#give! me! a fire vulture!

[kaivyrin-fr]

now that we've got GRIFFONS truly i am hoping against all hope for a vulture for literally anyone but plague

[exhaslo]

Kinktober Day 1- Mafia! Miguel O'Hara

        In this Universe, it was not just the villains' you had to be afraid of. In every corner of the city of Nueva York, there were members of the mafia. The amount of families that ran different parts of this city were starting to make one lose count. No matter how safe you felt, you weren't. Everyone, including you, knew better than to mess with anyone. It was best to keep your head down and mind your own business. At least you wanted to.

        It was just another ordinary work day for you. The alarm clock was put on snooze more times than you could count, and now you were running late. Hurrying down the street with a poorly prepared sandwich in hand, you begged to make it in time for work. It was a miracle that the clothes you wore even matched properly. Honestly, preparing the night before always sounded like a great idea. It was just a shame you were too tired to do so.

        Right as the signal changed to walk, gunshots were heard. Everybody ran the opposite direction, knowing better than to get anywhere near. Everyone, except you. Your lateness was going to get you either fired or killed. As of right now, being killed sounded better than being fired. At least it did in your mind before you actually ran towards your job in the mist of another gang war. The tears in your sandwich were going to be a grim reminder to wake up earlier tomorrow-if you lived till then.

----------

        Miguel sat in his vehicle, watching his men go at it with the members of the Vulture clan. He had warned them several times to do this inside, but what point was there to talk with idiots? Needing some fresh air, Miguel stepped out of his car. How much longer until the other side gives up? Wanting to reach for his own gun, Miguel heard the cries of a woman. It was an all too familiar sound. He knew of the effect he had on them.

"Oh?" A slight smirk formed against his lips as he watched you run through the middle of a warzone, "Qué idiota. (What a dumbass)" He muttered under his breathe.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I won't be late next time! I'm sorry!" You cried repeatedly as you fell on the ground, holding your head.

        Miguel found you entertaining. He drew his gun and proceeded to make his way over to your trembling body. Luckily, he only had to fire a few times before his foot was near your (h/l) (h/c) hair. With ease, he grabbed your arm and lifted you towards him. Like instinct, you grabbed onto him, apologizing like there was no tomorrow. A smug grin formed against his lips.

"Parece que me encontré con un perro callejero. No puedo dejar a una cosita tan bonita como tú aquí sola. (Looks like I found me a stray. Can't leave a pretty little thing like you out here alone)" He said lowly. Finally, you raised your head,

"I-I'm so sorry. I was just late for work and...and...You have a gun." Your words kept stuttered as your brain finally started to connect the dots, "I swear I didn't see anything! I'm just passing through! I'm so sorry!"

"What's your name?" Miguel asked as he led you to his car.

"(Y/N)" You replied, watching his every move.

        You were terrified. You had almost died and were saved by a mafia member. Now your life was in his large hands. His beautiful red orbs felt like they were staring into your soul. There wasn't even a speck of dust on this man's clothes. He was so tall and seemed to be on another level than the other guys. Perhaps owing your life to him was not so bad after all. He was handsome and honestly, if he asked you to do something, you probably would.

"Te haré un buen uso si te gusta lo que ves. (I'll make good use of you if you like what you see.)" Miguel's smirk only widen. It took you a minute to slap your flustered cheeks and get your head out of the gutter,

"Huh? I'm sorry, I don't understand Spanish." You politely told him, not wanting to anger the man with a gun. Miguel motioned you aside before entering the car as well,

"I asked where you worked. I'll take you there."

"Are you sure? I'm already being a burden to you."

"You'll be paying me back of course," Miguel's eyes pierced yours, "Just do what I say and we'll be even."

-----------------

"Ugh, Qué descuidado. Nunca has estado con un hombre, ¿verdad? (How sloppy. You've never been with a man, have you?)" Miguel hissed as you sucked on his large cock.

        His hand held your head, guiding you down his shaft. Tears threaten to spill as you felt his tip hit the back of your throat. He was far too long and you had no experience doing something like this. Stroking your hands against his cock, you tried your best to please him. He did save your life after all. Swirling your tongue against his tip, you felt him twitch. He hand returned to your head and started to move you on his own. It hurt as he fucked your mouth, but it made you feel hot.

"Swallow." Miguel commanded as he shoved his cock deep into your mouth. It burned and hurt your jaw, but you did as he said, "Good girl."

        You let out a cough, trying to hold your composure. Miguel lifted you up and placed you on his lap. He slid your underwear to the side, sliding a finger inside your wet hole. Moans escaped your throat as you held onto his shoulders. His thick fingers stretched you out better than your own toys. It felt good. With a sudden curl, Miguel had you putty in his arms. Your moans were getting louder as your felt your climax approaching.

"Que guarra. A punto de correrme solo con mi dedo. (How slutty. About to cum with just my finger.)"

        If only you knew what he was saying. It turned you on more just thinking about the naughty things he was calling you. This sexy stranger who saved your life was now about to fuck you in his car. You should be regretting this, but your better judgement was telling you otherwise. Feeling Miguel remove his finger made you mewl in protest. His placed his fingers' in your mouth as he lowered your waist.

        Your eyes widen as you felt him slowly enter your throbbing hole. It was hurting. Your small hands gripped onto Miguel, trembling from the feeling of being stretched out. Instead of slowing down, Miguel held your waist and slammed you down on his cock. Your back arched as you let out a cry from your orgasm. He was so deep inside you. Your body felt so full that it made your brain all fuzzy. This was something knew that you weren't sure if you wanted to stop.

"Already? We still have 20 minutes until we arrive at your work. Don't give up on me now," Miguel told you as he thrusted his hips up.

        Another cry escaped your throat as you felt his tip hit your cervix. Miguel was enjoyed this by the lick of his lips. He demanded that you started moving. That hungry look in his eyes every time you bounced on his cock. You felt like you couldn't get enough. Your legs were shaking as each thrust made your stomach turn. Sloppy moans and cries were all you can come up with as his cock bullied your cunt. This man was going to destroy you. Feeling his hands grip your hips was a sign.

"I'll take over now," Miguel's smirk never faded, "Voy a hacerte mi juguete personal, cariño. No tendrás que preocuparte por llegar tarde al trabajo si tu trabajo es mi polla dentro de ti. (I'm going to make you my personal toy, sweetheart. You won't need to worry about being late to work if your job is my cock inside you.)" He whispered in your ear.

        Whatever he said made your body shiver in delight. Miguel moved you against the car seat, slamming his hips into yours. He held your waist up, enjoying the view. Your lewd expressions were one of a kind. The way your boobs bounced with every thrust and how your body twitched when he pounded you were delightful. He could soak in every fiber of your being. You were his new favorite. Feeling your hole suck him made his smirk widen more.

        He moved your legs above his shoulders, enjoying your cried of pleasure as he ventured further inside you. His cock twitched as he neared his orgasm, wanting you to reach yours first. He leaned down to take a nipple in his mouth while his thumb rubbed your clit. His ears perked up as you called his name out. Your body arched once more as he cam on his dick. Miguel chuckled as he picked up his pace. He groaned lowly, shoving himself as far back as he could, coating your walls white.

"M-Miguel....That...was amazing," You barely breathed out. Miguel fixed his hair before reaching for your cheek,

"We're not done yet. We still have 17 minutes until you reach your job...If you decide to work there anymore when I'm done with you." He chuckled darkly, thrusting his hips into once more. You let out a cry, gripping onto the car seat,

"B-But I have...to ah...w-work for...ah~" Your words fell on deaf ears. Miguel was going to fuck the idea of work out of your brain,

"You got saved by me. Whether you like it or not, you're going to be mine now."

"M-Mig-"

"Not everyone gets a chance to be the leader's pet. Enjoy my cock inside you because I'm not letting you go."

        Only a whimper could escape your lips as Miguel kept bullying his cock inside you. Your legs started to grow numb. All you could feel is Miguel. 

------------

"Everyone is dismissed." Miguel spat as he finished his meeting, "Lyla, make sure Peter gets informed on what we discussed. Make sure he gets here on time next time."

"Yes, sir." Lyla said with a chip.

        Once everyone was gone and the door was shut, Miguel moved back slightly. A smirk formed against his lips as he looked down at you. You had been under his desk during the whole meeting, sucking and playing with his cock. Miguel reached out to stroke your hair, enjoying you nuzzle your head into his hand.

"You've gotten better, cariño. How naughty of you to try and distract me while working." He said with a grin. You climbed onto his lip, bringing him in for a kiss,

"At least I was early," You said with a soft whine. Miguel agreed before filling you with his dick, "Mhpm, I-I was going to...hah...ask...if we can, ah, g-go for d-dinner." You whimpered, trembling at his brutal pace. 

"¿Cena? Estoy a punto de llenarte aquí y ahora. (Dinner? I'm about to fill you up right here and now.)" 

"M-Miguel..." You moaned, holding onto him as you felt your high approaching.

        Miguel licked his lips as he watched you melt under his touch. You had been by his side for almost a year now. The family was hesitant to welcome you, but quickly did once they saw how much Miguel enjoyed your company. Needless to say, you never had to worry about being late for work again. Your job was to keep Miguel satisficed, which was a simple task since you lived with him. From dawn to dusk, Miguel used your body to fuel his lust. He liked you far more than anyone before and that was not going to change anytime soon. You belonged to Miguel now and forever.

"Say it again for me." Miguel demanded as he laid you against his desk. You cried softly as he pounded your poor pussy,

"T-Thank you for saving me,"

"Una vez más. (One more time.)"

"A-Ah~ T-Thank y-you for saving me~"

"Good girl."

[castellankurze]

Here's the thing that interests me about the dueling scene in Gideon the Ninth. Yeah, the narrative phrasing Harrowhark rose to the occasion like an evening star is peak and the line "Death first to the vultures and scavengers" is pure fire but why is she in that position to begin with?

The situation is thus: Camilla Hect has just won a duel against Marta Dyas attempting to claim the Sixth House's necromancy challenge keys, but she was wounded in so doing. Naberius Tern, backed by Ianthe Tridentarius, is pressing a dueling challenge against the injured Camilla in a flagrant bid to beat Camilla down and take the keys for the Third House while she's already recovering from one match. Gideon is standing by watching things unfold and, to her relief, Harrowhark steps up to put Gideon in the ring as a substitute for the injured Camilla and thus shut down Naberius' vulturing.

Except...why? You'd think that in anything like a polite societal dueling code (I know, I know, but go with it-) Camilla and Palamedes would have the option to demure, saying something like "the Sixth House cavalier just fought a duel and is wounded to boot, piss off for a day and we'll see then." But that's not even floated as an option. Palamedes isn't a dumb guy - far from it - and even if he were out of his element, you'd think someone else could just lean in and say 'dude tell them to shove it.' Judith Deuteros objects by saying "There are rules" and Ianthe shuts that down by pointing out she pressed Marta's duel on incredibly flimsy pretext, so that seems to be an objection on the grounds for presenting the challenge, rather than probing for an option to refuse. If Harrow and Gideon (or Jeannemary, jumping on the bandwagon) hadn't interceded, Camilla was about to fight her second duel back to back.

(Even in the first dueling challenge, the tone of onlookers seems to be that people want Palamedes to default and hand over his key to the Second House to spare Camilla the fight, because they assume the Sixth House is weak and don't know how good Camilla is.)

To sum up: the Sixth House seems to have no recourse but to either accept the repeated dueling challenges or default; with no way to decline except to give the Third House something they want (in this case, a Canaan House key).

That's insane.

And if that's deliberate, rather than an oversight on Tamsyn Muir's part, that suggests so much about the Nine Houses' dueling culture. It suggests that a challenge from a cavalier primary can't be refused; you have to either throw down or roll over as if they won. It speaks to a distinct lack of value placed on human lives, that the cavaliers are forced to accept a challenge on pain of their house losing face at best, something material at worst. The defending house can only negotiate to a degree that the attacking house is willing to let them. This is, depressingly, fully in keeping with the series' characters' treatment of the cavaliers. The subsequent books and short stories (especially The Unwanted Guest) really hammer this idea in, that the cavaliers are nominally viewed as a source of blades and shields in the hands of the necromancers, even if the laypeople of the setting don't know all the reasons behind the traditions.

In real life, formal dueling typically had customs and rules for negotiation and ceremony, with multiple exit points for parties to back out of a potential threat to life without losing face. Only truly aggrieved parties would press a suit to the point of confrontation. The Nine Houses say screw that, put up or shut up. They've more or less raised up the informal tradition of 'swords now motherfucker.'

To steal a phrase from another tumblrite, 'congrats god that's the worst anyone's ever done it.'

[gunsandspaceships]

Tony Stark - Prometheus

This is the final part of the series, which unites all the separate, thematic parts (links are highlighted in blue) with evidence of the conclusion that you will find at the end of this post.

Introduction

Prophet

God of Forethought: the name Prometheus means "forethinker", "foreseer", "prophet".

Creator of intelligent life

In Greek myths, Prometheus is the creator of an artificial form of life - the humankind. "He created them looking up to the sky like gods."

"Here I will sit, forming men after my own image. It will be a race like me, to suffer, to weep, to enjoy and to rejoice" (Goethe)

Earth's Best Defender

Prometheus takes on the protection of mortals from tyrant gods who want to enslave or destroy them.

"Cover your heavens, Zeus, with gauzy clouds, and practice, like a boy who beheads thistles, on the oaks and peaks of mountains; but you must allow my world to stand, and my hut, which you did not build, and my hearth, whose glow you envy me." (Goethe)

"Beautiful is the tradition Of that flight through heavenly portals" (Longfellow)

God of Fire

He stole the fire from gods to give it to humans to protect them, keep them warm and give them light in the form of science and technology.

"All the soul in rapt suspension, All the quivering, palpitating Chords of life in utmost tension, With the fervor of invention, With the rapture of creating" (Longfellow)

The Mountains

For that, Zeus ordered Prometheus to be chained to a rock in a cave and sentenced him to eternal suffering.

"First the deed of noble daring, Born of heavenward aspiration, Then the fire with mortals sharing, Then the vulture,--the despairing Cry of pain on crags Caucasian." (Longfellow)

Heart

Every day an eagle flew to Prometheus and pecked at the center of his life.

"Who helped me against the pride of the titans? Who rescued me from death - from slavery? Did you not accomplish it all yourself, my sacred, glowing heart?" (Goethe)

The Torture

For the sake of humans, Prometheus voluntarily accepted eternal pain and chose to suffer in silence.

"A silent suffering, and intense; The rock, the vulture, and the chain, All that the proud can feel of pain, The agony they do not show, The suffocating sense of woe, Which speaks but in its loneliness, And then is jealous lest the sky Should have a listener, nor will sigh Until its voice is echoless." (Lord Byron)

Chiron

Ancient Greeks had another myth - about the father of surgery, centaur Chiron, who once saved a hero betrayed and ambushed in the mountains.

Chiron was also the one who took on Prometheus' suffering and died in his place. He was shot by an arrow and to end his own pain exchanged his life for life and freedom of Prometheus.

The Sun

For humankind, Prometheus became the image of a noble fighter against oppression, and a symbol of human progress and creative freedom.

"When I was a child I did not know in from out; I turned my confused eyes to the sun, as if above it there were an ear to hear my laments - a heart like mine that would pity the oppressed." (Goethe)

Conclusion:

Taking all of this into account, I believe that Tony was not only inspired by the myth, but he himself is Marvel's Prometheus, at least in the MCU.

Excerpts from poems used: - "Prometheus, or the Poet's Forethought" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow; - "Prometheus" by Lord Byron; - "Prometheus" by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

Bonus:

Kaos

"Prometheus brings Fire to the Cavemen"

Familiar names

Marvel and their love for Greek mythology

Prometheus, Goethe, Schubert, and RDJ

Thanatos

Life and Death

Comics

[astroboots]

EVERY YOU EVERY ME #11.5 SPECIAL

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: Let’s start from the beginning one last time.

Word count: 5,800

Warning: Heavy angst and character death. Dead Dove do not eat.

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[Previous] [Next]

Let’s start from the beginning one last time. 

My name is Miguel O’Hara, and in an experiment gone wrong, my genetic code was partially rewritten with Spider DNA, giving me superpowers.

My home is Earth 928-C where I was the one and only Spiderman... of my home dimension at least.

I invented and built a dimensional travel device that allowed me to jump between universes with the goal of exploring the limits of the multiverse. 

And then I met a woman in this other world who nearly died from a crazy freak accident.

I saved her of course.

Then I saved her again.

And again, and again.

... And again.

We fell in love, and I decided to stay with her in her world.

You know the rest. We got married. We had a life together.

I was happy. Really happy. 

For a while.

[Earth 383-D]

3 YEARS AGO

"Goddamn idiot bird," Miguel mutters under his breath.

Vulture is on the loose again, wreaking havoc on the city. The maniac is flying high above the city grounds, leaving a trail of mayhem in his wake. 

Miguel's been in pursuit for the better half of two hours. In that time, the bird has derailed the High Line, literally hit a traffic light and managed to knock over the spire on the Statue of Liberty as if he was flying under the influence.

Then somehow flew across town through Tribeca, along Lower Manhattan and Greenwich Village and now reached all the way to Midtown Manhattan. 

Dumbass ugly stupid bird. 

Miguel digs his claws into the exterior of the limestone and granite of the Empire State Building to steady himself, using the momentum to leap forward.

The Vulture crashes into a skyscraper 50 feet ahead of Miguel, and in the mad dash, he can see a man tumble out of the building head first to the ground from the 30th floor. 

Swinging forward, Miguel slings out a web from his palm, catching the screaming and sobbing office worker in midair and lands briefly against the windowpane. He ensures the man is secured to the building in a cocoon of webbing until the fire department can get him to safer grounds.

Miguel doesn't even get a second to catch his breath. From afar, he can pick up the sound of another window being crashed into by the unwieldy metal bird. 

Crap. 

It's impossible for Miguel to both chase the Vulture and keep everyone else in his path of destruction safe. One superhero can't be in two places at once (none that he has encountered).

Gritting his teeth, Miguel leaps off the building swinging freely into the air to make up on the lost ground between him and the metallic cuckoo bird.

He needs backup, and the backup is unfortunately running late.

Where is he? Why is he always late?

Does that man not understand that when someone calls for backup because of an emergency, the emergency part indicates that there's some urgency to it?

Flying through the air 100 feet above the ground, from the corner of his eyes, Miguel catches the familiar garish red flowing cape that billows from the cowl of the grand cloak and suit. 

Miguel would know that weird wizard get-up anywhere. 

"Strange!" Miguel calls out, and he can feel irritation rattle in his chest. "You're late! Where the shock were you?"

"The word you're looking for is 'fuck.' Where the fuck was I," the man responds with a sarcastic drawl.

Strange levitates through the air, effortlessly without expending any energy at all as he catches up with Miguel. "You gave me no notice. Be happy I showed up at all."

From a distance he sees the dumb bird soar high up into the sky and towards the all too familiar crowned roof of the Chrysler building. 

No. nononono. 

Why is he there? What is he doing there? Anywhere but there. 

His back flashes cold then burning hot as the Vulture makes a straight beeline for the familiar building.

It’s fine. Maybe he’s not going to fly in there. Maybe he’s just going to fly past it.

Miguel watches as the metallic bird soars up and up and up, past the midpoint of the building, past the 40th floor of your office and up to the 50th floor. The tight squeeze in his chest eases.

Then the vulture stops, mid-flight and looks down below, as if he changed his mind, before he descends again. 

Shit! Shit! SHIT!

He dives into one of the windows between the 40th and 50th floor. The sound of broken glass and shrill screams can be heard even from where Miguel is. 

Blood freezes in his veins and nausea overtakes him. Calm down. Breathe.. Maybe you’re not in. After all, Lyla’s security protocols would’ve been activated by now if you were. He would’ve been alerted. 

Soaring through the skies, Miguel reaches over to his wrist to punch in the dial for Lyla to check in and reassure himself you're safe. But his tracker blinks back in an alarming red, and he darts down his head towards the display.  

Error. 

His heart stops. 

The flying silhouette reappears through the shattered windows and the metallic harness strapped onto the vulture gleams bright against the sun.

It’s only then it hits him. Lyla's been deactivated by the madman's stupid Electro-Magnetic Harness. 

Why hadn't he foreseen that as a technical flaw?

Against the reflective glass panes, Miguel sees you, caught in the Vulture talons like a mouse captured by a large predatory bird. Every hair on his neck stands on end. His vision bleeds into red, blood roaring at the sight of it.

Kill him.

Miguel's gonna murder that freak for touching you. Crush his windpipe so he can't ever squawk again, then rip his throat out with his claws and feed it to the street pigeons for good measure.

Launching himself through the air, Miguel tears up the side of the building. The tempered glass beneath his claws and feet, shatters into sharp jagged pieces as he closes the distance. 

He is almost within reach. Only some 30 feet that still separates you from him. Leaping the final distance he slams hard into the side of the Vulture until metal crunches beneath his feet. 

Miguel roars until his throat burns with it. Palms gripping at the man’s jaw and prying it back to get at his bare throat. His fangs are ready to sink into the jugular. He can see the dark pupil of Vulture's eyes dilate with fear. 

Good. Miguel's anger will be the last thing this freak sees.

"Miguel calm down," Strange shouts at him from behind. "You're gonna knock her off."

Miguel freezes at the warning, forcing himself to hold still as he looks down to where you are dangling precariously from the Vulture's claws.

"Be ready," Strange shouts, and Miguel looks to him, not understanding what the hell he means. 

Strange rests his hand over the shiny blue gem hanging around a chain from his neck.

What does he mean by be ready? What is Strange going to do?

"What'd you mea–"

Miguel doesn't have a chance to finish the rest of his sentence. An unnatural force vibrates through him. A pulsating wave that pervades his senses, punching through his lungs and knocks him back. 

