then walked off to God knows where, not like I care much.

Henry took a sip only after witnessing that it was indeed safe to do so, I did as well. As the hot liquid met his taste buds I could see him regret he ever came into the kitchen. It was coffee, yes, although unlike my cup which had sugar at the bottom of it, the one he was drinking from had salt in it. A smile tugged at my lips, “Good morning,” I said watching his face scrunch up and force himself to not spit out what was in his mouth. A puzzled look possesses my face as he doesn’t look away from my eyes, not for one second, his eyebrows scrunch while he doesn’t spill a drop of salted coffee, it all slides down his throat. “Good morning.” He replies, coldly, tongue sliding over his bottom lip.

By the time everyone had come to have breakfast, whether it was a glass of wine, whiskey or any drink of their choice, Henry hadn’t moved. With him following my every move, it felt only natural to imagine he’d be scheming something, and my hypothesis would soon reveal itself to ring true, leaving me like a sailor at sea, in the middle of an impenetrable storm.

The sun burns high in the sky, then it slowly melts into the sea, showering the world in tones of red, gold and purple; we spent dawn-to-dark in nature, feeling the blades of grass under our feet, taking turns sitting on a boat floating down the lake and resting by the shadows of the trees with books in our lap, the seraphic nature of the day could have been immortalized in a painting by Michelangelo himself, but no amount of expertise with the brush would be able to capture the unmitigated calm that reigned.

Such a glorious day deserves to have an equally splendid ending, suggested Francis once we retired back to the house. Bottles were hastily opened, alcohol floating in glasses and finding a home between thirsty lips. Inebriation wasted no time in letting inhibitions be on the loose. One small insignificant disagreement accounted as an act of hypothetical insubordination broke into an altercation between me and my nemesis. It went on forever, such an interminable occasion that our friends abandoned us in the kitchen and went on to enjoy their drinks in the library.

“I don’t think you should be here,” His vicious words didn’t faze me at that point, the knowledge that in his idea of a perfect world I was nowhere to be found wasn’t lost on me, “You should get in your car and drive far, far away from where my eye can’t reach.” The first two buttons of his shirt were nonchalantly unbuttoned distracting me for just a moment, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat with each sound caught my attention.

“Careful my friend,” I answered, fingers growing cold from the cool glass in my hand, being gripped with an unusual stability given the wine floating in my system, his face twitched at my name for him, “It almost sounds like my very existence bothers you more than one could imagine.”

“It does. Bother me, it is. It bothers me greatly. I don’t think you should be here” He repeats. As magnanimous as I am, I am no martyr. My glass hits the table with a thud, bright red splashes onto the tablecloth as I raise my voice louder than I would like, “What the fuck is your problem?!” Never in my life had I met a human as frustrating as him, “I can’t imagine I’ve done much to you the first day I sat in that office, yet, you’ve been nothing but unkind towards me.”

“What is my problem?!” He pushes himself to his feet, his voice loud to match mine, “You are my problem! You’re always having something to prove, buzzing about like a working insect devoted to the queen bee, it’s exhausting to even have you sit next to me.” I’m tempted to spill my drink in his face, what a sight it would be: savory red drops slipping down his glasses and hair, wetting his cheeks and jaw until it reached his lip. Instead of that I just shove him, resulting in him stumbling a step backwards, clearly not expecting the mouse to fight back against the owl trying to catch it.

“Have you ever even glimpsed in a mirror?! You act as if you’re so all-mighty, like the rest of the world is merely ants under your shoe! It’s nerve wracking when you find someone you can’t step all over isn't it? How does it feel to have found the one person in the world that does not bow down to you?” He enrages me, in all truth. I can’t bring myself to understand why it is, that now of all times, he makes my blood boil, in more ways than one, “Does it turn your stomach upside down? Is it the only thing you can think about?”

His chest moved for just a single, shaky breath and by now I knew I was playing with fire. If I got burned by touching the sun, at the very least it means I flew high enough to touch it. My hands moved again, ready to push him once again however just a breath before my lips could part to berate him even more his hands caught my wrists.

“You’re a parasite.” He hisses, lowering his face close to mine, by my reflection in the lenses of his glasses it is plain to see his choice of words leaves a mark, not on my face as a slap would, but on my emotions, “You’re a tiny, disgusting, parasite. You’ve single handedly infiltrated yourself in my modus operandi and I am just waiting for the moment I can finally take a moment to breathe again. Since the day you’ve set foot in that office I have, not once, had a chance to relax.” My body reacts before I can allow it to do so, the red handprint forming on his right cheek and his glasses being askew -almost on the brink of falling- confirm that I did, indeed, strike him in a fit of rage. How I was able to free one of my limbs from his death grip I do not know, adrenaline does some wonderful miracles.

