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fancoloredglasses · 1 year ago

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Star Trek, part 4: The Next Generation (Making the Federation even more Mary Sue)

[All images are owned by Paramount. Please don’t sue me]

The introduction of the Enterprise-A in Star Trek IV opened up the possibility of new adventures of the USS Enterprise, so when it was announced in 1987 that a new Star Trek television series would be starting, fans were hopeful that the crew of the Enterprise would go from the big screen back to the small screen.

They were very wrong.

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(Thanks to Great80sTV)

Star Trek: The Next Generation (or simply TNG) takes place 80 years following the original Enterprise’s five-year missions. Gene Roddenberry is once again at the helm of the show, though he is assisted by Rick Berman, who would become the official showrunner following Roddenberry’s death.

The Federation of the 24th century is, if possible, even more utopian than before, having signed a peace treaty with the Klingon Empire (even if more than a few Klingons aren’t happy about it)

The latest ship to carry the legendary name, the USS Enterprise (NCC-1701-D) is a Galaxy class starship, capable of longer missions into deep space. Warp technology has progressed far enough that the formula for warp speed had to be amended. Now (according to fan publications) the calculation is to a power of 5 (meaning that Warp 5 would be 5 x 5 x 5 x 5 x 5, or 3,125 times the speed of light. Using my Alpha Centauri example from my review of the original series, it would take about 9 1/2 hours at Warp 5 to reach Alpha Centauri from Earth, a much more reasonable time frame.

In addition to better Warp and defensive technologies, the Enterprise had a new technology known as holodecks, that made life-like imagery that the crew could touch and interact with, as a way to keep the crew from going stir-crazy. And the holodecks never, ever, ever had anything go wrong inside. Nope. Never. Not even once. (excuse me as I stifle several giggles)

Two other things that were different than previous Enterprises.

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(Thanks to April 5, 2063)

Since the Galaxy class was designed to go farther out than was previously possible, crew quarters are large enough to allow the families of the crew to join them on board. Because of this, the saucer section can be detached from the Engineering hull to allow the civilian population to be evacuated in cases of extreme peril.

One other change was in the uniforms.

(Thanks to The Hollywood Reporter)

Starfleet has replaced the uniform used for over 70 years with an almost “throwback” uniform with the uniform color matching divisions (though red is now operations and gold is now service; but don’t worry, we’ll still call the doomed security personnel “Redshirts”)

You will note that the uniforms are all onesies. This will be changed by Season 2 (along with several minor changes as the series progresses, almost as if whoever designed the uniform didn’t plan for the comfort of the wearer)

Now let’s meet this new crew…

The Enterprise’s commanding officer is Captain Jean-Luc Picard (played by Sir Patrick Stewart, a Shakespearean actor who had never seen Star Trek before auditioning) Stewart takes the gravitas he learned on stage and brings it to the 24th century, setting the tone of the series to something a bit more thought-provoking and less fist-provoking (just one question: why is a French starship captain talking with a British accent?)

Picard’s First Officer is Commander William Riker, who tends to be more Kirk-like in his command style. He’s not the type to get into a brawl or anything, but he’s more the smooth-talking type who leads his team when danger presents itself. He tends to lead missions that are away from the ship, preferring the Captain stay within the relative safety of the Enterprise.

The Second Officer and Chief Navigator is Lt. Commander Data (played by Brent Spiner, who previously was known as recurring character Bob Wheeler on Night Court), an android created by Dr. Noonian Soong capable of independent initiative. Despite rumors to the contrary, Data earned the rank he holds. His journey of learning to be as human as possible often puts him at the center of humorous situations (like when he tried growing a beard) He (and it’s been confirmed that he is male, with all of the plumbing to match) is incapable of showing emotion or using contractions, and often gets so wrapped up in what he’s saying that he has to be cut off by whomever he’s talking to due to not knowing when to stop spouting facts.

Some time during the series (it’s never explained in or out of canon when or how), Data acquired a cat, which he named Spot (despite the fact that the cat had stripes) There were four different “Spots” throughout the series and NONE of them looked alike (plus Spot’s gender changed at least once) Spiner has gone on record saying he hated doing scenes that included Spot, as they always took three times as long to shoot due to the cat not cooperating.

The Ship’s Counselor and advisor to the Captain is Lt. Commander Counselor Deanna Troi (played by Marina Sirtis), a member of a telepathic race known as Betazoids (she mainly uses her abilities as an empath, preferring not to use telepathy) Troi is actually half-Betazoid. She previously had a relationship with Riker that ended amiably, which comes back into play every now and then.

Her mother Lwoxana (played by Majel Barrett) is infatuated with Picard, much to his chagrin.

The Chief Helmsman (and eventually Data’s best friend) is Lt. (later Lt. Commander) Geordi La Forge (played by Reading Rainbow host LaVar Burton) La Forge is blind (due to a blind girl wanting a role model on Star Trek and Gene Roddenberry having an ironic sense of humor by making the pilot blind) The object that looks like a banana clip (because that’s what it is!) is a VISOR (Visual Instrument and Sensory Organ Replacement), which is connected to implants on La Forge’s temples that feed his brain sensory data, including infrared and ultraviolet emissions. Starting in Season 2 (following Season 1’s “Chief Engineer of the Week”), La Forge is transferred to Engineering where he remained through the remainder of the series and beyond.

Lt. Worf (played by Michael Dorn) is the first and (thus far) only Klingon to serve on a Starfleet vessel. He was the last survivor when the Romulans attacked a Klingon outpost when he was a boy. A Starfleet crewman found him and raised him. He is still very much a Klingon warrior, though tempered by Federation ideals.

He serves on the Enterprise as…well, I’m not entirely certain what his duties are at the start of the series other than to be the Token Klingon.

[FUN FACT: The prosthetic Dorn wore in season 1 was stolen after the season ended, so a new one had to be crafted but wasn’t an exact replica, which is why he looks different from Season 2 onward]

The Chief Medical Officer is Commander Dr. Beverly Crusher (played by Gates McFadden) Unlike Dr. McCoy, she doesn’t have any memorable catchphrases. Her husband was killed under Picard’s command years prior. She and Picard have unresolved romantic tension throughout the series.

Since families are allowed on the Enterprise, Dr. Crusher is allowed to bring her son Wesley (played by Wil Wheaton, who was previously known for Stand by Me) aboard. Wesley is a child prodigy who…

Look, I’m just gonna say it. I never liked Wesley (though I’ve gotten a lot of respect for Wheaton since he left the series) because he was pretty much a Mary Sue. He knows more about every aspect of the Enterprise than officers who’ve spent years to earn their posts. Despite being a teenager, he refers to the crew as “grown ups” rather than “adults” and (at least in the early parts of the first season) threw tantrums when the people in authority wouldn’t let him get his way.

That being said, he managed to somehow gain the respect of the crew (especially Captain Picard)

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(Thanks again to April 5, 2063)

Last, but certainly not first, we have Head of Security and Tactical Officer Lt. Tasha Yar (played by Denise Crosby) Yar comes from a colony that had broken down, now ruled by the strongest. At times it seemed like there could be romantic leanings between Yar and Worf (and there WAS a sexual encounter with Data!) however, this never came to fruition as the season 1 finale will explain.

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(Thanks to Frustrated Idealist)

It turns out that Denise Crosby had the same issue that Nichelle Nichols had (her role was essentially window dressing), but unlike Nichols, Crosby didn’t have a famous comedian to urge her to stay so she left the series. With Yar’s death, Worf was moved to her position (which really should’ve been the case from the start, given he’s a Klingon)

In addition to Wesley’s field commission and the transfers of Worf and La Forge (oh, and Riker grew a beard), there were two casting changes for season 2.

Backstage tension between Gates McFadden and the show’s head writer (who had gotten more authority as Gene Roddenberry started stepping back) caused McFadden to be fired. In canon, Dr. Crusher was reassigned to Starfleet Medical (though Wesley stayed aboard for some reason)

Replacing Dr. Crusher is Lt. Commander Dr. Kate Pulaski (played by Diana Maldaur (who had appeared in an episode of the Original Series and was best known for falling down an elevator shaft on LA Law) Dr. Pulaski was far more gruff than Dr. Crusher (more similar to Dr. McCoy, but without the catchphrases), and proved to be unpopular. She was replaced when the writer left and Rick Berman asked McFadden to return for season 3.

Finally, we come to the other Nichelle Nichols story she enjoyed telling.

There was a young black girl who saw Uhura and was amazed there was a black woman on TV who wasn’t a maid (this was the 60s, so that kind of thing was almost unheard of) She would be inspired to become a stand-up comedian, and eventually a popular movie actress. When TNG started, she went to Roddenberry and told him she wanted a role on the show…ANY role!

That little girl’s name?

Whoopie Goldberg, who was given the role of Guinan, the bartender of the Enterprise’s Ten Forward lounge. Guinan is of a race with cosmic-ish abilities (when the Enterprise is involved in a temporal event that changed history, Guinan was the only one who knew something was amiss)

Also over the course of the series we got interactions with Original Series crew members...

Admiral McCoy (retired, now over 130 years old)

Captain Scott (retired, who was suspended in time for over 70 years)

...and Ambassador Spock (well, Vulcans do live over 200 years)

It’s the interactions between the cast members that sets the series apart from the Original Series, and it truly is an ensemble cast; every cast member is given their chance in the spotlight on a number of episodes (particularly Data (in his quest to try to be more human) and Worf (as he tries to find his place between two cultures))

With the Klingons more-or-less friends, Starfleet needed more recurring alien threats to deal with (the Romulans were still around, but were quiet during the early seasons)

The Ferengi are a race that personify the absolute worst a capitalist society can be, prioritizing profit above all else (they even codify it in their code of “ethics” known as the Rules of Acquisition) Unfortunately, rather than being the threat they were intended they turned out to be little more than comic relief.

The Cardassians are a militaristic race bent on conquest (there are certainly a lot of those hanging around in the galaxy, aren’t there?) They tend to be cruel to those they conquer. However, to prevent a war the Federation ceded a number of Federation colony worlds that once belonged to the Cardassians, leaving those who chose to stay to fend for themselves against their new rulers (this may be the first crack in the utopian facade the Federation shows) Many Federation citizens (including a number of Starfleet personnel) formed a resistance group known as the Maquis, who are dedicated to freeing the colonies left to the Cardassians. Both the Federation and the Cardassians treat the group as terrorists.

Q (a member of the Q Continuum, played by John deLancie) is an omnipotent entity who appears occasionally to attempt to teach the Enterprise (and more importantly Captain Picard) about the fallacies of humanity and the dangers of What Lies Beyond. Many times his antics are played for laughs, but unlike the Ferengi there is always a dangerous undercurrent to Q’s games. Unfortunately, his antics have gotten Q in trouble with his fellow Q, and at one point he had been stripped of his powers and made human for a brief period.

Q is directly responsible for introducing the Federation to the gravest threat to the galaxy…

The Borg.

The Borg are humanoid beings that have been enhanced with cybernetics and, due to their hive mind, are able to adapt quickly to dangers (a phaser will down a few Borg, but they will quickly adapt and be able to repel future blasts on that light frequency) Any time they encounter a new species, they assimilate the species and their technology into their Collective.

The series ran for 7 seasons, beginning and ending with Q putting the humanity on trial (with the crew of the Enterprise playing the role of defendant for the entire race) The series laid the groundwork for two spin-off series set in the same era (plus at least one that debuted after 2010, so I won��t be covering it), but those are tales for future reviews.

If you would like to watch the series it’s available on Paramount+, PlutoTV, or behind your favorite paywall. If you would like to see an episode reviewed, please let me know!

One quick note before I go: I would like to show the tale of the first Meeting of the Generations (which occurred during the filming of Star Trek V), as told by Wil Wheaton.

[DISCLAIMER: This is told entirely from Wheaton’s perspective, and I’m sure William Shatner has a different take on it, but given all the stories about Shatner over the years, I’m inclined to think this is closer to the truth]

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(Thanks to Eric Webb)

#star trek #the next generation #patrick stewart #jonathan frakes #brent spiner #michael dorn #marina sirtis #gates mcfadden #levar burton #wil wheaton #denise crosby #diana muldaur #whoopi goldberg #uss enterprise #fan colored glasses

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ryjkowiec · 2 months ago

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90% mojego dashu to sa teraz spojlery z yellowjackets i musze ci powiedziec ze to zajebista sprawa gdy probujesz ogarnac fabule jakiegos serialu ktorego nigdy nie ogladales na podstawie randomowych kadrow, cytatow i gadania fanow bez ladu i skladu. Wiem juz ze: 1. Shauna sie bila z jakas laska (chyba Melissa) ale zaczely sie lizac idk czemu 2. Jackie zdechla 3. Wilderness to jest nadnaturalna sila albo halucynacje i psychoza 4. Jest kanibalizm 5. Sa lesbijki 6. Byla jakas katastrofa lotnicza czy inny chuj 7. Bylo cos o pilce noznej idk 8. Misty jest rel postacią bo jej przyjaciele ja zle traktuja 9. Shauna miala jakies dziecko ale zdechlo 10. Mari jest zbyt seksowna na te line i na te jaskinie 11. Shauna jest freaky

I NEED TO TRANSLATE THIS BECAUSE THIS IS PURE GOLD, FUCKIN PURE GOLD.

"90% of my dash is spoilers of yellowjackets and I need to tell you its an amazing case when you try to figure out the plot of series you'd never watched based on random frames, quotes and takes from fans without rhyme or reason. I already know that:

1 Shauna fought with some girlie (I guess Melissa) but they started to make out, idk why

2. Jackie died

3. Wilderness is a supernatural power or hallucinations and psychosis

4. There's cannibalism

5. There are lesbians

6. There was some flight crash or whatever

7. Something about soccer idk

8. Misty is a rel character because her friends are treating her poorly

9. Shauna was having a baby but it died

10. Mari is too sexy for this rope and for this cage

11. Shauna is freaky"

TO BE HONEST IT SUMS UP THIS SERIES PRETTY WELL AND IM PROUD OF YOU THAT YOU CONNECTED EVERYTHING, WELCOME TO YELLOWJACKETS, ARE YOU GONNA WATCH ALREADY OR YOU NEED MORE TIME BOO?