In an instance, you're propelled away from Strange and the Vulture, and you are freefalling towards the ground below.

Miguel leaps mid-air, arms outstretched to catch you as you plummet towards the ground below. His fingers clasps around your wrists, your warm skin against his fingertips.

He's got you!

Taking hold of you by the arm, Miguel pulls you into his chest as he wraps one arm securely around your waist.

Immediate relief fills him from the inside out as the adrenaline and the searing anger is already starting to fade now that he knows you're safe.

"You okay, nena?" he asks.

You nod, arms finding purchase around the back of his neck, and squeeze down tight. He swings you both to the safety of a nearby rooftop.

There's barely time for him to touch the surface, he hears the nearby explosion and sees Vulture crash into the concrete wall of the nearest building. 

Strange is levitating nearby, hands making wild gestures, presumably to perform some hocus pocus ritual. There’s a magical glow as strobes of light manifest out of thin air surrounding the Vulture from all sides and wrapping around him in a restraining bind.

Miguel sets you down. You're a little bit wobbly on your feet, and seeing you stumble the way you do has that protective streak spark anew in his chest.

Stupid Strange. He can't just do shit like that. 

What if Miguel hadn't reacted in time? What if you had fallen? 

This is why Miguel hates working with the guy, even if they’re friends. Always on his moral high horse about Miguel being reckless, then he pulls shit like this.

"Everyone alright?" Strange asks as he levitates through the sky to set feet close to you both on the rooftop.

Miguel grits his teeth with annoyance at the man’s casual demeanor when he nearly threw you out of the sky.

"Shock you, Strange," he spits out.

"Miggy..." you sigh in a reprimanding tone next to him. 

Stephen shakes his head at him. "I told you. It's fuck"

"Fuck you, Strange."

Sanctum Sanctorum is closer than home and Strange has, comfortable sofas in his ridiculously big mansion. Big enough sofas that Miguel can actually lounge in them comfortably without it feeling cramped. It's why, given the choice, he always prefer to regroup there, over your tiny apartment.

Besides, while the man's control over his magical powers can be suspect at times, he used to be a doctor. Supposedly one of the leading brain surgeons in the world, and Miguel is a lot more comfortable at the prospect of Strange giving you a checkover to make sure you don't need further medical attention than trying your luck at one of the local ERs.

"Follow my finger," Strange says as he shines a little flashlight into your eyes and moves his index from side to side. 

Your eyes follow him dutifully, and Strange proceeds with the rest of his medical check, asking you the boring standard questions. "Any symptoms of dizziness, lightheadedness, or a sense of vertigo?"

He fires them out in rapid succession, and a bit too perfunctory for Miguel's liking.

"Noticed any changes in your vision, blurriness or double vision, etcetera etcetera?"

Miguel's jaw tic in irritation at how Strange is putting in minimal effort and just going through the motions.

"Yeah, you're fine." Strange pats your knees, then whisks the flashlight away into nothingness with his cape.

That medical check wasn't anything close to thorough. Miguel crosses his arms over his chest. "Are you sure? Her feet were wobbly before, I wanted to make sure she didn't sprain her ankle."

"A little bit overprotective as always aren't we?" Strange says.

Miguel shoots the man a glare and Stephen sighs, "Her reflexes are fine, I don't think anything's sprained."

"Check again, you seemed sloppy," Miguel accuses.

"You know, I'm doing this as a favor because you’re a friend. Do you have any idea how much a medical examination by one of the leading neurological surgeons in the world would cost you normally?"

"I'll have Lyla transfer the money."

“No, it’s not actually about money just–" Stephen shakes his head, then sighs. "Nevermind.”

He gestures for you to drape your leg across his lap, then he reaches over to gently assess your ankle as requested.

"What is this necklace?" You ask. You lean closer to Strange, inspecting the blue gem where it rests against his chest.

Strange swats at your hand, the way an adult scolds a child with sticky chocolate smeared hands trying to touch the fine china.

"It's a protection amulet. When activated it forms a protective barrier that forcibly repels everything within ten feet of you."

"Huh," you reach back for the amulet undaunted by the earlier reprimand, fascinated and clearly enamored by it. "I'll give you fifty bucks for it."

Strange looks offended. "It's not for sale, and if it was it would certainly be worth a lot more than fifty dollars. It's a genuine magical artifact, not fake costume jewelry from the theater department."

You purse your lips, considering the amulet.

"Forty," you offer.

Miguel has to choke back a snorting laughter in his throat at the way Stephen's eyes goes wide in confused outrage.

"Wait, why is the price going down?"

“We’re in the middle of an economic crisis, Stephen,” you counter.  

Strange's head darts over to where Miguel sits, presumably for backup, but he's knocked on the wrong door. The man must be mad if he thinks that there is ever a world where Miguel would side against you.

"Strange, we both know it’s easier if you just give her the amulet." Miguel says. 

The man sighs, shaking his head in defeat.

"Be careful with it," he says as he drags the chain over his head to place it in your awaiting palms. "And don't lose it like the invisibility amulet with Mysterio. Had to spend a whole month clearing up your mess when that creep used it to get into the women's locker rooms at every local gym in Greenwich!"

"That wasn’t my mess! Miggy lost that one during an aerial fight. You can't blame that on me."

"You married him, so you're responsible for him. I consider you two jointly to blame."

"Now you're just lashing out," you shoot back.

Miguel watches the two of you in patient boredom, his head propped up by an elbow on the arm of the sofa. He expended way too much energy during the fight, and now he needs to refuel. 

If Miguel leaves you two to it, you'll spend an eternity bantering, the way you do. His stomach growls. He wants food. Wants wantons and beef ho fun and a dozen custard salted egg buns for dessert. And the longer you two are at it, the longer it's going to take for him to get it.

"Nena," he calls out, "I'm hungry. Are you two done? I want to go for dinner."

You shoot Miguel a quick smile, pulling out your wallet and take out a wad of green bills then fold it into Strange's hand with a happy grin.

Strange looks down at the crumpled up money in his hand. "Wait, you're only giving me thirty? I thought we said forty."

"You still owe me like ten bucks from mini golf last week."

Strange pockets the money with a grumble. "Unbelievable." 

“C’mon,” Miguel says as he stands up and gestures to the both of you with a curt nod of his head towards the door. “Let’s go. I’ll pay for dinner this time,” Miguel says, and that seems to abate Strange’s outrage somewhat as the man grabs your coat from the sofa cushions and offers it to you.

Life on Earth 383-D is strange.

Life here is borderline primitive. The technology is something out of the stone ages.

Social media is a wasteland. Reality TV is a dystopian concept. And he doesn't understand who Kardashian is or why everyone is obsessed with her and her family. 

He does like fax machines though. They are basically teleportation machines and it boggles him that the people of your dimension do not seem to understand its potential.

The one thing he will give this version of earth credit for is that the food here is nice. Everyone in his home dimension is too health conscious, and fried food has long been banned by the government for the long term damage it does to the cardiovascular system. 

He also likes the life that the two of you have built together here. You have a home in that tiny shoebox apartment. You have friends. Strange friends. Like the Doctor who flies around with the help of a magic cape and now practices the mystic arts after a gap year in Asia. A young girl whose main superpower is the ability to communicate with squirrels. Then there’s that ugly red-masked wise-cracking, katana-wielding maniac who never dies.

Sadly, your friends are not the only thing that is strange about your surroundings.

Miguel perches himself on top of the Chrysler building sitting hunched over on the ledge of the roof. He’s drained and bone-tired, chasing down a helicopter that had gone haywire and was hurtling towards your office building. 

Luckily Strange was able to assist and sent it through a magic portal to crash into the Atlantic without putting any lives at stake. 

"Just had to do some cleaning up," Strange says as he sets his boots back down on the ground. 

Miguel doesn't answer him, staring out at the city view and the setting sun as he takes a well earned breather for a moment or two. New York is a bit of a shit hole, but it does look pretty from a high viewpoint, especially when the sun is setting, Miguel has to give this city that.

It's silent between the two of them. Or at least it is until Strange decides to break it with a harkle of his throat. When Miguel doesn't react the man does it again, coughing discreetly in a clear attempt to get his attention.

Miguel doesn't say anything about the man's sore throat. He ran out of the lemon drops you bought him as snacks hours ago, but he does tilt his head up at the man.

"She's been getting into a lot of these incidents lately. More than usual, more than any normal human for it to be a coincidence" Strange says.

The whole of Miguel's back stiffens.

"Have you noticed the abnormal uptick in strange unexplainable supernatural occurrences lately? Indoor tornadoes. The rain of poisonous frogs outside of whole foods. A sinkhole appearing right next to the cafe your wife frequents."

Miguel doesn't love the insinuations. Even with his lips pressed tightly together, Miguel can feel the small muscle in his jaw flex like a nervous tic at the mention of it. Because yeah, he's noticed, kind of hard to miss when your wife's life is in constant peril at all hours of the day.

Ice storms in July that hit right outside your workplace. An inexplicable solar flare causing a blackout that had every single vehicle within a 5 miles radius go haywire in the dark near your apartment. A swarm of mutated mosquitoes with a venomous bite that chased you down Central Park. 

The incidents are occurring more frequently. They are also getting increasingly bizarre and dangerous.

No one can say it’s just bad luck when the daily occurrences around you are defying the very laws of nature itself. Something isn't right with the universe, and he's not sure what else there is to do except pretend that everything is still ok.

"What are you implying?" Miguel asks through gritted teeth. 

But for the first time in the years that Miguel has known him, Strange's talkativeness is nowhere to be found. He doesn't answer Miguel. He's smart that way, the clever bastard. Knows that if he says one wrong word, Miguel is going to unhinge his jaws like a feral alligator and snap at him. 

Strange has said what he needed for Miguel to know exactly what he's getting at. The man just meets his eyes with an intentional stare, not shying away from Miguel's glare.

It's not like the thought hasn't crossed Miguel's mind. Not like it hasn't been keeping him up at night, every night.

Even though you've always been accident prone and suffered from bad luck, at this point it's a mathematical impossibility that anyone would run into as many near death incidents as you have.

This isn't by chance. It's by design. Miguel's suspected as much for a while now. He just doesn't know whose design and why.

"It's not her fault," Miguel spits out.

"I never said it was."

"Even if what you are saying is true..." Miguel stops, and stares down at his fisted palms with a sinking feeling in his guts. "There's nothing she can do about it to stop it. You can't put that on her."

"Whether she knows about it or not, if it's true, none of this is going to go away.

Strange walks over to where Miguel is, sitting down next to him.

"It’s been escalating in severity," he continues. "There are strange universal energies attached to her. There’s warping of the universal order and space around her. We don't know how bad this can get, if we don’t do anything about this, it could unravel the fabric of reality itself."

Despite the calamity of what Strange is implying, his voice is even and calm as he says it as if he might as well be discussing the weather. That trait has always annoyed the shit out of Miguel.

"What are you planning to do if this continues?" Strange asks.

It's such a silly question. Strange says it as if this is a multiple choice question. But for Miguel there's only one correct answer. 

"Protect her. I have to. She's everything to me."

Miguel is staring into the sunset bu all he sees before him is your face even though you aren’t here. The happy smile that he wants to preserve forever. He tries to fight the ache that's building in him at the thought that it would go away.

"Strange, don't tell her. Please. She doesn't need that burden."

He fists his palms into his side.

Miguel never liked asking for help, but even he knows that if what Strange is saying is true. That if the universe for some unfathomable reason wants you dead, then he's going to need all the help he can get.

If Strange has figured it out. Then it's only a matter of time before others do as well.

Soon enough, you won't just have the universe coming after you but every superhero and villain combined in a united front to take out the common threat that you pose to this entire universe.

Even Miguel knows he can't do this alone and as much as that helplessness tastes like failure and bile in his throat, he can swallow his pride if it helps keep you safe.

"Stephen, you have to help me save her."

From behind, Strange rests one hand on the corner of his shoulder. The weight of it feels like a promise being made. For the first time in a long time, Miguel feels like he can breathe just a little bit easier.

"I will do what I can, my friend."

Weeks go by. There are more incidents. Runaway vehicles that go haywire. Electrical storm fires. Rain of poisonous locusts. 

Somehow he manages to protect you from it all. 

It just means that he has to be more vigilant, that's all. The universe doesn't rest and neither does Miguel now. Lyla has been set on constant alert to wake him up whenever he's napping at any small signs of abnormal occurrences happening near you, with an electric shock to make sure he wakes. Something the A.I. is taking a worryingly amount of glee in (which probably means he needs to retune her programming when he has time).

And today, today Miguel was meant to have a Sunday lie in. Universe be willing, his goal was to sleep all the way into the late afternoon and then you had promised to take him to IHOP and get him all the pancakes he could eat for late breakfast.

But right now he's not asleep. He's trying to. But there are hushed words and whispered murmurs, buzzing in his ear that keeps trying to drag him away from sleep.

It's you and Strange.

Judging from the distance of the noises, you're both standing outside in the hall. The fact that you two are trying to be quiet makes it worse. If you'd spoken in normal volume he could tune it out as white noise, but the conspiratorial quietness of it all makes the hair on the back of his neck tingle with alertness.

Fuck's sake. He swears to god if you two are gossiping and making fun of Hercules’ costume (or the lack of it) again.

It's too early for this crap. Don't you two know that people are trying to sleep? He was up all night chasing crazy Kraven worshippers releasing animals from the Brooklyn zoo. Miguel had to gather wild zebras and crocodiles all the way down East Village til 4am.

With a groan, he drags himself halfway up along the mattress, about to go and growl at you both to be quiet, when the cluttered noises register as words and the fuzziness of sleep clears momentarily.

"He'd destroy this world for you."

Huh? What are you two talking about?

Miguel's too groggy to make sense of the context of what's being said. Even with his super hearing he has to focus to make out the words.

"You can't let him."

Irritated, he gets out of bed and walks to the front door to swing it open. The first thing he sees is you standing with Strange in the hallway. You jump at the suddenness and look up at him with wide eyes.

You have the worst poker face of anyone he's ever seen in his life.

"What are you two jabbering on about this damn early?" he asks.

He'd expected the two of you to act coy, maybe a clever 'wouldn't you like to know' retort back from the Mystic. Instead, Strange's face is entirely inscrutable, tone serious as he responds.

"We were just catching up. Nothing important. I need to head back," Strange says, then he turns to you with a meaningful tilt to his head. "Think about what I said."

"What was that about?" Miguel asks you as he watches Strange step through a portal and disappear.

You don't say anything. There's a worried frown etched between your eyebrows as you bite down on your lip.

Something crawls under Miguel's skin at the whole interaction.

You're oddly quiet the whole afternoon. Deep in thought and walking around as if in a daze, which unsettles him.

It's not difficult for him to guess what's wrong. He might have been half asleep when you and Strange were whispering in the corridors, but Miguel can put one and one together. Having two PHDs and a lifetime's experience of working in theoretical physics gives you that leg up.

In a last ditch effort to get you out of the uncharacteristic blues, he orders a dozen of your favorite cupcakes from that tiny shop in New Jersey. It costs an arm and a leg to have it couriered, but it'll be worth it if it makes you smile. 

Then he sits down next to you on the bed and places the pink pastry box down on the mattress. It's your favorite place to eat cakes and it’s why you two always end up with crumbs and frosting all over the sheets.

You happily cram half a cupcake into your mouth in one bite as you eat, and he watches you contently. If there was any fairness in the world, this quiet idyllic moment could last forever. In a good world, Miguel wouldn’t have to burst this perfect bubble. 

Sadly, this world is neither fair nor good sometimes. 

"Strange said something to you right?" Miguel asks. 

You still next to him, clearly torn between whether or not to share what was said to you, probably in secret with the very intention of being kept away from him. 

“Nena,” Miguel tries again, and you close your eyes taking a deep breath, caving into his prodding. 

"Strange thinks that my incidents might be correlated with the strange natural occurrences lately."

That fucking asshole. He knew it. Irritation pings across his jaw, and Miguel bites it down. He tries to reel it, forcing back the rant that wants to surface. Instead he tries to focus on you instead of his own anger. 

"We don't know that. It could just be a series of coincidences," Miguel tells you. 

You nod, but Miguel's not an idiot and neither are you. He can see the worry creasing your eyes as you look down to your lap. 

Putting down the cupcake, he reaches over and links his right hand with yours. 

"Nena, don't worry.” He cups his free hand over your cheek to drag you up to meet his eyes.

“I'll fight the whole universe to keep you safe if I have to. Nothing's ever going to harm you so long as I'm here. I'm not gonna let anything happen to you. You're the most important thing to me."

You smile at him at the words, but there's a wistfulness to it that embeds a dull ache in his chest that he wants to physically rub away to make it stop.

You lean into his touch, until your forehead presses up against his and the physical touch blunts the ache in him for a moment, putting it on pause. 

"You’re the most important to me too," you say.

The sky itself cracks open not long after. 

It doesn’t take the combined forces and intellect of the entire world too long to hone in on you being the root cause. Soon enough every superhero, mutant, villain and alien starts coming after you. Because hero or villain alike, no one truly wants their world to end, not if it’s not on their terms. 

Mysterio tries to kidnap you by the elevator in your apartment building. The Human Torch even tries to burn the whole building down. The Punisher tries to murder you point blank outside your office.

Miguel can’t remember the last time he slept. He’s running on fumes. Day after day, he feels like he’s getting by on borrowed time. 

The friends and allies you have thin out fast as the threats to the world increase in severity. Miguel never imagined having Deadpool standing outside his door stating that the life of one single person cannot outweigh the universe itself. 

It’s all so stupid. None of them know what they’re talking about. A lynching mob with their torches and pitchforks. Never stopping to think whether harming you could trigger something much worse.

If Strange is right and you are the knot at the center of the fabric of reality that is coming apart, then ripping that out leaves a hole. Miguel gave up on explaining that fairly quickly because he realized that theoretical consequences doesn’t matter to an angry mob scared of facing the reality of extinction. 

It all becomes a blur. 

Exhaustion eats into his bones, until he can no longer tell the days apart. No matter how many times he saves you, disaster is always waiting just around the corner. 

And now he’s chasing down the Green Goblin to the top of the Chrysler building from the 61st floor, where the green freak has cornered you to the edge of the rooftop.

Miguel is already out of breath, running away from the coalition of superheroes and villains that are hot on his heels, trying to stop him from saving you. 

Adrenaline beats fast in his veins as he keeps running. Miguel is only able to make out those in pursuit in brief glimpses. The bright blue spandex suit of Reed Richards as his freakishly long elastic limbs stretch towards him. The blocks of metal hurtling towards Miguel, missing by inches and crashes into the side of a building as Magneto’s form hovers nearby. 

He ignores them all, not sparing a glance behind him. He just has to keep moving. It doesn't matter that his muscles scream and burn in exhaustion. Doesn't matter that his head dulls with a heavy ache from lack of sleep. He has to keep going for you. Has to save you.

He's so close, he's almost there.

From the corner of his eyes, he makes out the familiar garish red flowing cape fluttering against the blue sky.

Strange.

Miguel marginally relaxes, at the sight of the sole ally he has left in this universe. He leaps across the rooftop, into the temporary safety of the observatory deck.

His feet doesn't even reach the ground. Something restrains him from behind. Bright lights materialize out of thin air. It wraps around Miguel's limb with the strength of unbreakable manacles, hugging him so tight it restricts the flow of blood to his fingers. Then he’s brought down to his knees. 

Miguel whips his head back and Strange stands there, hands formed in a holding gesture.

“What are you–”

"I'm sorry," Strange says.

Miguel snarls at his restraints, wrenching and twisting in every direction he is able to even with the limited range of motion, but it's to no avail. The harder he struggles the more forceful the restraints seem to close in on him, mirroring his strength.

"I'm sorry it had to come to this. I really hoped there was another way but every life in the whole of the universe is at stake, Miguel."

Hot burning anger spears through him, and if he could he would raze it all to the ground with it. This place, this world and this fucking traitor standing there can all fucking burn. Miguel is gonna kill him. He's gonna kill this fucking bastard. He can't believe he trusted him.

“Strange, fucking let me… Stephen!”

He hears your pained shout and snaps his head towards the sound.

Miguel is only ten feet away from you. Ten measly feet from where the Green Goblin is holding you by the ledge of the rooftop. He can still reach you, if he can get free he can still save you. 

Tearing through the magical binds, there’s a bone-cracking sound in his shoulder. Searing pain spreads through his arm. For all his struggles, he doesn't know if he’s even an inch closer towards you. 

He watches you drop from the ledge. 

It's a pin drop moment where everything stops. His heart is no longer beating. 

No. This can't be how it ends.

He's moving forward, even as the sharp restraints digs into his limbs and flesh and burrows in with an excruciating ache. But the pain doesn't matter. All that matters is you.

It claws into him, and digs and tears, until he is sure that his entire limbs are going to be torn off, but he doesn't stop, keeps pulling against the resisting strength that surrounds him, rips against the hindrance embracing every ounce of the pain until finally, the pressure gives.

There's a cacophony of sound that's left behind him as he leaps through the air. He slingshots downwards, cutting through air as he tries to reach you.

Miguel catches your hand and relief fills his chest.

"I got you. I got you," he murmurs. He's not sure if those words are to calm you or himself.

Pulling you up in defiance of the pull of gravity, he tries to haul you up towards him. Your hand squirms in his, and if you keep going you're going to slip out of his grasp.

"Nena, don't move," he shouts in alarm, but you don't stop, twisting in all directions, making it harder for him to get a better grip.

What're you– You're resisting against his strength, why would you...

It hits him with a sickening realization.

You don' want him to save you.

"Stop!" he shouts. “Stop!”

You shake your head, tears filling the corner of your eyes that flow upwards and everything is upside down to him. 

"We’re out of time. You have to let me go,” you say. 

His fingers squeeze down even harder at your words, refusing to hear it. 

“There's still time. There are still other options. I can still save you!” 

