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nicksolemnlyswears · 11 months ago

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COMFORT ME, STAY WITH ME

(HAELENA’S TURN)

STAY WITH US

pairing: helaena targaryen x targaryen! reader, aegon targaryen x targaryen! reader

word count: ~3k

warnings: spoilers for s2e2 of HoTD, mentions of murder and death of a child, light cursing, angsty helaena, one single mention of sex. dont @ me if you find a haelena instead of a helaena. targaryen names are much too complicated for my brain

a/n: thank you guys for all the love on aegon's oneshot. i was bouncing on the walls when i saw how much love it received and that some people agree with me in terms of alicent being a shit mom. that being said you dont really have to read the first part to read this. it works as a stand alone although it is a continuation.

although the inspiration to write these oneshots was the death of a child i love how soft and comforting they've come out. it's about sympathizing and giving these characters the love they deserve.

helaena deserves so much love even more than aegon. she's an innocent in all of this trapped in the midst of war. hell even rhaenyra agrees and scolded daemon for his misdoings.

im thinking of writing one last part where it is all three of them together: reader, aegon and helaena. i'm leaning towards smut but i never know what my brain will come up with. if you’d rather have some more domestic fluffy stuff let me know and that can be arranged!

enjoy!

Your fingers close around your skirts as you fly up the stairs to Helaena's bed chambers. One of her maids leads the way. The young girl sought you out as you readied for bed, rambling about how Queen Helaena was in distress. Without further question, you slipped on your robe and followed her.

The Queen has not been well since the night her child was brutally taken from her. She continues to live day by day in constant suffering as her mind has a difficult time coming to terms with that night's events.

As it happens, saying Helaena is 'not well' is an understatement.

She might've been 'not well' after the fact, but the funeral proceedings broke the last thread of sense she was holding onto. If anyone is to blame, it is the Dowager Queen who forced her to attend and Otto Hightower who was the 'mastermind' behind it all.

It was torture to hear the people of Kings Landing shouting for her, screaming vile words about Rhaenyra, and offering condolences about a subject they barely knew a thing about.

Most had never seen the young Prince; his cold body and the gold thread around his neck were their first glimpses of him. They gasped and awed at her child as if he were a spectacle while she had no choice but to sit and watch with composure.

It is only natural she would fall apart under the pressure of such ill-conceived plans. Her overthinking mind couldn't handle it any longer when the carriage got stuck. Her thoughts coming up with the most of wicked scenarios. She had to run.

Then, there is Jaehaera, who continues to ask for her twin brother. The poor girl has never spent a day apart from him since they were conceived. It is difficult for Helaena to hear Jaehaera constantly ask where he is and when he will return. It's a never ending reminder of her loss.

Besides, how is she to explain death to a child when Helaena herself has not accepted it.

The newly assigned guard sworn to protect the Queen opens the door for you as soon as you round the corner. His anticipation worries you to no end, and you fear what lies past those doors.

Maids surround Helaena, attempting to comfort her. She screams at them to let her be, but they persist. The maids mean well. Helaena is clearly distressed, yet they don't seem to realize it's because of their overbearing presence.

The young Queen swats them away. Her fingers thread through her messy hair as she seeks an escape, and sobs rake through her slender body until she collapses on her knees. Her lips move in unreadable murmurs in between each yell.

Helaena barely appears like herself. Dark purple circles line her under eyes, and her hair is unbrushed and knotted. Her signature plump cheeks have hollowed out, indicating that she has lost weight.

"Please," Helaena cries to no one in particular, recoiling from their touch.

You barrel through the maids and kneel on the floor at an arms length from Helaena. "'Laena?" you softly call to get her to look at you, knowing that if you even attempt to touch her, she will shy away.

At the recognition of your voice, Helaena's face whips up. She falls into your arms, hiding from the other females in the room. The tears that stain her face wet your robe as you hold her close. She tucks her face into your neck, hiccuping from emotion.

"Leave us," you command with a stern gaze that borders on anger.

The maids move to leave the room, but only after notifying you that the Queen has barely eaten or bathed in days. Once the door closes shut, you coax Helaena from your arms.

"What is wrong, 'Laena?" You ask softly, cradling her face to brush away her tears. The sight of her red and blotchy face breaks your heart. She must've been like this for a long time.

"It is my fault," she hiccups as new tears follow the path of the others. Helaena hangs her head in despair. She should've fought harder to keep her son alive. There must've been something else she could've done.

"Look at me," you say sternly, forcing her to look at you. It is when her eyes meet yours that you continue, "This is not your fault."

"I was the one to point my finger," she argues while her fists clench and unclench around the fabric of her dress when a new wave of emotion takes over.

Helaena is an overly emotional person. She feels things deep in her chest. She wishes she could control it, but the more she holds it in, the nastier it gets when it gets out of her control. Her body freezes and pleads for her to run and hide.

