#give them silence no acknowledgement whatsoever

[delicatepointofview]

i mean this kindly but you guys need to learn to ignore trolls and insensitive people in general

[aakeysmash]

prompt here; reader going on and on about how they never find someone and bakugou is just looking at them ready to snap

hehehe love this prompt tbh 🌸

"Katsukiii," you whine, throwing yourself on your best friend, who was previously chilling on his couch. He grunts, merely acknowledging you, before pushing your head away from his chest and keeping on scrolling through his phone. You've been best friends since kindergarten, and even if you're both adults now, when you're bored you just go to each other's house to do nothing together. You find comfort in knowing you can keep on being silent together, with no type of pressure whatsoever, and no need to find topics to dwell on either. Just pure, unfiltered and plain tranquility... well, kinda. After a few moments of silence, you start poking his cheek to gain his attention.

"Keep doing that and you'll find yourself missing a finger, fucker," he tells you, side-eyeing you. You immediately see his eyes glimmering. "Look," he says, turning his phone to make you watch a tiktok about a monkey slapping a baby. He chuckles, but when he sees you're confused he mumbles something along the lines of "you're always so fucking boring," then smacks your hand away from his cheek and keeps on scrolling while frowning.

"Find me a boyfriend," you suddenly tell him.

He snaps his head toward you. He must have heard you wrong. "The fuck you said?"

You huff, getting up and pacing around the room. "I mean, you know me, right?" you ask him, looking at him expectantly.

"Damn right I do, you've been pestering me for more than two decades," he answers, rolling his eyes. He gets up too, going toward his fridge to take out a water bottle.

"Then find me a man, since you know what I like," you say, following him.

He chokes on the water he is gulping down and you have to pat his back to make him stop coughing. "Why the fuck are you searching for a man?" he raspily says, glaring at you, hands on his knees and trying to catch his breath.

"Why wouldn't I search for a man?" you ask, tilting your head a little, still massaging his back. He just stares at you for a moment, but when your expression doesn't change he just lifts a finger and points at you from head to toe.

"Are you saying I'm ugly?!" you exclaim, giving him a hard slap on the back. He coughs again, caught off guard, shaking his head.

"I need love too, you know? The few men I've been seeing in the last, I don't know, three years, were all boring as heck," you complain, going back to the couch and sprawling yourself on it. "I just wish I had a big, strong man by my side, you know? Matter of fact, keep that in mind when you search for it, okay?" you continue, face smushed on the couch pillow, looking at his still crouching figure. Then you turn your body around and stare at the ceiling. "I want someone serious who I can build my future with. I'm tired of people who only want to fuck."

"Okay dumbass, but why are you fucking searching for a man?" he asks you, ignoring the sad tilt to your voice, getting closer. He crosses his arms and looks at your face, still standing up near the couch. From this view, he looks gigantic; his bulging biceps are almost bursting out his sweater, and you feel hotter the more you look up.

"Katsuki, do you want me to punch you in the face? I'm not that ugly," you say rudely, recalling what he just said and trying to focus on the words escaping your mouth.

"I did not fucking say that, yn" the blonde barks back, the vein in his temple pulsing. You just huff, annoyed, and close your eyes.

Everything is still for a while; then you feel movement beside you before feeling one of his calloused hands on your forehead. He barely touches you, but you feel his presence. You feel he's here, next to you, warm hand on your face, thumb barely tracing little circles on it, and it calms you down. He's always had this effect on you: you remember him driving all the way to your campus while you were still in college just to curse you out for stressing too much on exams, and it always worked back then too. You lean into his touch, sighing.

"I meant to say you don't have to search for a man, men should be searching for you. And generally speaking, you wouldn't have to search for a man if you just opened your eyes a little, dumbass," he says, softer than you ever heard him being. You turn your face a bit and do as he just said, finding yourself a palm of distance from his own face.

You keep on staring at each other for what feels like hours, his hand still tracing your features and gently massaging your scalp. You don't think you've ever seen him so relaxed. You both get closer to each other, losing yourself in the moment, when-

"You mean to tell me I have a stalker?"

He pushes your face on the couch, hard, before screaming at you to get immediately out of his house. You are thrown into a fit of giggles, and before he can get up you bring him down on you.

"I guess you’re big and strong enough for me," you say, smiling.

[escapenightmare]

blue lock when you ignore them.

isagi reaches out to place a hand on yours, mumbling, “baby, are you mad at me?” as he gently rubs his thumb back and forth across your knuckles with a concerned furrow to his eyebrows. when you don't reply, he unconsciously juts out his bottom lip just a little bit in a worried pout, “c'mon honey, don't ignore me.”

nagi doesn't care, he just clings onto you tightly, pulling you to lie on top of him on the couch as he sleepily nuzzles against the crook of your neck before deciding to settle with his forehead against your shoulder. “lemme sleep, pretty,” he murmurs tiredly, placing lazy kisses on your skin. “don't ignore me when i wake up.”

michael lays down with his head in your lap, looking up at you with puppy-dog eyes. “mein liebchen,” he all but whines, “pay attention to me.” when you don't reply he maintains eye contact with you as he takes one of your hands in his and brings it up to his mouth, peppering teasing kisses from your finger tips all the way to your wrists, doing anything he could to get a reaction out of you.

bachira sits on your lap with a contagious grin and presses kisses all over your face, trying to get you to cave. “this is fun,” he giggles as he places his hands on either of your cheeks and squishes your face— not enough to make you annoyed, but enough to make your lips pucker slightly. he giggles even more at the sight and brushes his nose against yours, “babe… you're so pretty”

rin glares at you, frowning. “you really want to do this?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. when you don't reply, he places a hand on your shoulder, rolling his eyes, “come on, we both know you can only do this for so long.” he sighs, almost dramatically, before using the hand on your shoulder to gently pull you back towards him, wrapping an arm around your waist as he huffs, “fine. be like that then.”

reo is dramatic for no reason whatsoever. he grabs your hands and holds them tenderly, looking heart broken and overcome with sadness as he asks, “do you not love me anymore, baby?” his eyes look as if they're almost tearing up, but all he wants to do is press your buttons up to the point where you have to acknowledge him, even if it's just so you can tell him to shut up.

sae stares at you from across the room with narrowed eyes, unimpressed. “so, how long are you planning on doing this?” he asks in a deadpan voice, folding his arms across his chest as he stares you down. when you don't reply he rolls his eyes but his demeanor only lasts for maximum twenty minutes because the next thing you know, he's wrapping his arms around you from the back and placing his chin on your shoulder.

oliver grins at you, shaking his head with a chuckle, “you're really gonna try to ignore me, baby?” he laughs at your silence, almost teasingly continuing to trace a finger in circles on your hip, grin still on his face as he leans in tantalizingly close. “you can do this all day baby, but i'm not going to give up just yet either.”

[monvante]

persona non grata ╱ myg, 𝟏.

per·​so·​na non gra·​ta: unwelcome or unwanted. not popular or accepted by others.

pairing: myg x f!reader

genre: suspense / noir / detective au

rating: mature | 18+

chapter word count: 3,067

content warings: crime, blackmail, missing person investigation, themes of violence and murder, 90's cult references, corrupt cops, mentions of physical fighting, cockroaches, depictions of dementia, substance abuse & addiction, reader is grieving a breakup;

next chapter | series navigation | masterlist

chapter i. goodbye, kanan.

Tuesday night, March 18th @ ViCAP Unit, Missing Persons Dept.

Your hands don’t feel clean. They just never do. 

“It’s that same nightmare,” you rub them together, finding comfort in the heat.

Yoongi looks at you. He says nothing, because of course he doesn't. He already noticed the dark circles under your eyes this morning, how you looked at your cup of coffee with a bit more disgust than usual.

He admired your hatred, your devotion to your spiteful heart.

“Cockroaches.” Your sad chuckle is but self-mockery. Your gaze is crestfallen.

He’s left to calculate within the machinations of his mind whatever meaning there is in your nightmare. 

Yet, Yoongi finds none whatsoever.

“Have you eaten?” 

“Why?”

“Just asking,” he shrugs. “Take tomorrow off,” Yoongi hides his hands inside the pockets of his trench coat. His concern is disguised in his eyes, looking out the foggy windows of the department office. “You need it.”

“I can’t stop thinking about him.”

“Let it go.”

“He was eight years old! He was a child!”

The air tightens in your lungs and your throat thickens with silence. You didn’t mean to sound so exasperated, you didn’t mean to sound like anything, but you’ll have to be the first to face your emotional ties to the cold case of a young boy whose face is ingrained in the back of your mind.

Yoongi gulps ⎯  it’s the first thing he does when the truth’s engulfed in his stomach. You glare at him, but he doesn’t budge. Not for a few seconds at least, taking a few steps back as he still refuses to look you in the eye. All cops are cowards.

“You wanna know why we got this case?”

Your brows perk. 

“It’s not because we’re good,” he scoffs. “Last year... I confronted McKinnon about the money. He called me a snitch… I didn’t- I didn’t tell him you were in on it, but I figured he knew. That bastard just.. kept looking at me with those filthy eyes and I- I hit him, okay? I got him good. He deserved it.”

“Is that why you kept avoiding me all those months?”

“Kind of. He said we wouldn’t come out of it alive if the ACU so much as dreamt of it… So I kept quiet. He gave us a case full of dead ends and shit evidence to keep us busy… Said we deserved it.”

The Anti Corruption Unit had been onto the agents’ tail that month. Not that it matters. Nothing was found.

“Why– why didn’t you tell me?”

He runs a hand through his hair, slowing down his breath. In the same second, he fails himself and his fury comes out in full force.

“Fuck’s sake! And risk you being dead? Or worse?!” 

There are drops of sweat down his temple. You can see them because the yellow street lights glisten against his skin and you figure he’s telling you the truth. Even if he wasn’t, you’d be inclined to believe him. 

No one else in this godforsaken unit has a commitment to the truth like Yoongi. 

Thursday morning, March 20th @ ViCAP Unit, Missing Persons Dept.

Agent Gerwig gives you a warm, tight-lipped smile when you pass her down the hallways. You hurry past the agents down the coffee machine, avoiding small talk and nearly tripping down the stairs on your way to Yoongi’s desk. 

The insides of your stomach are twisting and turning as you rush inside, uninvited and breathless, waiting for him to acknowledge you behind his incessant typing and the meaningless emails he reads everyday. 

Yoongi seems as still and lifeless as ever, which somehow comes as a comfort to you. 

“Days off are supposed to make you look better, not worse. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He types as fast as he comes up with witty remarks. 

“That’s because I have!” You spit back, fists closed tightly around the newspaper in your hands.

He quirks up one brow, enough for you to know you’ve got his attention.

“Here,” you toss it onto his desk. “Read it.”

November 27th, 1991. Solved case: Thanksgiving kidnappings linked to man apprehended by police.

“That’s Adam Bowen. He got arrested a night after Kanan went missing,” you huff, catching your breath. “They never considered him a suspect because… the timelines didn’t add up, apparently.” 

Yoongi looks up at you from the large frame of his glasses.

“And?”

“Police always suspected he worked with his brother… but they never found enough evidence to prove it. They never even found said brother, the guy disappeared out of thin air and Bowen never told them anything. Not a word.”

He leans back, stretching his arms. His gaze diverts away from you or the paper altogether and he’s staring into space, seemingly at a loss for words.

“They got one brother, huh? Looks like it was enough for them to settle it,” Yoongi clicks his tongue. “Sloppy as all hell.”

In your heart, there’s some feeble hope, but most of it has been filled with despair and a fierce jealousy towards anyone who still maintained a sense of normalcy. Your last seven years have been haunted by nightmares, tainted by the faces of all the missing person reports hanging on your walls.

“We got a second half of the story to figure out.”

Yoongi nods. He closes off his laptop and puts his hands around his gun belt.

Friday night, March 21th @ Agent ___’s home.

Circe’s orange tail swirls around your leg before she’s meowing next to her empty bowl, with cute and threatening eyes glaring into your soul. You can barely catch your breath on the couch ⎯  you got shit to do. 

Her paws trail happily after you once you’re pouring the pack of Whiskas onto her tiny plate, making a mental note to throw nearly all the home decor away before Easter comes. The apartment is filled with portraits, vases and candles Yuri generously left you with. 

Such courtesy of your ex-fiancée to have abandoned all your memories and stories behind. 

You’re running out of coffee, hope and sugar.

Yuri was not a bad man. It’s what you told yourself, once. He wanted the kids and the white picket fence life, away from violent gangs and city lights, where he’d craft the perfect nuclear family, worthy of homemade apple pies and Sunday barbecues.

But you liked the urban loneliness, your shoebox apartment and the green subway lights on your way back home. You liked the comfort of knowing every neighborhood like the palm of your hand, the ins and outs of every highway and the thought of heartless strangers passing you by, not caring for your name.

You missed him. His warm body pressed against yours and his golden, brown skin; you missed him selfishly ⎯  your comfort zone walked away and resentment grew alongside the fondness. 

You hoped he was happy without you, but not too much.

When your co-workers asked you about him, a few days after he packed his bags, all you gave them was a shrug and a poor explanation, the kind that everyone does: we were incompatible, it wasn’t meant to be, I wasn’t ready. The list went on and on.

The only one to not probe was good old loyal Yoongi. He was indifferent enough to other people’s personal lives not to ask. When you told him, he patted you on the shoulder awkwardly and placed your coffee by your desk with extra whipped cream. 

Saturday afternoon, March 22nd @ Rosefell Nursing Home.

Violet Bowen was not, by any means, what you’d call a reliable witness. She seemed pale beyond human comprehension and her words mostly consisted of hummings or muttering. The moment you saw her, you felt a sting of empathy too strong to ask her of her missing, possibly outlaw brother.

She had no other relatives nor close visitors, except for a caring ex-neighbor who’d bring her flowers every Friday. With nails painted a deep shade of red, she looked to be around eighty, but you couldn’t quite tell. Violet was in poor condition, plagued by dementia and the loneliness of lost loved ones. 

Her caretaker is a vibrant, blonde nurse. A blonde Southern belle whose name tag read in big, uppercase letters.

CAROLYN R. NURSING ASSISTANT

It’s Yoongi who interrogates Violet, remaining unaffected by her lost gaze and brown eyes. He flashes her a picture of her brothers back in the 80’s, sporting what looks to be fluffy mullets. 

She smiles then and her shaky hands point at Adam, but nothing else comes out of her aside from a gleam of life in her eyes. Even if she knew where they were, she wouldn’t tell them a word. 

Carolyn’s smile grows disconcerted. Her hands lay on Violet’s forearm as she pulls a thick chunk of her blonde hair out of her face in typical Southern charm. 

“I think my girl’s had enough here, yes?” She forces a grin, glancing over at Violet. “If you’ll excuse us, it’s tea time.” 

Carolyn helps Violet out of her seat and into the cafeteria. You’re not sure if it’s bad timing or a deliberate attempt from the nursing assistant to end this conversation, but you’re leaning on the latter. Off they go, taking slow, mindful steps away from both of you.

You refuse to look at Violet’s way. Something about her made you want to cry your heart out; the thought of loneliness being an imminent threat to you, too. 

“It’s pointless, Yoongi,” you mutter in your seat, slouching your shoulders. “She’s not going to remember anything.”

He hates to agree. Yoongi tsks, fiddling with his watch.

“Did you check her records at the reception?” He glances over at you, mind brimming with some sort of nefarious idea.

“Yeah,” you nod. “I mean- I didn’t check if she had any funds… It looks like all her properties and money were confiscated by the government, but I should run a background check on her bank accounts, to be sure.”

Monday afternoon, March 24th @ Tech Unit, Information Management Division.

Jenny’s doodles lie by her desk, making the room feel like a high school classroom. You haven’t spoken to her since December; what was once a blossoming friendship wilted away thanks to your cowardice and the desire to protect her from Deputy McKinnon’s claws. If Jenny found out, she’d jump the gun. 

And she didn’t have the best aim.

Her Naruto sketches have improved greatly since you last saw them, a massive improvement for just a couple months. Both of you used to laugh at her poorly drawn stick figures, now it looks like she’s ready to take her comics career seriously. You’re happy for her ⎯  she’ll find a way out of this hellhole.

The air is thick and humid in the early Spring, but filled with an extra layer of awkwardness when she sees you from across the room. Jenny’s strides towards her desk are heavy with grief and resentment, but she holds her gaze your way.

“Have you had enough space from me after not picking up my calls?” She slides onto her chair, scribbling a few notes onto her monthly planner. “Long time no see, idiot.”

You don’t have much to say for yourself, even when your chest pangs with her affectionate, yet sarcastic use of the word idiot. 

“A lot happened, is all,” you gesture sheepishly, hands reaching for the insides of your pockets.

“I can imagine.”

“I’m sorry, Jenny… I didn’t mean to-” 

She looks up at you, eyes drenched with irony and something.. something which you can’t name. If it’s hatred or love, you can’t tell.

“Wat’cha want?”

You swallow dry and uneasy, unfolding the paper on your hand with Violet Bowen’s name and address. It’s crumpled and a little thorn ⎯  you were ready to throw it away seconds before coming into the Tech Unit.

“I- I need a background check on someone,” you mutter, lowly. “Bank account activity… Credit cards… Anything you can find from the last… thirty years, maybe?” 

Your attempt at a chuckle fails, denouncing your regret. Jenny notices the furrow of your brows and how concerned you seem, ripping the paper away from your hands. 

“Sure.” 

The seconds fill with silence. You stand by her desk, waiting for a snide comment, a spiteful joke, anything. She looks at you like she knows you want to apologize again.

“Nice sketches!” You smile as a desperate invitation to make friendly conversation. 

Jenny doesn’t cave in.

“You’re dismissed,” she nods at the doorway and hops onto her laptop. “I’ll text you when I’m done.”

Monday night, March 24th @ Agent ____’s home.

“Hey,” you mutter over the phone. “Just checking up on you and mom.”

“Finally!” Albeit sarcastic, your younger sister’s voice is nothing but chirpy, as it has always been. “We miss you, you idiot. You know that, right?”

Over the phone, you can hear your mom’s laugh and a few unintelligible words. It seems she’s adjusting to your dad’s absence. Somehow, you had stopped calling after the funeral. It’s not that you didn’t miss them back ⎯  you were sick of being flooded with memories every time you’d hear her voice. Like your dad was still there too, right beside her.

“Sorry, sweetcheeks. I’ve just been busy.” The explanations and apologies roll off your tongue.

“You know you can’t avoid us forever, right?” Her voice is so sober, it’s as if she’s older than you by a million years. 

When you gaze out the window, loneliness overcomes you. The years spent playing hide and seek in your childhood home are long gone, replaced by miles of distance between you and your family ⎯  how you became so caring and so bad at expressing it like your father. You hate how much of you is made of all the people you love. And miss.

“You there?”

“Y-yeah, yeah I’m sorry.” 

“I swear to God, you gotta stop doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“This.” She pauses. “Acting like we don’t exist. Seriously. We miss you.”

A pang of guilt flashes through your chest. 

“I know.” Your voice is small through the phone again. In between the anxiety and the seconds, you fiddle with your bracelet. “I’m sorry.. It’s been hell.”

“I promised you I wouldn’t tell mom about your breakup, but she keeps asking me. It wouldn’t hurt if you opened up for once.” She sounds more hurt than angry, vindicating your mother after all the months you spent avoiding calls and texts under the pretense of your busy adult job.

Even in the softness of her voice, her words feel harsh. You gulp down a threatening tear, staying silent on the phone. She was still right, though.