“If I’m a parasite,” My voice comes out in a low growl, “Then you best pay attention I don’t end up killing you.” The more I stand in his presence, in this kitchen, having our chests rising in synch with the slowest breaths we have ever taken, I recognize just how much we latch onto each other, how we’ve stitched our existence together with an obsidian thread the very first time we sat with our knees grazing.

“You’ll be the death of me.” He admits in a whisper I can barely hear. Had our faces not been as close as they are, I’d probably would have thought he’d been mouthing nonsense. One second he’s all I can see, with his monumental figure blocking everything else, the next he’s walking away from me, his glass of wine sits on the tablecloth, still full, untouched.

Now I know how Pandora felt as she unintentionally let the vase she was gifted almost grow empty, now I could describe in meticulous detail what a bee feels after its first and final sting.

I do not join my friends in their gathering. My chest aches with something unfamiliar, comfort certainly won’t be known for as long as I find myself anywhere near Henry Winter.

The moon has reached its place in the sky by barely an hour now, a pearl glistening onto a fabric of pure pitch-black, tiny crystals surrounding it, making sure it will never be alone forever and ever. I’ve never seen a tapestry as breathtaking as the one mirroring on the calm surface of the lake I’m strolling by to gather my thoughts. Henry is somewhat right, deep inside of me I can feel it, I’ll be the death of him one way or another. He’s the king, guiding his troops and his courtesans from the comfortable seat of an opulent throne and I’m an approaching invasion, inevitable and threatening destruction for the kingdom he has built from nothing, rooted in the deepest of sins: pride. Hubris seems to get the better of us both with each breath we take.

My anger had settled in the brief sixty minutes I’ve spent admiring the darkness, by myself. Some fireflies with their microscopic body attempt to irradiate the entire lakeside with light, oblivious to their size or the impossibility of their mission.

Tirelessly I recount my life at Hampden, every single moment I can recall gets forced under scrutiny: “You’ll fit right in,” Julian had told me, in his eyes there lived a conviction I’ve noticed only during his enthralling lessons. I’ve only ever known him to speak the holy truth, doubting feels like going against everything I’ve ever known. In my solitude I find contentment, time flows steadily, mimicking a river in which nymphs could find respite.

“So this is where you were hiding.” A deep voice rises among the chirping of crickets, “We couldn’t find you at the house.” And just like that the incantation I’d fashioned myself in dissolves in the cool night air, joining the fireflies in their dance to please the stars and the moon. I hear him before I see him. A colorless shadow approaches me, in an impossibly inky abyss of nature, it can only be him; out of all our friends he’s the only one that can tell what bizarre chemical reactions my brain produces, he’s the only one that can read my thoughts like they were the very first lines of the Iliad, because more often than not he’s thinking the exact same thing.

‘The wrath of Peleus' son, the direful spring Of all the Grecian woes, O Goddess, sing.’ I recite in my mind as the barely human shadow only gets closer and closer, ‘That wrath which hurled to Pluto's gloomy reign the souls of mighty chiefs untimely slain, whose limbs, unburied on the naked shore,’ his footsteps stop behind me, he wants to speak as do I, but neither dare utter a sound, ‘Devouring dogs and hungry vultures tore: Since great Achilles and Atrides strove, such was the sovereign doom, and such the will of Jove!’

Unconsciously I found more satisfaction in rehearsing the words out loud, “Declare, O Muse. In what ill-fated hour, sprung the fierce strife, from what offended power?” And of course, he continued them effortlessly: “Latona's son a dire contagion spread, and heaped the camp with mountains of the dead; The king of men his reverend priest defied, and, for the king's offence, the people died.” We will never stop trying to compete with each other, it is a losing battle: it’s asking the moon to stop being the unmatchable muse for romance poems, it’s asking the cosmos and all of its constellations to disappear.

“You’re not always honest,” I mumbled, disregarding if he’d consider me weak or frail, ignoring the way I could feel him burn a hole in the back of my head, “Tonight you were what I think is the most honest you’ve been in a long time.” He’s my tormentor just as much as I am his.

His knee grazes against mine in the instant he finds a seat on the grass, next to me. His lingering accidental touch takes a hold of me, it’s addictive. “You are a parasite.” He insists and for a moment I think we’re about to raise our voices at each other again, but then he continues with a softer voice, “You’ve latched into my mind, consuming every corner of my life and I am defenseless to it.”

“What do you mean?”

