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javier-pena · 5 months ago

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Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

Word Count: 5k (so much for short drabble)

Rating: Mature

Summary: You work for the DEA in Colombia. Until one of your missions goes terribly wrong.

Notes: This is the first fic for my 10k follower celebration!!! Thank you, @lokischocolatefountain who requested “I’ll be here when you wake up” with Javier Peña. I hope you like it 🤭 This fic was very much inspired by Gabriel García Márquez' "Noticia de un secuestro" ("News of a Kidnapping") which I highly recommend if you're interested in what Narcos (Season 1) only covers in two episodes, namely the kidnappings of prominent figures in Colombia by the Medellín Cartel in the early 90s. As ever, huge thanks to Dani @alexturner who took the time to ask, "What does this mean?" and made me realize that I, in fact, don't know the answer to that question.

***

It’s night again. Or maybe it’s dawn. You don’t know. The blacked-out windows don’t let in any light. Your days are no longer structured according to the laws of nature (morning – midday – afternoon – evening – night), but according to the laws of your captors (wake up – bathroom – food – nothing – food – sleep). Maybe you’re awake all night and sleep all day. Maybe you only sleep for four hours and are awake for twenty. Neither your mind nor your body can tell the difference any longer.

Right now, for example, you’re in the “nothing” part of your day. It’s just you, rolled up on your mattress in your corner, and your thoughts, looping and looping, making you relive how you ended up here, in this room, somewhere in Colombia. And every single day, right at the end of “nothing” and the start of “food”, you come to the same conclusion: It’s all your fault.

It started with your childhood, you think. No, you can’t blame everything that went wrong in your life on your father, but he certainly did his bid – no matter what you did, it was never enough. Not even when you applied for a transfer to the embassy and you got selected, the youngest woman in DEA history who got an assignment like that. All he had to say to you was, “Huh”. So of course, you had to do better than that.

Here, in Colombia, you found yourself surrounded by men just like your father, old men in suits who sneered at you, confusing you with a secretary, asking you to make coffee and take notes. Old men with guns and enough war stories to fill a book, calling you “little lady” and pinching your cheeks. Old men that were just there, leering at you from corners and doorways. And they all had the face of your father.

Still, no one forced you to raise your hand that Thursday afternoon your floor ran out of coffee, the same afternoon Noonan called you all to a meeting and asked for a volunteer. “Dangerous assignment,” she said, “likely to get you killed.” You should have listened to her. But the looks on all those faces when you raised your hand and said, “I’d be happy to do it,” were worth it. Almost. Because, ultimately, it was the beginning of the end.

One of the men on guard duty today swears loudly and another one growls at him to be quiet. Sometimes they forget there’s a life outside those blacked-out windows and they’re not the only people in this city. You forget that too, but then you hear the voices of people living their lives, the sound of a car backfiring, a dog barking somewhere. If one of you makes the wrong noise, surely, you’ll be discovered.

The three men with you today (tonight?) know that, and so do you. They’re playing cards by the light of a dirty kerosene lamp, sitting so closely together their knees are touching. If they stretched out their legs, their feet would be touching your mattress. The room you’re in is barely big enough for one person, let alone for four. It’s the only room you’ve seen in months, apart from the bathroom they take you to once or twice a day. It’s across a small hallway you haven’t seen because they blindfold you. Every time, for every trip.

You can barely remember a time when not everything you needed to survive was dependent on another person. The autonomy you prided yourself on, your ability to achieve everything on your own, to survive everything on your own, those have been taken away from you. Could you even use the bathroom if no one gave you permission first? You doubt it.

You didn’t need anyone’s permission to go on that undercover mission that ultimately landed you in this tiny square room that is now your entire world. You were the fastest to volunteer, you fit the profile they were looking for: fluent in Spanish, low level enough to not be able to spill any secrets should you get arrested, pretty. It was supposed to be so easy. Infiltrate the Medellín cartel, gather intel, report back. There was even a plan in place to extract you should anything go wrong. And go wrong it did, and nothing was there to break your fall.

Before that, before you watched boys play cards all day, before your only window to the outside world was a small TV, there was one person who tried to get you to back down. You thought he didn’t think you capable of anything because you’re young, inexperienced and a woman, but in hindsight you should have listened to him. It doesn’t matter that the others called him an asshole and you thought he was trying to dissuade you because he was jealous. He knew what he was talking about and you should have listened to him.

The man closest to you lights a cigarette, his face briefly doused in a gloomy red light. You think of them as men because it somehow makes it easier, but he looks barely 16. Your room quickly fills with smoke and you try to suppress a cough so they don’t hit you again.

That’s how this all started, with you getting punched in the stomach.

Your undercover mission asked a lot of you, maybe too much. You were aware that it might be necessary for you to sleep with some of the men you were trying to get close to, and when they asked you about this back at the embassy, you wouldn’t have any problem with it... Until it was about to happen. The man touched you, breathed into your face smelling of cheap alcohol and expensive cigars, and in a moment of sheer panic, you fought back and blew your cover.

That’s it. That’s all. You ruined the mission because you couldn’t lie still for five minutes, and now you’re paying for it.

You know there have been attempts to find you and you know you’re not the only hostage. Right at the beginning, you shared a room with a Colombian journalist who, before that, had shared a room with a famous Colombian TV presenter. You know there are negotiations, you sometimes see on TV that a hostage is returned to their family. One time, there were shouts and sirens and gunshots, but they blindfolded you and put you in a truck. That’s how you ended up here, in this room.

At first, you focused on the stories of the people who made it out alive, not on the stories of the people who didn’t. You’re DEA, and even though you fucked up, you know those three letters are like a protective spell woven around you. Yes, they will hold you captive for as long as possible, yes, they will use you to fight everything you stand for, but they won’t kill you. The more time passes though, the more you doubt anyone is still fighting for your safe return. They might not kill you, but you also won’t be getting out of here.

With every day that passes, with every day you grow weaker and more tired, those men stare at you more and more. At first, they didn’t dare to look at you, ignored you when you tried to talk to them, acted like you weren’t there. Now you catch their eyes on you frequently, hungrily taking you in. They still don’t touch you – not like that, anyway – but they hit you when you’re too loud, they press their fingers over your mouth, the smell of cigarettes and gunpowder making you gag, and sometimes their hands wander, to the small of your back, to your side. Even if you make it out of here alive, you won’t make it out of here unharmed.

It's a different day. At least you think it is. You sleep more and more during your period of nothing, but it isn’t a restful sleep. If anything, it makes you more tired, wearier. You dread waking up and you dread falling asleep and you dread being awake. But something is different today, something has changed while you were asleep. There are only two men with you tonight, and they look at you more and more, their faces unreadable. It unnerves you more than their openly lustful gazes. You pretend to ignore them as best as possible, but it’s hard when you don’t want to turn your back on them.

A third man comes into the room, one you haven’t seen before. He’s big, broad, a tight shirt stretching over his belly, lines around his eyes, thinning hair on his head. He doesn’t look at you, just steps over the two boys and switches on the TV that comes to life with a static crackle. On your mattress, you come alive too, your heart starting with a painful lurch. Whatever it is, this can’t be good for you.

You barely recognize the face on TV. It takes you about a minute to make sense of what you’re seeing, so unfamiliar you’ve become with the ambassador you used to take orders from. She looks the same – it’s you who has changed. Her suit is still perfectly pressed, her hair is still perfectly styled, she still speaks into the cameras in that calm, no-nonsense voice. It’s you who you don’t recognize, you who doesn’t make sense anymore.

It also takes you a while to understand her, to make sense of what she’s saying. You hear the words “hostages” and “negotiation”, and you know she’s talking about you and whoever else there may be, but definitely you. It would explain your captors’ faces. Something has happened, some new development that’s inconveniencing them. Maybe this is it. Maybe you’re being set free. Maybe even tonight. The thought makes you feel light-headed; you have no idea who you are outside of these four walls and that mattress.

“… end of negotiations. We will no longer regard terrorists as equal opposites in this. Any American hostages they might still have, or pretend to have, will, from today onward, be considered missing in action.”

What does that mean? Surely, they wouldn’t just … they wouldn’t just let you die, would they? You’re DEA, you can’t be missing in action, you’re not a soldier. The cartels can’t kill you, they wouldn’t do that. Just how the US wouldn’t abandon you, wouldn’t go on TV to sign your death warrant in front of a live audience. It doesn’t make sense.

You turn to your captors, as if looking for guidance, but they look just as lost as you. Even the big man. He keeps running his fingers through his thin hair, sweat beading on his forehead. One of the boys looks at him too, as if waiting for orders, the other is running the tip of his index finger through the dust on the floor. Why won’t they look at you?

“So we just kill her?” asks the boy who keeps staring at the big man. His name is Andrés Felipe. You know that because another boy let it slip once. You’re not supposed to know their names, and Andrés Felipe made sure that mistake would never happen again, but by then it was too late.

“Not yet,” the man answers. “We have to wait.”

Andrés Felipe groans. “What for? You heard that woman on TV. They’re done negotiating.”

“You don’t know that,” dust boy chimes in. “It could be a ruse.”

Andrés Felipe laughs at him. “As if you know anything about politics. You can’t even read.”

You look at Andrés Felipe then, truly look at him. You need the distraction. You need to pretend it isn’t you they’re talking about, as if your fate doesn’t depend on these three men. And there isn’t much else to do in this room but look. Andrés Felipe is young, younger than you, but older than dust boy. His face is free of wrinkles, free of the tell-tale signs of hunger and a tough upbringing in the favelas. He isn’t here because he needs to be, he’s here because he wants to be. Which also explains why he dares to speak up in front of the big man, whose maturity puts him in charge.

You don’t like Andrés Felipe, never have. Maybe it’s because knowing his name humanizes him and it’s easier to hate a human than some faceless, nameless villain. Maybe it’s because of the cruel glint in his eyes, or the way he beat up that boy who revealed his name. And now there’s his eagerness to kill you. There is no reason for you to feel any sympathy toward him.

“He’s right,” the big man says then. “Maybe they want us to kill all the hostages so they’ll have an excuse to send in the military.”

“They wouldn’t do that,” Andrés Felipe responds. “Everyone would know they’re liars.”

“They’re not,” dust boy dares to speak up again. “Missing in action also means they can be found. If you’re missing, you’re not dead. If the missing people die –”

He can’t finish his sentence because Andrés Felipe slaps him. “Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The big man doesn’t come to dust boy’s aid. He just smirks. “Quit it, you two, we’re sitting tight until we get our orders.”

“I’m fucking done waiting!” Andrés Felipe shouts and you flinch. He’s too loud. Someone will hear him. And they don’t have any reason to keep you alive now. It’s easier to shoot you and then run. “All I’ve been doing is waiting. Do you think I don’t have anything better to do with my time?”

The big man shushes him. You wish he would hit Andrés Felipe, put him in his place, but he just crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I say we wait.”

You close your eyes and breathe in deeply. Andrés Felipe says something else in that sharp, nasally voice of his, but you refuse to listen. Nothing good can come of it. Either they will kill you or they won’t. You’re too weak to think about either of these options. And you’re not going anywhere until those orders arrive, so you might as well …

When you wake up, the room is quiet, and you immediately know something is wrong. Even before you feel the cool, sharp blade against your neck, and before you smell the stale breath of the man holding it, cowering above you.

“Not one sound,” he hisses, and you recognize Andrés Felipe’s voice, uncomfortably loud in the quiet room. It’s so quiet, too quiet with just the two of you. The sounds of him unbuckling his belt are like explosions against your eardrums. You fight the urge to tell him to be quiet, but then your brain catches up with what your body already knows, and you kick your legs and shake your head.

You almost don’t feel the cut of the knife, but you do feel the hot drops of blood on your neck. “I told you to be quiet,” Andrés Felipe hisses. “Just don’t move.”

But you do, you do move, at least your hands that you ball into fists. You don’t want your life to end like this, in some shack somewhere in Colombia with a knife against your throat and a criminal inside of you. This can’t be it. They have to put you in front of a firing squad at least, don’t they? Not like this. Please, not like this.

Andrés Felipe touches your lower belly trying to unbutton your dirty pants, and you flinch, a terrified groan escaping your lips. The knife cuts deeper into the soft skin of your throat. “Shut up, you stupid bitch,” he growls.

Then there’s blood. Everywhere. It’s in your eyes, your mouth, you breathe it in, you taste it on your tongue. Andrés Felipe collapses on top of you, the knife landing on the mattress with a dull sound. You try to get out from under the heavy body, but you can barely lift his shoulders before your arm starts to tremble.

“Hey.” You wipe the blood out of your eyes to find a man kneeling next to you, shoving Andrés Felipe’s heavy body aside so you can sit up. You don’t know who he is, you’ve never seen him before, but he has to be someone higher up if he dared to kill Andrés Felipe. Because that is what just happened, you slowly realize. Andrés Felipe is dead and you’re covered in his blood.

The strange man reaches for you and you flinch away. “Ma’am, my name is Javier Peña,” he says, his voice steady and calm as if he’s been in this exact situation a million times before. “I’m with the DEA. I’m here to get you out.”

“The DEA?” you repeat, the English sounds feeling foreign in your mouth.

He reaches for you again, touches your shoulder, and this time you don’t flinch away. “You’re safe now.” He squeezes your shoulder, then stands up and holds out his hand to you. You take it and push yourself off the mattress.

“What happened?” you ask, trying to ignore the dead body, half its face gone.

“Maybe we should discuss this –,” Javier starts, but you don’t hear the rest of the sentence. Suddenly it feels like there are cotton balls lodged in your ears and the whole world turns dark, darker than it already is.

Someone is carrying you. You think you must be outside because you feel a light breeze on your face. You don’t remember the last time you smelled fresh air, but when you breathe in deeply, you’re enveloped in cigarette smoke and gunpowder. It’s not unpleasant, you realize with a start. It comes from a heavy leather jacket you’re wrapped in, and from the man carrying you. They never would have carried you like this, carefully, as if you might break, so you know you must be safe.

When you next open your eyes, you’re inside again. The room is so big it startles you at first. But the longer you let your eyes wander, the more your brain adjusts to help you realize you’re in a normal sized living room, sitting on a leather couch, a knitted blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You must have just sat up because your head is spinning and your limbs are trembling, but otherwise you feel like you can finally breathe again.

“Feeling better?”

You’re proud of yourself for not jumping at hearing his voice. “Yeah,” you answer, swallowing to wet your dry throat. You feel an unpleasant tug on your skin where Andrés Felipe cut you twice. “Where am I?”

You turn to look at him. He’s sitting on the couch next to you but with enough distance between the two of you so you don’t touch. He’s holding a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers, trying to hide the look of concern on his face. It’s something you will see a lot from now on, people looking at you as if you’re about to break.

“You’re in my living room,” he answers.

“Why not,” you have to swallow again, “why not at the embassy?”

