#fic: icarus

[october-writes]

In celebration of passing the 150K word mark with my WIP

Here's another sneak peek of Icarus featuring my baby boy, STARS officer Leon.

---

The STARS Office, Raccoon City, 7th July 1998

‘What gets coffee stains out of a white t-shirt?’

Jill Valentine, his superior and his sponsor in the Special Tactics and Rescue Service, looked at him cock-eyed like he’d just admitted to pissing his pants in the middle of role call.

‘I don’t know, Leon. What gets coffee stains out of a white t-shirt?’ she asked with a vulpine grin like she couldn’t wait for the punchline.

Leon threw himself into his chair and spun it to face her, ‘I spilled coffee on my favourite Van Halen t-shirt.’

‘D’aww. That must suck for you!’ she crooned and shot him an unconvincing pout, ‘But I’m not laying a finger on your dirty laundry, buddy. Nice try.’

Leon baulked, ‘I didn’t mean it like that! I’m asking for your advice.’

‘And you’re not asking one of the guys because...?’ Jill waggled her eyebrows at him expectantly.

Good question.

Oh.

Shit.

He’d offended her.

Until the upcoming arrival of their latest recruit, Rebecca Chambers, Jill had been the only woman in STARS. She wasn’t self conscious about it. She carried herself upright and unyielding like the STARS office had been built around her. But she was young, attractive and a damn good cop. If a guy at the RPD wasn’t crushing on her and trying to angle for a date, he was usually acting out, threatened by her profile and thrown by her blatant disinterest in making nice with the regular uniforms.

Leon respected her. Hell, he owed his place on this programme to her! It pained him to imagine her thinking otherwise.

‘I’m sorry. I only meant...’ Leon sighed and chose his next words carefully like he was measuring them out with a teaspoon, ‘Look, you’re one of the only real adults here besides Wesker, Kenny and Barry. Did you know that Joey just buys new underwear every other week instead of doing laundry?’

Jill’s fake grimace turned very real, ‘Augh! Well, I do now! Thanks for that.’

‘I didn’t wanna suffer alone,’ Leon shrugged cheekily.

‘Speaking of suffering,’ Jill paused to lower her voice, ‘How’s the shiner?’

She waggled her finger at the swollen bruise cushioning Leon’s left eye.

Leon’s smile withered and he felt faintly queasy, ‘How’s it look?’

Jill puckered her lips as she looked him over, ‘Like you picked a fight with your pride and lost.’

He nodded and rolled back to his desk. He was meant to be reviewing some old case files and searching for discrepancies between witness statements following a report of three missing hikers in the Arklay trail.

The Blue Bird nature trails outside the city were award-winning for their biodiversity and their cleanliness. They were beloved by ornithologists, fishermen and campers alike and it was rare to hear of any serious incidents within their boundaries besides a few broken bones or the occasional bear sighting.

The RPD’s Missing Persons Unit had hit a wall, so STARS had been asked to lend an extra few pairs of eyes to the investigation.

At least, that’s what Leon had been told. He’d almost had to pry the case file from Officer Mulligan’s hands that morning. The cop had snorted at Leon’s polite ‘thank you’ before storming off like a castrated bull. Leon had been here long enough to tell when Chief Irons had strong-armed the detectives into surrendering a prized case to STARS.

He’d poured over the files until his sight blurred, but Leon hadn’t found anything unusual in the reports. The RPD’s Missing Persons Unit had been doing a solid job. Besides a few misspellings, he couldn’t find fault with their paperwork. Wesker had asked him to look again, but Leon was beginning to wonder if he was just a pawn in some inter-departmental dick-measuring contest. He didn’t get into law enforcement to meddle in office politics, but here he was trying to play nice with everybody like everyday was his first day at kindergarten.

‘Irons is a bully,’ Chris had told him on his third day on the force, ‘Treat him like a feral dog. Stay out of his way. Don’t make eye contact. And whatever you do, don’t let him follow you home.’

‘I can’t avoid him forever. He’s our boss.’

‘Wesker’s our boss,’ Chris had corrected him, ‘And he kowtows to Umbrella, not to Irons.’

Leon was painfully aware of the pecking order and he was grateful for it. If Irons had had the last word on the matter, Leon would never have been accepted into STARS in the first place.

The door to the office blew open. Chris Redfield and Forest Spayer tumbled in, as always, in mid-argument. Forest was Bravo team’s security expert and lead marksman. He was Chris�� closest confidant and equivalent, but Forest lived to prove himself his best friend’s superior in every way. Each time Forest made an arrest, he slapped an eagle-shaped decal onto the side of his desk. Chris did the same, though he favoured a wolf-symbol.

‘It’s an Air Force thing,’ Jill had explained, ‘Like pilots marking a tally of their confirmed kills on the side of their jets. Trust these two to turn it into something so fucking lame!’

But the stickers were the tip of a very deep, dangerous iceberg. Chris and Forest’s extra curricular competitions ranged from the spirited (rafting in the Circular River in the dead of winter) to the foolhardy (motorcycle racing through the suburbs at midnight) to the downright unhinged. Forest had been hospitalised for a week after he and Chris had held a Ghost Pepper-eating contest at Jack’s Bar. There was a framed photograph in their office, taken by Chris, of Forest making a double-thumbs up in his hospital bed with tubes coming out of his nose.

Chris had tried to recruit Leon in some of his and Forest’s escapades, but Leon valued his limbs and his intestinal tract too much to really commit. He’d already puked his body weight after trying Forest’s special home-brew, so he’d resigned himself to cheering from the sidelines. He felt like a loser every time, like he’d turned down the chance to sit at the cool kids’ table.

‘We’re throwing snowballs off the roof of the clock tower! You want in?’

‘Not tonight.’

‘Why? You got knitting club tonight, grandma?’

‘I have plans.’

‘What “plans”?’

‘Just... regular old plans.’

‘I can’t believe this! You’re blowing me off for regular old plans?’

‘Yeah. Plans that don’t involve getting arrested by the guys in the office next door.’

Chris had grinned like the Devil and thumped the adjoining wall with his fist, ‘Them? Those fuckers are coming with us! Jesus Effing Christ, Leon... Does your head ever get tired wearing that halo around all day? You could use a few bumps and scrapes. It’ll give you some character.’

Hearing that, Leon’s defences had gone up so fast they’d made his ears ring. He’d spent that evening stewing over his paperwork and kicking himself. Weeks later, he’d taken a long, hard look in the mirror and seen the truth staring back at him with terrified eyes; the eyes of a kid who’d been bounced between eight different foster homes before the age of twelve.

He was doing the bare minimum to fit in because, even after passing his twelve month probation, he was convinced all this would come crashing down around him. He expected the walls of his new life to topple over like the cheap set of a cheesy sci-fi serial if he even breathed too hard. Everything he had felt too real and not real enough all at once.

At least as the ‘innocent rookie’ on the team, Leon had a place, an identity, a role. It was minor, but it made him feel seen. Now he’d outgrown it and that part was about to be re-cast with the newest member of the team, Rebecca Chambers. She was an eighteen-year old college graduate with a chemistry degree. She was inexperienced, but she was smart, friendly and eager. She was due to start any day now.

Leon was already getting nervous. Chris was the best shot on the team. There wasn’t a building on the planet Jill couldn’t infiltrate. Barry Burton could handle every type of firearm invented since the nineteenth century. Brad Vickers was a nervous wreck, but he could make a chopper dance in mid-air like a prima ballerina without breaking a sweat. Joey Frost was a hot mess, but he kept their vehicles running smoother than whipped cream. And Richard was such a gifted comms technician, he’d been hacking police radios before he lost his first baby tooth.

But who the hell was Leon Scott Kennedy? He had half a college degree in social work, a respectable score at the shooting range and a handful of commendations already too old to matter anymore.

His team trusted him. After the jewellery store robbery and hostage situation a few months back, Leon knew for sure that he had their respect. But he didn’t know what kind of cop he was becoming. He was too afraid to pinpoint his strengths because what if he didn’t have any? What if, after all that work, he was still ordinary and replaceable; his ‘potential’ just smoke and mirrors? He was a good all-rounder and someone almost everybody got on with, but what if that was it?

It would make for a tepid obituary.

Leon teetered like he was standing on the edge of a great precipice. He could see the stars reflected in the water below. They streaked together to form words, a message: “jump!” He pictured his body dashed onto the rocks below.

Jill looked up from her desk as Chris hung up his leather jacket, ‘You’re lucky Wesker’s in a meeting. He catches you rolling in late again and he’s putting you on traffic duty.’