#yellowjackets spoilers #yellowjackets #yellow jackets #yellowjackets fandom #yellowjackets season 3 #yellowjackets season three #yellowjacket memes

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phrynefishersfrocks · 2 years ago

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Phryne Fisher’s Fabulous Frocks Outfit Recap: Season 2, Episode 13 - “Murder Under the Mistletoe”

The thirteenth and final episode of season two of Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries is made up of a suitably festive palate to celebrate the Christmas Special. Featuring a fetching grey tweed coat and a Santa-like red and white coat to combat the cold, we also see a practical yet fashionable checkered ski suit, as well as two elegant indoor outfits - a bright green embroidered jacket and her antique burnished orange and gold short sleeved jacket - and ending with a shining metallic ornamental dress and capelet. Each look nods to the holiday and context in its own way, and is a suitable and colorful end to the second series.

Outfit #1 - Grey Tweed Coat, White Blouse and Pants, White Fur Hat

Outfit #2 - Green Embroidered Jacket, White Blouse and Pants

Outfit #3 - Antique Printed Jacket, Black Blouse and Pants

Outfit #4 - Red and White Ski Suit, Cream Pants

Outfit #5 - Red and White Coat, Cream Pants, White Fur Hat

Outfit #6 - Metallic Christmas Dress

Previous Recaps:

Season 2, Episode 12 Recap - "Unnatural Habits" (8 total)

Season 2, Episode 11 Recap - “Dead Air” (6 total)

Season 2, Episode 10 Recap - “Death on the Vine” (4 total)

Season 2, Episode 9 Recap - “Framed for Murder” (7 total)

Season 2, Episode 8 Recap - “The Blood of Juana the Mad” (8 total)

Season 2, Episode 7 Recap - “Blood at the Wheel” (9 total)

Season 2, Episode 6 Recap - “Marked for Murder (4 total)

Season 2, Episode 5 Recap - “Murder à la Mode” (11 total)

Season 2, Episode 4 Recap - “Deadweight” (7 total)

Season 2, Episode 3 Recap - “Dead Man’s Chest” (9 total)

Season 2, Episode 2 Recap - “Death Comes Knocking” (10 total)

Season 2, Episode 1 Recap - “Murder Most Scandalous” (12 total)

Season One Outfit Recaps

#phryne fisher #miss fisher's murder mysteries #mfmm #outfit recap #murder under the mistletoe #2x13 #s2e13 #christmas special #winter coats #gold dress #episode outfit list #season two outfit recap

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mrs-starkgaryen · 2 months ago

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Here we go again 🪅🎉🥂

Me reading between the lines in this chapter:

(Yes she's upgraded to gifs & pictures now- by the end of the series, I shall be reenacting each point 👀 jk)

1. “What happened to your foot?” Baela asks from the kitchen. She’s doing yoga poses in the middle of the floor. Jace is noisily pawing around in the refrigerator. His iPhone is on the counter, and from it emits a horrible throbbing Charli XCX song that sounds like something they would use to torture prisoners at Guantanamo Bay.

A) well nothing good Baela 🦶

B) bloody yoga 🧘‍♀️ I always see the 'rich' do it and encourage it

C) then there's my raccoon baby Jace scavenging (just like me)

D) huh... I don't think Maggie is a fan of Charli... don't know what made me think that

E) I'm gonna have to listen to that song now..

2. You are lying across the orange couch with your left ankle elevated on a stack of pillows and covered with an ice pack. You flip a page in one of those heavy coffee table books with lots of pictures from Barnes & Noble; Baela’s parents bought it when they were furnishing the apartment, and again you are reminded—the weight in your hands like solid gold—of how much they believe in her. The book is about the history of Los Angeles. “Becca pushed me.”-

A) orange couch makes me think of FRIENDS

B) again, those influencer's books on the table- I bet no one reads them- they're all for looks 🙄 just like HW

C) damn she's like a nepo baby

D) the history of LA eh? I wonder what she could read in there

E) she can be truthful with them but not aegon later on? I feel like this is not the best idea, maybe Jace spills that Becca pushed her to Aegon at the gala 🤔

3. Jace gasps and looks up from the refrigerator. “Why would Baela do that?!”

A) glad you're here babe...

B) he shouldn't be surprised- Baela would defo do that too

4. “Oh,” he says, and resumes rummaging around in the refrigerator until he finds a cannister of Pillsbury biscuits. He cracks it open and begins plopping pucks of dough on a baking sheet.

A) thanks for the input 👍

B) and he's gone again

C) wait biscuits? Do you mean like our scones? Either way I'm intrigued 🍪

5. You shrug, guilty, defeated. Your swollen ankle pulsates hotly. You are bone-tired and wholly uninspired, a foreign feeling that makes you wonder if the part of you you’ve always assumed was eternal could die after all. “I guess. I kind of tried to confess but she seemed to already have it figured out.”

A) Not her losing hope, her shine - I often feel like this, like will my optimism just fizzle out one day with all the hardships?

B) if she loses Aegon, I hope she always has the sunshine in her

C) "bone tired" eh?

6. “Well yeah, it was, but that doesn’t mean you tell his fiancée! You don’t know her! What if she’s crazy? What if she’s like that astronaut lady who put on a diaper so she could drive nine hundred miles to pepper spray her ex’s new girlfriend?!”

A) Baela, she doesn't seem to be the only crazy one here...

B) Becca is defo crazy but is that normally her or born from being in a cursed place like HW and being around 'cursed' beings like Aegon..?

7. Jace slides his baking sheet of Pillsbury biscuits into the oven. On the kitchen counter, your sunflowers are beginning to wilt and shrivel in their vase. You have fed them and meticulously trimmed their stems at an angle as Google recommended, but still, they cannot last forever. Perhaps you’ll dry them and they will endure perpetually in some other form, trapped in a pressed flower frame, arranged into a wreath.

A) he can't cook 😫

B) the sunflowers are shriveling and dying- much like Sunshines optimism

C) and her Relationship with Aegon

D) Or Aegons dying

E) perfect for the wreath 🫠

F) trapped in their prettiness, stuck in a form forever in a glass frame- much like HW. Maggie you're good

8. Now Baela is sympathetic. “Are you in a lot of pain? Your foot’s not broken or anything, right?”

A) hmm.. she's like a yo-yo with her affections

9. She points to the calendar. “You wrote it on there.” And sure enough, you did: red ink in a small black box labeled Friday, July 11th. That’s two days from now. Baela says to Jace: “Come on, we’re going to Rite Aid.”

A) is Sunshine forgetting too 🤐

B) she's so controlling

10. He is distraught. “But I have to watch my biscuits!”

A) Yeah his biscuits!

B) let him domesticate

11. “We’ll walk fast,” Baela says, and drags him out the door. Blessedly, Jace takes his iPhone and its disturbing Charli XCX music with him, now playing a song that sounds like television static.

A) nooo he didn't want to go..

B) I bet you were glad Charli didn't win album of the year then lmao

12. You grab your phone and open Instagram. You are startled to see Becca’s profile picture in the row of stories at the top of the screen. She must have accepted the follow request you sent her weeks ago.

A) I keep getting whiplash checking if i read Baela or Becca lmao

B) doesn't help they have similar vibes

C) Becca must be wanting to keep tabs to see what SS is watching of hers

13. Surely, there are no benign reasons. After a moment’s hesitation you can no longer resist and click on Becca’s story to view it. It’s a photo of her giving Aegon a kiss on the cheek; they’re both laughing, his nose is scrunched up, it’s honestly pretty adorable. You tap the X in the corner of the screen to escape the image as quickly as possible, and yet it remains: red neon glowing on the backs of your eyelids, flames of arson in your throat.

A) benign... interesting word choice

B) Becca showing off that Aegons is hers.. (for now). Just piss on him girl, it'll be easier

C) maybe he forgot who is kissing him. Maybe it's an old photo before he met SS, that's why he's happy

D) He's also an old actor so...

14. You go to Becca’s profile. A quick browse of her stories and posts reveals homemade baked goods, scenic outings in nature, faux-candid selfies, and lots of home decorating. She has a blog that is linked in her bio—rebeccawilsonwrites.wordpress.com—like she’s freaking Gwyneth Paltrow recommending jade yoni eggs on Goop. She also has three Pekingese dogs, woefully inbred wobbling wheezing creatures, and you are reminded of your mother’s colony of Akitas.

A) down the rabbit hole we go, we all do it

B) ugh she sounds fake too

C) Maggie is hating dogs this story lmao. No one can beat Sunfyre from NTTF.. I miss him

15. Becca’s most recent culinary masterpiece is apple cinnamon bread. The loaves look flawless, golden brown and scrupulously sliced. Her caption reads: Made with delicious Honeycrisp apples, picked fresh at a local orchard! @superstargaryen loved them! Then there is a series of emojis: apples, hearts, bread, more hearts.

A) ngl the bread sounds amazing, but I shall chew it as I scowl

B) damn.. no wonder Aegon likes it...

C) He has literally took her into his home with Becca, SS has now invaded their lives woo

D) overkill with the emojis.

16. You return to your main feed and scroll manically through the photos and video clips there, desperate for a distraction. You see a post featuring a quote from Robin Williams—I think the saddest people always try their hardest to make people happy—and a foggy memory is evoked like the rippling distortion of heat refraction rising up off a freeway.

A) I see that post of his quote all the time!

B) it makes me sad, it reminds me of Liam & Matthew Perry

C) interesting that you bring this up. Robin had depression too, and Matthew & Liam had addiction problems... could Aegon have both?

17. Her office is on the third floor. Early afternoon daylight floods in through the glass walls; there is a large tropical orange flower in one corner of the room, a specimen that could never survive here in the arid Southwest without shade from the sun and religious misting. Marion May Davis, Mari for short, is in her mid-fifties and has lines in her face and natural grey hair cut into a tidy Anna Wintour bob. She looks her age, and she looks real, two things you liked about her when you found her online. Mari is an agent. Maybe she’ll even be your agent soon.

A) glass walls, open to the public, no privacy like HW. You're on show

B) "never survive here"... poor SS, just like you and Aegon is your shade...but how long can he stand the overbearing heat?

C) looks can be deceiving girl

18. “Oh, I love Maroon 5,” she sighs romantically as she scrutinizes your resume.

A) ew, I bet she does 🙄

B) the older gen don't care about personalities of famous celebrities, tbf as long as they're attractive

19. You have hidden your ankle brace in your purse. You are wearing a simple sleeveless grey sheath dress that Baela saw at a Brooks Brothers and bought for you—It’s so classic! she had said—and matching cool-toned eyeshadow: sparkly lilac Betrayal by Urban Decay, silver Iced Out by Huda Beauty.

A) being dressed by Baela, nevermind how nice the gesture is, seems controlling

B) plus it's not something ss would wear, so it's like trying to change her like HW wants

C) As well as the make up, everything's cooler and not warm and shiny like SS normally wears- she's losing her colour

D) 'betrayal' how she feels with Aegon, 'Iced out' by everyone?

20. You are in Tarzana, and it is Thursday July 10th, and you have the sense that time is rapidly ticking down, not just to the end of the year when your parents will summon you back to Minnesota but to September when Aegon is getting married on Turks and Caicos. From outside you can hear cars and pedestrians on Ventura Boulevard, an east-west asphalt artery of shops, hotels, and offices in northwest Los Angeles, the site of a former ranch established in 1919 by Tarzan author Edgar Rice Burroughs.

A) time ticking down.. hmmm.. couldn't be aegons life expectancy...

B) reiterated by the use of 'artery'..

C) I thought Tarzana, how funny, like Tarzan then I googled Edgar and he's the writer of Tarzan lmao. Makes total sense

D) I googled to see if he died of anything that I could relate to this story- he died of a heart attack..

21. Mari puts your resume down on her transparent glass desk, naked except for a MacBook Pro. Frigid air pumps out through the vents on the ceiling. “Okay, I’ll take you.”

A) naked... on show like I said

B) macbook pro- (no offense to those who use it) but snobby? Seems like impersonal too (not the best vibe for a manager especially for ss)

C) frigid air, vents, very robotic and cold- not good

22. “Yeah, I like your energy. And your outfit is great, very European, very chic. The makeup, well…” Mari chuckles. “They’ll do that for you at shoots. But tone it down a bit more for auditions. They want to see you as a blank slate they can scribble all over.”

A) her energy is great- don't drain her of it

B) a blank slate 😭 just so HW can ruin her individualism with 'scribbles'

23. “Sure,” you agree instantly. “I’ll do anything you say. I’ll be your best client ever!” I won’t even hook up with you and thereby enrage your significant other!

A) she said that to Aegon 😫

B) She wants to achieve her dream so bad, I relate

C) wait, is Mari fit? 👀 we know age ain't a problem for SS

24. “The Flower District,” you say, thinking of the day you went there with Aegon and got ice cream afterwards, and he had remembered that you like vanilla.

A) she likes vanilla cuz she's so vanilla, I just want to protect her

B) he can remember some things 😭

25. “Delightful.” Mari is still typing. “I’m also going to email you the contact info for a friend of mine. He’s a plastic surgeon, he’s fantastic, I recommend him to all my clients. I’d like you to do a consult with him.”