He taps his foot nervously so his leg is jumping up and down, takes a drag. “Us coming to rescue you … that wasn’t exactly sanctioned by Noonan.”

“So you really are DEA?” you ask, even though there are a million other things you should ask first. Like if the press conference you saw on TV was really true. If Noonan and the United States were really prepared to let the remaining hostages die. But the longer you look at the man next to you, the more familiar he looks.

Javier nods at the same time as you burst out, “You tried to warn me, didn’t you? Back at the embassy? You told me I was in over my head with this. You’re the asshole!”

The surprise on his face is almost enough to make you laugh for the first time in months. “I’m the what?”

You open your mouth, but instead of an answer coming out of it, you start coughing uncontrollably. Your sides are burning by the time you’re done, but Javier is right there next to you with a glass of water that you accept gratefully.

“Let me take a look at your throat,” he says, watching you swallow down the cool liquid.

If you think about it, you haven’t been touched in months. You know you’ll flinch away before he even touches you, so you stiffen your muscles, determined to remain in place.

He must see it all on your face. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know,” you say through gritted teeth.

His fingers are rough against your skin as he carefully tilts your head to the side. You barely flinch but you whimper because the movement hurts more than you would have thought. He hums quietly before standing up. “I’ll be right back.”

You raise your finger to your neck to find the skin there sticky with blood. Whether it is yours or Andrés Felipe’s you can’t tell. But the unfamiliar feeling makes you tremble again. You wish you could stop that, or at least suppress it. You wish the world would start making sense again. You miss your small room and your mattress and knowing what comes next. You don’t even know if Javier is telling the truth, if he really is who he says he is. Yes, he looks vaguely familiar, but until a few hours ago, you had no idea what time of day it was.

“Hey, hey,” Javier says softly. He is sitting next to you again, closer this time, but he’s still not touching you. “Breathe. You’re safe. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“None of it makes sense,” you mumble. You’re not sure if he’s heard you, but you do feel the pressure on your chest lighten.

“You have two cuts on your throat,” Javier goes on, shaking a small bottle of disinfectant. “They don’t look too bad, but I’d still like to clean them. Is that okay?”

How do you explain to him that you just spent months asking for permission instead of giving it? How do you explain to him that you don’t know how to decide anything for yourself anymore?

Not sure what to make of your silence, Javier goes on. “You can do it yourself if you want to. I can show you –”

You tilt your head to the side. “No, please. I want you to do it.”

Javier stops shaking the bottle of disinfectant, grabs a cotton ball, and pours some liquid over it. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

He does hurt you. The second he touches the cotton ball to the cut, you want to scream. It burns so much you can hardly take it. But you grit your teeth and you don’t complain. Because you don’t want him to stop. You know it’s just the isolation and the confusion of the last hours and the fact that your world doesn’t make sense anymore, but the way he dabs the cotton ball across the cut, brow furrowed in concentration, makes you feel safe. And you can’t remember the last time you felt like this.

“You’re being so brave,” he mumbles, and surely you must have misheard or you must have imagined it, because he continues in a normal voice, “Tomorrow, you should go see a doctor. I don’t have any medical training and it doesn’t look too bad, but it can’t hurt to be safe.”

You raise your fingers to touch your throat and briefly brush his as he draws them back. “Thank you,” you say when you find your skin free of dried blood. The cotton ball in Javier’s hand is now a blotchy red. “What happened?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Javier says, standing up to dispose of the cotton ball. “I think he cut you with a knife.”

“No, not that.” You sink back against the couch cushions and tightly wrap the blanket around yourself. “With Noonan and the hostages.”

Javier, who is standing in the open kitchen with his back toward you, stiffens. “It was just you,” he answers, pretending to clean some dust off the counter. “You were the only American hostage left. Because it took so fucking long to find you.” He turns to you, cringing. “Sorry. I meant it took us forever to find you.”

“You can swear,” you tell him, your cheeks tingling from the unfamiliar sensation of a smile.

He walks back toward you, and it’s as if you’re seeing him for the first time. He’s no longer the jealous man who was trying to get you to back off from a mission he told you you weren’t qualified for. He’s the man who risked his job – and his life – to save you. And you don’t quite know what to do with that.

To your disappointment, he sits down in a chair, not on the couch, and lights another cigarette. “We had your location eventually. But then, two days ago, the cartel released the businessman, the only other American being held. We had to give them three men in exchange, and the exchange almost went wrong. Someone high up in Washington must have decided that’s enough.”

“So it was true, what Noonan said on TV?” You feel hot and cold all over. “It wasn’t a ruse? They were prepared to let me die?”

Javier nods. “Yeah, but I wasn’t.”

Your heart stops for a short while. “Why?”

He shrugs. “You’re one of us.”

“You warned me. You told me not to go on this mission. I thought you were jealous.”

He barks out a short laugh. “No, I thought it was a stupid mission. Too dangerous. Not worth risking the life of one of our agents for. And it was putting all our other informants at risk too.”

You look down at your hands, barely recognizing them underneath the dirt clinging to your skin. “What happens next? Will you get reassigned?”

“I won’t get a medal, that’s for sure.” He takes a drag of his cigarette and his face lights up with a red glow. “Noonan will thank me privately but reprimand me publicly. And then she’ll send you home.”

“Me? Why am I being punished?” Your voice, still hoarse from disuse, rings in your ears.

He laughs again, loudly this time. “Darlin’, Colombia almost killed you. I wouldn’t call it punishment.”

Your heart kickstarts at the use of the diminutive. “I want to stay here. There’s still so much to do.”

He stubs out his cigarette. “What you need to do is take things easy. You just went through a horrible ordeal you haven’t even begun to process. Even if you do stay here, you need a break first.”

You want to protest, but you can’t find the strength. You feel weary, exhausted, like you spent the last month trekking through the jungle without a break. Your body is a heavy lump you hardly have control over.

The next thing you feel is Javier’s arms around you as he holds you tightly. “Hey,” he says again, and you could get used to the softness in his voice. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“No,” you mumble, trying to push him away, suddenly trapped in the memory of closing your eyes and waking up to a man holding a knife cowering above you.

Javier doesn’t take no for an answer. “You’ll sleep in my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

You’re still not sure this is such a good idea, but there is no alternative you can think of, and your body is begging you to lie down on cool, clean sheets and forget the world for a while. You let Javier pull you up, and you manage to stumble not more than once as he leads you into a dark bedroom. He doesn’t switch on the light.

“I’m going to let you sleep in,” he tells you, sitting you down on the edge of the bed. “Do you want me to leave the door open in case you need me?”

“No, that’s fine,” you answer, weakly kicking off your dirty shoes. You just want him to leave so you can close your eyes.

He runs his hand from the top of your head down to your neck in a well-practiced, automatic motion. “I’m a light sleeper – just shout if there’s anything you need.”

You nod, and he finally steps back with a smile on his face. “Good night, Javi,” you say, your head hitting the pillow before you can stop it. He’s already at the door when you add, “And thank you.”

You can’t have been asleep for more than a few minutes when the sound of gunfire wakes you. It’s not close by, but the echo of it still reaches you, and before your brain has time to process, your body is already responding with a sob that shakes you from head to toe.

“I’ve got you,” Javier says, wrapping you up in his arms. You bury your face against his naked shoulder, trying to steady your breath, but you’re crying uncontrollably now.

“I’m sorry,” you sob.

All he does is run his hand up and down your back. “Shhhh, I’m here. Nothing is going to happen to you.”

His warm breath against the top of your head makes your heartbeat slow down, and you finally manage to swallow your tears. “I’m so sorry,” you repeat, feeling like you’re about to die.

“Come on, lie down,” he urges you gently, trying to lower you toward the mattress.

“No!” You cling to him desperately, but he pries your arms off him without much effort.

“I’ll be here, okay?” he soothes you. “Right in that chair over there.”

You don’t know what chair he’s talking about; you didn’t notice one when he led you into the bedroom, but you stopped noticing things a while ago. “Don’t leave me,” you beg.

He brushes your hair out of your face and places a soft kiss against your temple. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

When you next open your eyes, there he is, asleep in an armchair in the corner of the bedroom, the early morning sun dancing across his skin.

#javier peña x reader #javier peña x you #javier peña #narcos fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfiction #10k follower celebration

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snowwybear · 6 months ago

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𝑔𝑜𝓁𝒹𝑒𝓃 𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇/ 𝖇𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖐 𝖈𝖆𝖙| 𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘥

for my Star Wars girlies out there.

It was a stupid idea. Correction his stupid idea. Vinnie had suggested a Star Wars marathon, the weekend of May 4th. Of course you had said yes, you loved Star Wars. Episode 4, 5, 6 couldn't have gone any better - you spent the time laughing and reminiscing, cuddled up together on the couch.

Then came the prequals, iconically bad. Episodes 1 and 2 went smoothly too, it wasn't until you guys started episode 3 when Vinnie realised his fatal error. You were only focused on, one mister Anakin Skywalker. Your gaze was focused on him, you were making comments about whatever came into your mind, all of your attention was being directed at Anakin Skywalker. You weren't even cuddling anymore, you were sat cross legged, head in your hand gawking at someone other than your boyfriend.

Vinnie didn't know why he felt jealous, he felt stupid feeling this way over a fictional character. Maybe because you were making comments about him that you have never even said about Vinnie. Maybe because this fictional character was getting attention from you that he always craved.

You guys had paused the movie to grab some food and water, stretch and take a small break from the TV. As you were preparing some food of the two you, an idea came to his head. It sounded so stupid, but he was desperate for your attention. He left the room and got changed into something comfier. And by comfier, I mean plaid pyjama pants and his abs on full display.

"What with the?' You asked motioning to the lack of a shirt on your boyfriend.

"Oh, I'm just getting a little hot in here". He replied

You guys had gotten settled back into the movie and you were still gawking at Anakin who was coincidently also now shirtless. Vinnie let out a frustrated sigh.

"What's wrong?" You turned over at Vinnie.

"Nothing, just enjoying you flirting with your new boyfriend". Vinnie said bluntly.

"Aww is wittle Vinnie jealous". You mocked, moving your hand up to his hair trying to mess it up.

Vinnie moved his head out of the way. "Stop, it's not funny".

You heard the annoyance in his tone, he's never annoyed with you. Vinnie stood up from the couch and made his way to the bedroom.

"Where are you going?" You ask.

"To bed". You heard the bedroom door slam. You paused the movie before sitting there for a few minutes pondering about what just happened.

You turned off the TV, made your way to the bedroom, got changed and climbed into bed wrapping your arms around Vinnie's torso.

"Go away". He said a little agitated.

"Not until you tell me what's wrong".

"Go ask your boyfriend since you seem to give all your attention to him".

"Why would I when I have my beautiful boyfriend right here". You gave some small kisses to his shoulder.

Vinnie wouldn't admit this, but he how clingy you were being right now. "Can you just go away". Vinnie tried to pry your hands off him but in return, you wrapped your leg over his hip essentially trapping him.

"No, not until you let me love you". You were fighting against Vinnie to stay clinging onto his body. The two of you wrestled around each other until you finally won by straddling his waist.

"Oh my god, your so annoying". Vinnie whined.

"Just listen, I'm sorry if I made you feel jealous. You know if you needed a little extra attention, you could have just said". You softly said, lightly creasing his chest.

"Yeah whatever". He joked. You just smiled and shook your head at him.

"Considering your this jealous now, I can't wait to see what happens when we watch The Mandalorian. Because let me tell you babe that man is so fucking ho....". You squealed as Vinnie cut you off by flipping you over onto your back.

"For the love of god, shut up". Vinnie said before slamming his lips into yours.

#vinnie hacker #snowwybear #vinnie hacker x reader #vinnie hacker imagine #vinnie hacker smut #vinnie hacker x you #vinnie imagines #vinnie smut #vinnie x reader #vinnie x y/n #vinnie hacker fluff #snowwybearspecials #star wars

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vethbrenatto · 1 year ago

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This was far and away my favorite episode of The Ravening War so far, and I wanted to figure out why breaking down emotional beats by character. Apologies, this might get long.

Bishop Raphaniel breaks, falling into madness. He sees through the trees of the organization he's been representing with a mindset all along that he was the one who knew something the others didn't, only to realize he had been hoodwinked all along. He looks back on the life he's lived, the things he's done, and the things he's been through/plagued by and turns to the fungi going: It has to have been meant for something, please make it all worth it- don't let this be meaningless.

Lady Amangeaux trades her title and her notoriety in for the safety of her child, accepting that she may not even be much in that life (as she turns her life to service), but knowing that the child will be protected. After the death of Pamela Rocks, the woman who in Episode 1 was so fervently clinging to her title, has finally realized there are far safer things you can be than a queen.

Delissandro Katzon loses Colin and falls desperately into individualism. With his anchor to friendship and community gone, his worst instincts of self kick in. What matters is his name, his legacy, his power. Not that of Basha Myaso, no matter how he may support him. Certainly not that of his mother. While he does swap Colin for Karna, she only encourages these instinct in him, having similar values about the importance of his power.

Karna Solara is offered the opportunity for family and turns it down. She wears armor showing that she has been everywhere, she is from every place... yet her conversation at the start of the episode with Amangeaux betrays that she's been everywhere, yet has no one. She is no daughter; she is and always has been an orphan. Yet her connection to Deli betrays one last spark of humanity (humanity in food? you know what I mean) in the form of a crush that began as a sixteen year-old girl. She may have grown up rotting, but there is some heart in there, for him.

Colin Provolone is finally revealed to be just some guy. He is some guy's son who was some other guy's son and he's been running his whole life because of it. So, when he sees Pamela Rocks killed not for anything she did, but because she is of House Rocks, he can't sit idly by anymore. He trades the most he's ever had in life; a position, a title, a true friend- for his morals. He goes from supporting a person he liked to protecting someone he doesn't for his morals. He gives away a life he could have loved for one he can feel okay living.

Woof, guys. It's a lot.

#dimension 20 #the ravening war #trw spoilers #colin provolone #karna solara #lady amangeaux #thane delissandro katzon #bishop raphaniel charlock

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starlight-bread-blog · 6 months ago

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It's Zutara Month 2024 So I'm Gonna Discuss (See: Fangirl) Them and Emotional Labor

Katara cooks, sews, but most of all: she gives unconditional emotional support for her brother, and later the rest of the Gaang.

Illustrated after Appa was stolen, the Gaang got stuck in a desert without much water, food or any means of transportation besides their legs. Katara gave everyone her bending water, without drinking any herself, responded to everyone with compassion, and by the end she helped bring Aang back to himself while he was out of control in the Avatar State.

Even after the episode is over, next episode and she helps delivering a baby, and still makes sure to look after Aang.

Sokka too testified that Katara did a lot of labor for him:

Sokka: Actually, in a way, I rely on [Katara's bossiness].