“Listen, we love you, okay? I don’t know what kind of shit you’re going through because you won’t tell me everything.. but dude, please, seriously just come visit us sometime. I know you’ve got your job and all, but act human for once. Please?”

“Okay, okay. I’ll try. I promise.”

“Good. I gotta go now. Mom wants to go grocery shopping for some french-whatever-pie and I promised her I’d help. Give Circe my love!”

You chuckle, sadly.

“Yeah… Yeah, it’s okay. I’ll see you guys soon.”

When the call ends, silence deepens. It’s your own doing, you know, but that doesn’t make it any less suffocating. Even when you crave solitude, you’re just plagued by loneliness. 

Wednesday morning, March 26th @ Java café.

Today, Yoongi thinks you look a little better. And by better, it means rested. Of course, your gaze is still very much zombie-like, with glimpses of terror in your eyes when you look away. 

But in this line of work, it ain’t all rainbows and sunshine.

It’s never rainbows and sunshine, he realizes.

“So,” you sigh.

“So.” Yoongi punctuates, giving you room to breathe.

Your eyes are distant, watching children play in the puddles from last night’s rainstorm. The weather has been cruel to this city, punishing sinners and saints alike with a dreadful fog in the mornings and plenty of humidity to drive your hair follicles to the brink of insanity.

“Bowen’s alive, Yoongi. There’s a big chance he just… got away with it.”

Your words aren’t met with so much enthusiasm. You suppose it’s the skepticism in this field ⎯ even the good news don’t feel like good news. Before his questioning and theorizing begins, Yoongi brings up a valid concern.

“Why didn’t his brother spill his whereabouts, though? It’s not like Adam had any reasons to protect his brother any longer.”

“Unless he did.” You counter-argue.

“Why, though? It doesn’t make sense. In ninety percent of the cases, you know what happens. So-called partners in crime turn against each other. It’s good ol’ politics.” Yoongi leans back in his chair, nodding at the waitress for more coffee.

“Maybe he had something to lose,” you purse your lips. The biting of your inner cheeks is such an instinctive habit of yours that it barely stings until you realize how much tension you’re holding in. “Or someone, you know?”

“Several someones.” Yoongi blinks. “Do you remember the Mormon Heritage cult?” His eyes narrow as he scrapes the top of his head.

Your back and forth is interrupted by the local waitress pouring hot black coffee onto Yoongi’s cup. He seems like he’s on a roll today ⎯  it’s his third cup. That you know of.

“Uhhh, kind of. They were a thing in the nineties, weren’t they?” 

“Yeah.. well… the Satanic panic might’ve contributed to that,” Yoongi nods, slipping his mobile out of his pocket. His fingers are hasty, typing up a Google search so he can word vomit every single fact possible. “But we know that the Jesus believers can somehow always be worse.”

He sounds so snarky, it earns a laugh out of you.

“The Bowens were around that time,” he says. “I mean ⎯  the connection seems unlikely, but with these people, you never know.”

You sigh. 

“McKinnon didn’t give us this case for nothing, huh?” Even with half a smile on your face, you can’t help but feel defeated.

“Cheer up, buttercup. I think we got a lead.” He smiles with his teeth for once in a lifetime, raising his eyes from his phone to meet yours. You know he is up to no good ⎯ and that can only be a good thing.

“Buttercup?”

monvante © 2021 - 2024. all rights reserved. do not copy, edit or redistribute my work.

[graves4girls]

☆ 18+ me & u | miguel o'hara

✮ wc. 4.4k ⚠︎ warning(s): 18+, unprotected, pre/noncanon, teensy tiny bit of possessive reader, fem!reader i got carried away with this so it's hella long but idgaf cuz i had sm fun writing it so if it gets rambly sorry :(( also if u can't tell by this i'm excited for halloween ⟡ be sure to check out my work on ao3 → gravesforgirls !!

You smear the black gloss across your lips, one arm stabilizing yourself as you stand bent over the vanity, fixing the small imperfections of your makeup. You cap the lipgloss and drop it into your makeup bag, straightening to eye your outfit in the mirror, fixing the ears secured to the top of your head. A knock at your bedroom door pulls you from admiring yourself any further, moving to pull the door open, smiling at the tower of a man behind it.

"You ready?"

"For what?"

Your eyebrows knit together, crossing your arms over your chest. "The costume party! You said you were going." 

His eyes run over your frame, eyebrows raising at the provocative costume. "I decided I don't want to. All it's gonna be is drunk people dry humping and vomiting everywhere."

You frown.

"We were supposed to go together. You can't just back out. You promised."

"I'm breaking it, then. I'm sure you'll have fun without me."

You drop your arms to your sides, sighing. "You're driving me then. And I need to make a pit stop at the party store. I need one more thing for my costume."

He grumbles quietly but nods nonetheless, letting you slip past him and down the hall.

You push the car door open as he shuts the engine off, but you don't get out, looking back at him.

"Aren't you coming in?"

He quirks an eyebrow. "Why would I go in? You're the one who wanted to come here."

"What if I need help getting something off a high shelf?" 

He rolls his eyes at the lame excuse, biting back a grin. "That's what the workers are for."

"Just, come in with me. It'll be quick."

He reluctantly steps out of the car, following close behind you.

You skim through the aisles, eyes locking on the bright red and blue of one particular costume hanging on the wall, and you reach to pull it down, scanning the size. He notices you eyeing the package, stepping closer.

"What do you need that for?"

You hum, giving him a grin. "I don't. But you do. You'd look so cute in this."

He gapes at you for a moment, waving a hand in the air as he shakes his head furiously. 

"You're fucking crazy if you think I'd ever wear that. I'm not ten years old. And I told you I'm not going to the stupid party."

"Come on! I'll pay for it–just come with me. I really want you to go."

He stares at you for a few moments in silence, small scowl etched into his features and his big arms folded over his chest. The way you look up at him with those big, pretty eyes, and the way you're practically begging him to go makes him weak, and you smile when he drops his head with a sigh.

"I can't believe you're actually making me go to a costume party dressed as goddamn Spiderman. Was this the only reason you made me drive you here?"

"No, I still need a cat tail."

You pull him along by his hand through the crowds of people and drag him up the stairs, in search of an empty room.

"What are you guys supposed to be?"

You turn to the voice, smiling at them.

"I'm a black cat. He didn't have time to change yet, but he's gonna be Spiderman." You can tell he's already regretting giving in to your batting eyelashes and pouty lip, not acknowledging the person whatsoever. "Is there anywhere he can change? Bathroom or something?"

"There's one down the hall, to the right. Hopefully nobody's hogging it yet."

You nod and yank him towards the room, knocking before pushing it open when you get no response. You shove the costume against his chest, toothy grin stuck to your face.

"You're way too happy about this. You owe me."

"Whatever, just hurry up. They're gonna have a contest later for best costumes and I'm gonna nominate you."

"¡Oye, no empujes tu suerte-!"

You push him back and slam the door shut, giggling at the way he groans.

"Almost done?"

You can hear shuffling behind the door.

"Uh–yeah. It's just a little…tight. This was the biggest size they had?"

The door creaks open, and he peeks his head around to look at you.

"Yeah. It can't be that bad. Show me." He pulls the door open, and you hide your laugh behind your hand at the sight of him. "See, I told you! You look cute."

"You're laughing. I look ridiculous."

"I'm serious! Give me a spin."

Another incredulous look, but he obliges when he realizes you mean it, popping your hip out as you shift your weight. He turns slowly, and you can't keep your eyes from drifting lower, taking in the way the thin material hugs his ass perfectly, along with the rest of him, really. You whistle at him as he turns back to face you, mischievous and teasing.

"Watch it. I'll ditch your ass if you keep that shit up." He points a finger at you, but you wave him off, pushing his hand down.

"Where's the mask?"

"I'm not wearing it. This is bad enough."

"You're wearing the goddamn mask. You're not Spiderman without the mask. Put it on."

You can't place it, but every girl that ogles at him and feels him up tightens something in your chest. He's not even trying to be the center of attention, yet girls are flocking to get close to him. You're supposed to be dancing with your friends, but you're too busy glaring at the Barbie hanging off his arm to enjoy the music anymore.

"Hey, what's your problem?" One of your friends bumps against your shoulder, eyes following your gaze, and she sighs. "Ignore them. You're here to have fun."

You huff quietly, fixing your cat ears.

"I know, but he's supposed to be my Spiderman. He should be over here, with me."

"Holy shit, you are pathetic. C'mon, let's get some drinks."

You tear your eyes away from the sight, sulking into the kitchen.

"What do you want?"

"Just some juice or something. I'm not in the mood to get drunk anymore."

You take the solo cup from her hands, taking a sip and turning to eye the crowd from the threshold of the kitchen doorway, getting small glimpses of him through the silhouettes of people dancing. His mask is pulled back to show his pretty face, pieces of messy curls falling into his face as he laughs at something you're too far to hear. Honestly, you can't really blame them completely, he does look gorgeous, strong muscles straining against the cheap material of the costume, leaned cooly against the wall with his arms over his chest. You decide to cut his conversation with Harley Quinn short, curating a quick cocktail and leaving your friend to call after you, slipping past inflatable dinosaurs and far too many half-assed skeletons to snake between them.

"Hey! I brought you a drink."

His eyes flicker from the cup to you once, twice, before he squints.

"Why? What'd you do to it?"

You swat at his chest, holding it out further to him. "Nothing, you dick. I'm being nice. I did drag you here."

He takes the cup from you hesitantly, searching the concoction for any sign of foul play, before taking a sip, and you mentally note the absence of the pig-tailed girl that'd been heckling him. 

"You've been getting a lot of attention tonight, huh?"

He glares at you, gently swirling his cup.

"I can't get two seconds alone. I don't know how you like these kinds of things."

"Well, try actually doing something rather than sitting in a corner acting all mysterious. And put the mask on."

You reach out to grab his free hand, gently pulling in an attempt to get him to follow you.

"And where exactly are you bringing me?"

"The dance floor. I know you've got a little something up your sleeve."

He holds a finger up as he takes another sip.

"Let me finish my drink, and I'll meet you out there."

"Promise? And don't break it this time."

"Promise. Ahora déjame en paz."

You drop his hand, smiling as you skip away to find your friends once more.

You jump a bit when you feel big hands catch your hips, and you're about to swing at the person that seems to think it's okay to grab random girls when his deep voice rumbles in your ear.

"Having fun?"

You look over your shoulder to find that big eyed mask staring down at you, nodding with a smile.

"Took you long enough. And you kept your promise."

You turn to face him, but he keeps his hands on your hips, and your face heats up a bit at the contact.

"I got a little held up. And you'll never guess who it was."

You scrunch your face, tilting your head a bit. "Who?"

"Another black cat. But like, Marvel's Black Cat. She had the whole get-up, claws and everything."

You heat up even more.

"Oh, really? That's funny." 

"Yeah, she was trying to get my number and shit."

You suck your teeth. "And shit? What else was she trying to get?" You tease him, wiggling your eyebrows.

"Nothing like that, you weirdo. Are we gonna dance, or what?"

You give him a half-hearted smirk as he clears his throat, brushing his hands away to turn to your friend.

Your friend's hanging off of you, drunkenly babbling and giggling, and you decide to recuperate away from the crowd, patting a hand against Miguel's shoulder.

"Help me bring her somewhere quieter. She needs to sober up."

He picks her from your shoulder with ease, following you away from the loud music and up into an empty bedroom. You retrieve some cold water as he sets her on the bed, and she plops back with a laugh.

"Hey, drink this. You're fucking plastered."

She refuses it at first, but with minimal fighting, she eventually chugs the drink and falls against your shoulder. 

Her boyfriend collects her soon enough, conveniently leaving you and Spiderman to linger in the quiet room.

"You seem to be having a good time. Aren't you happy I made you come?"

He plops onto the bed with a huff, pushing the mask up and raising his eyebrows.

"I wouldn't say happy, but I'm not not happy. I mean, I like seeing you have fun."

You step closer to the mirror hanging on the door, prodding at your makeup.

"Yeah? You looked pretty thrilled out there."

He watches you from his spot, leaning back on one of his palms. "What are you doing?"

"Fixing my makeup. She smudged it when she was grabbing at me."

"You look fine."

You give him a look from the side of your eye, pulling out a small lip gloss from your bra cup and twisting it open. "That's not the compliment you think it is." 

He rolls his eyes. "You know what I meant. You look pretty. You can't even tell it's messed up."

You close the small tube and set it down on the wardrobe, running your hands down your sides to feel the shiny faux leather fabric of the bodysuit. You can feel his eyes on you, running all over your body, and suddenly there's a tight coil in your stomach. 

"Did you ever give that girl your number?"

His eyes snap to your face when you turn to look down at him, brows knit together.

"Who, Black Cat? No, no, she's not my type. And I'm pretty sure she has a boyfriend. I've seen her around campus a few times with the same guy."

You hum quietly.

"What about Harley Quinn? She's cute."

He shrugs. "She's just in my genetics class. She was just asking about an assignment. Nothing nefarious." He sits up, a small smirk working its way onto his lips. "Why are you grilling me all of a sudden? Are you trying to hook me up with someone?"

You shake your head with a grin, cheeks heating up. "No! I'm just wondering. I mean, girls have been hanging off of you all night. Surely you gave one of them your number, or something?"

He chuckles quietly, toying with the fabric on his leg. "No, I don't go handing out my number to random girls."

"Sure."

"What about you? Don't you have guys all over you?"

You scoff, moving to sit next to him.

"Hardly. I'll be lucky if I get one guy asking for my number before I leave. And the clock is ticking. It's already almost midnight."

He's looking at you, staring, and you don't want to look back.

"I think they're just intimidated. They think you'll reject them." His voice is quieter, softer, but it still rumbles deep in his chest.

"Shut up."

He leans closer.

"I'm serious." His hand comes up to tuck some hair behind your ear, lingering before it drops back to his side. "You look stunning. I mean, you're always gorgeous, but you look especially good in black leather."

Your whole body feels like a furnace, scorching with the sudden tension in the air, and you stare down at your lap.

"Thanks."

"Oye. M��rame." His hand comes up once more to grab your chin, turning your head to face him. "I mean it."

Your eyes fall to his lips for a moment, nodding softly. 

"I know." Your own voice betrays you, nearly a whisper as you find his gaze.

He's kissing you before you can say anything else, big hand cupping the side of your face as his nose bumps against yours, and your hands are quick to wrap around his neck, pulling him closer. He leans into you, nearly knocking you over if it weren't for his hold on you, desperate to get more of you. He's hoisting you into his lap, hands grabbing at your hips as your tongue slips into his mouth, and he's letting a low groan fall from his lips. He can't pull you close enough, strong arms constricting around your waist as your hands frame his face, only pulling back when your lungs nearly burn. 

"You should've done that a long time ago."

He chuckles against your lips, brown eyes boring into your own, pupils blown wide. "I was waiting for the right time." 

You drop another heated kiss to his flushed lips, humming into his mouth when he rolls your hips down into his own.

"You really wanna do this here?"

"I don't think I can hold out any longer. I need you, now." 

You rock down against him with another kiss.

"Whatever you say, Spiderman." 

Your hands are moving to tug off his costume, leaving him in tight briefs that leave little to the imagination. He shifts your position to pin you below him, stuffing his face into your neck to let his lips find your throat, and your hands are tangling in his messy hair, black nails massaging his scalp. His fingers crawl down your side to grab one of your thighs, hooking your leg over his hip as he drops his head lower to litter your collarbones with kisses, nipping gently at the exposed skin. 

Your hands fall from his hair to feel along the muscle of his chest, down his abs until they bump into the elastic band of his briefs, stilling against the fabric. His hips roll into your light touch, begging for something to rub against, and your hand drops lower to brush your fingers against him through the thin cotton, earning a quiet groan that melts into your skin. He draws back to take you in for a moment, kissing you, eager and hot, and a big hand snakes between you to delicately pull the zipper of your bodysuit down, shoving open the piece to let the warm air hit your bare chest. 

You slip your hand beneath his briefs to wrap your fingers around him, heavy in your hold, lazily running your fingers up the underside of his shaft. He's tugging at the sleeves of the bodysuit to push it down your arms, trailing kisses down your sternum as he does so, only pulling away to discard the garment beside you on the bed, immediately latching back onto you while one of his hands slowly inches lower to ghost over your cunt. He nudges aside the lacy black panties that just barely conceal you, his thick fingers exploring you, rolling over your clit a few times before they're soaking in your juices, pulling a quiet keen from your plump lips. He muffles your soft noises against his lips, his other hand sliding up your neck to cup the side of your face, and the way he's moving against you so languidly feels far more intimate than just any other fuck. He's being careful with you, taking in every mewl and whine you make, fingers working you perfectly, as if he already knows every part of you and how to touch you just right. 

"You doing okay?" He bumps the tip of his nose to yours, warm breath fanning across your lips. 

You nod, letting a hand come up to nestle in his hair. "I'm doing more than okay. Feels really good."

His thumb rubs circles into your clit, palm pushing against you when your hips begin to lift from the mattress, keeping you in place below him.

You need something else. It's not enough. 

"Mmph–Miguel…" You manage to whimper out his name, teeth tugging at your bottom lip. "I…" Your words melt into another moan, eyelids fighting to stay open.

"Hmm? What is it, gorgeous? Tell me." He caresses the side of your face, calloused thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

"I want you…I want you to fuck me. Please." Your cheeks burn, no doubt scalding to the touch as you stare up at him through your long lashes, gnawing at your bottom lip. 

He seems to short-circuit at your plea for a moment or two before he gives an avid nod, smooshing another kiss to your lips. "I'll give you anything you want if you keep asking like that. God, you are fuckin' perfect." 

His hand slips from between your thighs to grab at your panties, and the sound of the lace tearing apart pulls you out of your mind for a second.

"Miguel! Are you that impatient? Those were my favorite pair!" You can't hide the little giggle that carries your words, hands wrapping around his forearms.

"I'll buy you a new pair." He dismisses your comment with a kiss to your jaw, throwing the pathetic string of lace aside. 

He drags the tip of his cock along your slick folds a couple times before he's stretching you open, big hands catching the back of your knees to push your legs back towards your head, groaning low in his throat at the way your warm walls hug him tight. Your own hands grab at his strong arms, clinging to his wrists as he slowly rolls his hips into your own, and you bite back a moan when he bottoms out, stilling against you. He's big, but the stretch feels so good. Filling you to the hilt, overtaking all your senses as he cages you beneath him, nothing else on your mind but him.

"This alright?" He leans down to press little kisses to your cheek, thumbs absentmindedly rubbing shapes into the back of your knees.

"Mhm." You can't find the strength to conjure up anything intelligible, mind foggy with the little grunts he makes that make you want to squirm. 

His deep moans and hums tickle your skin, nose pressed into your neck as he rocks into you. His hands drop to the mattress, letting your legs hook over his big shoulders instead, and your nails dig into his biceps, clawing at him. His slow thrusts grow more eager, rocking you against the sheets as he lifts his head to look at you, watching your expression pinch and contort whenever he brushes that sweet spot. 

Your eyes water when his hips snap against you, faster and more brutal with every roll of his hips, teeth nearly drawing blood as they sink into your plump bottom lip, swollen from his constant need to be kissing you. One of his hands has snuck between your legs once more to pay special attention to your clit, making you a whimpering, mumbling mess below him. His other hand finds its way up to hold your chin, his thumb slipping between your lips to settle on your warm tongue, and you gently suck on the digit as your eyes find his. 

"Fuck…I'm not gonna last much longer if you keep looking at me like that."