A) I bet she really ain't listening

B) didn't even ask ss if she wants to

C) how bloody rude 😤 HW couldn't handle me and I it

26. “Not change, dear!” Mari says. “Just enhance. Just make little tweaks here and there. I think you could really benefit from a rhinoplasty, and maybe something around the brows too…a lift? John will know when he examines you. He’s a magician! Have you seen the before and after pictures of Blake Lively? Or Mindy Kaling, or Taylor Swift? You’ll still look like you. You’ll just be an even better version of you!”

A) just enhance 😒 makeup does that too.

B) lady just casually pointing out ss' 'flaws' like it's a shopping list.

C) magician- can he make your opinions disappear?

27. In this office, icy air blows down from the ceiling vent. You study Mari: undyed hair, no face or neck lift, probably not even Botox or Juvederm. “But you…you haven’t had any procedures done, have you?”

A) fake air in a fake place 😀

B) She needs a personality transplant

C) always the ones who haven't gone through something to give advice on that topic 😒

28. Then you grab your black Michael Kors purse—borrowed from Baela’s closet, at her suggestion—and stand up. Your wounded left ankle gives a shriek of protest. “Thank you for your time, but I don’t think this is a good fit. Have a great weekend!”

A) her suggestion or her demand lol

B) keep dropping brand names girl, I hope you're sponsored

C) not a good fit- the manager made her feel uncomfortable

D) plus the outfit isn't either- she needs colours again!

29. “Bye!” you call with a wave, and sprint to the elevator at the end of the hall. You hammer the circular button and run inside when the doors open. Once you are alone and descending, listening to an instrumental version of Despacito, you take your ankle brace out of Baela’s Michael Kors purse and put it on. Then the elevator doors open again, and you are in another cold sterile hallway, and you hurry through a glass revolving door and escape out onto Ventura Boulevard.

A) ss basically:

B) the urgency to get out sounds like a girl running in a horror- maybe she should have an audition for that?

C) once she's away from the prying eyes of fame, she becomes her truth self (she puts her brace on, she's comfortable)

30. The sun is blinding, the heat like an oven, your heart pounding heavily in your ribcage; your ankle throbs through the dose of Advil you took this morning. You stand on the sidewalk, jostled by women carrying shopping bags and men striding importantly by as they talk on their phones, and you try to remember which direction you came from.

A) an oven you say? Like bun in the oven? I mean what

B) ugh people, this is why I stay inside

C) oh goodness she's forgetting too

31. I don’t want another agent, you think dizzyingly, nauseatingly. I want Aegon. But he’s driving me insane, and he’s hurting me, and soon he’ll be gone.

A) nauseatingly? Must be a weird sickness...

B) damn doesn't that just sum up romance these days lmao 😭

32. “I’m okay,” you say, although you’re certainly not. The sun is beating down like you’re a lizard under a heat lamp. “I just had an interview with—”

A) like a spotlight and it will only get worse the more famous she gets

B) oop she was interrupted by her mother- same lmao

33. “Listen, we have to get you home for bridesmaid dress shopping,” Mom continues briskly. Ambiently, you can hear Clara chatting away about different fabrics, chiffon and tulle and satin and lace. “I’m looking at flights right now. How’s the first week in August?”

A) no you listen to me mother f*cker, gimme the phone ss

B) ss was still talking

C) don't ask her a question just to shut her down when she says she can't do it

34. “This is important,” Mom snaps. There is the click click click of her manicured fingernails against her laptop keyboard. “Your sister only gets married once.”

A) well so is your other daughter's dream and happiness but whatever

B) goodness everyone sounds fake in her life, no wonder she loves Aegon (he's her sunshine too)

C) It's okay, she will probably get married again, nasty ass -

35. Mom sighs impatiently. “No, we can’t do that! Honey, you know you have difficult proportions. We need to see the dress in person and order any alterations.”

A) that's it mum- no free mansion from ss when she gets her fame and money

B) wow is this my mum? Lmfao

C) no she has a difficult family

36. “Okay,” you concede, feeling woozy and leaning against a streetlight that burns your arm. “Fine. Yeah. The first week in August is great.”

A) oh girl stand up for yourself- I can't wait for when she does

B) woozy? Hmmm

37. “And it’s especially vital that you look your best because you’re going to be the maid of honor. Yay! Isn’t that exciting?!”

A) aha- no.

B) I can see this wedding upsetting ss

38. You touch your furrowed forehead; it’s slick with sweat. Your period started this morning, and that can’t be helping the situation. “Does Clara want me to be her maid of honor?”

A) period means nothing... we know you maggie

B) ss is like please say no 📞😬🤞

39. “…Is that a no? Because Kinsley can do it, I really don’t mind. If I land a role I’m not necessarily going to be able to fly back for planning and parties and stuff—”.

A) kinsley- sounds pretentious (no offense to Kinsleys)

B) and interrupted again

C) maybe she likes acting different lives to escape her one

40. “Thanks!” you manage weakly, then hang up and wobble on your sprained ankle in the direction of your Honda, eastward, away from the ocean, back towards the Midwest from which you once made your botched exodus.

A) insert slide away by miley Cyrus here- aegon goes back to the ocean, ss goes back to the city (lights)

B) away from freedom *I'm guessing lmao*

41. Suddenly you feel violently ill, and your vision begins to go dark, and you know you need to sit down before you pass out on the sidewalk and roast to death. You dart into the nearest building, a T.J. Maxx, and flee through throngs of shoppers to the furniture section. You collapse into a leopard-print armchair and sit there slumped and gasping, glistening with sweat, the room spinning around you. There is a fawn-colored shag rug on the floor that reminds you of one of Becca’s Pekingese dogs. You lean over and vomit the contents of your stomach onto it: a piece of toast with a teaspoon of peanut butter, a banana, some red grapes, a lot of Diet Coke.

A) suddenly violently ill?- pregnancy?

B) leapord print screams rich

C) hmm she had an alright breakfast imo so I wonder what's making her sick 👀 the Coke don't help i guess

42. You fumble your phone out of the Michael Kors purse and go to call Baela…then you remember she’s currently on a transcontinental flight to Paris to film Yorgos Lanthimos’s new movie. You call Jace three times, but he doesn’t pick up. Maybe he’s in class. Maybe he’s asleep.

A) oh no.. who else can she call?...

B) but I doubt baela or jace could help, can they even drive

43. This is sensible, and yet you moan helplessly in your armchair. A T.J. Maxx employee is sniffing around the dresser where you’ve stowed the soiled shag carpet, grimacing. “A ride all the way down to Harbor Gateway is going to cost over a hundred dollars. And my parents will see the charge on my card. And what if I pass out and the Uber guy robs me?”

A) if I smelt something weird at work, I would just keep moving- I don't get paid enough

B) oh she's so innocent

44. “Call your agent?” Mason suggests. “He probably won’t rob you.”

A) oh no. We have to call aegon? What a bummer

B) but he has and will rob her more than financially 💔

45. You blink dazedly at a rack of baby clothes, sailboats and elephants and ladybugs. “It’s complicated.”

A) What an interesting time to look at them when she's thinking of aegon

B) he said that to her when he was explaining his life with becca

C) and WHEN SHE WAS PREGNANT WITH HIS BABY! I've connected the dots

D) me and maggie:

A) Yeah... f*ck off

E) parallels (we hate to see em- jk)

F) I feel so clever but probably so incorrect

46. “Bye. Let me know next time you’re home for a visit!”

B) you don't even get a thank u kiss cuz you didn't help whatsoever

47. “Totally.” But you have no interest whatsoever; you can’t even envision kissing him. You are, to your misfortune, very much so a one-dude type of girl, as Aegon put it.

A) he icky

B) aegon is the man (well)

C) misfortune like the Chinese calendar, we like to see more parallels

48. He snorts a laugh. “You’re not dying. Where are you?”

A) He's like "dying? You ain't seen dying"

B) Cuz you know- vis died and now he is dying

C) but he careeessssssssssss *biting my fist*

49. “Yeah, you’re not used to temps like this, are you?” Aegon sounds kind, gentle, wise, and you hate how much you want to like him again, to be friends, to be more than that. “Well, you’re in luck, because I’m just finishing up a shoot in Studio City and I can probably be there in fifteen minutes.”

A) even he sounds a bit patronising

B) everyone underestimates her but you wait, all sunshine can eventually burn (as we see in this chapter)

50. “Okay. See you soon, I’ll let you know when I’m close.”

A) close? 👀

51. You drag yourself to the bathroom, splash cold water on your face, gulp some down to clean your mouth out and immediately throw it up into the sink. You hide in a stall and rest your head in your hands for a while—ankle throbbing, skull aching, cramps in your lower belly—and only leave when Aegon texts you that he’s two minutes away. As you stumble past the leopard-print armchair now damp with your sweat, you see an employee discovering the shag rug under the dresser and unrolling it. He recoils and shouts: “What the fuck is that?!”

A) she's throwing up a lot 👀🤰

B) she's having a crap day again- LA really is a curse so far

C) cramps in the lower belly?? Hmmmm

D) in all fairness, the employee did too much. Act your wage lmao

52. Just outside the T.J. Maxx, Aegon is double-parked and receiving jeers and honks from his fellow motorists. He ignores them. .

A) He's so reckless and doesn't care... I wonder why

B) except about ss

53. Aegon prods you with a large chilled bottle of blue Powerade he must have grabbed from a 7-Eleven or something.

A) I wished he prodded me with something

B) he brought her something or did he already have that? But surely not- it's cold

C) aegon u cutie

54. “Do you have, like, a sugar-free version or—?”

A) girl la is really eating u up ironically

B) only time she should be interrupted

55. “It’s the magnesium. It’s good for headaches. And the salt helps you rehydrate. What the hell are you doing all the way up here in Tarzana, anyway?”

A) he knows a lot about gatorade 👀

B) did he use it when he's recovering from drinking or drugs? Is that what's affecting him?

C) quick distraction so she doesn't ask. But I'm not ss, Aegon, I will catch u out

56. You drink your Powerade as you debate whether to tell him about Becca. You decide against it. “I tripped and fell because I’m an idiot.”

A) better than me, I would have ratted her out

B) you are an idiot but not a clumsy one

57. “Guess you’re stuck with me,” Aegon says, sounding a bit relieved.

A) yay!

B) he doesn't want her to leave

58. “I am.” And maybe you’re relived too. “For now.”

A) we are all relieved

B) until he dies or something

59. “You down to get lunch?” He smiles.

A) he loves taking care of her

B) take me out aegon

60. “I’ve seen worse things, I guarantee it.”

A) I f*cking bet

B) maybe your own vomit from being sick??

C) plus seeing things from fame industry must be shitty too

61. "You’re a genius. And I’ll pay you extra for the inconvenience. No, no, I insist. Talk to you later. Bye.”

A) He's so cute to Brandon

B) is he paying extra cuz he's dying like a will of sorts?

62. Then Aegon plugs his phone into the aux, and for some reason he puts on an Eminem playlist, and you doze against the cool clear window until you get to Chinatown.

A) Eminem again?

B) is this a clue?

C) does Aegon suffer or has suffered with drinking/ drugs and now has liver issues or something?

63. The waitress Lanying asks Aegon about his siblings—“How is Aemond? What about Helaena? Okay, and what about Daeron?”—and Aegon smiles and nods and patiently reiterates that they’re all fine. You are led to the usual spot by the fish tank, massive black-and-orange oscars floating behind the glass and glowering at you, their bulging eyes reddish and hostile. Soon the table is cluttered with a tea kettle and two cups, wonton soups, your moo goo gai pan, Aegon’s boneless spare ribs. You eat cautiously, each bite slow and groggy. A family seated nearby has a baby girl, and she giggles and smacks the table with her tiny chubby hands each time you wave at her. Aegon watches this, oddly wistful for someone who admittedly has never wanted children.

A) the waitress knows of the siblings or does she know them personally? Aegon seems to know the restaurant very well. Maybe the whole family came here sometimes?

B) he does want children, in some part of him but he's worried he'll fuck them up or pass on something?

C) SS might have changed his mind slightly? He knows the kids would be fine with a mother like her

64. “You look droopy. You need fat and sugar and deliciousness.”

A) thanks babe, bloody charmer

B) he wouldn't say that to me 😫

65. “You have to eat more,” Aegon says. “I think that was part of the problem today.”

A) she's eating for two after all 👀

B) yes.. PART of the problem

66. “Thank you for rescuing me. I’m pretty sure it was just the heat. And I was kind of upset about the appointment with the agent lady, and my mom called and stressed me out about Clara’s wedding. And oh, by the way, I got my period so no need to worry about that. Whoo hoo.”

A) yes just the heat...

B) damn her days are stressing me out

C) reiterating on the period... we'll see

67. “Oh yeah, definitely. I love kids. But I have like fifteen more years to reproduce, and if I want to be an actress I kind of have to do that first.”

A) hmmm... will she though?

B) good plan.... but I doubt it'll happen that way and then aegon will feel really bad for ruining her dreams but I dont think sunshine will mind, cuz aegon could leave all his money to her and the baby and she can live her life away from her family. Boom, solved the plot.

67. “Apple girl from Appletown,” Aegon says, skimming the zodiac calendar written in red ink, twelve animals and their descriptions, attributes, shortfalls, perfect mates. Then he taps it. “Which one are you?”

A) he remembers the apples 🍎

B) but not her animal :(

C) my poor baby

68. But Aegon is bewildered, like he’s not sure what he’s done wrong.

A) nothing baby, you're just a lil confused

B) I'll solve this mystery soon and we shall smack maggie for putting u through this

69. It’s Monday, July 14th, and you are ringing up a Gotta Have It-sized Cookie Doughn’t You Want Some for a Los Angeles Southwest College student when Aegon walks into Cold Stone Creamery, the string of metal bells jangling against the glass door. You go to meet him by the ice cream freezer, where Aegon scans the menu of Signature Creations. He is carrying a manila folder and wearing a yellow t-shirt with a tan jacket thrown over it, dark jeans, and white-and-gold Nike Killshots. He seems confused.