Toph: I don't understand.

Sokka: When our mom died, that was the hardest time in my life. Our family was a mess, but Katara, she had so much strength. She stepped up and took on so much responsibility. She helpwd fill the void that was left by our mom.

Toph: I guess I never thought about that.

And appropriately, Katara is the one doing the vast majority of the emotional labor in her relationships. She takes care everyone, comfrots them, and protects them. Take "The Deserter" as an example: Aang was being extremely careless with his new found fire bending ability, to the point where he accidently burns Katara's hands.

Katara herself never express her anger at him, she ends up healing her own wounds. Sokka does the scolding. A\ang felt incredibly guilty, but still – by the end, Katara is the one comfroting Aang when he wants to give up on fire bending.

Katara takes care of everyone in the Gaang, making sure they're well, helping them heal their scars. Moreover, Katara often brings up her own grief to empthize with other people's loss. It's a pattern of sorts:

1) A character talks about their past with the Fire Nation

Haru: Yeah. Problem is ... [Close-up, earthbends two stones in a circle above his hand.] the only way I can feel close to my father now is when I practice my bending. He taught me everything I know.

Jet: The Fire Nation killed my parents. I was only eight years old. That day changed me forever.

Hama: I'm sorry. It's too painful to talk about anymore.

2) Katara brings up her own grief, sympathizing with their loss

Katara (to Haru): See this necklace? My mother gave it to me.

Katara (to Jet): Sokka and I lost our mother to the Fire Nation.

Katara (to Hama): We completely understand. We lost our mother in a raid.

A\ang is a bit of an exception, given that she brought up her grief to prepare him for the loss of his people. (Ad they all respond sympathetically). Still, she brings it up to sympathize and help. There is nothing wrong with that, of course. but here is how it went with Zuko:

1) A character talks about their past with the Fire Nation

Katara: You have no idea what this war has put me through! Me personally! The Fire Nation took my mother away from me.

2) Katara brings up her own grief, sympathizing with their loss

Zuko: I'm sorry. That's something we have in common.

It's Zuko who responds to her grief this time. It's him empathizing with her. It's him doing the emotional labor for her. And it's this sympathy is their first real civil conversation, establishing that in their relationship, Zuko will do some of the labor needed of him.

In The Southern Raiders, Katara opens up to Zuko, compleyely unprompted, while she is yet to forgive him, about the precise events that led to her mother's death.

A thing she has never done with anyone, and is doing now with someone she considers untrust worthy. Zuko responds with "your mother was a brave women". She, once again, is on the reciving end of the emotional labor – and in a way that is deeper than any other intance of her in the show.

In rest of the episode, Zuko is the one thinking of her and taking care of her.

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

Exhibit C:

Katara takes care of everyone, but it is with Zuko that she recives the help she deserves.

She put herself in danger to help A\ang, she helpped him after he'd burnt her, and she stepped up when her mother died. But with Zuko, he is the one reaching out. He's the one taking care of her needs.

#zutara #zutara month 2024 #zutara month #zutara meta #pro zutara #anti anti zutara #zuko x katara #katara x zuko #zutara analysis #zutara evidence #zutara forever #zutara nation #zutara should have been canon #zutara supremacy #zutara was robbed #zutarian

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averagewriter-inthedark · 3 months ago

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A Dragon Does Now Bow Down 🐉 | HOTD Imagine P.1

GOT/HOTD masterlist | | Part 2

Characters & Pairings: Targaryen/Lannister!OC��Daerra Targaryen x the Greens (platonic) & the Blacks (platonic)

Content Warnings: follows episodes 1-7 of S.1, fluff (between oc and kids) angst, implied character death, blood, violence, dysfunctional family dynamics, eventual B&C, slight canon divergence | female!OC (she/her) | wc: 8k

Premise: The House of the Dragon is an impenetrable force when standing together. Bound by love, duty, and sacrifice. But when sides are drawn between kin, not even the glue that holds them together can withstand.

Note: this is a direct result of an AU idea I had where the children of the Greens had an actual motherly figure who cared for them and was also a neutral party between the Greens & Blacks. So yeah, I’m sorry this will be more angsty and dark in part 2.

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Hand turns loom; spool of green, spool of black; dragons of flesh weaving dragons of thread.

It was believed by the Wise King Jaehaerys I that the only thing that could tear down the house of the dragon was itself. Oh how right he was.

The threat of war loomed over with each passing moon. Bringing unease to his youngest grandchild, Daerra.

Born to his daughter Gael in 95 AC when she was only ten and five. The only legitimate child to her marriage to a lord of House Lannister who shared Targaryen heritage. He died shortly after her birth resulting in Gael returning to the Red Keep where she raised the babe with her siblings and cousins. They took a liking to Daerra--especially the Good Queen Alysanne. Her older cousins; Rhaenys, Viserys, and Daemon were around at times. Mainly at family gatherings since they were all 15+ years older than Daerra.

A Targaryen beauty with signature attributes to Lannisters, Daerra was a sight to behold. Silver hair she often kept short and curly, and piercing green eyes that resemble emeralds. While her father may have been a Lannister, she only ever referred to herself as a Targaryen. Only ever wearing the colors of red and black.

Unfortunately Daerra would know loss again at the age of four, when her mother drowned herself in the Blackwater Bay following the stillbirth of her younger brother. From then on, Daerra was under the care of her cousins Aemma and Viserys, who had their young daughter, Rhaenyra, two years prior to Gael’s death. Raising them like sisters since the couple were not blessed with another child by the Gods.

As children up until adolescence the two were like peas in a pod, though they had their differences. Both enjoyed riding their dragons, though never together. Rhaenyra with her golden queen Syrax, and Daerra with the ferocious Cannibal. Whose eyes were a stunning green as though they were filled with Wildfire. Matching Daerra so closely, it made people wonder if it were the reason the wild beast surrendered to her. Earning her the title, ‘Daerra the Daring,’ when she claimed the mighty dragon on the eve of her tenth nameday at Dragonstone, after stumbling upon his nest when she ventured too far from the castle. Removing red from her wardrobe to only wear black with green trimming in honor of him.

The bond between dragon and rider was something Daerra was taught by her grandmother the Good Queen. A longing feeling she desired to connect with their ancient heritage. Cannibal was a magnificent creature. When not on Dragonstone, Cannibal was free to roam the outskirts of the city away from the Dragonpit.

So as to not cause an issue with his….particular taste for food.

While Rhaenyra had to maintain the statue of a Princess, Daerra had much more freedom during childhood. Which in turn resulted in slight envy from the young heir. Daerra got to go to Dragonstone whenever she pleased so long as the King approved. She got to train under the Rogue Prince himself, Daemon--which fueled Rhaenyra’s jealousy, and learn to fight like a warrior. While Rhaenyra always had a book or quill in her hand, Daerra had a sword or her trusty leather whip. She was his protege. On her fifteenth name day, Lady Daerra was gifted a Valryian steel blade she named Destiny.

Daemon taught her strategy and ways to disarm a man. Not to mention he warned her of snakes in his brother's council.

Speaking of the council, there were mixed reactions when it came to Daerra and the privileges her cousin gave her. Viserys didn’t rush to marry her off when she came of age, much to the displeasure of his Hand, Otto Hightower. The cunning man desperately wanted to rid the Red Keep of her when she grew to be a mini version of his political headache. Even tempted to offer his own son's hand, until whispers spread of young Lords attempting to court the Lady going missing. Fruitless accusations that were enough to ward off prospects.

“Is it true,” Rhaenyra raced after Daerra, dressed in her riding gear as she brushed through the mane of her horse before departing to see her dragon.

“What do you speak of, cousin?”

Rhaenyra gave a pointed look, glancing over her shoulder before leaning closer to whisper, “People are saying you fed those men who tried to win your hand to Cannibal.” The princess received a snicker.

“So that is the rumor I’ve been hearing amongst the court,” her laugh was dry, turning slightly to face her cousin. “Don’t be foolish, Rhaenyra, he only eats his own,” Daerra denied, but her eyes told a different story. One the princess wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

Whatever the truth was, it had the outcome Daerra wanted. And that was to avoid marriage for as long as possible. The main reason being when Viserys named his daughter the heir to the Iron Throne. Daerra was ten and seven, beaming with pride while masking the bubble of anxiety in her chest. Greedy Lords would race to win her hand, and offer up their daughters/sisters to the King now that his wife, Queen Aemma, was with the Gods.

Daerra scoured the court intently. Observing everyone who crossed paths with the King. Particularly Otto Hightower and Corlys Velaryon, who both had young daughters and were ambitious for power.

“Any ladies the object of your attention, dear cousin?” Daerra clasped her hands behind her back, matching Viserys pace along the gardens. He’d appeared solemn, stress making his features age.

“Don’t tell me you dragged me out here to hear of my quarrels with marriage prospects. I thought you better than that, Daerra.” His tone was fond, almost fatherly like. Considering he practically raised her since she was four. The two were semi-close with each other.

The young woman snorted, “Oh, you know I prefer the training yard or the skies. But I worry for you.” She stops, making him do the same. The sun beating down brought heat to their skin as their thick clothing absorbed the rays. Illuminating their emerald and lilac eyes that would have any artist wanting to paint a portrait. “Daemon is off in the stepstones doing Gods knows what. Your council keeps bothering you about a wife--and for Rhaenyra to take a husband. Not to mention they still question your decision to name her your heir. Must be exhausting.”

“It is,” the King agrees with a sigh, looking down at his boots. Wishing nothing more than to return to his model of Old Valyria. “With everything happening, I find myself missing Aemma more than ever.” Daerra’s heart tightened, mirroring his saddened expression. Aemma was like a mother to her, raising her as a surrogate daughter following multiple failed pregnancies.

“I as well. Queen Aemma was the heart of this family,” Daerra glanced up to the heavens, feeling a light breeze drift over them. “Her loss is felt within the Keep. And you should not rush to pledge yourself to another until you feel the time is right. Otherwise you are dooming the both of you.”

Though she did not have experience with love, Daerra witnessed it throughout her life. The love her grandparents had with each other. The way Corlys and Rhaenys were. The devotion Viserys had to Aemma, and the stories of his parents, Baelon and Alyssa. Love matches were rare, but they existed. And if blessed, one may experience more than one in their lifetime.

She had hoped that for Viserys. Unfortunately, her advice was met on deaf ears when he announced not long after his intent to marry Alicent Hightower. The daughter of his Hand, and dear friend to his own daughter.

Daerra was enraged. Disgusted even. How could her cousin marry a girl the same age as Rhaenyra. Younger than her by three name days. Never did she see the two together during the day, and it took some convincing for the King’s guard to tell her the two had secret meetings during the night.

‘Of course,’ she thought, clutching her fists as the need to break something became too much to bear. If there was one thing Daerra was also known for in the Seven Kingdoms….it was her temper. Rivaling that of Daemon when she finally burst after penting up frustration for days. Earning her another nickname of the Dragon with a Lion’s roar. However, she had to remain composed. This was the King, not just her cousin. And while he allowed her freedom and often glanced the other way when she gave cheek to Lords and Ladies of the Court, the same would not be directed at him.

In the end, Daerra told Viserys, “I hope you know what you’re doing, cousin.” And when he questioned her statement, her reply was simply, “You lack to see the weight this union has put on our House. And I hope you are ready for the pressure that will come the moment you sire more heirs. For yours and Rhaenyra--and even Alicent’s sake,” she paused, narrowing her brows at the man who raised her. “I hope the Gods bless you with only daughters.”

Of course, Viserys believed her to over exaggerate. Even when he caught her stiff expression at his wedding. Standing beside his daughter with her hands clasped behind her back, dressed in black with gold accents. The way she assessed him was almost like a warning. But again, Viserys took it like a grain of salt. In his eyes, Rhaenyra was his heir and the Lords of Westeros pledged to her before him and the Gods. Swearing fealty, which was more valuable than any gold in the country.

He failed to realize they would not be forthcoming once he had a son. When that day came, Daerra felt the shift. As she glanced down at the babe in her arms, having taken him while Alicent rested before Viserys was to present him to the court, Daerra’s usual rough exterior crumbled.

There was such an innocence to babes. Unaware of the harsh realities the world possessed. Small little things who only desired love and attention. “Hello, little one,” she whispered to Aegon. His bright lilac eyes staring up at her in wonder. Silver strands of hair on his head, skin soft and smooth as her finger stroked his cheek. “I’m your cousin, Daerra. Oh how the realm has awaited your arrival,” her gaze softens, a tinge of sadness in her tone. “But I’m sorry for what your life is set to be like. You’re the first born son--named after the Conqueror himself.”

Of course little Aegon had no clue what she was saying. To him the only concern was when he would eat, sleep, and have his nappy changed. Still, he gazed up at her as though he was taking in every word.

Helaena came a year later, with Aemond not long after. As she did with Aegon’s birth, Daerra was present in the Queen’s chamber. Offering support and watching the babes while she rested following the endless hours of labors. Though her and Alicent’s relationship was rather hot and cold, there was a mutual respect. Especially when it came to the children which the Queen greatly appreciated. There were times where Daerra was the only person who could calm them when they fussed.

“You’d be a great mother, Daerra,” Alicent exhaled, waiting for the sleep to take her while watching Aemond in the woman’s arms. “You’re a natural with him. With all of them.” Still in her youth, the young Queen wondered why Daerra never seeked to marry or have children. After Daemon left for the StepStones a lot had changed for Daerra.

Though she still had her reputation.

Daerra only smiled, not taking her eyes on the baby boy, “Everyone’s destiny is different, my Queen. I don’t think mine was to birth the next generation of Targaryen’s. But I do think I was meant to help raise them.”

Lastly a few years later, came the arrival of the last child of the King and Queen. A boy named Daeron. Who the King, with the surprise approval of his wife, named in honor of his cousin.

“Gentle, Aemond,” Daerra brushed away a hair from his face and tucked behind his ear. Kneeling down on the ground so she was eye level with the toddlers, Daerra held a sleeping Daeron in her arms. Six-year-old Aegon had a toy dragon in his hand, while five-year-old Helaena sucked on her thumb. Aemond, the curious three-year-old, kept leaning over her arm to get a look at his baby brother.

“Tiny,” his finger came down on the babe’s head, lilac eyes peering up at the woman in awe. Daerra beamed, a bright smile on her lips.

“Yes, my darling, he’s a tiny thing. Like you were many moons ago,” a giggle left the boy’s mouth upon her poke to his stomach. Helaena leaned onto her shoulder, lightly tracing the leather and texture of Daerra’s outfit. Aegon himself found entertainment twirling the chains attached to her cloak.

“How come all our eyes are purple and yours are green, aunt?”

Daerra felt warmth at the title, like it always did when the children referred to her as such. That they viewed her more as an aunt than a distant cousin.

“Well, my father was a Lannister and said to have bright green eyes,” she explained to the boy.