Chris threw his denim-clad butt onto the corner of Jill’s desk, making her pencils rattle in their holder, ‘No he won’t. He loves me!’

Forest made sloppy kissy noises as he staggered, hungover, to the coffee machine in the back.

‘He wants you taking point on the Atwood case,’ Jill told Chris as she playfully backhanded his hip until he vacated her desk.

‘Aw, come on. No! I thought Atwood was handled,’ Chris seethed, ‘It was a B and E where the perp grabbed some jewellery and an old laptop. Who the heck cares?’

‘Umbrella cares, so we have to,’ she retorted, ‘Atwood’s one of their top execs and that laptop had company data.’

‘It was probably just a junkie who didn’t know what he had and pawned it all the next day. Harry Atwood owns five homes and shits in a gold toilet. He can afford a new laptop and a new pearl necklace for his wife. I think we can say “case closed” with a clean conscience.’

‘You’ve got a funny idea of what constitutes a “closed case”. Where’d you learn to be a cop again?’

‘Same place as you, Valentine.’

She smiled serenely, ‘Please. Don’t remind me.’

‘Aye!’ Forest yowled from the back of the office like he’d just been mugged, ‘This coffee tastes like someone took a dump in my mug! Who made this?’

Barry poked his head out from the armoury, ‘Hey, dick head! I roasted those beans myself.’

‘What’d you roast them in? Cow shit?’

‘Guys!’ Kenneth Sullivan barked from his corner desk, gesticulating with the phone receiver he was covering with his free hand, ‘Is it too much to ask for five minutes of peace? Do I need to start taking calls in the bathroom like a cheating husband, just to get through a conversation without someone having a meltdown over something stupid in the background?’

Leon grinned behind his fingers as he propped his chin on his hand and watched them rile each other up. It had taken him weeks to get used to it; the good-natured bickering, the half-hearted complaints, the name-calling, and the bizarre one-upmanship that only seemed to bring them closer together like a family whose shared veins ran with a heady combination of caffeine and bravado.

‘It’s my turn to do a coffee run anyway,’ he volunteered with an exaggerated sigh.

His ass was barely out of his seat before he was hit with a tsunami of coffee orders. Leon smiled and nodded, not understanding a word as they yelled over each other. It didn’t matter. He knew each and every order by heart.

‘I don’t know how we ever got any work done before you showed up, rookie,’ Barry chuckled as he returned to the armoury.

Leon grabbed his jacket. He felt a tight feeling in his chest as he wandered past Chris’ desk.

‘Hey, uh... the Atwood file’s on Enrico’s desk,’ Leon said to him, ‘But I just ran it through the copier. It should be in the out-tray.’

Chris grunted and pretended to log into the RPD database for the third time. He didn’t even look at Leon.

‘So you’re not even going to make eye contact with me now, Chris? Is that it?’

Chris flexed his right hand, the bruises on his knuckles shinning blue under the light of his desk lamp.

Leon ground his teeth as his next words swelled in his throat. It took all his self-control not to erupt.

‘How much longer are we gonna do this?’ he hissed, ‘I said I was sorry!’

Chris was out of his chair as if the seat had caught fire. He stood tall, glowering at Leon like the headlights of an approaching car. He was playing chicken, daring Leon to jump out of the way.

Redfield was a rooster. He was used to being the leader of the pack, the others falling in line the moment he snapped his fingers or gave a show. But Leon was as gentle and stubborn as a river. He was the steady, constant drip-drip-drip of water than could level mountains if given enough time and Chris knew it.

Behind him, Leon was aware of Forest edging closer, readying himself to intervene between the two officers.

‘Chris, come on man,’ Forest muttered, his hand hovering over Chris’ arm.

Chris shrugged him off. He pushed away from his desk and thundered out of the office. He slammed the door so hard it bounced open again instead of staying closed.

‘Too fucking early for this shit...’ Jill muttered, combing her hands through her hair before going after him.

The room was uncharacteristically quiet for a long beat; it was so silent they could hear the clacking of keyboards in the office next door and the drone of a leaf blower in the courtyard outside. Then Forest inhaled and opened his yapper.

‘I mean...’ Forest whined, forcing the words through stiff lips, ‘I can... see why he’s... yuh know... pissed. You did sorta... make out with his little sister.’

Leon felt his cheeks turn cold like someone had dunked his head into a bucket of ice.

‘What?’ he choked, ‘Who told you that shit?’

Forest puckered his lips, ‘A little birdy named Joey Frost...’

Figures.

‘I didn’t make out with his sister!’

Okay, the thing is that wasn’t one hundred percent true. More like ninety percent on the outside. Lips had connected, sure. But Leon barely remembered the encounter. It had been a stupid mistake, but a costly one.

Besides, it was the confrontation that had happened afterwards that had truly poisoned the air between the two men. Words had been exchanged; ones so toxic that their friendship felt like something you couldn’t approach without a hazmat suit. Leon had apologised for his part in it, but Chris was still attempting to break the world record for giving someone the silent treatment.

Leon scowled at Chris’ empty desk, ‘It doesn’t matter what I say or how hard I grovel. He’s an asshole.’

Forest narrowed his amber eyes before extending his blistered hand and tipping it back and forth like a set of wobbling scales, ‘Ehh. Po-tay-toe, Po-tah-toe! You say “asshole”, I say... “conflicted”.’

‘Conflicted?’

‘I’ve known him since high school. If Chris admits that he over-reacted, he’d have to look into why he over-reacted. And that’s a Pandora’s box I don’t wanna be around when it pops, you get me?’

‘I didn’t want to be in the middle of this.’

‘This is why we stay outta the Redfield family drama,’ Barry cut in with a sympathetic tut, ‘They take other people down with ‘em. No survivors.’

Leon snorted but stayed silent, still not sure if he agreed with them or not. He thought he knew Chris, but this side of him was dark, sullen, resentful; a smudged shadow of the STARS maverick, the bold, confident and irrepressible face of their team.

Forest gave Leon the kind of vacant grin he always made when he was about to say something that had a fifty-fifty shot of pissing someone off, ‘Do you know what you’re problem is, Leon?’

‘Yeah,’ Leon shoved his arms into his jacket and felt around in his pockets for his wallet, ‘He’s got a big mouth and his name’s Joey.’

Forest jabbed the corner of his mouth with his tongue and chuckled, ‘Your problem, rookie, is that you can’t leave things well enough alone. You gotta try and save everyone from themselves. Let Chris be mad at you! Let him get you out of his system like a bad case of diarrhea. Because when he’s done shittin’ his pants, he’ll realise he’s only angry at himself.’

Leon nodded mutely as he slunk out of the office.

He was back at the precinct less than an hour later with an assortment of coffees and a tray of doughnuts; americanos for Kenneth and Barry (extra sugar packets for Barry), a caramel latte with whipped cream for Joey, a black tea with a dash of milk for Forest, cappuccino for Jill, and a cold brew for Chris.

The walk had done him some good, but when he’d arrived back at the office he’d found the mood as low as when he’d left. He knew the source: it was him. He was Ground Zero with legs, a walking reminder that their STARS family wasn’t as tight and happy as the group photo on the wall made them out to be.

Sitting at his desk with so many eyes on him, Leon writhed like an ant under a magnifying glass on a hot summer’s day.

He tried to rub the fatigue off his face. Jill had already left. She was gearing up for a quick recon of the hiking trails. She was taking Joey and Kenneth with her. An RPD pilot, Kevin Dooley, was dropping them off and providing air support.

‘Hey!’ Kenneth bopped Leon on the head with his case file as he strolled past the rookie’s desk, ‘Baking soda and white vinegar. Let it sit for an hour. Then wash on cold.’

‘What?’ Leon blinked up at him.

‘Your t-shirt, bro. The coffee stain. You just gotta be patient. That’s all.’

Leon pressed his palms together in gratitude, ‘Thanks. You’re a good man.’

Kenneth backed towards the door with an expression of baffled amusement, ‘Please! I’m the goddamn best there is!’

Before he’d made it to the exit, Leon sat up at his desk and called out to him.

‘Hey! Is there any room on that chopper?’ he asked, his eyes wide like he was getting ready to duck if the other man shot him down.

The sympathetic look that morphed Kenneth’s features told Leon that he’d heard the unspoken plea woven through the innocent question. The precinct had become stifling. Leon had to be out of here for longer than a few minutes. He needed wide open space. He needed fresh, uncomplicated air. He needed to get out of this office and out of his own head.