A) that's a mouthful, blimey

B) gotta love cookie dough

C) bells like angel bells 🔔

D) he sounds like he's dressed as an angel too with the colour scheme

E) He's confused again 😫

70. “Well, you didn’t get the Marvel job,” Aegon says.

A) I won't get to see SS in Avengers: Doomsday???

B) if she was a superhero, what would her powers be? (Don't say spreading happiness lmao)

71. “Indie, Sundance. Starring role. First billing. I got you an audition.”

A) did he forget her name or is the movie called Sundance?

B) if it is, it's perfect for her

C) is this her calling?

72. You snatch the balloon down just as it begins to float away. You’re trying to prepare yourself for disappointment. “They’re not going to like me.”

A) a hypothetical balloon?

B) girl keep shining, someone will love you eventually (other than aegon)

73. He smiles as he licks strawberry ice cream from his spoon. “Vampires.”

A) hint for the next series? Lmao

74. “Kind of horror. Kind of romance. I think it’s just right for you.”

A) just like the life she is living now then. Perfect

75. “Okay,” you say, savoring it, this liminal hope you can’t stop yourself from feeling. You’ve always been an optimist. Perhaps no number of curses can change that. “Okay. I’ll be ready, I promise.”

A) keep on hoping girl, that's how we get through

B) uh maybe a big curse could change it but I hope not, gives me hope to hope that she'll always keep on hoping. You get me lol

76. “Don’t forget about the charity gala,” Aegon reminds you. “It’s Saturday night, the same day. But there are like ten hours in between so it shouldn’t be a problem, even if the audition runs late.”

A) Ooh demanding i like it

B) baela okay, for once I will let u dress SS sexily (only if SSs okay with it and I bet she will want to make aegon jealous esp if she's taking Jace)

C) A lot can happen in 10 hours 😬

77. You peer through the window at pedestrians walking by outside. It’s twilight, and streetlights are turning on, and neon tubes glow with cold chemical fire. “I don’t think I want to go to that.”

A) the imagery and symbolism of fake temperature, compared to her naturally sunny disposition

B) oh you do! I'll go in your place

78. “You have to. It’s work. I can introduce you to industry people.”

A) work sure

B) you just want to see her in a dress 👗 (and maybe a lil industry work)

79. “Of course. But she won’t bother you.”

A) 😒 oh sweet delusional aegon

B) she defo will babe, keep her on a leash

80. Why does he cheat? you think forlornly, and then you remember something Aegon said the day you first met: Life is short. I try to keep it delicious. “I’ll go,” you agree under duress.

A) Cuz he's a hoe

B) He's got things to do before he goes

81. “You sure will,” Aegon says, and scrapes the last of the ice cream from his bowl and gives it to you, his plastic spoon heavy with melting pink magic.

A) hes so happy. So am i

B) Sex at the gala? More likely than you think

C) bitch I ain't cleaning your bowl up

82. When you return to your apartment well after 11 p.m., Jace is sprawled across the orange couch in his pajamas and watching Blade. He is noisily slurping Pad Thai from a takeout container. You kick off your work Sketchers and remove your ankle brace. It still twinges, but you’re healing.

A) people eating noisily

B) but he sounds like a vibe with his evening idea- I hope he doesn't fancy SS soon, and they can be besties!!

C) she's healing- just in time for pound town next chapter huzzah

83. Abruptly, you recall Aegon’s paranoia concerning Jace’s presence at your 4th of July festivities. “Hey, Jace?” you say, getting an idea.

A) oh that's it, make him jealous

84. You had imagined this might take some convincing, and yet Jace is immediately amenable and has only one question. “Will there be free food?”

A) jace is me and I am jace.

B) besties for life, I can see it. They both can bond over how they don't feel like they're going anywhere in life with their choice of career etc

C) please maggie

D) I can see it. Don't make them weird next chapter. Improve jace in his convo skills

85. “I’m in.” Then he winks and makes a joke. “It’s a date.”

A) uh oh- trouble starts soon. I reckon Jace will let slip that Becca pushed SS

B) I can't wait for the next chapter

C) will Baela mind or will she kick off?

D) will she say SS is trying it on with another woman's man??

Brilliant chapter as always and thank you for reading

A Curse [Chapter 6: Tarzana]

A/N: Where has the time gone??? We are officially halfway done with this series! Thank you so much for reading, besties. It has been an honor to curse you all 🥰🪄

Series summary: You are an aspiring actress. Aegon is a washed-up and disenchanted agent…at least until he sees something special in you. But within paradisical seaside Los Angeles you find terrible dangers and temptations, secrets and lies. Maybe Aegon’s right; maybe the City of Angels really is a curse.

Chapter warnings: Language, mentions of sexual content (18+ readers only), age-gap situationship, T.J. Maxx, Chinese food, a phone call from Minnesota, illness, entertainment industry misogyny, Jace is clueless, Becca bakes bread.

Word count: 5.8k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @lauraneedstochill @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @neithriddle @ecstaticactus, more in comments! 🥰

🏝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🏝️

“What happened to your foot?” Baela asks from the kitchen. She’s doing yoga poses in the middle of the floor. Jace is noisily pawing around in the refrigerator. His iPhone is on the counter, and from it emits a horrible throbbing Charli XCX song that sounds like something they would use to torture prisoners at Guantanamo Bay.

“Yeah, I wanna dance to me, me, me, me, me,

When I go to the club, club, club, club, club…”

You are lying across the orange couch with your left ankle elevated on a stack of pillows and covered with an ice pack. You flip a page in one of those heavy coffee table books with lots of pictures from Barnes & Noble; Baela’s parents bought it when they were furnishing the apartment, and again you are reminded—the weight in your hands like solid gold—of how much they believe in her. The book is about the history of Los Angeles. “Becca pushed me.”

Jace gasps and looks up from the refrigerator. “Why would Baela do that?!”

“No, Jace, Becca,” you say. “My agent’s fiancée Becca. That’s who pushed me.”

“Oh,” he says, and resumes rummaging around in the refrigerator until he finds a cannister of Pillsbury biscuits. He cracks it open and begins plopping pucks of dough on a baking sheet.

“Did Becca find out?” Baela asks you as she does the Reverse Warrior pose. “About the…you know…”

You shrug, guilty, defeated. Your swollen ankle pulsates hotly. You are bone-tired and wholly uninspired, a foreign feeling that makes you wonder if the part of you you’ve always assumed was eternal could die after all. “I guess. I kind of tried to confess but she seemed to already have it figured out.”

Baela snaps upright and gawks at you. “Why would you confess?!”

“I thought you said what I did was wrong.”

“Well yeah, it was, but that doesn’t mean you tell his fiancée! You don’t know her! What if she’s crazy? What if she’s like that astronaut lady who put on a diaper so she could drive nine hundred miles to pepper spray her ex’s new girlfriend?!”

You frown morosely down at the book. “You’re right. It was stupid. I just felt bad.”

Jace slides his baking sheet of Pillsbury biscuits into the oven. On the kitchen counter, your sunflowers are beginning to wilt and shrivel in their vase. You have fed them and meticulously trimmed their stems at an angle as Google recommended, but still, they cannot last forever. Perhaps you’ll dry them and they will endure perpetually in some other form, trapped in a pressed flower frame, arranged into a wreath.

Now Baela is sympathetic. “Are you in a lot of pain? Your foot’s not broken or anything, right?”

“It’s my ankle. And according to Google, it’s probably just sprained.”

“Do you want me to take you to an urgent care place for an x-ray? Or get you a brace from the Rite Aid down the street?”

“I really don’t think I need an x-ray…and if my parents see the health insurance got billed, they’re going to freak out and call me asking why I’m burning through even more of their money. But a brace sounds awesome!”

“Okay,” Baela says, and gives you an encouraging smile. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes. You’re going to slay the Marvel audition on Friday.”

“How’d you know about that?”

She points to the calendar. “You wrote it on there.” And sure enough, you did: red ink in a small black box labeled Friday, July 11th. That’s two days from now. Baela says to Jace: “Come on, we’re going to Rite Aid.”

He is distraught. “But I have to watch my biscuits!”

She groans. “How long do they need to bake?”

“Fifteen more minutes.”

“We’ll walk fast,” Baela says, and drags him out the door. Blessedly, Jace takes his iPhone and its disturbing Charli XCX music with him, now playing a song that sounds like television static.

As you lounge dispiritedly on the velvet orange couch, you return your attention to the book about the history of Los Angeles. A hundred years ago, Elysian Park was an oil field, lattice-like wooden rigs peppering the hills that now host Dodger Stadium, narrow sloping streets of working-class homes, Aegon’s unpretentious half-duplex, and you wish you weren’t thinking about him but regrettably you usually are these days.

You grab your phone and open Instagram. You are startled to see Becca’s profile picture in the row of stories at the top of the screen. She must have accepted the follow request you sent her weeks ago.

Why the hell would she do that now?

Surely, there are no benign reasons. After a moment’s hesitation you can no longer resist and click on Becca’s story to view it. It’s a photo of her giving Aegon a kiss on the cheek; they’re both laughing, his nose is scrunched up, it’s honestly pretty adorable. You tap the X in the corner of the screen to escape the image as quickly as possible, and yet it remains: red neon glowing on the backs of your eyelids, flames of arson in your throat.

You go to Becca’s profile. A quick browse of her stories and posts reveals homemade baked goods, scenic outings in nature, faux-candid selfies, and lots of home decorating. She has a blog that is linked in her bio—rebeccawilsonwrites.wordpress.com—like she’s freaking Gwyneth Paltrow recommending jade yoni eggs on Goop. She also has three Pekingese dogs, woefully inbred wobbling wheezing creatures, and you are reminded of your mother’s colony of Akitas.

Becca’s most recent culinary masterpiece is apple cinnamon bread. The loaves look flawless, golden brown and scrupulously sliced. Her caption reads: Made with delicious Honeycrisp apples, picked fresh at a local orchard! @superstargaryen loved them! Then there is a series of emojis: apples, hearts, bread, more hearts.

You return to your main feed and scroll manically through the photos and video clips there, desperate for a distraction. You see a post featuring a quote from Robin Williams—I think the saddest people always try their hardest to make people happy—and a foggy memory is evoked like the rippling distortion of heat refraction rising up off a freeway.

You think: Didn’t Robin Williams die by suicide because he had a terrible disease?

You go to Google, conduct some basic research, and confirm the details. Then you search: Viserys Targaryen Lewy body dementia. But you find no relevant results.