“Like Cannibal!” Aemond exclaimed, causing Daerra to gently hush him and carefully adjust Daeron who made a sound at the movement. Daerra cooed at him before looking back at Aemond. He’d always been so fascinated by the Dragons in his young age. Especially Cannibal after learning of his reputation. Begging Daerra to one day take him with her flying. She also had a tradition of taking the royal babes to the Dragon, much to the horror of Alicent and Otto, presenting the beast with the new generation of their house.

Daerra chuckled, petting the top of Aemond’s head, “Inside voice, little dragon.” He mumbled an apology. Daerra bopped his nose, “but yes, Cannibal and I have matching eyes. That’s why some say he chose me as his rider.” She turned back to Aegon, “Sometimes certain traits are stronger than others. My father’s mother was a Targaryen, but he inherited his father’s green eyes. You all took on after your father, his grace the King. The spitting image of the blood of Old Valyria.”

“But what about Jace?”

Daerra felt her heart stop, eyes widening a bit at the sudden question by her surrogate nephew. As the years passed with many unions blooming and children born to the royal family, Rhaenyra’s marriage to Laenor Velaryon produced their first son. Jacaerys. Born only a few moons prior to which Viserys ordered the babes share a wet nurse, following rising tensions between the houses in hopes to restore the strained relationship between Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra. The former donning to wear only the color green, representing her house calling their bannerman to war.

An act that had Daerra nearly tapping back into her destructive nature by driving her dagger straight through her heart. She resisted…..with a lot of hard work.

Like most in the Keep, Daerra knew the boy had been sired from the honorable Ser Harwin Strong. Sharing his dark brown hair, eyes, and similar nose. Opposite of the traditional Valyrian features such as silver hair and lilac eyes. A kind man and dutiful knight, Daerra saw the behavior her cousin and her sworn protector shared when they thought no one was looking.

Rhaenyra was currently carrying her second child, and rumors of the potential paternity of Jace and his unborn sibling were spread. Making Daerra’s brows narrow in question.

Gently tugging the boy closer after confirming they were the only ones in the nursery, Daerra whispered, “What is this you speak of, sweetling?” Young and naive to the concern in her tone, Aegon continued to fiddle with her chains.

“He doesn’t have hair like us. I heard mother shouting at the maid that Jace is a ba-ba-bast,” he couldn’t get the word out, and Daerra immediately stopped him with a soft hand on his cheek.

“Jace is your nephew. Your older sister's son,” she told him sternly but also soothing as one would to a child. “You boys will grow up with each other--and there is nothing stronger in the Seven Kingdoms than the bond between kin. You mustn’t utter these words again, sweetling. Regardless of whom you hear them from.”

Aegon only nodded, saying something along the lines of, “I won’t,” but Daerra already feared what was to come for the future of her family. Alicent already showed disdain for her Rhaenyra after her father Otto was released as Hand. Now with her voicing the questionable parentage of the Princess’ son, there was little to no hope of reconciliation.

The rumors only got worse with the arrival of a second son, Lucerys. A spitting image of his older brother. Like Alicent’s children, Daerra was close to Rhaenyra’s sons. Making her often feel in the middle of the feud between the two. Thankfully when it came to the children, both were respectful and grateful for Daerra’s assistance.

“Come here, my dreamer,” Helaena grasped Daerra’s outstretched hand, not clutching Luke to her chest, to help the princess step out of the carriage. The Lady turned to the knights, “You are to remain here. We’ll only be a moment.” The man’s face consorted to worry, eyes peering into the woods where he swore he heard the rumble of the beast lying ahead.

“My Lady, the Queen and Princess ordered that you must be in sight with the young prince and princess. You’re not to be alone with them and your dragon--for precaution as you can understand.”

Having dealt with this a number of times already, Daerra’s face stayed neutral, “I appreciate your concern, and honor of maintaining order, good Ser. But you must know my Cannibal does not take kindly to strangers.” Her tone went cold, as did her eyes sending a shudder up the man’s spine. He visibly paled. “He will see you as food. So,” her head tilted in defiance, “do you still wish to join us? Or will you be smart and do as you’re told.”

“I-I-I shall await your return, my Lady,” he nodded, wishing nothing more than to wipe the sweat from his head. Or throw up from the anxiety he felt.

Daerra smirked, nodding back and holding Helaena’s hand while cradling Luke in her other arm. Guiding the girl through the woods until they reached Cannibal’s nest. Once in front of the clearing, Daerra bows, “Rytsas, uēpa raquiros.” Hello old friend.

A low rumble filled their ears, followed by the rustling of leaves. The clearing between the trees filling as Cannibal shook the twigs from his back, wildfire eyes focusing on the group. Daerra heard him sniff, letting go of Helaena’s hand to approach. The girl stayed put, gaze glued on the dragon with awe. She’d never seen him up close before, the only time Helaena had made his acquaintance was when Daerra presented her to him as a babe. Then when Daeron and Jace were born, she took Aegon with her.

Daerra approached with caution. Glancing down at Lucerys while she untucked the blanket to show his face.

“Nyke’ve maghatan ao nykeā irudy. Nykeā Targārien naejot kustikagon īlva ānogar. Rhaenagon prince Lucerys, tresy hen Rhaenrya se ser Laenor Velaryon.” I’ve brought you a gift. A Targaryen to strengthen our blood. Meet Prince Lucerys, son of Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor Velaryon.

Cannibal leaned down, bringing his snout level with Daerra, who gently extended her arms. Holding Lucerys out as though she was offering him up to the dragon, making Helaena gasp lightly. Slight fear at what might happen despite finding the sight mesmerizing.

Emerald eyes met wildfire. Dragon and his rider. Daerra kept her stare as Cannibal’s snout came only a mere inches from the babe. Feeling the heat radiate off him, the fire seeping through his veins. Cannibal sniffed again, Lucerys moving in Daerra’s hands though she kept a grip on him while never taking her eyes off her dragon. Watching him smell his Targaryen blood, the blood of Old Valyria.

A sound of approval left Cannibal, his body raising to his true height. A stunning sight for anyone who dared graced the wild dragon with their presence. It made Daerra smirk, bringing Lucerys back to her chest when he began whimpering. She cooed softly, stepping back to where Helaena stood. Crouching down, Daerra said, “The dreams you have are not mere illusions or fantasies, Helaena. It is a rare thing for a Targaryen to dream the way you do--but it is in our blood. They are a window into the future--or what the future may bring. I know it’s hard for you to explain when they happen, but you must not be frightened. For you are a dragon,” the girl met her gaze, a mini Rhaenyra staring back at her. “And a dragon does not bow down to fear.”

Alicent’s distant nature for her children was observed early on. As well as the neglectfulness of his Grace the King. So it came as no surprise to servants and guards in the Keep when the children of the King and Queen often sought council and companionship from Lady Daerra and Ser Criston Cole. The two hardly acknowledged each other, only when the time called for it. She disliked his insults of Rhaenyra, and he despised her closeness to the Princess and her sons.

But when it came to Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond, the two were a force to be reckoned with. Daeron had been sent to Oldtown once he learned to walk. A decision that put a small hole in Daerra’s heart, for she felt she lost a son, although the decision was a wise one. Alicent continued to drive hate into her children while Daerra fought to prevent it. And having Daeron away meant he had a chance to not sour like the rest of the Hightowers in the Keep. Helaena remained a sweet girl. The only solace as Aegon began drowning himself in wine and Aemond grew restless at not having a dragon.

Like today as a matter of fact.

Daerra made her way to Rhaenyra’s apartments, passing Laenor and the boys as he escorted them to the Dragonpit. “Aunt Daerra!” Jace bounded to her, excitement coating his entire being. “We’ve got a brother! His name is Joffrey.”

“So I’ve heard,” she ruffles his hair, then leans down to scoop up Luke who had latched to her leg. “Are you excited to be a big brother, my prince? You’re not the youngest anymore and have to step up to the role Jace has had.” He nods frantically. Ready to prove himself to his family.

“I can’t wait to go dragon riding with him,” he smiles but then pouts, “but that won’t be till Arrax gets bigger and his egg hatches.” Daerra lightly pinches his cheek, making him squeal.

“Fair not, little dragon, the time will come. Until then--,” she sets him down, bidding a nod to Laenor who returned a nod in respect. Silently thanking her for all the times she was there for the boys and not audibly questioning their lineage. “You gotta grow your bond with Arrax. And we shall pray to the Gods they bless Joffrey with his dragon. Now, I shall leave you to it. I have a new nephew to meet.”

With a kiss to each of their heads, the woman departs as they wave goodbye, continuing on until she reaches Rhaenyra’s chamber. The Whitecloak nods, moving to open the door and announces her arrival, “The Lady Daerra Targaryen, Princess.”

“Thank you, Ser.” Rhaenyra sits up, grinning up at her cousin, who exchanges courtesies with Harwin. “Good morrow, cousin.”

“Good morrow it is, my Princess,” Daerra clasps her hands behind her back. Slowly walking forward until she’s directly in front of the woman. Noting the evident exhaustion in her face. “My congratulations to you and Ser Leanor on the healthy birth of another son.” Her head gestures to the babe, cradled in the knight’s arms. “I hear his name is Joffrey.” At her silent reaction, Rhaenyra softly chuckles, giving a knowing look.

“Laenor chose it. I believe it is a name dear to him--I recall him wanting to name Jace, and then Luke, it when they were born,” her smile was small, lingering with sadness at the memory of Laenor’s lover that’d been killed the night of their wedding. Knowing it was the reason behind the name. “But his father had a hand in naming the boys. Making sure their names were fit for Velaryons.” Daerra didn’t miss the way her cousin’s eyes flickered to Harwin. Or how he looked up from the babe to meet the Princess’ gaze.

Clearing her throat, the woman once again turned her attention to the babe. “Well they are certainly happy to be older brothers. Already planning to take him and their dragons out for their first flight.” Together they all shared a laugh. Daerra made the motion to Joffrey, “Might I?”

“Of course,” Harwin passed the babe, carefully placing her into her arms and lingering when he believed she had him settled. Daerra stayed silent, not wishing to make him uncomfortable by commenting how she'd held all the royal children as babes.

Harwin took his leave, bowing to Rhaenyra and Daerra as he did so. Leaving the two women and Joffrey alone. That’s when Rhaenyra finally let out the breath she’d been holding, closing her eyes to soothe the tiredness consuming her. Daerra sat on the opposite chair, shaking head with a frown.

“I’d hoped the maids were speaking nonsense when I heard what took place after the birth.” Daerra took in her cousin, taking her eyes off Joffrey, who fell into a soundless sleep. Rhaenyra opened her eyes, the small smile turning into a frown.

“I fear it will continue, so long as I produce heirs.”

Daerra sighed, face consorted with concern. “I admit I have some sympathies toward the Queen for her situation. Only a girl herself when she married your father and had the children. Still,” her face turned strained, indicating she was not defending Alicent. “That does not excuse her behavior toward you. And your boys.”

Rhaenyra looked down, muttering a ‘thank you’ to which the woman simply nodded. They stayed that way for a few minutes, Daerra requesting permission to take the babe to meet Cannibal after the two had rested. Once received, Daerra handed the Joffrey to the maid, gave a comforting squeeze to Rhaenyra’s shoulder, and left the Princess.

As she migrated through the halls, she heard sniffles in a nearby room, the one belonging to Aemond. Once again the guard acknowledged her with a nod, moving to allow her to pass.

Her heart broke at the sight of Aemond sitting on his bed, head tucked between his knees. Dust and soot covering his usually clean silver hair and green attire. An indicator he’d been in the Dragonpit. Alone, in an attempt to claim his mount he desperately wanted. After the many years of teasing from his brother and nephews.

Who only did it when Daerra wasn’t present. Fearing her wrath as she did not tolerate bullying in her presence. The one time they did it left them all crying. Mostly out of embarrassment and shame at disappointing her.

His soft cries echoing in the silent room, until her footsteps entered as she strolled up to him. Daerra takes the spot on the bed beside him. “Aemond.”

“I do not wish for a lecture, Aunt Daerra,” he rubbed his nose, turning the other way to shy away his reddened eyes. He knew she already figured out his adventure in the pit. “Mother already gave me one.”

“I’m not here to lecture. I’m here to ask if you’re alright.”

Aemond turned back to face her, eyes glossy with tears and bottom lip beginning to quiver, “They gave me a pig.” Daerra tilted her head, confused at the statement.

“A pig?”

A tear escaped as he nodded, Daerra wiping it away with her thumb. “Aegon. Him, Jace, and Luke told me they had a dragon for me to claim. That it was finally my time to join them as riders.” His head frantically shook, leaning onto her side to which she opened her arm to embrace him. “But-but really it was a pig they dressed up and called it the pink dread.”

Daerra listened silently, comforting the boy as he began to cry once more. Her fingers raked through his silver locks, as a mother would her child. A gesture he loved, considering his mother hardly showed affection. Unlike his older half-sister did with her children.

“Why don’t we take a walk?” she suggested, pulling away from Aemond to stand. She held out her hand, “There’s something I want to show you.” Putting himself together, Aemond hopped off the bed and took her hand, letting Daerra lead him out of his room. They reached Rhaenyra’s chamber, where the lady told him to wait while she went inside. A moment later, she returned with Joffrey in her arms.

“What are you doing?” Aemond’s eyes widened, standing on his tippy toes to see his nephew. Noting the babe was still asleep.

Daerra smirked, “It’s been some time since a Targaryen babe has been born. Lucerys being the last,” she began to walk, Aemond trailing behind her with an eager pace. “And I’m not one to stray from tradition. Cannibal will be pleased to meet the newest member of the family.” Immediately Aemond lit up. Realizing what Daerra was referring to.

It was his turn to join her as she introduced a Targaryen baby to her dragon. He’d been four when Luke was born, and Helaena was who she brought with her. Which had Aemond pouting as he wanted to go but Daerra refused. Now he was getting his chance.

The first stop was to see his mother. Alicent’s already dampened mood increased when the two arrived at the Kings’ chambers. Alicent saw Joffrey and instantly knew what was about to be asked.

“Is this really necessary, Lady Daerra?” she argued, trying to ignore the pleading eyes Aemond was giving her. Focusing only on Daerra, who did not break under her stare. “The babe was born mere hours ago. And I’m sure the Princess--.”

“Already gave her consent,” Daerra interrupted, keeping her expression neutral.

From the side, Viserys let out a pained groan, catching their attention. “Let the boy go with her Alicent. All the children have met Cannibal when they were born, and Daerra has proven he will not do harm. Both Aegon and Helaena have joined her with the births of their brother and nephews. Aemond shall go with her to introduce Joffrey.”

Alicent attempted to put up another argument, but with a 3v1 against her, she ultimately relented. Ordering that a guard must be present at all times and they are to return before the hour is up.