Your hand reaches for the amulet pressed against your collarbone. Dread floods every nerve in his body as he sees your fingers squeeze around it.

"No!" He shouts. Screams it so loud it burns in his lungs. But deep down he knows it's not going to make any difference. "Nena, don't!"

The wind whips too loudly against his face. The sound of your heart pounding so painfully hard in his ear that it's deafening and he knows that sound will haunt him forever. 

You're scared.

He sees your lips move, but he can't hear what you're saying.

But he's heard these words so many times before from your lips that he knows them by heart. 

''I love you.''

An invisible force blasts away at him, it shatters through him through his limbs and torso into the very soft tissue of his stomach and makes his teeth shake. He's propelled upwards, unable to control his movements or defy the gravity that he's learned to navigate after all these years mid-air.

He holds on as hard as he can to your hand, but it doesn't matter. His fingers slip, his grip is lost.

You're falling through the sky.

Miguel doesn't remember much after that.

Somehow he makes it back onto the ground.

Somehow he finds you amongst the cracked dirty concrete. 

Somehow, despite falling from over a 100 feet your body is still intact where it lies lifeless on the ground.

Your bones are broken though. Body limp and soft in his arms in a way that has never felt more wrong to him. His only consolation is that you're still warm in his arms, and he thinks that maybe if he just doesn't let go, if he holds you tightly pressed to him the way he is doing now, it'll remain that way forever.

The sky has cleared above. There are no cracks in the azure blue canvas.

This world is saved. 

His world has ended. 

~ Next Issue

Dedication & Credits: To @thirstworldproblemss who has been with me on this journey since chapter one without her enthusiasm and her companionship and friendship and listening to my wild ramblings about this story, I would never have set out to write this thing. She gave me so much joy in the process, she also gave me her time and her skills and brainy talent to help me process and brainstorm this into a shape that I was excited to share with you all! You also have her to thank for that devastating last line.

@guruan who has been a constant well of inspiration with her amazing art, her bright sense of humor and her sharing of theories of what's going to happen! You've made writing this story so much fun!

Author's note: Here we go guys, we've officially entered the final arc now. With only three chapters to go! I am so excited to share the remaining puzzle pieces with you all!

[wwaheoh]

"Celebrity Worship" Robin x gnReader, SFW(?), Angst

a/n: contains blood, stabbing, and themes of possesiveness. jfc it was so hard to find a png pic of robin and not a webp pic its like the new fake transparent shit

Dating a celebrity was hard. Worrying about the paparazzi, time restraints, not being able to go out in public without security, overprotective brothers- though that could just be this specific case, rabid fans, the list goes on. Knowing this, you still accepted Robin’s feelings. It was great, she was the most wonderful person, spending time with her was never dull, and you accepted all of her. The problem was, everyone else.

You would be with her on a walk from a nice dinner when a news reporter would exclaim, “Robin!”, leading the vultures known as paparazzi to immediately circle in from out of the woodwork. Flashes of lights and yells blinding overriding your senses.

Days where you were at your shared home, you’d see fans of Robin loitering around. All for the sake of seeing their precious idol.

On social media, people would talk about how they wished for you two to break up or that you’d somehow die. Stating how you weren’t enough for the superstar and how you were undeserving. Even going so far as to send death threats in your comments or private messages. You always blocked them and tried to pay it no heed. Never telling Robin about what happened, knowing she’d take it strongly.

She loved you, and you her.

-

Robin was hosting an event, a new expansion of the Clockie amusement park opening up and she was there to present its grand opening- as well as go on some rides and get some exclusive merch. You were behind the scenes, standing farther away and watching her do her thing.

Steps unheard behind you, a sharp pain ringing through your lower abdomen as someone shouted at you, spit landing on your face as they screeched at you. “You don’t deserve her!” Warmth trickled down as they pushed you down to the ground, another sharp pain bloomed before they were tackled by security.

You lay there, as blood trickled out of you into the puddle forming underneath. You could hear Robin screaming, having abandoned the stage and run over to your side, crying for medical support.

“No, no, please don’t leave me!”

The darkness called as your eyelids grew heavy, seeing Robin being pulled back by paramedics.

-

Several days in the ICU, the sterile smell, heart monitor, and a sobbing Robin by your bedside were your companions. There were times where Robin would have to leave, commitments already signed off on and statements to give to the press. Surgery was required but had gone off without a hitch, Robin made sure you’d gotten the best treatment possible.

There was the question of how the fan had passed security and been able to attack you. With this being a known issue, you’d think they’d have been on high alert���

One day, Robin came, with you having asked her to come so you could discuss something with her. Today was your final day, only a few more check-ups and you’d be free to go.

She arrived, a few minutes earlier than planned. The bright- if tired smile, on her face.

Setting her bag down, she walked over to your bedside. “Today’s the day you’re going to be discharged! I’m so happy you’re okay.” There was a pause, expecting you to respond. When you didn’t, she continued, “Did you want to go out and eat? I could make reservations!”

“Robin.”

“Mhm?”

“I think we should take a break…”

“H-huh? What do you mean?”

“From us… we should take a break from us.”

Over the days you spent thinking while in admittance, you realized that you weren’t cut to date a celebrity. Robin wasn’t the issue, she was kind, beautiful, inside and out. Someone who worked hard for what she wanted, genuine, with a fire in her soul. But to date a celebrity would be to be put under a microscope, millions of people wanted to be in your position, and some were crazy enough to think that they did the right thing by attacking you, both over the internet and… in person.

“You- you don’t mean that!”

Robin’s voice rose, tears streaming across her face as she moved closer.

You already regretted this. But you couldn’t do this, not with having been attacked for the sole reason of dating someone. Not right now at least.

“Please!”

You wanted to hug her, but the phantom pain in your abdomen rang throughout your body.

“Please…”

“Only for a couple months… it’s not you. Just.. I need to… recuperate.”

Robin didn’t want to keep you, but she also didn’t want you to leave. But the dove with freedom, in her eyes, was better than the dove locked in a cage.

With a hoarse voice, “Oh- okay. Just… call me, when you’re ready. I love you…”

She stood up, every step was as if she were wearing lead boots. She didn’t want to keep you but she also didn’t want you to leave. The free dove was better than being caged. She wanted you to be free, but she also wanted you to be with her. Sunday had always talked about how caging a bird was better, better to be alive than dead, no matter the cost. His words all those years ago echoed in her mind as she made her way to the door.

“I love you too.”

Your voice broke through her spiral.

Only a couple months, and you’d be back. You survived, you just needed some time.

She looked back at you, nodding with a soft smile before leaving.

[adventuringblind]

Oscar the Matchmaker: Chapter Six

Oscar Jack Piastri x Reader x Max Verstappen

Summary: The media goes crazy over the trio

Warnings: some sexual innuendo

Notes: considering the next chapter to continuation of their steamy encounter at the end. What do y'all think? 🤔

Masterlist

The build-up to the next race was terrible. The media had been swarming her at every opportunity. Even taking liberties to follow her places.

Her PR team had been keeping things as controlled as they could, but the fans are a force to be reckond with.

They left for Hungary early. She had requested they do so. She wanted time to settle down before she had to run around through people. A request which both boys made happen.

Now, she lay wrapped between them in their arms. It's a peaceful place to be. If she never had to leave, then she'd gladly stay here forever.

"Do you think the fans will still like me?" She whispers into Oscar's chest.

"My answer is still the same. Yes, they will still like you."

"If they start saying shit then I'll personally see that it stops." Adds Max. His words vibrate against her back in a soothing way. "The teams know your story. They saw what happened. You have no obligation to share that information if you don't want to."

The fans seem to be divided. Some say she has the money to make it look like she's the victim. Others say it's obvious she's the victim. Some fans are even saying that their relationship is just a massive cover.

Thankfully, her grid friends had come to the rescue. They all posted about her; about them. All of them writing things so kind it made her cry.

~

Media day came around far too soon. The boys make sure to walk her all the way to AlphaTauri, as is routine.

This time, they are joined by Lando, then they pick up Charles and George, and at some point Carlos and Alex.

The group waves her off to the safety of her garage. Watching her meet up with Yuki at the door.

"If any of the vultures ask about it, I will be setting the media pen on fire." Max claims through gritted teeth.

She thought she would be in the safe with the Thursday driver press conference. She was wrong to assume anything. Apparently, drama makes them bring her back.

It gets a little better as she sees that the other two didn't escape it either. They make space in between them for her to sit down. Charles and Pierre are on the far end of the couch chatting before things get started.

All three of them lean in for a hushed conversation.

"Plans for answering unwanted questions?" She asks.

"Sarcasm. Unless you want to answer differently." States Max and Oscar shakes his head in agreement.

They make it through the first part without any odd questions. It's the open floor where things start to get tricky.

"Will Buxton, Skay Sports: question for Max, Oscar, and Y/N." She tries to suppress a groan. Of course it would be him. The one who loves to make Max out to be a villain and her to be a slut. "How does it feel to be out to the world? Could you give us any insights into your relationship and if there is any truth to the rumors?"

Cue an angry Max and stone cold Oscar. She almost wants to laugh at Will and his poor choices.

Max goes first without anyone having to ask. "I personally feel great. It wasn't how we wanted it to happen, but I'm glad that I can hold their hands in public now."

Oscar goes next. Probably to give her time to think. "So me and Y/N have been dating since F2, and Max joined us early this year."

A shock rolls through the crowd. There's one rumor taken care of at least. Now, she can choose to do the rest nicely or sarcastically. She chooses both.

"There are a few rumors going around right now. The one about us being fake is a lie. We've been together for a while now." She looks between her two counterparts for reassurance. They give her warm smiles and encourage her to move forward with whatever she wants to say.

There is definitely a shake in her voice this time as she continues. "The rumor about me being the aggressor is also a lie. I don't need to prove anything to anyone. I've been through enough already and am not keen on reliving it. Oscar and Max can attest to the fact that I will make myself sick trying to talk about it. I order to not cause a scene, I will no longer be speaking about the matter."

She comes out of the press conference and immediately falls onto the ground, clutching her stomach. She's grateful her PR manager is there waiting for her. Otherwise, she probably wouldn't be able to keep going.

Oscar and Max help her up, watch her drink some water, and then return to their own garages.

"Do you want to try and get media over with now? Or do you want to wait a bit?"

She can't help but admire the level headedness of the kind woman beside her as she will be losing her patience with the questions she's been trying so hard to push away.

~

Max wants to scream. Maybe even punch something. Or preferably, someone.

He storms his way through the media pen. Nobody even stops him as he does. His PR manager told him to him to go find Oscar as the Aussie has apparently been getting the brunt of the inappropriate questions since their female counterpart had been escorted away for a break.

The trio and their PR managers have a new group chat for this very reason. The drama of their coming out has made all six need to stay in communication.

So, when he got word, he was released to go help his partner escape the awkwardness of the situation. Because nobody is going to mess with Mad Max and make his partners uncomfortable.

He finds Oscar in the middle of answering a question. A microphone to his mouth and eyes flickering everywhere searching for an answer he doesn't have.

Without any hesitation, Max stands right next to his boyfriend and interjects himself into the conversation.

"Speak of the devil, here is Max right now!" says the interviewer enthusiastically. "I was just asking about the nature of your relationship since you are a world champion and dating not one, but two rookies."

Oh, the nerve. Max has half a mind to ask the interviewer who's dick he had to suck to get his job and see how he likes it. "Not sure what you're implying, Mate?" Max tilts his head in feigned confusion. He can just barely see the two PR managers almost giggling out of the corner of his eye. The Dutch has a way of making the media regrat they ever asked such things.

"Just wondering how things between the three of you work. You know- If you're helping them in their career at all."

He feels about ten seconds away from jamming the microphone into the reporter's skull. But he refrains since his PR manager is even letting him do this.

"I honestly don't think they need any help. If you're implying that they are using me, I'm using them, or this is anything other than our love and respect for one another, then I will kindly ask you to fuck off." Max grabs Oscar's hand and the Aussie tries to give a PR worthy smile. The two walk over to their managers and both are shaking their heads at him.

~

All three of them collapse in a heap on the bed. Media day was absolutely exhausting. The trio had been dragged through a PR nightmare on loop.

"If I never talk to a reporter again, it'll be too soon." Max grumbles. The other two hum I'm agreement.

It took a minute for the two males to make out the small whisper of 'I'm sorry.' The female had been guilty about everything that happened. She has started to constantly apologize for things out of her control.

"I think I know the perfect way to relax and pull your head away schat."

Oscar runs his fingers along her spine. His eyebrows quirk up at Max in curiosity.

~

A bath.

Max's plan is a bath.

She's grateful that the Dutch has a bath bigger than the other two. It's not massive in the way of a hot tub. Yet it's perfect for the three of them.

The water is warm on her skin. Her back rests against Oscar's chest. Max is facing them to make the space more comfortable, but she wishes he were right next to them so she could lean on him too.

Even after everything, they are still here. Something about that thought makes her feel warm and fuzzy inside.

"Have you heard from your family this weekend, Osc?" She asks. The Aussie had been summoned home by his mother and demanded he bring his two partners along with him.

"Pretty sure my family loves you two more than me." He laughs. "What about you, Maxy?"

Max lets out a heavy sigh and sinks further into the water. "Dad has been texting me occasionally, but I've been ignoring him. Mom and Victoria want to meet you both in person soon." A small smile tugs at Max's lips. The Dutch loves his sister and his niece and nephew. "And you Schatz?"

She grimaces at the thought. "A few texts here and there."

"About?"

"How I should come home and pray away my sins." She rolls her eyes. "They think you two should do the same. That all of us need to stop whoring around."

Oscar smirks into her neck. "The only thing I intend on worshipping is you."

She can feel the heat rise in her cheeks at the implications.

Max sits up again and leans closer to her. "Or maybe you want to be on your knees praying to a different alter."

And there is is. Every working brain cell turned into mush. She whines at the thought. Almost shocking herself at the noise.

It's going to be a long night.

[hotdaemondtargaryen]

GAYLE RANKIN INTERVIEWED BY VULTURE MAGAZINE.

Alys’s motives are unclear, and her expanded interactions with Daemon are a change from Fire & Blood, in which all that’s written of their relationship is “Whatever her powers, it would seem Daemon Targaryen was immune to them, for little is heard of this supposed sorceress whilst the prince held Harrenhal.”

(She’s also seemingly no longer a wet nurse with breast milk “that flowed so abundantly” it “nourished countless babes born of other women at Harrenhal.”)

Yet her willingness to call Daemon on his shit — Rankin says “no” ten times when I ask whether Alys cares about his obsession with being called “Your Grace” instead of “my prince” — and her unapologetically spooky aura give the character a decidedly different feel from the original in George R.R. Martin’s source material.

WHETHER ALYS IS CAUSING DAEMON'S VISIONS OR JUST INTUITING THAT HE'S HAVING THEM, SHE QUICKLY IDENTIFIES THAT HE'S MADE A LOT OF MISTAKES WITH THE WOMEN IN HIS LIFE. SHE CALLS HIM OUT ON HOW HIS STRATEGY FOR THE RIVERLANDS IS HURTING WOMEN IN PARTICULAR. DOES ALYS HAVE A GUIDING PHILOSOPHY CONNECTED TO A KIND OF FEMINISM?

"Yes, absolutely."

"It’s hard not to."

"It’s the perspective I come from as a person on the planet."

"As an artist, I’m really curious about uplifting women and disenfranchised peoples of all kinds."

"That’s part of what this show is about, if this is like the female Game of Thrones."

"Olivia and Emma do an incredible job of paving the way for nuanced stories about women in power, and Alys comes in as an extra foil to that narrative."

THERE'S SO MUCH AMBIGUITY, RIGHT? WHETHER SHE IS INSPIRING DAEMON'S DREAMS, WHETHER THE MEMBERS OF HOUSE STRONG ACKNOWLEDGE HER AS A BASTARD RELATED TO THEM. WHEN YOU'RE PLAYING WITH THAT MUCH MYSTERY, HOW DO YOU DEFINE THE BOUNDARIES OF THE CHARACTER FOR YOURSELF?

"It’s a thing I was struggling with every day."

"How do you play someone who is mysterious? How do you ground them, and make her a person with wants and needs and desires? As this season unfolds, you start to feel like there’s a story there, a person and a history."

"I know it."

"It was really personal."

"That was a lot of work I had to do privately, and hopefully we’ll feel and see more specific details at some point."

WHAT KIND OF STUFF DO YOU THINK ALYS GOT UP TO IN HARRENHAL BEFORE DAEMON SHOWED UP?

"I do believe she’s a maester of sorts, and a healer in many senses of the word."

"Whether or not Alys’s potions are actually potions, she’s kept Harrenhal on its feet for generations, in terms of just like, keeping people alive — or not."

I DO LOVE THE LINE SHE SAYS THE PREVIOUS MAESTER "JUST NEVER SETTLED IN."

"Well, there wasn’t enough room, you know." [Laughs]

"It’s a pretty hard job keeping Harrenhal afloat, keeping everybody safe and well, and keeping control."

"It’s a powerful space in and of itself, maybe one of the most powerful, and to have this woman running it, essentially, is really fascinating to me."

"She’s kind of like the First Lady of Harrenhal, if there was a government."

"She knows all the really wonderful spots to go swimming and do fun, pleasurable things."

"She’s spent a lot of time figuring out how to be by herself, but that’s like a blessing and a curse after 400 years."

YOU'VE SAID ALYS "DESIRES TO BE KNOW," AND THAT'S PARTIALLY WHY SHE MAKES THIS OVERTURE TO DAEMON. DID YOU SEE THAT AS A DESIRE TO BE KNOWN PERSONALLY, OR SHE WANTS TO BE RECOGNIZED FOR WHAT SHE'S DONE TO KEEP HARRENHAL GOING?

"It’s both, but they’re in competition with one another, which I think is inherently female."

"How are we to be as women in this world? Are we allowed to be vulnerable and also ambitious? Is there room for them in our society?"

"There’s something about her that’s trying to prove maybe there is, but it’s a fight."

THE HARRENHAL SET IS SO DETAILED. WAS THERE A SPECIFIC ASPECT OF THE SET DESIGN YOU CONNECTED WITH?

"My workshop was so specific."

"I hope we get to go back there."

"I loved how tactile it was — I had a bunch of ingredients that I could build the potion with."

"It was very comforting and it made me feel like I had been there for centuries."

"It felt very lived in and feminine, like a sanctuary, you know?"

"This tells me something about this person, that they have fought hard to build something for themselves, an identity."

WHAT WAS THE SUBSTANCE YOU WERE WORKING WITH YOUR MORTAR AND PESTLE?

"It was blackberries and crushed-up rose petals and some other dried fruit, I think dried oranges."

"It got to a point after so many takes where I was like, I have to stop adding things into this, I really don’t know what’s in this now, which is amazing for the scene."

"I’ll let the audience decide whether or not it’s on purpose that she lets Daemon see that she’s tasting it first. But who knows what Alys can withstand?"

"It’s an interesting question about daring him on and seducing him in some way, too."

THERE IS FAN THEORY THAT ALYS AND THE RED PRIESTESS MELISANDRE FROM GAME OF THRONES ARE THE SAME CHARACTERS. DO YOU HAVE A REACTION TO THAT?

"I would say that there are no other characters that have been repeated in the House of the Dragon world, so I’m not sure why we would start now."

YOU'VE TALKED ABOUT FEELING DRAWN TO GREEN AS A COLOR, PARTIALLY BECAUSE OF YOUR BIRTHSTONE, PERIDOT. IS THERE A SPECIFIC COLOR THAT YOU ASSIGN TO ALYS?

"Purple."

"The dress I wear — that’s like her uniform, really — is purple."

"Purple is actually quite a royal color, and I like it because it’s neither green nor black, and it’s not attaching itself to any side."

"Alys has her own identity and she travels in some ways right down the middle."

"It’ll be interesting to see where we go in terms of her color palette."

HARRENHAL IS IMPLIED TO BE INCREDIBLY HAUNTED. DO YOU HAVE A FAVORITE PIECE OF HAUNTED-HOUSE MEDIA?

"I recently rewatched the Kristen Stewart movie Personal Shopper, by Olivier Assayas."

"That movie undoes me: There’s something so grounded and realistic about it that I could imagine that happening to me."

"There’s something weirdly Harrenhal-y about it, too, because of the water and the kind of damp, echoey, very subtle beginning of the presence."

[threestarsaboveclouds]

I know your work doesn't really pertain to it, but do you ever take a moment to examine some of the fauna inhabiting your facility grounds? If so, have you found any creature that is particularly interesting or unique?

TSAC: In the past I had little interest in watching the local fauna. However, now I must pay close attention, out of necessity.

The wildlife around my facility grounds began to encroach on my superstructure after my creators’ departure. At first I paid the animals little mind, but this changed after a number of concerning outage alerts in my Industrial Sector.

I soon discovered that a colony of Scavengers had taken refuge in the abandoned factories there. I did not think that Scavengers were living on my facility grounds, but it’s possible that they migrated from far away. The mountain climate is quite harsh, but Scavengers are very hardy creatures, as I would soon come to learn.

The Scavengers took an interest in my pearl manufacturing plant, and proceeded to tear apart my replication equipment for scrap metal and ransack my pearl supply. They eventually began approaching my superstructure, no doubt in search of more pearls. If they were to breach my walls, it would be disastrous for me... I hate to think about what would become of my Data Archives.

I found unlikely allies in the Vultures living on my superstructure’s walls. They are quite adept at dispatching Scavengers. I am lucky that Vultures are numerous in my mountains… I’m not sure what state I would currently be in if they were not here.

I have been using some of my observation equipment to influence their behavior- Vultures are attracted by the beams of my observatories’ laser guide stars, likely because they resemble the beams emitted by the grubs they like to eat. It is a shame that they are too large to enter my chamber, otherwise I would attempt giving one of them the Mark. It would certainly make negotiations with them much easier. At least for now, the Vultures are doing a good job of discouraging the Scavengers from scaling my walls.