Your eyebrows knit together when he hits that sweet spot inside you, a pathetically loud moan ripping through your vocal chords as your hips jerk. The bedframe screams with every rough slam of his hips, and he revels in every whine and hiccup that leaves your pretty lips, smearing his spit-slick thumb across your jawbone. His hips grow more erratic with every moment that passes, carelessly drilling into you in a desperate attempt to chase that high. His praises have devolved into gravelly mumbles, nose bridge pressed against your jaw as his warm breath hits your sticky skin, and one of your hands fumbles to wrap around his neck, keeping him close to you. His fingers work your clit tirelessly, a silent plea for you to finish, cock bullying your tight walls. 

His hips stutter as he comes, giving one more deep slam of his hips before filling you completely, panting heavy and uneven as he continues to rub circles into the sensitive bud. He slowly tilts his head to stick lazy, hot kisses to the underside of your jaw, urging you on as your legs begin to tremble. He grins against your skin when your thighs shake, coating his fingers in your juices as your orgasm hits you, comforting you with a kiss to the corner of your mouth as you come down. He lets your legs fall to frame his hips as he pulls out of you, bringing his hand up to run along your stomach, over your chest and curling behind your neck, thumbing over your jawline as your eyes tentatively find his.

"There you are, pretty girl. How're we feeling?" He looks almost lovestruck, his expression so tooth-rottingly sweet it makes your stomach do flips.

You hum quietly, leaning into his hold. "Perfect. A little tired, though." 

He smiles at you, dropping a kiss to the tip of your nose that has you smiling right back at him. 

He pulls himself away from you leisurely, running a hand down your side before getting up from the mattress, eyeing the mess of clothes scattered across the room. You sit up, leaning back on the heels of your palms as he moves to pick up his briefs. You both jump at the sudden knock on the door, and you panic when the doorknob twists. 

"Hey, Miguel! You in here? You-!"

His reflexes are quick enough to slam the door shut before whoever it was barging in could catch a glimpse of the filthy scene, eyes wide and head snapping towards you to find your own expression just as alarmed.

"What the fuck, man?! Knock first!"

"I did, dude!"

He growls quietly. "Well, wait for me to respond! You don't go around swinging doors open! I'll be down in a bit! Christ…" He twists the lock on the doorknob, running a hand down his face.

You're already pulling your clothes back on by the time he turns around, pulling the zipper up as he slips on his briefs.

"Sorry. I should've made sure it was locked earlier."

You shake your head, waving him off and pushing him away from the door to look in the mirror, eyes widening at your reflection.

"Holy shit. My makeup is fucked." There's black streaks of dried tears staining your hot cheeks, lip gloss smeared and cat ears askew.

He stands behind you, and you want to disappear. This is what was under him that whole time? Utterly mortifying.

"Here, let me help. Look at me." 

You shamefully spin around, avoiding his eyes as his hands come up to hold your face. His thumbs run over the black marks on your face, gently wiping at them as you sigh.

"What are you sighing about?"

He continues to swipe at the messy makeup, rubbing his finger under your lips to pick up the excess gloss.

"Why didn't you tell me I looked like shit?"

He hums softly, holding you still. "Cause you don't. You look pretty. Some messy makeup isn't gonna change that." He leans closer to your ear, his breath tickling your skin. "And in all honesty, it was really hot."

You push him away with an amused giggle. "Whatever. Let me at least put some more lip gloss on." You grab the tube from the wardrobe, but he picks it from your hand before you can turn back to the mirror. "What the hell-?"

"Shh. Just let me do it." You roll your eyes but let him tilt your head back, smearing the shiny gloss across your lips. "Can I give you one more kiss before we go out there?"

He dips his head to stick one last long kiss to your soft lips when you begrudgingly nod, flattening your hair and fixing your ears when he draws back. You turn back to the mirror, pleasantly surprised at his handiwork.

"Oh my god, the contest! Hurry up and get dressed! I totally forgot about it."

He groans as you stuff your lip gloss back into the cup of your bodysuit, pulling on the tight spandex costume and following you out of the quiet room. The subtle looks you get as you pull him down the stairs makes you both giddy and horrified, keeping your head down as you shove past people. You can hear someone on the stereo system saying something about the runner up winner, and you deflate a bit. 

"Dammit! We missed it."

He nuzzles his face into your neck as he comes up behind you, sighing. "Well, since it's too late for the contest, why don't we get out of here? I think we both could use some sleep"

You hum in a quiet agreement, letting him pull you out the rowdy house and into the cool night air. 

"And don't think you don't still owe me for putting me in this stupid costume."

[gay-for-the-snz]

Day 5: Rogue Organ (tonsils, spleen, appendix, gall bladder, etc…) [M, cold]

The return of Monty! It's nice to get to write him again and return him to the scene. I had fun playing around with the way they interact, and also the way that Joseph is perceived by the people around him! 2.2k

⁂

In all of the time he has known Dr. Valentine, he's never walked into his office and received no acknowledgement at all. He awkwardly drops his bag down beside his desk chair, leans it up against the corner to prop it up.

"Good morning, Dr. Valentine."

The man in question turns in his chair, his cheeks slightly flushed. He's never seen him blush before, but it kind of...looks like he might be? He doesn't reply immediately, just clears his throat in a way that sounds painful.

"Doctor--"

He holds up a hand to silence him, and clears his throat again. He leans close, uncomfortably so, and gestures towards his throat, fingertips gently touching his skin. "Laryngitis." His voice is thin and hoarse, hardly even a whisper.

"Oh. I'm sorry." He doesn't know what else to say, but mirrors the action to touch his own throat. "Viral or overuse?"

The good doctor looks pained by the acknowledgement, and scribbles on the notepad laying on his desk. Clearly he'd prepared for this before he got in. 'VIRAL' says the absolutely perfect penmanship. He's mused before that he could probably use Dr. Valentine's handwriting to teach printing to kids like in those booklets. The man writes like a typewriter, utterly pristine in a way that's difficult to reconcile with the typical handwriting associated with the profession. He realizes, when he slightly jiggles the notepad to display it again to make sure that he's seen it, that he's just neglected to respond.

"Ah." Well, that was a lame response. "That's a shame. Are you feeling alright otherwise?"

He's not a man given to really shrugging much, but he does so now. 'MINOR COLD' is all he writes in response.

It's clearly bothering him, not being able to say anything or do anything with his voice, but he's got that weird, steely resolve to not want to show any sort of...anything. Dr. Valentine's a man who would rather not let a single person know literally anything about him. Not his birthday, not his favorite color, not anything about him whatsoever. He doesn't even like people knowing that he takes his coffee black, so it isn't really surprising to know that he doesn't want to acknowledge much regarding his own condition.

"I was about to go get myself some coffee, do you want tea while I'm up?" He shakes his head, and that's not a surprise either. "Suit yourself."

The break room is kind of a far walk, but that doesn't stop him from actually wanting to walk over there. It's nice to be able to go get himself some coffee when he wants to, and it's also nice to be able to just take himself for a stroll whenever he feels like it. There's a soft hum of people walking around in their routines, and it's beautiful to be able to watch them do their things.

He's actually fucking shaking, though, by the time he's on his way back with the coffee--and a tea, that he didn't ask for but is getting anyway--because the realization dawns on him that if Dr. Valentine isn't able to speak, that means that the duty of lecturing is going to be falling onto him. He hates public speaking. And, equally importantly, Dr. Valentine hates giving up control.

He shoulders open the door to the office, and sets the tea down pointedly on the corner of the desk to preempt the argument he knows is coming. "I know you said you didn't want it, but I decided you did."

The look he receives is absolutely venomous, and he is FURIOUSLY scribbling on that notepad. It must be painful for him to not be able to say anything off the cuff--he's a man who's composed of quips, and stinging responses, and barbed witticisms that rely on timing for their effectiveness. It undercuts him to be reduced to writing on a notepad instead of speaking over him to cut him off.

He hadn't realized, really, how much of this man's authority was centered around that. Not that he doesn't carry an authority now--he looks like someone who was born to stand on a balcony overlooking a party like a Bond villain--but that cold silence doesn't necessarily carry the same sort of weight to it when he can't immediately back it up. He is not a man whose authority can rely on his bulk, he is not someone who is physically daunting in the way he looms above others.

No. It is his voice that he uses with such precision to overrule others. He carries himself in such a way that no one doubts that he is the one in charge. When he walks into a room, others fall into silence as they await him. The fact that he's now victim to that same silence just makes him look...tired. He looks old, and small in a way that's so unnatural and jarring. It stirs pity somewhere inside of him to see, which he knows is the last thing on earth the doctor wants from him.

"Anyway," he says, as a way of attempting to break the tension, "I'm assuming that you're going to need...assistance with today's lectures?"

Dr. Valentine looks like he wants to say something, but he just sits there in stony silence, staring at him. He's about to ask the question again, until he realizes why he's been silent. He twists aside with a gasp and ducks into his elbow with a sneeze that sounds absolutely miserable--and ridiculous. It lacks the sharp, harsh sound it usually has, more leaned hoarse and squeaky in a way that makes them both wince just hearing it.

He looks like it hurt his throat, and that seems right--he always sneezes so harsh and loud and rough, the sound of it alone always makes him think that it must hurt his throat just to have happen, but especially now that he's certainly already sore and miserable. "Bless you--"

He shakes his head, holding up a finger to bid him silence, even as his features contort into a snarl of irritation, before he ducks down into his sleeve a second time with a pair of them. He holds that position for a moment more, before he finally sighs and drops his arm with a liquidy sniffle.

"Bless you!"

Dr. Valentine looks irritated by the blessing, but he doesn't say anything to overrule it. This time. Perhaps he will later, should there be a repeat occurrence, and he wouldn't be shocked if it does. He takes a couple of tissues from the box on the corner of his desk, and blows his nose.

"Anyway," he tries again, "are you...going to be canceling your lectures, or is it going to be me behind the lectern today?"

He sniffs wetly, again, and scribbles on his notepad. YOU HAVE MY NOTES, AND WILL BE LEADING LECTURE TODAY.

"Oh! Right, I can do that. You've left me the notes, then?"

ALWAYS.

"And you're going to be haunting your desk as well, then?"

AS I ALWAYS DO.

"Good. I guess we'll have to, uh, sort of look through everything real quick before I go up there, so we can potentially check everything out and get prepped for it." He is distinctly aware, as he looks at the man glowering behind his desk, that he's going to be doing this lecture with a man who's going to be sitting behind the desk like a gargoyle the whole time he's speaking.

The gargoyle in question is currently tending to his nose (again) as he drops a stack of printed lecture slides onto the desk, neatly stacked together and annotated on each page, so it seems. That's nice of him. None of this prep work looks like something he could possibly have done terribly recently, it's too thorough. Clearly he decided sometime this morning--or, potentially, last night even--that he wouldn't be able to do anything today with his voice in the condition that it's in. Perhaps he's been sicker for longer than he's wanted to admit.

He wonders what it's like for him at home. He's unmarried now--he knows that much, as does everybody else in this school. Nor does he see anybody else ever usually really spending any time around the doctor. He's always pretty isolated, cloistered in this office. He goes to this office, or to the classroom, and then to home.

He wonders if when he goes home, he's lonely. If he's doing anything to take care of himself, or if he's merely ignoring it and letting it run its course. Is he taking care of himself? Does he miss having someone else in his home?

He must catch him staring, because he leans forward and strains his voice, against certainly his own advice, to be able to whisper. "Why are you staring at me and not your lecture?"

"I was just thinking about the, uh, lecture later." He takes a sip of his coffee, paled to a soft beige that can really barely even be considered coffee anymore, and watches the doctor finally take a sip of his tea. "Is the tea fine? I figured the peppermint one might be somewhat soothing."

He nods, faintly, and Monty knows he's not going to really be getting anything better than that. That's high praise and acknowledgement to receive from a man who's built a reputation on being cold and impenetrable. And, for the most part, he's lived up to it for that as being truth.

"Good, I'm glad." He idly flips through the lecture pages, trying to make him feel like he's actually doing something important here instead of just staring at his employer and psychoanalyzing him. "I hope that--I know, I can already tell that you're going to dislike hearing this from me--and I want you to know I also know that you're not going to like it--but I hope that you're able to recover soon."

He's right, about the fact that there is nothing Dr. Valentine wants less than to be fussed over or pitied in some degree, but he seems to begrudgingly accept it, if only because he can't really avoid hearing it be said. His hand hovers over the notepad, marker uncapped, for a couple tentative seconds, before he commits pen to paper.

THANK YOU.

It's surprising to receive a concession like this from him, and it actually warms his heart a little. "You're welcome." He returns to the task at hand, a more quiet understanding sitting between them. It's good to feel more appreciated for once, to know that Dr. Valentine is actually seeming to notice his efforts in a way that he's able to really appreciate as well.

The doctor is carefully annotating his own stack of papers over on his side of the office, attempting to balance this with the tissues he's got pressed to his nose for the time being. He looks like he's probably going to want to sneeze again. More than that, he looks like that paper travel cup of tea on the desk is going to need to be joined again by another at some point.

"You're prone to this?"

He looks surprised by the question, his face betraying the feeling.

"I was just wondering, because you didn't seem too surprised by the laryngitis. It doesn't seem like this is the first time you've suffered this particular rogue organ." He taps his pen along the page, coyly refusing eye contact as he speaks. "So that would, reasonably, mean that you're either used to this, or...that you've been sick for longer than you've wanted to let on, and had the advanced notice to plan my taking over today. Not there's any shame in either, of course. Just an observation. You know, like how you always urge us to be keeping our eyes open for patterns to be sharper practitioners."

Oh, he's going to kill him. He's certain that the only thing that's stopping him from snapping at him to get out of this office--and all manner of other nasty things--is the fact that he cannot physically do so right now.

Or, perhaps, it's the fact that he doesn't get any further into it than opening his mouth to attempt to anyway, before he's muffling a racking fit of coughs into his sleeve. It isn't the wet, hacking  sort he'd fear was indicative of something more serious. No, this is the dry, ticklish and irritated sort that sounds pretty normal to be accompanying the laryngitis he's already copped to.

He politely averts his eyes, because as much as he's kind of enjoying being a little shit when the professor can't do anything about it, he does feel sorta bad about taking advantage of it, or for being a voyeur in this way. He doesn't dislike him in any way, nor does he actually derive any pleasure from the ailment itself. This particular symptom makes him feel the need to clear his own throat sympathetically.

The fit tapers off with an uncomfortable sort of gasp--not quite a wheeze, but inching uncomfortably close into that territory. He wordlessly takes the tea, defeated by himself in this moment, and drains it with the air of a man who knows he's getting his ass kicked by something that was definitely supposed to be minor. Something easily dealt with and worked around, which is doing everything in its power to become something much more.

With a resigned weariness, he takes the now empty cup and trudges out of the office to begin what will, by all accounts, become the day's routine in refilling it.

[theforgottenmcrmy]

Legacy (Ser Harwin Strong x Reader)

᯽ Please note that this is an overall Part 17 to the series Growing Strong. The masterlist, and part 1, can be found HERE.᯽

Pairing: Ser Harwin Strong x Tyrell! Female Reader

Warnings: GOT typical sexism, canon divergence, mentions of past character depth, 1 subtle but still there reference to non-consensual sex, Larys strong is a bad man and a creepy one at that, and parent issues for everyone around.

Summary: If the would-be usurper and her allies wanted to take to dragonback, so too would he. They were not the only ones who commanded great beasts of the sky.

A/N: Hello everyone😊 I’m back with a different kind of chapter. I’d consider this to be Growing Strong’s version of the “Green Council” episode from the show. I understand this may not be everyone’s cup of tea, and that’s completely alright. I promise we will go back to Dragonstone with Harwin and Ms. Tyrell next chapter.🖤

I wanted to write this for a couple of reasons. I already had few Alicent, Larys, and Otto scenes planned, and once I realized what else could be done with it, I decided it would be best to just go ahead and dedicate one whole chapter to the Greens. This expands on a few characters that have been briefly featured previously (if there is any confusion as to who is who, I highly recommend checking out the family tree I made for this fic, which can be found on the masterlist). This chapter also makes references to a oneshot I plan to write, and the ending scene serves almost as a prologue of sorts for the Aemond story I’d like to take a crack at next.

If you decide to give this a read, I really appreciate it. If not, that’s perfectly OK, we will return to our regularly programming next. I hope you guys have a fantastic weekend🖤

“I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive the grave wrong I have done you, My Queen.”

The silence in the chambers of Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower was almost as deafening as the space between her ears as she grappled to make sense of what she had just been told.

She blinked and stared at the wrinkled and fraying scroll of parchment in her hand blankly. In the periphery stood the Master of Whisperers, Lord Larys Strong, whom the letter had been addressed to. His head was bowed, and the entirety of his weight shifted to be precariously placed on the integrity of his cane and he silently awaited her response.

But the longer she refused to acknowledge his words, the more he shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

“The Lord Hand charged me with the task. I can only pray that you may understand why, from his perspective, I was in no viable position to refuse his command.”

Alicent’s eyes flickered up to meet the top of Larys’s greasy head. She scoffed, “It is my father who is to blame, then? The Hand was the sole orchestrator of this plot? You played no role in devising it yourself, none whatsoever?”

It would not have been the first time her father would have acted without informing her, nor was it likely to be the last. But Alicent needed to be certain, and she would leave no stone unturned. 

The fate of the realm rested upon the edge of a knife, and when that knife fell, she needed to know who her true allies were. It was not political allies she sought, but another kind. She sought individuals who could and would put her interests, and more importantly, the interests of her children and grandchildren, above their own ambitions or personal gain.

As she had harrowingly discovered only a few days past, the Lord Hand was not one of those individuals. Her father claimed to have a vested interest in the good of the family. And yet, he had not hesitated to attempt to dig his claws into her son, his own grandson, and counsel him to order the killing of his own kin. Her father also claimed that between the two of them, their hearts were one. And yet, he had had no problem forcing her off on another man old enough to be her sire, like she was a mere broodmare, and not a genuinely valued extension of himself.

She, Aegon, and the rest of the few she held most dear- they were all mere pieces that her father moved about the board, in a game of his own design. There was no ally to be found in the Lord Hand. There never had been.

Nor had Alicent ever considered Larys to be a true ally. The relationship between them had been purely transactional. Perhaps Larys was motivated to continue to stoke the flames of their arrangement by something deeper than his own potential political, or personal, gain. But if that was true, it was unrequited. Very much so.

In a moment of uncharacteristic boldness, Larys’s eyes shot up from the floor to meet her severe stare with equal resolve.

“No, My Queen,” he denied ardently. “Never. I would not dare to breathe without your knowledge, let alone conspire against you… We are both privvy to the fact that the only person whom I truly serve is you, and you alone.”

It was becoming exceedingly difficult for Alicent to determine what to make of Larys’s outlandish claims. There was a dodgy, almost manic look in his eyes as he recalled the tale of her father giving the order to find and detain Lady Tyrell and her escort. But every word Larys spoke as he nearly trembled before her was heavy, weighed down with great remorse.

With all this in mind, most anyone would be reluctant to believe that Larys was relaying anything but the truth… or, at least, the truth as he knew it.

“You would do well to refrain from mentioning that in the presence of anyone else,” she chastised him, but only half-heartedly. “Especially the likes of the King.”

Her attention snapped back to the letter in her grasp. The skin around her fingernails was raw and bloodied, contrasting sharply with the faded yellow of the parchment. The past few days had been difficult at best, and it seemed that old girlhood habits, such as mindlessly tearing away at her own hands, had never truly left her. It had lingered, much like the shadow that King Viserys’s passing had casted over the realm.