I can’t perfectly see his face in the moonlight, but if he is by any means like me as I know he is, I can consider correct the hypothesis of his pupils being dilated enough to swallow me whole. He drinks me in, like the salty cup of coffee I offered him, he doesn't leave anything behind, doesn’t waste a drop.

“You’re in possession of a great intellect. For a second in your life, put aside the countless feuds we were active participants in and figure it out. You’re hurling me into unwanted and unknown territory.” I know what he means. He could speak every language in the world and I’d still know what each word signifies, in its deepest meaning. It baffles me that he is able to discern my brilliance. He’d never lauded me so. There’s a first for everything, it seems.

“I am not a threat to your leadership, I’m not trying to be.”

He laughs at my words, to my surprise: dry and void of humor, “It’s not my leadership that’s compromised. It’s my heart and mind. While at first I found our game bothersome and quite frankly childish, I’ve unearthed a yearning for it, so influential on my being that I find myself hopelessly wishing you’d dismiss yourself from my life, with the result that I might go back to when you were not the only thing inhabiting my thoughts.”

“I won’t deny I’ve allowed myself to feel the same.” In the dim lighting we sit, I’m appreciative my confession will be the only truly limpid particle of me, I’m not ready for him to see me as I am, not yet, “I yearn for our arguments, for the furrow in your brow and your disapproving stare with each of our disagreements, most of all I yearn for your stimulating presence. Henry, you’re quite the character.”

“So are you. Impossibly infuriating, and delightfully of the essence for me.”

Our friends are waiting for us, I’m acutely aware of it, nonetheless I find myself giving into selfishness for tonight. It is a long way to go, for us two to build a bridge, but with one brick at a time perhaps it is not only a bridge we can erect, but a whole kingdom, with two thrones instead of a solitary one and no invasion to knock at its doors. If his hand slips on top of mine I pretend I do not notice, just like he doesn’t mention my head resting itself on his shoulder. The lake has never looked better, with a bright spotlight shining onto the calm surface, ripped out the pages of a fairytale. Maybe with enough time and effort the fireflies will be able to shine as bright as the moon.

#fleetingcalypso #calypsodaydreams #henry winter x reader #henry winter #the secret history #the secret history x reader #tsh donna tartt #dark academia #reader insert #writing

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real-fire-emblem-takes · 4 months

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intsys did camilla (who has also been severely wronged by the fanbase) and xander fe14 so fuckig dirtyyy loke. camilla is a character loaded with trauma and they couldve done soo much and explored what makes her the way she is (i.e. eldest daughter syndrome + her mother using her to gain favour with garon). her character was watered down to "big sister fetish" so quickly PLUS i think her supports with takumi are ridiculous. they compliment each other so well but her still treating him like a child because of her big sister complex even when theyre getting MARRIED is ridiculous!

then you have xander who in the stories hes whatever the son equivalent of "garons bitch" is (his dog? daddys boy? idk) but hes so fucking good in the supports. hes smart, caring, and open to listening to people in the supports. meanwhile story xander is a pussy who, in birthright, essentially spits on elises corpse by ignoring her last words asking him to stop fighting. amd he doesnt. support xander wpuld have put down his damn sword. say what you want about fates but i think people with media literacy will agree that HAS interesting characters that were BRUTALLY failed by the shitty writing.

tl;dr support xander good story xander bad camilla could be more than big sister titty yandere if you have any media literacy. i am a camilla and xander fan until i die specifically BECAUSE of the fact that they were failed by the writing. i am extremely passionate about fates as a series and how it could have been so incredible if it had good writers

#fe14 #fire emblem fates #story takes #fandom takes #xander fire emblem #camilla fire emblem #fe #fire emblem

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fantasblog · 11 days

Text

CHAPTER 1: riffle between us (scibill au/shift falls)

In the dim light of a lab scattered with arcane artifacts and scientific instruments, a peculiar figure adjusted his glasses. Bill Cipher, an enigmatic triangle demon known for his chaos and destruction, had shed his usual chaotic demeanor for the role of a scientist. His black necktie, neatly tied around his neck, and his tailored scientist's cloak created a sharp contrast to the turmoil that had once defined him.

Years had passed since the Euclidean massacre, a cataclysmic event that left its mark on the very fabric of existence. Bill had been a survivor of that disaster, though he was not the only one affected. His parents, once benevolent beings, had turned to darkness in the aftermath, driven mad by the carnage that had unfolded. They had embraced chaos, leaving Bill to flee and start anew. The rift between them was as vast as the void itself, and Bill had not seen them since.