…so, to answer your question: yes, I do spend a significant amount of time monitoring the local fauna, certainly much more than I have in the past. I must, to ensure the safety of my facility’s infrastructure.

However… I will admit that I have been using some of my free time to analyze the behavior of the local Vulture colonies. My structure’s roof and walls are home to quite a few of them, and their activities are much more nuanced than they might appear at first glance.

Did you know that Vultures actually have a complex social structure? The hierarchy of their colonies is determined in part by their bone-plaster masks, which can be used to identify leaders in a given group. They are quite intelligent as well, able to work together to hunt in packs to surround and pick off prey. Some even have detachable horns attached to their heads, which they can propel from their mandibles to spear prey from a distance! This may have been a feature added to their distant bioengineered relatives, which has been adapted into a hunting strategy! In addition, a close genetic relative to both Vultures and Miros birds has an adaptation of this feature that allows them to fire a type of explosive. These "Miros Vultures" are quite rare and averse to daylight, but I have been able to observe a few beneath my superstructure’s underhang…

…

… ah. I’m afraid I’ve gotten distracted.

I hope this answer was satisfactory?

[retiredkat]

Great interview with Eric Bogosian

Vulture article

Eric Bogosian Would Get Naked for Interview With the Vampire 10:31 A.M.

Daniel Molloy is a fictional two-time Pulitzer Prize winner, bullshitometer, and sass-kitten, an aging journalist holding his own among monsters while conducting the titular Q&A at the heart of Interview With the Vampire. With clear-eyed wit and a dash of human vulnerability, Eric Bogosian gives Molloy a distinctly Anthony Bourdain–ish edge infused with notes of his own acerbic Talk Radio character Barry Champlain. In Anne Rice’s book and the movie that followed, Daniel Molloy is a cub reporter trembling over his tape deck. But in Rolin Jones’s brilliant AMC adaptation, which just wrapped up its second season, this isn’t Molloy’s first twirl around the vampire hoedown. The conversation takes place 50 years after that first interview ended in blood, gore, and sexual frustration (Luke Brandon Field plays the younger Molloy in flashbacks, including this season’s standout episode five). Now Molloy’s seen it all, has a loaded past with these vamps, and when he trembles, it’s from Parkinson’s, rarely nerves. Molloy’s the audience surrogate, cutting through Louis (Jacob Anderson) and Armand’s (Assad Zaman) competing narratives while ultimately shipping Loustat just like the rest of us.

This delicate dynamic got slammed into a concrete wall and lit on fire (complimentary) in the final minutes of the season-two finale, when Molloy was revealed to have been turned into a vampire by Armand, breaking the ancient vampire’s centuries-long incel streak. And boy, is it a reveal, with a cocky Molloy, riding high on his best-selling book, whipping off his sunglasses at night to reveal color-changing eyes while doing mental walkie-talkie with Louis. He’s even got a sick leather jacket to really hammer home that he’s a cool bad-boy vampire now. It’s an incredibly fun beat to leave this character on and opens up a world of season-three possibilities for Bogosian as a performer who, at 71, has always wanted to play a vampire.

Do you know how weird it is to be hitting record on my MacBook right now to interview you about playing a character who’s always hitting record on his MacBook to interview people?

It’s all weird to me. I’m from another century, so all these things are new to me.

This is suspiciously sounding more and more like an interview with a vampire by the minute! Which makes sense, considering where we last saw Daniel in the finale.

Since we have multiple narratives and jump around in time already, I don’t know where things are going. Personally, I’d love to see more of young Daniel, Luke Brandon Field. I think he’s terrific. I’d love to see more Claudia. I wonder whether vampires can time travel. I think they can move around in time. I’m not sure how much Anne Rice you’ve read, but Merrick can actually bring people back from the dead, so you never know.

What was your relationship to the books when you signed on to this show?

In the mid-’70s, when Interview With the Vampire came out, I was 20-something and reading that stuff and I loved it. Then I got distracted by life. When we started doing the show, I was going to read the first one again, but then I realized that the script and my character were quite different, so I thought, I better stick to the script.

However, I needed to know what happened next, so I started plowing through the books and it was amazing. The Vampire Lestat was a trip — that’s what they’ll be hitting next — and they just got trippier and trippier. I just finished the seventh, which puts all the stories together. I love Anne Rice because her imagination is completely unfettered and she plays with really deep themes in a way that’s not heavy. It’s not like you’re reading Ayn Rand; it’s more like Stephen King. She explores death in the guise of these vampires by asking, Oh yeah, you wanna be immortal? Here’s what immortal looks like.

I’ve always been a big fan of vamps. I lobbied Francis Ford Coppola to get a part in his Dracula in the ’90s. I guess I wasn’t a big star, so I couldn’t get a part in it, but he was nice about it and invited me to set. I’ve told this story in other interviews, but my wife was directing a play in Chicago, which, totally by coincidence, was written by one of our first-year writers. On the plane there, I was thinking about life, thinking, I’ve done so many things. What’s left? And I thought, Man, I still really want to play a vampire. And when I landed, I got a phone call: “Do you want to be on Interview With the Vampire?” At the time, it wasn’t like, “You’re going to be a vampire,” but I figured vampire-adjacent was good enough. And of course, it evolved, and as I got on set, Assad was explaining all of these things that were going to happen with my character. Sometimes I didn’t even want to hear about it because we never know what’s going to happen. There have been slight detours off the main story, particularly with my character.

What were those things you didn’t want to hear about your character that Assad was talking about?

I become, you know, under his spell in later stories, and there’s a whole relationship that goes on between us. I’m not entirely clear at this point how that’s going to shake out or if it’s going to shake out. I didn’t necessarily want to go waltzing into something where they were making me do anything weird or awkward or embarrassing to no particular end. I’ve done nudity and stuff like that a long time ago, and at 71, I’m not really big on getting naked and sexy onscreen.

However, having been around the genius of Rolin Jones for two years, whatever he wants to do, I’ll do it. When you’re around a master like this, it becomes a process of discovery. When I’m learning my lines it’s like, Oh, this is 3-D chess. There’s a lot going on here that I didn’t see the first time I read it. When I first got this job, I thought I was just going to be doing bookends every episode, like, “So, tell me the story,” and then it would be vampires the whole time, and at the end I’d be like, “Hmmm!” And then, “stay tuned for the next episode!” But Rolin had this idea from the beginning and it went deeper and deeper until it was insane by the end of the second season.

I would prefer not to be playing cliché. Sometimes I’m playing something that feels like a lot of other things I’ve done. Even in the service of a show that is terrific, like Succession or Billions, the things I’m doing on those shows are not things I’ve never done before. As a friend of mine said when I was doing Under Siege 2 with Steven Seagal 1,000 years ago, “They just want you to do that Eric thing you do.” My stage stuff is about being very big and very loud, and a lot of the stuff I do on-camera is like in Uncut Gems, being very angry and very broad. But this thing, particularly in the fifth episode, and going into the end — I have to go places that I’ve never gone as an actor before. The subtlety of episode five, where I am brought to tears, that’s new stuff for me, and I was really happy to do it. Not only working with Rolin and the directors but with everybody. The writers bring a lot of sensitivity, a lot of nuance to every scene.

I need to ask if you’ve seen this: Someone from the writers’ room tweeted a picture of a note card that was on the wall for episode five and it just says, “MOLLOY ASKS ABOUT 1973: DID WE FUCK?”

I love that beat. As much as I’m known for my verbosity, I love reaction stuff, too. Jacob and I are very in sync, and we’ve developed a good relationship. He’s not holding back, he’s not being cagey, and that allows you to trust the other person a lot. You’d be amazed how some actors … are actually not good actors. They’re thinking about what they look like and all this crap. Jacob can’t be thinking about what he looks like because sometimes he looks really nasty. He’s letting the emotions build out of him. And yet he’s always very adept at sculpting what he’s doing. It’s a great company. I never work with Sam, I just see him all the time on set, but that scene in the courtroom, and the scene in New Orleans … where’s that shit coming from? The emotion is wild.

You all have incredible chemistry with each other, too. Knowing where your character might go with Armand, or what other buried history may or may not also be between them, how do you play that dynamic?

In scripted narratives, you’ve just got to play what the script is doing and let the audience try to figure out the rest of it. On Succession, I worked with Sarah Snook, and her character was never clear until the end. They were making it very hard to figure out what she was thinking. And I don’t know that she always knew herself what she was thinking. She was playing the script.

There are a lot of ways to look at it, and ask, What’s really going on here? Much of it is the audience putting it together. They hear the lines, they see my face, and an older actor’s face kind of has a narrative built into it. All of it gets put together, and what you don’t know becomes fodder for your imagination.

And this audience has quite the imagination.

I’ve never been through this experience before, exploring where the audience is at. I’m reading a lot of the blogs, and they make a science out of it. Rolin gives them all they can eat in terms of details and Easter eggs that are blended into the story. I think like 30 percent of our audience is really familiar with the books, so they’re constantly checking back and forth between Anne Rice’s story and ours. So far, Rolin’s been scoring pretty well in terms of being consistent with the original material.

But again, Daniel is a whole different ball of wax. The Armand thing is interesting, because it goes into all kinds of fascinating realms far away and weird. I had to get out history books and start reading about ancient Kyiv.

The fans aren’t even just pulling from the books; I’ve seen some draw comparisons from your work like Sex, Drugs, Rock & Roll. They’re finding all these crazy parallels.

That I haven’t seen. The character in this show and me in real life have a lot of parallels. Just imagine young Daniel in the show, that was my life. The funny thing is when I used to write and perform these monologues, in my mind they didn’t have anything to do with me. And then last year, Andre Royo, who played Bubs on The Wire, did one of my shows, Drinking in America, onstage. This was the first time that I’ve watched my own solo show, and he did a great job. I started to understand the biographical aspects of these monologues. It isn’t until afterward that I can look at it and go, Oh right, this is about that. Rolin told me that they were always thinking of me for this role. He didn’t know me, so this was coming out of his enthusiasm for a movie I did 700 years ago, Talk Radio with Oliver Stone. That was based on a play I wrote for myself. What I write about has to do with a certain kind of narcissistic personality, which seems to be the theme of this TV show — they’re all narcissists in one way or another.

I’m fascinated by my character. In episode five, when he’s in San Francisco, he’s kind of a loser. That’s what Armand says: “You might as well die right now. Where’s your life going?” And yet Daniel has two Pulitzer Prizes by the time he’s an older guy. What is that about? I would almost not believe it except that it happened to me. I was leading a really dissolute life in the late ’70s into the early ’80s. I didn’t win a Pulitzer, but I was nominated in 1987 and continued to be, I guess, “successful.” So it makes sense that it happens to Daniel. But you can also ask, What motivates this? It’s a way of fighting against the world or maintaining your sanity.

I think I’ll continue to play with the push-pull of this guy if I continue with the show. In San Francisco, he says, “Make me a vampire.” Later in Dubai, he says, “No, I don’t want it, because I’ll outlive my children.” He’s going back and forth. Of course, what we don’t see in the last episode is how did he become a vamp? Did he say, “Yeah, I want to do it?” Or did he get drunk with Armand one night and when he wasn’t looking, he became a vampire? I guess we’ll find out.

I’m sure it’s the subject of dozens of fan fictions already.

I’ve gotten so close with Assad. We’ve enjoyed spending a lot of time with each other. But when he gets on set, he turns into a different person. That’s some evil shit going on there. The way he ends up in that last episode, kind of smashed, he put everything into that. It’s a lot of fun. I never got into this business to do anything other than make believe and pretend. I feel more whole when I’m being somebody else than when I’m my own self, so the more deeply we can pretend when we’re making the show, the more deeply we can get into all of this, the higher I get from it. And when you’ve got guys like this who are ready to fly, I want to go flying with them.

I know you said you don’t really know what’s happening next season, but I look forward to your vampire adventures.

Rolin keeps sending me notes saying we’re gonna have an amazing time when we start shooting again. I can’t wait. It’s just that there’s a whole formal process of how this goes, and I’m waiting for my engraved invitation from the King of AMC to say “welcome back.”

[teyums]

How They Act When Jealous

NETEYAM - He’s pretty secure in your relationship, so guys staring doesn’t bother him as much as it would the others. He knows you’re gorgeous, so how could he expect the other males not to notice your beauty as well? It honeslty makes him feel 10x luckier, knowing that he has you all to himself and no one else can touch you. However, when the glances get a little too explorative, Neteyam will bare his fangs at them only slightly to get them to look away from you. His tail will instinctively coil around your thigh to signify you are mates, and he’ll pull your body close to his with an arm around your waist. After eclipse when the two of you are alone in your hammock, he’ll show you some much appreciated, extra attention— so when the others see the plum colored markings on your neck the next day, they’ll know exactly who you belong to.

LO’AK - He’ll fight the person with no second thoughts. He doesn’t care if they were even planning on pursuing you or not, one look that lasts just a little too long on your body is enough for him to ball his fists up and try and stalk over there. “Is he making you uncomfortable? I can take care of him, just give me the word.” You’ll have to grab his arm and pull him in the other direction to redirect his focus to something else, promising him that it’s fine. We all know Lo’ak is a bit insecure, so seeing others pining after you burns a fire in him that he can’t put out. For the rest of the day, he’ll be attached to you at the hip and very touchy to reassure himself that you’re his. His hand a little lower than usual on your backside as you walk or an arm possessively slung around your shoulders; not-so-subtly toying with the beading of the stringy top that covers your chest.

AO’NUNG - the way he deals with his jealousy is unusual. Guys looking at you doesn’t upset him, he actually think it’s funny because he knows they have no chance. But when the glances push past innocent pining, he’s quiet about it. like, too quiet. He’s the type of guy where he never shuts up, so if he has nothing to say for once in his life it’s actually kind of scary. Ao’nung is someone who’s bad side you do not want to be on. You’ll look up to see a devious smirk on his face, your head tilted in confusion. All the while he’s concocting some type of plan to bring the guy out to an island, and leave him there to be eaten by sea vultures. You’ll snap your fingers in front of his face, giving him a pointing glance as a warning for him not to do anything stupid. He’ll sigh and agree only because you asked, instead settling on giving you a long, passionate kiss in front of them with a firm, two-handed grip on your bottom— one eye cracked open to make sure they’re watching. For their sake, hopefully that gets the point across.

[emilykaldwen]

The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Nineteen

Rating: Explicit

Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

Tropes: Childhood Sweethearts/Friends to Lovers, Generational Trauma and Cycles of Abuse, It's All About the Character Development, Unreliable Narrators, Multi-POV, Canon Divergent, Bisexual Aegon II Targaryen, Book/Show Mash Up, Fix-It Of Sorts, Stopping the Cycle of Abuse before it gets us all killed, Team Neutral, fairy tale vibes meets victorian medievalism meets grrm

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Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Eighteen

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Author's Note: It's been a really hard month, ya'll, but here we are! We made it. Agonizing over this chapter positively drove me mad, but so many thanks to @vampire-exgirlfriend and @darkwolf76 for their love, support, and eyes on this to help me feel a little less insane. Go give them both some love!

CHAPTER NINETEEN - When It's Pulling Me Under

Alicent breaks and tries to mend. Jace tries to find Helaena. A twist within the thread.

“Cassandra Baratheon has bled.”

The queen’s rooms were quiet. Rich green and black drapes hung open as wide as they could to allow the light in, but the panes were closed to the cool fall breeze. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, dancing along the decorative stone swirls along the mantle. The usual gaggle of women that occupied the room had been absent these past few days - her court having dispersed to deal with multiple assignments for the daily running of the castle and the wedding. Alicent looked up from the parchment before her, releasing her lower lip from the intensity of her gnawing teeth. Her gaze met Lady Lysa’s from where the elder woman looked up from her own sheaf of parchment.

“I will go and speak with Lord Beesbury on these matters, Your Grace,” she said softly, rising in a whisper of apple red silk, her usual caul replaced by a barbette and veil given the cooler weather. The way the woman turned her head, reaching for her papers, reminded Alicent of her own mother in such a swift and sharply unexpected moment, that Alicent’s chest clenched and stole her breath. Lysa Fossoway was her beacon of normalcy over the past years, but she was not her mother.

How desperately she wished her mother was here. How keenly that feeling sharpened as the other woman left and Alicent remained here, alone, with Lord Larys Strong.

His firefly-handled cane thumped softly against the rich rugs scattered about her solar and he took a seat on the chaise, settling himself down like a vulture, waiting to feast. On her secrets, on her thoughts, on wherever his tightly guarded whims struck him. Yet, she had few that she could call confidant, even if she dare not call him friend.

“Good.” The snap of the wooden pen box punctuated the single word as Alicent put away her ink and tucked away the parchments that Larys so curiously watched. “Lord Borros insisted that we have this engagement sealed before the new year and the wedding.”

It felt like when Viserys dragged himself to High Tide to present himself to Lord Corlys to beg his heir’s hand in marriage for a sullied Rhaenyra . It was beneath him, it was unbecoming, and it was exactly why, Alicent felt, Lord Borros felt he could demand the way he did.

‘I am not beholden to my father’s oaths, but I will not be taken for a fool’, the man had said. No sons of his own yet, Alicent knew that it was not his fear of being taken for a fool that had brought him blustering and demanding, but the fact that his sister, his only sibling, had sons. Both, to Alicent’s knowledge, were unwed. There existed a possibility for Helaena, one she would have to revisit later.

For now, her attention focused on the fact that it appeared Borros Baratheon thought that Vhagar would be enough of a deterrent for his sister’s sons to claim the Storm Throne from his own children.

“So that is what is to be then? Aemond to the storm, to match the tempest inside of him.” Larys tilted his head in the thoughtful way he had, his hands folded along the top of his cane. “Better, maybe, than risk quenching his fire in the snows perhaps.”

Alicent furrowed her brow. “Snows?”

“Only a turn of phrase, Your Grace. There are many eligible women in the realm to tie our Prince to. The Stormlands keep him close, rather than the cliffs of Casterly Rock or even the isolated northern houses. Northern houses, such as House Karstark offer little, while Storm’s End grants you a realm. Better than his sister as well, although I have not heard Prince Aemond express those wishes in some time.”

Alicent rolled her eyes and went to pour herself some of the mulled wine from the carafe by her window. “House Karstark, or any of the other Northern Houses, would do little for Aemond.” As for Helaena, she too had noticed her son’s waning insistence over the past few months in regards to such a betrothal. She hoped that he too realized the futility of such an endeavor.

“And it isn’t as if Lord Borros could not take another wife should-”

The clatter of her goblet on the table cut off the direction of Larys’ ponderings, and she turned on him, a sick and ugly feeling in his chest. “It is unseemly to speculate or wish for such things, my Lord Confessor,” she said tightly. “My son will marry Lady Floris. Aemond will have a position and income here at court, regardless of what the future holds,” she whispered. “He will make a fine Hand.” When her father could no longer be Hand to Aegon, Aemond would be an ideal successor.

“And Daeron could serve the crown much like Ser Criston. Now everyone is taken care of.” A soft chuckle filtered into the room and sent a shiver up Alicent’s spine. “You have done well for your children, Your Grace. It is good that they at least have a mother who cares for them so.”

“Someone has to. If my son is not his father’s heir, then he should be taken care of. The realm knows too well the idleness of second sons and unhappy brothers.” She shook her head, unflinchingly meeting Larys’ disquieting gaze and the amused curl of his mouth. “If the king would not even be amenable to the idea of Aegon being his sister’s heir, then something must be done.”

A pulse of a headache thrummed behind her eye. Aemond chafed already beneath his brother, beneath the duty that had spurred him to his lessons, to his training, but she knew Aemond would want more. He hungered for more and she could not give it to him. Would her ambitious boy be content with his child married to Cassandra’s heir? ‘He would have to,’ she thought, though her fear persisted. This was the cost of duty.

“Have you only come to speak of Lady Cassandra’s state of non-pregnancy, or have you come to drop news that Helaena is with child.” The pointed non-question was sharper than she might have normally intended but the onset of having to tell Aemond, her angry, precious son, would give her a fit the way anything difficult aggravated her husband and king.

“All goes accordingly, my Queen,” Larys said, nonplussed, and if anything, the amusement was lingering there. Alicent hated the small feeling it gave her. No, not small, she realized; not small as how her father or even Viserys made her feel.

Larys made her feel trapped.

“Very good then. If there’s nothing else, Lord Larys-” The sharp, heavy knock on the door mercifully broke into the tension and Alicent could barely contain her desperate tone. “Enter!”

Gwayne was the most welcome sight behind the door, his doublet so deep green as to be almost black, the fabric of his gray shirt poking between the ties of his sleeves. The silver buttons were stamped with the High Tower and the flames atop it. The angles of his face reminded her so much of Aemond, but she could see all of her boys in that face. The sharpening of Aegon’s jaw, Daeron’s nose. Warm, brown eyes took her in before looking over her shoulder as Larys scraped his way to standing.

“Ser Gwayne,” the lord greeted and she felt, more than saw, her brother stiffen slightly. Gwayne had not been here long, but his dislike of the Master of Whispers had been a decisive one. Her brother was firm in his manner, much like their father; once lost, no good favor could be regained.

“Lord Larys. I’ve come to pull our Queen from these shady interiors to take a turn in the fresh air. I’m sure you also have much to attend to.” Not that the solar itself wasn’t brightly illuminated, stained glass windows sending streaks of colored light about the room, and Theraxis, Abby’s cat, was sprawled in a patch of warm light that the stained glass windows turned his gray fur purple and orange.

“Who would I be if I kept her Grace from spending time with her much missed brother,” Larys said, inclined slightly to Alicent. “I shall take my leave then. Good day to you both.”

As soon as the door shut, Gwayne’s blue eyes, their mother’s eyes, pinned her.

“I mislike you having private conference with that man. Where is Lady Lysa? Or Cole?”