You open your email, and at last you have your distraction: a reply to a message you sent yesterday night, an invitation for an interview.

~~~~~~~~~~

Her office is on the third floor. Early afternoon daylight floods in through the glass walls; there is a large tropical orange flower in one corner of the room, a specimen that could never survive here in the arid Southwest without shade from the sun and religious misting. Marion May Davis, Mari for short, is in her mid-fifties and has lines in her face and natural grey hair cut into a tidy Anna Wintour bob. She looks her age, and she looks real, two things you liked about her when you found her online. Mari is an agent. Maybe she’ll even be your agent soon.

“Oh, I love Maroon 5,” she sighs romantically as she scrutinizes your resume.

“Me too!” you lie, smiling so forcefully your cheeks are beginning to ache. You don’t want to leave Aegon, but you have to. He’s torturing you, he’s killing you. The Marvel audition is tomorrow, and you cannot bring yourself to care about it. There is a pink neon sign on Mari’s office wall that reads in whimsical cursive: good vibes only. Not terribly original, but you appreciate the sentiment.

You tap your black ballet flats anxiously against the bamboo floor as you watch Mari contemplate your resume. You have hidden your ankle brace in your purse. You are wearing a simple sleeveless grey sheath dress that Baela saw at a Brooks Brothers and bought for you—It’s so classic! she had said—and matching cool-toned eyeshadow: sparkly lilac Betrayal by Urban Decay, silver Iced Out by Huda Beauty.

Mari asks: “Did you have any trouble finding the office?”

“No, not at all! But I did have to park super far away because I am awful at parallel parking, and somehow it feels even hotter than usual here.”

“Well, we’re so far inland.”

You are in Tarzana, and it is Thursday July 10th, and you have the sense that time is rapidly ticking down, not just to the end of the year when your parents will summon you back to Minnesota but to September when Aegon is getting married on Turks and Caicos. From outside you can hear cars and pedestrians on Ventura Boulevard, an east-west asphalt artery of shops, hotels, and offices in northwest Los Angeles, the site of a former ranch established in 1919 by Tarzan author Edgar Rice Burroughs.

Mari puts your resume down on her transparent glass desk, naked except for a MacBook Pro. Frigid air pumps out through the vents on the ceiling. “Okay, I’ll take you.”

“Really?!” you squeal; and yet you cannot ignore that this feels bittersweet. Aegon’s really getting married? I’m really leaving him? “Yay!”

“Yeah, I like your energy. And your outfit is great, very European, very chic. The makeup, well…” Mari chuckles. “They’ll do that for you at shoots. But tone it down a bit more for auditions. They want to see you as a blank slate they can scribble all over.”

“Sure,” you agree instantly. “I’ll do anything you say. I’ll be your best client ever!” I won’t even hook up with you and thereby enrage your significant other!

Mari is typing on her MacBook Pro. “Give me a few days to send your stuff out and see what I can find for you. I love that picture of you with the sunflower…where was it taken?”

“The Flower District,” you say, thinking of the day you went there with Aegon and got ice cream afterwards, and he had remembered that you like vanilla.

“Delightful.” Mari is still typing. “I’m also going to email you the contact info for a friend of mine. He’s a plastic surgeon, he’s fantastic, I recommend him to all my clients. I’d like you to do a consult with him.”

You are ripped out of your not-so-distant memories, your effortful enthusiasm, and you have to be intentional to not seem offended. “Thank you so much, I really appreciate that, but I’m not interested in breast augmentation.”

“Oh no, I was thinking of your face.”

You stare at her. Reflexively, you touch your fingertips to your cheek. “My face? You want me to change…my face…?”

“Not change, dear!” Mari says. “Just enhance. Just make little tweaks here and there. I think you could really benefit from a rhinoplasty, and maybe something around the brows too…a lift? John will know when he examines you. He’s a magician! Have you seen the before and after pictures of Blake Lively? Or Mindy Kaling, or Taylor Swift? You’ll still look like you. You’ll just be an even better version of you!”

Outside, some tiny dog is yapping from a stroller or a purse. In this office, icy air blows down from the ceiling vent. You study Mari: undyed hair, no face or neck lift, probably not even Botox or Juvederm. “But you…you haven’t had any procedures done, have you?”

Mari smiles patiently, like she’s trying to explain a hard truth to a child, the fact that parents don’t always stay together or that pets inevitably die. “I work behind the camera, dear. Not in front of it.” Then she resumes typing on her MacBook Pro.

You watch her for a few seconds, listening to cars whooshing by on Ventura Boulevard. Then you grab your black Michael Kors purse—borrowed from Baela’s closet, at her suggestion—and stand up. Your wounded left ankle gives a shriek of protest. “Thank you for your time, but I don’t think this is a good fit. Have a great weekend!”

“What?” Mari says, peering up incredulously at you from behind her laptop, like she’s not used to being the one who gets dumped. You are already at the doorway.

“Bye!” you call with a wave, and sprint to the elevator at the end of the hall. You hammer the circular button and run inside when the doors open. Once you are alone and descending, listening to an instrumental version of Despacito, you take your ankle brace out of Baela’s Michael Kors purse and put it on. Then the elevator doors open again, and you are in another cold sterile hallway, and you hurry through a glass revolving door and escape out onto Ventura Boulevard.

The sun is blinding, the heat like an oven, your heart pounding heavily in your ribcage; your ankle throbs through the dose of Advil you took this morning. You stand on the sidewalk, jostled by women carrying shopping bags and men striding importantly by as they talk on their phones, and you try to remember which direction you came from.

I don’t want another agent, you think dizzyingly, nauseatingly. I want Aegon. But he’s driving me insane, and he’s hurting me, and soon he’ll be gone.

You get your bearings and walk east. It must be a hundred degrees. The palm trees are sparse and very tall and cast almost no shade; sweat drips down your face, your underarms, the ridge of your spine. You can’t tell if you’re panting because of the heat or because you’re freaking out or both. It’s probably both.

Your phone is ringing. You yank it out of the Michael Kors purse and answer in a breathless huff. “Hello?”

“Hi, honey!” Mom chimes. “How are you?”

“I’m okay,” you say, although you’re certainly not. The sun is beating down like you’re a lizard under a heat lamp. “I just had an interview with—”

“Listen, we have to get you home for bridesmaid dress shopping,” Mom continues briskly. Ambiently, you can hear Clara chatting away about different fabrics, chiffon and tulle and satin and lace. “I’m looking at flights right now. How’s the first week in August?”

“Well, Mom, I’m really not sure because my schedule is changing all the time and I never know when I’m going to have an appointment or an audition and my manager Josh yells at me when I don’t put in enough hours at Cold Stone and—”

“This is important,” Mom snaps. There is the click click click of her manicured fingernails against her laptop keyboard. “Your sister only gets married once.”

“I know it’s important.” But what I’m trying to do out here is important too. “And I’m really happy for her and I’m thrilled about the wedding. I love weddings.”

“Then act like it.”

“I just honestly don’t have a regular schedule right now and missing a week can make a big difference. Do I have to be there in person for the dress thing? Can I just send you my measurements? You and Clara have a vision for this, so just pick whatever you want me to wear.”

Mom sighs impatiently. “No, we can’t do that! Honey, you know you have difficult proportions. We need to see the dress in person and order any alterations.”

“Okay,” you concede, feeling woozy and leaning against a streetlight that burns your arm. “Fine. Yeah. The first week in August is great.”

“And it’s especially vital that you look your best because you’re going to be the maid of honor. Yay! Isn’t that exciting?!”

You touch your furrowed forehead; it’s slick with sweat. Your period started this morning, and that can’t be helping the situation. “Does Clara want me to be her maid of honor?”

Faintly, you can hear Clara saying something about her best friend Kinsley, and your mother shushes her. “It should be her only sister,” Mom tells you.

“…Is that a no? Because Kinsley can do it, I really don’t mind. If I land a role I’m not necessarily going to be able to fly back for planning and parties and stuff—”

“You will be the maid of honor,” Mom insists. “Your father and I are paying for the wedding. We want you to be the maid of honor. Friends come and go, but family is forever. That’s the end of it.”

“Okay,” you say, and it comes out like a whimper; the heat is overwhelming. “Mom, I have to go, I have to try to find my car. I forget where I parked.”

“I’ll email you the tickets once I buy them.”

“Thanks!” you manage weakly, then hang up and wobble on your sprained ankle in the direction of your Honda, eastward, away from the ocean, back towards the Midwest from which you once made your botched exodus.

Suddenly you feel violently ill, and your vision begins to go dark, and you know you need to sit down before you pass out on the sidewalk and roast to death. You dart into the nearest building, a T.J. Maxx, and flee through throngs of shoppers to the furniture section. You collapse into a leopard-print armchair and sit there slumped and gasping, glistening with sweat, the room spinning around you. There is a fawn-colored shag rug on the floor that reminds you of one of Becca’s Pekingese dogs. You lean over and vomit the contents of your stomach onto it: a piece of toast with a teaspoon of peanut butter, a banana, some red grapes, a lot of Diet Coke.

Oh God. Oh no.

You look around to see if anyone has noticed yet; it doesn’t seem like it. Then you quickly roll up the shag rug and shove it under a dresser. You return to your leopard-print armchair and cover your flushed face with your trembling hands, your blood like boiling water beneath your skin.

Do I have to change my face to be an actress?

You shake your head, trying to expel this thought like seagulls from a picnic, sharp bold beaks pecking mercilessly for crumbs.

I have to get out of here. I have to get back to my car.

Your 2003 Honda Accord is parked no less than a ten-minute walk away. You wait a little while to give yourself time to cool down—a T.J. Maxx employee asks if you need assistance and you politely decline, then he frowns down at the floor as if he’s thinking: Isn’t there supposed to be a rug here?—and then you venture back out into the heat. Immediately upon leaving the shade and air conditioning of the T.J. Maxx, your nausea returns with a vengeance and you stumble as the sidewalk sways beneath your black ballet flats. People laugh at you like you’re drunk or high. You retreat back into the T.J. Maxx and seek refuge in the leopard-print armchair.

What am I going to do?

You fumble your phone out of the Michael Kors purse and go to call Baela…then you remember she’s currently on a transcontinental flight to Paris to film Yorgos Lanthimos’s new movie. You call Jace three times, but he doesn’t pick up. Maybe he’s in class. Maybe he’s asleep.

Aegon?

“No,” you mutter to yourself. “No way.” Out of ideas, and not able to think all that well anyway under the present circumstances, you call Mason. He picks up on the second ring.

“Hey!” he says excitedly. “You back in Minnesota?”

“No, sorry, I’m in L.A.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause. “How’s that going?”

“Actually, not that great at the moment.”

“Yeah, you sound weird.”

“I’m really sick. I think it’s the heat. I’m trapped in a T.J. Maxx and I can’t get to my car, and even if I could I’m worried I’d crash while driving home.”

“Damn, that sucks,” Mason says distractedly, and you can hear that he’s typing two thousand miles away in his Minneapolis office.

“What should I do?”

“Call an Uber?”

This is sensible, and yet you moan helplessly in your armchair. A T.J. Maxx employee is sniffing around the dresser where you’ve stowed the soiled shag carpet, grimacing. “A ride all the way down to Harbor Gateway is going to cost over a hundred dollars. And my parents will see the charge on my card. And what if I pass out and the Uber guy robs me?”

“Call your agent?” Mason suggests. “He probably won’t rob you.”

“I can’t call him.”

“Why not? Isn’t that his job, to take care of you?”

You blink dazedly at a rack of baby clothes, sailboats and elephants and ladybugs. “It’s complicated.”

“Well I can’t drive to L.A. to pick you up, so you gotta figure something else out.”

“Okay,” you surrender. “Thanks anyway. Bye.”

“Bye. Let me know next time you’re home for a visit!”

“Totally.” But you have no interest whatsoever; you can’t even envision kissing him. You are, to your misfortune, very much so a one-dude type of girl, as Aegon put it.

You stall for a moment, opening random apps on your phone, scrolling blindly through Instagram. Now you feel less sick and more exhausted, like you could fall asleep and never wake up, although you’re developing a powerful hammer-like thudding just above your left eye. Another T.J. Maxx employee asks if you need help finding something, and you pretend to be considering buying the leopard-print armchair. A manager is using her radio to ask if anybody knows where the shag rug went. Out of alternatives, you call Aegon.

“Hello?” he says when he picks up, like he’s surprised to see your name on his screen.

“Hi,” you reply miserably. “I’m dying.”

He snorts a laugh. “You’re not dying. Where are you?”

“I’m stranded at a T.J. Maxx in Tarzana. I think I have heat sickness or something. Every time I try to walk to my car I almost pass out.”

“Yeah, you’re not used to temps like this, are you?” Aegon sounds kind, gentle, wise, and you hate how much you want to like him again, to be friends, to be more than that. “Well, you’re in luck, because I’m just finishing up a shoot in Studio City and I can probably be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Cool!” you cheer feebly.

“A T.J. Maxx, right?”

“Yup. On Ventura Boulevard.”

“Okay. See you soon, I’ll let you know when I’m close.”

“Thanks,” you murmur drowsily.

“No problem,” Aegon says, and hangs up.

You drag yourself to the bathroom, splash cold water on your face, gulp some down to clean your mouth out and immediately throw it up into the sink. You hide in a stall and rest your head in your hands for a while—ankle throbbing, skull aching, cramps in your lower belly—and only leave when Aegon texts you that he’s two minutes away. As you stumble past the leopard-print armchair now damp with your sweat, you see an employee discovering the shag rug under the dresser and unrolling it. He recoils and shouts: “What the fuck is that?!”

Just outside the T.J. Maxx, Aegon is double-parked and receiving jeers and honks from his fellow motorists. He ignores them. Aegon has closed the top of his Chrysler Sebring convertible and inside the air conditioning is on full blast, an Arctic tundra, the ice cream freezer at Cold Stone Creamery. You throw yourself limply into the passenger’s seat and pull the door shut, which feels like it takes immense effort. Then Aegon surges into traffic and barrels down Ventura Boulevard. You rest your head against the car window and close your eyes.

Aegon prods you with a large chilled bottle of blue Powerade he must have grabbed from a 7-Eleven or something.

“I can’t drink that,” you say dimly.

“Yes you can.”

“Do you have, like, a sugar-free version or—?”

“Shut up. Drink the Powerade.”

You take the bottle, twist off the top—again, this seems to take far more strength than it should—and swallow several gulps, hoping they’ll stay down. Almost immediately, the hammer strikes just above your orbital socket begin to dissolve away, and you feel a little more alert, and your nausea does not make another appearance.

“Better, right?” Aegon asks.

“Yeah,” you admit, touching your skull in dull amazement.

“It’s the magnesium. It’s good for headaches. And the salt helps you rehydrate. What the hell are you doing all the way up here in Tarzana, anyway?”