Now, he occupied himself with research and invention, trying to piece together the shattered remnants of his once-promising life. The chaos that had been his birthright seemed like a distant memory as he worked tirelessly to understand the mysteries of the universe from a scientific perspective. His new life was a strange blend of old-world knowledge and modern scientific theory, and his laboratory was a testament to this synthesis.

The lab was quiet, save for the occasional hum of machinery and the scratch of Bill's pen on a notepad. He was deep in thought when the lab's door creaked open, and a familiar figure stepped in. It was Stanford Pines, the renowned scientist whose reputation for unraveling the mysteries of the universe preceded him.

"Dr. Pines," Bill greeted, setting down his pen and adjusting his glasses. "I wasn’t expecting a visit."

Stanford, dressed in his usual attire of a tweed jacket and glasses, glanced around the lab with curiosity. "I heard you had made some impressive breakthroughs in your research, Bill. I wanted to see for myself."

Bill's eyes, usually alight with mischief, softened with a hint of pride. "I’m glad to hear that. I’ve been working on a theory about interdimensional stability. It’s quite complex."

As the two scientists delved into discussion, Bill couldn't help but notice the irony of his situation. Here he was, once a being of pure chaos, now engaging in conversations of quantum mechanics and dimensional rifts with one of the foremost minds in the field. The juxtaposition was not lost on him.

Stanford, absorbed in the conversation, remarked, "You know, it's impressive how far you’ve come from your... previous endeavors. Your work here could have significant implications for understanding the boundaries between dimensions."

Bill shrugged, a wry smile playing at his lips. "I suppose it's my way of compensating for the past. If I can contribute something positive, maybe it will make up for the chaos I once caused."

As the hours passed, the discussion between Bill and Stanford flowed seamlessly. Their shared passion for discovery bridged the gap between their respective pasts, creating a new partnership founded on mutual respect and curiosity. In that moment, Bill realized that perhaps he could forge a new path, one where he could reconcile his past with his present.

Outside the lab, the night sky was clear, and the stars shone brightly. For the first time in a long while, Bill felt a glimmer of hope. The darkness of his past seemed to recede, if only slightly, as he looked forward to the possibilities that lay ahead.

As the evening wore on, the conversation between Bill Cipher and Stanford Pines grew more animated, filled with complex theories and mutual admiration. The two scientists were so engrossed in their discussion that neither noticed the soft knock on the lab door.

The door creaked open, and a burly figure with wild, silver hair and a pair of thick, round glasses entered the room. He was dressed in an old-fashioned lab coat that looked as though it had seen better days, its pockets stuffed with various tools and gadgets. The man’s eyes sparkled with a mix of curiosity and excitement as he took in the sight of the advanced equipment around him.

“Howdy there!” he called out, his voice rich with a Southern drawl. “I heard some mighty interesting talk and thought I’d come see what’s cookin’ in this here lab.”

Stanford glanced over and smiled. “Ah, Fiddleford! Just in time. This is Bill Cipher, a colleague of mine whose work has been truly remarkable. Bill, this is Fiddleford McGucket, another brilliant mind in the field of scientific research.”

Bill’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of the newcomer. Fiddleford McGucket was a name he had heard in passing, a scientist known for his unconventional theories and inventions. Though their paths had never crossed, Bill had always respected McGucket’s reputation.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. McGucket,” Bill said, extending a hand in greeting. “I’ve heard quite a bit about your work. It’s an honor.”

Fiddleford shook Bill’s hand enthusiastically, his eyes twinkling with excitement. “Well, the pleasure’s all mine! I’ve been followin’ your research from afar and I gotta say, I’m impressed. You’ve got quite the knack for makin’ sense of things that most folks wouldn’t even dream of.”

Bill chuckled, slightly taken aback by Fiddleford’s friendly demeanor. “Thank you. I suppose we’re all just trying to make sense of a universe that often defies understanding.”

Fiddleford’s gaze shifted to the array of gadgets and devices in the lab. “I can see you’ve been busy. What’s the latest project you’re workin’ on?”

Stanford, sensing the enthusiasm in the room, took a step back to let the two scientists converse freely. “Bill was just explaining his theory on interdimensional stability. It’s a groundbreaking approach, and I think Fiddleford’s expertise could offer valuable insights.”

Fiddleford’s eyes lit up as he examined the blueprints and notes scattered across the lab table. “Interdimensional stability, you say? That’s right up my alley! I’ve been tinkerin’ with some ideas on dimensional harmonics myself. Maybe we could collaborate on this?”

Bill’s interest was piqued. “Collaboration? That could be very beneficial. I’d be open to exploring new ideas with you.”