“Tell me the truth of this, Larys,” Alicent beseeched him, her voice deceptively calm and even. “Does my father know of your involvement in the Harrenhal fire?”

At the mere mention of his greatest treachery, Larys visibly tensed. He shook his head stiffly. “No, My Queen.”

The indisputable conviction in Larys’s terse tone compelled Alicent to believe that perhaps those were the most honest words he had spoken to her thus far.

Alicent swallowed thickly as she contemplated her next course of action. “That is just as well. Even if Lord Harwin has discovered the truth, it would still be wise for us to take precaution so as to prevent any others from doing the same… Should my father ever learn of it, your allegiance to me will no longer be sufficient enough to protect you.”

Larys looked at her with wide, wild eyes. “You still intend to offer me your protection, Your Grace?”

Queen Alicent sighed deeply as she let the letter slip through her fingers and flutter to the desk below. “Perhaps… But you must understand that you have put me in an extremely precarious position, Lord Larys.”

In many ways, her tone, which was riddled with audible disappointment, was not dissimilar to how she had been forced to frequently address her eldest son. But that was to be no more. Now, she had to practically beg him to hear her, and even then, he did not have to heed her advice or grant her any request…. Even if such a small concession might successfully kill the impending civil war in its infancy. Such was the privilege of a king.

But Alicent’s years of piety and worship to the Seven had not failed her. In her hour of need, the gods had answered; Grand Maester Orwyle had spoken, and taken up her stance. All of those opposed to Aegon’s ascent, namely, Princess Rhaenya, would be sent terms. True terms, with conditions that could not possibly be contrived as an insult. With the Grand Maester’s support, two voices had been enough to temporarily dissuade the King from agreeing with the Lord Hand’s counsel to approach the situation alternatively.

Even so, Queen Alicent was more than well aware that her ability to act upon the King’s generous allowance was decreasing rapidly with every passing hour.

“The King wished for Lord Harwin and Lady Y/N to be captured at once and put to the sword for their treason,” Queen Alicent informed Lord Larys plainly.

As she spoke, she locked eyes with him, gauging his reaction. Would he be pleased with the news? Larys had conspired to have his elder brother killed before. If another took that blood on their hands in his stead, would Larys be satisfied that the deed had still been done? … Or would he feel slighted that Harwin’s demise was not of his own doing?

But Lord Larys did not look delighted, nor angry. He merely appeared to be genuinely surprised. “Have they already declared for Princess Rhaenyra?”

“We have yet to receive word of that. But we’ve always known where their true allegiance lay, My Lord. If no action is taken, it will only be a matter of time before such a declaration is made official. Regardless, there is another crime His Grace believes they have committed. It is the King’s contention that the Princes Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey are… natural born, and that it is your brother, not Ser Laenor Velaryron, that is their true sire. Given the public knowledge of her affinity for Princess Rhaenyra, the King is also of the mind that the Lady Y/N must have been aware of any and all liaisons between the Princess and Lord Harwin which are suspected to have occurred.”

The surprise had vanished from Lord Larys’s face. The neutral expression that replaced it left her with more questions than answers. Alicent had never directly asked Larys whether he believed Princess Rhaenyra’s eldest sons to also be his nephews, but as Larys had never outright decried the insinuation from anyone else who mentioned it, she believed he suspected as much.

“Not but an hour ago, I was successful in persuading the King to refrain from acting in haste.” Praise the Mother. “The King has allowed for terms to be offered to Lord Harwin and Lady Y/N, along with all the others who may make themselves out to be traitors, in the hope that we might reach an agreeable conclusion without the spilling of blood. But, Larys- your actions, at the behest of the Lord Hand, have critically endangered this attempt for peace.”

Alicent rose from her seat with an exhausted huff. As she leaned forward, she placed her palms downright upon the table, bearing her weight against them. Her hung head low as she forced herself to swallow down the anger that threatened to arise within her. She knew such a wrath was unbecoming, but at that moment, she allowed herself to feel it anyway.

Once she had taken a moment to recompose herself, Alicent lifted her head, and looked at Larys imploringly. “Lord Harwin and Lady Y/N now know of your treason, both committed and conspired. What happens if either of them suspect that I played a role in this plot that you and the Hand devised? Do you think them likely to agree to any terms then?”

The desperation in Larys’s voice tempted Alicent to envision him on his knees before her, begging for her forgiveness. Had he not needed the cane, he very might well have been.

“Forgive me, My Queen,” Larys pleaded once more. “But mayhaps not all hope is lost. My brother is a notoriously passionate man, and this encourages short-sightedness. I believe his wrath will be reserved entirely for myself.”

“Perhaps Lord Harwin’s anger will blind him to everyone else but you, Larys. But I do not believe Y/N will act similarly. She is not daft; she is likely to look deeper, to question whether you truly acted alone.” If Larys disagreed with her assertion, he did not voice it. “To reconcile this, you must take part in the solution to the problem you and my father have created, My Lord.”

Larys bowed his head. “Tell me how I can be of assistance, My Queen, and it shall be done.”

“Are you still amicable with Lord Redwyne of the Arbor?”

“Yes, My Queen.”

“Very well. He may hold no love or favor for his cousin and liege lady, but nor does that guarantee that the King will have his support. I wish to make him an offer that he will be unable to refuse.”

Having the Lannister fleet at the King’s disposal was all but guaranteed. Ser Tyland Lannister, Master of Ships, was in the Red Keep at that very moment, and had been in the Lord Hand’s pocket for more years than Alicent cared to know. His twin brother, Lord Jason, would undoubtedly pledge the Lannister forces, including its fleet, to King Aegon.

But the Redwyne fleet was the largest fleet in all the Seven Kingdoms. Should Rhaneyra reject the terms Alicent planned to propose, having its ships under the King’s control would further ensure a swift victory against any opposition. The Velaryon fleet was the strongest of the realm, and the most experienced in battle- but Lord Corlys had fewer ships at his command. And how could sheer numbers not prevail?

Alicent lowered herself into her seat once more. After setting Lord Harwin’s letter aside, she opened a drawer and withdrew a clean piece of parchment. Larys watched in silence as Alicent dipped her nearby quill in the ink pot and began to write several lines.

For a few moments, all that could be heard in the Dowager Queen’s chambers was the rustling of the fire, and scribbling against the parchment.

When she was finished, Alicent placed down the quill and took a few moments to read over her proposal. She could only hope it would be sufficient. While she did not perceive Lord Redwyne to be foolish enough to support Princess Rhaenyra’s cause, as it stood, he did not have anything to entice him to support King Aegon, either. Despite being so near Oldtown, the Arbor was an island by itself. With the aforementioned fleet at the ready to defend it, if Lord Redwyne wished to refrain from choosing a side in the struggle for succession, he certainly could, and would.

Alicent looked back up at Larys, who had been watching her rather intently.

“Write to Lord Redwyne,” she commanded him. “Tell him that King Viserys has passed, and that Aegon has been crowned as his successor. In exchange for his active support of the new King, including the use of his fleet, His Grace will see to it that all I have listed here comes to pass.”

Larys looked at her inquisitively as he hobbled over. Once he was before her desk, he took the parchment from her outstretched hand. Alicent watched with bated breath as his eyes scanned the details of what she proposed.

“These are very generous terms,” Larys acknowledged dryly, as though it was more of an observation than a compliment. “I believe Lord Redwyne will be find little reason to reject your offer.”

“Ensure that he does not,” Alicent ordered stiffly. “The terms offered to Lord Harwin and Lady Y/N will rely heavily on Lord Redwyne accepting his own. There can be no more mistakes, Larys.”

Larys audibly swallowed meekly. “And there shall not be, My Queen. I will go and write to Lord Redwyne at once.”

As he turned to leave, Alicent stopped him.

“And Larys?”

“Yes, My Queen?”

“If you desire to remain under my protection, you must ensure that I have your complete loyalty from here on out. Should the Lord Hand bid you to do anything else, you must tell me at once. My father has many motives, but most all of them are rooted in his own advancement. He cares for no one but himself, and trusting him or becoming indebted to him in any way would be a grave mistake. Disregard this warning, if you shall, but understand that with every hour, I lose the King’s ear, while the Lord Hand gains it. Should our King ever find just cause to dispose of you, I will be unable to dissuade him.”

Whether Larys would actually heed her warning was unclear. But she had washed her hands of it.

Once the Master of Whisperers was gone, Alicent withdrew several more pieces of parchment from the desk drawer. Quite possibly hours of writing laid between her and retiring for the evening. But she would not rest. Alicent would write word after word, letter after letter, scroll after scroll until her fingers bled from more than her own mistreatment of them.

Anything to save them all from having to stare into the razor sharp teeth of an angry dragon ever again.

The ravens would fly before dawn, carrying the proposals with them. The small council would meet shortly thereafter to discuss what action to take in the meantime. And after, the Lord Hand would set sail for Dragonstone, to deliver the terms to Princess Rhaenyra in person.

Alicent knew what had to be done, but the knowledge did nothing to lessen the pain of it, nor the guilt that shrouded her mind. Just as her father had once sacrificed her happiness for his own betterment, she too, was forced to do the same to one of her own children.

Ever the dutiful son, Aemond would publicly accept what Alicent planned to propose to the small council on the morrow. Privately, she would not fault him for feeling betrayed, the trust having been broken between them. She could only hope that he would come to understand that it was for the good of the realm. For the good of the family.

But if Aemond could not understand her intentions, that was just as well. Alicent would live with the self-loathing his scorn would cause her, if need be.

Better for him to be cross with her and alive, than amicable and dead.

The stone halls and floors of Casterly Rock trembled with the commotion.

Lord Loreon Lannister, eldest son and heir of Lord Jason, had grown quite accustomed to being gently stirred from slumber by the gentle lull of the waves crashing beneath the Rock. Despite his inebriated state the evening before, Loreon had enough sense to crack open the window in his bed chambers for that very purpose.

What he had not anticipated was for that window to allow the pounding footsteps of several dozen men to filter through it instead.

What is that ruckus?! 

He forced himself to rise, and though he wished for little else than to do so at a slow and steady pace to placate his hangover, his curiosity and keen sense of self-preservation won out. Was Casterly Rock under attack? … Unlikely, he decided after a brief moment. It was nigh impregnable.

Loreon made his way over to the window, and after cracking it open further, peered out of it.

A few dozen men, a great deal of them armored, were gathering in the open courtyard below. A few had unsheathed their swords for sharpening. The metal shone in the rising sun’s rays, and the effect was nearly blinding. But the number of men before him was not equivalent to what one could consider an army. At least, not one likely to have been capable of breaching Casterly Rock’s defenses without having met resistance. And the men before him looked to be more at home than he currently felt.

Loreon threw on the nearest clothes he could find- a great portion of them being the same garments he had torn off and thrown about amidst his drunken stupor the night before- and exited his chambers at once.

Even the corridors were more alive than usual. Voices Loreon did not recognize bounced off the stone, accompanied shortly thereafter by many unfamiliar faces as he made his way down the halls. When Loreon threw open the doors to the dining hall, he found his father in the very spot where he had expected him to be.

Lord Jason Lannister sat at the head of the long table, breaking his fast, and otherwise behaving very much as if nothing was amiss. He spared Loreon a somewhat startled glance as he approached.

“Ah, you’ve risen early,” his father mused before taking a sip of wine. His tone was light and jesting, but there was a distinctly disapproving look in his eyes.

“‘Tis not as though I had much of a choice in the matter.”

“With the amount of wine you consumed during and after dinner last night, I thought I might have had to send the Maester to your chambers to reassure me that you still breathed. Certainly a little noise was not of any particular disturbance to your rest?”

Loreon was tempted to scowl, but bit his tongue instead. “That wine was a name day gift from Lord Garrett, and mine to do with as I saw fit.”

“And so you have,” Jason conceded as he placed his goblet back on the table. “Regardless, it is good that you’re here now. I received a raven from your uncle this morning. He says that King Viserys is dead.”

Loreon blinked. “Dead?”

“Dead,” his father confirmed. “And Aegon has been crowned as his successor.”

… Aegon? Not Rhaenyra? “But grandsire swore an oath to-”

“Your grandsire, as you very well know, is no longer with us. It is I who is the Lord of Casterly Rock now. And you are my heir. We are to support King Aegon should this nuisance with Princess Rhaenyra result in war.”

Loreon rubbed his forehead tiredly. War? The only thing he wished for at that moment was to climb back into bed and sleep until his head no longer ached. Talk of war was only giving the resilient pounding that much more of an edge.

He surmised, “Does this have anything to do with the amassing soldiers in the courtyard?”

“It has everything to do with it. I’ve started to call in some of the local troops, and they will remain here in Casterly Rock until Princess Rhaenyra yields to our King, and we know, without a doubt, that they will not be needed. In the meantime, we must assume that the Princess will continue to press her irrelevant claim on the Iron Throne, and that King Aegon will be forced to subdue her in order to keep the peace. Once your mother and your wife have returned from their trip to Lannisport, I will give the order to mobilize the fleet, and ride out to rally the additional support from our bannermen. The allegiance of the Riverlands is uncertain. Should Lord Grover Tully, or any other number of them, declare for Princess Rhaenyra, it would be prudent to have an army between us and them.”

Loreon’s mind was still terribly groggy, but every word his father spoke did wonders to jolt him from the stupor. “If the situation is as you say, should we not make haste for King’s Landing at once? There are several Lannisters of import there. If they are in danger, we ought to retrieve them, bring them back behind the potential enemy lines.”

If any part of the Riverlands declared for Princess Rhaenyra, the family in King’s Landing would be cut off from the Westerlands. The Reach was already likely to be plunged into a civil war, torn amongst allegiances to two of its most powerful houses. Even if a Lannister army was to make it through both the Riverlands and the Reach unscathed, securing safe passage through the Stormlands could present another issue. Where would the allegiance of the belligerent and still grieving Lord Borros fall if the House Targaryen went to war against itself?

Jason scoffed, an unfortunately familiar gesture which insulted Loreon no less than it had when he had been a boy.

“You insult me, Son. Tyland is my brother. And do not forget that Joanna and Celesse are my granddaughters. Do you truly think I would let any harm befall them?”

Before Loreon could offer a response, his father continued.

“Until that wife of yours produces a son, Joanna is your heir. She is under King Aegon’s protection now. What greater protection is there than that of a King?”

Loreon’s wife had borne him four children over the years of their marriage- all of them daughters. His wife was with child again, but Loreon had long since abandoned praying to the gods for a son. After all these years, why would they grant him their favor now? They had snubbed him, and happily so, throughout his life thus far. Of all the disappointments Loreon knew he had burdened his father with, his failure to sire a son had to be the most egregious among them.

His eldest daughter, Joanna, was recently sent to King’s Landing alongside her cousin to serve as a lady in waiting for the now Queen Helaena. But it was entirely possible that she was the future of House Lannister, and the next Lady of Casterly Rock. Loreon had no choice but to believe his father’s words. Jason, despite Joanna’s rather unfortunate condition of having been born a girl, had always seemed to have more tolerance for her than he had ever had with Loreon. If the dragons danced, Jason would not allow the girl to ever be in any true danger.

But could the same be said for the rest of them?

“Besides,” his father grumbled as he took another sip of wine, “I don’t think your cumbersome sister would ever forgive me if I allowed something to happen to Celesse.”

That was also a fair assessment. Cerelle’s protectiveness over her daughter rivaled the likes of how their own mother, Lady Johanna Westerling, had been with Loreon when he was in his youth. And Johanna was a fearsome woman, indeed. Their father always believed it was he who gave the orders in their marriage… but the older Loreon grew, the more visible the strings with which Johanna controlled Jason had become.

“What will happen if Princess Rhaenyra desires to plunge the realm into war?” Loreon posed.

Jason shrugged, visibly unbothered still. “We shall be at the ready, and wait to receive our command… However, if the Riverlands prove as much of an issue as your uncle suggests them to be, I imagine King Aegon would begin by having us march there.”

The Riverlands. Not even a decade ago, a certain knight had inherited his father's title, land, and ostensibly haunted keep there, following what was rumored to have been a long night filled with nothing but flames, smoke, and screams. It was a certain knight with whom Loreon had history. A certain knight who, given his rumored closeness to the Princess Rhaenyra and her eldest sons, was very likely to pledge his support to her cause.

A knight whom, if given the chance, Loreon desired to settle a score with. Though he’d been a mere knight at the time, a now piddly lord of the Riverlands ought not to mock, insult, and accost the heir of the great House Lannister without consequence. The gods had already given Derron Tyrell his due for the actions he took against him. Loreon sought to deliver the same due to Harwin Strong personally.

And a Lannister always pays his debts. “If King Aegon orders us to ride out to the Riverlands, I wish to accompany you. Allow me the privilege of leading the troops by your side.”

His father halted his meal at once, and looked up at him with suspicion. After a moment of silence, he questioned, “Truly?”

“Yes. What could be more inspiring to our men than seeing the Lords of Lannisters, both of them, in the flesh, riding beside them into battle?”

In an unprecedented moment, his father appraised him with a look that Loreon had seldom received from him. A look of pride.

“Very well, Son,” Jason praised. “If our King commands it, we shall both ride out to heed his call. And gods save anyone who dares to oppose the Lions of House Lannister.”

“Yes,” Loreon agreed darkly, his mind flashing with memories of his youth that he usually did not care to recall. But they were made far sweeter by a sense of promise in the air, the promise of revenge.

“Gods save them all.”

Lord Larys Strong had already groveled for his life to Dowager Queen Alicent that evening. After writing a letter to Lord Garrett Redwyne of the Arbor at her behest and in the hopes of regaining her favor, his patience for much of anything else was all but nonexistent.

He certainly did not have the patience to come across the likes of Lord Otto Hightower on his way to retire for the evening. Much less the patience to properly converse with him.

But that is what he deserved, he supposed, for being bold enough to pass by the small council chambers. When the door opened and the gray haired snake of a man stepped out and into the corridor, Larys had to grip the pommel of his cane tightly to avoid knocking himself over in the startle.

“Lord Larys, might I have a word?”

As if he had any grounds to refuse. “Of course, My Lord Hand.”

Larys took his time entering the small council chambers, knowing the other man to be more polite than to outwardly criticize him for it. Once he was inside, the Lord Hand closed the door tightly behind them.

“Should I be seated?”

“If you wish, but this shall not take long.”

That was good and well. Larys refused to sit. Instead, he placed both hands atop of his cane, and mustered up every bit of strength he possessed to draw himself up. He might have been a cripple, and may have been viewed as inferior by most other men because of it. But, despite what Larys allowed the man before him to believe, he would never truly be subservient to Otto Hightower.

“You have confided what you have done to the Queen, I presume?”

“As you asked, My Lord Hand.”

Larys had not needed to report his men’s failure to capture, or otherwise dispose of, his Good Sister. The failure had been evident enough when his men had yet to return to the Red Keep after a few days. It was further solidified when the news of the Lady of House Tyrell’s tragic passing, as a result of brigands whilst traveling to Duskendale, had yet to spread.

There was no telling where his brother, his wife, and their children were now. But anyone with even a small sense of wits about them could have surmised they had reached, or were encroaching upon, Dragonstone. It was the only place that guaranteed their safety for many, many leagues.

“And what did you tell her?” 

Larys recalled the tale he had mentally prepared thrice over with the utmost ease. It was a tale most necessary, if he wished to keep his one and only loyalty to the Queen, whilst also appeasing the ruthless Lord Hand.