“Of course, your Grace,” Daerra bowed. “We shall make haste so that Aemond is not late to the training yard.”

“You will be joining them, yes?” Alicent had a tight smile. She had mixed feelings of Daerra assisting Criston Cole and Harwin Strong in training the boys. For one, she admired the woman for being able to do things most women were frowned upon doing. She too, found herself mesmerized as a young girl watching Daerra train with Daemon Targaryen. She was a beauty to behold with her whip and sword.

But Alicent also resented Daerra for it. Mostly due to envy she spent more time with her sons than she did.

And that they preferred her company.

Daerra’s chuckle brought her out of her thoughts, “Someone has to put these princes in line. They forget themselves when a Lady is not present.” Both women drew their gaze to Aemond, the residue of the dragonpit still on him. Pink tinged his cheeks as he looked away.

“As I agree,” Alicent’s jaw tightened, but she quickly masked her disdain with a tight smile. Shaking her head while looking back at Daerra, “Very well. I shall leave you then.”

Daerra curtsied again, “Your Grace,” then she turned to Viserys. “My King.”

“Thank you, mother,” Aemond bowed, before doing the same to his father. Both wearing small smiles, though only Viserys’ reached his eyes.

When they finally reached Cannibal’s nest, Aemond was buzzing with nerves and excitement. Heart pounding against his chest. For it would be the first time being so close to his beloved Aunt’s dragon. A moment he’d been waiting years for.

He remembered Daerra telling him many moons prior that she brought him as a baby to the beast, where the dragon spit his wild green fire into the sky in celebration of the birth of a Targaryen prince. Then Aemond often watched from the Godswood as Daerra flew him around Kings Landing. His shiny black scales bouncing off the sun’s rays. Shouts of the small folk reacting to his massive form. Aemond was always in awe.

Sitting down on the grass after Daerra presented Cannibal with Joffrey, they watched him find a comfortable spot in his nest to return to his nap. Daerra beamed at the sight, switching Joffrey in her arms when they started to ache.

“I know you wish nothing more than to claim your dragon, Aemond. I too was upset with each nameday passing and not having one,” Peering down, Daerra saw the way his face shifted to sadness. “I was the age Jace is now when Cannibal chose me.”

“He chose you?” He repeated, now displaying confusion.

Daerra raised a brow, “To believe we have the power to control a dragon is a myth. They are who really chose us. It is why when you attempt to claim one, you must accept death as an answer.” Aemond processed her words, fiddling with his fingers that were clasped in his lap.

“So I have to wait for a dragon to deem me worthy.” The dejection in voice pulled at her heartstrings. His shoulders dropped in defeat.

Taking his hand in hers not holding Joffrey, Daerra signed and stroked his knuckles. “What your brother and nephews did was cruel. And I’m sorry you had to endure that, Aemond. But remember this, my darling,” Tucking her finger under his chin, she pulled his gaze to hers. Green eyes meeting lilac, “You are a Targaryen. Made of fire and blood, whose ancestors conquered Westeros with the dragons we hold dear to our house. Your time will come. And when the opportunity presents itself, you will know.” Her eyes turn serious, filling Aemond with hope. “And the dragon will choose you.”

Disaster struck an hour later. One that no one, even Daerra, could have anticipated. When Criston Cole decided to instigate a spar between Jace and Aegon. Leading him to antagonize Harwin Strong.

It all started when all four boys took turns switching off against the four dummies. But not before they were lectured by the woman on their mistreatment of Aemond that morning. All their heads bowed, not able to face her which brought a bit of joy to the prince. Once finished, they took their spots in the yard. Daerra stood on one side while Cole took the other. Observing the four closely as they met their targets. The knight was not pleased or offered technique advice whenever Jace and Luke were by him. Whereas Daerra was equal. Pointing out mistakes for each boy.

When they switched off again, Jace bumped shoulders with Aemond. An action he did on purpose which received a scolding look from Daerra. She didn’t say anything, her face alone brought a blush to Jace’s cheeks. The boy mumbled a ‘sorry’, embarrassed to have been caught and looking away to not meet her eyes. Daerra moved closer to him, right next to the dummy.

“This is practice, not the battlefield. I expect better from you.” The red on his cheeks got brighter, nodding his head in silent promise to not do it again. Once satisfied, Daerra commanded. “Feet light, Jace.” Bringing his wooden sword up, he struck the dummy one, two, three times before pivoting on to attack from behind. A sound of approval left her, “Good.”

Briefly lifting her focus, she caught her cousin and his Hand, Ser Lyonel Strong watching the scene below from the top of the Keep. Surrounded by his Kingsguard. The king raised a hand to wave, a smile on his face and pleased to see his sons and grandsons training together. He received a firm nod from his cousin before turning to speak with Lyonel.

When she returned her attention to Jace, he had stuck his sword in the dummy, only for it to be smacked down by Aemond.

“Don’t stand too upright, My Prince,” Cole lectured, tone laced with mocking. “You’ll get knocked down.” The glare from Daerra was ignored, moving his attention to Aegon, who got distracted by passing servants.

Daerra’s disproving eyes went to Aemond, now facing the dummy Jace had left. “I understand what transpired this morning has made you upset. But to add fire will only make it worse. You are better than that, Aemond.”

His brows narrowed, “It’s not fair. Everyone tells me to deal with it--why should I? Why does no one--apart from you--say anything!” he whisperer-shouted the last sentence, not wanting to draw attention to them. Daerra didn’t blame Aemond for his outburst. After years of teasing it was bound to take a toll. And part of her blamed his parents lack of involvement for letting it slide for so long.

“Your anger is justified,” she affirmed, leaning down to lower her voice so only he could hear. “And judgment will come when the Gods deem it so. For now, display your frustration on the dummies. Not your kin. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Aunt Daerra,” came his mumble. Daerra straightened up when she heard Cole suggest a challenge between him against Aemond and Aegon. Her brows furrowed in suspicion, but made no move to stop the knight. Instead she backed up to stand between Jace and Luke.

Their spar lasted roughly thirty seconds. Both Targaryen’s put their best efforts to disarm Cole. But the knight was faster.

“Ah,” the sound of Harwin Strong came from her right. Daerra stiffening when the boys turned to him. Which did not go unnoticed by Cole. “Weapons up, boys. Give your enemies no quarter.”

“Thank you for your input, Ser Harwin,” Daerra gave a curt nod. Motioning for the two to approach the dummies, and much to her displeasure, Harwin turned to address Cole.

“It seems the younger boys could do better with a bit of your attention, Ser Criston.”

Daerra cursed under her breath, panning to Cole who did not take lightly to the Lord Commander's words.

“Do you question my method of instructions, Ser? Or that of the Lady Daerra?”

“Ser Criston,” Daerra warned, then sent a look to Harwin. Pleading to not say anything. Of course, it went to no avail.

“I merely suggest that method be applied to all your pupils.” It didn’t help that Aegon shoved little Luke to the side, the boy bumping into Daerra who had to stop him from hitting the ground.

“Aegon.”

Cole’s animosity breached his expression, “Very well.” Harwin’s face changed as the knight stunted forward. Daerra tensing where she stood. “Jacaerys,” his hand reached out and yanked the boy. “You spar with Aegon.” The silver-hair boys laughed as Cole dragged Jace to the other side. “Eldest son against eldest son.”

Daerra voiced disapproval, “Mayhaps we should continue as we were, Ser Criston.”

Harwin appeared to agree, “It’s hardly a fair match.” Aegon patted Jace’s back as he passed him. An eager smile painted his lips while the younger became nervous.

“I know you’ve never seen true battle, ser, but when steel is drawn a fair match isn’t something anyone should expect.”

Daerra hated that Cole had a point. When battle came there was no such thing as fairness. But still, this was training for the young princes. Not a duel between steel.

She could intervene. Harwin and Jace’s faces were filled with worry. Silently pleading for her to reprimand Cole. Daerra knew better though. This was his element and had all the power. She was only to supervise and offer assistance when needed. But she did say one thing, voice stern as she looked all three--Cole, Jace, and Aegon--in the eyes, “Keep it clean. No blood or this ends as quick as it starts.”

Cole tightened his lips, “Well said, my Lady.” Their glares on each other lingered, Cole breaking it first when he motioned at the boys. “Blades up.” They awaited the command. “Engage.”

Aegon charged with a cry, Jace using all his might to counter his attacks. He was brought to the ground with a shove, sword still in his hands. The older boy laughed menacingly, retaking his spot in front of Cole. The smirk, however, left his lips when he caught Daerra’s cold stare. Then Jace came running at him with a shout.

“Ahhhhh!”

They danced across the yard, the spar pausing when Aegon tried to push a dummy onto Jace. Resulting in Harwin to step in, “Foul play!”

“I’ll deal with him,” Cole announced, both men stepping toward their respected princes. Daerra stiffened, peering up to see her cousin looking awfully confused. The rigid posture of his Lord Hand was a telling sign they too felt unease.

“You!” Aegon yelled, startling Jace who quickly met his oncoming attack.

“Close with him,” Cole ordered, all three adults following behind the boys. Daerra pointing at Aemond and Luke to stay put. “Push him backward!”

“Light feet, Jacaerys!” Daerra matched Cole’s tone. The brunette boy’s face painted red and stumbling with each step. Aegon was relentless, coming at him like a wild animal.

“Use your feet!” A harsh kick met Jace’s armored chest, plowing him down. “Don’t let him get up!” Aegon brought the sword down, Jace barely able to counter. He was losing his breath, running out of energy.

Harwin was losing his patience. As was Daerra, “Ser Criston, that is enough--.”

“Stay on the attack!”

Aegon raised his sword, ready to charge it onto the already weakened Jace, but was stopped when Harwin grabbed it and pulled him away. “Enough!” With a single movement, Aegon was spun around and thrown to the side.

“You dare put your hands on me!?”

Daerra cut in front of the heated prince as he hastily pushed up from the ground to challenge Harwin. “Calm down, now.” Her pointed finger while free hand hovering over her whip was enough to draw him back. His offensive stance shrinking down, mumbling curses more out of annoyance.

“Aegon!” the King shouted, mirroring his cousin’s tone. Finding his son to be overdramatic by his choice of words.

“You forget yourself, Strong, that is the prince,” Cole snarled.

“This is what you teach, Cole?” came the response. Harwin picked up the disposed swords, spitting “Cruelty. To the weaker opponent.”

“Your interest in the Princes’ training is quite unusual, Commander. Most men would only have that kind of devotion toward a cousin.”

Oh no.

Harwin stilled, picking up the last sword as Cole turned to face him with a cunning smirk. Daerra narrowed her eyes. Not blind to his indirect accusation, but vexed he would openly announce it in the yard. In front of onlookers. In front of the boys.

“Or a brother.”

Harwin stood, Daerra unable to see his face to tell what he was thinking. Instinctively she motioned for Jace and Luke to get behind her. While throwing pointed gazes at Aemond and Aegon who were watching with amused expression.

“Ser Criston, mind your tongue.”

Her warning was left to the wind. Cole let out the final blow, “Or a son.” Faster than they could blink, the Commander of the Night’s watch spun, fist raised to impact Cole’s cheek. Sending him sprawling to the ground as he landed another one. Straddling his chest to continue unleashing deadly hits causing Cole’s face to bleed in various areas.

It came to an end when the man they called Breakbones was yanked off of Cole by the power of Daerra’s whip. The leather wrapping itself around his neck, the woman jerking it with all her might, letting out a cry until Harwin fell to the ground. A sight that shocked her nephews, all standing wide eyed with their mouths agape.

They didn’t call her the Daring for nothing.

That was when the Whitecloaks seized him, taking four of them to drag the knight away from Cole. “Say it again!” He seethed, spit flying from his mouth. “Say it again!” Daerra marched up to Cole, surprising him with her strength as she hauled him to his feet. Dizziness filling his vision.

“How dare you speak freely and make that suggestion in front of them,” By her tone, Cole feared he was about to get a second beating. “Go to the maester, you fucking imbecile,” she didn’t care if he was concussed, thrusting him in the opposite direction, making him stumble. And seeing he was in no mood to argue, Cole obeyed, heading to the maester and left Daerra to clean up his mess.

Turning to where Harwin struggled in the arms of the guards, she bit the inside of her cheek. “Release him.” Once unhanded, Daerra stepped up to the knight, voice low. “Commander, I do not fault you for the rage you just displayed, but It is disappointing you let yourself go so easily--allowing the Princes to be exposed.” Sharply inhaling, she drew her gaze around the yard, displeased to find most in hushed conversation. Not hiding the way they watched the two and eyed the boys.��

Daerra motioned to where his father stood, pale face with fear at what this meant for his house. “You are dismissed.” Turning on her heel, she picked up the discarded swords and threw them onto the rack. “That is it for today,” she called to the boys, who stood like lost sheep waiting to be herded. Jace more so than the others, holding back tears as he was old enough to understand the implication Cole had revealed. “To your chambers--or wherever your Lady mothers need you. Go.”

To say everything changed that day would be an understatement. Harwin was relieved of his position, and ordered to return to Harrenhal, leaving the boys heartbroken. Daerra, exhausted from the events of the day, found herself using the hours before dusk to ride Cannibal. Sensing her distress, the dragon flew for miles, passing Driftmark and circling Dragonstone.

Caressing the scales of her beloved friend, Daerra succumbed to her thoughts. Letting her anxiety and fears come to the surface instead of masking them. The only witness being the dragon who’d never judge her. Only share her feelings.

“Nyke gīmigon, issa raquiros, nyke gīmigon.” She stroked Cannibal’s rough scales. I know, my friend, I know. A grumble filled her ears, Daerra’s slightly curled up then dropped to a frown. “Nyke feel ziry tolī.”

I feel it too.

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drunknillawafer · 3 months ago

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right down the line: zuko x firebender!reader

You grew up close to the Royal Family due to your father's position as a General, but you ran away from home after the agni kai against your best friend. Now, you're just trying to do your part in ending the 100-year war.

hellooo so this is my first official published fic that i will keep up! hopefully you guys like it, let me know! this is set in book 1 ep 10 in the Jet episode! i do not own Avatar or these characters! okayy enjoyyy >.<

Part 2

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

All I can see for miles is shades of crimson and orange. We’re so close to home, it almost feels like I’ve returned.

I’m standing in the trees near Jet and The Duke, peering down at twenty Fire Nation soldiers and their camp, waiting for the right moment to attack. The plan was to keep an eye out and alert Jet if anything could be of use to us. I hold onto my swords in anticipation.

“We’ve been here all morning, what if we don’t get a shot?” The Duke asked.

“Relax, we will.” Jet replied in his infamous cool manner. He was so sure we would score big this time and have one of the greatest victories thus far. I didn’t see the point, it seemed like your average solider platoon. But maybe he was right. He hasn’t let me down yet.