As the evening continued, the three scientists delved into discussions that spanned multiple disciplines. The exchange of ideas was invigorating, and the synergy between them was palpable. Bill found himself more inspired than he had been in years, his past struggles momentarily forgotten as he focused on the exciting possibilities of the present.

Outside, the night deepened, but inside the lab, the spirit of discovery burned brightly. Bill Cipher, once a figure of chaos, was now part of a new chapter—one where his talents could be harnessed for creation and understanding. With Stanford Pines and Fiddleford McGucket by his side, the future seemed filled with endless potential.

---

As the evening advanced, the lab’s atmosphere was charged with excitement and new possibilities. The sound of lively discussion and the clinking of tools filled the air. Just then, the lab’s door swung open once more, and in walked another Pines sibling—Stanley Pines. His presence was marked by a rugged charm and a slightly disheveled appearance, a stark contrast to the polished looks of his brother and their colleague.

“Hey, Stanford! I thought I’d find you here,” Stanley greeted, his voice carrying a mix of warmth and weariness. He spotted Bill and Fiddleford, giving them a friendly nod. “I see you’ve got company. Nice to meet you both.”

Stanford looked up, his eyes lighting up with recognition and a touch of concern. “Stanley, it’s good to see you. I didn’t expect you to come by tonight.”

Stanley’s gaze shifted to the room’s various gadgets and blueprints. “I figured I’d drop in and see what you’ve been up to. It’s been a while since we’ve had a chance to catch up.”

Bill, sensing the tension between the brothers, gave a polite nod. “I’m Bill Cipher, and this is Fiddleford McGucket. We were just discussing some intriguing theories on dimensional stability.”

Stanley raised an eyebrow but didn’t pursue the matter further. “Sounds like you’re in good company. I’m here to—well, let’s just say I’ve got some unfinished business with my brother.”

Stanford’s expression grew serious. “Stanley, I hope this isn’t about—”

Stanley cut him off with a wave of his hand. “We’ll talk about it later. Right now, I want to know what’s really going on. I’ve heard some troubling things, and I need answers.”

Fiddleford, sensing the undercurrent of tension, attempted to lighten the mood. “Why don’t we all sit down and have a chat? There’s plenty of room in the lab for discussions.”

As they settled around the table, the conversation turned to less contentious topics, though the air remained thick with unspoken concerns. Bill observed the dynamics between the Pines brothers with a mixture of curiosity and unease. He had heard about the rift between them—Stanford’s mysterious disappearance and the subsequent discord between him and Stanley—but witnessing it firsthand added a new layer of complexity.

After a while, the conversation naturally shifted back to the topic of Stanford’s research. Stanley’s curiosity was piqued, but it was clear he was still preoccupied with his own issues. The talk was cut short when an unexpected commotion was heard from outside the lab.

Stanley’s eyes narrowed, and he stood abruptly. “That doesn’t sound good. I need to check something.”

Stanford followed, clearly concerned. “Wait, Stanley—”

Before Stanford could finish his sentence, Stanley was already out the door. Bill and Fiddleford exchanged puzzled looks as they followed at a more measured pace.

Outside, the night sky was illuminated by strange, flickering lights that seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy. Stanley stood by a swirling portal that had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. The portal crackled with unstable energy, casting eerie shadows on the surrounding landscape.

Stanford arrived breathless, his face pale. “Stanley, what have you done?”

Stanley’s face was set with determination. “I didn’t do this. But it’s connected to the problems we’ve been having. I need to get to the bottom of it.”

Stanford’s eyes widened in realization. “This portal—it’s unstable. It could lead to anywhere—or nowhere. It might even be linked to the dimensional rifts I’ve been studying.”

The portal began to pulse more violently, and before anyone could react, a sudden burst of energy erupted from it, drawing Stanford toward its swirling vortex. His eyes locked with Stanley’s, a mixture of regret and determination flashing across his face.

“Stanley, I—” Stanford’s voice was cut off as he was pulled into the portal, which closed with a blinding flash of light.

Stanley staggered back, shock and anger warring on his face. Bill and Fiddleford rushed to his side, their own concerns mirrored in their expressions.

“What just happened?” Bill asked, his voice tinged with urgency.

Stanley’s face was grim. “That portal—it’s taken Stanford. And we don’t know where he’s gone. I’ve got to find him.”

As the night settled into an uneasy silence, the gravity of the situation became clear. The portal had not only separated the Pines brothers but had also opened a new chapter of uncertainty and danger. Bill and Fiddleford knew that their work was far from over and that the coming days would demand their utmost resolve.