“I told her that I, and I alone, was the one who coordinated the attack on Lady Y/N and her traveling escort. I told the Queen that I acted in haste in my efforts to remove a key ally from the Princess’s cause.”

If Lord Otto did not believe Larys’s words, he gave no physical indication of it. However, Larys knew, from personally having borne witness, that the Lord Hand was as conniving as Queen Alicent had proclaimed him to be. If Larys was to spin his tale, he knew he would have to commit it to memory. The facts of the story needed to remain unchanging and absolute, as if they’d been read off parchment. 

… In fact, that wasn’t that bad of an idea at all. When one’s job was to manage whispers, including the ones they crafted themselves, maintaining some sort of log to track all the intelligence would be helpful. If only something like that could be guaranteed to not fall into the wrong hands.

The Lord Hand hummed in response to Larys’s recount. “I see… And what did Her Grace have to say?”

This, Larys felt comfortable revealing the truth of. After all, it was nothing the Lord Hand would not have been able to deduce himself. “The Queen appears willing to forgive my transgression, but in exchange, she has demanded no less than my complete loyalty ever again… In addition to this, I was also required to assist in offering a potential ally proper motivation to support our King.”

“Ah yes, these terms of peace,” Lord Otto acknowledged with disdain. “Our King was strongly against them, you know. But the Dowager Queen was insistent upon it.”

“And what compelled the King to consent to her request?”

“The Grand Maester supported the Queen’s proposal, despite the fact that it almost earned him his own holding in the black cells. When I saw just how determined my daughter was that Princess Rhaenyra be offered the chance to surrender, I yielded my own arguments against it, and King Aegon acquiesced.”

Larys was rarely one taken by genuine surprise, but the Lord Hand had taken him so. “Do you believe Princess Rhaenyra and her allies will yield and accept the terms Queen Alicent intends to propose on behalf of the King?”

“Gods, no,” Lord Otto denied with contempt. “But there is a reason behind my counseling, Lord Larys. I can assure you of that.”

Larys said nothing. The Lord Hand was a cold, calculating man. He really ought to have known better than to be so forthcoming with his words, let alone the details of his schemes. But, as Larys had recently discovered, the Lord Hand was emboldened by the fact that his grandson now sat on the Iron Throne. And, as Queen Alicent asserted, the Lord Hand was proving to gain the confidence of their new King with remarkable speed and efficiency.

Despite the threat looming to the east on Dragonstone, it was easy to imagine Lord Otto might feel as though he was beyond reproach. Larys had the hunch that if he bit his tongue, the other man would sing like a bird. Why should he not? The only one to bear witness to his singing was Larys.

The poor, crippled, meek, and unwaveringly faithful servant, Master of Whisperers Larys.

And sing, Lord Otto Hightower did.

“I am rather disappointed that your men failed to do what they were tasked with,” he confided after a pause. “Having Lady Y/N out of the hands of Princess Rhaenyra was most desired.”

“They were but mortal men, My Lord Hand. Not even a horse with speed gifted by the gods themselves would have been like to catch up to my Good Sister and her escort by the time they departed. It is possible Lady Tyrell was already nearing Duskendale the very same day my men set out from King’s Landing.”

Another lie, but a necessary one. Queen Alicent was correct about one thing- no one else, the Lord Hand most importantly among them, must ever know about his involvement with the fire at Harrenhal. If he did, only the Seven Hells knew what he might have forced Larys to do to keep his silence.

And furthermore, the details did not matter to Lord Otto. Not truly. Whether Larys’s men had been unable to reach Lady Y/N and her escort before they reached Duskendale, or whether they had, but had been slain by Harwin, was of little consequence to him. Larys’s men had failed to do what the Lord Hand had asked, and Larys, as the face of the plot, would be the one to pay the price.

At least it would not be the same price that his men had paid at the hands of his enraged brother.

“It is true that I did not wish our Queen to learn of our…. arrangement, for dealing with the problem that Lady Tyrell presents. But, in light of our circumstances, it was best for my daughter to be informed of it, as you have done, by my request. You see, Lord Larys, your failure may serve our purposes yet.”

Larys’s interest piqued. “How might that be, My Lord Hand?”

“The Queen could offer many lands and titles, all the gold in the royal coffers, and even her own head on a spike to your brother and Lady Y/N. None of it would be enough to sway either of them to abandon Princess Rhaenyra. Particularly not now, since they are likely to have reached Dragonstone, and are under the Princess’s protection.”

“And how would my brother and Good Sister rejecting the terms our Queen offers them in the pursuit of peace serve our purposes?”

“When my daughter is unable to convince them, they will reinforce their support of Princess Rhaenyra’s cause. With the support of House Tyrell, House Strong, and the other dozen or so houses who have already declared for her, as well as the many who still remain undecided and therefore are in contention, Princess Rhaenyra may decide to take her chances.”

“You still do not anticipate her to accept the Queen’s offer for peace?”

Lord Otto gave him a look that suggested it was folly to even have made the suggestion. “When Alicent is unable to convince Princess Rhaenyra to accept the terms, perhaps my daughter will finally be able to abandon this silly notion of reconciliation she desperately seeks. Perhaps then she will finally be willing to start viewing Princess Rhaenyra as she truly is- the enemy.”

The Lord Hand was mad in his own way, Larys decided then. But at least his arguments were more sound than the deranged motivations behind them.

“How can the Crown be viewed with any sort of integrity if we continually pity our enemies and offer them mercy?” Larys inquired redundantly, feigning understanding and support of the Lord Hand’s stance with a well-practiced ease. “Who would ever fear a king unable to strike down traitors and justly serve them the punishments appropriate for their sins?”

The smile that played on Lord Otto’s lips was subtle, but sinister. “An excellent question, Lord Larys… With a mind such as yours, we might all live to see the end of this madness yet.”

Perhaps, Larys conceded. But if he was to live through the self-destruction of House Targaryen, he knew he would have to find a way to outlive his brother first.

May the gods have mercy on you, for I will not.

Those had been Harwin’s words. Chilling, concise, and to the point. Larys felt confident in his ability to outsmart and otherwise out maneuver his brother, but in a physical altercation, there was no use in even entertaining the thought of securing anything more than an unfavorable outcome for himself.

But Larys brought this all upon himself, and he must not fail now.

He would support his one true queen, and in any way that he could. Only she was the one to whom his true allegiance lay, and it was only she who would be able to save both his body and soul.  

He would strive to appease King Aegon and the Lord Hand, if only to lure them into believing his declared allegiance. Only appeasing them would be able to delay his inevitable encounter with a headsmen, of King Aegon’s choosing or otherwise.

And, if Larys succeeded in all of this, maybe, just maybe, he could avoid the unsavory thought of finding himself within Harwin’s clutches.

The sun had long since set, but Lord Garrett Redwyne knew sleep would not come to him for some time yet.

The letter from King’s Landing, which he had received by raven that very morning, laid in his hand’s light hold. His free hand rubbed absentmindedly at the side of his face as he silently weighed his options.

His internal deliberation was interrupted as his mother, the Lady Elayne Redwyne, born Tyrell, entered into his otherwise unoccupied study.

The Lady Elayne was a woman of strong wit, though she had a reputation of being outspoken on the occasion. She had lived through the passing of her husband and eldest son, and was still fit to tell the grievous tale. One would have thought that physical decline would have begun to betray her spirit by now, but the typical ailments of an aging body had yet to lay its claim to her. Instead, she appeared just as spritely as Garrett had always known her to be in his youth.

His mother was still dressed in her gown from the day, but that alone was not unusual; she had always kept odd hours. A curse of an active mind, she had often claimed. Garrett knew that her most recent method to spend the nights where sleep evaded her was to read by candlelight. When he spotted the book in his mother’s hand, and caught the glance she shot over at one of his study’s many bookshelves, his suspicions about her doings that evening were confirmed.

His mother lowered the book to her side, and tilted her head up at him. “The hour is late, my son. You should retire- your wife will worry after you soon, if she has not begun to already.”

Garrett doubted that very much. But he did not bother to correct his mother’s false assumption. “Fear not, for she herself retired some time ago.”

“What is that?” Elayne inquired suddenly, eyeing the letter in his hand with mild interest.

Garrett folded the parchment at once, though took care to appear as not having done so with any particular haste. “‘Tis news from the capital.”

His mother raised her brows curiously. “Good news, or poor?”

That would depend on whom you ask. “King Viserys is dead.”

There was a brief moment of stillness.

“Gods be good,” Elayne exclaimed under her breath, shattering it to pieces. “What else does the letter say? Is there any word of our new Queen?”

Garrett hesitated. “They have crowned King Viserys’s successor... But it was not Princess Rhaenyra.”

His mother visibly paled as the realization dawned upon her. Then, she gritted her teeth. “That is most disturbing to hear. What is to be done about it?”

“King Aegon has proposed terms of peace to his half-sister, as well as to many of the lords and ladies who have already declared to support her claim to the Iron Throne.”

“And if Princess Rhaenyra rejects his offer?”

Garrett needed not to answer; his mother was an intelligent woman, and swiftly reached the conclusion on her own.

“You must ready the fleet at once,” his mother urged. “Dragonstone is no short journey, but the sooner it can be set about, the sooner the fleet shall arrive.”

Garrett gave her a hard look. “You misunderstand me, Mother.”

Elayne narrowed her eyes at him, suspicion settling into the features of her lined face. “Do I?”

Garrett let the letter from Lord Larys fall freely down to his desk. He wrung his hands together as he chose his next words carefully. He wanted to take some care, so as not to outwardly offend his mother. But also knew that it was important that she heeded him. That she obeyed his will.

“King Aegon is willing to grant our house several generous allowances, but only if he has the support of the Redwyne fleet. His offer is one far too generous to refuse, Mother. Should Princess Rhaenyra attempt to press her claim by way of war, House Redwyne will be in support of the one, true king, Aegon.”

The silence that followed was uncomfortably heavy. Never before had Garrett felt so ill at ease, so unnerved in the presence of his own mother. But there was little else to describe how he felt when she judged him with those icy eyes of hers.

“Your father swore an oath before King Viserys himself,” she reminded him, barely speaking above a whisper. “An oath to uphold Princess Rhaenyra as his named heir.”

“I myself made no such oath.”

“And yet, if you do this, I will consider you to be an oathbreaker all the same.”

“How dare you speak to me thus?” Garrett seethed as he recoiled. “I am the Lord of the Arbor. You live here, rather comfortably, mind you, under my protection and by my generosity alone.”

“I am the former Lady of House Redwyne, and I live here because I was wed to your predecessor,” she corrected him coolly. “You may be my son, and you may be the lord of this house now. But make no mistake- none of this exempts you from my counsel. I fear as though you are about to make a grave mistake, and I will not refrain from advising you of such simply to spare your fragile pride.”

“What would you have me do?” Garrett demanded of her, feeling at a loss. “Spurn the King’s offer? Pledge our support to Princess Rhaenyra instead?”

Elayne did not answer him. Instead, she countered, “Need I remind you of the oath you swore to your cousin when you became the ‘Lord of the Arbor’? Y/N is your liege lady. As one of her bannermen sworn to her, you owe her your support. Though we both know where her allegiance will lay, that is simply beyond House Redwyne’s control. If she wishes to support Princess Rhaenyra, that is her right, as our liege. Tell me, my son, what has been offered to you that would have you so willingly betray an oath sworn to a king and your own kin?”

“What Y/N wishes, or where her allegiance lies, may not be of anyone’s concern much longer.”

His mother gaped at him. “What in the Seven Hells is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Garrett dismissed hastily, having realized his mistake as soon as the words slipped from his lips. “Your regard for the Lady of Highgarden is sullied, ruined with your favor. You have always held a soft spot for her, Mother. Do not deny this.”

“Of course I have. She is the daughter of my brother, gods rest his soul. And with her own mother, claimed by the Stranger at such a young age? … How could I not have treated her kindly, Garrett? As our kin, did she not deserve my tutelage?”

It was always more than that, and they both knew it. Elayne had always held a candle for Y/N, a candle that had yet to be snuffed out, it seemed, despite how many years had passed since they saw one another last. Even in their youth, it was nearly impossible for Garrett to miss that Elayne had treated Y/N as though she was one of her own. The daughter she never had.

He was a man grown now. But it was baffling, and a tad hurtful, that his mother would continue to choose her loyalty to her over her loyalty to own, legitimate, son of her own blood.

“None of this squabbling matters,” Garrett decried then, not wishing to ponder on those disturbing thoughts any further. “On behalf of House Redwyne, I have decided to accept King Aegon’s offer.”

“What have they offered you?” his mother demanded once more. Letting out a single, frustrated huff of a laugh, she guessed, “Highgarden?”

Amongst other things.

“The details do not matter,” Garrett dismissed. “As Princess Rhaenyra has yet to make any offers of her own, I will accept King Aegon’s proposal. Should war come, the Redwyne fleet will be at his command.”

The look of betrayal on his mother’s face was almost enough to cause a pained twinge through his heart. Almost.

“You are ambitious, my son. I will grant you that,” Elayne conceded, though it sounded as though she was wounded in doing so. “I only hope it will not cost you your head. Or that of your daughter.”

His eldest child Celesse had been recently sent to King’s Landing, alongside her cousin, the Lady Joanna Lannister, to serve as a lady to Princess Helaena. It was a proposal his Good Father, Lord Jason, had made, citing that it would yield bountiful marriage prospects for each of the girls. It had been hard to dismiss his claim- all sorts of lords, noblemen, and knights frequented the capital every year. And his daughter’s great uncle, Ser Tyland, served on the small council as Master of Ships. There had been little doubt that Celesse would be safe, despite being so far from home.

And still, his wife, Lady Cerelle, had greatly protested her father’s proposition. As much as he hated to admit it, Garrett wished he had taken his wife’s concerns more seriously at the time. Though their riders were yet to be determined, it seemed as though it would not be long before dragons flew over King’s Landing.

And if anything happened to their daughter, Garrett knew he would not need to worry about Princess Rhaenyra taking his head for treason. He had no doubt that Cerelle would be the one to draw the sword.

“Forgive me, I do not wish to quarrel with you any further.”

Elayne turned to leave, book still in hand. But then she paused, her hand on the door, and turned to look back over her shoulder. Her last words spoken to him that night would haunt Garrett as much as the letter he had received from Lord Larys would.

“I only desire for you, my last child, to outlive me, for I do not know if I can survive burying another. However, as your senseless greed seems to be calling you to an early grave, I fear as though my hopes are in vain… And already, I mourn you.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke as her ominous words settled between them.

“Goodnight, my son.”

“... Goodnight, Mother.”

Only once the door to his study was closed did Garrett dare to allow his defensive exterior to break. He rested his weary head in his even wearier hands, and sighed deeply.

Perhaps he would have entertained the idea of rejecting the Hightowers’s offer, and would support Princess Rhaenyra’s claim to the Iron Throne instead. As his mother noted, his father had sworn the oath not only on behalf of himself, but on behalf of House Redwyne in its entirety. And perhaps he could have allowed old wounds between he and his cousin, Lady Y/N Tyrell, to remain in the past, where they truly belonged. He had never even thought of pressing his claim to Highgarden before his cousin, Lord Derron, had passed without an heir. It had never occurred to him once, until a maniacal voice had whispered the idea in his ear. And by then, he had no other choice.

But such was the situation Garrett found himself in now- with no other choice.

Lord Larys Strong was not who he appeared to be. When Garrett had first met him, years ago during the wedding festivities of Lady Y/N and Larys’s elder brother, Harwin, Garrett had genuinely enjoyed the second Strong son’s presence. Larys was a sharp man, and seemed pleasant enough. He made for decent conversation. Larys’s father, Lord Lyonel, had been the Hand of the King, and one would be foolish to overlook a potential connection such as that. There were many reasons why Garrett had felt inclined to maintain his blossoming friendship with Larys, even after the wedding festivities for his cousin had come and gone.

He had once lived something of a nomadic lifestyle. As the essential diplomatic messenger for House Redwyne, Garrett had grown accustomed to spending most of the year traveling about the kingdoms. There was always Arbor wine to be sold, other nobles to schmooze… and games of chance to be had.

It did not take long at all for Garrett to incur some debt. Some of those he was indebted to were happy enough to be placated with a decent bottle of wine from the Arbor. For others, money, or his blood, were the only sufficient payment. Stealing from the Redwyne coffers to repay the debts was not an option, lest he have alerted his father to his less than proper ways he chose to spend his free time. But neither was simply failing to repay the debts- Garrett much preferred his blood inside his body, and not out.

Larys had discovered Garrett’s vice early on. Garrett had not even intended to mention it, but alcohol had always tended to loosen his lips, and during one particularly rowdy night of drinking, it had slipped. But Larys did not judge him for it. In fact, the second son of the Hand of the King had offered him a generous sum to repay the debts he had incurred during his short stay in King’s Landing. In hindsight, Garrett knew he ought to have questioned Larys’s motives. But at the time, he was simply relieved to have been spared more than a few unpleasant beatings.

“A sign of faith in our friendship,” Larys had told him with a grin as he handed over the coinpurse. “Perhaps a day shall come when you can repay the favor.”

That day had come when his cousin, Lord Derron Tyrell, died. In the midst of his surviving cousin's grief for her elder brother, Larys had persuaded Garrett to pursue his claim to Highgarden. Ever the fool, Garrett had taken his persuasions to heart.

“Your cousin will have more than enough to manage as the Lady of Harrenhal. The gods know my brother will need all the help he can get. And, despite your name, you share just as much blood of House Tyrell as she. Do you not deserve a title, a castle, a legacy of your own?”

Though Garrett had failed to sway King Viserys to grant him the inheritance of House Tyrell, eventually he was awarded a title, a castle, a legacy of his own. But it had come at the cost of his elder brother, Jeran.

Now, Larys Strong was the Master of Whisperers. He knew at least something about most everything that transpired within the Seven Kingdoms. Garrett had not even needed to inform him of how his gambling had remained a problem over the years. Larys had discovered it on his own.

And Larys had implemented this discovery in the letter he’d penned, enclosed with all the other generous terms King Aegon wished to offer House Redwyne.

“The coffers of House Tyrell run deep,” a foreboding, and most suggestive, line from Larys’s letter read.

Garrett knew it to be true. Now that he was lord, he had been slowly bleeding the Redwyne coffers dry for years. He had kept everyone- his wife, and even his mother- in the dark as he struggled to repay his many incurred debts. But a fresh supply, by way of accessing the gold from House Tyrell, would allow him to repay it all. And he was not getting any younger. The sooner he could repay the debt, the sooner he could be done with the vicious vice once and for all.

After this, never again would Garrett partake in another game of chance. Even if he wished to, there would be no need.

War was the biggest gamble of them all.

King Aegon Targaryen, second of his name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, thought he knew of desire.

First, it had been a desire to drown himself in his cups. A small consolation of having been born a Targaryen in Westeros meant that the finest of wines and the heartiest of ales in all of the realm, and even some from beyond, were always within reach. Once he had developed a taste for such extravagances, no other liquid nourishment would ever suffice.

Second, it had been a desire for flesh. Or, company, rather. There was little else that compared to spending time in the arms of a woman who desired him as much as he desired her- even if she had been compensated for her time. His chosen companions need not always be so blatantly willing, either… But they made far less of a fuss when they were. He believed all his chosen companions ought to accept the opportunity that was given to them with grace, and without protest. Besides, what sane woman would not be most honored at having been chosen to lay with a prince?