‘Grab your gear, kid,’ Kenneth grinned, ‘Wheels up in twenty.’

---

tbc when I actually finish this thing 💀 I think I'm barely halfway through.

In the meantime, you can always read the first fic in this series Pandora, featuring Umbrella scientist Ada Wong.

[strangersteddierthings]

Eddie blinks. Once. Twice. And a third time for good measure. The scene before him doesn't change. Steve Harrington stands off to the side of the lunch table, behind Jeff and Frankie who have both gone still as statues like they think if they don't move, King Steve won't see them.

"Uh, what?" Eddie finds himself saying, against his own will. He heard Harrington the first time, doesn't need or want him to repeat himself, but his disbelief seems to have won out against his grudge for all jocks and his indifference to Steve Harrington in particular.

Harrington's face pinches, like he's three seconds away from rolling his eyes. He doesn't do that, though, which Eddie will give him one brownie point for. "I asked if you had a minute to talk." Eddie's taking away his brownie point because Steve 'asks' in a way that sounds more like a demand.

Hearing the question and or demand a second time doesn't lower Eddie's hackles, but it does pique his curiosity. He drums his fingers atop his lunchbox, thinking it over. He wishes he could say he's pretending to think about it before he tells Harrington to fuck off, but the truth is he actually is thinking about it.

What could Harrington possibly have to say to him? They very much do not run in the same circles. Eddie only talks business at the picnic table past the edge of the woods out back and everyone who buys from him knows that. They share several classes, since they're both seniors, but everyone knows Eddie's on a track to not graduate (again) so he can't possibly be coming to discuss Mrs. Click's homework assignment.

"Sure. Should we go elsewhere or...?" Eddie trails off, lifting a hand to wave in a circle in Steve's direction, questioning.

Steve looks over his shoulder, back towards the side of the cafeteria taken up by the 'popular' crowd. When Steve turns his face back, he looks- well, kind of sad for a moment before it's smoothed over with indifference.

Interesting.

"No. It's probably good that the rest of your friends hear it anyway," Steve answers.

Jeff's eyebrows rise to his hairline, and Frankie frowns as his eyebrows raise at the same time, showing an expression of interest. Eddie's got no idea what Gareth's face is doing because Eddie can't see him unless he wants to turn his face away, but he's certain it's probably a glare of some sort.

Eddie leans back in his chair, wiggling like he's getting extra comfortable before he says, "Well, alright Harrington. Shoot."

"I'm graduating this year, so I just wanted to give you a heads up for next year. I tried to curb the bullying, but I know it still happened. So, since I'm not going to be here to watch out for that, you're gonna wanna up your," Steve gestures to all of Eddie, "everything."

He knew Steve curbed the bullying a bit, heard the confirmation of that last year from Jason Carver and Tommy Hagan, when he'd stepped in to save Gareth. Or rather, Gareth had come flying in to save him and then Eddie had to save Gareth- well, the details don't matter really.

"My everything?" Eddie asks, more confused than angry. He thinks he should be angry. Harrington has all but outright said he doesn't think Eddie's going to graduate with him, after all. But no. The main emotion now is confusion.

"Yeah. Your, y'know, freakinesss or whatever. Be more of it."

"Be more of a freak?" It's fascinating, that Harrington just keeps talking like he thinks anyone at this table care for his opinion.

"Yeah!" Harrington says, cheery like he thinks that Eddie's agreed with him somehow, complete with a stupid snap of his fingers that turns into a finger gun pointed at Eddie. "You've already got this like unapproachable mad dog kind of look about you, most of the JV team is already scared of you. Just like, up that a bit more and they'll probably steer clear of you and your friends." Then Harrington frowns deep, looking around the table of nerds and dorks before looking down at the top of Gareth's head to add, "well. Except probably curly here. No offense, but you seem an easy target."

"Fuck off," Gareth growls, because of everyone at the table, Gareth does have the most bite. (Most bark goes to Eddie himself). Eddie's more prone to run from a problem than engage in it, unlike Gareth, who he's had to pull off of a few people this year.

"Or not," Harrington retracts his previous statement and Eddie will grant the man another brownie point, which brings the total up to one.

"Good to know my reputation precedes me," Eddie grins, wild and a bit manic.

Harrington is unphased. "Yeah! Do that more. I think it really freaks Jason out and he's most likely to take the captain slot next year, so if you get him afraid of you, the rest of the team'll fall in line and leave you alone too. I think he's super religious, so like, lean into the satanic panic thing people are up in arms about and next year will be a breeze. And-"

Eddie lifts a hand, a motion for Harrington to stop talking. It surprised him a little that Harrington does. Even more interesting. "Stop me if I'm wrong here, Harrington, but are you suggesting that I become the bully?"

Harrington's mouth opens and closes a few times before his face pinches again. Instead of looking like he's going to roll his eyes and be bitchy, Harrington looks confused and then like he's deep in thought. An uncomfortable amount of awkward silence falls over there table, but it's just when Eddie's about to break that silence that Harrington finally speaks. "No. I'm saying just like, be you but bigger. Like, you don't even gotta look in the team's direction. If you're just more of a freak than you usually are, they'll steer clear without the bullying."

"You sure know how to compliment a guy," Eddie deadpans. He's not even upset that Steve's called him a freak. He's spent the majority of his high school career cultivating that outlook. He wasn't just a freak, he was The Freak.

Now a look crosses Harrington's face. One Eddie's not sure he's interpreting correctly. If he had to take a guess, he'd say the look was calculating, knowing, in a way that Eddie doesn't think Harrington could actually achieve. Then it's gone, replaced with the bitchy, eye-rolling look Eddie's used to seeing, and Harrington says, "I haven't said anything untrue."

Hmm. The most interesting thing yet. Eddie might not be graduating (again) but he's not dumb. He didn't survive this far in his life, with a father like his, without learning to read people. He wasn't as good as he wanted to be at reading people last year, but he's definitely good enough know to think that, maybe, just maybe, Harrington also knows a thing or two about cultivating a public perception. Making sure people only see a certain side of you.

"Alright," is what Eddie answers, "I'll take what you've said under advisement."

"Uh. Okay," Harrington says before he just walks away. Conversation over.

"Well," Jeff says, "that was strange."

"Very," Eddie agrees as he watches Harrington walk away, tracking him until the cafeteria door slams shut behind him when he exits.

Eddie has always wanted to up the ante, so to speak. Jump on a cafeteria table and rant about capitalism and organized sports. He never has before but next year seems like a great time to try.

[pidgeeepombo]

I was thinking about if Jason and reader met before he died and they were best friends, but the reader never had very good mental health, then after he dies it gets even worse. but from the moment he comes back from the dead and manages to reestablish coexistence with the reader again, the reader would touch jason from time to time, (not in a strange way) but for example, he is just sitting reading a book So reader pushes Gently touch his arm with your finger, something to make sure he's really alive. that he is there. because after a long time of feeling bad we lose track of reality.

I also imagine that the two would be the dynamic duo of self-depressing jokes, like Jason: wow, I hated that coffee, I would super die again.

you: true, it's horrible, are we going to jump off the bridge?

Jason: let's go!

*and the next moment you're like, no, we're not doing it. I love you, okay? stay alive.*

JasonxGN! Reader

[acoraxia]

i’ve been wanting to collect official spideypool comics

[apollos-boyfriend]

new type of guy: ao3 author who thinks the “minor [ship]” tag means the characters are underage and not that the relationship is background

[fuckyeahgoodomensfanfic]

Pray For Us, Icarus a Good Omens Fanfiction Series by Atalan

For three centuries, Crowley has been reincarnated over and over as a human with no memory of his past. Aziraphale has tried to find a way to restore him to his true self, but all he seems to do is hurt them both. This time, he only means to steal a brief moment when he walks into Crowley's flower shop. But Crowley can't let it go...