Alicent raised an eyebrow. “You mislike.”

“I do.” He seized an apple from the basket on the table. Brown hair, once sandy blonde as Daeron’s in youth, fell into his eyes. He kept it short, as Aegon, and the sight of him had her wonder if things would be easier had her eldest looked more like her. “He is a foul man, and I do not like the way he watches you.”

She rolled her eyes at her brother’s protestation. Touched as she was by his protectiveness, it was too many years too late. “Well, Lord Larys is the Master of Whispers for a reason. There is a certain unsettling that comes with the position.”

Gwayne rolled his eyes this time and bit into the apple, the fruit crunching loudly. “I still do not like it.”

“You do not have permission to pass judgment and disapproval as you made the choice to leave.” Resentment rose ugly in her throat, her voice not her own; a fragile thing, a girlish cry. Her nails scraped along her wrist as she turned away from him to her desk, eyes unseeing as she reached for the first paper. “I had to make my own protection.”

“Ali-”

“No,” she snapped, shaking her head. “You left.” Then I lost Rhaenyra. “And do not claim it was your injury. You couldn’t wait to flee back to Uncle Rodrik. How sad it must have been for you to instead be sent back to the Tower.” Instead of staying there, with her, so she would not be alone, so their father would not be so bold as to push and press and bear down upon her. Bitterness dripped from her voice and the sound of tearing filled her ears. Alicent looked down to see how she’d torn the acceptance from Dragonstone for their presence at the wedding.

She felt like she would be sick.

A strange sound escaped her throat. It sounded like a growl or a wounded whine. Alicent could not be certain. What she was certain of was Gwayne’s arms wrapping around her from behind, holding her bones together as she felt like she would shatter. Her brother said nothing and for that she was grateful.

Fear tangled between her ribs, pulling them apart and compressing them just as tightly so she felt like she couldn’t breathe no matter what. Gwayne held her tightly, held her bones together, kept her body from bursting into a thousand shards. She gasped for air, tears hot in her eyes but refusing to fall. At some point, they ended up on the floor, the deep green of her skirts pooled around them as she leaned into her brother and he rocked her much as he did when she was young, when they would play knights and dragonriders in the gardens, when mother was there, and she’d fall and scrape her knee, or he had whacked her too hard with the stick, or Rhaenyra was angry when her moods got the better of her.

“I’m sorry,” Gwayne said softly, so softly she could barely hear it and her nails bit into the thick fabric of his doublet.

“You could have stayed,” she cried, her fist hitting his bicep. “You could have stayed, I needed you!” Her brother had nothing to say to that, he only squeezed her tighter as she finally wept, her fears tumbling out of her. “Why did he do this to me if they do not matter to him? They’re his blood too and he never cared, he never cared. He begged for sons! He begged for them and I gave him sons and it didn’t matter so what was it for?”

Alicent wept bitter tears, pushing and biting her fingers into her brother, who sat there, quiet and unmoving as she tore into him. The months, the years bubbled up in her, all the shattered dreams and the fear and the confusion, the immeasurable pain that had stripped away everything inside of her until she was whatever she was now, a stranger to herself. “They’ll kill them, Daemon or whomever seeks to curry favor with Rhaneyra, and he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care and they treat me as if I’m mad.”

She wasn’t mad. She knew that she wasn’t, everyone knew that she wasn’t, but much like the king never put Lord Corlys in his place all the times the man stormed out of the Small Council, Daemon perched as a vulture on Dragonstone for months without recourse until he stole an egg, Rhaenyra escaping recourse and being covered for her indiscretions. Had Alicent’s own children be fathered by Ser Criston, to pass off as trueborn children, her own fate would not be so kind.

Why had no one sought to protect her, the way the king, mercurial in his affections towards his eldest child to begin with, still protected Rhaenyra?

Alicent did not know how long they sat there, the gasping and the tears, the undulating pressure around her middle ebbing and increasing until it finally started to fade. Gwayne’s hand slowly stroked her back in soothing motions, his cheek resting upon her head. As the silence grew and her sobbing eased, her brother finally spoke.

“I’m here now,” he said. “And if you wish me to stay with you instead of accompanying the boys to Harrenhal, I will.”

She shook her head. “Aegon will need you. Guide him, help him. He’s doing so well, I’m so afraid that he will slip…”

“You are afraid of everything, aren’t you?”

Alicent scoffed, wet and stuffy nosed. “I am being realistic. I need someone there who will tell me if I need to intervene-”

“Alicent.” Gwayne shifted, his voice sharp enough to draw her attention and she looked up at her brother, meeting his blue eyes with her own brown. Gwayne had their mother’s eyes, the Reyne eyes. Would her grandchildren hold those eyes as well? Or would Aegon’s Valryian gaze overpower them? “Let him grow. Let him have a chance away from here.”

“And if something happens to him?” Her lower lip trembled and she bit down on it so hard it hurt. Her brother’s mouth twitched in a smile. Sad, fond.

“He cannot thrive if you are tangled around him like a choke vine.”

“And what of father?” she whispered, harsh and unnerved.

“I’ll handle father,” Gwayne reassured, or attempted to do so, but Alicent felt the fear pulse inside of her, the uncertainty at what felt like a foolish promise. His eyes searched her face for several moments and Alicent, unnerved, reached up to wipe her eyes with her handkerchief and tried to gather her wits. “Alicent? Do… do you want your son to be king?”

Alicent’s heartbeat thundered in her ears and she pulled back from her brother to stare at him. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out and she shut it with a click of her teeth that longed to nash and rend those around her. A fresh wave of tears burned in her eyes but did not fall this time. She pressed her handkerchief into her eyes, took a deep breath, and felt in her bones.

“Aegon may not want it, but it is the only way to protect us. Viserys will not. Rhaenyra will not. I tried. I did, and I never thought she would hurt the children but…” Alicent shook her head, the fear still there, still acrid and painful. “Her callous disregard of my son, her brother’s maiming. And what they did to Laenor?” Her voice was a whisper, the fear, the shock of it that still stuck with her. “It was Daemon, to be sure, but Rhaenyra knew. And it’s that which terrifies me. Rhaenyra doesn’t have to give the command, or even raise the blade or-or bring Syrax to exact her justice. Daemon and whatever other lords seek to curry her favor will do what they think needs to be done, and that is to keep my children from being a threat, from being beacons of rebellion regardless of them being part of it or not. And if none do it for her, she will be forced to do it.”

Aegon may not want his sister’s throne, but Aemond? Her precious boy had received a grievous injury, but his sire, his father and king meant to protect him, had not cared. That night on Driftmark showed the court how utterly vulnerable Alicent and her children were, and her father had been right. She had to fight for them in a way she never had before. Aemond had risen to the challenge beside his mother, a protector, but also quiet and feral in ways that frightened her, in ways that sometimes reminded her of the way Daemon Targaryen used to stride about - a siren song of strength compared to his elder brother.

If to truly protect them meant putting her first boy, precious in his own ways, her little Aegon who was finally smiling again, on the throne? To protect them? Then so be it.

Let all they’d been through, let all she had been through, be worth it, let it mean something. Mother and Father above, please just let it have been for something.

“They speak of the great insults done to our House,” Gwayne said softly, leaning against the foot of her bed, one long leg sprawled out before him, the other bent to lean his arm on. “To not name your son heir, then why take his Hightower bride?”

“I wonder, had he married Laena Velaryon, if he would have named her son heir,” Alicent said, frustration edging into her voice. “Corlys Velaryon would not tolerate his grandson not on the Iron Throne-”

“Which is why House Velaryon has not broken with Rhaenyra,” Gwayne finished with a snort, but there was no amusement in it. “The Sea Snake wants to make a name for his house. These Valyrian politics - but what man doesn’t?”

“Viserys doesn’t,” Alicent rolled her eyes and Gwayne met her gaze, the pair of them snickering like children. She felt the tension in her chest ease with the laughter, better than tears, and pushed at her brother’s knee. “It’s guilt over Aemma Arryn’s death and the king is a stubborn man. He is easily run roughshod but when his mind is made…” She shook her head. “Had father not pushed, maybe it would have changed. But father made him feel like a fool, and Viserys cannot abide that.”

“It was not just father, though,” Gwayne pointed out. “Our house pushed for it, yes, but whispers and confusion have run rampant through this realm since Aegon was born. Women do not sit the Iron Throne. Seven Hells, Jaehaerys held a council because he could not decide between a granddaughter or grandson. What power does House Targaryen truly have if they must beg the lords of the realm to decide their succession when it should be clear, the way the rest of the realm does?”

“Dragons,” Alicent pointed out softly. There were so many dragons now, many from Vhagar, a few from eggs that Meraxes had laid - she recalled from Aemond’s excited speeches, a thick tome of dragon lineages clutched in his arms. “They have dragons.”

Gwayne’s hand reached up, fingers warm against her forehead as he pushed away a loose curl. “You are just as fierce,” he told her. “If not more.”

“Stop,” she muttered and pushed at his knee before they rose and she smoothed the wrinkles of her skirt.

The children were scattered that morning. Helaena was in the gardens with little Floris and likely Jacaerys skulking after her as he’d taken to doing when council meetings weren’t in session. He had behaved well enough, from what she had seen and what had been reported to her. Bastard born he may truly be, Jacaerys had always treated her daughter kindly. There was frustratingly little she could do with the boy now, for word would trickle back to Viserys, who would feel like he needed to roar to make himself feel in control before retreating back to his lair.

She knew that Aemond kept watch, although her boy as of late had been distracted. When not in his studies or the training yard, he was hardly to be found. Which left Aegon and Abrogail, and at least she knew precisely where they would be then.

The weeks following the festivities had seen a change in her son, and one that Alicent wasn’t sure how to feel. The dalliance with the Lefford girl aside (no bastard had taken root, and the girl had been given a place in her household until such a time a match could be made), as well as whatever foolishness he’d engaged in with Cassandra Baratheon, Aegon had performed admirably. His spectacle making tried her patience, but won admiration through the court. No longer her little boy, her first son, Aegon had come into himself in a way that Alicent had not thought him capable of, and feared that it would not last.

For all the pain that ached and clawed inside her ribs at the sight of them, the displays of affection between her son and Abrogail had also proven fruitful, and she did not sense any facet of artifice between them. When her son smiled down at his betrothed, an easing sensation coursed through her, as if the tightly spooled coil inside of her was able to release gently.

Relief. Relief that this might, in fact, work out better than she hoped.

Perhaps the girl had been right in defending Aegon, yet Alicent still held her breath, did not let her relief grow unbound. Aegon often threw himself into new pursuits, at least once upon a time. He’d let it consume him and just as she thought she found what he needed to truly take responsibility, the novelty wore off and then there they were, back where things began, her son drunk and dunked in a horse trough to sober him up.

They found the children in the small, family dining hall. Abrogail’s ladies were clustered on a set of low chairs and chaises that had been brought in. Lady Desmara Crane and Lady Merei Thorne sat on either side of Lady Wylla, silk and lace across all their laps as they worked on Abrogail’s trousseau. The Riverlands girls that Abby had taken for ladies had returned home in order to get their own things and order, and would meet the wedding party at Harrenhal. Alicent regarded their dresses - all different, and made a mental note to ensure that uniforms denoting their statuses as ladies-in-waiting were taken care of when the seamstress came for the next wedding gown fitting.

The dancing master stood at the edge of the parquet floor where her son and cousin stood, the minstrels in the corner with the Targaryen drum and other instruments. The room was cool in the early afternoon, the torches out, the curtains fluttering gently in the fall breeze. Samwell was sweet voiced, and had been in court since her wedding a score ago. He was not a particularly tall man, still plump, but the years had sharpened the roundness of his face. He still composed, but now served as a dance master, leading the court in new dances. Samwell had taught the children as well, and as Alicent watched him, his feathered cap of red and black striping bobbing in time with the music, it felt as if she were transported to a godswood and a song she never wanted to hear again.

Samwell’s exasperation was palpable, and Alicent could see the pink flushed along Abrogail’s face all the way up to her hairline.

“You go left,” he instructed her sharply, the cane he held to keep the tempo cracking loud enough to cause the children and herself to jump. “The prince turns right, as the flow of air. You are receiving him, my lady.”

“Left,” Abrogail repeated, fingers twitching in the pale blue damask of her gown. Aegon gestured in the direction she was meant to go in and the music resumed. Aegon had the steps down, but Abrogail struggled to follow the beat that was so different to the normal court dances. Alicent wondered if it was some memory of Old Valyria that thumped through her son’s veins, for she recalled that Rhaenyra and Laenor’s rehearsals had gone quickly. Alicent had mercifully been saved from such a dance, for the king had not wanted to perform it again.

A short ‘Ow!’ escaped Aegon and he jumped away as Abby apologized for stepping on his feet. Alicent sucked in her lips to hold in a laugh as Abby glared at him, snipping at him, “You are ridiculous.” Alicent clapped her hands and the music stopped, bows and curtsies from those gathered before her.

“Thank you, Master Samwell. I think that’s enough for today,” she said, watching Abrogail’s shoulders sag in relief. “You may resume on the morrow. No progress can be made when one is so frustrated.” She watched the girl open her mouth and then shut it quickly, eyes downcast. As the minstrels gathered their instruments, Alicent released her brother and approached the pair. Aegon had moved closer to Abrogail, curling a long, red curl around his finger.

Whatever her son was saying to her, Alicent could not hear, but she took the time to appreciate their closeness in a way she had not allowed herself to before. They had behaved themselves admirably in the weeks of festivities. Even as jealousy curled in her gut from the shattered dreams of her girlhood, the worries that had plagued Alicent’s days had eased as she saw how well they had gotten on, how favorably many in the realm looked upon them. Many had come to her, speaking highly of the match, how clear the pair were fond of one another.

How rare that very thing was in so many unions across the realm.

Alicent feared. She feared from the moment her eyes opened to past the time her eyes closed, feared for the safety of her children, and their happiness, unfairly, she knew, was not at the top of her concerns. To know that this might keep her son safe, to know that for the first time in years too many to count on her own hands, her son looked happy…

“I am half convinced the dance only makes sense to those with Valyrian blood,” Alicent said, a small smile crossing her face as she attempted to reassure her cousin. Abrogail’s features scrunched up uncertainty.

“Should we also not do a Riverlands dance as well?” The uncertainty left her, a small curl of a mischievous smile crossed the girl’s face as she eyed Aegon. “I’d like to see how well you perform that.”

Alicent pursed her lips at her son’s indignant look. Abrogail was not pregnant, there had been no scandals, no whispers. Whatever the girl had done to influence her son appeared to be working, the words she had said in such anger had taken root as Alicent had hoped. Aegon had thrown himself into good presentation, regardless of whatever dalliances her son had engaged in with Lady Cassandra.

“You are marrying a Targaryen, and with that comes certain expectations and obligations,” Alicent said carefully, her fingers running along the deep sleeves of her deep green gown, fingers tracing along the golden embroidery of the cuffs. “The might of the Targaryen House will be on display.” The girl nodded, eyes averted respectfully and Alicent watched her son continue to wind one of the long, red curls around his finger. He tugged on it, drawing her attention.

Alicent looked away to watch the minstrels leave the hall, the door closing with a soft thud behind them, the ladies continuing to work on their sewing. “Your brother is not here? Nor Helaena?”

“Daeron is with Helaena in the gardens. He has no interest in dancing,” Aegon rolled his eyes as Gwayne did. “He’s twelve.”

“Aemond is in the training yard with Ser Criston,” came Abrogail’s soft addition, reaching up to bat Aegon’s hand away from her hair. “He’s training for the wedding tourney.”

Aegon snorted. “Even though he complains how tourneys are nothing to real war.”

“Do not think you’ll escape the training yard with me,” Gwayne teased him. “Just be grateful I won’t have you out at sunup, given your newlywed status.”

Abrogail flushed. “Is-is everything alright, your Grace? Did something happen?” Aegon’s eyes swiveled curiously from the girl to her and Alicent smoothed her hands over her skirt.

“We would announce it at dinner, but I had hoped to speak to Floris.” she shook her head. “Lord Borros has agreed to the betrothal between Aemond and her. Obviously not for a few years - she is only a girl, but it will at least give time for her and Aemond to get to know one another.”

‘You had been only a girl’, Alicent thought. It was why she had fought so hard against her father to wait just a little longer before betrothing Aegon and Abrogail. To give the girl more time, the way her mother would have wanted, the way that it had not been afforded to her. She would do what she could for Floris.

And hopefully give Aemond time to come around to the idea.

Alicent sighed. Hopefully, her second son would be in a more receptive mood after hours having Ser Criston exhaust him with drills. “I shall go find your brother and hopefully catch him before he flees for Vhagar. Floris will be easy enough to speak to, if her sister hasn’t found her already.” She reached out, stroking Aegon’s hair, pushing the silver strands out of his eyes. The way he stiffened did not go unnoticed, and her heart ached with guilt. Her hand dropped, her smile tight and Aegon gave her a slight bow, Abrogail bobbing her own curtsy, a murmured ‘Your Grace’ whisper soft.

The moment Jace saw Aemond dominating the training yard, he felt his stomach drop and promptly went right and through the tunnel towards the gardens. While things with his uncle had been only filled with tension, Jace knew when to pick his battles and that was one he did not need to dive into.

The terraced gardens of King’s Landing featured in some of his earliest memories, when things were simpler, when the animosity and the tension hadn’t suffocated them all. In the gardens, the rest of the world fell away, much like how he felt when he rode Vermax, his jade wings skimming the waves of the sea, the salt wind in his face. The suffocating stench of King’s Landing was not so bad here, and while one was never alone - too many servants, too many lingering lords and ladies, all to ever truly be hidden - it was still a reprieve and Jace made his way down to the third terrace where the fountains were. With the fountains were mud, and he knew that Helaena would be there with her jar to dig up little things to feed her collection.

The first thing Jace heard was the laughter of children, and he spied Floris Baratheon swinging a stick rather aggressively at Daeron, whose eyes were wide in shock at the battle cry she let out. A grin broke out across his face as he gathered himself, and swung his stick back with equal fervor. Baela’s ladies - minus his step-sister who was still at High Tide - were gathered on the stone terrace along with Helaena’s new lady, eating cakes and gossiping.

Helaena herself crouched beside some of the large stones, a jar beside her as she rolled over one of the stones. Her hair was bound in a simple silver braid hung over one shoulder, her deep green gown embroidered with silver moths turned muddy and damp from the wet ground. Jace watched her pick a worm from where it clung to the stone and set it carefully away.

“Fish with feathered fins,” she said as Jace approached and he noticed her gaze was focused on her work, fingers twitching, the words nonsensical. He had not seen the expression on her face in years, had thought, mayhaps, her moments had abated over time as she grew older.

It was not the case. It was not something the princess had grown out of, and he remembered with clarity of a frantic, sobbing fit she’d had when they were children. Helaena was meant to be handled gently - Jace remembered his mother saying as much when they were young, not long after Daeron had been born. He should treat Helaena kindly, and respect when she did not want to be touched, and be mindful of loud noises. And so he did, stern with Luke when he would screech in excitement or indignation, snap at Aegon when he raised his voice. It had been the two of them playing in the halls of the Red Keep, playing a game of hide and seek, and he’d found Helaena, frozen in the hallway to his mother’s room, tears streaking down her face, clutching something to her. It had been nothing, but she would not drop her arms, and not knowing what to do, Jace had gotten his mother. Belly round with Joffrey, she’d come out, concern etched on her features and together they sat on the ground with Helaena, his mother not touching her but speaking to her in calm tones.

“The rats, the rats, the rats are coming,” Helaena had whispered in a frantic mantra.

“The rats will not hurt you, hāedus. I will go to Lord Lyonel and we will ensure there are more ratcatchers employed. I promise.” His mother said firmly and clearly, not dismissing the concern, her gaze towards him.

“And if we find a rat, we will get Abby’s cat to help catch them,” Jace had promised with a nod.

She was not crying here. She was distant from the world around them, and focused on something that wasn’t the little bugs she was dropping into the jar. Helaena was so far away and Jace kneeled beside her. The ground was wet and cold and promptly began soaking into the wool of his trousers. He ignored the uncomfortable sensation and remained beside her, curls in his eyes and reached for the scurrying little bugs to drop in the jar.

“Fish with feathered fins and storms of ivy,” she whispered. “Not that one. The red ones get ignored.”

Jace started when he realized she had addressed him in the middle of her whispers and dropped the red pill bug back onto the soft earth. It eagerly burrowed back into the soil, vanishing without a trace.

“Shall we find you a fish with feathered fins?” he asked her softly, a slight jest in his voice as he attempted to draw her back into the present moment. Helaena did not reply to him but shifted the jar better between them and he went about pulling up the next large stone to pull the bugs from beneath it.

“Promises shatter in ice,” Helaena said.

“What?”

Heleana drew back to sit on her heels, the rock falling back in place and her hands covered in mud. Her gaze appeared to fix on them and Jace watched her quietly, the sounds of Daeron and Floris’ laughter filling the garden. It felt ominous to him, the feeling rushing in like water behind a broken dam.

Tentatively, Jace lifted a hand to rest on her shoulder. “Helaena, come back to me,” he urged gently, thumb stroking against the soft wool. “You’re going somewhere and I haven’t any idea how to follow you.” He would if he could, for he knew that whatever plagued Helaea was a frightening place that she should not traverse alone, even tethered to Dreamfyre as she was.

All he could do was reach for her, and hope that she heard him.

Helaena slowly blinked, as if the act itself was something she had to remind herself or force herself to do. Jace swallowed and chanced a glance over his shoulder. Daeron and Floris were still chasing one another with their sticks, and the ladies were occupied with their chatting. He frowned with an uncertain feeling. Should her ladies not be attending her? Or did they think it best to leave her be? A sharp inhale of breath drew his focus back to Helaena. She pulled away awkwardly, hands fluttering and fingers flexing.