… Looking back on it, perhaps it had been the desire for women first, and then the alcohol. Perhaps they had both set in at the same time. Regardless, it mattered little. The fact remained the same. Both had the damndest ways of captivating Aegon’s time, and giving him enjoyable pursuits that offered a most-welcomed distraction from the mundane joke that his life had become.

But there was also a third desire. A desire that may have resided deep within him for far longer than the others had, but one Aegon had only come to truly know and understand within the past few years.

The desire to be accepted.

How many times had he done everything his mother had asked of him, only to be consistently rewarded with her forlorn scorn? How many years did he walk in the figurative shadows of the Red Keep, for no matter what he did, nothing was enough to garner the praise of the King, his own father? How often had he been forced to suffer the utterly exhausted remarks of his grandsire, or the disapproving looks from his brother Aemond? How many times would he be expected to be silent whilst his sister-wife Helaena made even more of a mockery of him than others deemed he had made himself?

Far, far too many.

But when his mother had confided to him his father’s dying wish, he had felt it. When Aegon had ascended the steps in the Dragonpit, surrounded by the silent awe of the masses, when his grandsire had finally acknowledged him with a semblance of respect, when his mother had given him a look of pride, he had felt it. When Ser Criston Cole placed the crown of the Conqueror upon his head, and when he had raised the Conqueror’s sword to rouse the crowd into an eruption of joyful cheers, he had felt it.

Now that Aegon had had a taste of what it felt like, he knew acceptance to be the most intoxicatingly dangerous desire of them all.

In the end, his father, the common folk of King’s Landing, and leagues of the nobility from across the realm had accepted him as their one, true king, King Viserys’s sole successor. His grandsire had accepted him as one of his own kin, one who might bring honor upon the family. His brother, if he had not yet, would come to accept him as his liege in due time. His mother had, finally, come to accept him as her son.

And his half-sister Rhaenyra would have to scorch his flesh and bones to ashes before he would be made to feel less than ever again.

When the small council had informed Aegon that the Princess had yet to publicly declare her obeisance, it was apparent to all that she intended to press her claim. And the longer Aegon dwelled on the thought of that, the more the darkness with him grew.

His half-sister Rhaenyra and his uncle Daemon were guilty of high treason. They, along with every single one of the lords, ladies, knights, and common folk who supported her deserved to be attained, arrested, and killed. Dragons, particularly that Meleys of Princess Rhaenys’s, be damned. If the would-be usurper and her allies wanted to take to dragonback, so too would he. They were not the only ones who commanded great beasts of the sky.

Aegon argued as much to his small council. Even if their allies were to denounce Rhaenyra’s claim, repent, and bend the knee to him, how could any of them truly be trusted? How could Rhaenyra and her Strong boys be allowed to live, when their mere existence would always pose a threat to his rule?

But his mother and the spineless Grand Maester Orwyle convinced him to stay his hand.

“Rhaenyra will come to understand that her cause is for nought, and she will yield. But she is prideful. She must be given a chance to concede with dignity,” his mother had insisted vehemently. “Strike her down before you grant her that chance, and her allies will never accept you as their king.”

Then, Grand Maester Orwyle had piped up, “Brother should not wage war against sister. Send her the offer that our Dowager Queen has proposed, Your Grace, so that we may reach an amicable accord.”

Something about the Grand Maester’s voice infuriated Aegon. He was no boy, and certainly not one who ought to be chided on what was right and what was wrong. He was the king. The only thing that saved him from ordering Grand Maester Orwyle from being tossed into his own black cell was the protests of his mother, and the reluctant acceptance of the inevitable from the Lord Hand.

“If war is to ensue, Your Grace, let Princess Rhaenyra and her supporters be the first to draw blood,” his grandsire had suggested. “I will sail to Dragonstone, and present the terms to Princess Rhaenyra myself. Let her decide how to act- let her deal the first blow. You should not feel the pressure to act before your aggressor, for you have done no wrong. Let the Princess damn herself in the eyes of all who have vowed to support her illegitimate cause.”

Aegon rather enjoyed the thought of that. The thought of his half-sister ruining her own image before her plight as an aspiring ruler even began was a jest that even his Uncle Daemon might have been able to find humor in.

Aegon had never felt particularly close with his grandsire. But since his ascent, there had been a new understanding between Aegon and the Lord Hand. His grandsire had reserved the kind treatments and wisest counsel for the most prudent of times, for when it mattered the most. The Lord Hand had every motivation to keep Aegon on the throne, and Aegon, young and inexperienced, had every reason to heed the advice of a man who had served the two kings who had come before him.

The ravens carrying the terms penned by his mother, with his approval, had flown before the sun had risen. The small council had met again, but most courses of action were decidedly moot until responses were received. That evening, as the sun had begun to set, the galleon his grandsire sailed on departed from Blackwater Bay, making way for Dragonstone.

All there was to be done was wait.

…

A knock to the door of his chambers roused Aegon from his musings. Though, in time, his belongings would be relocated to the king’s bedchamber, for now, he was confined to his old apartments. The relocation could not occur soon enough- Maelor’s crying throughout the night had grown rather bothersome as of late. A squealing babe did little to soothe a pounding head, and all attempts at seduction of female companions were immediately spoiled by an audible reminder of what the gods might bless them with after, should said companions fail to indulge in a cup of moon tea.

Ser Criston Cole, who his mother had ordered to remain by his side until Aegon was able to choose his own shield from amongst the Kingsguard himself, answered the door.

It was Aemond.

He was dressed in his usual leathers, with the addition of a traveling cloak. As the younger prince walked into the room, he regarded Ser Criston with a one-eyed wary look.

“Might I have a word alone with His Grace?”

Ser Criston Cole stood to attention. “My Prince, it is the Queen’s command that His Grace is not to be unattended. Even in the presence of family.”

Aegon nearly scoffed into his goblet. But that would have been a pure waste of fine Arbor Gold. Instead, he placed it down on the table where he was seated, and waved a dismissive hand at the knight of the Kingsguard. “Leave us, Cole.”

Ser Criston turned to him with an affronted look. “Your Grace, I must protest. Your mother-”

“The Dowager Queen is no longer the lady of this keep,” Aegon interjected. There was an edge to his voice that he had seldom used in his life prior. But now that he had been crowned, he had discovered an authoritative tone was the fastest and surest way for others to come to heel. “I am your king. And I command you to wait outside.”

The white cloak looked insulted, but all present knew that he had no legitimate reason to protest. He bowed to Aegon respectfully, albeit with a small amount of reluctance still, and with one last begrudging look and nod to Aemond, Ser Criston Cole exited the room.

Aemond watched with a smirk as the door closed tightly behind him, and only then did he speak. “There have been two men vying after our mother’s favor for years. Neither of them were the king.”

That was one of Aemond’s more insufferable qualities. He had always been the more studious of the two of them, and had never shied away from showing it. He was fond of speaking in riddles, as if his supposed intellect gave him some false sense of superiority.

Aemond could have his wits. Aegon had the crown.

Aemond crossed the room in a few slow strides. “Perhaps, now that you are king, you might be willing to do something about it?”

This time, Aegon allowed himself to scoff. “That would require me to have knowledge of what you speak of.”

Aegon had not been so deep in his cups over the years that he had failed to notice the lingering looks Ser Criston Cole had given his mother. He had seen the casted glances that lasted far too long, primarily when his mother’s sworn shield believed no one else to be watching.

But who was this second man his brother referred to?

“We shall speak more of it when I return,” Aemond promised. “I only wanted to see you before I set off.”

Aegon eyed his brother’s traveling cloak. “I wish you a safe flight then, Brother. I hear the weather in the Stormlands is not to be taken lightly.”

Not that either of them would have known of that personally. Their mother had opted to keep them within the safety of the Red Keep more often than she probably ought to have in their youth. The journey to Driftmark to attend the funeral of Lady Laena Velaryon had been one of the few trips outside of the capital city that Aegon could recall.

“Although,” Aegon added then with a small chuckle, “I cannot imagine a few trifling storms capable of impeding the mighty Vhagar.”

When the mention of his brother’s pride and joy failed to bring a small smile to his face, as it almost always did, Aegon’s own grin fell.

“Why do you look so downtrodden? Does the intrigue surrounding Lord Borros not excite you?”

“Regrettably, a man gone to madness is not a rare spectacle these days, it would seem.”

Rumor had it that Lord Borros Baratheon had become completely consumed by grief following the death of his father, Lord Boremund, and his only son and heir, Ser Royce, in a hunting accident the year before. Now, the Lord of Storm’s End was left with no one else but a handful of unmarried daughters from his late wife, each of whom were whispered to be as tempestuous as their sire.

That morning, Aegon’s small council had deemed Storm’s End to be a great danger to his cause. Lord Boremund had always staunchly supported Princess Rhaenys and her children’s claim to the Iron Throne. Though Lord Boremund was gone now, it was still uncertain as to whether Lord Borros would uphold his father’s oath to kneel to Princess Rhaenyra and accept her as King Viserys’s heir. There was the hope that offering to take one of his daughters off of his hands might encourage Lord Borros to support Aegon instead. And if Lord Borros backed the King, the lesser storm lords would surely follow.

Aemond, who was of age and unbetrothed, was declared to be the most appealing suitor for this task. Daeron, despite being across the realm in Oldtown, was still young, and a place down in the line of succession. Aegon was all but certain that his mother was already conspiring to betroth his oldest son, Jaehaerys, to his daughter Jaehaera. Aegon’s youngest son, Maelor, might make an appealing suitor in due time… But he was just a babe, and by the time he was of age to wed, Lord Borros’s daughters would be closer to barren than not.

It was fortunate that Aemond had been born who he was, Aegon realized with great humor. Had he been born a princess, Aemond might have been married off to Lord Borros himself.

“If the tales of the Lord of Storm’s End lunacy do not concern you, then why do you look so remorseful?” Aegon prodded. “From where I stand, you have nothing but cause to celebrate, Brother. In a few days time, you will be betrothed. You will soon be wed- and to a wife of your choosing, no less.”

There had been no choice with Helaena. His mother had made the decision for them. If given the chance, neither Aegon or Helaena would have chosen as their mother had, that much was for certain. Aegon did not bother to plead his case before his father, and did not beg him to consider alternative matches. Though the King’s word was law, he had spoken nothing against it.

“Yes,” Aemond conceded, but joylessly. “Rest assured, Your Grace. I will do my duty, and deliver Lord Borros’s allegiance to you. You shall have the Stormlands, and I shall have a wife.”

Aegon groaned loudly. “Gods, brother. You could at least pretend to be appreciative. Most young lords would kill for the chance to be wed to a daughter of a Great House.”

“I am a prince, not just some ‘young lord’.”

“And I am the King,” Aegon asserted, the firm edge in his voice making an appearance once more. “You will do as you are commanded, for the good of the realm. For the good of the family.”

Their mother had been the strongest supporter of the match; she had proposed the very idea herself. Perhaps Aemond’s miffness in response to his circumstances derived from that. He had always been their mother’s favorite; perhaps he felt betrayed at just how swift she was to arrange a marriage for him, and without any consideration as to what he may have wanted.

His younger brother met his stern look with just as much fervor. “I don’t recall you ever giving a damn as to what was for the good of the realm, or the family, before.”

Aegon laughed joylessly, and shrugged once, for he could concede that Aemond’s statement was a fair one. Only a few days ago, he had attempted to flee Westeros, to shirk his duty as his father’s newly proclaimed heir. Aemond, who had always taken duty and the well-being of the family more to heart than he, had found him… Though it was apparent that Aemond did it begrudgingly. There was a moment, a brief moment where he had thought Aemond might accept his pleas, let him escape to Essos or elsewhere, and take up the crown himself.

“There will never be a better time to start than this moment, no?”

“I will do as I am commanded,” Aemond echoed stubbornly, sounding far more mindless than Aegon knew him to be. “But there was no order for me to feign happiness where it does not yet exist.”

“I could command that, too.”

“You could. But only the gods know if such an ambitious venture would yield any fruitful results.”

Aegon stared at his brother for several moments in silence. He suspected Aemond was not genuinely challenging him, but merely testing him. Perhaps Aemond wished to see how much he could get away with, before Aegon was forced to pull in the reins.

When he spotted the familiar teasing twinkle in his brother’s eye, as well as a small smirk that threatened his lips, Aegon’s suspicions were confirmed.

Aemond excused himself shortly after that. Later that night, Aegon watched from his balcony as Vhagar ascended into the night sky. As the dragon passed over the Red Keep, her wide wingspan successfully blocked the moon for several moments.

His brother would find happiness, Aegon decided. Whether it would be in the arms of a Baratheon woman, flying into battle on the back of a beast from the Conquest, or from some other venture, Aemond would find it.

Aegon would find a way to quench his newfound thirst for acceptance. Perhaps the title of “king” would allow him all sorts of new ways to placate his other thirsts as well.

And Rhaenyra would find a way to submit to his will, and bend the knee. Or else she, her uncle-husband, her Strong boys, her Targaryen babes, and all her other allies would find themselves without their heads.

A/N: Thank you for reading! 🖤 I really appreciate you deciding to give this unconventional chapter a shot. I would love to hear any feedback you’d like to offer. We’ll be going back to Dragonstone next, where we should be staying until this is completed.

I hope you all have a great rest of the day and weekend.🖤

[historia-vitae-magistras]

omg, idk if anyone has ever asked you this question before BUT what are the ways the uk siblings say ‘i love you’ without actually saying it? so like what are their love languages?

Brighid is all five. Life was so nightmarishly cruel for her at points that she appreciates almost all forms of kindness. Words of affirmation, quality time, gifts, acts of service. The only one she has boundaries around is physical touch. Under Alfred's roof she found all five. Compliments, dinner together practically every ordinary night, hugs, easily spoken 'I love you' Alfred appreciated her running the household and his life very much but the most thoughtful that boy has ever been in his life is probably with his aunt and he was always making sure there was absolutely no heavy lifting for her to do whatsoever. He gave her a lot of the nice jewelry she owns. Irish gold is a beautiful reddish colour to the point that in very old accounts before the term 'rose gold' came into being you can sometimes see 'Hibernian gold' used. She has a set of opals Matt arranged to come from Australia that Alfred had set into a whole suite of jewelry for her. And after the Civil War when he's rolling in gas he probably had an account with a few auction houses looking for pieces of Irish origin he could purchase and return to her.

Alasdair is very much a physical touch, quality time and acts of service type. But its in a very physical way. Like François often tried to give him nice (French made) things and good clothes and Alasdair was a bit meh. He'd wear them, he more or less likes what he looks like in things François picks out because goddamn the man has good taste in fashion. François being very, very physical was much more his speed. Fucking like animals, but then laying there in the blissful post-nutte silence listening to each other breathe was very much an act of love for Alasdair. Also food. Francois is not really the 'I'll help you fix the water mill" type but he will make a really good spread if he gives a shit. Later when Matthew comes along, Alasdair is almost as bad at saying the words "I love you" as Arthur is sometimes but he is much more physical and playful in general and carries Matt around and prefers he sleep in a rolling trundle rather than whatever far-flung corner of the house he might otherwise be assigned.

Rhys and Arthur are shockingly similar. They are very much a quality time twosome over here. They can confuse the hell out of people though because making a cup of tea and sitting in silence without acknowledging any other person in the room doesn't read as very affectionate but it really is in actuality their highest form of it. "I willingly spend time in your presence," is as good as it gets sometimes. There's care in there too. Prying your wasted sibling out of the gutter, forcing food down their hatch and hosing them down and throwing an extra blanket on them counts as an act of service, right?

[shivasdarknight]

Fic Writer Interview

I was tagged by @sheepwithspecs for this! Looks fun, let's go! 🙌 I'm only tagging @starswornoaths and @fiercynnhere because I really lost track of who still writes and who doesn't 😅 So blanket "do this if you see this" statement here - also this goes for any AO3 alternatives people have bailed for given the state of that place right now.

How many works do you have on AO3?

20, though two are exquisite corpses so 18 are all me

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

259,190, though that's bound to jump up because a chapter I've been working on is ~22k rn, and that's just one draft

3. What are your top 5 fics by kudos

I gave you dirt, I gave you water, you gave me uncontrollable horniness (108) - this is the second exquisite corpse that I did, and it's a rosemary fic that was more coordinated so I'm not surprised tbh? I wrote two sections for it, but it's so old. title is a reference to Little Shop of Horrors

The Shape of Water (2017) (53) - the first exquisite corpse, both were the same group and this was nonsensical. I wrote after the coordinator, and it devolved fast it was fun to work on. More Homestuck - but this was dirkjake - but it's also old and doesn't reflect my current writing. Take a guess why it's named that.

spare a moment, would you? (47) - oh hey this one's all mine. Yeah is it any surprise that the top 3 are all smut? wolysayle stuff, still like this one, though being a long fic writer and seeing the 4k word one do well is. Something alright.

how long you would wait for me? how long I've been away? (28) - wolestinien for wolestinien week, and this was a higher rated fic because yeah vague smut. I still like it, don't misunderstand, but I've got a different favorite lmao

don't test the tank (25) - the noncanon one because g'raha is no longer in the polycule lmfao. I'm pretty sure that's entirely why it got attention, since all of my non-exquisite corpse fics that have high kudos feature male characters in them and that's just not my focus rn. So it's really unsurprising that my favs have like. 12 and 2 kudos compared to all of the ones above, given they center Ysayle.

4. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I respond to all comments! At least most if I can lmao I like getting them? I also like giving them when I read fics, because idk. Acknowledgement that you saw something, discussing something dear to someone. That kind of thing.

5. What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

I think probably somehow, silence hurts the most? There's not really any good resolution besides Surkukteni recovering. Ysayle's dead (as far as she knows, shh), she tried to kill someone who used to be close to her and couldn't go through with it, and she's being shuffled off to another conflict while she's still not healed from the last one - even if it's where she had wanted to be, she's still stuck with the wounds from the war she didn't want to get involved in.

6. What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

Oh, easy: i had a dream about you. It's a fucking rollercoaster of a fic, it's one of my favorites, and I managed to make someone cry :D It's definitely the one that has the happiest ending, because I wouldn't call one-shots really...that? They're set in their tone unless it's a longer fic. Multi-chapter is really the only way I actually like getting a happy ending from something because you had to work to get there.

7. Do you write crossovers?

Well, I used to. FanFiction Dot Net was just...better for crossovers than AO3 tbh? Even though AO3 is better set up for it, most people on there hate crossovers unless it's an AU of something (y'know, like the old -stuck fics). I've still got some of those mentalities from that site in that I've used adjacent crossovers to fill out the cast of things, but most notably would be Inkspill. It's a Bleachstuck fic, but there aren't any Bleach characters whatsoever. It's just the setting and Rose is the main lead. It also epitomizes the fact that I don't like crossovers/AUs where people stick to the OG plot beat-for-beat? Like if you're coming to it as a fan, why do you want to see it exactly but with new faces. Bending the plot to the characters is a lot more fun and you get more stuff out of it (see: a ffx/homestuck AU i was plotting at one point that saw Jake replacing Yuna and Dirk replacing Tidus). But Homestuck was one of those weird fandoms where this kind of thing was encouraged and thrived. Being in XIV, I'm kind of loath to step outside of it because the setting itself has so much going for it that I don't really need to supplement it with anything else - which is hilarious, since this is the game full of crossover events! With those, it's like...I'll supplement other FF titles in the same vein as the game does already (eg: you can tell what era of Allag's rule tech is from based on if it's Pulse or Cocoon tech from FFXIII; Garlemald uses FFVI and FFVII stuff, while older stuff they've appropriated is things like Tactics and FFXII; the FFIV stuff, etc), but all the non-XIV stuff (sans tactics ogre, because POTD is Staying), that just gets a passing reference and not a main focus. The most notable instance of this is how Nier is handled, because while the storyline is canon, it's more of a joke. Everyone talks about it, everyone is confused by it, but I'm never going to actually write them dealing with the crossover because they don't really add much? It's just more funny having a bunch of medieval fantasy heroes trying to grapple with Yoko Taro-ness and breaking their brains over it.