Read the series here and check out my rec here

[emberunderscore]

me when i feel sad so i cope by putting icarus morningstar through traumatic and painful experiences

[mothdogsart]

So excited to share my latest bind! This is a Good Omens fic called Pray for Us, Icarus by Atalan/@brightwanderer 💐

I went a little nuts with the floral designs in this one. The cover was so much fun to put together, and I somehow managed to match the bookcloth color to the headband color perfectly. I also made the chapter headers look like Aziraphale was gathering his bouquet from Crowley throughout the years:

I can’t add another photo on mobile, but Part 7 has two wine glasses with apple slices 🥰

Technical details follow ➡️

Fonts: Glamore (title) and Sabon (body)

Cover material: Allure bookcloth in Mudpie

Dust jacket image: Abraham van Beijeren, Creative Commons usage

Endpapers: Renato Crepaldi

Text block: Hammermill 70lb Ivory

Designed in Canva and Procreate

The fic can be read at http://archiveofourown.org/series/1448647

❗️My binds are not for sale. Authors can request gift copies.❗️

[diabolicdetective]

serial apologizer

[whosthere54]

Thinking about the duality of endstone reset Icarus “I don’t need to be fixed” Morningstar and third reset Icarus “after learning about me not being, entirely, me I need to work to fix everything I do wrong and fix myself to make up for the fact that it’s me” Morningstar

Just thinking about in the first reset Icarus when under corruption would always insist that they don’t need to be fixed. That this is how they were and nothing could change that. In the third reset, Icarus generally keeps that same mindset- but theres also that theme of fixing. Of them needing to be fixed because something was wrong with them. Of them needing to be fixed because their eye wasn’t *theirs* and that blood wasn’t theirs and-

And their death- being something fixing them. Fixing- getting rid of- the problem. Because they were a problem, and they were supposed to fix those. Icarus’s whole thing about fixing everything they’ve done just proceeds to extend to themself- thinking they need to be fixed that they’re broken or wrong because something in their head doesn’t seem to be quite right even if you ignore the eye not being theirs.

I just. Care. About Icarus and thinking they need to be fixed in particular.

[october-writes]

Icarus sneak peek...

Okay, so I'm being super generous with this sneak peek because I have no idea when I'll be ready to post the whole fic. Pandora!Verse Leon has a long, bittersweet backstory and I love it, but it's a lot to get down especially when all I want to do is cry and hug him. 😫

Thank you for your patience. Any likes/comments here or on Pandora are the fuel that keeps the fic engine running.

‘Is this really where you grew up?’ she asked, her voice light with surprise.

He turned in time to see her cringe at the question. She’d been quiet since the drive away from the motel and the scene with Russ and his posse. No, scratch that. Ada had kept to herself because he’d asked her to and he’d been kicking himself for that ever since.

His stomach flipped whenever Ada asked him about himself; one part excitement, one part terror. He wanted to tell her everything and, in turn, he wanted to know her as well as he knew his deepest desires. But he was scared of the guy in those stories. Steadfast, optimistic, stable, responsible. He was sure that version of him had died on a forest floor. Now he was trying to live up to his own ghost.

Leon swallowed before replying glibly, ‘Nope! I grew up in a house.’

‘You know what I meant, Leon.’

God, he loved the way Ada said his name; like she owned the word, like no one had ever called him that but her.

‘Okay. I spent a lot of time here too,’ he conceded, nodding at the front facade of the church and the flawless circle of its Gothic stained glass window, ‘One Easter when I was fourteen, me and the chaplain’s son changed the sign out front to read: “Honk if you love Jesus”.’

She spluttered on a laugh, ‘You did what?’

‘You could barely hear mom’s sermon ‘cause of the car horns. I would’ve been grounded ‘til Christmas, but lucky for me she has a sense of humour! Damn. I was such a little asshole when I wanted to be.’

Ada bit her bottom lip until it shone pearlescent pink and he couldn’t look away from her mouth.

‘I could show you around,’ he offered suddenly, ‘If there was time.’

‘Really? And where would you take me?’

Her eyes glinted like a dare. He’d reignited her interest in him and they were back there again, at the edge of something beautiful and dangerous.

Go ahead. Impress me, rookie.

‘Well, um... there’s the Boott Cotton Mills Museum just across the canal,’ he suggested weakly, his throat suddenly dry, ‘I uh... I wrote an essay on it in High School.’

Her eyebrows twitched, ‘High School...?’

‘Yeah, it was on child labour reforms during the Industrial Revolution. I got an A minus.’

Oh for the love of- Shut up, shut up, shut up!

Ada blinked at him before turning away, ‘Interesting. Maybe some other time.’

Her eyes went dull, the glint of challenge extinguished. They were left beneath the cool light of the street lamp looking at everything but each other.

‘Come on. We should get going before I’m recognised,’ he said, leading her across the street, ‘We’ll check out the back lot.’

Leon remembered the first time Sarah had taken him to First Presbyterian to help out the day crew, officially as penance for his reckless escape attempt on his first night under her roof. He hadn’t been due to start school for another week and, while he’d been sincerely forgiven for his antics, he’d still been grounded.

The church ran a Day Centre from Monday to Friday, the doors opening at eight on the dot come rain or shine or biblical levels of snow. Refreshments, clean clothes and pastoral counselling were available no questions asked and, in the evenings, volunteers served hot meals alongside a rotating programme of art therapy, sign language classes, and addicts anonymous meetings.

Sarah had started the programme during her first few months in Lowell. The way some locals liked to tell it, Sarah had crashed into town on a wave of radical ideas. The Day Centre hadn’t been popular with everyone, bringing ‘undesirables’ and addicts from the fringes into the centre of town where they were harder to ignore.

‘I’ve brought the poor and the sick to Jesus’ doorstep, just like he instructed,’ she’d retorted, knowing the Bible was her home turf and she’d arrived ready to fight dirty, ‘If you’ve got a problem, take it up with him!’

‘I’m on a first name basis with the Mayor’s office,’ Sarah had boasted as they’d carried boxes of donated clothing through the back of the church, ‘Mayor Wiggins reminds me every time I stop by that I shouldn’t let it go to my head! I think he preferred the old pastor, Reverend Dawson. But Wiggy knows I’m better at getting things done. He’d rather boil his own head in lard than admit it though, so I’m not holding my breath for the key to the city!’

Young Leon had tipped his head back to take in the building’s decadent red brick and stained glass, its silver spire bouncing the sun towards every corner of Lowell.

‘Is all this yours?’ he’d asked.

He’d lingered at the threshold, a deep breath ballooning his stomach as he’d prepared himself to enter. The air had smelled apple-crisp, the pavement sun-dappled and warming the tops of his sneakers. It had stirred something familiar inside of him. But he hadn’t been inside a church since... since they’d buried his mom.

Sarah had chuckled, bumping the backdoor open with her behind, ‘Oh, no! Frannie belongs to everyone. But I am humbly responsible for her, like a sheepdog with her flock.’

She knew the church well enough that she could walk through it backwards without knocking into anything. All the better to keep her eye on Leon so she could read her new foster son’s lips.

‘What does that make me?’ he’d wondered as he’d followed her, ‘Like... a stray puppy or something?’

She’d hooted at that.

‘I don’t tell people who they are, Leon. But if I am to be completely honest, which under his roof is essential,’ she’d thrown the box of donated winter coats onto a nearby table and had turned to relieve him of the ones he’d carried, ‘I am sincerely looking forward to meeting the man you’ll become some day.’

Leon hadn’t known what to say to that.

Old foster parents, social workers, even a cop once; they’d all warned him that who he was becoming was someone he should be afraid of, ashamed of. But Sarah had greeted all sides of him like they’d known and loved each other for years.

The Day Centre had become a fixture of Leon’s teenage years from that day on. He’d never been much for the services, the singing, the prayer. But he’d helped out with the art classes and he’d learned how to cook in the community kitchen. He’d taken sign language classes after school and pulled weeds from the community garden across the street. He’d done his homework in Sarah’s study, her day sermons sailing in through the open window like a warm breeze.

When he’d turned fifteen and grown a foot taller in what had felt like a week, Leon had begun captaining one of the local street hockey teams. Their casual league had been run out of the back lot of the church.

He remembered long afternoons three times a week, two dozen kids howling like wild animals after sunset, and sweating even when it was so cold he could see his breath. Rhonda in the goal, as reliable as rain in September. She’d used the church to escape her alcoholic dad for a few hours a day. And Marty, a formerly homeless teen, playing offense and doing a backflip every time he scored. The slap of hockey sticks, rollerblades tearing up the tarmac, a puck smacking off a brick wall, his heart in his throat as a shot narrowly missed a car window.

There was still a dent in a lamp post from where one of Leon’s shots had gone wide. It had struck the post so hard the bulb had gone out. They’d played the rest of the night by the light of the church’s silver steeple and it had felt like an incredible dream.

It had been yesterday and forever ago. But as Leon walked the lot with Ada now, a part of him was convinced he’d be back here tomorrow, hockey stick in hand with his skates tied at the laces and slung over his shoulder.

‘The Day Centre closes early Thursdays,’ he told Ada as they lingered at the edge of the lot, ‘It shouldn’t be this busy.’