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

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sapphire-writes · 2 years

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Dragon's Bane (part 2) ~ Aemond Targaryen

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

pairing: Aemond x Velaryon(Strong)!Reader (Jace's twin)

word count: 1.7k

warnings: violence, language

note: Y'all loved part 1!! Please don't hate me for the angst I need it to live. I hope you like this part 💚

masterlist

Aemond led you from the gardens and into the great hall, your hands intertwined. Neither of you spoke as he poured you a chalice of wine. You wiped the tears from your eyes, roughly drying your cheeks. Aemond hands you the chalice, giving you a tight smile. You bring it to your lips.

The silence is deafening.

“Are you alright?” Aemond asks, and you give him a curt nod, sitting down on a bench. You look past Aemond, gaze towards the floor.

Aemond chews the inside of his lip, cursing his curiosity about what has upset you.

“What made you so distraught, niece?” he asks, surprised at the softness of his voice.

“I have been informed I am to marry the lord of Winterfell,” you tell him, voice rough from crying. Aemond blinks, not expecting the answer you provided. Aemond’s stomach churns, but he shakes off the feeling.

“That is what you cry over?” he questions, scoffing, “a marriage is supposed to be a cheerful event.”

“I do not wish to marry,” you tell him, brows knitting together.

“Don’t be childish,” he scolds, “you are a princess, it is your duty to marry.”

“I don’t give a damn about duty,” you snap, “I want to go home.”

Aemond shakes his head at you.

“You sound ridiculous.”

You stand from your seat.

“I did not ask you for comfort.”

His mouth turns into a sneer, as you begin to enter the familiar territory of exchanging insults.

“No, you only threw yourself at me, like a common whore,” he says, with a mocking grin.

You throw your wine at him, the red liquid painting his face crimson to match the flush that covers yours. You leave the great hall and do not speak to your uncle for the remainder of the night, nor do you say goodbye as your family departs to Dragonstone.

The coronation of your mother is small on Dragonstone, when word arrives later that week of your grandsire’s passing, the usurping of the throne that is your mother’s birthright. You and your brothers fly in the night to different corners of the Seven Kingdoms, for your mother’s cause.

You travel to Winterfell alone on Dragonback. Your twin plans to meet you there after he stops to secure the Eyrie. Your mother assures you it will be good to have some time alone with Lord Stark, to get to know your betrothed.

You do not wish to know him. Though when you arrive you are greeted with hunts and feasts, you cannot keep the bitter expression from your face. You do not want to be Lady Stark. You do not want to live in the frozen wasteland of the North. You are like your dragon, and surely will not survive in such harsh environments.

When a raven arrives to inform you of Luke’s death, you mount your dragon immediately, tossing the letter to the snow. You hear the shouts of the Starks fade as you take to the skies, heading directly for the capital, anger blinding you. All you are conscious of is the hatred in your heart, the dagger sheathed at your hip.

You sneak through the halls of the Red Keep, unnoticed as you make your way to your uncle’s chambers. There are no guards. Of course, you think to yourself. The arrogant prick. You slip through the door and go inside, dagger held tightly in your hand.

You can hear the soft sound of his breathing from the large bed in the corner of the room, his lean outline visible underneath the covers. Aemond’s silver hair is splayed out on the sheets. As you creep closer the unseeing stare of his sapphire eye peers up at you. Your breath hitches at the sight and that’s all it takes for the sounds of sleep to cease.

Aemond’s violet eye opens and he is up in an instant. You raise your hand to slash at him but he grabs your wrist. You open your mouth to release an angry scream before his other hand slaps over it.

“Shhh,” he croons, painfully twisting your wrist, trying to get you to drop the knife you wield. You attempt to bite the hand that covers his mouth. “If someone hears you, it shall be most unfortunate for you, niece.”

You struggle against him, and Aemond loses his patience, as though he was being gentle with you before. He backs you up into the wall, slamming your hand against it until you finally release the blade. It clangs to the floor, as hot tears run down your cheeks.

“You wish so much to be like me, niece?” he taunts, smirking at you, “a killer of kin?”

You scream against his hand and he holds his smirk, though it does not meet his eye. His face lacks its usual mad glee. Aemond’s fingers flex around your wrist.

“It was foolish to come here,” he says softly, staring deeply into your eyes, glassy with tears. A sob rolls over you, and you shake against him. Aemond slides his hand from your mouth, uncovering your wobbling lips. You look just as distraught, if not more, as you did that night in the gardens.

“You killed my brother,” you hiss at him, causing Aemond to flinch. “He was just a boy and you murdered him.”

“I didn't mean to,” Aemond says, and you make a noise of disgust. He stares at you, and slowly you realize he is being truthful.

“What?”

“Arrax attacked Vhagar,” he explained, “she was upset, she wouldn’t listen.”