8. Have you ever received hate on a fic?

...hm. I mean, the worst I've gotten on a fic was on Inkspill, where someone decided to get snippy with me because the second chapter is ~10k words. I'd love to find them to show them the word counts of my current drafts lmfao. But actual worse stuff was role play, which involved people tearing apart my writing in private and using it as an excuse to try and get me kicked. But considering I lost the receipts from the person who leaked it, I can't say shit despite one of them being a large ffxiv account who runs an anti-bullying schtick here and on twt so. Yeah.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I definitely write smut, but good god is it difficult to work on. Like, I don't have issues visualizing it, it's just the language. And actually writing the scene out. Makes me so gd awkward, even if it's arguably vanilla shit. Which is admittedly really frustrating, because part of why I do write smut is to try and reclaim that facet of writing from some pretty nasty stuff from a past relationship (no details; very few people actually know the details). So much of it comes from trying to be able to write stuff for myself, but that hesitation is still there. As for what, it's predominantly female focused. As in, you're not really going to see a lot of shameless smut focusing on men (be it m/m or m/f). If men are involved, it's predominantly service stuff for a female partner. Cunnilingus tends to be my go-to, obviously fingering and w/e, but I'm trying to also expand what that means because Surkukteni frankly has had a fair number of flings with trans women and fems. So muffing is on the list of stuff to write (the surkie/cylva fic, stuff with heustienne and venat...), but in general just trying to get away from this pervasive idea that trans fems always have to be tops and have to penetrate their partner. If you're looking for this kind of stuff, I recommend Fucking Trans Women. But either way, most of what I write tends to be a response to stuff I've had to go through + wanting to see other depictions in fanfiction since it's. So often so samey.

10. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not really, but I did have this weird encounter on an AU server where they said that people could just set up channels to discuss their AUs and whatever, but I wanted to distance myself from that group and they really did not want me to delete my stuff. Like, they got aggressive and snapped at me for not wanting people to to use an AU that was fairly personal to me. ...Like, they said it was just a place to talk about AUs, I was never told that their intention was that if you post it, it stays, and free reign for everyone else to do stuff in it. This and the role play server have just really made me never want to engage with Kingdom Hearts ever again.

11. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope, but I'm open to the idea.

12. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Well yeah, I'm part of two exquisite corpses that I linked above lmao Those are seriously fun, y'all should try it sometime. But aside from that, I tried to with my ex gf but that was. Less actually co-written, and more me doing all the work.

13. What’s your all-time favorite ship?

If we're talking about normal definition of ships, probably Edelgard/F!Byleth. Like, don't get me wrong there's a lot of stuff in XIV that I care about npc/npc wise, but something like Ryne/Gaia is like how I feel about NamiXi in that...I adore them, but I wish they'd been around when I was that age? They're cute, but I was introduced to them as an adult and there's still that disconnect. Love queer teen stuff for the queer teens, but I'm nearly 30 lmfao Obvs I'm extremely deep into stuff like Ysayle/Venat, Ysayle/Heustienne, etc. but that's like. So minor that there's not a lot of community around them like there is with edeleth. But that's what happens when you're a f/f shipper 💀💀💀 But in all honesty, the actual answer is wolysayle. I'm blanket including other peoples' dynamics because I just really like seeing people actually use Ysayle and give her further purpose, but also I'm super deep into Surkukteni/Ysayle and all the nonsense that surrounds it - especially how partners like Venat are involved. I care them, I'm very emotional over them.

14. What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

As much as I would like to return to Inkspill, I'm never going to. It's an old fic and if it wasn't clear already, I'm not super interested in writing exclusively about teenagers. I'm also working on a fic that has been shown in snippets and whatever, but I'm hesitant about it because it's. This frustrating fkn thing of the fact that it's Perfectly Goddamned Normal, but people are so weird about it online - both the people who are way too into it, and the detractors. I just want to write about what Surkie goes through from post-shadowbringers to endwalker (which, iykyk what that entails), especially since this Scenario actually allows her to slow down and focus on other aspects of her relationship with her now-fiances, but people get so genuinely nasty about this topic. So even if I enjoy writing it and how it has her navigate her relationships - romantic, familial, and platonic - I'm not sure I'll ever finish it because of gestures.

15. What are your writing strengths?

I've been told I'm very good at writing dialogue, and I can't really argue that because I really do enjoy writing conversations between people. I know people are sick of the Marvel irony that shows up in dialogue and so it makes everyone leery of sarcastic exchanges, but sarcasm and banter are genuinely my favorite things to write. I like obnoxious assholes who know what the other's boundaries are, so they can just be as blunt or snide as they like without a wrong word causing things to get contentious. It's a stark contrast between Surkie and Estinien dialogue and Melisande and Ysayle, because the former is two people who deeply understand the other and know when to stop, vs the current stuff which is Melisande picking at every way she can upset Ysayle because she just does not like her. I try to keep speech habits in mind when writing, I also keep track of how frequently someone curses and what expletives they use, and it's just...really fun trying to make it so distinct that you don't need tags to tell who's speaking? Means I've done something right. And - at least, according to my mother (because she does know about my writing) - I'm apparently good at descriptive prose, because it's "very evocative" and "paints a good mental image".

16. What are your writing weaknesses?

Writing smut, tbh? Like, I know it's similar to action, but I just can't get it for the most part. I'm also not very good at writing stuff that skims over things to cover a long span of time because I like idling in moments and having things go slow. Jumping from place to place and scene transitions are the bane of my existence.

17. What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I think it's important to at least try. I've run into this issue because my WoL is a polyglot but also has the Echo. Like was mentioned in the tag's post, I use Writing with Color a lot to inform me about how to better handle accents from other languages so I don't wind up with how people like Lovecraft write (because that's embarrassing), but I also try to use what I know to inform sentence structure because people kind of just...ignore that? I'll be more specific: I incorporate various English accents and dialects into what I write to get a better idea of what their voice sounds like, but nowhere in there is that used as a signal to view them as unintelligent the way that XIV (and frankly most English-speaking media) does. Kitase has a thick accent, but it's more Lominsan so it's reflected in his speech. However, both he and Surkukteni speak Hingan (japanese), Doman (ig japanese as well because fkn stormblood), and Rural Doman (chinese). I don't know if anyone's picked this up, but Surkie and Kitase both tend to drop the subject of who they're talking about after a while, and very rarely use self pronouns if talking at length. "You" is also fairly absent compared to a native Common (english) speaker, more so in Kitase than Surkukteni due to exposure. These habits come from Japanese sentence structure and how a lot of context is dropped if it can be clearly inferred. Obviously, it's a habit in English, but not to the same degree. Sign language is in here and a version of it used with the dragoons is prominent to Surkie. That led to a long research stint into trying to figure out how to portray that - and there's no good one answer? So I settled on using [Stuff like this] to show that it's talking, it's formatted as talking, and doesn't have the same flourishes as other speech. This is mostly because of how I format dragonspeak, internal brain buddies, and other things. It's treated exactly like normal dialogue, it just has different tags and punctuation. Otherwise, it is exactly the same to not make it seem like it's lesser to spoken languages.

18. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Kingdom Hearts, but we don't talk about that.

19. What’s a fandom/ship you haven’t written for yet but want to?

Fire Emblem Three Houses, but HEAR ME OUT. HEAR ME OUT. Yes, I would love to contribute to the femslash edeleth, but my main motivation for an FE3H fic is a New Game+ meta fic. I got the idea from starting a new route and finding that supports and skills could transfer over, so it got me thinking about a looping story involving Byleth - an ever changing person, in presentation, name, and relationships - having to relieve the story of FE3H and trying to figure out how to break out of it. They're more cognizant with each loop, more manic, until it finally splits into the femleth and guyleth. Femleth remembers the fact that this isn't right, Guyleth stands in opposition to her. Femleth ends up with Edelgard and the Black Eagles, Guyleth ends up with Dimitri and the Azure Lions. And it's going to get messy. But I havent really had the energy to write it because it means finishing all the other routes, and doing Black Eagles first has made it very hard to go through Azure Lions. I'm sparing people my feelings on it, but omfg. I just want to go back to Crimson Flower.

20. What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

i had a dream about you and you want a better story. who wouldn't? Like, they were the most fun to write (the latter is my active draft), and I just care them. Very proud of these two uwu

[dcwnthercbbithcle]

There is... nuance, to say the least in which names you call Doe and which ones she actually prefers. If I had to rank them though, I'd say

Doe is definitely the best and her chosen one, it's the name she's attached to herself and who she'll introduce herself as, with the exclusion of her post-fog verse)

Jean/Blue-Jeans/Barbie are close seconds, they're nicknames, yes. But it's a source of pride, Doe loves her style and loves it more when her style and fashion is acknowledged, especially to the point of being called after the hottest toy of her decade (even when it's not meant complimentary)

Then there's Rira, this is exclusively for verses where she's been informed of her former name, but Doe HATES and I mean HATES that her parents and family decided for her to give her an anglicized name when her birth name is so beautiful and bird like. She thinks it fits her, much much better than Rachel does; but something something her parents misguided INSISTANCE it can't be commonly know they're not from the area with the hopes of it making it easier on them socially (which hasn't worked whatsoever, but I digress).

Then come all the other nicknames, the ones that are more on her appearance but feel less complimentary because they're attached to parts of herself she doesn't feel the same great pride over. Ones like Freckles, Hairspray, Click, Spot, Shorty, etc. She doesn't HATE them, but she doesn't love them either. If you insist on using them she's giving you the side-eye

THEN THERE'S JANE, DOE DOESN'T LIKE THE 'JANE' PART OF JANE DOE AT ALL. It feels so old to her and just not her in every conceivable way. You could walk up to her and call her George and she'd feel the same way. 'But Bun! Doe is her last name technically, she needs a first name!' to that end, Doe is rolling her eyes. If a first name is THAT important, call her Barbie or Jean Doe, or hell! Miss. Doe will do! She likes that! But she's not Jane, stop trying to make her into plain Jane, she is so much more!

AND LASTLY THERE'S RACHEL, Doe hates the name Rachel so much, it's a name she wears with as much pride as a grease stained sweater. She loathes it, it's old, it's harsh, it's not her. It's so unlike her and either her REAL name (Rira) or any of her chosen names. She really wishes she could go out back and burn it in effigy, but unfortunately to keep the peace with her family in post-fog verses, she's stuck with it, but she's glaring and growling over it the entire time (in silence). The nicknames from it (Rae, Ray-Ray, etc.) are just as bad, she thinks it's ugly, she think's they're ugly and she'll go by literally anything else, to the point that when people make up nicknames for her, she could cry with joy.

[ambercast]

(in response to this post by/with @endlessreruns)

tw: death, depictions of grief, suicidal ideation

Roman wasn't sure what he was going to say when he saw Lucy. Maybe he should have been thinking about it on the rest of the walk towards the commune, but in reality it was almost like his mind had suddenly went blank. Devoid of any thoughts whatsoever. He got to the commune, not even bothering with the few members that called after him as he made his way up to the door, and then inside to look for her. Still not saying a word to anyone or giving them any type of acknowledgement if they were saying something.

There was a bit of a commotion that caught Lucy’s attention. They’d been working on a donkey for Bram with the new tool Lincoln had given her. She looked up as Roman entered the room, someone calling after him that he wasn’t supposed to be there. He hadn’t snuck in. That was strange. The look on his face was also strange.

Standing quickly, she moved to shut the door. They couldn’t lock it, but it was something. “What’s wrong?” she asked quietly, moving around him to stand in front of him, looking up into his face.

"it's - " he started, looking at her and swallowing, before he began to pace back and forth some. "it's-" the word came again, followed by silence as he reached up to scratch behind his head "fuck. Fuck!"

This was even more worrisome. Lucy watched him pace for a moment before reaching to take his hand. Pulling him over to the bed, they set him down on the edge of it, sitting down beside him. She didn’t say anything else, allowing him to take his time. Obviously something was very wrong, but they didn’t want to push him.

His pacing stopped only when she took his hand and brought him over to sit on the edge of the bed. He hated that she was doing this for him, when he knew that what he had come to say was going to hurt them. He stared down at his hands, maybe it would be easier if he wasn't looking at her.

It still took a few minutes before he spoke, "I was - I was on my way here and I found him."

Lucy watched his face, not understanding what happened or what he meant by that. Found who? What happened? She told herself not to push. They moved to take his hand again, lacing their fingers together.

He stared at her hand, before his face traveled back up to hers. Roman's eyes giving away more than his words had. "I'm -" he started before just giving a shake of the head and pulling his hand from hers in order to wrap his arms around her and pull her into a hug without another word.

Roman’s eyes and the hug had Lucy’s mind racing. Who had he found? What happened? Was someone hurt? Dead?

They pulled away from the hug, staring at his face. “Who?”

"Don't make me say it, Lu"

“Most of my friends use he. I don’t know who you’re talking about. If one of my friends is hurt . . .” Lucy was babbling a bit in Spanish now, gripping Roman’s arms tightly.

"It's not one of your friends, Lucy" he inhaled, shaking his head. Lincoln hadn't been Lucy's friend. Not really. Not in the way that the people Roman had seen Lucy talk to and be around at events had been. Their relationship had been different. More familial. More paternal on Lincoln's end.

It took a moment before Lucy realized who he meant. Lincoln was a “he” who wasn’t one of her friends. The color drained from their face, and they stood quickly. “Where is he?” she demanded.

"The forest." That's where he had been last he knew at least. There was the possibility that he'd been moved by now, but he doubted it.

Lucy turned and opened the door to head out. determined to see for herself. It couldn’t be true. Lincoln was probably just injured or something. He couldn’t be dead. He was their father, in every way that counted. She couldn’t lose another family member.

Roman saw her head towards the door and stood to follow her. "I told one of the rangers that was out on patrol. He might not be there anymore"

That was fine. She’d go to the funeral home. Lucy didn’t look at him or speak, simply walked with determination toward the funeral home and cemetery, hands curled into fists at their sides, nails digging into palms. Maybe he was fine and he wouldn’t be there. Maybe he’d be back at his shop, perfectly healthy and alive and it was all a misunderstanding.

Roman wasn't sure if he should ask if they wanted him there or not, but there was a part of him telling him to keep going with her. That she was going to need him.

It was a tense walk down to the funeral home, and as they arrived the paramedics were wheeling the body toward the back entrance. Lucy sped up in order to catch them, flinging herself onto the gurney before anyone could stop her. Someone grabbed their shoulders to pull her away, but she practically climbed on top of the thing, grabbing the zipper of the body back and ripping it open.

He was pale. Cold. His eyes were closed, almost as though he were asleep. Lucy grabbed his shoulders, shaking him, trying to wake him up. More hands grabbed at her, trying to pull her away, but she struggled against them, still shaking Lincoln’s shoulders over and over again. A small sound escaped her, like an animal in pain, a cross between a whimper and a cry, as she struggled and shook and tried to wake him. He couldn’t be dead. This couldn’t be real. He had to wake up. He had to.

"Just give her a fucking moment!" Roman shouted as he saw them trying to pull her away again. His hand was on the pocket knife in his pocket, ready to pull it out and threaten them if they didn't back off.

At Roman’s shout they backed away, leaving Lucy on top of the gurney. He wasn’t waking up. Slowly, her frantic shaking slowed and then stopped. He was gone. He was gone. Just like they all were gone.

She started to climb into the body bag, and as the paramedics jumped forward to try and stop her, she did her best to fight them off. She had to go with him.

Roman saw them jump forward and in one quick move the knife was out and open, blade pointed outwards. "Back the fuck off" he growled.

“She can’t be in there,” one of the paramedics said, holding his hands up as he saw the knife.

Lucy took the opportunity to finally wiggle into the body bag, resting her head on Lincoln’s shoulder and biting her lip. He was so still and cold. They started to try and zip the body bag up again from the inside.

"Lucy" Roman said, glancing back in her direction. "you can't stay in there"

Lucy didn’t want to listen. She didn’t want to leave Lincoln. He was cold and he shouldn’t be alone. At least her family had gone together. Lincoln was all alone.

The paramedic gave Roman a pleading look, not wanting to get his captain involved if he didn’t have to.

Roman lowered the knife, but still kept it out, as he moved to turn fully towards the gurney. "You want to go with him don't you?" he asked

Lucy hadn’t managed to get it closed completely, and at Roman’s voice they paused, eyes burning as they nodded silently. The Weirdlings had each other. Cat had the commune. Roman had Saffron. Lincoln had no one. She had to go with him. He was everything and so much more. Her father. Her savior. Her mentor. Her best friend.

"would that be what he'd want for you?" he asked, moving to slowly unzip the bag some, though not all the way. "would he want you to die because he did?"

Lucy didn’t like that question. Obviously Lincoln didn’t want her to die. It’d broken his heart when he’d found her in his workshop. But . . . he wasn’t here to save her now. He was gone, and Lucy felt a gaping hole in their chest that just seemed to be getting bigger with every minute, threatening to swallow them whole.

Slowly, they shook their head but didn’t move from Lincoln’s chest.

"I'll make them give you five minutes, but then you have to come out" his voice was soft as he spoke, "please promise you'll come out. For me"

For a moment Lucy was tempted to refuse. She’d known Lincoln for nearly a decade. She’d known Roman for practically five minutes. But that thought didn’t last long. It was a selfish thought. Lucy didn’t like being selfish.

Slowly, she nodded. Five minutes.

"okay" he nodded before turning back towards the paramedics. "you're going to give her five minutes. If any of you even think about grabbing her I will stab you. Don't think I'm fucking joking"

The paramedic lifted his hands and took a step back, allowing the five minutes.

Lucy curled her fingers into Lincoln’s shirt, closing her eyes and pretending to be dead with him, just like she did with her family. Where she could see them all like they were, and they were all together, and she wasn’t alone. The tears came slowly and then all at once, and they muffled their sobs against Lincoln’s chest, wishing he’d hold her. But his arms didn’t move, and there was no reassuring heartbeat.

Roman kept his place in-between the paramedic and Lucy, his knife raised again out towards the paramedic, in a stance to strike if he so much as thought of getting close.

The five minutes passed and as much as Roman wanted to give them more time the five minutes was what had been agreed on and if he gave her another five then he'd just give her another and another. "Lu. Lu we have to go"

Lucy made herself stop crying. It was something they’d gotten good at over the years. Slowly, she sat up and crawled off the gurney. She paused, leaning up on her toes to give Lincoln’s forehead a small kiss. They watched, then, as the paramedic moved forward again and rolled the gurney into the funeral parlor.

Lucy stood and watched, arms crossed tightly over her chest, knowing what would happen next. His body would be prepared and then there’d be a memorial. Then he’d join the many others in the cemetery.

Their feet felt like lead. Maybe they would just stand here until it was all said and done, no matter how long it took.

Roman just watched her, and then the paramedic as they rolled the gurney and Lincoln's body inside. He closed the knife and slid it back into his pocket.

After a few more minutes he reached out to touch their shoulder. "We should go."

Lucy didn’t move. They were returning to the earth, their feet buried into the ground, just like Lincoln would be buried.