The lights were on and the church shimmered from every window. The front of the building was still bustling, so they’d given it a wide berth. Though Leon had his cap down, he’d grown up inside these walls. There was no way he’d make it to the rectory without being recognised.

Ada was getting restless. Her face was hidden by her hood, but Leon could see the tense line her shoulders made beneath her sweater.

‘Maybe things have changed,’ she muttered.

‘She’ll be here,’ he replied, ‘That much’ll be the same. I know it will.’

Minutes later the backdoor to the church opened and Pastor Sarah stepped into the warm summer night.

Her dark hair had regrown in gentle waves, softer and less curly than before her illness and now tinged with grey. She wore a thick cardigan, unbuttoned and showing off a baggy Guns and Roses tour t-shirt that Leon had stolen from her closet about a hundred times before it had stopped fitting him.

Leon muffled a quiet laugh into the collar of his jacket, but deep down he felt like sinking to his knees.

He knew Lowell’s streets. He knew there was a house a few blocks away where his old bed waited and his sketchbooks tumbled out of the wardrobe in an avalanche of memories. But ‘home’ was a complicated concept for a guy who’d had so many. A one bedroom in Chicago snuggled safe between his mom and dad, Buchanan with its dreams unfulfilled, in shady motels forever awake in front of a TV with the sound as low as it would go, and finally seven foster homes; a number that made ‘normal’ people from ‘normal’ families wince so he’d stopped repeating it until he could almost imagine that his early childhood had happened to someone else.

For Leon, ‘home’ had eventually come to mean Sarah reminding him to be back by ten. Home was the leftover casserole in the fridge with his name on it. It was about not being alone at the kitchen table because Sarah would always wait up and ask him how his game went. She’d even pretended to understand the rules.

Someone Leon didn’t recognise stepped out with Sarah. It was an older woman in a long cotton dress. She and Sarah shared a quick hug before the woman left for her car. Sarah stood in the doorway and waved goodbye. Then she slid back into the church, disappearing like a dream at sunrise.

Ada was watching Leon. Her gaze passed up and down his face, mapping the angle of his nose and the cleft of his chin like they’d just met. Leon knew what she was thinking.

He and Sarah sang off-key to the same songs, they ate their eggs over-easy with too much Tabasco sauce, and they both thought cilantro tasted like soap. But they didn’t look even a little bit alike.

‘I’m adopted,’ he explained.

She frowned, surprised, ‘Oh. I see. I’m sorry.’

‘I’m not.’

‘I didn’t mean... I just didn’t know.’

‘But you knew my mom was a pastor?’

‘It was in your obituary.’

Leon did a double-take, ‘My... what? I have a damned obituary?’

‘Of course you do! You died,’ Ada replied sardonically, ‘Your colleagues had some interesting things to say about you.’

‘Yeah, I bet,’ he winced, and his mind raced to suss out exactly what Ada knew about the old him as filtered through the eyes of his peers. They’d treated Leon like he was fresh out of school and an old man at the same time, ‘Come on. It’s now or never.’

The back of the church held Sarah’s office, a common room for the staff, and a library that smelled like cold coffee and chocolate. Leon opened the door quietly and checked it was empty before ushering Ada inside.

They heard voices echoing from the church hall beyond the big wooden doors:

‘Has anyone seen Pastor Sarah? We’re running low on baby formula!’

‘She’s in her study. Don’t trouble her. I’ll call the supplier first thing tomorrow.’

‘I’ve barely seen her all day, Lucille. Is this ‘cause of that silly protest outside the Governor’s office? I told her to take it easy!’

‘She’s tired, Frank. Let her be.’

Sarah’s office door was ajar. Leon could see her shadow spilling over the desk and onto the carpet. He could smell her hand lotion, its residue on the doorknob. His eyes drifted shut as his hands formed a tight claw around the knob like he’d forgotten how doors worked.

Maybe this was a mistake. A panicked sensation surged inside his chest. Ada was right. Umbrella could be monitoring Sarah. He could put her in danger just be showing his face around town. He should go, shouldn’t he? Right now, just go and leave her be. He could think of another way to track down Jill and Chris.

And what was he going to say to her? How could he explain what had happened to him? She’d thought he was dead for nearly two years, but at least her ignorance had kept her safe.

Leon tensed when he felt a pressure on his forearm. He looked back to find Ada gently peeling him away from the door.

‘I’ll go first,’ she whispered, her dark eyes trained on his face, ‘I’ll make sure she’s alone.’

He nodded but Ada was already slipping past. She opened the door just enough to squeeze through.

‘Pastor Morris?’

A chair scraped the floor as Sarah stood.

‘Yes?’ her voice sounded jittery like she’d just woken from a nap, ‘Hold on... Let me just...’

There was a long pause. Leon guessed Sarah was fumbling with her cochlear implant.

‘Could you come closer, honey?’ Sarah said breathlessly, ‘I can’t quite hear you all the way over there. Are you here about tomorrow’s charity drive?’

‘No. No, I’m...’

Leon swayed on his feet, his ears ringing. He’d been so nervous, he’d forgotten to warn Ada that Sarah was deaf. He mentally kicked himself.

Then Ada raised her voice and when she spoke, she filled all corners of the little study, her voice lifting its high ceiling and rustling the pages of every tome. Like a fair summer wind, she was the little lift he needed to make it home.

‘I’m a friend of your son.’

Then it was as if they were the only three people in the building. A silence enveloped them, as dense and safe as stone. Leon didn’t feel himself move, but he felt Ada’s hand, warm and insistent around his wrist as she pulled him through the doorway and into his mother’s study.

Sarah, to her credit, didn’t cry out. She didn’t seem to be breathing either.

‘Mom?’

Her hands flew to her mouth. Her eyes turned red to signal an oncoming wave of tears. But when her hand fell, Leon saw she was smiling like it was the first time he’d ever called her that. It wasn’t, not by a long shot.

Leon took a step towards her. Then he stopped, realising that Ada was still holding his wrist. Her grip was loose, almost reassuring. Not too much pressure, just enough; like a whispered phrase he felt all the way up his arm to straight to his heart: ‘I’m right here’.

When his hand slipped from hers, Leon still felt her warmth; that fair wind driving him forward.

Sarah whined softly. She rubbed at her throat like the words had gotten tangled up in there and she needed pry them away from each other. Her fingers were trembling and he realised she was too overwhelmed to sign to him.

He stepped towards her and raised his hands to tell her:

I’ll explain everything. I promise.

I’m so sorry, mom. I’m sorry...

He made a fist with his thumb extended and scored circles with it deep into the centre of his chest. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

Sarah dove forward and latched both her hands over his fist. Then she tugged him forward and threw her arms around his shoulders. She clung to her son like the grave could snatch him back. She buried her wet nose into the crook of his neck. Then she keened against his shoulder, a wordless cry of grief and joy combined that shook his core.

‘I love you so much. Okay? I love you,’ Leon murmured into the crown of her head where his tears were already soaking her hair. He hoped she could feel the raw honesty in his voice even if she couldn’t make out the words, ‘I missed you. I did! I missed you, mom.’

Who knows how long they huddled in the centre of her study? Long enough that his face was still pink but finally dry when they parted. Long enough that Sarah could stand to let him go so she could snatch a tissue from the box on her desk while laughing at how terrifying and strange and wonderful this was.

And long enough that when Leon looked over his shoulder, he saw that Ada had disappeared.

🥲

To be continued...

[icarusignite]

An Eye for an Eye Ch.4

MASTERLIST

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC

"Home is the first grave, and you will always be buried here, in my heart."

Summary: In his chambers, Aemond Targaryen gazes upon his wife, the once vibrant spirit now hollowed by his hand. Her anguish tears at his conscience as he realizes the depth of her despair. She would perish in this place, her soul suffocating beneath the weight of his actions, yet he selfishly believes that even a fragment of her presence is better than nothing at all. The torment of this realization coils around him and he is forced to come to terms with the price of his need to possess what he has already shattered.

Word Count: 4.7k

Aemond Targaryen sat alone in his makeshift chambers, the weight of regret heavy on his shoulders. The room felt emptier without the presence of his lady wife, and the silence echoed the absence of her laughter and warmth that he realized he had begun to take for granted. It had been four days since he had seen her last. 

His thoughts churned with self-reproach, and the memory of their last argument played out in his mind like a haunting refrain. He recognized the cruelty in his words, the callousness with which he had wounded the woman who had chosen to be his companion. She, who had always stood by him, was now misguided by his suggestion that she was a mere consolation prize, someone he settled for because he could not fathom anyone else having him, wanting him. 