The idea that we control the dragons is an illusion. Your mother had told you that, and advised that you would be well to not forget it.

“My brother is still dead,” you snarl, “my mother will demand justice.”

Aemond drops your hand, but does not move away from you. You can feel the heat from his body as he is closely pressed against you. Aemond looks down, noticing the thick furs you still wear.

“Did you journey from the North?” he says, watching the color rise to your cheeks. A sly grin creeps onto his face. “That is why you are here, truly. You’ve come to escape your betrothed.”

You slap him. Hard. Anger courses through you. How dare he. How dare he. You move to slap him again and he traps your wrist once more. You elbow him with your free arm and he holds your arm flush against your side with a growl.

“I let you go, expecting you to behave,” he says, tsking, “always proving me wrong, niece.”

“Fuck you,” you spit, and Aemond bites his lower lip. You hate him. You hate him more than you ever hated someone before. But you also hate that he’s right. You loved your brother, and you want to avenge this death, but you could not hide the relief it was, to have an excuse to flee Winterfell.

His blood is pumping hot and fast, he hates to admit the arousal he feels being pressed against you, taunting you. The blood of the dragon is in both of you, you can almost feel it heating the air around you.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Lady Strong?” he taunts and you bare your teeth at him, “shall I ruin you? Claim your maidenhead and send word to Lord Stark?”

Your face turns a deep crimson and you lift your leg kicking him in the thigh. He lets out a breath and moves, pressing his leg to hold yours against the wall. You have one free limb left to try and maim him. Aemond glances at your compromising position, before his eye slides back up to gaze upon your face.

“Are you ever still?” he questions.

“I am going to kill you.”

He chuckles at your fury.

“That would not do either of us any good,” he says, leaning against you to make sure you are pinned so that you cannot break free to strike him again. Your dark eyes watch him, searching for a weakness in his hold.

“I do not care,” you tell him and he brings his face closer to you.

“War is likely to begin,” he tells you.

“War has already begun,” you growl. Aemond’s eye drops to your mouth, so quickly you almost miss it.

“We need a plan,” he tells you.

“We do not need anything. I need to kill you.”

“You are not going to kill me, niece,” he says, in an exasperated tone as though he expected you to keep up with his thoughts, “you are going to marry me.”

You are silent for a moment before you bark out a mad laugh.

“I shall not.”

“You will,” he demands, “because I hate you and you hate me, but I do not wish to meet the Stranger yet, and you do not wish to marry Lord Stark.”

“You think I’d marry you for that reason?”

“I think even a trapped animal would chew off a limb to save itself,” he says.

“I’d rather lose a limb.”

Aemond’s nostrils flare, and he clicks his tongue, aggravated by your defiance.

“If you do not agree, the next room you’ll see will be the castle dungeons.”

You freeze at his words, muscles tense. Your dark eyes bore into him as he tilts his head to the side.

“I told you it was foolish to come here,” he tells you.

“You do not want to marry me.”

“It is not about want, it is about survival.”

You watch him and understand looking into his lavender eye. A pang of jealousy hits you as you take in the Valyrian looks. Your body slowly begins to slack against him, the tension leaving your limbs as you realize there is no way out of this situation that would benefit you besides Aemond’s offer.

You are too quick to anger, Daemon had told you. You curse him for being right. The grief and anger took hold of you, pulling you towards King’s Landing, as though Aemond was your puppeteer pulling your strings to him.

You feel the tears run down your cheeks again.

“Yes,” you agree, “I’ll marry you.”

Aemond releases you, and brings his hands to cup your cheeks. His long fingers smooth the tears as you look up at him, dark eyes swimming with tears. Aemond does not stop his caresses, as with each blink fresh tears paint your cheeks.

You close your eyes, leaning into his touch, as he murmurs to you softly, before collapsing against him, sobs wracking your body. As he did that night in the gardens he holds you tightly against him, stroking your dark hair as your grief consumes you.

taglist: @bellaisasleep, @the-phantom-of-arda

#aemond x y/n #aemond fic #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond x velaryon!reader #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x fem!oc #aemond targaryen fluff #aemond angst #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon fic

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agentravensong · 1 year

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Ros & Guil Being Victims of the Narrative Compilation

propaganda for @doomed-bythe-narrative's poll tournament

If you've never heard of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, it's a play from 1966 that follows two side characters from Shakespeare's Hamlet. Any other context I'll provide as we go. This post will spoil the whole play, so keep that in mind before reading further. TL;DR these guys are arguably the progenitors of being doomed by the narrative in our postmodern understanding of the concept, and, as much as it sounds like those orv guys deserve the title too, I want my boys to win. Please vote for them.