“I…” Helaena looked lost, confused, and she stared at him but did not meet his eyes, mouth opening and closing, words unable to escape her. Jace shook his head and kept his hand to himself in her clarity of not wanting the touch.

“You’re alright. You’re safe here.”

“Helaena?”

Abrogail’s voice carried past the hedge and she came around the bed, mouth tight, gripping tightly to Wylla Karstark’s hand. The dark haired woman looked pale, face tense as she followed.

“See?” Jace said, hoping it would comfort the princess. “Abrogail’s here.” Would that help? He felt impotent, helpless, useless in the worst possible way.

Abrogail and Wylla dropped to the other side of Helaena, the mud and damp soaking into the hems of their skirts. “How long has she been like this?” Abrogail asked, voice quiet but firm, blue eyes searching the princess’ face before looking at him.

“Since before I came.” Abrogail reached for one of Helaena’s hands, spreading her fingers out and gently stroking each of them to keep them from bending back into the anxious claws they had been. The ease of the motion spoke to how often they’d done it, Abrogail pressing her thumb gently into Helaena’s palm to ease the rigidity.

“Helaena? What is the matter?” Abrogail leaned in and Helaena did not meet her gaze but drew back, pulling her hand away and clutching both to her chest. A sound escaped her throat, small, a growl perhaps? Or a whimper? Helaena’s silver braid swung and she sharply changed direction, shifting to her knees to grab Wylla’s hand.

“Silence doesn’t mean the grave,” Helaena hissed. Wylla’s gray eyes were wide, brow furrowed in confusion as Helaena leaned in, pinning Wylla in place like a moth on one of her boards. Jace could see how tightly she gripped the other’s hand.

“Your Grace?” Wylla whispered and Helaena grabbed her now with both hands, shaking her head. Abrogail met Jace’s eyes, confused, before her gaze went to the ladies sitting on the terrace. The confusion turned to incredulity.

“Have they been sitting here this whole time?” she asked him in a calm voice, and the familiarity of it hit him in the chest. Her voice was calm, but there was nothing calm in the words. There was a quiet anger simmering beneath those words, brightening her gaze, and it reminded him so much of Ser Harwin that it took his breath away. Gentle and fierce.

Jace knew immediately that she meant, and he felt his own jaw tick as his understanding of the situation shifted. He nodded, holding her gaze, feeling a tempest inside of his chest. “I’ll stay here,” he promised and Abrogail’s gaze softened along the edges, her hand reaching out as if she meant to cup his cheek before she stopped herself. Hand still in the air, her fingers curled and with another nod, she gathered herself up to do whatever it was she meant to do.

“Don’t.”

Abrogail stilled, awkwardly half standing, Helaena’s fingers gripping her wrist. “What?”

The princess dropped a hand from Wylla to reach for Abrogail’s wrist. “Don’t,” she repeated, her head tilting, her mouth pursed in annoyance. “Don’t do that.”

“But, Helaena-”

Helaena yanked Abrogail’s arm hard enough that the unbalanced girl toppled over with a wet slap and Abrogail grimaced as the mud and wet soaked into her more uncomfortably. “They are supposed to be tending you.”

“And they are. I sent Margaery away before Jace came by.” Helaena sounded more exasperated than the annoyance that filled her actions and she gestured for Jace to hand her the jar of bugs. “You mustn’t lecture them.”

“I-” Helaena gave her a look and Abrogail shut her mouth, chastened. “I’m sorry.” In the quiet after the words, Daeron gave a shout and Jace saw him hit the ground hard, his stick sword flung out of his hand as Floris Baratheon stood over him, her own sword pointing right into his face. The ladies cheered and clapped for Floris, and offered their sympathies to Daeron. Helaena huffed and let go of Abrogail’s wrist.

“Jace was here and I was fine. Thank you, Jacaerys.” His cheeks flushed beneath her unblinking gaze, chest warm, even as the confusion of what had all happened still stormed inside of him. “He came exactly when I needed. Not too early, nor too late. I am capable of expressing my own needs.” Abrogail flushed for different reasons, fingers twisting. “What is it?”

Abrogail looked to Wylla. “The queen came to our dancing lessons-”

“Was it about how you keep stepping on Aegon’s feet?”

“I didn’t step - No!” Abrogail’s nose wrinkled with annoyance. “‘Tis not my fault dances are so complicated and that my feet do not behave. No.” A deep breath, another look, this time in the direction of Floris and Daeron. “She said that Aemond and Floris are now betrothed, she was going to find Aemond and then you.”

The silence held. Then, “Even though Wylla and Aemond have been kissing everywhere?” Helaena asked.

“But she’s eleven,” Jace protested.

The words hung in the air while it was Wylla’s turns for her cheeks to flush and Abrogail to stare at her. Jace also looked at her, surprised that Lady Wylla would even want to voluntarily get that close to Aemond, let alone kiss him.

“You’ve been kissing Aemond? And you didn’t tell me?” Abrogail’s incredulous voice was hushed so as not to pull the attention of the others.

Wylla shrugged helplessly. “It hasn’t been everywhere,” she muttered beneath the attention. “And this isn’t the point. I…” Wylla shook her head. “Prince Jacaerys is right, Floris is a little girl, does she mean to send them both to Storm’s End?”

“At least it isn’t Cassandra,” Helaena said with a frown. “No, they will not be sent to Storm’s End. Floris is my ward. She will stay with me for as long as I can keep her.” A sigh. “Floris has many years before she is to be married. Who's to say the betrothal will even last?”

Wylla looked uncertain. “You sound sure of yourself.”

Helaena looked at her. “I’m not. But Lord Borros is feckless and mercurial, he may change his mind if it means he cannot betroth Cassandra, or if he has a son.” Jace did not know if those were truly Helaena’s opinions on the matter, or if she was mimicking what her mother had said.

“Can you not break it as you did yours?” Abrogail asked. Helaena shook her head.

“Breaking my betrothal to Aegon should never have worked, and it was because our grandfather already found it distasteful that he convinced our father to break it on the eventual promise that Aemond and I might marry, and that also isn’t happening. Obviously.”

The look on Wylla’s face was one of confused near-disgust, one that Jace had seen in many outside of their family. Most found it objectionable to imagine kissing their own siblings, and Jace himself could not imagine kissing Luke if his brother had been born a girl, so he perhaps understood that.

Besides, none would find it strange if Helaena was only his cousin, for the blood they shared was the same in that regard.

“Floris will not mind if you keep kissing Aemond, Wylla, do not fear that,” Helaena continued, tightening the lid on her jar.

Wylla sputtered, glaring at Helaena. “Respectfully, Helaena,” she said, not even giving her the proper title, and Helaena looked up from her jar. “I do mind. I will not be some paramour, or continue some ill-fated dalliance with your brother just because Floris doesn’t mind. Floris is eleven and she deserves to be treated respectfully, not to mention I deserve it. I will not be shamed, or the newest subject for court gossip.” She sniffed, and Jace could not tell if she was trying not to cry, or if she was so angry she could spit. Abrogail rested a hand on Wylla’s back, lower lip caught between her teeth. Helaena shut her mouth, brow furrowed, and looked at her jar of bugs. “If Aemond suggests such a thing, I will cease everything. I will not allow him to do that to me, nor anyone else. I will push him out of a window for such a thing.”

Jace smothered his laugh into a cough at the imagery of such a threat, and had to keep from offering to assist the lady.

Helaena pressed her lips together, a little snort escaping her. “I would like to see that. He does need it sometimes,” she allowed. “I will see what mother says when she comes.” Her fingers drummed against the jar, and still, Helaena did not meet anyone’s eyes, still caught in whatever in between space that plagued her, but her words were more present, and that was truly what mattered.

Sitting there on the cold, wet ground, Jace wondered what his mother would say about all this. He had been sent to King’s Landing not just to serve on grandfather’s small council, but to be her eyes and ears amongst the viper’s nest. Any piece of information, no matter how small, could possibly become crucial to her cause. But as he sat there, Helaena’s hand drifting to rest near him, it felt like a further betrayal to reveal the conversation, even though he had, more or less, been a part of this. It wasn’t as if it had been overheard and none of the women knew he was there. They had none, and spoken openly regardless.

He could put off writing. At least for now.

AND WITH THAT! We are on our way to Harrenhal! I'd love to know what you loved about this chapter, and what you're looking forward to! Any questions or curiosities? ALSO! WE are sooooo taking bets on what (if anything?) is going to go wrong at this epic Westerosi Royal Wedding. And if you aren't sure what to say, drop a dragon emoji in the comments so I know you were here <3 and as always, thank you for being here. I appreciate each and every one of you.

[Next Chapter]

[novaursa]

Between Pride and Fire

- Summary: It was a challenge of the hunt that drew the lion to you, but it was your fire that made him yours.

- Paring: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Note: You guys can consider this to be a serious version of Flames in the West story. I'm not sure when this will fall into schedule, probably when one of my main stories is finished. It also depends how much you guys like this one.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

- A/N: Unplanned post, but since is a Lannister day on my blog: enjoy. 🙂

The Kingswood hums with the sounds of the royal hunt, a symphony of rustling leaves, hounds baying, and the occasional barked order from the hunters. The scent of pine and damp earth mingles with the sweet aroma of roasted meats from the sprawling encampment. It is a grand affair, organized to celebrate Prince Aegon's second nameday. Tents of crimson and black flutter in the breeze, and courtiers buzz with laughter and gossip like a swarm of bees.

You walk side by side with your elder sister, Rhaenyra. The sunlight filters through the canopy above, casting dappled patterns on her face as she strides gracefully, her expression a mixture of bemusement and mild irritation.

"Another one," she mutters under her breath, nodding discreetly toward a young lord across the way who is staring at her as though she hung the moon. "They follow me like vultures circling a carcass. It’s maddening."

You stifle a laugh, your hand brushing her arm as you offer a teasing smile. "Surely, sister, you cannot blame them. The Realm’s Delight is a prize worth vying for, is she not?"

She rolls her eyes but can’t hide the faint smirk tugging at her lips. "A prize I have no desire to grant. Honestly, Y/N, you’re fortunate. No one looks to you with such hunger in their eyes. The heir’s crown serves as both lure and snare."

You shrug nonchalantly. "Perhaps I simply lack your allure. Or perhaps they fear I’d set them ablaze before entertaining their overtures."

Rhaenyra chuckles, her earlier irritation melting away. "Yes, I can picture it. Lord Wylde reduced to ash before he could finish his ridiculous sonnet. What a sight that would be."

"Wylde's sonnet was tame compared to Lord Tyrell’s attempt at a serenade," you retort, voice dripping with mock horror. "That poor man cannot carry a tune to save his life."

The two of you dissolve into laughter, the kind shared only between sisters. It feels like old times, before the weight of titles and expectations pressed down upon your shoulders.

But then, from the corner of your eye, you catch sight of Jason Lannister. He strides through the camp, every bit the lion, dressed in rich red and gold with his golden hair gleaming in the sunlight. His piercing gaze sweeps the clearing until it lands squarely on Rhaenyra. A confident smile spreads across his face as he changes course, heading directly toward her.

Your heart skips—not from interest but from mischief. Leaning closer to Rhaenyra, you murmur, "I believe the proud lion is about to leap. Good luck, dear sister."

Rhaenyra glances toward Jason, her brows lifting in resigned amusement. "Y/N, don’t you dare leave me—"

But you’re already retreating, your grin widening as you wave her off. "You’re the Realm’s Delight, Rhaenyra. Surely, you can handle one arrogant lion."

Rhaenyra’s glare burns into your back as Jason approaches her, his stride full of confidence. You chuckle softly to yourself, quickening your steps toward where Ser Gwayne Hightower is practicing his archery. The rhythmic thud of arrows hitting the target fills the air as you approach.

Ser Gwayne lowers his bow when he sees you, a warm smile spreading across his face. "Come to show me up, have you?"

You pick up a bow from the nearby rack, testing its weight. "Perhaps. Someone needs to ensure you don’t grow too proud, Ser Gwayne."

He chuckles, stepping aside to give you space. "Very well, princess. Let’s see if your aim is as sharp as your wit."

Nocking an arrow, you draw the bowstring back, feeling the satisfying tension. You release, the arrow flying straight and true, embedding itself near the center of the target. Gwayne whistles appreciatively.

"You’ve been practicing," he says, clearly impressed.

"Idle hands are the devil’s playthings," you reply lightly, nocking another arrow. "And I’ve no desire to become rusty."

The two of you fall into an easy rhythm, trading shots and quips. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as Jason Lannister speaks animatedly to Rhaenyra. His body language exudes confidence, but even from this distance, you can see the tight set of Rhaenyra’s jaw.

"Poor Lord Jason," Gwayne remarks, following your gaze. "He’s about to learn that the princess’s tongue is sharper than any blade."

You smirk, releasing another arrow. "If he were foolish enough to direct his attentions toward me, he’d leave with his pride in tatters."

Gwayne snickers. "And likely a new nickname for his troubles."

The two of you share a conspiratorial laugh, pausing to observe the exchange between Rhaenyra and Jason. It’s a masterclass in polite rejection. Rhaenyra’s words are measured, her tone as sweet as honey, but the subtle steel beneath them leaves no room for misinterpretation. Jason’s confident smile falters, replaced by a flicker of confusion and embarrassment.

"She has a gift," Gwayne says, shaking his head in admiration. "The lion won’t be roaring anytime soon."

You lower your bow, resting it against the ground as you watch Jason retreat with his tail between his legs. A wave of pride swells in your chest—not for his failure, but for Rhaenyra’s poise and strength. She glances in your direction, catching your eye, and you flash her a knowing grin.

Rhaenyra shakes her head, her lips twitching in reluctant amusement before she turns back toward the camp, leaving Jason to lick his wounds.

"Come," you say to Gwayne, shouldering your bow. "I believe we’ve lingered here long enough. There’s a feast to attend, and I wouldn’t miss the chance to see the lion humbled among the other lords."

Gwayne grins, falling into step beside you. "Lead the way, princess. Lead the way."

Jason Lannister stormed through the camp, his boots crunching against the dry pine needles scattered across the forest floor. His usual confident stride was replaced with something more forceful, his frustration evident in the tension of his shoulders. A passing servant barely avoided being bowled over as Jason muttered a curt apology, his mind too preoccupied to care.

When he finally reached the Lannister encampment, he spotted the familiar figure of his twin brother, Tyland, seated on a richly upholstered chair beneath their family’s crimson-and-gold banner. Tyland held a goblet in one hand, the other idly flipping through a letter sealed with the sigil of House Hightower. Unlike Jason’s hunt-worn attire, Tyland looked pristine, dressed in a doublet of fine wool with a thin gold chain marking his position on King Viserys’s small council.

Tyland glanced up as Jason approached, immediately noting the sour look on his brother’s face. His lips curled into an amused smirk. “Ah, there you are. Back so soon? I thought you’d be off charming the princess until sundown.”

Jason grunted, throwing himself into a nearby chair. He reached for the wine pitcher without waiting for an invitation, pouring himself a generous amount. “It didn’t go as planned.”

Tyland raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Didn’t go as planned?” he echoed. “Care to elaborate, or shall I guess?”

Jason took a long gulp of wine before setting the goblet down with more force than necessary. “She rejected me,” he said bluntly, though the admission clearly stung his pride. “Barely let me finish before she made it abundantly clear she had no interest in me, or Casterly Rock, or any of it.”

Tyland’s laughter was immediate and unrestrained. “Of course she did,” he said, shaking his head. “Did you honestly expect anything else? Rhaenyra Targaryen isn’t exactly known for her warmth toward unsolicited marriage proposals.”

Jason glared at him. “I thought she’d at least consider it. Casterly Rock is the wealthiest seat in the realm, and I’m—”

“—And you’re Jason Lannister,” Tyland interrupted, still grinning. “Yes, yes, I’ve heard it all before. But wealth and a golden mane only get you so far with a woman like Rhaenyra. You should be grateful you walked away with your pride still intact.”

Jason snorted. “Intact? Hardly. She dismissed me as if I were some… some common hedge knight. I’ve never been humiliated like that in my life.”

Tyland leaned back in his chair, his expression turning thoughtful. “Humiliated, perhaps. But consider yourself lucky her younger sister wasn’t there to witness it. She’d have had you on your knees, begging for mercy, and not in the way you’d prefer.”

Jason frowned, his frustration momentarily giving way to curiosity. “Her sister?” he repeated. “Y/N? What does she have to do with this?”

Tyland smirks, clearly enjoying this. "Yes, Y/N. Sweet as honey to those she likes but sharp as Valyrian steel to those she doesn’t. If you think Rhaenyra's rejection stung, imagine Y/N standing there, her silver tongue slicing you apart for all to see. That girl could cut you down with words alone and still make you thank her for the privilege."

Jason frowns, clearly intrigued despite himself. "I’ve heard of her, but she’s always so… quiet. Reserved. She doesn’t draw attention the way Rhaenyra does."

"That’s because she doesn’t need to," Tyland counters. "Y/N has an elegance about her that speaks for itself. And she’s clever—far too clever for the likes of you. If she had been there, she might have taken pity on you and spared you some embarrassment… or she might have joined her sister in putting you in your place."

Jason leans against the table, his expression thoughtful now. "You seem to know her well."

Tyland shrugs, a casual gesture that belies his keen interest. "I live in the capital, remember? I’ve had plenty of opportunities to observe the royal family. Y/N is a force to be reckoned with, even if she doesn’t flaunt it like her sister. Quiet strength can be far more dangerous than loud defiance."

Jason falls silent, his earlier frustration giving way to a strange sense of curiosity. He swirls the remaining wine in his goblet, his gaze distant. "She sounds… intriguing."

Tyland snorts, clapping a hand on his brother’s shoulder. "Don’t get any ideas, Jason. If you couldn’t handle Rhaenyra, you’d stand no chance with her sister. Y/N would chew you up and spit you out before you even knew what hit you."

Jason’s lips twitch into a faint smile, the first hint of humor he’s shown since his defeat. "Perhaps. But I’ve always enjoyed a challenge."

Tyland shakes his head, laughing softly. "Suit yourself. Just don’t come crying to me when you find yourself at the mercy of her sharp tongue. I won’t be offering any sympathy."

Jason raises his goblet in a mock toast, his confidence slowly returning. "We’ll see, Tyland. We’ll see."

And as the sun dips lower in the sky, Jason can’t help but wonder if his brother’s words hold some truth. Perhaps he had been barking up the wrong tree with Rhaenyra. Perhaps the younger sister, with her quiet strength and sharp wit, is a far more interesting quarry.

The next two days unfold in a haze of royal festivity and anticipation for the grand hunt. The sprawling camp is alive with the sounds of nobles exchanging pleasantries, servants bustling about their duties, and hounds barking eagerly as they prepare for the event. The chatter of excited courtiers fills the air as word spreads that the trackers have caught sight of a rare and noble beast—a white stag, a creature of myth and legend, said to be a symbol of divine favor.

Jason Lannister moves through the camp with his usual air of lion-like confidence, but behind the facade, his attention is sharply attuned to a singular presence. He is too shrewd to make his interest known, especially in a camp teeming with gossip-hungry lords and ladies. Instead, he watches her—you—from the corners of his eyes, his gaze lingering longer than it should but never openly.

The first time he notices you, you are seated near your sister, Rhaenyra, under the shade of a large oak tree. A circle of ladies surrounds the two of you, their laughter ringing out as they trade jests and gossip. You are quieter than the others, a soft smile playing on your lips as you listen. But when you speak, it is with precision, your words measured and thoughtful. Jason can’t hear what you’re saying from his position by the wine tent, but he sees the way Rhaenyra throws her head back with a laugh, the way the ladies lean in closer, eager to catch every word.

He notes the contrast between you and your elder sister. Where Rhaenyra’s beauty is fiery and commanding, yours is softer, like moonlight. You lack her overt confidence, but there is a quiet strength in the way you carry yourself, in the way your eyes—so strikingly silver in the sunlight—observe the world around you with keen intelligence.

"You're staring," Tyland's voice cuts into his thoughts, low and amused.

Jason doesn’t flinch, though the accusation is true. Instead, he takes a sip from his goblet and turns his gaze to the horizon, feigning disinterest. "Just observing the royal family. It’s an important skill for any lord."

Tyland snorts softly, not fooled in the least. "If you say so. But remember what I said: tread carefully. That one could cut you down with a glance if she wanted to."

Jason merely hums, his expression unreadable.

The second time he sees you, it is near the practice field. The younger knights and squires are sparring under the watchful eyes of Ser Harwin Strong and Ser Criston Cole. You are seated on the edge of the field, your skirts tucked neatly under you as you watch the bouts unfold. Gwayne Hightower stands beside you, his bow in hand, and the two of you appear to be engaged in an animated conversation.

Jason watches from a distance, leaning casually against a post, his arms crossed. He tells himself it is mere coincidence that he is here at all, that he simply enjoys watching the sparring matches. But his gaze keeps drifting toward you, drawn by the way your face lights up when you laugh at something Gwayne says or the way your head tilts thoughtfully when you respond.

"Your aim is improving," you remark, your voice carrying over the clatter of wooden swords.

Gwayne grins, clearly pleased. "I’ve had an excellent teacher."

You roll your eyes, though your smile softens the gesture. "Don’t let it go to your head, Ser Gwayne."

Jason smirks faintly at the exchange. Gwayne Hightower, ever the charmer. Still, Jason notes the ease with which you speak to the knight, the natural camaraderie that seems to flow between you. He finds himself wondering what it might be like to stand where Gwayne does, to earn your laughter and your trust.

On the third morning, as the trackers return with news of the white stag’s sighting, Jason spots you walking along the edge of the camp. You are alone for once, a rare sight, your hands clasped behind your back as you stroll through the dappled sunlight. You stop occasionally to inspect a wildflower or to watch the birds flitting through the trees, your expression serene.