You sip your Powerade as you stare out the window, watching buildings and palm trees soar anonymously by. Aegon gets on the 101 heading east towards Elysian Park. You know that’s where he’s taking you without needing to ask. “Do you think there’s something wrong with my face?”

“What?”

“My face. Like my nose and my eyebrows. Do I have weird eyebrows? Is that why no one thinks I can be an actress?”

“Your eyebrows are fine,” Aegon says, glancing over at you, confused. He’s wearing the black suit that he dons for film sets, a skinny tie, a half-untucked white shirt. He notices the brace on your left ankle. “Damn, Sunshine, you’re a mess today. What happened there?”

You drink your Powerade as you debate whether to tell him about Becca. You decide against it. “I tripped and fell because I’m an idiot.”

“Why are you dressed like that?”

“So my new agent will take me seriously.”

Aegon must be startled—he turns to look at you, then back to the rushing five eastbound lanes of the freeway—but he stays calm, dispassionate, like he’s trying not to scare you away. “Is that who told you to cut up your face?”

“Turns out I don’t like her, so. Never mind.”

“Guess you’re stuck with me,” Aegon says, sounding a bit relieved.

“I am.” And maybe you’re relived too. “For now.”

“You down to get lunch?”

“I don’t want to vomit in front of you.”

He smiles. “I’ve seen worse things, I guarantee it.”

“What about my car?”

“Where exactly did you leave it?”

You have to think for a while, finishing the Powerade and letting your mind become useful again, and then you recall that you parked on a side street by a dog daycare, Dog-E-Dayz or Dog-E-Den or something like that.

Aegon picks up his phone and calls his receptionist Brandon. “Hey, Brando! Listen, your favorite client left her car in Tarzana. Yeah, I know. Way out there. So it’s parked near a dog daycare about a half-mile from the T.J. Maxx. Can you look up the address and get a tow guy to pick it up and take it down to the garage at her apartment building? Great. You have the model and plate number and everything? You’re a genius. And I’ll pay you extra for the inconvenience. No, no, I insist. Talk to you later. Bye.”

Then Aegon plugs his phone into the aux, and for some reason he puts on an Eminem playlist, and you doze against the cool clear window until you get to Chinatown.

The waitress Lanying asks Aegon about his siblings—“How is Aemond? What about Helaena? Okay, and what about Daeron?”—and Aegon smiles and nods and patiently reiterates that they’re all fine. You are led to the usual spot by the fish tank, massive black-and-orange oscars floating behind the glass and glowering at you, their bulging eyes reddish and hostile. Soon the table is cluttered with a tea kettle and two cups, wonton soups, your moo goo gai pan, Aegon’s boneless spare ribs. You eat cautiously, each bite slow and groggy. A family seated nearby has a baby girl, and she giggles and smacks the table with her tiny chubby hands each time you wave at her. Aegon watches this, oddly wistful for someone who admittedly has never wanted children.

“Here,” Aegon says, offering you a forkful of his boneless spare ribs. “Eat.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“You look droopy. You need fat and sugar and deliciousness.”

You acquiesce and let him feed you the morsel of pork, sweet and fatty and rich and sublime. You chew very slowly, and still it’s gone too soon.

“You have to eat more,” Aegon says. “I think that was part of the problem today.”

“Thank you for rescuing me. I’m pretty sure it was just the heat. And I was kind of upset about the appointment with the agent lady, and my mom called and stressed me out about Clara’s wedding. And oh, by the way, I got my period so no need to worry about that. Whoo hoo.”

Aegon doesn’t seem to appreciate the joke. He gazes at you thoughtfully, then uses his fork to point at the baby girl at the next table. “Do you want kids?”

“Oh yeah, definitely. I love kids. But I have like fifteen more years to reproduce, and if I want to be an actress I kind of have to do that first.”

“I figured. You worked at summer camps in Watts, right?”

“After-school programs. All the other employees hated me, I never wanted to yell at the kids or tell them what to do, I’d just get down on the ground and play with them. I’m so great at Uno.”

Aegon smiles. “Yeah?”

“And Sushi Go, and Scrabble, and Apples to Apples.”

“Apple girl from Appletown,” Aegon says, skimming the zodiac calendar written in red ink, twelve animals and their descriptions, attributes, shortfalls, perfect mates. Then he taps it. “Which one are you?”

You flinch, cave in, feel tremendously low. He really doesn’t remember. It didn’t matter to him, I didn’t matter to him. You stab at your moo goo gai pan with your fork, looking down so he won’t see how upset you are. “You are so fucking mean.”

But Aegon is bewildered, like he’s not sure what he’s done wrong.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Monday, July 14th, and you are ringing up a Gotta Have It-sized Cookie Doughn’t You Want Some for a Los Angeles Southwest College student when Aegon walks into Cold Stone Creamery, the string of metal bells jangling against the glass door. You go to meet him by the ice cream freezer, where Aegon scans the menu of Signature Creations. He is carrying a manila folder and wearing a yellow t-shirt with a tan jacket thrown over it, dark jeans, and white-and-gold Nike Killshots. He seems confused.

“You don’t want an Our Strawberry Blonde like last time?” you say. You haven’t seen or heard from him since your Marvel audition, which was pretty dismal. Aegon stood in the corner with his arms crossed over his chest, and even though he put on his black sunglasses and grinned at you when it was over, you could tell he didn’t mean it.

“Oh yeah,” Aegon says. “Yeah, I do, thanks. That’d be perfect.”

You make his ice cream, Aegon pays in cash, and then you ask Josh if you can take your fifteen-minute break now. Aegon evidently wants to talk to you; he sits at the table by the window and watches you expectantly. Josh reluctantly agrees and you take a seat across from Aegon. He holds out his spoon and won’t speak to you until you take a bite. Eventually, you do: chunks of fresh strawberries, sticky caramel, rich fluffy whipped topping, jarringly sweet and cold and perfect, even if it’s not what you’d usually order.

“Well, you didn’t get the Marvel job,” Aegon says.

“I’m not shocked. They barely looked at me.”

“But I might have found you something else.”

“A dog food commercial? A brief and soulless flashback of somebody’s dead wife?”

“A feature film,” Aegon says, and you stare numbly at him.

“What?”

“Indie, Sundance. Starring role. First billing. I got you an audition.”

You snatch the balloon down just as it begins to float away. You’re trying to prepare yourself for disappointment. “They’re not going to like me.”

“They might,” Aegon says. He lays the manila folder on the table and slides it over to you. “I’m not supposed to let this out of my office, so don’t lose it.”

“It’s the script for the audition?”

“It sure is.”

This can’t be happening. “How did you get them to agree to put me on the list?”

Aegon shrugs. “I didn’t do anything. They reached out to me.”

You place your palm on the folder to make sure it’s real. “What’s the movie about?”

He smiles as he licks strawberry ice cream from his spoon. “Vampires.”

“It’s horror?”

“Kind of horror. Kind of romance. I think it’s just right for you.”

“When’s the audition?”

“This Saturday.”

“Okay,” you say, savoring it, this liminal hope you can’t stop yourself from feeling. You’ve always been an optimist. Perhaps no number of curses can change that. “Okay. I’ll be ready, I promise.”

“Don’t forget about the charity gala,” Aegon reminds you. “It’s Saturday night, the same day. But there are like ten hours in between so it shouldn’t be a problem, even if the audition runs late.”

You peer through the window at pedestrians walking by outside. It’s twilight, and streetlights are turning on, and neon tubes glow with cold chemical fire. “I don’t think I want to go to that.”

“You have to. It’s work. I can introduce you to industry people.”

“Is Becca going to be there?”

“Of course. But she won’t bother you.”

Why does he cheat? you think forlornly, and then you remember something Aegon said the day you first met: Life is short. I try to keep it delicious. “I’ll go,” you agree under duress.

“You sure will,” Aegon says, and scrapes the last of the ice cream from his bowl and gives it to you, his plastic spoon heavy with melting pink magic.

When you return to your apartment well after 11 p.m., Jace is sprawled across the orange couch in his pajamas and watching Blade. He is noisily slurping Pad Thai from a takeout container. You kick off your work Sketchers and remove your ankle brace. It still twinges, but you’re healing.

Abruptly, you recall Aegon’s paranoia concerning Jace’s presence at your 4th of July festivities. “Hey, Jace?” you say, getting an idea.

He glances lazily over at you. His dark hair falls in chaotic curls around his face. “Yeah?”

“I have to go to a charity gala on the 19th. That’s this Saturday. It’s very fancy and very formal, and I don’t really want to go alone and have no one to talk to. Do you want to go with me?”

You had imagined this might take some convincing, and yet Jace is immediately amenable and has only one question. “Will there be free food?”

“Yeah, I assume so. Probably an open bar too.”

“I’m in.” Then he winks and makes a joke. “It’s a date.”

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adrianharley · 2 years ago

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My Top 10 Reads of (the first half of) 2023

I have lucked out in reading so far this year, so it is now my duty, nay, my privilege, to insist that everyone else read these books as soon as humanly possible. These are all books I read from January through June--I haven't read a single thing in July yet.

10. The World We Make, by N. K. Jemisin. Everything Jemisin writes is gold, and even though this one didn't quite hit the highs of the first, it was a solid conclusion to the duology.

9. Siren Queen, by Nghi Vo. Early Hollywood, but make it magic--fae magic, where stars become literal stars and a Wild Hunt happens behind the scenes.

8 You Made a Fool of Death with Your Beauty, by Akwaeke Emezi. I will read anything Emezi writes. I would have trusted very few authors with this premise: an artist grieving the loss of her husband starts seeing other men again, but then starts falling for the father of the man she is seeing. The lavishness of the descriptions, my goodness. The book comes alive.

7. Witch Hat Atelier (volumes 1 through 5), by Kamome Shirahama. It's a testament to the strength of the books I read this year that the series with baby penguin-gryphons is this far away from #1. I cannot emphasize enough how cute they are--and in case you care about something other than baby penguin-gryphons, I cannot explain in words how incredible this world is. Just look. You'll see.

6. An Immense World, by Ed Yong. I am an animal nerd. I love sinking into a good nonfiction animal book, and this one is miles above most. I was blown away and humbled by how little I know about animal senses, and I thought I knew a lot. The writing is engaging and charming, too.

5. The Spear Cuts Through Water, by Simon Jiminez. I have never read a book like this before, and that's saying something. The frame structure of the dream theater, the way the narrative points of view flow back and forth, the dips into everyone's (EVERYONE'S) thoughts... this is one of those books that shows how arbitrary some of the fundamental "rules" of writing are, and how vivid a story can be without them.

4. Little Thieves, by Margaret Owen. A good first-person narrator is worth their weight in gold. This was a delightful romp with a selfish protagonist. She's robbing the rich and trying to outwit the fantasy law enforcement! She might have to Learn About Friendship! She's slowly turning into gems! I loved her and all the supporting cast.

3. The Monsters We Defy, by Leslye Penelope. I hope historical fantasy heists keep on coming, but they'll have a hard time surpassing this one. Features a prickly protagonist who slowly learns to trust and folktale-esque spirit magic, with spirits that can't be trusted and bestow a gift alongside a "trick." The pairing of "You will be a flawless actor who can take any role, but nobody will remember your true self" is one that's going to haunt me for a while.

2. The Adventures of Amina al-Sirafi, by Shannon Chakraborty. An absolutely flawless piratical adventure. A retired pirate captain gets called away from her peaceful life and motherhood for One Last Job. This has everything you could want in a pirate adventure--a crew of lovable characters, a sinister job that's more than it seems, sea creatures, and a rich and teeming world (the better to be looted). In any other year--half-year--this might have been my very favorite...

1. Shubeik Lubeik, by Deena Mohamed. ... but Shubeik Lubeik won my heart and hasn't let it go. You know when you finish a book and want to shove it in everyone's hands immediately? This is that book, and all the more so because I had never heard of it before picking it up in the library and devouring it in one glorious evening. This graphic novel is about a world like ours, but where wishes are real. Three interconnected tales in Cairo follow three people who end up with a first-class wish. If you like graph-based humor about mental illness, gorgeous art, well-thought-through alternate worlds, and getting emotionally torn apart and put back together again, read this.

#book reviews #booklr #bookblr #still don't know why there are two book tags #but just rolling with it

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 2 years ago

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gevivys (beauty) │ Chapter 3: Delight

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Daemon returns to King's Landing after ten years in exile, intent on rekindling his affair with Rhaenyra. He wasn't expecting you - the revelation changes everything.

Welcome to the third chapter of my rework - this one is completely new! Never-seen-before content! Smut galore! YAYYYYY! I do hope you’ll enjoy. Daemon-centric thought POVs are always fun as hell to write, and it’s super interesting going back to this stage of the story. Thank you to @ewanmitchellcrumbs, my slap daddy Ange, for reading through this chapter for me and making sure I’m not uploading total shite!

TRIGGERS: objectification of women, derogatory discussion of poverty, derogatory views of sex work. (Daemon is a yuck man!)

“Three cheers for the Prince!”

“Hear, hear!”

“Cheers!”

“And let his return bring coppers and silvers aplenty to the streets of Flea Bottom!”

“Aye!”

Daemon smirks obligingly at the congregated carousers as they lift their tankards in honour of him, ale-soused faces grinning haplessly throughout the dilapidated tavern. The Maiden’s Teats had once been a favourite of his in his youth, ramshackle and poorly lit and smelling always of piss as it did. And still does, he thinks distastefully. Looking around, he finds it peculiar that he’d had such an affinity for the place. There’s no accounting for the tastes of a young man. But no longer could he abide remaining in such close quarters with the source of his turmoil. What—or who—that is, he cannot say.

“Let us begin right now!” he yells over the din, standing on the wooden frame affixing the stool’s legs together. It bows ominously under his weight, but he supposes the fall would be a trifling matter if it should break. “Ale for every man here! A gift from your prince to mark the occasion.”

Loud shouts and praises ring through the space as he passes a pouch of coin across to the alewife. He notes from the corner of his eye that she tugs her tunic down to expose her tits just a little more—any further and they’ll pop free of the neckline entirely—though he has no interest in fucking the innkeeper’s wife. Too much trouble.

A hand claps against his back, jolting him into the present. “My prince! Welcome back!”

Daemon laughs. “Arric Dargood! Still infesting this city with your filth, are you?”

“You know me!” Dargood says, dragging him to a quieter corner as he speaks. “When there’s cheap ale and cheaper whores, you can’t get rid of me!”