He had not seen her since. She refused to let anyone into her chambers, not even Helaena, and she did not take a single meal, each tray outside the door remaining untouched until one of the servants came to replace it with yet another. In fact, the only indicators that she was still alive, were the occasional sounds of things being thrown about, and the scuffle of her feet as she paced endlessly. 

It did not help that the walls were paper thin and Aemond's temporary residence had been set up in the room adjacent to hers. All day, he heard both her screams and her pleas to some unknown deity, and if she got no rest, neither did he. 

Even now in the dead of night, as he tried to occupy himself with the latest book he had picked up from the castle library, he could hear the unsettling cadence of hollow thuds echoing through the walls. At first, he dismissed them as the sounds of a heart heavy with sorrow and frustration, perhaps a physical manifestation of emotional turmoil. 

However, as the rhythm of the banging persisted and grew more pronounced, he found it increasingly difficult to disregard the disconcerting noise. The hollow echoes seemed to reverberate through the corridors like a mournful lament, and his attempts to focus on his reading became futile as the sounds clawed at his conscience.

Then, a sudden escalation in intensity seized his attention, culminating in a terrible crash that shattered the uneasy stillness of the Red Keep.  Without a second thought, he leaped from his seat, the urgency of the moment propelling him toward the source of the noise. 

As he approached Daenys's door, he found one of her guarding knights struggling with the handle in vain. The guard's brow was furrowed in frustration as he hammered against the door.

"What is going on here, it is late, people are trying to rest!" Aemond snapped, impatiently.

"My prince!" the guard greeted his arrival with a nod. "Something has happened to the princess, I fear, but I can't get the door open. Something's blocking it from the inside."

Aemond, anxiety gnawing at him, took a step forward and grasped the handle, determined to overcome whatever obstacle stood between him and his wife. He exerted his strength, pushing against the door with a force born of desperation. To his surprise and frustration, the door remained resolute, as if an invisible barrier defied his attempts to breach it.

He gritted his teeth and redoubled his efforts. He could feel the strain in his muscles as he pushed against the door, and when the guard joined him, the door yielded under their combined strength, revealing a narrow crack that allowed glimpses into the dimly lit chamber beyond. 

It was his own writing desk that served as a barricade, the heavy wooden furniture having been pushed against the door, forming an impromptu fortress. 

As Aemond surveyed the scene from his vantage point, he could see the aftermath of Daenys's storm etched across his quarters.  He called out her name, the desperate plea hanging in the air, but there was no response, only the haunting silence that seemed to linger like a heavy fog.

With a surge of determination, he threw himself against the door, the impact jarring his frame as he sought to create an opening. The sound of strained wood and the metallic rattle of displaced objects resounded through the corridor, and after several forceful attempts, he managed to create a gap just large enough for him to slip through.

Once inside, he surveyed the chaos that unfolded before him. Shards of broken glass crunched beneath his boots, the remnants of vases and ornaments that had met a violent end. The air was thick with the acrid scent of overturned inkwells and the remnants of scattered parchment. 

The furniture bore the marks of a struggle, with overturned chairs and dishevelled bedding adding to the disarray. Aemond's eye fell upon the writing desk that had served as the barricade, now displaced and toppled. Its contents were scattered, a chaotic collage of spilled ink and crumpled pages.

The concern that gripped Aemond intensified as his gaze fell upon his window. 

His broken window. 

The tattered remnants of curtains hung limply from their posts, and shards of glass still clung precariously to the edges like teeth. 

Like glinting cannibalistic teeth. 

That was when he noticed the pale, bloody fingers desperately clinging to the ledge. A cold chill raced down his spine, and every fibre of his being urged him to rush forward. 

There she was, his Daenys, a fragile silhouette against the darkness of the chamber. One hand, stained with blood and gripping the window, despite the broken glass that dug into her skin, leaving crimson traces along the ledge.

In her other hand, she clutched a makeshift rope fashioned from sheets and torn curtains. The fabric, now stained and dishevelled, dangled precariously from the window. It was a desperate lifeline, a testament to the lengths she had gone to escape. The rope was nowhere long enough to reach the bottom, and the sight of her, teetering on the edge between safety and the abyss, struck Aemond like a blow.

"Seven hells!" his voice cracked with disbelief. "What are you doing?"

She did not respond to him. In fact, it was as though she hadn't even registered his presence yet. Aemond's hands trembled as he carefully reached down, fingers outstretched, to grasp Daenys's wrists, but the moment his touch made contact, her head snapped up, and he found himself staring into bloodshot, glazed-over eyes. Her skin felt unnaturally hot, radiating feverish heat, as if her body was consumed by it.

Below her, one of his chairs lay smashed to smithereens on the stone floor below, the wood splaying out ominously as if daring the precariously dangling girl to meet a similar fate. 

When he tried to pull her up, a sudden resistance met his efforts. Daenys kicked and twisted, her movements desperate with the need to escape. He expected her to scream, but not a sound escaped her chapped lips, and his grip tightened instinctively, fueled by the instinct to prevent her from slipping away. His fingers pressed into her wrists with a bruising force and in a moment of panic, she let go of the sheets she had been clinging to. The sudden release threatened to send her spiralling downward, and Aemond, reacting on pure instinct, made a split-second decision. 

Without hesitation, he abandoned caution. Ignoring the glass remnants that still clung to the window ledge, he forcefully dragged her over. The leather sleeves of his riding habit protected him from the worst of it, but he winced at the sharp edges of broken glass that no doubt bit into his wife's skin, as they tumbled back together. 

Still, a few cuts were better than having her skull crack open in the courtyard. 

The night was far from over, however, and before the one-eyed prince had a chance to catch his breath, his wife was surging back toward the open window. Aemond, his senses heightened by adrenaline, reacted swiftly, his hands reaching out to hook around her waist before she could slip away. 

In a desperate attempt to keep her away from the perilous ledge, his arm wrapped firmly around Daenys's waist, pulling her away, and positioning himself between her and the window. Then he placed his hands on her shoulders and shook her, trying to pierce through the haze of her delirium. His voice, a desperate plea tinged with anger, cut through the air as he screamed at her, demanding an explanation.

"What in seven hells is wrong with you? Were you trying to fucking die? You could have died!"

Her response was a fragmented murmur, the words barely audible as she mumbled incoherently. 

"I want to go home," she whispered. "I just want to go home, please."

Still reeling from almost losing her to her own insanity, Aemond dropped his head, forehead coming to rest against Daenys's shoulder. He did it half in relief, half in guilt to avoid meeting her pleading eyes, because he did not have an answer that would satisfy her. To his surprise, she let him, holding very still as he breathed her in. 

Casually, his gaze swept over her, halting in alarm when his attention was drawn to her sleeves that had ridden up in the chaos of their struggle. The pale moonlight streaming in from outside was just enough to reveal a glimpse of red, and an instinctive urgency gripped him, as he yanked her sleeves up, making her wince.

The revelation made him want to retch as he beheld the grisly sight, both her arms marred by a twisted landscape of open wounds, and if he raised them closer to examine, he swore he could make out the occasional sliver of glass embedded in the carmine carnage. They seemed too deliberate, too methodical, too angry to be accidental, the gaping and twisted maws of gore that littered her flesh. 

The revelation was a visceral punch to Aemond's gut, and a sense of helplessness overwhelmed him. 

She would die here. If they kept her here any longer, she would die here. The Red Keep, where she was born, the place she had once filled with the effervescence of her life, would become her grave, and he her executioner. 

He gently cupped her face, searching her dull and unrecognizing eyes for some semblance of clarity, but he found none. 

"Daenys, where did you go?" Aemond pleaded, his voice a raw whisper, echoing through the room. He longed for a flicker of recognition, a spark that would return her to him, even if it meant her disdain, but her eyes remained distant.

"Can I go home now?"

Before he could respond, the guard from earlier returned with a maester in tow, just as Aemond had instructed, both men looking taken aback at the sight that greeted them.

Aemond, annoyance etched across his features at the interruption, eyed the maester with a curt nod. 

"Leave your things and go. I'll take care of her myself," he commanded.

The maester, having tended to the one-eyed prince since he was a boy, was well accustomed to his sullen moods. He nodded silently, placing the medical supplies he had brought with him on a nearby table before discreetly retreating from the room. His eyes, however, betrayed a sense of concern for the troubled couple he left behind, but it was not his place to pry. 

The Lord Hand would, however, receive a full report from him on the morrow. 