Jason lingers near a group of lords discussing the hunt, his posture casual as he watches you from the corner of his eye. There is something almost ethereal about you in this moment, the way the sunlight catches in your silver hair and the way your gown sways gently with your steps. You seem utterly removed from the noise and chaos of the camp, lost in a world of your own.

"Lord Lannister," one of the lords says, drawing his attention back to the conversation. "What are your thoughts on the white stag? Do you think it will grant its favor to the king?"

Jason forces a polite smile, his mind still half-focused on you. "The stag is a rare and noble beast. If it truly is the king’s favor we seek, we’ll need more than luck to claim it."

The lords murmur their agreement, and the conversation moves on. But Jason’s thoughts linger on you, wondering what it is that draws him so strongly. You are no shy maiden, despite your quiet demeanor. There is a fire in you, a sharpness hidden beneath the surface, and Jason finds himself both intrigued and cautious.

As you disappear from view, Jason allows himself a small smile. He may not approach you yet, but the hunt is only beginning—and he is nothing if not a patient man.

The royal pavilion is a grand affair, its interior rich with opulence. Thick tapestries embroidered with the Targaryen sigil hang from gilded supports, while plush cushions and carved chairs surround a low table laden with wine and fruit. King Viserys lounges at the center of the gathering, his expression warm and genial as he speaks with his advisors. The air is filled with laughter and the low hum of conversation, a brief reprieve from the bustling chaos of the camp outside.

Jason Lannister steps inside with practiced ease, his crimson-and-gold attire catching the flicker of sunlight that filters through the pavilion’s open sides. He offers a polite bow to the king, who acknowledges him with a wave of his hand. Jason’s green eyes scan the room with purpose until they land on you.

You are seated beside your father, a picture of poise and grace, your gown the color of soft lavender, the fabric shimmering faintly in the light. Your hair is elegantly arranged, and though you sit quietly, your violet eyes miss nothing as they flick between the speakers in the circle. Jason’s lips curl into a faint smile.

He approaches, weaving his way through the gathered nobles. Otto Hightower and Lyonel Strong are deep in discussion, their tones measured and serious. Jason, however, has only one target in mind.

"Lord Jason Lannister," King Viserys greets him with a wide smile, gesturing for him to join the circle. "What brings you here? Surely you’re not seeking Rhaenyra. She’s off riding, I believe."

Jason chuckles, offering a respectful bow before taking a seat across from you. "Your Grace, while the princess is, of course, a delight, it is not her company I seek at this moment." His eyes flick briefly to you before he adds smoothly, "I was hoping to enjoy the company of this esteemed circle—and perhaps learn more of the Targaryen way of thinking."

Viserys laughs, clearly pleased by the flattery. "You’ve chosen a good time, then. There’s plenty of wisdom to be found here."

You raise an eyebrow, meeting Jason’s gaze for the first time. There’s a flicker of amusement in your expression, though your tone is polite when you speak. "And what wisdom do you seek, my lord? Surely the Lord of Casterly Rock does not lack for advisers."

Jason leans back slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "True, but wisdom comes in many forms. And who better to learn from than those who carry the blood of dragons?"

The remark is calculated—just enough praise to intrigue without seeming obsequious. But you aren’t so easily swayed.

"Flattery is a poor substitute for genuine insight," you reply smoothly. "Do you have a specific question, or is this merely an exercise in rhetoric?"

A low chuckle ripples through the circle at your retort, and Jason’s smile deepens. "Sharp as Valyrian steel," he remarks, his tone light but edged with challenge. "I see the rumors of your wit are not exaggerated."

"I didn’t realize I was the subject of rumors," you say, tilting your head slightly. "Should I be flattered or concerned, Lord Lannister?"

"Flattered, I’d hope," Jason replies, his tone almost playful now. "Though I’ll admit, the reality far surpasses the tales."

You smirk faintly, leaning forward just enough to meet his gaze directly. "Careful, my lord. If your tongue grows any sweeter, you might choke on it."

The circle erupts in laughter, including King Viserys, who shakes his head with a chuckle. Jason takes the barb in stride, his own amusement evident. "A fair warning, my lady," he concedes. "But I find sharp tongues far more interesting than dull ones."

The verbal sparring continues, your exchanges quick and clever, each testing the other’s wit. Though your words are pointed, Jason finds himself enjoying the clash, his earlier frustrations with Rhaenyra fading into irrelevance. You are different—more elusive, more challenging. And though you clearly find him exasperating, he can’t help but admire the fire in your words.

Finally, you grow bored of the game. Rising gracefully, you offer a small curtsy to the king and the circle. "If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ve had enough of this wisdom for now."

Before you leave, you glance back at Jason, a glint of mischief in your eyes. "Do try not to choke further on your words, my lord. It would be such a waste."

Jason can’t help but grin as you sweep out of the pavilion, leaving a ripple of confusion in your wake. He hesitates only a moment before rising to follow, offering a quick bow to the king.

As the flap of the pavilion closes behind him, King Viserys furrows his brow, glancing at Otto and Lyonel. "What just happened?"

Otto shakes his head, clearly at a loss. Lyonel, however, chuckles softly, a knowing gleam in his eye. "I believe, Your Grace, we’ve just witnessed the beginnings of a most interesting… acquaintance."

The camp buzzes with activity as the hunting parties prepare to set out for the day. Lords don their finest riding cloaks and sharpen their weapons, eager for a chance to prove themselves in the shadow of royalty. Amidst the controlled chaos, Jason Lannister moves with unusual purpose. His hunting gear is immaculate—gold-trimmed leathers and a crimson cloak embroidered with the proud lion of his house. His bow and quiver are slung over his back, and his boots crunch over the pine needles with confidence as he strides to join the assembled lords.

There is a fire in his step, a sharpness to his movements that hasn’t gone unnoticed. A small group of nobles, already gathered near the edge of the camp, exchange curious glances as Jason approaches. Lord Tarly, a broad-shouldered man with a thick beard and a no-nonsense demeanor, leans slightly toward Lord Redwyne, his voice low but audible enough to carry.

"Well, that’s unexpected," Tarly mutters. "I thought we’d see a lion licking his wounds today."

Jason catches the remark as he joins the group, his golden eyes sharp and bright with amusement. He adjusts the strap of his quiver and offers a half-smile. "And why would that be, Lord Tarly? Do you doubt the resilience of Casterly Rock’s finest?"

Tarly shrugs, his expression as blunt as his tone. "Not doubt, my lord, just surprised. Word travels fast in a camp like this. I’d have thought Princess Rhaenyra’s rejection would’ve… dampened your spirits."

A ripple of polite but tense silence follows. Redwyne shifts uncomfortably, as though expecting an outburst. But Jason surprises them all with a hearty laugh, rich and unapologetic.

"My spirits?" Jason says, his voice light but carrying an edge of steel. "Forgive me, my lords, but I hardly find myself distraught over it. Rhaenyra Targaryen is a remarkable woman, no doubt, but Casterly Rock has seen enough proud lions to survive without her grace blessing its halls."

The honesty of his words catches the group off guard. Redwyne arches a brow, while Tarly folds his arms across his chest, his curiosity piqued.

"So, you’re saying you don’t care?" Tarly presses, his tone skeptical. "You made your offer, and she turned it down. Just like that?"

Jason’s smile doesn’t falter. Instead, he steps closer to his horse, running a gloved hand over its sleek mane as he speaks. "Let me be clear, Lord Tarly. I offered Rhaenyra the chance to stand beside me at Casterly Rock because it seemed… appropriate. A lion and a dragon—what better match? But I won’t beg for anyone’s hand, no matter how highborn. If she doesn’t want it, that’s her choice."

He swings himself into the saddle with effortless grace, his posture regal as he looks down at the gathered lords. "There’s no dishonor in a woman knowing her own mind. I respect her decision, even if it wasn’t the answer I expected. And if I’m being honest…"

Jason pauses, his gaze briefly distant, as though considering his next words carefully. Then his smile returns, sharper this time, and unmistakably genuine.

"…I’ve come to realize that perhaps my attention was misplaced from the start."

The lords exchange puzzled looks, the weight of Jason’s words hanging in the air like an unsolved riddle. Redwyne, ever the diplomat, clears his throat and offers a conciliatory nod.

"Well said, Lord Jason. And what of today’s hunt? Do you aim to claim the white stag yourself?"

Jason chuckles, taking up the reins of his horse. "Perhaps, though I care little for the stag’s favor. Today, my aim is to prove that a lion’s pride lies in its strength, not in the approval of others."

With that, he spurs his horse forward, leading the group toward the hunting grounds. The lords follow, their expressions ranging from confusion to admiration. Jason rides ahead, his thoughts not on Rhaenyra or even the stag but on you—your sharp wit, your violet eyes, and the challenge you present.

He doesn’t understand why he feels this pull toward you, but the hunt, it seems, is far from over.

The forest was filled with the crisp sounds of rustling leaves and the occasional call of a distant stag. Your hunting party moved in a tight formation through the Kingswood, banners bearing the Targaryen dragon trailing behind. Mounted on a sleek mare, you led the group with quiet authority, your sharp eyes scanning the trees for signs of prey. The air was thick with anxiety, the hounds sniffing eagerly at the ground as your trackers scouted ahead.

A crackle of underbrush to your left drew your attention, and moments later, a second hunting party emerged from the thicket. At their head was none other than Jason Lannister, sitting astride a magnificent golden courser. His crimson-and-gold cloak billowed slightly in the breeze, and his confident smirk was firmly in place as his eyes locked on you.

"Well, well," Jason called, reining in his horse as his party slowed to a halt. "If it isn’t the princess herself, gracing the forest with her presence. Tell me, Your Highness, have you come to steal my kill? Or are you here merely to admire my skill?"

Your lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile forming as you met his gaze. "Lord Lannister, your delusions of grandeur are almost as persistent as an outbreak of greyscale. Difficult to rid oneself of and twice as irritating."

A few chuckles rippled through your party, and Jason’s grin only widened. "Greyscale, is it? And here I thought I was merely an affliction of the heart, not the skin."

"You flatter yourself," you replied, arching a brow. "No doubt you’ve convinced some poor fool of that before, but you’ll find me immune to such charms."

The lords and knights from both parties shifted uncomfortably, sensing the tension beneath the playful banter. Lord Tarly, who had accompanied Jason, cleared his throat. "Shall we proceed, my lord? The trackers reported the stag heading east."

"And risk missing this delightful conversation?" Jason said, still smiling as he leaned forward slightly in his saddle. "I think not. Besides, it seems we’re headed in the same direction. I would hate for us to cross paths again in less… harmonious circumstances."

Your eyes narrowed slightly, catching the subtle challenge in his tone. "Are you suggesting we combine forces, Lord Lannister? Or are you simply trying to ensure you’re not humiliated when my party claims the stag first?"

Jason’s courser shifted beneath him, and he steadied it with practiced ease. "Humiliated? Hardly. But I’m not so proud as to ignore the merits of cooperation. Why not join our parties? We’ll share the hunt—and the glory."

Your party exchanged surprised glances, the tension easing slightly as they waited for your response. You studied Jason carefully, noting the faint twinkle of amusement in his eyes. He was testing you, as always, but there was an unexpected sincerity beneath his words.

"Very well," you said at last, your tone measured. "But if the stag escapes because of your cooperation, Lord Lannister, you’ll find yourself regretting it."

Jason laughed, a rich, unrestrained sound that echoed through the forest. "A bold claim, Princess. But I welcome the challenge."

With that, the two parties merged, the lords and knights falling into formation as the hunt resumed. The trackers moved ahead, their voices low as they followed the stag’s trail. Jason rode beside you, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, ever watchful.

"You’re surprisingly agreeable today," you remarked after a moment, glancing at him. "Should I be suspicious?"

Jason smirked, inclining his head slightly. "Perhaps I’m simply enjoying your company, Your Highness. Though I’ll admit, it’s not often I encounter someone who can match me word for word."

"Match you?" you repeated, your tone light but cutting. "I’d say I surpass you, my lord. But I suppose it’s commendable that you’re willing to admit defeat so graciously."

Jason chuckled, shaking his head. "I’m beginning to see why the dragon’s fire burns so brightly. It’s not the beast itself but the mind behind it."

You didn’t respond, though your lips curved into a faint smile as you urged your mare forward, leaving Jason trailing just behind. The lords and knights exchanged bemused looks, still trying to decipher the nature of the exchange between the two of you.

As the merged party moved deeper into the woods, the anticipation of the hunt took hold once more. But for Jason, the thrill wasn’t just in the chase—it was in the game you and he played with every word, every glance. And as the sun filtered through the trees, painting the forest floor in golden light, he found himself hoping the hunt would last just a little longer.

The forest had grown still as the merged hunting party pressed deeper into the Kingswood. The faint scent of earth and moss mingled with the crisp tang of the morning air, and every sound—each snap of a branch, each rustle of leaves—seemed amplified in the quiet. The hounds moved low to the ground, their ears pricked and noses working furiously as the trackers led the party toward the prize. Excitement rippled through the group; they were close.

Jason rode beside you, his golden courser nearly brushing against your mare. He leaned slightly toward you, his expression one of practiced confidence, a gleam of mischief in his eyes.

"When we catch up to the stag," he began, his voice low enough not to carry to the rest of the group, "you should let me take the killing blow."

You turned your head slowly, raising an unimpressed brow. "And why, pray tell, should I?"

"Because," Jason said, with the tone of someone explaining something simple to a child, "I am far more experienced in matters of the hunt than a young princess. You may have grace and charm, Your Highness, but it takes a steady hand and a practiced eye to fell a beast as noble as this."

You scoffed, sitting straighter in the saddle as you regarded him with an icy glare. "Far more experienced, are you? I accompanied my father on hunts as soon as I could ride. By the time I was ten, I could track a stag through mud and fire an arrow true from a moving horse. I’d wager I have more kills than you’ll ever claim in your entire life, Lord Lannister."

The surrounding lords, who had been listening with barely concealed interest, exchanged uneasy glances. One of them, a nervous young man whose name you hadn’t bothered to learn, cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Perhaps… we should keep our voices down," he said hesitantly. "The noise may scare the game away."

Jason turned his attention to the young lord, fixing him with a piercing gaze that was both amused and condescending. "Scaring the game away? My lord, you misunderstand. This is not an argument." He gestured between himself and you. "This is… a spirited exchange of ideas."

The young lord swallowed, clearly regretting his decision to speak. You rolled your eyes, gripping your reins tighter as you nudged your mare forward.

"Spirited exchange, indeed," you muttered under your breath.

The party rounded a small bend, and there it was—a magnificent stag, its coat chestnut as autumn leaves, standing regal and still in the clearing ahead. Its antlers, broad and intricate, caught the dappled sunlight streaming through the trees, making it appear almost otherworldly.

The group froze, each hunter carefully adjusting their position for the best shot. Jason’s hand moved to his bow, his movements deliberate as he spoke softly, still confident. "Stay back, Princess. I’ll handle this—"

But before he could even nock an arrow, you had already drawn yours. With a practiced ease that belied the tension in the air, you raised your bow, sighted your target, and released. The arrow flew true, slicing through the air with deadly precision and striking the stag directly in the eye.

The great beast staggered for a moment, its majestic frame wavering before collapsing silently to the ground. The forest seemed to hold its breath, the silence deafening as every pair of eyes turned to you.

Jason’s jaw tightened, though his expression was more astonished than angry. The lords, previously poised for action, stared in stunned silence, their weapons still at the ready but now unnecessary. Even the hounds, sensing the change in the air, hesitated, their excitement momentarily dulled.

Finally, you lowered your bow, exhaling slowly as you turned to face the group. "What was that you were saying about experience, Lord Lannister?" you asked, your voice calm but laced with triumph.

Jason blinked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he searched for a retort. But for once, the ever-confident lion seemed at a loss for words.

"Well," one of the older lords finally said, breaking the silence with an awkward cough. "That was… most impressive, Your Highness."

"Indeed," Jason said at last, his voice steady but edged with something you couldn’t quite place. "Impressive. Though I’m certain you’ll forgive me if I say I’m not entirely surprised. The dragon’s flame burns bright, after all."

You inclined your head slightly, acknowledging the compliment, though the faint smirk tugging at your lips showed you knew exactly how much it pained him to say it.

Without another word, you dismounted and approached the stag, the hounds now circling eagerly as the trackers moved in to inspect the kill. The lords followed suit, their admiration evident as they murmured amongst themselves.

Jason remained where he was for a moment longer, watching you with an expression that was equal parts frustration and intrigue. As much as your success rankled him, he couldn’t help but admire the precision, the confidence, the fire that had made it possible.

And as the party began preparing to move the stag back to camp, he realized something else—this was a hunt he’d never forget, not because of the kill, but because of you.

[nyctophiliq]

Hey moss! Hoping for sage with reader that’s scared of fire? Missions with phoenix always causes trouble. Feel free to ignore!

✮ ┆ AFRAID OF FIRE. ling ‘sage’ ying wei

based on the request above.

CONTENT WARNING.           18+ only, minors dni. SFW CONTENT UNDER THE CUT; gn reader, use of y/n, fear of fire, mention of injuries/burns, | ~0.7k words

A/N.                   well this might be a little vague, but i hope this little fluffy piece makes up for all the waiting. thank you for requesting and reading, hope you guys enjoy !!!

from very early on it was apparent to sage that pairing you up with phoenix on missions wasn’t a good idea but she couldn’t do as she pleased with the schedule limitlessly, and she couldn’t write herself up with your group all the time either. she tried as much she could and she spoke to phoenix about it, much to your dismay, that he should keep a few steps between the two of you unless it’s absolutely necessary to keep close.

“you have to keep it in mind okay? take care of y/n for me.” it might have earned an irritated sigh from james every time sage talked about it, but that was only because it was always what sage spoke about with him before and after the missions. he couldn’t blame her, he himself noticed too how you wince whenever the two of you are between covers together, how you would look away and squeeze at your uniform or gun whenever he used one of his abilities.

“i got this doc! your girl is safe with me.” he’d assure the healer but no matter what he said, ling was always gonna be worried sick about you no matter how careful anyone promised to be. sage would’ve kept running over what james needed to keep in mind but he didn’t give her the chance to as he boarded the vulture with a smile and a wave, her worry for you spiking once again. she scanned the bustling crowd, searching for your familiar figure amidst the chaos of the mission prep area. her heart sank when she couldn’t immediately spot you.

“where are you, y/n?” she muttered under her breath, her gaze darting from one face to another.

no matter how much phoenix reassured her, sage couldn’t shake off the feeling of unease. ling knew too well that no matter how careful anyone promised to be, accidents could happen. and she couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to you.

as the minutes ticked by and the vulture prepared for takeoff, sage’s anxiety only grew. she pushed her way through the crowd, ehr eyes still scanning for you. finally, she caught sight of you near the edge of the platform, adjusting your gear with a nervous expression.

relief flooded through her as she made her way toward you, her steps quickening with each stride. when she reached you, she placed a hand on your shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“hey, are you okay?” she asked, her voice laced with concern.

she had seen you coming back from the missions before, involving flames, it didn’t end well, to say the least. you already had some burn marks from some previous incidents that happened before you joined the protocol. it wasn’t something you had the pleasure of talking about, covered yourself up pretty well to avoid the faces and pitiful words. it has been getting better, you were trying to get better for the sake of the missions but not everything was a bullet train.

you glanced up at her, offering a weak smile. “yeah, just a little nervous, i guess.”

sage nodded understandingly, her gaze softening. “i talked to james, and he said he will make sure that he isn’t near you unless it is absolutely necessary.”

you offered her a grateful smile even though you were a bit embarrassed by her babysitting, you still felt a wave of comfort wash over you with your hand slipping on your shoulder to take hers.

“thanks for being scared instead of me,” you raised your voice as the vulture started up, stepping a bit closer to sage and pressing a kiss to her cheek. you wanted to stall for a second longer, let the warmth of her hand in your linger but work was calling. “text you when we land! i love you!” you yell over the roar of the ship’s engine.

as the vulture roared to life and began its ascent, sage stayed rooted to the spot, watching with a mix of pride and apprehension as the aircraft disappeared into the clouds. she couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling of worry that gnawed at her insides. she knew you were in good hands with all the other agents around.

“i won’t be having dinner again…” she murmured to herself as she headed back to her office.

[secret-smut-sideblog]

we all know how vicious gale can get when he's spurned in game, so I thought about how nasty he could get during a fight. and the nuclear amount of fallout after the dust settled. sooo I bring you this~

Hard Times

18+ fighting (verbal), hurt feelings, night terrors, insomnia, allusions to drowning, terminal illness (sort of), grief release, intense feelings of guilt/inadequacy, tender care, thigh riding, oral (m!), reconciliation

After a venomous spat with Gale, Aurum finds herself in the prison of her dreams again. But with several pairs of hands cradling her, she doesn't have to weather it alone. And, perhaps, find her own vindication in the aftermath...

Masterlist

-

"Gods, Aurum, just speak to me!" Gale urged, voice swollen with anger.

She wasn't sure how the fight started, but tensions had been pulled tight as a violin string. A day with too much strife and even less success. Ground soaked in wasted sweat and blood born of friendly fire.

Aurum didn't want to fight, keeping her face cool and controlled. But it seemed that Gale did, and her veil of calm burned him ever hotter. Desperate to break her mask.

"I don't want to fight with you." Her voice came out soft, encouraging a cease fire. Face held in its pantomime, overriding the pinch sitting in her chest.

"No, of course you dont." His voice a cold bite. "Why would you? I can't expect you to be as open as I am. Not with that wall of stone you've trained around your heart."

A jolt of pain hit her chest, and, as if hearing him, a shock of burn accompanied along. Gritting her teeth against the pain, smothering a flare no easy feat.

"That's not fair." She breathed. Fighting the rage tremoring near her words.

But he had seen that he shook her. Not done prodding, fingers digging into the fracture he made.

"Fair? Nothing about loving you is fair. Between losing you to time and your staunch desire to keep me on the outskirts of your inner world... Hardly fair, that."