Roman moved in front of them, holding her face in his hands. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry it was him. If I could bring him back for you I would."

Lucy could feel her eyes filling with tears again. She couldn’t quite look Roman in the eye, rare for her. It was nice to hear he felt that way, but it also told her he felt guilty, which wasn’t good. Slowly, she dropped her head forward to press her forehead into his shoulder.

"you can stay with me if you want. For a little while" he offered, knowing she might not want to be at the commune for now.

Lucy didn’t know where she wanted to go. Everything was a haze and she could barely think, let alone make any decisions. She continued to stand there, forehead pressed against his shoulder still.

He stood there with her for a moment or two longer, before he wrapped his arm around her. "come on" he said quietly, as he began to walk, guiding her with him as he started back towards his place.

[riftwalker-limbro]

fractured - part 2

masterpost

----

Debriefing Kali wasn’t the smooth ride Kelth had expected it to be, though it had absolutely no problems letting the drives pass it by - Kelth hadn’t even mentioned it contained recordings by Ordis, it just hadn’t cared about them whatsoever, once it heard that-

“Warframe fragments? Floating in space?” it had asked, signing stilted with what Kelth had initially assumed to be surprise, but was quickly starting to suspect was more like shock, maybe with some horror mixed in, from how often it was repeating questions.

“Yes, and-”

“In- tiny pieces?”

Kelth was starting to get a little impatient. “Yes, could you help us gather them all up? The drives are equally important and time-sensitive, and I can’t split myself or Sufford in two.”

“Yes, of course- send Yura the data, please, I’ll go immediately. No time to waste.”

Kali had left as soon as it had received all the necessary information. Kelth was left staring after its Liset speeding off chasing the signal in grateful confusion. It didn’t look like they would have to worry about that task getting completed.

“Well, Sufford,” they said, turning back to look at their friend. “Ready to go find some more drives?”

He made a show of thinking about it, but signed a quick okay when they started laughing and swatting at him. Ordis was already crawling the Weave for any signs of either of the category of object they were interested in, so to the silence of his concentration did they board the Liset, setting off for their own task, last of the group. 

—

Ordis, Kali and Kelth kept an open comms channel, and for the first several hours, everything went smoothly. Kali reported in frequently, Kelth found drives at a slightly slower rate, having switched over to the next planet after Earth stopped pinging on Sufford’s scanners, and Ordis was silent. When asked about this, he grumbled something about human component bottlenecks, and then continued to be quiet.

The total drive count was up to a dozen, the amount of warframe fragments Kali had managed to find looked like it might be the same volume as Sufford’s upper body, and Kelth was getting tired and ready to call it a night then - focusing for so long felt like it was about to  give them a headache, and they could tell that Sufford’s energy levels were starting to run low, too. Kali was showing no signs of stopping - it sounded equally frazzled every time it reported in on a new milestone, and the concern and unease that that fostered under Kelth’s skin kept them from returning to Ordis’ Orbiter for a quick rest.

Then, Ordis reported in.

“Ordis found a few Tenno with fragments, a few with drives, but not all are willing to part with them for free,” he complained. “Kelth, may Ordis use your funds to see if these Tenno are to be persuaded financially?”

Kelth didn’t have to think about that one. “Yeah, sure-”

“Yura, give them access to our funds for the warframe fragments,” Kali butted in, grim. “Hustle them, Ordis, but don’t reject if they don’t budge.”

“Only for the fragments?” Kelth asked, surprised.

“You gave this task to me,” Kali said. “My responsibility.”

“Well, I mean, I asked you to help, but you don’t have to-”

“We will help reassemble this warframe,” Kali said, tone brooking no argument. “It is worth every credit.”

Kelth took a moment to process that, slightly baffled. “Well, sure, okay. Uh, same policy for my funds, for the drives, then, Ordis.”

“Thank you both,” Ordis said, already sounding distracted again. “Ordis may need one of you to go pick these up at various relays all over the system after negotiations conclude.”

“I can do that,” Kelth said. “While Sufford and I do that, you can reevaluate the frequencies of the new drives we found.”

Ordis acknowledged that with a short ping. Kali remained quiet, likely on the trail of yet another batch of warframe fragments. They seemed to be showing up in small clouds.

Well, maybe Kelth and Sufford could get in a quick nap while travelling across the system to pick up various fragments and drives. For now, they soldiered on.

—

Ordis was done first - with their combined funds, there had been no Tenno that he had found who hadn’t eventually ceded their drives and fragments to their group. He’d placed posts on forums in various places, hoping to draw the attention from those who hadn’t communicated about their strange finds online and who might be motivated by a financial reward, but that might as well be a dead end for now.

Next was Kali, which wasn’t surprising given its eerily intense motivation to find as many fragments as it could, combined with Kelth and Sufford’s break to go pick up Ordis’ purchases. Done was a strong word, though - they’d found enough fragments for Ordis to reconstruct a rough estimate of what this warframe had looked like before it was destroyed. Yura and Ordis’ scanners couldn’t pick up the frequency anywhere anymore, so this was all that they would reasonably be able to find - any pieces left floating around were likely too small to be detected.

The reconstructed projection was a hologram, floating in Ordis’ Orbiter’s lounge, around which they were all gathered. Kali was standing up, arms crossed, shoulders drawn up high, the picture of distress. Next to it, Sufford appeared calm but curious, and Kelth themself was incredibly intrigued but exhausted, sitting down on the couch. 

The projection itself showed a warframe in black, white and blue, with armour like old-world formal dress, shaped like a tailcoat and a top hat. He had fins on his ankles and wrists, elegantly accenting the long lines of his narrow chassis. Ordis had highlighted the missing material in red - the damage spread out from his chest and spiderwebbed across his limbs and head. At the centre of his torso, he was almost solid red.

“The damage is too substantial,” Ordis said, pensive. “This isn’t enough to recreate a viable warframe. The missing material of his chest alone-”

Kali snapped its fingers and started signing, quick and jerky. “Can’t we reuse some parts, fill up the gaps? It’s not ideal, but warframe material is flexible, adaptable - the coattails, can’t we use them to patch the worst of it? We got most of those, right?”

Ordis simulated sucking in a breath. On the projection, the coattails disappeared, and some of the red of the warframe’s torso resolved to neutral grey, to set it apart from the original material in its original places.

“That doesn’t look too bad,” Kali signed, hopeful. “Right?”

“Hmm,” Ordis said. “It looks better, but he wouldn’t be completely stable… If we could also-”

The wrist-fins were also removed from the projection, filling in even more grey material on the chest.

“Like that, he has a good chance of being viable,” he said. “I’m not sure how combat-functional the parts we just removed were, but I don’t want to change too much more about the design, to avoid the risk of him not being able to use his abilities at all anymore.”

“Let’s do it like this,” Kelth said, decisive.

“I’ll inform your Helminth of the changed design,” Kali signed, jumping up immediately. “The material is in there already, right?”

“Kali- wait one fucking second, you’re not the boss of- let’s first discuss the, ah, resource costs of this reparation effort,” Ordis said, tone careful when he could keep it free of glitching. “This warframe has already cost us a great deal of effort and credits, and now it may cost us a small trove of resources, too. Scanning the collected material has revealed that it is missing a lot of basic warframe functionality - no transference bolt, no comms systems, and various other missing or poorly-arranged internals-”

Kali straightened up and started signing immediately again, not letting Ordis finish. “Yura and I will-”

“Ordis, it’s fine, whatever the Helminth needs we can provide,” Kelth said, at the same time.

Kali gave them a look, having halted when they started speaking, and just nodded. “If you need any resources you don’t have or aren’t willing to invest into him, please check with Yura and I first. This warframe should-” it halted for a second, as if unsure what to say. Finally, it settled on: “It’s not right.”

Kelth frowned at it a little in confusion, but after a moment recollected themself. “Alright,” they said. “Let’s do this, then. Kali, you said something about the Helminth?”

“Your Ordis can’t talk to it the way warframes can, and I’m a bit of an expert with it. Also, I want to ensure this warframe gets reconstructed as well as possible,” it said. “Thank you for asking me to help, and for trusting us with this task. We’ll get him put back together as well as possible.”

Then, it turned, and briskly walked out of the room. Kelth turned back to look at the projection in front of them, still slowly rotating. It was now robbed of the coattails and wrist-fins, but slightly less suffused with red than earlier. They sighed.

Kali’s behaviour about this warframe was not making much sense to them. They still hadn’t asked it about its Tenno body, and it wasn’t bringing it up, either. Was this an autonomous warframe? Was that maybe why it was so set on doing right by this broken one?

They’d had a long day, and this was too much to wrap their head around, especially right now. They looked to their side and found Sufford. “I think I’m done for the day, if I’m honest,” they said, giving a tired half-smile.

He nodded. “Go get some rest,” he signed, “I’m going to stay up until Kali’s back on its own ship again.”

Kelth smiled in thanks and got up off the couch, easily finding their balance with their cane, and slowly made their way back to their own room. They were asleep before their head hit the pillow.

[midnight-stormm]

I adore quackity. I really do. I like his content, its entertaining I've been enjoying the lore lately for the qsmp. now what I'm about to say, is no hate towards quackity whatsoever.

Quackity is the one that should speak up. Dream has responded to this situation not once, not twice but three times! At this point the hate is still being thrown around and nothing is stopping.

Quackity fans aren't going to listen to dream. They don't care about dream. They care and listen to quackity and quackity only. They feel that dream "disrespected " quackity. They feel that dream is trying to take all the "attention " away from quackity's project. They feel that dream is "jealous " of quackity and no matter how much dream states that there's no issue between him and quackity. And how they are both great friends and he has alot of admiration and love towards quackity, they do not care.

They are rallying in his defense and they feel like he's been targeted. So they will continue to send hate. They will continue to say disgusting and harmful things. They will continue to attack his friends and other ccs because you know why, no one is telling them that they are wrong. Well. Correction, alot of people are but the person they look up to isn't telling them they are wrong.

Quackity silence is giving them the power to continue to send hateful things and that's the sad part.

I'm not saying he's obligated to speak out because he doesn't have to. He can continue to focus on himself and his project. The reason why something needs to be said is because of the mass hate that's been going around for a week.

I know that he can't control his fans and I'm not asking him too. No one can control thousand of people because everyone has a mind of their own but acknowledging the issue and make a two second tweet saying, "please don't send hate on my behalf" can mean alot. I'm not saying it's going to completely ease the tension but it's worth a try.

At this point, what dream says is out the window. They listen to you and only you.

And it's sad that this is even happening because both projects(qsmp & usmp) is ground breaking. This can help open doors for a more diverse community and this is something that we all should be cheering about and sadly it isn't happening as much.

[austennerdita2533]

@sekretny friend, I need you to explain all the reasons you paired invisible string with emma x knightley? I want to crawl into your brain, please share your thought and vibes 😭❤️

Well, of course! Since you asked so nicely, I’d be happy to give you a window into my thought process. :D

(Had to answer you here because this got way too long!)

SO. I think the main reason I paired ‘invisible string’ with Emma and Knightley is because the song, as a whole, feels reflective to me. Wistful. Experiential. An echo of love that follows along as well as points you, like an arrow, back to where you belong. 

It’s a full circle tune, beginning and ending in Centennial Park, which tells the story of a relationship over time. A friendship that becomes more, perhaps. Or will. One that evolves in increments - subtly, of course - with the changing seasons and the “barbed wire” mistakes that are tended to with care, concern, and genuine affection. It’s this idea that unconditional love has been the underlying “thread” or “string” between them all along. And it’s been there from the start. 

That, to me, is what Emma and Knightley have always had. They’re friends and neighbors. They’re confidants. They have good rapport. He sees her for who she is - graces, faults, and all; she values his opinion more than anyone else’s and always strives to do better when she knows she’s erred. They bicker, naturally, (which is part verbal foreplay, part challenge to grow), but there’s an ease and familiarity between them that allows for frankness. For authenticity. There’s no pretense in their dynamic whatsoever, they’re simply free and open to be themselves no matter what. And the fact that they genuinely like and respect each other at face value is the “invisible string” that binds them together. It’s the base, the sturdy foundation, on which their love is built--allowing them to elevate from friends to lovers with the naturalness of a released breath. 

This song is also about the passage of time, with someone looking back at significant moments they’ve shared with someone they’ve known for a long time. For years and years. (Centennial Park --> The yogurt shop --> First trip to LA --> Getting lunch down by the lakes --> That dive bar --> Centennial Park again) It’s about two people being tethered together since they first met - in a soft, understated, maybe even unobserved way - and one of them is only now realizing the truth of it all. What they are to each other, what they have. Where they’ve journeyed apart to get here, now. How special and “pretty it is to think” that something invisible could have been working behind the scenes this whole time to pull them together. 

There’s a sort of epiphanic feel, mid-song, where one of them is finally deigning to ask, “Were there clues I didn’t see?” And the best part about it is that the question is rhetorical. Why? Because the answer is “one single thread of gold tied me to you”  and they know that now. THEY CAN SEE IT. FINALLY.  So here they are, in this reflective headspace, tracing it backward and forward, letting it burn their retinas in shades of gold.

I think this song fits particularly well with Emma, who, while quite taken up with other people’s romantic sensibilities, takes almost the whole novel before she evaluates her own feelings for Mr. Knightley. However, once she does, after she probes the inner-workings of her own heart, she realizes he’s been there, waiting to be discovered, yet also never to be removed, the whole time. 

Likewise, Mr. Knightley had to endure the agony of suffering in silence. The passage of time is excruciating for a man who must love and admire in secret, never at liberty to speak, watching the years roll by like monotonous hills. For him, the thread was already apparent and he was following it--only at a longing distance--while Emma remained oblivious.

In a way, Emma and Mr. Knightley each had to grow to acknowledge, as well as express, the “invisible” regard they harbored for one another, so that’s why I love this song for them. 

[wrenramblings]

Two Deer at the End of All Things

At the end of all things, we are nothing more than a pair of deer. I walk with you between the sunlit trees of a snowy forest, far from where we began.

We swap stories until the sun sets. You tell me about the wildfires to the west. You tell me that your antler was licked by the flame and you were forced to shed it a season early. I offer you one of mine, but you do not take it; it seems you do not mourn the loss.  

Then we fall into a stumped spell of silence. What is a deer supposed to say in the sun’s absence? We should be hiding. Willfully or otherwise, we often forget that we are prey, even in our sanctum, even in the midst of another Big Freeze.

Entropy did not request a wake this time. There are no more goodnights to bid, no more stories to tell. We are supposed to don black and quietly acknowledge its passing as it bleeds into the backdrop of a receding cosmos. We are supposed to make ourselves something politer than known.

You turn to me anyhow.

I have observed the stars, you say.

And what conclusions have you drawn?

None whatsoever.

Then how will you know when it ends?

You pause for a beat. I feel its tendrils creep closer, but it doesn’t seem to bother you, so you carry on.

You are still thinking in human terms, but we are deer now. There is no end. I shed my antlers this winter and I will grow them back next spring. I have forgotten the poetry which foretold my impermanence. I have forgotten the star charts which foretold their own. I have not the hands to craft a telescope or draw a map. Why do I look up?

Does it frighten you? I ask. The dimming?

No, I am a deer. Only the snap of a twig means enemy. Only the crack of a gun means attack. Only the rush of the twin suns means…

At the mention of the twin suns, we both shudder, wide-eyed, caught for a moment in the flytrap of time. Our joints melt at length.

So why do you look up, if not for fear?

For wonder. Because I do not understand the machinations of our heavens. Because I do not need to. Because I already know they are vast, and changing. Because it does not matter how they change.

Because we will always be deer? I ask.

Because we will someday be dust.

I look at you, and it lingers, and it does not soften.

I take comfort in the idea of returning to the womb of the star I was born in. Don’t you?

I look at you, and it lingers, and it does not soften.

I take comfort in the idea that nothing ends. That all my particles are hand-me-downs. That matter is borrowed and returned, and someday I will return and know why I was borrowed.

I do not feel the same, I say.

I take comfort in that idea, too.

You smile at me.

Go on.

I go on.

Why can’t I call this matter mine, for the blink of an eye that I have it?

Well, what is your name?

I am a deer.

What was your name?

I cannot remember.

You stare at me, not unkindly. I try again.

Why can’t I create myself? Why must I be the reincarnation of other particles, other stories? Doesn’t it matter when I choose to shed my antlers? Doesn’t it matter what I choose to tell you tonight?

You watch me closely, carefully. It takes you a moment of consideration to speak, but you do.

It matters very much.

I take comfort in the idea that I am changing. I take comfort in the idea that everything ends. I take comfort in the idea that when I return to my mother star, there will be an absence in my wake, and I take comfort in the idea that you might mourn me.

Your chest swells and falls. We swap particles of matter as the stars rise and the air cools.

I imagine that I will, friend. I imagine that neither of us will be forgotten, not for a while.

And I imagine that we will end up in the core of the same star.

And I imagine that our dissonance, however brief, will have mattered nonetheless.

And we say farewell.

You tell me that you are continuing east, towards the rising sun and away from the wildfires, which claimed a piece of you, which you find you are beginning to miss.

I give you one of my antlers as a parting gift, to show you that I understand: what the universe borrows, the universe will return.  

And you give me a name, to show me that you understand: we deserve to be known anyway.

As I venture home, I look forward to meeting you again. By then, I will have named you too.

[heavenforblog1111]

'Can You Feel My Heart' is perhaps the most significant piece of music that Bring Me The Horizon has ever created. The song was released on 8th October 2013 as the fourth and final single from the studio album 'Sempiternal'. It was written by singer Oliver Sykes, guitarist Lee Malia and keyboardist Jordan Fish who wasn't even officially a part of the band at that time in 2012. Jordan had a major role in overall creation and writing of the song and officially joined the band in 2013. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QJJYpsA5tv8 Jordan's addition had a very direct impact on the creation of their music going further. The electronic element was missing in their earlier music. Jordan filled the gap and elevated their music to a different level altogether. The overall flow was much better and the rhythm was greatly improved. I was not much of a fan of their music prior to the 'Sempiternal' album. Most of their songs before 2012 felt like them screaming with no aim whatsoever and just making random noises if I were to be brutally honest. However, this song changed the way that I viewed the band and I also liked some of their other songs produced afterwards like 'Throne' for example which was also a very good song. Song Meaning Oliver Sykes spoke about the meaning behind the song. The song was about admitting that one has a problem and it is about realizing that in order to move forward, one has to admit and acknowledge that there is something wrong. Can You Feel My Heart' is all about admittance, admitting you have a problem and admitting something's wrong, that's the first step of the whole album. In my life, I had to admit certain things to go further. They all deal with different topics. Oliver Sykes The song gives a glimpse of what the person is going through. Often times, we deal with problems that are not known to other people. No one apart from ourselves realize the problems we are having. The lyrics talk about one feeling despair and hopelessness. It seems like no one can fully understand our problems and that we are alone in our battles. Through the lyrics 'Can You Hear The Silence, can you see the dark, can you fix the broken and can you feel my heart' the singer is pointing to the fact that rarely can people recognize what one is going through, and many times the solution for problems lies within us only. These issues often affect our relationships with people. One may feel lost or a sense of confusion while connecting with other people. This often times results in people isolating themselves even when they don't like being lonely. It is important to realize one's problems and admit them so that one can resolve them. The song encourages us to push forward because there is always light at the end of the tunnel. It is about realizing that everyone is going through problems and one has to face one's challenges and overcome them to move forward in life. That was my take on the song. Let me know your opinions in the comments below.