I met Jet when I was 13 and freshly ran away from home. I had left everything that could resemble Fire Nation in my room and took only my closest valuables. With one bag over my shoulder and a week of struggling to find food, the cool leader crossed my path in a forest not too far from where we’re standing now.

“Are you lost?” Jet questioned me.

“No, I’m hungry.” It was true. I hadn’t eaten for so long because I didn’t know how to find food. My family’s position in society meant I usually had servants dressing me, brushing my hair, and finding my food for me. It’s not something that crossed my mind when I left in a rageful fury.

“What’s your name?” He replied.

“Y/N.”

“You’re a kid. Don’t you have parents to feed you?”

“Don’t you?”

And that was that. I had passed Jet’s mysterious test and he invited me into his little world of lost children who were strong, brave, and alone. I was lucky to have found them when I did.

Three years later, the same cool leader has me standing in the trees like a predator waiting to catch its prey. That’s when I hear it. The voice of a teenage boy.

I crouch down to focus on the noise and see the rustling in the bushes near the Fire Nation camp we’re getting ready to bust. A boy in blue appears, looking backwards to his friends in an annoyed tone. Just as I spot him, he spots the soldiers in black and red.

“This is it.” I tell Jet. He nods and whistles his command to the Freedom Fighters, sending us off to our mission.

I come down from the trees and land on my feet, quickly inspecting my environment. Taking out two of my swords, I spot the boy in blue preparing an attack for a Fire Nation soldier who will surely beat him. His stance is all wrong, I can’t believe he’s actually attempting this.

I use both of my swords and dig them into the ground, launching my feet forward and off the dirt floor, kicking the soldier in the abdomen and out of balance. He falls over with the wind knocked out of him.

“Hey! He was mine!” The boy in blue exasperated.

“No, he wasn’t.” I snarked at him. This is the fun part of being with the Freedom Fighters, winning.

After a few minutes, the soldiers scurry off like rats when the lights turn on. They go in every direction, disappearing into the autumn-colored forest.

“We did it!” I celebrate. For a moment, I catch my breath and put my swords back into their sheaths.

The trio of strangers gather together and start walking toward us.

“Who are you guys?” The youngest with a blue arrow on his head spoke first.

“I’m Jet, and these are my Freedom Fighters.” The leader introduces the members one by one, leaving me for last. “And this is Y/N. She’s my right-hand.” He graces.

I wave at the trio, taking them in as they process the new information they’ve just been handed. It’s a Water Tribe pair with another boy in orange. His clothes were strange, when was the last time someone wore Air Nomad clothes like his? I wondered. I had briefly seen the girl bend water, but it was impossible for the boy to be an air bender. The Fire Nation made sure of that.

“Let’s loot!” Jet interrupts my thoughts, and the rebels cheer in agreement. Looting time.

I focus on a tent to begin raiding the soldiers' bags and belongings. If we’re lucky, the group can score something to help us in our efforts—a map, a plan, a supply shipment—anything to take the empire down.

As I go through my first bag, the boy in blue enters the tent. I look up at his glare and stare him right in the eye.

He crosses his arms and gloats, “Just so you know, I could have handled that. But thanks for your help.”

“Didn’t look like that from where I was standing.” I shrugged and shifted my focus back onto the bag. I flip it upside down so the contents come spilling out.

“And where were you standing by the way? You guys came out of nowhere!” Clearly, he wasn’t going to let my swoop-in go.

“We were in the trees, been staking out all morning.” Nothing of importance in the first bag so I move onto the next one, opening the top and letting the soldier’s belongings fall on the floor for me to inspect. “Until you,” I point at his chest, “came along and made the perfect distraction. It should be me thanking you.”

A balled-up messenger hawk message comes out of the bag. I can tell from its design that it comes from the Admiral, lucky me. Ignoring the boy in front of me, I open the letter and read the writing.

The Avatar has returned. From now on, any information must be reported to Admiral Zhao. The Banished Prince is to be ignored.

The Banished Prince. My finger grazes the ink.

“One day she’s going to try and overthrow me, I swear.” Zuko confesses as he lunges forward with his sword. I dodge his attempt at an offense and strike back.

“Even if she does, you and I can take her.” I reply. My mind is focused on the sparring round, but Zuko seems to be somewhere else. He’s not taking any of my bait to back him into a corner.

“You’d help me fight?” His demeaner softens and I know this is the moment I can use to win. I use the gymnastics I was forced to learn to my advantage and gain the higher ground on a bench near the turtle duck pond. His sword falls out of his hand as I send my blade toward him, making sure to not seriously hurt him. Zuko holds his hands up in defeat. I win this round.

“Duh, it’s kind of my throne now too. I’ve grown fond of it.” I hold one hand to my heart, feigning admiration for the title.

The Prince and I grew up together. Learning fire-bending at the same academy, attending snobby important society gatherings, and now practicing sword-fighting at the Royal Palace’s turtle duck pond. We became halves of one whole. If the cosmic forces upon us gave me the mind, it gave Zuko the heart. And together, we felt complete.

“One day I’ll have to be Fire Lord.” He solemnly said.

“One day. But for now, just focus on beating me! Round 4?”

I take a deep breath in and push the memory away. Time makes it easy. The boy in blue waiting for my response to the messenger hawk letter makes it even easier.

“It’s nothing, just old information.” I crumble the paper into a ball once again and throw it with the rest of the useless items I’ve gone through so far. “Do you want to come to the hideout?” I change the subject.

“You guys have a hideout?” His eyes widen in amusement.

“Yes, but maybe I should know your name before I let you go up there.”

“It’s Sokka.” He answers. “And you?”

“Y/N.” I hold my hand out so he can shake it, and he does. When his hand touches mine, a pit forms in my gut. I got the feeling I’d be knowing him for a long time. “Well, Sokka, follow me.”

#atla #avatar #aang #atla zuko #avatar the last airbender #prince zuko #fire lord zuko #atla fanart #zuko #prince zuko x reader #prince zuko x y/n #prince zuko x you #prince zuko x oc #sokka #sokka avatar the last airbender #atla sokka #atla fanfic #atla fic

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delicatestones · 1 year ago

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Having to stop mid-Worm reread to brace my hands on my knees about how much they were friends.

By the end of my first full read of Worm things have, of course, gone so horrendously badly that no one remaining will ever really recover enough to come back together again. Worm is a tragedy. The loss and grief they all experienced tore them apart in the same ways it means they're forever bound together.

But because Worm is so long, and so much happens between the start and the end, I think some of the finer details of the tragedy eluded me. And that tragedy is, while this was never, ever going to end well (because they're capes, because they're who they are, because the world is built to eat teenagers like them), there was a brief period of time where the Undersiders had something that was working for them.

Like, yes, all of them are hideously traumatized violent unstable teenagers, but they had an equilibrium that was closer to functional with each other than they'd ever had anywhere else before. It was a nightmare of unevenly balanced, inherently doomed dynamics, riddled with the Psychological Problems, but anywhere they ended up they would have still been themselves. Only in the Undersiders did they accidentally form a unit that could, ever so fragilely and briefly, nourish some of their emotional needs for a suspended instant of time.

They watched alternate universe Star Wars Episode 1 and 2 together on the couches and ate Thai food in the loft together and it was good, for a minute. God, but it was good. And they'll never have that again.

#shrike rereads worm #the undersiders #lisa wilbourn #brian laborn #alec vasil #rachel lindt #taylor hebert #parahumans #worm spoilers

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littlemissrbf · 4 days ago

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Arcane S2 Act 1 Thoughts

(SPOILERS AHEAD IF YOU HAVEN’T WATCHED IT YET PLEASE FOR YOUR OWN GOOD KEEP SCROLLING)

(you’ve been warned)

Episode 1: Heavy is the Crown

HOLY SHIT THE NEW INTRO FINALLY GIVING THE VIKTOR FANS SOME FOOD

Damn getting straight to it not only did Jayce fail to destroy the hexcore but he’s still weaponizing hextech (Caitlyn’s new rifle) great job buddy way to keep your promises

I genuinely thought Mel was gonna get assassinated during the memorial speech

I fucking love Maddie, she’s so damn adorable and I swear if anything happens to her I’m gonna lose my shit

JUST LET THE LESBIANS BE HAPPY

for someone going through the five stages of grief, Caitlyn looks really fucking hot

Episode 2: Watch it all burn

Damn okay I guess I didn’t want to be happy today jinx burying silco in the water- “have you had enough?” ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME

Okay that kid Isha is 100 fucking percent dead probably by the end of act 2

Damn Caitlyn I’m pretty sure using poisonous gas as a chemical weapon is a war crime

Viktor comes out of the hexgoo completely butt naked and Jayces priorities are 1.) full frontal hug 2.) give him something to cover himself with

GODDAMN IT THEY TOOK AWAY VIKTOR’S GORGEOUS GOLDEN EYES

viktor, after going through a near death experience, immediately deciding to quit his job and peace out in the middle of a war is so fucking funny to me

That little gremlin Smeech getting ripped to shreds off screen by Sevikas new arm was the highlight of the episode

Y’ALL VIKTOR JUST BECAME FUCKING ROBOT JESUS

Episode 3: Finally got the name right

I mean seriously Caitlyn, using the Zaun equivalent to mustard gas to assist your raids seems really fucked up

I’m sure a lot of furries were very happy to see Mel’s cat-person informant

OH MY GOD WE FINALLY GOT A CAITVI KISS SCENE :D

Seeing Jayce, Ekko, and Heimerdinger nerd it out in a room was unexpected but actually really nice to see

OH MY GOD SEVIKAS REACTION TO BEING BIT IS TO FUCKING SMILE- GIRL YOU FREAK

Okay but on a serious note the little girl putting herself between vi and jinx was heartbreaking- this is a running theme that started literally at the very beginning of the show with Vi and Powder on the bridge, the wars between Piltover and Zaun are always at the expense of the innocent, specifically their children.

FUCK DAMN IT Caitvi was finally happening and then they go and get divorced why can’t we have anything nice

but actually Vi’s whimpers after being sucker punched in the gut by her now ex gf’s rifle were devastating ( okay that’s all my thoughts be ready to see a shit ton of reblogs )

#arcane #arcane season 2 #arcane s2 spoilers #viktor arcane #caitvi

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overly-caffeinated-hedgehog · 3 months ago

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Food Wars: Season 1, Episode 3

Watching the opening ceremony, I've gotta ask: do they have normal lessons at this school or is everything related to cooking?

Soma, maybe don't call your new classmates "stepping stones."

Also, that eye catch. "L-I-C-K." Why?

All that aside, I like Megumi. Though I worry about her blood pressure.

Bees. My god.

And once again, weird-ass squid. Soma, you might have a problem.

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dreamingsnowflake2013 · 1 year ago

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Yi Joo might fight and deny it all she wants, but she is attracted to Do Guk, not only because he is insanely hot, but because he keeps throwing her off her axis and turning her world upside down. She gets to experience so many things for the first time with him - like being welcomed home when she arrives and with a smile to boot, as opposed to being ignored or abused. He probably doesn't even realize because it's something mundane to him, but it's rare and special to her.

The way he knows she would be starving herself until late night and decides to become her personal chef and food taster, to elevate her fears, without putting any pressure or expectations on her to accept. It's such a purely unselfish act, pouring out so much effort and heart into making her feels safe.

There is no doubt now, Seo Do Guk has declared war on Yi Joo's family, naming himself as her general/prince/knight in a shining armour. The first surprise attack - check, now it's time to shore their defences... HE GIVES UP HIS OWN HOUSE AND TURNS IT INTO HER SANCTUARY WHERE SHE CAN ESCAPE AND HIDE FROM HER FAMILY AND ALL HER ENEMIES,...

...and he turns into a giddy puppy when he gives her a tour of the house, I thought I died when he opened the kitchen cupboards he filled with enough packed food to feed a small army. (I mean, if Napoleon had Seo Do Guk, Russians would be speaking French now.)

More like showing her their newlywed den and waiting for her approval. Also, he is such a shamelessly and irresistibly adorable flirt, Yi Joo stands no chance against this charming devil.

However, then he takes her to her room and my soul has left my body, because it's the complete opposite of her room (and even her room from the future). Also, it's definitely NOT following the latest trend since it's everything but monochrome and minimalistic. It's basically a suite with its own bathroom, huge windows, a closet full of furniture and clothes he handpicked for her himself (he literally handpicked everything in the room with her in mind, eager to give her everything she was cheated of) - he has created a safe space for her, a place she can call her own without being spied or intruded on or abused; it's huge, full of colour, and things she loves: an easel, canvas and paints.

Remember how in episode 1, the rich housewives were shocked Yi Joo painted, since her mother had gone out of her way to keep it a secret, but Do Guk is somehow aware of it; another reason he knows more about her than he lets on.

He is no subtle whatsoever at trying to convince her she doesn't need to leave the place ever again, because he will make sure she doesn't lack anything and will give her the moon if she asks for it. Also, when Do Guk says "everything you need is here" and he is standing in the middle of the room so vulnerable, insecure and shy, you just know HE is everything she needs but hasn't realized it yet.

#jung yoo min #sung hoon #perfect marriage revenge #kdrama

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vodika-vibes · 3 months ago

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Helllllooooo ✨ I just found you and your writting is **chefs kiss** it reads so incharacter and there’s a comfortable blend between conversations and thoughts/descriptions. I can picture it so clearly, it’s like I’m reading a mini episode 😄

If requests are still open I really liked the last piece you did with crosshair and the med doctor and was wondering if you could write a sequel to it (doesn’t have to be, it can be its own thing too)?

I just love the idea of crosshair getting into the relationship, trying to keep it a secret and failing. I think he would want it to be secret cause 1) it’s all new to him, he needs to adjust and 2) he can’t let his brothers and omega rub it in that they were right 🤣 But because it’s a secret he now has to find time to be alone with the reader and it’s harder then he thought. Of course it all falls apart when someone catches them kissing probably 💀

Anyway, thankyou for reading my word vomit and for sharing all your writing with us 😄

You'll Be In My Heart

Summary: You and Crosshair are dating now, something you never thought possible before. And, when you end up stuck doing something that you vowed you'd never do again, Crosshair is there to help.

Pairing: TBB Crosshair x F! Doctor Reader

Word Count: 1165

Warnings: Mentions of alcoholism, heated kissing

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni @imabeautifulbutterfly @bad4amficideas @justiceandwar98

@Mira-Loves-Star-Wars @tiredbi-peach @dukeoftheblackstar @Kimiheartblade @padawancat97

@falconfeather23435

A/N: Hi there! I'm so glad that you like my work! Thank you so much for your request, and so you know, barring things like Christmas or medical emergencies, my requests are always open! The story title comes from the song I happen to be listening to when I start writing. Luckily, this time, is sorta kinda almost fits, lol

Click here to be added to my taglist

“You have no idea how grateful we are that you were willing to come out of retirement,” You smile kindly at the older woman who’s holding both of your hands in hers, “Doctor Willis is a good man and a good doctor, make no mistake. But he is old and set in his ways. Some fresh eyes on the island will make life so much better.”