That stung, but she had expected it. Her demise was a circling vulture over them always. The venom he injected into it was less needed, but his anger was warranted.

"Are you near done? You've wounded me, you got what you wanted." She seated her voice back into its hilt of calm.

But that lit him into a blaze. Back bristling.

"I've wounded you? Have I? Color me shocked, as I couldn't even begin to see it on you."

"No, I'd have to try much harder, wouldn't I? I'd have to give much more strenuous effort to get you to give me the courtesy of your anger."

He stepped forward, a burning shadow.

"But anger seems to be beneath you. Funny. The apple falls far from the tree but won't gouge the rot from its core."

A physical shot of shock struck through her, face hitching in a wince. Her eyes clenched closed, a sharp intake of breath hissing through teeth.

And, just like that, he stopped. She lifted her eyes to a horrified silence settling over his face.

"Too far." She whispered, a grief laced laugh at the edges.

"Aurum, I'm s-"

"We're leaving." Astarion's hand came to her back, propelling forward between shoulder blades.

Gale stepped forward, tears filling the corners of his eyes. Reaching out for her hand.

"Don't touch her." Astarion threatened, voice deadly sharp. Holding Gale's stare.

"You're lucky she loves you, I would so enjoy taking you apart."

His voice fell into a low laugh.

"Though, let's hope she won't for much longer. After the blood you've spilt."

"Come, darling." He encouraged again, voice laced in posh reassurance.

Aurum nodded, cold in the aftermath of shock. Grateful to have someone to take her from him. She paused at the door, bolstered in Astarion's presence. Turning to level her hurt at him.

"I chose you. After everything... I chose you. Remember that."

Gale's face split in a desperate take of breath. Propelled torward to her again, a pleading apology forming on his lips.

But she was already turning, nodding at Astarion. The door leading out of the Elfsong a punctuation falling closed behind them.

-

The world tilted sideways, cool river stones against her temple. Circling call of insects from somewhere high in the grass. Moving water tickling her knuckles.

As water danced around her fingers, salt water flowed down the arch of her nose. Silent tears dripping down onto smooth stone. Laying on her side, hidden in the reeds.

It had been a long time since she had held the full weight of her grief. And Gods was it exhausting to carry.

A blistering warm hand spread wide across her back.

Karlach didn't speak, settling on folded legs behind her. Lifting her head onto her lap, fingers carding gently through her hair.

Aurum squeezed her shin, blinking hot tears onto her leather thighs.

They didn't speak for a long time, just holding in her silence. Her thigh getting wet with tears.

"I'm so tired."

"I know." Karlach smiled gently above her.

"I'm so tired of him tied to me." Her voice hollow in its pain. "I just want to sleep. I want to sleep at night."

"I know, baby. I've heard your night terrors."

Aurum swallowed, turning her face into Karlach's solid thigh. "Please, can I just sleep?"

Karlach cupped under her cheek, leaning down to tilt her temple into hers. Folding over her in silent protection.

Murmuring against her hair.

"I'll hold you, okay? Sleep a little."

Aurum's fingers tightened on her shin, then loosened in exhaustion. Body giving to the fall gratefully.

"Thank you." A soft sigh. Her eyes lead weighted. Pulled deep into the earth.

Falling for only a moment, then quick pulled away by the tide.

Gurgling. Thrashing.

No. Not here again.

Thrashing. Fingernails clawing at her wrist.

Come on. Wake up.

Black hair in her fist. Water sloshing into her forearm. Adrenaline cold in her veins.

Wake up!

"Aurum! Wake up!"

Karlach caught her as she fell backward, the memory disintegrating around her. Distantly aware of a scream, realizing it to be her own.

"You're here! You're back!" Karlach called over her hitching screams, holding her tight to her warm chest.

Aurum panted, wide-eyed in panic. Gripping at her back.

"Shhh... breathe, soldier."

"How long was that?" Aurum finally gasped out.

"About three hours."

Karlach pointed at the horizon.

"Look, the sun is coming up."

Tears pooled disappointed in her eyes, blinking them away with a steadying huff of breath. Cold acceptance bolstering her.

"That's better than nothing." Wiping away with sure fingers. "We have too much to do today."

"Do you want me to, well, let's say encourage Gale to stay back today?"

"No. We need him. We'll need all the firepower we can get."

"You're sure your up to it?" Her voice tender in concern

What choice did she have?

Aurum nodded, rolling her shoulders. Psyching herself up.

"Oh, Gortash is going to feel so good under my boot." Karlach growled.

-

"I need to see him." Karlach shuddered, nearly avoiding her gaze. "I need to be sure."

They drew forward, Gortash's still body laid face down in a pool of blood.

Karlach flipped him onto his back with a kick of her boot.

"That's... it?"

She stared down at his slack face. Eyes clouding and rolled into sockets.

"He's just... dead? Am I getting that right?"

Her voice rose in anger as she began to tirade.

"He's dead, and he isn't sorry. And I'm still dying."

Turning to Aurum with desperate rage.

"You're dying and I'm dying, and we get to join this fucker in the City of Judgement soon! And you-"

Turning on Gale and Astarion.

"You'll just keep going won't you. Watching the stars, warming yourself by the campfire, dancing, drinking, feeling the blood in your veins. All of it!"

Fire ripped from her with the same grief burned fury as her words. Locking eyes with Aurum.

"That's our reward, for all we've suffered! To burn away into fucking ash!"

She fell to knees, pushing her temples into her fingers. Voice shaking with drained rage.

"It isn't fair. I don't want it like this."

Aurum kneeled to her and slid under her arms, holding their bright chests to each other. The seat of their dual demise pressed in embrace. Blood slow soaking up their knees.

"I don't want to die. I want to stay." She wailed, gripping into the armor on Aurum's back. "I want you to stay."

"We can stay for a little longer." Aurum hushed into her ear.

"But what then? What the fuck are we supposed to do?"

"Hold on. We're supposed to hold on to each other."

Karlach sobbed into her shoulder, burying her face into her hair. Wide hands pulling tight. Two figures standing tearful watch of two entwined, bracing in the face of the inevitable.

"She's in good hands." Wyll's clapped down on her shoulder. "Get some rest, my friend."

She knew there was very little of that on her horizon, but appreciated the gesture anyway. Giving him a grateful smile.

He gave her two pats in depart, heading down the hall.

Aurum padded quietly, then finally stood at the barrier. Their small shared world beyond. A portal separated by oak.

She could feel him inside. The quiet of the room ahead held in anticipation. A silent statement:

You will have to face him, eventually.

She put her hand on the knob and moved through the veil.

Gale stood on the balcony, facing away from her. Back tense.

Closing the door softly, she came to the bed. Sitting down, letting down her hair. Taking a few deep breaths before announcing her presence.

"Gale?" Her voice low, not bothering to hide her exhaustion.

He whirled around. Eyes landing on her stained and raw with tears.

Rushing forward, he fell at her lap. Kneeling at her altar, seeking to beg for forgiveness.

"I'm so so sorry." He gasped, head bowed at her knees. Hands grasping blind at her thighs. "I love you so much. So completely. How could I speak to you like that?"

"I'm so disgusted with myself!" He buried his eyes into his forearm. "I've never deserved your love, and now I don't even deserve to be in your presence."

He looked in wild desperation no higher than her clavicle. Making eye contact with her light smothered chest, crumbling further into himself. Face tight with grief.

"Please, leave me. Stop loving me."

She ran her hands through his hair, staring down at him. Only patient love pouring from her touch.

Despite his pleas, when she cupped his face, he leaned into her. Eyes closing tight, pressing his hand over hers.

"Gale, look at me." She whispered.

His teeth gritting, he slowly opened his dark circled eyes. Black and shining with prisms of tears.

"Did you eat today? When we got back?"

His lower lip trembled, face turning from hers in a sudden ragged sob.

"Here," She hushed, pulling under his shoulders. "Let's get you taken care of."

Aurum's lap damp, she gently washed his hair. Bath water steaming around his slumped shoulders.

Random boughts of quiet tears would hitch his chest. His hand kept reaching back to weakly pull her away from him. Her hands returning to their work in the same motion, undeterred.

"Lean back." She encouraged, tipping his head gently with her fingertips.

He slowly revealed his face to her, eyes tightly closed.

"Water." She warned softly. Pouring it through his hair in two steaming bucket fulls. Pulling the soaps through with a massage on his scalp with her free hand. Her front thoroughly wet now.

She slid the bucket away with her foot and cupped the back of his head in both hands. Leaning down to whisper the softest kisses on his swollen eyes. The skin tight and warm under her lips.

"Do you think you could eat?" She murmured.

He shook his head, gripping white knuckle on her forearm. Eyes still willed shut.

"Could you try? For me?"

"I... my stomach. It hurts."

"Nauseous?"

He nodded.

"Okay, I'll get you some tea."

His eyes finally opened.

"Why are you doing this?" Voice shaken in desperate guilt. Ripping through his chest.

She kissed his forehead. "Come on, let's get you dry."

She wrapped him in a bath robe, wringing out his hair in a towel. Sitting on the bed behind him.

The cup of tea sat still in his hands, near limp in his lap. Head still bowed, refusing to actively participate in her care.

"It's getting cold." She encouraged, bending her leg around his folded knee. Nudging gently with the heel of her foot on his shin.

He shook his head in a small tremor.

She sighed, reaching around to take the mug from his loose grip.

"You're not going to make this easy on me, are you?" Her voice soft with reproach.

Lifting the mug above her shoulder, she swung her thigh around his hip. Standing on knees, she took a pull of ginger tea into her mouth. Holding him by the crest of his chin.

Pulling with a gentle resolve on his jaw, she pressed her lips to his. Pushing the mouthful into him in an open kiss.

He gripped at her wrist, shock opening his mouth to her.

Taking her advantage, she took another swig. Leaning his head back, pouring from her into him. Thumb caressing his throat in an encourage to swallow.

He finally relented, his throat pulsing under her hand. Allowing her to sustain him. The whole cup drunk between them as tears streamed down his temples.

"Thought you were going to let me drown you for a second." She laughed, thumbing away his tears.

"Would you?" His request a little too sincere.

"No." She chirped easily. "And I would feed you from my mouth if you'd let me."

She kissed both of his cheeks, pushing her body forward. Encouraging him to lay back. He fell, hand hovering over her lower back for a moment before resting in its usual home.

She was still sweaty, damp, and honestly, hungry. But she would be damned if she didn't ensure his sleep before attending to herself.

Laying her full weight on his body, she hitched one leg over his hip. Turning her head into his chest. Softly trailing little caresses into the skin along the base of his hairline.

He shivered, leaning his head to the side. Angling open to her touch.

She smiled, other hand rising to run parallel. Just the slightest skating of her nails added.

His cock stirred beneath her, and she slow rocked her hips into him. Feeling it get more rigid at her encouraging.

His hands fell to her hips, starting to push her away.

"Are you still upset with me?" She whispered into his chest. Allowing him to pause her.

"What? No!" He breathed.

She leaned up on forearms, staring tender down into his tear exhausted eyes.

"Do you want me to go?"

"I..." His eyes darted uncertain, but his hands pulled her down into him.

She waited, patiently running figure eights on the hair along his chest.

"No." He finally stated, eyes boring sincerity into her. "Never."

His hands took up in her same slow wave on her hips, asking.

She smiled at him, leaning on her propped palm. Grinding in time, eyes starting to glaze over. Breath coming out a little more strained. Pleasure blooming from her pelvis.

Sliding her other knee up, she leaned up to sit between his thigh and hip. Friction from her underclothes sending hitching jolts with each rock forward. Propping his knee up to anchor her hands on his outer thigh. Her hips suddenly insistent.

He gasped out, rising up to pull on her ass in assistance. Staring at her rutting with awed lust. Positioning her into the hard ridge of his hip bone.

She whimpered into the back of her throat. It had been so long since she had pleasured herself this way. The simplicity of it struck a flint of something primal in her. Chasing her heat in fast thrusts against his hip. Her exhaustion left her unabashed in her seeking. Face tensed, small cries leaving her as she quickly climbed.

"Yes, yes," He hushed, seeing the feral lust she ground into him. "Yes, please- oh Gods that's so sexy-"

Her peak fast barreling, she gripped fingers into his thigh. His hard cock weeping next to the grazing of her thrusting.

Her moans muffled into needy squeaks in her throat, building and quickly connecting into a soft chorus. The desperate ache in her pelvis about to collapse.

"Please cum, just like that." He gasped out, rising onto a propped hand. "Yes, use me. Use me for your pleasure. Gods, don't stop-"

Her orgasm hit her in writhes, pushing hard down into his pelvis. Riding it out in flattening fast drives. His hip soaked with her cum.

She fell into his propped thigh, turning her head into the top of his knee. Gasping and basking in the afterglow for a moment.

But she still had a goal in mind.

He had leaned up to twine his arms around her front, but she slipped down first. Settling on her belly between his legs. Dragging a flat tongue up from the base of his cock.

He shuddered, twitching up towards her mouth. Giving a silent plea.

"Aurum, wait-" He huffed, winding a hand into her hair. Unconsciously pulling toward his center. Body uninterested in his guilt.

She gave one hard suck, seating him to the back of her throat. His body arched under her, hand leaving her hair to grip into sheets. Panting out a hitching whine.

If he thought she had stopped taking care of him, he was dead wrong.

She bobbed her head, slurping loudly as her tongue pulled flat and twisted. Hand taking up at his base, her dripping saliva easily coated under her fist. Pumping tight pulls, mouth suctioning and sloppy.

His head turned into the bed above her, pushing loud uncontrolled moans into a pillow. Thighs twitching in jolts, belly getting more and more tense. She laid her palm on his lower belly, feeling the muscles bucking under her.

She could tell he was going to cum hard, the lower half of his body moving independent of his control. Ribs curling up, one palm pushing on the headboard. Still muffling his loud cries into cotton.

She seated him all the way in her throat, holding her breath. Hand tightening even more, blurring in fast thrusts.

His head shot down, rising on elbows. Shock ripping through his blinding pleasure.

She looked up through lashes at him, and starting swallowing. Humming in the back of her throat.

"Ah! AH!!!"

His head craned back, body tremoring in a deep tense. Hips fucking up into her throat.

She opened her throat for him, holding still as he thrust deep into her. Cum shooting warm waves down her esophagus. Her cunt fluttering, gripping his ass in her hands. Encouraging the drive of his hips. Starting to get lightheaded but with no drive to stop.

His hand cupped hard over his mouth, stifling final loud whimpers and half formed pleading words.

He fell boneless into the mattress, eyes rolling loose in sockets. Hips still twitching with aftershock.

Rising back into a kneel, she wiped her mouth. Finally allowing her anger to take root.

"To answer your question." She patted genially on his hip. His body jolted at the touch.

"I did this one: because I love you." She held up a single finger.

"And two..." Lifting another. "Because giving you love you don't believe you deserve must hurt you as much as you've hurt me."

He went still below her.

"I'm going to find some idea of sleep in the common area."

She leaned down to kiss softly along his jaw.

"Have sweet dreams." She sighed, rising back. Leg swinging off the bed.

"No!" He huffed, hand grasping her thigh. "Please, don't go. Don't leave me."

His voice shook with fear. As if her walking out now meant forever.

She paused, finally settling to sit at the edge of the bed.

He sighed in great relief.

"Why were you so cruel earlier?" She wound her fingers into his.

"I... I think..." He leaned up the headboard, head low in thought.

"I thought that if you got angry with me, really angry... you would be more honest with me. That it would push you to speak your mind."

She nodded. She thought that was his goal.

"But I just... Gods, I don't know where that venom came from. I said some things that I wouldn't say to anyone."

"Yeah, calling me rotten like my father was pretty awful."

His eyes flinched, out of tears but still trying.

"Unforgivable. I can't explain enough how remorseful I am. I am going to regret that well after my death."

"I appreciate the apology. But honestly, given everything you know about me, it's going to take a while to forgive you."

He nodded, face drawn in deserved sorrow.

"But, for now, I would like to hold you. I really do want you to sleep well. One of us has to."

Another shot of guilt struck him. Pulling her by fingers up to his chest.

"Night terrors again?"

"Yep. The screaming one."

He didn't know the context of that nightmare but had held her in the aftermath of it.

"What... can you tell me...?"

She encouraged him to lay down, wrapping around his back. Nuzzling into his shoulder.

"When I've had that one," She kissed his shoulder. "Do I ever go for your hair?"

He paused in thought.

"Once. It was over quickly, but you..." He pantomimed a hand gripping into the back of his head.

Her own guilt ate her. Shuddering out a sigh.

"I'm sorry, baby."

He tried to turn to face her, but she held strong. Laying her temple into the curve of his neck.

"Just let me hold you."

"What I said... by all that is good in this world. I am-"

"Shhh, I know. You've groveled enough."

He huffed, unamused.

"I love you." She smiled.

"I love you. A thousand times over."

~

[unforgivenn]

SHACKLED BY ROYALTY

#3: The dance of pain

Previous/ Masterlist / Next

CW: Pet whump, violence, torture, psychological manipulation, dominating whumper, captivity, slavery, stress position, power dynamics

As Andrey's hand reached out for the knife, Noah's heart raced like a wild beast trapped in a cage, its frantic beats echoing in his ears, each pulse a drumbeat of impending doom. The glint of the blade sent a shiver down his spine, his mind swirling with horrific visions of what was to come.

"Please... don't..." Noah's voice quivered, barely audible over the thunderous pounding of his own heart. But his plea fell on deaf ears as Andrey's cruel smirk widened, relishing Noah's fear like a sadistic predator savoring its prey's distress.

With agonizing slowness, Andrey dragged the tip of the knife along Noah's chest, the cold steel leaving a trail of icy dread in its wake. Noah's breath hitched as the fabric of his shirt parted under the blade, exposing his vulnerable skin to the mercy of Andrey's whims.

Relief washed over him momentarily when Andrey placed the knife down, only to be swiftly replaced by dread as Andrey's hand reached for the whip. Noah had almost forgotten about the whip... almost.

The crack of the whip split the air, causing Noah to flinch violently at the sound. He couldn't fathom the agony of that thing lashing against his body.

"You're all bark and no bite, huh? Look at you," Andrey sneered, creeping up behind Noah, tracing his back with the whip. "You were cussing me out only a few minutes ago. But you're just a little pest, waiting to be squished when brought in front of fear."

"I'm not... I'm not just some... some pest..." Noah's voice trembled with defiance, but it was a feeble flame struggling to burn against the gale of Andrey's cruelty.

Andrey's laughter echoed in the chamber, a chilling melody that danced on the edge of madness. "Oh, but you are, pet," he taunted, his voice dripping with venom as he circled Noah like a vulture eyeing its prey. "A pathetic little pest, begging for mercy from its master."

With a snarl, Andrey brought the whip down upon Noah's back savagely. The crack of leather against flesh echoed through the chamber, sending shivers racing down Noah's spine as pain exploded across his body like wildfire.

He had never experienced anything like this before. His whole back was on fire, and he felt as if he couldn't do something as simple as breathe.

Before Noah could recover from the brutal hit, Andrey brought the whip down again, making Noah scream out loud from the searing pain.

"Not so mouthy now, are we?" Andrey mocked, bringing the whip down once again.

The crack of leather against skin echoed through the room followed by Noah's raspy screaming. His body convulsed with each brutal strike, his muscles tensing and contorting in agony. He bit down hard on his lip, the metallic tang of blood flooding his mouth as he fought to stifle the screams clawing at his throat.

Tears flowed down his cheeks, blurring his vision as he hung suspended in the suffocating darkness of his despair. Every fiber of his being screamed for Andrey to stop. To stop all of this. He just wanted to go back home to his mother. Was that too much to ask for? To have freedom?

Unfortunately for him, it was too much to ask for. If by any chance Noah had found the courage and lung capacity between the lashes to speak the same, Andrey would've probably left him half-dead in the chamber.

"With every lash, I will give you a rule to follow, and you will repeat after me. Understood?" When no response was given except for small sobs, Andrey grabbed Noah's hair, pulling his head back as the other cried out.

"Understood?"

Noah managed a weak nod, blinking through his blurred vision. Andrey decided to let the lack of a vocal answer slide, sensing Noah's unfamiliarity with his twisted game.

Another lash landed on Noah's back with a harsh crack. "You will address me as Sir. Using my name will only land you with more punishment."

Noah could hardly think, let alone be expected to repeat these sick rules that Andrey was concocting for him. A sob tore from his throat. Andrey only rewarded him with two consecutive lashes when hr decided Noah was taking too long to speak.

"I-I will address you by Sir."

"You will not show me any attitude."

With every rule, a white-hot searing pain overcame him from the whip.

"S-STOP! PLEASE!"

Andrey rolled his eyes, delivering another lash "Not what I want to hear, pet."

Noah felt his fingers growing numb, the cuffs digging into his wrists, raw and bleeding. "I-I will n-not show... atti-attitude," he stammered, his voice fading into a broken murmur.

"You will speak only when spoken to unless it's absolutely necessary."

A strained groan escaped his lips as his head lolled forward. A broken scream tore from his lips when Andrey dug his finger into one of his wounds. "Wake yourself up."

"I will- I-I will only speak when spo-spoken to..." Noah stuttered, his words muddled by tears and pain. He tripped over slurred words, simply breaking down into more sobs.

Each lash of the whip seared into his flesh, each command drilled into his shattered psyche, stripping away every ounce of his humanity until there was nothing left but a hollow shell, a puppet dancing to Andrey's twisted desires. Noah's eyes eventually closed, his head slumping forward as the much awaited unconsciousness welcomed him.

And in that suffocating darkness, Noah prayed for a miracle, a glimmer of hope to break through the despair that threatened to consume him whole. But in the heart of Andrey's chamber, hope was a fragile whisper drowned out by the cruel laughter of a tormentor who reveled in the suffering of his prey.

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