The knight, on the other hand, lingered at the threshold, casting a wary glance at them, as if hesitant to leave. 

Aemond, his patience waning, barked his orders again, "Stand guard outside. She needs no further audience for her troubles."

"The princess has been delirious for a few days, I think. She repeatedly calls out for her brother, as if he is still here," the knight's eyes were downcasted as he added, "I know it isn't my place but perhaps it would do her well to go home for a little while."

"Yes, you are right. It isn't your place to concern yourself. I told you to return to your post, and I do not like repeating myself."

He watched the door close but was dismayed to find that Daenys still resisted his attempts to lead her toward the unmade bed. Her gaze remained fixated on the window, as she pointed outside like a forlorn child. 

There was something tender and vulnerable in her eyes, and Aemond felt awfully protective over it. In another world, in another time, he would have offered himself up as her shield to whatever may be thrown toward her. He thought he could spend his whole life preserving her. He would have died a martyr at the feet of her holiness if she let him 

But that was before he killed her. Before he ruined anything good or holy between them. 

With a gentle determination, he scooped her into his arms. She offered little resistance, her body feeling weightless and fragile in his embrace. Carefully placing her on the bed, Aemond knelt before her. Daenys remained limp and unresponsive, like a marionette whose strings had been severed.

Aemond, wincing in her place every time the rag in his hand came away stained with old blood, began the delicate task of cleaning her ghastly wounds. His hands moved cautiously, each touch an attempt to alleviate her pain, but he could have pushed her arm through one of the cook's meat grinders and she would not have uttered a single word of protest, wounded bird that she was. 

She seemed nothing like the dragon his grandsire had warned him about. 

Less a wounded dragon, and more a dead sparrow. 

Her fever was still running high and her skin burned. 

A furnace or a funeral pyre. 

Aemond marvelled at how she managed to keep her eyes open, the flickering flame within them a mere echo of consciousness. She was barely present, a spectre caught between the realms of consciousness and the dark respite of slumber. There were an endless number of bruises to wrap up, and a lifetime of cleaning scrapes and bruises from his own sparring sessions had done nothing to prepare him for such a task. Perhaps he should have let the maester stay after all. 

His memory did him no favours tonight, reminding him of all the times she too had patched him up, her treatments always followed by stern reprimands for his safety. Such instances almost always concluded in fits of laughter, because he never could focus on her words, not when he had been too busy thinking about her lips pursed in concern and all he wanted to do was kiss away her frown. 

The present felt too dark a reality in comparison. 

Finally, when he was finished wrapping her arms with fresh linen, he felt her delicate fingers grab his hand, and he stilled, not wanting to startle her. His gaze locked with hers, and he found her eyes unfocused.

"Aemond," she whispered softly, the sound barely audible. The gentleness in her voice sent a shiver down his spine. Perhaps she did recognize him, but there was an uncertainty, a distance in her eyes that hinted at the possibility that she had forgotten, if only for a moment, the weight of their shared history. 

She knew him, but not what he had done. 

"Aemond, I want to go home. Please let me go home. I want to be with my mother." 

Her voice was a hoarse rasp, akin to the scrape of metal against stone.

"Shh, don't speak," Aemond urged gently, avoiding her request completely. 

Leaning up, he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, and her grip tugged at his arm, urging him to sit next to her. He complied almost instantaneously, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, and pulling her close as he guided her head to rest against his chest. 

As Daenys nestled against him, his fingers gently traced soothing patterns on her back. The silence, punctuated only by the distant echoes of the night, enveloped them like a shroud, and it was easy to pretend that he could be her anchor here. It was easier than admitting he was also the storm. 

She would not be allowed to leave; his brother, his grandsire, even his own mother would never allow it, and even if he were to let her go in some burst of compassion, Aemond knew she'd never come back. A selfish part of him wanted to keep her with him forever, even if it meant only getting to hold this empty shell of her for the rest of his life. She was his; she belonged to him.

His dragon. His sparrow. 

From this day, until the end of my days.

He had made vows, under the eyes of the Seven, and the whole kingdom besides. 

He was almost certain that he'd never be able to let her go, even when keeping her meant killing her. It was clearly killing her now. She didn't eat, she barely slept, and she had practically bored holes into herself in her grief. Who knew how much longer she would last like this, but letting her go was not an option. Aemond knew he had started a war with the death of his nephew, but he wondered how much wrath he'd incur from his half-sister if he cost Rhaenyra her firstborn as well. 

He could only hope that she would acquiesce to their terms eventually, if only for the sake of her daughter. If she was no longer a threat, then Daenys would be able to return to her mother, and then perhaps her empty eyes would not haunt him. 

Still, he'd take care of her. He would move back into his chambers, and wouldn't let her out of his sight. He would not let her hurt herself anymore; she could not die. He would not allow it. She belonged to him and no one would be able to take her from him, not even the Stranger. 

Daenys stirred in his arms then, a timid whimper escaping her lips as he shushed her again. It only made her start crying, burying her face in his chest. Aemond tightened his hold on her, bordering on suffocating as he stroked her hair. It reminded him of better times, when she would seek comfort in him, when he was not the source of her pain. He didn't know how long he sat there, cradling her in his lap, wanting to savour each moment because he knew once her fever cleared, she would go back to hating him.

"Aemond."

 "Yes, my love?"

"I really need to go home."

"Daenys..." he warned lightly. "This is your home...with me."

"No," she insisted, "it is important. It will be Luke's name day soon. I must return to Dragonstone. What with all their betrothals as well, there will be so much to do...and Baela...she made me promise that I'd be there...she said she had...oh, I can't quite remember anymore."

After a brief pause, her soft and muddled voice broke the silence again. Aemond waited, his heart heavy with the anticipation of what her words might unveil, what she might remember. He waited for the crying to start anew, but instead, she only frowned in contemplation, as if grappling with elusive thoughts just beyond her reach.

"I don't know what present to get him," she mumbled. "I'm supposed to make him something but we all know how absolutely terrible I am at that. Joffrey's easy to please, all I have to do is give him a ride on Silverwing, but Luke's presents require more effort. Always so picky, that one. Mother coddles him too much...well, I do too, it's hard not to, you know. That was a face formed to topple kingdoms, Father used to say. No one can refuse those eyes, and that rascal uses it to his advantage every time."

Daenys giggled at the end, the melody of her brother's laughter ringing in her ears as if he'd walk through the door that very moment. 

"...if you say so..."

If she noticed the way Aemond's face paled as he croaked out his words, she did not say. 

"And then I need to help Mother prepare for all the weddings. Rhaena wants a spring wedding, and Mother couldn't be happier. You know how they both love the flowers. As for Jacaerys, well, I think he'd put up with being married in a barn if it meant getting to be with Baela. They're sweet that way, don't you think?" 

The seemingly mundane topics hung in the air, almost comedic in their joviality. Aemond, his heart aching, nodded and hummed along, playing along with the fragments of her perceived reality.

His fingertips continued to smooth her hair away, and as she babbled on about her family, Aemond felt the fragility of her state weighing on him. Whether it was the illness talking or a self-imposed delusion, he couldn't discern, but she was not right in the head. 

"So...what do you think?"

Aemond paused, not entirely sure what she was asking of him. 

"That sounds wonderful," he replied gently, his voice a comforting murmur. "A thoughtful gift and helping your mother with the weddings are both splendid ideas." 

His worry only deepened as she continued to mumble, her words meandering through the labyrinth of her consciousness. It was as if she had constructed a façade to shield herself from the harsh realities that threatened to consume her. His fingertips traced her features, as if trying to memorize the planes of her face while he had the chance. 

Eventually, she stopped, and simply looked at him, a sense of wonder flickering in her eyes, a spark that transcended the haze of confusion that had enveloped her earlier. 

"What is is, jorrāeliarzy?"

"You're going to leave aren't you?" 

"Leave? Why would I leave you Daenys? And where would I go?" 

Daenys sighed, as if burdened by a great truth. 

"You...care for your brother, your family, and I love my mother. I have heard what the people whisper about."

"And what does that have to do with me leaving?"

"Well one day you'd have to leave, won't you? It makes me sad. Sometimes I think I start to miss you before you are even gone."

Aemond stilled, threading his fingers through her hair, nails scraping against her skull as he brought her face a hairsbreadth from his. 

"I won't leave. I swear it by the old gods and the new. I will never be the one to leave you," he declared fiercely. 

And I won't let you leave me either.