If you need more than that to be convinced... I'll oblige.

Ros and Guil don't have any solid memories from before the start of the play, at best impressions of memories, because they only exist within the context of the present narrative. They don't get to have pasts because it's irrelevant. They don't even get to know which of them is which (and every other character treats them as interchangeable).

The reason for Ros and Guil's presence in Hamlet is that they're supposed to figure out what's wrong with Hamlet on behalf of the king (because they apparently used to be his friends), but their efforts are unsuccessful. In this play, it's framed as an impossible request -- they get as close as they can get, despite not really understanding a word he says, but get tripped up at the thought there must be more to it than that -- because they were written to fail.

After Hamlet does a murder, their function in the narrative switches to being the ones to bring him to the king, and then to accompany the prince to England where (currently unknown to the two of them) he will be executed. Roles that, as Guil points out, could have been fulfilled by anyone:

The answer to that last question, is, of course, no. The reason it has to be them is because of how this sequence of events ends: with their deaths.

In short, Hamlet changes the letter with the King's declaration when the pair is sleeping so that they will be killed instead. In the context of Hamlet, this is a key moment for his character (it's his first use of the state violence that's his birthright, and it's a situation he could have gotten out of in plenty of other ways) and for how his bestie Horatio sees him.

But in the context of this show? For as far as Ros and Guil get to know? It is simply what has to happen.

Ros and Guil have no agency over the events of the narrative. When they're not "on stage", they're left in limbo, at the mercy of the other characters' comings and goings.

They try to summon the other characters, because they don't know what to do with themselves otherwise, but nobody comes. Eventually, Ros gets frustrated with this, and then this happens:

When they're "on stage", everything sticks to the script. Even in this example, where Ros and Guil have failed to detain Hamlet and bring him before the King, the world adapts just enough to keep things on track:

They are at the whims of the narrative.

There's even a dig at how they can't get the ever-passive audience to meaningfully react to them:

They can't escape the bounds of the narrative, even if both of them wanted to.

Any chances they might have had to actually change the course of events come too late, when they're already convinced (arguably more as a coping method than anything else) that their choices don't matter in the shadow of what they've been caught up in.

That last snippet is the conclusion of a bit about how Ros doesn't believe in England because he can't conceptualize it as a place, can't conceptualize his and Guil's arrival there -- which is because it doesn't happen, because England is out of the scope of the narrative and thereby doesn't exist. They can't even imagine a different future for themselves.

There's one other major character in the play: the leader of the traveling players (aka tragedians). He basically exists to prod at Ros and (especially) Guil and explain, in a manner that they can't quite grasp (or refuse to), how they're trapped in a tragedy -- and the cost the two of them will therefore have to pay. As he puts it, in this genre of narrative, "blood is compulsory".

Rosencrantz has this whole monologue in parallel to Hamlet's "to be or not to be" soliloquy about being trapped in a box, which imo is a pretty clear metaphor for being a doomed character in a narrative and whether it'd be preferable to live that existence or to not be part of the narrative at all -- that is, to not exist, to have never been alive.

Lastly, the ending. Ros and Guil are sent off with Hamlet on the boat to England. Pirates attack (yes, really, it's what happens in Hamlet too), and the prince escapes with them. Our pair discovers that the letter they were sent with now inexplicably calls for their heads (not knowing that Hamlet switched it).

Guil, at his wit's end, desperate to prove he has some influence, some agency, stabs the Player. But the man gets right back up.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern face their deaths.

And the worst part of it all?

The promise of "next time". They're in a time loop. Because that's how theater works. Every performance, following from the previous, is them living through these events again. The same exact events, as dictated by the narrative.

They don't remember, loop to loop. Not enough to make different choices. Not enough to say "no".

They won't learn. They won't improve. They won't save themselves/each other. They will do this forever.

And since that gets me basically to the image limit, that's where I'll stop. These bitches (affectionate) are the definition of doomed by the narrative, and it would make very happy if they could at least get past round 1 of the tournament, as stiff as the competition is.

As a closing bonus, take the ending of Act 2 (of 3) of the play, which just. Kills me every time.

#rosencrantz and guildenstern are dead #ragad #doomed by the narrative #narrative nonsense #this took me like. 3 hours. so i do not have the energy to do alt text right now. my apologies #the highlights don't mean anything in the context of this post btw. they're just for me #i didn't even have room here to talk about the coin flipping #or guil and the player's conflict over the nature of death #or how guil's whole thing about boats is another obvious metaphor for being a character in a narrative #there's just so much to this play #y'all should really read it

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