“Well,” You joke lightly, “That’s what I’m here for. And I’m happy to help.”

The older woman pats your hand lightly, “You know, dearie, I have a grandson a little older than you—”

“I’m sure he’s a fine young man, Mrs. Waters.” You interrupt gently, “But I’m still trying to get myself settled here.”

“Oh! Of course, of course!” She pats your hand again, and then stands, “Well, I’ll just run over to the pharmacy and get my new medicine and get on out of your hand, Doc.”

“Have a nice day, Mrs. Waters.”

“You as well, dear.”

You lean back in your chair as the older woman leaves your office, and you sigh as you press the palms of your hands over your eyes. When you retired, you had no intention of un-retiring.

But when you arrived here and met the doctor and saw how he treated some of his most vulnerable patients…well, you had to do something. Even if that something was unretiring and rejoining a career that drove you to alcoholism before.

There’s a knock on your office door, and you drop your hands away from your face to check your schedule. But before you can pull up your calendar, the door slides open and a familiar man steps into your office.

“Ah, Crosshair.”

“I bring food,” He replies, holding up a bag of food from a local restaurant, “You have time?”

“For you? All the time in the world.” You kick an open chair over to him and watch as he settles in the chair and opens the food bag.

The scent of something delicious wafts towards you, and you release a happy sigh. Knowing Crosshair, he picked up your favorite meal and dessert for you to enjoy.

His gaze drifts from the food over to you as he hands you a container of food, though he doesn’t release it as you try to take it, “You good?” He asks.

You feel a momentary surge of annoyance, that you squash with ease. He would be able to tell that something was bothering you, wouldn’t he? He’s known you for ages after all.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a terrible liar, kitten.”

“I’m an excellent liar, Cross. You’re just good at reading me.” You lightly tug your food from his grip and set it on your desk so you can open it, “Ooh, pasta!”

“I know your favorite food, kitten,” Crosshair points out as he opens his own container, “I’d better by this point.” He adds with a roll of his eyes, “Anyway, what’s bothering you?”

“Nothing.”

Crosshair stares at you, disbelieveingly.

You sigh, and stab a noodle with your fork, “Alright, alright. Stop nagging.” You grumble, “I just…” You sigh and stop your fork, “I never intended to return to medical work, Cross.”

“So quit.”

“I can’t do that. These people won’t have a doctor at all if I quit.” You point out.

Crosshair sighs and lowers his fork, “I remember how bad it was before we left.” He says quietly, “How you were drunk more often than you were sober, how you trembled whenever someone came to you for medical attention—”

“Stop.”

Crosshair pauses, then moves his chair so that his knee is pressed against yours, “Look, kitten.” He pauses, to gather his thoughts, “I love you. And I want you to be happy. And the last thing I want is for you to try to destroy yourself again.”

Your lips twist at the memory, “I know.”

“Kitten,” He pauses again, and then he leans in and presses his hand against your cheek, “Cyare,” The familiar word tumbles from his lips in a sigh and you shiver, the only time he calls you that is when he needs you to pay attention to him, “If you need to quit, then quit. Everyone else will manage.”

“But—”

“You do not get to destroy yourself to save these people. I won’t allow it.” Crosshair interrupts.

You blink at him, genuinely surprised, and then you release a soft laugh and reach out to press your hands against his cheeks, “What would I do without you?” You ask with a smile.

“Well, you’d still be working in a cramped little medical facility, for one.”

You laugh and lean in to press your lips against his, your lunch forgotten.

Crosshair eagerly tugs you onto his lap, his hand tangling in your hair as he angles your head so he’s able to deepen the kiss. “We’re going to get caught,” He mumbles against your lips.

“Your concern, not mine.” You counter, as you lightly nip his lower lip, causing him to tighten his grip around you.

You’re sure that Crosshair would continue the discussion, only you lightly drag your nails through his short hair, and all of his desire to bicker about it leaves him in an instant.

Crosshair’s strong hands adjust you so that you’re settled more comfortably on his lap, and he pulls you flush against him, wanting you as close as he can get you. And you’re more than happy to go along with it.

In fact, you’re so distracted by the press of his lips against yours, that you don’t notice your office door opening until you hear a muffled laugh and a throat clearing.

You pull away from Crosshair to glare at the person at the door, and then you sigh when you see who’s standing there. “Ah…Hunter,”

Hunter has a wide grin on his face as he looks from you to Crosshair, and then back again. “Just friends, huh? I hope you know I’m going to tell…oh…everyone.”

You turn your attention from Hunter to Crosshair, who looks deeply annoyed. “You do that,” Crosshair grumbles as he reaches around you to hit the door control on your desk, slamming and locking the door in his older brother’s face.

“Hey, doc! We’re having a family dinner this weekend,” Hunter calls through the door, “All of the significant others are going to be there. You definitely need to come.”

You absently trail a light finger down Crosshair’s cheek, your head tilting questioningly. He smiles at you and lightly kisses your fingers, “I’d like you to come.”

“I’ll be there,” You call through the door, “Now go away. I’m busy.”

You hear Hunter laughing, and then he’s gone, and you happily turn your attention back to Crosshair.

“Oh? You’re busy?” Cross asks.

You hum and press your lips to the sensitive skin under his ear, “I’m hosting a biology lesson.”

And Crosshair laughs, “I promise to be a most thorough student.” He promises before catching your earlobe between his teeth.

#star wars #tbb #tbb crosshair x reader #crosshair x reader #star wars fanfiction #x reader fanfiction #f!reader fic #answered asks #tw: alcholism

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themalhambird · 1 year ago

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(from the same universe as this, chronologically proceeds it. Picks up almost immediately after the final episode of Series 1)

Shahara is not going to miss her Baba’s birthday party because her taxi driver turned out to be a mad woman. She’s still not sure why she let this Iris Maplewood person keep driving her while she rambled on about time travel and quantum whatever, except that she’s been a copper long enough to have a sense for when she’s in danger, and she didn’t get that from Maplewood. So it was easier to take the taxi ride and put up with the rambling than it was to try and stop the cab, get out and walk - and Maplewood refused to take a fare which was a bonus. So Shahara gets to the party exactly when she’s supposed to, and she revels in the hug she gets to give her son, and the hug her Baba gives to her. She revels in the crowd of family and friends- the Aunties and Uncles she can never remember if she has a blood connection to or not. That’s never been important. What’s important right now is good food and good music and good talk, and how good she’s gotten at distraction when the question of whether she has a man in her life yet or not comes up.

Except, throughout the night, at the back of her mind, is this nagging feeling- this unease about the fact that, well, this unease about the fact that she didn’t feel any unease when when some random cabby sprouting conspiracies about the Kyal corporation somehow knew a whole ton of personal details about Shahara’s life. And then there’s that sense she’s had all day, this- what’s the opposite of deja vu? The sense that suddenly you were in a place you hadn’t been mere moments before? She’d shrugged it off as tiredness- the stress of the job- she’d spoken to her inspector earlier about maybe putting in for some leave. And perhaps that’s an even better idea than she’d already been thinking. If she’s taking Iris Maplewood seriously, she’s cracking.

I’m not taking this seriously, she tells herself firmly, sipping at the mocktail as she watches Jawad run about with the other kids. I’m not going to think about it at all. I don’t believe-

“-a word you say,” Shahara tells Maplewood as she gets into the front of the woman’s taxi. “Just for the record. I’m agreeing to this because- I don’t know. I want to prove to myself that you’re talking nonsense, I guess.”

“I’m not, but that doesn’t matter. You’ll see for yourself soon enough,” Maplewood said. The car is sitting at the top of Longharvest Lane, headlights illuminating the alleyway. “I don’t know which of them it will be tonight, but one of them will show, I’m sure of it.”

Right. Either a detective sergeant from world war two or a detective inspector from the victorian era is going to materialise out of nowhere. Kyal, one of the biggest finance….trading….look, Shahara has never really been sure what Kyal is or does, and honestly she can easily believe that a corporation that big, handling that much money, is corrupt somehow. What she can’t believe is that it’s a Doomsday Cult and that Iris Maplewood comes from the future, and has travelled back to 2023 so she can get Shahara Hasan, and two blokes she’s sent others to fish out from the past, in to the same place to help bring Kyal down because together they already managed it once (sort of) by stopping an explosion that decimated the world…today, but also a few days in the future. Something. This is nuts.

“I hope it’s Hillinghead,” Maplewood muses. “He seemed- easy enough to reason with. I think. I don’t know, the memory’s blurry. It didn’t really happen, but also it had to have happened for it not to have happened. Bootstrap paradox, or something. I don’t know. There are echoes…I was sorry for him. I can’t remember why.”

Shahara clenches her fist tight. She is resolutely not remembering some kid sitting at the table of a fast food place with a gun in his hand. She isn’t-

“Thirty seconds,” Maplewood says. “I’m going to just,” she switches the car headlights off. “Don’t want them exploding,” she explains.

“Exploding?” Shahara exclaims. “You didn’t say anything about anything-”

The streetlamp outside flares white hot. Glass shatters, smashes some more as it falls to the pavement. There’s a red glow, almost like a bleeding wound, in the darkness ahead- for the briefest of moments. Shahara squints, trying to see properly, but the glow is too bright and everything else too dark…

And then it’s gone. There’s nothing but darkness and the rowdy sounds of London late at night behind them. Shahara stares, stunned, through the windscreen into the blackness beyond. Iris flicks the headlamps back on. In the two, brilliant beams of light, the blocky shape of a body can be seen crumpled in the road. “Oh my god,” Shahara breathes.

“I’ve got a blanket, there’s a torch in the door your side,” Iris says. She’s already got her door open, pulling a blanket that had been folded up on her lap with her. Shahara fumbles to catch up, grabbing the torch and stabbing for the switch with her thumb.

“Why a blank- oh,” there’s no need for the rest of the sentence. As they hurry over to him, Shahara can see that the man who appeared from nowhere is completely naked. He’s already stirring, running one hand through tousled black hair as he starts to bring himself onto his knees, coughing.

“What the hell-”

His cockney accent reminds Shahara of the teenagers she’s spoken to on occasion- kids trying a little too hard to sound hard, to fit in.

“Hillinghead?” she asks cautiously

“The hell is a Hillinghead?” He looks up at her. In the torchlight Shahara can see that he’s quite a handsome man- kind of dapper, except that there’s soot on his face.

“Charles Whiteman?” Iris says. She hands him the blanket. Whiteman takes it with a frown- blanches when it apparently hits him that he’s naked, and hastily wraps the blanket around his waist like a towel as he wobbles to his feet.

“Yeah? Who the hell are you? What the hell-” he looks around. “Where the bloody hell am I?”

***

So, time travel is, apparently, real.

Iris has got a flat- they take Whiteman back to it, and Shahara…Shahara has to go back to work. She has to go to her job and deal and…honestly, it’s easier than it should be. The whole thing doesn’t seem real, even when she stops on her way home to drop groceries off to check in on the woman from the future and the man from the past. Even when she goes for drinks in the coppers’ pub, and she goes and finds the photograph from Whiteman’s era, just out of curiosity, and immediately finds a face she knows. Whiteman doesn’t seem bothered by the fact he’s in the future so much as grousing that his Inspector’s going to do his nut about his disappearing, and grumbling that ‘Esther’- whoever Esther is, kid sister, Shahara thinks, from the irritated-fond way of talking- is going to cause chaos if left unattended for five minutes. She likes him- she’s getting to like Iris too, truth be told- and he’s entertaining on a stakeout. Because they’re still missing a Victorian.

By Iris’ calculations, Hillinghead should have materialised the night after Whiteman. But it’s almost a week later, and they’ve been watching each night, and there’s nothing.

***

“Hasan! Case for you! Take Rick.” She catches the slim file that’s thrown at her by the Inspector. “John Doe, Royal Hospital. Doctors reckon he’s well enough for talking. Need to find out who he is, need to find out how he ended up badly beaten and stark naked in Longharvest Lane.”

The folder drops from Hasan’s hands. “You what?” she says, but the Inspector’s already moving on, assigning other cases to other detectives, and Rick’s making his way over to her so she shakes herself and picks the folder up off the floor. She opens it, and finds a few cursory notes from the uniform officers that first attended: IC1 male, contusion to the right temple, assorted bruises, broken bones…found the night before Whiteman showed up. There’s a page of photos paperclipped in- she focuses in on the close up of a handsome face,if dishevelled face: reddish hair and a beard- a nasty bruise on his right temple. And there’s a photo of his wrist, as well, and it’s got the same mark that Iris Maplewood and Charles Whiteman both have. She manages to snag a photo of the page of photos on her phone before Rick reaches her, then hastily shoves it back in her pocket “You up for driving?” she asks. Rick grins.

“Hell yeah. Thought I’d have to fight you for it.”

“Nah. Jawad’s off school - stomach bug or something. To be honest, I could do with the time to message dad a bit, check in on how they’re doing.”

“Ah mate.” Rick says sympathetically as they head out to the parking lot. “Sorry. Hey, if you wanna swing by once we’re done at the hospital. We can always say we were chasing up a lead.”

“Nah, it’ll be alright. Mostly I wanna make sure he’s not conning Grandad into letting him eat nothing but ice cream all day. If we were closer maybe, but it’s out of the way. Besides, we might actually have leads.”

She’s pretty sure that they won’t. She’s pretty sure that the man they’re about to speak to is from the 1800s and she really, really hopes he hasn’t told anyone at the hospital that because he’ll get himself sectioned faster than he can blink. She gets into the passenger side of the car, fastens her seatbelt, and sends the photo to Iris. This him? She writes underneath.

Fifteen seconds later, Iris pings a simple message back:

Fuck.

#bodies netflix #shahara hasan #iris maplewood #charles whiteman #my fic #know you are loved

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imgeekgirlfan · 1 month ago

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The Curse of Cassandra [EP : IX]

Read in Ao3 : here

Pairings : Qimir x f!reader(SEA Reader) [The Acolyte]

Content waring : 18+ smut/nsfw, dubcon, drugged, fingering, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie

tags/themes : Alternate Universe - Dune & Star wars, Partners in Crime, Strangers to Lovers

Summary : 'The Jessica Crime' named after Paul Atreides' mother, instructs the Bene Gesserit to 'never fall in love and always prioritize humanity over personal feelings.' Your love for Qimir is no different from Lady Jessica's love for Duke Leto—a love that will lead to great losses. You come to realize this truth as you uncover his hidden secrets and true identity.

Status: just finished writing this fic! (It will end in Episode 14)

A/N : Great news! I just wrapped up this fic, and it’ll be finished in Episode 14. I’ll need a bit of time to proofread it, but I’ll do my best to post updates frequently so you won't have to wait too long!