She smiled slowly, although it didn't reach her eyes. Her gaze held a disturbing resemblance to Aegon's inebriated one, particularly when he had one too many drinks. 

"And be nicer to my brothers. They are only children. They will come to adore you like I do, if you only try a little," she spoke as if she was in a dream. 

Aemond couldn't tell, maybe she really was. 

"If you ask it of me, then I will try," he mumbled, looking away from her guiltily but feeding into her delusion all the same. 

When Daenys brought her hands up to cup his face, his breath caught in his throat. Her fingers gingerly traced the edge of his eyepatch, and then, with slow deliberation, she began to lift it away.

She was remarkably gentle, always mindful of the old injury, but Aemond couldn't help but inhale sharply through his teeth, his head jerking back involuntarily. The echoes of her previous words, the memory of her calling him hideous, lingered in the recesses of his mind. He waited for the sting of those words to be hurled at him once more, bracing himself for the impact of her judgment. He almost dared her to do it, to break the fragile calm that had settled over them. 

A flicker of hurt flashed across her features as she sensed his avoidance. Undeterred, she took his face in her hands, gently turning him to face her once again. For a while, she simply observed, her eyes boring into the midnight depths of his eye that shone with every star of the night sky in the darkness of their chambers. 

Then, her gaze dropped to the sapphire pendant that still adorned the hollow of her throat despite everything that had occurred. 

She hadn't taken it off. The thought hadn't even crossed her mind. 

Her lips pulled a little higher, the brightness of her a contrast to the shadows that clung to the corners of the room.

"We match," she said, her voice soft and filled with fascination. Aemond, caught off guard by the unexpected sentiment, felt a lump forming in his throat. It took everything within him not to cry. 

Of course, they matched. They were always meant to. 

He had given it to her on her fifteenth name day. It was a promise of sorts, even if she had not known it at the time. A promise that she would belong to him one day, that she would always be his. 

He swallowed hard, his gaze locking with hers, "Yes, we do."

"It was on purpose you know..."

"What?" he frowned in confusion.

"Me...I...on purpose...I loved you on purpose. It wasn't pity...or-or guilt...or whatever else you think it was. It was a choice. It was my choice. I chose you."

Loved. She used the past tense. 

This time Aemond was unable to prevent the tears from filling his uninjured eye, and when she leaned up to place a feathered kiss on the scarred skin under his sapphire, they trickled down his cheek, his face strange in its asymmetry when only one of his eyes could could truly mourn.  

She kissed away another tear, and his entire world collapsed in on itself, the only feeling that of her lips on his skin. He wished this was real. With everything in his entire being, he wished this was real. He wished he had never gone to negotiate with Lord Borros Baratheon. He wished he hadn't let his rage or resentment consume him. He wished he hadn't ruined them. 

Whether he would lose Daenys to the war he had inevitably begun or to herself and the madness he saw in her eyes, he would lose her all the same. He felt her slipping away from him, like granules of sand on a windy day, so he hugged her closer, unable to stop the sob that he buried in her hair, mourning her loss even as he held her still breathing form in his arms. Even as she stroked his head and murmured more comforting nonsense in his ear while he shuddered in her embrace. 

It wasn't real. None of it was real. 

Her temporary affections felt like a tease from the gods. 

Someone somewhere was laughing at him, sniggering at his naivete. She was a gift he only deserved as a prelude to punishment. A bluff  between goodbye and forever, and Aemond Targaryen had given himself up to the gamble years ago, to the breathlessness that was a hammer on his chest.

A/N: likes/reblogs/comments are highly appreciated, would love to hear your thoughts <3 Comment to be added to the taglist

[dangoarts]

first artfight attack of the month god gave me an ultrakill fixation and i'm about to make it everyone's problem

icarus prime is @raptorrobot's blorbo :3

[apollos-boyfriend]

i can never read reader insert fics because every time i try the only thing on my mind is just

[thefreakandthehair]

@eddiemonth prompt, oct 1st: Parents | Runaway - Sword | Youthful cw: allusions to neglectful and alcoholic parent, police, incarceration [happy ending promised, as always!] read on ao3 | link to series on ao3

Eddie runs away from home for the last time when he’s thirteen years old. 

The ground beneath his feet is barely visible, barely felt against the worn soles of his too-small sneakers as he runs through the familiar trails of Hawkins’ forest. He’s run away before, usually sneaking out in the middle of the night when he hears the tell-tale silence of his father falling into a drunken stupor on the couch, but this time feels different. This time, he’s actually running, no backpack or hastily thrown together bag of essentials to weigh him down. 

He hadn’t had time, not with so many police cars showing up at once. 

His breath comes in quick bursts, just enough oxygen to carry him off the beaten path onto a path only he knows. It comes without markers or posts. Why would there be signs here? No one else needs the most direct route between Clyde Munson and Wayne Munson’s homes. A 10-minute run, quicker if he sprints like he is now, connects two different worlds and only one feels safe. 

Uncle Wayne has, for much of Eddie’s life, been home. He’s lived with him on and off for a few months at a time, sometimes after dear old dad had been hauled away by Officer Hopper again and other times, when he’d simply run away and his dad couldn’t be bothered to track him down. Eddie spent nearly a year with his Uncle Wayne after his mom died, a wonderful year where Eddie experienced an actual parent and got to figure out things he actually enjoys– fantasy books, D&D, music with intense virtuosity and aggressive guitar lines. He never should’ve gone back, but the guilt ate at him. Maybe it’ll be different, he’d thought at the time. Maybe he’ll care now. 

The fact that he’s running through the woods at full speed away from what could only be defined as a fucking siege with his dad at the center is all the answer he needs. There’s nothing he can do to help his dad– there’s nothing he should do, because he’s a kid at the end of the day and he never should’ve been put in this situation to begin with. 

Eddie shakes his head as he runs, shaking the thoughts from his brain as he hears the familiar, comforting sounds of people talking in the distance. He barrels through the tree-line into one of his Uncle’s neighbors who steadies him by the shoulders, checks him over quickly to find nothing physically wrong. 

“You alright, son? Looks like you seen a ghost.” 

Nope, just a nightmare, he thinks.

Eddie shakes his head and looks around frantically for Wayne, out of breath. “No, no, I’m– I’m fine. Is Uncle Wayne home?” 

“Eddie?” As though summoned, Wayne appears in the doorway of his own trailer a few lots down. Eddie shrugs out of the neighbor’s touch and runs toward the voice, the one that makes his brain slow down from the spinning wheel it’s been on since the first fist pounded on his dad’s door. 

“Wayne, thank God, thank fuck,” Eddie mutters as he runs into him, hugging him unabashedly around the middle. His fingers dig tightly into Wayne’s back, clutching the fabric of his familiar flannel and grounding himself as Wayne hugs him back. 

“I’m uh, I’m glad to see you, too, kid. Everything alright?” Wayne tone is questioning, rightfully so. He doesn’t know yet that Clyde’s been arrested and likely won’t get out this time, or that Eddie’s here to stay. 

Hours later though, after Eddie’s shared his side of the story and Wayne’s made him a mug of his famous hot chocolate, the police arrive. Officer Hopper assures Eddie that he’s in no trouble, that he didn’t need to run, that he’ll never need to run from Clyde again. 

“I know you’ve got a lot of your stuff still at the house. You got family around to stay with?” Officer Hopper asks, looking at Eddie but clearly asking Wayne. 

“‘Course he does, he’s here, ain’t he?” Wayne nods at Officer Hopper and Eddie catches the interaction. “My old van ain’t much– she needs some work– but should be enough to get us back and forth with your stuff, Ed.” 

The van is more than enough for the barebones possessions Eddie cares to bring: an old acoustic guitar that belonged to his mom, a worn paperback copy of The Fellowship of the Ring gifted to him by Wayne, and some clothes and odds and ends. 

Years later, after he runs again and somehow lives to tell the tale, he returns to what still stands of the trailer with Wayne. Most of their belongings are either destroyed or damaged beyond repair but it doesn't matter to Eddie. 

Home was never the trailer he ran to– just the family inside of it.

[emberunderscore]

see. now. i write about prison duo. wonderful great time. problem: they are in tavern. this is fine but. issue arises. i know. jack shit about alcohol. like. do i give them a mug of whisky??? wine?? beer?? what the fuck do i do. google says whisky is shots. and wine is in a glass (not mug sized glass). i can give them beer i guess. but beer sounds really gross and i need icarus to like the taste and my blorbo will NOT be a beer drinker if its the last thing i do.

this is me asking for help. please adults of drinking age. or really anyone who knows something. how alcohol?