Ah, good old Dargood. The third son of an already insignificant house, the man hadn’t much by way of prospects. In some ways, Daemon could commiserate: they had both turned to the sword to distinguish themselves from the rabble, becoming formidable in combat irrespective of their noble names. What luck it was to have been appointed to the City Watch at the same time! As one of the captains under his control, Dargood had rather quickly become one of his most esteemed companions. A rare sight it was to see Daemon Targaryen roaming the slums of King’s Landing without Dargood in his circle of cronies. And yet, while he might profess himself to have matured somewhat over the years, it seems the same cannot be said of Dargood.

Settling down upon the seat to which he is ushered, he partakes in the gaiety of his fellow libertines, an assemblage of persons known and unknown. Some faces are familiar, like the gold cloaks still in uniform that he recalls from his own days as their commander, and some are fresh, from youths newly raised to notoriety to older men with a certain savagery to their disposition no doubt its own invitation to the table. Conversation flows as easily as the drink does, the men gathered sharing tales of just how little has changed in his absence.

“We even use the same route on patrols!” Steffon Hollard giggles madly. It is clear the ale has overtaken his faculties more than most present. “Ten bloody years, an’ nuffin’s changed thereabouts!”

“Why tamper with excellence?” Daemon smiles smugly as the words set off a new round of boisterous approval.

In truth, he is disheartened. For so little to be different, he’d expect to feel as though he’d never left. And yet, nothing is the same. How can that be? he wonders. He thinks of you. You least of all have remained untampered by time—he’d be hard-pressed to connect his recollections of his tiny little doll-girl with the temptress you’ve become.

“Uncle Daemon,” you say, hands twisting and eyes welling as you realise what he’s doing, that he’s about to leave—

“Uncle Daemon?” you ask, lips parted and just begging to be pried further apart by a thumb or something more, something larger—

He swallows, the motion almost painful. When he tries to focus back on the discussion at hand, he finds that talk has turned to his exploits across the Narrow Sea.

“I heard he flew to the ruins of Old Valyria!” one insists.

“Don’t be stupid!” another derides. “I heard he fucked the Prince of Pentos’s daughter!”

Lessella is a fucking shrew of a woman, Daemon thinks to himself drolly. Gods save the man she takes to her bed. He does not voice this, though—instead, he merely smiles enigmatically, allowing all to make their own assumptions.

“Either way,” Dargood says with a leer, “our prince was surely knee-deep in eastern cunt. Oh, what a fortune! Tell me”—at this, he turns to Daemon—“why the fuck would you come back to this shithole if you had all that at your disposal?”

Daemon grunts. “Perhaps I missed the comforts of home.” He takes a healthy swig of his ale. He grimaces. He’d forgotten how disgusting it was.

Hollard sniggers. “It’s obvious, innit? ’E’s hopin’ for another run at the Realm’s Delight!”

He tries to hide his scowl as his company share sly looks, sniggering amongst themselves at the mention of his woeful attempt to swipe Rhaenyra from his brother’s hands. Fucking idiot, he rails at himself, for not bothering to craft a version of events that would make me seem less pitiful. The gossipmongers must have had their choice in tall tales to tell of that evening, never mind the scope ten summers might bring them.

“Cheers”—Oswald Kettleblack, another lowly son from a lowly house, raises his tankard—“to the Realm’s Delight!”

The men thump the table, hooting and cackling.

“Cheers!”

“Aye, cheers!”

Dargood guffaws. “And what a delight she is,” he says, once again slapping Daemon between the shoulder blades, “to just about every man with a highborn cock. Ol’ Rodrik here says she even let him have a go!”

The man to whom his long-time ally gestures to waggles his brows with lecherous intent. It triggers a fresh wave of mocking hilarity around the group, the sound unpleasant in the ear.

“Careful now.” Daemon’s teeth show in a grin that is far less friendly than it is threatening. “That is my niece and your future queen you’re slandering. I’m duty-bound to defend her honour, even from you lot.”

This sobers the congregation. The mirth dies down to an awkward chuckle, each of them shifting uncomfortably at the censure. Fucking children, all of them.

He may have had his fair share of paroxysms over his brother’s decision to name Rhaenyra as heir over him, but it was never lack of love that drove such a response. To hear this small collection of folk disparage his niece so casually is unsettling; nay, insulting. If such a crowd is arrogant enough to voice these slurs in front of him—the woman’s own uncle—what the fuck might they be saying about her behind closed doors? It is concerning, and for more reasons than mere personal distaste.

“Is that your plan, then?” Dargood asks, curiosity plain to see in his countenance. “To ‘defend her honour’?”

The end of the query is spoken suggestively, leaving no confusion as to the intent behind it.

Needs must.

“Ah, lads,” Daemon says, “not at all. How to put it? That ship has… sailed, if you will. It’s as you said. It seems she’s been a delight to many in my absence.”

It is a thoroughly tasteless remark to make, and one that leaves bitterness flooding over his tongue. Truthfully, even when he’d still thought there was a chance of reclaiming Rhaenyra, he’d not cared overmuch for the hearsay that had filtered across the sea—he’d fucked who he liked as a lad, and as far as he was concerned, she was free to do the same. All that had mattered was that, in the end, she remembered she belonged to him. Now, there is nothing tying him to the matter at all beyond the faint pangs of resentment and an indifferent sort of intrigue as to whether or not he might have a second (third) opportunity to bed her.

But still—better to conform than oppose when in amongst the scum of the city.

Hollard frowns. “Then why? Why come back at all?”

He shrugs noncommittally. “Viserys got bored without me, I suppose. And I got bored of seeding all those foreign cunts. Such a shame for it to go to waste.”

He doesn’t quite realise the significance of his remark until he hears the response.

Dargood raises a sceptical brow. “A wife, then? Why not just take your pick over east?”

Fuck. But also—‘tis true. He’d had the option. Viserys would enquire as to his efforts in securing a new bride every few moons, each raven bringing with it the same indelicate attempt at subtlety. His reply would be the same: “No, brother. I’ve not found anyone sufficient to breed more Targaryens into.”

What is the point in asking over and over again? he’d wonder. There’s little to be found in Essos beyond the lineage of slaves or savages.

“And sully my line with spicemonger’s ilk? Hardly,” Daemon rebuffs with a derisive snort. “No—I’ll be wanting someone worthy of my name.”

“Sounds like you’ve already an idea of whom.” It is an invitation to continue, and an obvious one at that. Still, Daemon indulges Kettleblack’s provocation.

“Perhaps,” he says, punctuating the declaration with a long draught of ale. “I’m waiting to see if it’s worth pursuing.”

He is not being serious, but they don’t need to know that. After all, who is the Rogue Prince if a scheme’s not afoot? A delinquent to hunt down, a highborn lady to seduce, a whore (or several) to fuck… His pleasures are simple—predictable, even. Time has not changed him so greatly that his old pastimes lack a charm of their own.

“Well?” Dargood motions impatiently, nostrils flaring with lascivious glee. He always did enjoy the more lurid of Daemon’s many exploits. “Don’t leave it at that! Go on!”

Daemon shrugs evasively. “What can I say? Good breeding, well-mannered… a pretty thing, too. Excellent assets. Certainly wouldn’t be any trouble to bed her.”

As the men surrounding him crow and jeer, awash with lusty praise for their prince’s conquest-to-be, Daemon cannot help but be reminded of you. At some point during his oration, the words had ceased being a collection of personal partialities and instead become an inventory of your own characteristics—polite in the innocent, trusting way a maiden is like to view him, a delicate beauty reminiscent of the finest illustrated manuscripts, an impeccable figure below all that ridiculous finery. The Targaryen name, too. The fact that you are his little niece might just be a credit to your appeal rather than a hindrance.

Pure Valyrian ancestry, of marriageable age, likely fertile and able to give me robust sons and daughters… And her memories of her Uncle Daemon, her kepa, would have her bending quite easily to my will.

“Well, what’s stopping you?” Dargood asks. “You’re a fucking prince! No one’s saying ‘no’ to you!”

Except his conscience, perhaps. He still has one. True, there are lords even older than he is marrying noblewomen (girls, really) your age—but eighteen summers is indeed a great disparity. When you are his age, he’d be in his dotage, surely! It would be a hard fate to subject you to, never mind the battle he’d face at Viserys’s hands. His prospects had been rather spoiled by his decision to take Rhaenyra to a fucking brothel. Idiot. He should have known the threat of her ruination would incite the man to find her a husband that was not him. Never would the king have given him the satisfaction of winning.

Daemon puts these musings aside. Better to heed my instincts. No good can come of stirring Viserys’s wrath a second (third? fourth? thousandth?) time. Besides, it is no more than titillation. He doesn’t truly wish to take you, let alone make you his wife.

“I don’t answer to you, Dargood.” Slapping the table, Daemon rises, suddenly restless. “I’ve had enough of tedious conversation. You heard me! I’ve spent too long in distant shores—”

More hooting. “Bet they were wet, eh!”

“—and what better way relearn Westerosi customs than to fuck some Westerosi cunt? I’ll need the practice if I’m to have myself a bride from these parts!”

It is between rowdy titters from his companions that Daemon departs the tavern, spilling out through the open doors and into the muck of Pisswater Bend, an aptly named street in among the foulest locales in King’s Landing. Staggering under the weight of Hollard—a pathetic drunkard if ever he saw one—he ambles along narrow roads that stink of shit, rank and roiling, his mind set on partaking in the finest of Sirille’s current offerings.

That is, he reflects, whichever doesn’t also possess the look of disease.

It is very nearly an unreasonable feat to procure a whore from any brothel in Flea Bottom that lacks the ability to shrivel a man’s cock from whatever putrid humours have long festered in her cunt. But the whores of Flea Bottom possess a very particular advantage. They cater to a larger range of tastes than most, discretion being vital to their work in a way the higher-scale establishments do not offer, and one of the reasons Daemon had come to frequent the slums of the city at all

Right now, he’d prefer tongues did not speak of the urges he must satiate to cool his cravings to a more manageable simmer.

To think—barely a sennight ago, he had believed himself uninterested in pursuing his basest impulses! How quickly things change. He is not so dull-witted as to lack awareness of what has incited the shift. Even as his mind wrests with the contrition of thinking of you so licentiously, his body—his cock, specifically—welcomes the flash of your skin that sweeps upon the insides of his eyelids like a phantasm, the shape of your body and the contours of your pretty, pretty face, the sound of your voice caught between girlish charm and womanly rhythm, the hallmarks of the only bloodline he’d ever sought to pursue in a bride.

No. But you are his niece. Moreover, you are his little niece. It is different with you, not like it had been with Rhaenyra. He won’t. He can’t.

Incense is strong upon the air in the brothel, stinging his nostrils and making his eyes water. Truthfully, it is a site not quite built for the purpose it conducts, being more of a ramshackle dwelling than a business front, but it serves well enough. Besides, the curtains do an ample job of concealing those customers who wish for relative anonymity, even if the sounds cannot be escaped.

In the middle of the room sit those who wish only for the sight of whores free of their meagre attire, tits and cunts and arses all on display, or for the thrill of watching love-play between prospective clients and the girls in their laps, or perhaps for the hedonistic delight of fucking out in the open, privacy be damned. Daemon notes the sunken pallor of customers and whores alike, the lines of poverty and starvation etched in plain faces. They’d looked better back when he was a regular. Likely all the coin I spent, he muses.

“Milord!”

A voice sounds from behind him, rasping with the grit of Flea Bottom’s lowliest brogue. He turns to spot the madam herself, her jowl wobbling as she limps toward him, grinning. One by one, his companions sidle past her, approaching their intended conquests with an easy familiarity that belies a long-standing routine.

“I ‘eard you were back! Welcome! ‘Tis an honour to have the prince in my place before the rest get ya!”

He smiles. She’d procured all manner of needy little maidens from the bowels of the city in past romps through the establishment, skinny shy things quivering and fearful, wide-eyed and reluctant. Not to his most exact tastes, no, but their timidity and frailty had been oh-so-precious—and even more fun had it been to break them of their reticence as thoroughly as he’d break them of their maidenhoods. Peasant cunt is truly a delicacy.

“Sirille.” He dips his head, inciting a round of abashed giggling. It carries not the girlish enchantment she must think it does, but she’d served him longer and more loyally than some of his own men in the City Watch. He takes no issue in humouring her. “A pleasure.”

“Oh, you! I don’ suppose you’re ‘ere to see—”

It is convenient enough for him then that one of the plainer girls approaches her employer with haste, an artless squawk of complaint filtering thready to his ears and yet, mercifully, stealing Sirille’s attention from him. He is able to move away from the entry and further into the brothel. Daemon settles on the chaise beneath the window, slouching lazily across the threadbare surface and surveying what little there is to see.

Hollard and Kettleblack have their girls stripped to the waist now, tits freed and lurching with the short, frantic motion of hips colliding. Dramatic yelps fill the room with each crude slap, the whores panting and wiggling atop their patrons with efficiency, their rhythmic release creating an almost-song in tandem with the men’s grunting and groaning. Dargood has his own on the ground in front of him, gagging enthusiastically on his prick with little swallowing moans punctuating each drag of her head forward and back. Her skirt is pulled up to bare her arsecheeks and the bruise-red flex of her cunt, wet and glistening with more than just the oil that prepares her. The other men are in similar states of disarray, open-mouthed and starry-eyed and lust-drunk in their various positions around the room.

Several of the waiting whores eye him, fluttering their lashes and flashing their tits and cunts at him. He casts a critical look over them. Too thin, too shapely, too pale, too dark, too pockmarked, too young, too old, too—too—

None of them are interesting. At least, not interesting enough to bother sticking his cock in. Shame. The itch that had driven him to fuck any whore worthy of the name in his youth has died down to a faint pulse, still frustratingly there but difficult to satiate, choosier, more selective. No longer can he spend himself in just any cunt. Rhaenyra had ruined desire for him—well, he’d thought it was Rhaenyra who had done so. He’s not so sure now. Nevertheless, there is a very particular breed of whore that fulfils his needs, one he presumes will require visiting a higher-end establishment to—

Wait. There.

A smallish, white-haired waif of a girl saunters in, adorned most curiously in a thin gown of lavender—not a cut nor colour usually available to the lower echelons, he thinks—done up to the neck, not a sliver of flesh to be seen beyond the pale of her hands and the arch of her throat and the softness of her face. He’d nearly mistaken her for a higher class of commoner, one who’d regrettably stumbled into the wrong place in the wrong district, but the ease with which she holds herself disproves the notion. She is among the less attractive in the brothel, but her features—Valyrian silver locks, Valyrian purple eyes, no doubt the baseborn daughter of a Targaryen bastard some generations back—are unmistakeable.

Are unmistakeably, exactly what he is after.