Also, I want you to listen to this song while reading this episode. It fits perfectly with the moment: Ciara - Paint It, Black.

Ps.If you enjoy my work, please reblog it. Just liking the post won’t help others discover it.

➡ Intro // EP : 1 // EP : 2 // EP : 3 // EP : 4 // EP : 5 // EP : 6 // EP : 7 // EP : 8 // EP : 10 // EP : 11 // EP : 12 // EP : 13 // EP : 14 (Completed)

[Episodes 9] The Jessica Crime

"You’ve been acting strangely since you woke up. What happened to you?"

Qimir's voice echoes faintly from outside your consciousness. You can’t even tell from which point in time it’s coming—past, present, or maybe it’s all just a future that hasn't happened yet.

Loss of temporal footing. Another voice fills your head, but this time it is the voice within your mind. The brief explanation brings you instant clarity. This is one of the symptoms experienced by those gifted with the ability to perceive across the dimensions of time. The flood of vast information overwhelms your mind, making it impossible to process in an orderly manner, intertwining the past, present, and future into a chaotic blend that is nearly impossible to separate.

You must find your anchor point, a point that makes you aware you are standing in the present.

The familiar voice urges you, guiding you on your next steps.

You recall the taste of spice in your tea cup—that peculiar blend of sweetness and fiery heat lingering on your tongue. You commit these sensations to memory, anchoring yourself in the present moment, while everything else beyond this remains as visions of what has been or what is yet to come.

"I think you’re taking too much spice."

This is the present, you remind yourself, as Qimir pulls the tea cup from your grasp. At the mention of spice, your thoughts momentarily drift to Arrakis, the planet you once saw in your dreams. Arrakis used to be the primary source of spice, which was once the most valuable substance in the universe. But now, it’s merely a rare, costly drug, dismissed as useless by most.[1]

Few know that spice isn’t just a hallucinogen; it also enhances the ability to see into the future. That is why you need to consume it, despite the many side effects it has on your body.

You need to stay alert tonight to anticipate and prepare for what is coming next.

There’s a sedative in the food.

You quietly review your plan in your mind. You have learned extensively about medicines from Qimir—how to identify herbs and concoct various potions with precision. Crafting a sedative isn't difficult; the challenge lies in administering it seamlessly so that even someone as sharp as Qimir won’t suspect a thing.

I used a method from the Suk School[2], you think, letting your mind drift back to the memories of your ancestors, back to a time before Paul Atreides became the Lisan al-Gaib.

You travel back to a pivotal moment in the galaxy's brutal history when House Harkonnen ruthlessly annihilated House Atreides. They initiated their plan by sedating everyone present before storming in to slaughter soldiers and servants, saving the key figures for last.

Your consciousness remains anchored in that moment, hearing the deep, mocking voice of Baron Vladimir Harkonnen as he taunts Lady Jessica, the Bene Gesserit and mother of Paul Atreides: “The sedative's effects were precisely calculated. We even know the exact second you will awaken.”

The method was simple: by knowing only height and weight, the Suk doctors could concoct the sedative in the precise dosage needed to control both the onset of drowsiness and the moment of awakening. Using this technique makes everything appear seamless and natural, as if the drowsiness were merely a result of natural fatigue rather than the effect of a drug. Qimir wouldn’t suspect he had been drugged—not until he woke up the next morning.

And by then, you’re certain you’ll be long gone from him.

He might harbor a slight suspicion now. you think, watching Qimir across the dinner table as he takes a bite of the Bocha[3] you prepared. But because he loves me, he chooses to trust me rather than doubt. And that will be his mistake.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Qimir remarks. You notice he’s finished eating and is now pouring you a glass of plain water—no spice. “What’s on your mind?”

You sense the growing suspicion in his eyes, sparked by your own lethargic and distant demeanor—a side effect of the spice and the temporal disorientation swirling in your mind. You know that Qimir's questioning isn't a good sign. If his doubts continue to deepen, the whole plan could easily unravel.

Clenching your fists, you deliberately press your nails into the soft skin of your palms, using the pain to anchor your mind in the present before responding in a calm voice: “I was just thinking of Arrakis. I dreamed of it a few nights ago.”

Arrakis. Qimir's brows furrow as he recalls how he’s heard you mutter the name of the ancient planet many times in your sleep.

He knows only that Arrakis was once the home planet of the Fremen, but beyond that, he knows little else. After the Holy Jihad ended, the stories of the Fremen became forbidden tales, lost to the sands of time. No records remain to testify to their existence. If Qimir hadn’t met you, he would have never believed that any Fremen still existed in this galaxy.

“Tell me,” he says softly. “About what you saw—about your home planet.”

You freeze for a moment, your mind pulled back into the past once more. Someone asked me this same question long ago.

How long? A thousand years, perhaps.

Deep in your consciousness, you find yourself sitting at the mouth of a sealed stone cave on Arrakis. Your gaze drifts over the distant rock formations and stretches of sand, a sense of peace settling over you. Cradled in your arms is a young Fremen woman of your age. As the night remains still, your lips meet in a silent kiss. She looks at you with eyes full of love, gently placing her hand on your cheek and whispering softly, “Usul, my beloved, tell me about your home planet.”

You blink, and the image shifts back to the present. The Fremen woman is replaced by Qimir. They share nothing in common except for those same eyes filled with love looking back at you.

Your heart wavers with confusion, a momentary urge to abandon your plan and confess the truth surging within you. But you can’t—there's no turning back now, only the choice to move forward.

“Arrakis was a desolate and arid planet, harsher than any other in the universe,” you say, setting your glass down on the table. “Water was so precious that we had to wear stillsuits at all times. These suits were designed to reclaim the body’s sweat and moisture, turning it into drinkable water.”

Qimir stares at you in amazement, a hint of apprehension creeping into his expression. “Are you saying that the Fremen used to drink their own sweat and... pee?”

You nod, almost smiling at his reaction. “We reclaimed even the water from corpses.”

“How did it taste?”

"Much worse than regular water," you reply, even though you've never actually tasted water from a stillsuit yourself. The memories of others make you feel as if you had. That warm, bland liquid was disgusting and bitter. "It was stale and unpleasant, but it was drinkable. We didn’t have much choice."

“That kind of life must’ve been incredibly hard.”

“Harder than anyone could imagine.” You hear a haunting wail deep within your mind as memories of brutal, unforgiving times resurface: stories of the Fremen fighting against ruthless rulers who came to exploit and plunder this planet, just to survive each day.

You take a deep breath before continuing, “But those hardships made us strong. We did whatever was necessary to survive.”

Qimir senses the bitterness in your words—the coldness laced with an undercurrent of isolation and pain hidden beneath those brief sentences.

He studies you for a moment, taking in your face and the deep blue eyes unique to the Fremen. The longer he looks, the more he senses a change within you. It’s as if you are no longer the person he once knew but someone from a distant, ancient world—a world he could never truly reach or understand, no matter how hard he tried.

Qimir moves closer, his hand reaching for yours. That's when he notices the small crescent-shaped marks from your nails on your palm. He stares at them for a moment before lifting your hand to his lips and pressing a soft kiss on the wound. “You’re not alone anymore, Hara.”

You know that whenever Qimir calls you by your Fremen name, it’s his way of expressing love and comfort. It always makes your heart soften, even though you know, deep down, that these feelings should never have existed in the first place.

The Bene Gesserit learned a harsh lesson from this long ago. They called it ‘The Jessica Crime,’[4] named after the mother of Paul Atreides.

It is said that her love for Duke Leto led her to follow her heart rather than obey the Sisterhood's orders, giving birth to a son when she was supposed to bear a daughter. This act altered the fate of the universe by bringing forth the Kwisatz Haderach prematurely, sparking a galactic war that ultimately led to unimaginable losses.

Since then, the Bene Gesserit established an inviolable rule—a warning passed down to every sister of every generation: never fall in love and always place the greater good of humanity above personal feelings.

You alone truly understand Jessica's thoughts, even though you exist in different times.

For to forbid someone from loving is like forbidding them from dying. As long as humanity has a heart, that rule will always remain impossible to follow.

Under the intoxicating influence of the spice that still clouds your senses, the world around you feels like a mirage. Even as Qimir's lips trail up to your mouth and neck, lingering in a slow, tender kiss, and his large hands caress your body, sending shivers of electricity through your skin,

This is real. All of this is real. You remind yourself as you surrender your body and being to his embrace.

You are fully aware that you're making the same mistake Jessica did. You grasp this truth with perfect clarity, knowing the consequences that will follow. Yet you allow it to happen because denying it would only arouse suspicion. Besides, deep down, you don’t want to deny your own feelings. This might be the last moment you and he share together before your fragile bond shatters beyond repair.

Your fading consciousness returns briefly as Qimir guides you to the bed. His hands deftly undo the knots of your clothes, just as he does with his own, leaving both your bodies and souls exposed.

Qimir pulls you onto his lap, your bare skin pressing against his, every soft curve and firm muscle meeting in intimate contact. You feel his growing arousal beneath your thighs.

For the first time, he lets you touch the cross-shaped scar on his back. You trace it gently, unable to stop yourself from asking, “Did it hurt much when you got this scar?”

“More than words can express,” he replies with a faint smile, though his eyes shine with anger at the memory. “I’ve never forgotten what happened that day.”

You don’t press him further; you know when to ask and when to remain silent. Besides, curiosity is unnecessary for you, as you've already glimpsed some of what he's faced and the terrible things he's done. Qimir may be gentle with you, but he's not a good man. His hands are stained with the blood of countless lives, and yet you still allow those hands to roughly explore every part of your body, fully aware of who he is and what he's done.

Your breath hitches as Qimir's fingers pinch and knead your nipple, sending a jolt of heat that spreads across your face. His other hand slowly glides down your stomach, lower and lower, until it reaches your most sensitive area. His fingertips explore your folds, circling your clit before sliding inside. He moves with a steady rhythm—neither too slow nor too fast—just enough to awaken your arousal. It wasn’t long before your desire soared, and the slickness between your legs made you ready for what comes next.

You lean over Qimir, carefully lowering yourself onto him, taking your time. A wave of desire washes over you as the tip of his cock gradually enters you. You exhale shakily, resting your forehead upon his shoulder, savoring the feeling as every vein of his length drags against your gummy walls. filling and stretching you in all the right ways. The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of intimacy and longing as your bodies merge completely.

Qimir's arms wrapped around your waist, holding you firmly as you begin to move your hips, riding his cock with a slow rhythm. He presses wet kisses along your jaw, trailing down to your neck, where he bites and sucks, leaving marks as if to claim you. Meanwhile, your nails dig into his back, uncaring that it might hurt him—you're certain he enjoys it.

A moan escapes your lips as Qimir thrusts up into you, his hips smacking sloppily against wet lips between your legs. bullying his cock deeper inside you. He begins to rut into you with increasing force, making your entire body tremble with pleasure, the intensity building as he swiftly took control. guiding your hips to move in sync with his, alternating between slow and quick thrusts.

The rhythm of desire is as tangled and complex as the threads of time. He knows exactly what you need, and you know what he desires, as if you've known each other for an eternity.

As your bodies move in perfect synchrony, chasing the orgasm that coils tight in your stomach, your thoughts and emotions begin to merge into one. While making love with Qimir, you catch glimpses of fragmented memories hidden within him, each flashing before your eyes like a rapidly playing video. You see the deaths of Jedi, the twisted desires, and the ominous shadow of a man wearing a cracked metal helmet, its surface etched with a twisted smile—the Sith who tried to kill you in your dreams.

They’re all the same person—each one is him.

“Qimir!”

You cry out, your voice breaking as your eyes widen in shock. Your entire body quakes with an indescribable sensation, torn between the bliss of your orgasm and the terror buried deep within your mind. You hear Qimir's low growl in your ear as he drives into you harder, relentless thrusts, until his movements begin to slow. His cock throbs inside you as he finally releases, painting your insides white with his cum, filling you to the brim and overflowing.

Qimir leans back on the bed, his breathing noticeably slowing, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion. He looks more drained than usual but still has the strength to pull you into his arms. You barely dare to breathe, lying stiffly under his hold, watching him as he drifts off to sleep in mere moments.

You remain still for a while, waiting until you’re sure Qimir is in a deep sleep before carefully untangling yourself from his hold. Slipping out of bed, you dress quietly, your mind already knowing what you must do next. But when you glance back at Qimir one last time, hesitation grips you.

You bite your lip, knowing that the wisest thing to do right now is to gather your belongings, escape this place, and contact Sol immediately. Yet your mind refuses to settle until you confirm the truth with your own eyes, even though you already know deep down that the vision couldn’t possibly be wrong.

Moving with quiet precision, you find yourself in front of Qimir’s office—a place you were never allowed to enter. The door, locked with a digital passcode, is something you don’t know; however, the images from your vision guide your fingers as you type the code accurately. The door slides open.

Inside, the room is large and spacious, a blend of an office and a workshop. One corner holds a cluttered desk, while another is filled with tools and equipment, and shelves and crates are haphazardly cluttered around.

But what draws your attention most is a metal chest on the lowest shelf. Something within seems to beckon to you, like a faint whisper, urging you toward the secret waiting to be uncovered.

Kneeling on the floor, your hand trembles as you reach out to touch the chest. The cold metal startles you slightly, and a sudden fear wells up within you, making you hesitate to open it. I must not fear. Fear is the mindkiller. You recite the Bene Gesserit litany in your mind to calm your nerves before finally deciding to open the chest with a swift motion.

What you find inside makes you cover your mouth in shock. The truth Qimir had been hiding all along now unfolds before you.

Inside the chest lies a helmet made of cortosis, its dark, tarnished metal streaked with dull gold. The helmet is cracked in several places, though it has been mended. Its most distinct feature remains intact—the grotesque smile carved into the lower half of the helmet—the same smile you’ve seen countless times in your dreams

You think back to the events on the Trade Federation ship, where Qimir had appeared instead of the Sith. His face superimposes over the helmet in the chest, and in that instant, everything becomes crystal clear.

The man you've lived with all these years, the only one you've let into your life, is the very source of the darkness that haunts your dreams. Beneath the facade of a freelance trader and gentle lover lurks a terrifying truth—He is the Sith Lord, the threat to the galaxy, the ruthless Jedi killer, and possibly the one who may take your life.

Footnotes:

[1] This fic tweaks canon a bit—In canon, stopping spice use means losing prescient vision forever, but in this fic, you can quit without issue.

[2] Suk Doctors, trained at the Suk School, are elite physicians in the Dune universe, usually serving only wealthy families.

[3] Bocha is a crispy, delicious dish from The High Republic era, often served hot.

[4] According to the Dune novels, Lady Jessica’s defiance of the Bene Gesserit by having Paul Atreides is called 'The Jessica Crime,' a lesson for future generations to always control their emotions for humanity's sake."

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