He lets his eyes linger on her, waiting. She’ll come to him, of that he is certain. None in this line of work are unfamiliar with the predilections of a man of his stature—and from the cautious, near-bashful manner in which she picks her way across the room, careful to avert her gaze from the filthier displays present, she knows precisely what he enjoys. To find a rarity like her in such a downtrodden environment is unusual. She must be quite the unlucky one, he presumes. No doubt a victim of downtrodden parents desperate to make a quick coin or several. It's not uncommon for the poorest of the city to sell their daughters to the brothels in the hope of lasting through the winter season.

Then, the whispers from the other patrons reach his ears—not abnormal, no, but it is the name they speak as the whore passes that sends a jolt through him.

“The People’s Delight,” they call her, their voices dripping with mockery even as their eyes gleam with longing, absorbing the way the fire in the hearth plays upon her silver-spun tresses so like his own. “Look at ‘er—the People’s Delight!”

The realisation strikes him like a bolt of lightning. Curse his abominable fortune! For how can ‘the People’s Delight’ be anything but a crude play on his nieces’ epithets, yet another reminder plaguing him with the thoughts he cannot escape? Rhaenyra, the Realm’s Delight, bold and brash and beautiful from infancy, his dragonrider girl since the age of seven; and you, the People’s Princess, always with a polite word and a shy smile to give the commoners from your seat in Aemma’s lap on alms days in girlhood. This cobbled-together moniker is very clearly an allusion to these titles.

“My prince.”

The girl stands before him, bobbing in a clumsy curtsey, peering down at him through pale lashes. Her hands clasp together in a show of modesty, her spine held straight and proud in a manner so rarely to be seen on this side of Flea Bottom. Pride is indeed in short supply in so destitute a locality.

Daemon is torn. He could—he should—castigate her thoroughly for daring to disrespect the blood of the dragon. He ought to make an example of her in front of all present, to drag her into the streets and through the city by her hair so that everyone may see what happens when you ridicule the princesses of the realm, when you besmirch their honour by adopting their royal styles and honours for cheap whore’s tricks…

But he wants very badly to discover how deep the similarities run.

“A bold choice—‘the People’s Delight’.” Daemon does his best to maintain relative impassivity. “One might say treasonous, even.”

Rather than quail, the little slut laughs. “If you were going to ‘ave me thrown in the Black Cells”—she moves to sit beside him, not too close and not too far, calculated and infuriating—“you would’ve already.”

“Brave thing, aren’t you?”

Up close, her gown is rather less demure than he’d assumed—the fabric is diaphanous, gauzy, revealing blush-tipped tits that have yet to slacken from age or famine. Perfect.

She grins teasingly when she spies him watching, obligingly arching her back to raise her chest to his view.

“Clever, too,” she adds, slowly bringing a knee up and out so that he may catch a glimpse of what lay between her thighs. The hair matches her head. Good. “At least, cleverer than you’d think, bein’ from these parts and all.”

“Hm.” He’s not really listening, truth be told—if he wanted conversation, there are at least a hundred people he’d choose to engage with before he ever bothered with a whore.

Emboldened by boredom, he reaches out, allows his hand to fall to the hollow spaces between her ribs just beneath her upraised arm, to cup the meagre weight of one of those tits with a thumb and drag up, up, up to feel the nipple stiffen under his touch. She sighs, pushing into him barely, a tacit encouragement that doesn’t overstate her eagerness but invites more. A consummate professional.

“B’sides,” she says, breathier now, lower in tone, “the rich people’ve got plenty of Realm’s Delights and People’s Princesses over in them pretty whorehouses on Silk Street. What about Flea Bottom, eh? Lotsa poor folk want to fuck a royal just as bad. Can make a lot’ve coin that way, too.”

“I imagine you can,” he replies dryly.

‘Tis no surprise that men want to pretend their cocks are buried in Rhaenyra for but a moment—he’s long been one of them, after all—though the idea that you are in the minds of such scum when release pools fast and heavy in their stones sends frissons of vexation throbbing through his bloodstream. That anger, so quick to mingle with desire, fuels his cock to full mast.

“Well, pet”—he delivers the address with a sharp twist to the teat he’d been fondling—“care to earn a few coin more?”

“Thought you’d never ask, my prince.”

With a saucy wink, she pushes herself off the chaise, holding a hand out to him. He accepts the implicit offer, allowing her to lead him through the open area and onward.

At first, he presumes they are headed toward one of the cordoned-off spaces—but then, she continues, pulling him unerringly to the narrow staircase. A boon indeed, to be a prince. It seems he’ll be receiving the royal treatment, after all.

The chambers in question are not at all pleasant—with creaking floorboards, the pervasive scent of mildew and a faint squeaking that indicates a rather significant rodent problem, it is a far cry from the luxurious standards he is accustomed to in higher-end establishments. But the bedframe seems solid; the mattress unsoiled; the pillows serviceable enough. He does not intend to linger.

He seats himself in the chair by the hearth, angled toward the bed, and readies himself for a show.

The whore stops before him. “You’ve a liking for the elder one, don’t you, my prince? I don’t act for the littlest yet, but the middle one’s getting quite popu—”

Daemon interrupts, trying not to shift uncomfortably at the mention of Rhaenyra—of you. “That’s fine.”

With a wave of the hand, he commands her to do away with her attire. She makes speedy work of the buttons affixing the front closed, beginning to shrug off the sheer fabric so that her thin shoulders reveal themselves more and more. The smug half-smile and the cock of her hip lends the performance a breadth of flirtation, furthered by her impish little shimmy as the cloth catches on the twin swells upon her chest.

He stops her with a sigh.

“No,” he corrects, gut heating at the crestfallen look that overtakes her. “Again, but more…” He casts about for the right descriptor.

“Nervous?” she offers, immediately adopting a pose of diffidence, arms curling inward to tuck her gown back over her exposed skin.

“Hm.” He nods once.

Nervous. A shy, soft little mouse-girl, ready to be snatched up by a hunter…

The whore hunches slightly, eyes shifting flightily about the room, never once settling on him as she slowly, slowly tugs down the dress, hands folding over her tits to conceal them from view. Shades of lavender puddle around her hips, sliding effortlessly over protruding bone and onto the ground with a whisper, exposing a neat thatch of silver curls below her belly. Her knees clench tight, twisting urgently to prevent his gaze from reaching the prize that lays between them.

“There we are. Very pretty.”

A muted, bashful curve of the lips. “You—you think so?”

“Turn around.” She spins on her heel, hair spilling molten down her back to kiss the roundness where her torso meets her legs. Lovely. For a chit as lean as she is, she most certainly has a nice arse. “On your hands and knees.” The girl pads over to the bed, making brief play at tentativeness before crawling into his desired posture. “Bend—ah, that’s it,” he says, ogling greedily as she bows her spine to raise her cunt up higher, fluttering in greeting as the cooler air hits. “Look at you.”

She moans softly when his hands fall to her arsecheeks, thumbs sliding down to spread and lift where she is most protected. The petals shielding her hungry little core peel apart slowly, hastened by his thumbs digging into the meat of her. Mm. Valyrian cunt, that is. Regardless of bastardy, Daemon knows what the blood of old looks like, feels like.

He is dizzy with it—the sight of it, the smell of it, heady and ripe for the taking. “Call me ‘Uncle’, won’t you, pet?”

“Mm.” She whines, hitching back before she remembers the game afoot, aborts her impatient little overture. But that cunt—flexing, wet, spitshine little doll cunt, peasant whore or no—doesn’t lie. “Yes, Uncle!”

Grunting, he fumbles one-handed with his laces, near to bursting already. Yes, Uncle, high-pitched, breathy-sweet, precious and fearful and wanting and—and he must remember what he is here for. What she is here for. She cries out when he delivers a speedy strike to her rump that flushes the flesh a pleasing pink, the colour of dewy cheeks and new-bloomed blossoms and childlike innocence.

“Did that hurt?” he taunts, landing another blow to the same spot and delighting in the garbled whimper it forces from the girl.

“No”—she squeals at the next slap, corrective this time—“I mean, yes, Uncle. It hurts.”

Though she cannot see his face, he bares his teeth, a smile that is more menacing than enticing. “This cunt tells me a different story. You’ve soaked the sheets—look at this mess.”

She’s barely wet her thighs, but the exaggeration heats his blood almost to boiling. “I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as you will be.” He is forced to unbutton his surcoat and discard it on the floor to dispel the mist of perspiration clinging to his skin and undershirt, suddenly ravenous. He’s toyed with her long enough. “I could just slide right in, couldn’t I?”

He tests the statement with little ceremony, prodding one then two fingers straight to the knuckle. Save for the quiet yelp she emits, the entry is smooth, unresisting, nearly proving to undo the illusion he has stirred up. Soft, warm, drenched cunt—too easy, but it’s better than nothing at all. He curls the digits, hooking firmly down toward her navel and drawing forth a louder noise, startled, less controlled. It spurs her to speak.

“Yes, a slut”—she nods her head vociferously before catching herself at the warning dig of nails into her sensitised flesh, abruptly changing course—“I mean, no! I’m not a slut!”

So many errors from this one. For a commoner, it’d do.

“No.” He lets the blunder be. Removing himself from her passage, he allows his hand to fall carelessly upon her rear again, the moisture clinging to his skin harshening the arc into a blow. “You’re a good little maiden, aren’t you?”

“Yes!” she pants, raising her hips higher.

Her arse is a shade of bright now, the subtle glow of pomegranates, of red little tongues, of dusky hot innards spilled forth by the blade under the searing sun. His handprints mark all over the flesh, a symbol of proprietorship that will last longer than this night.

“Dripping more than a used whore.” He scoffs, spurred by the sight of her, shuffling up on his knees to seat himself behind her. The slight lands perfectly. She flinches at his words, and it is oh-so-easy to pretend it is the hasty advancement of his cock notching at her entry that incites such reaction. “If there’s one thing Uncle’s very good at, it’s turning maidens into whores. Would you like to find out how?”

He is already rocking his way inside in increments, taking just one moment to savour the feel of her grasping cunt-lips mouthing along the heft of him, greedy, eager to start work and perform the duty they’ve been tasked to. Hissing, he clutches roughly at her hips, pulling her backward.

She pants, breath stuttering. “Oh, I—”

“Sh, just take it, take it.”

He presses down between her shoulders, leaning his weight into it and pinning her to the bed as he comes flush with her form, lodged deep within pulsing walls. The groan he lets out is involuntary, an exhalation of utmost relief at finding himself once more in the depths of familiar territory.

“Easier than I thought,” he croons, holding her firm despite her attempts to wiggle up, out, away from his hold. “Perhaps you’ve been dishonest. Only sluts have such loose cunts.”

A shaky gasp. “I’m a maiden, I promise!”

The sound of it is enough to make him forget where he is, when, who he is with and why. Yes, a maiden, a perfect little maiden whore just for me, made for me—

He chokes on the rising wave of pleasure, lowering himself onto your back and covering you in him, shielding you with his body, protecting you with himself as he takes and takes and takes what he wants from your body, willing and wanton and his. Your hair ripples like moonlight over water with his every thrust, harsh and frantic, desperate to reach his end.

“And now you’re mine.” Daemon’s muscles strain and he can barely hear himself above the pitch of his heart galloping faster and faster. He tucks his chin to your shoulder, ear against lips that cannot stop mewling shrill and besieged, using your juddering frame as traction to force himself deeper, further, more. “Say it!”

“I’m yours, Uncle!” you bleat, lost kitten dewy-eyed and damp-cheeked, fingers grappling with the covers above your head. “I’m—Uncle—”

For some strange, unknown reason, it rings hollow, the fantasy blurring at the edges and allowing the cold touch of reality to slowly trickle in. Not quite right.

“No.” He redirects her in coarse tones, unwilling to forsake the illusion. “Call me ‘kepus’, call me—”

“Kepus,” you—she—you cry, cunt suctioning tight around him. It’s hot within you, unbearably slick, your walls knotting vigorously to the contours of his shaft with each hard snap forward and rough glide back. The scent of it, raw and heady and humid, fills his nose and lungs and clouds his mind. “You’re going too deep—ah!”

“That’s just your tiny baby cunt making room,” he thinks he coos, but really, he’s snarling through clenched teeth down at you, precious girl, sweetest niece, cock cleaving straight through the hollow spaces inside you and gut tightening with a rising, rising— “Pretty little cunt just for kepa’s cock, all for me—”

His release is swift, sudden, arriving too soon and ending too abruptly, prying your name from his lips when the ecstasy reaches its fleeting summit. Still, he lets his mass collapse upon you, hips pistoning to the beat of his climax as he groans his relief. And then, it’s over. The ember fizzles, and he is left with sticky, cooling skin and the feeling of a sweating form below him. Without thought, he sighs into the crook of your neck, nostrils searching for the rose oil that lingers on your skin even now—

Only to find naught but the trace of cheap lye soap. Only to remember that the girl quivering beneath him is not you, but some nameless whore. Only to realise that he’d been fantasising of you this entire time, of fucking you fast and forceful until you knew nothing but the sensation of him on you, in you, your kepa taking you and claiming you and keeping you.

—polite in the innocent, trusting way a maiden is like to view him, a delicate beauty reminiscent of the finest illustrated manuscripts, an impeccable figure below all that ridiculous finery—

Fuck. Fuck. He had called out your name.

—you are his little niece. It is different with you, he won’t, he can’t—

More than that. He had all but declared you for himself. In a fucking brothel. He’d never dare allow his true inclinations to be known in the past. Not even with Mysaria, with Rhaenyra had he shown such base need. Such weakness. But you…

—no more than titillation. He doesn’t truly wish to take you, let alone make you his wife—

How lack-witted he is. Barely an hour ago, he had disavowed attributing any sort of significance to his lusts, denoting them as little more than the reflexive whims of a man accustomed to sampling anything or anyone he wishes. Already he has proven himself incorrect!

No. This is far, far more than mere titillation. The precise degree to which his desires afflict him—well, this he doesn’t know. He can only hope the girl will uphold the custom of her line of work and keep quiet, hope that rumours will not abound of the Rogue Prince’s latest fascination.

Hope that word will not make way to you. Such tales reaching your ears is the very last thing he wants.

Questions he cannot answer churn through his mind as he extracts himself from the whore, deposits coin on the mattress, ignores her overtures and stumbles out of the room, wondering what the fuck has just happened.

Read the story on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/42100623/chapters/120367177

Taglist (😭 thank you!):

Now in the comments!

#terms of endearment │ daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen fanfiction #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen x you

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