"Helaena, this was going to happen whether you pointed your finger or not. If you hadn't done what you did, you and Jaehaera would be dead as well."

It's blunt and a bit cruel, but Helaena must understand that she had no other choice. The only way this could've been stopped was if she had been assigned a sworn protector, but the council underestimated their enemy and Ser Criston Cole was too busy getting his cock wet to do anything about it.

"I told them to spare him and kill me instead," Helaena confesses with a weep.

She lets herself go on your shoulder as you wrap your arms around her shaking shoulders. You kiss the top of her head to console her guilty conscience. Helaena did not deserve to be a victim of Daemon's terrible idea. She might just be the most innocent of Targaryens.

"I know, Helaena, you were so brave. You're a wonderful mother. This is not your fault, and nobody blames you. You did what you had to do. Jaehaera is alive and well because of you."

It's hard for Helaena to stop thinking in such a way once she starts. The thoughts cause her to imagine things that aren't really there and doubt her reality. She feels like the staff's glances are not of worry but of resentment for letting those men kill her boy. Aegon's absence makes it all the worse.

"Aegon will not look at me, much less speak to me," she whimpers, wrapping her arms around your waist.

A tear slides down your cheek. You will never compare your sadness to theirs, but seeing them hurt in such a way pains you. Their marriage was arranged, yes, but Aegon and Helaena hold deep affection for each other. They simply have a difficult time showing it.

In this instance, there is no one who understands them better than each other. It is tragic but this should bring them closer together not tear them apart.

"Aegon is grieving. He can barely stand to look at himself because he feels like he failed his family, 'Laena. I promise you he will come around."

Helaena nods with her head on your shoulder. She is not convinced, but your words soothe her for the time being. Tears continuously slide down her face, and there is nothing you can do about it. You much prefer she cries it all out than hold it in.

"Come," you tell her, holding her hand and guiding her to the bath the maids had prepared before they left. "Let's get you ready for bed.”

You keep her close to you, reassuring Helaena you're there to stay as long as she needs. You help her untie the strings of her dress, and as you hang it over the back of a chair, she slips out of her smallclothes.

She accepts your hand to step into the bath. The water has now cooled, but she doesn't complain. It is the least of her worries. Helaena sits in the tub with her arms around her knees and silently cries.

Your goal tonight is to get her to rest. You can tell she hasn't slept in a long time, which will make her feel better.

Settling on the wooden stool next to the bath, you lather soap into the sponge and ask for her arm. Helaena complies, and you gently swipe the sponge across her skin. The maids were thorough as the smell of a calming oils invades your senses. They sincerely wanted to help their Queen.

Scrubbing down her arm, you note her nailbeds, which are red and raw. You're gentle with the soap when you reach her hand to prevent it from burning. Once you rinse it out, you bring her hand up to your lips, kissing her fingertips much like your mother would do when you got hurt.

Her crying calms when she catches onto your gesture, watching you in awe.

It is easy to note how she's thinned out as you continue to bathe her. Her skin presses against her ribs, showcasing each indent, and the bony prominences of her shoulders are much more palpable. It worries you to no end. Everyone has different coping mechanisms, but this is by far the unhealthiest one.

In the morrow, you will make it your goal to get her to eat. For a start, you will ask the kitchens to bake her favorite dessert. There has never been a moment where Helaena has refused a berry tart.

"Tilt your head back for me, love," you whisper, grabbing the pitcher of clean water from the table. Brushing Helaena's hair back, you pour the water, being careful not to get it in her eyes.

As she tilts her head back, she keeps her watchful eyes on you. She is in one of the most intimate positions, yet her lilac eyes reveal the most vulnerable parts of herself. You offer Helaena a comforting smile. Moving on from this tragic accident will be difficult, but we have to start somewhere.

When you lather her hair with soap and massage her scalp, she closes her eyes with a shudder. In turn, her shoulders relax, and goosebumps appear across her skin. A quiet moan slipping past her bitten lips.

Moving on to her face, Helaena watches you closely as you grab a rag to wash her face. You're so careful and tender with her. She has not made mention of it, but your touch feels pleasant against her skin.

You dab her neck next, looking over the wound that was cast upon her. You wish for it not to scar. Helaena needs no more reminders of that night.

After finishing the bath, you help her stand and dry off. Then, you follow her to the bed, where her nightgown lies discarded. With your assistance, she quickly slips it on. Helaena is quiet as she dresses; no more tears well up in her eyes.

"Let's brush your hair," you whisper soothingly.

Delicately, you glide the brush through her silver strands. You tackle the knots methodically to prevent pulling on her hair. A couple of drops of rose oil help greatly with the task as the bristles move smoothly across the long length of her hair.

Helaena sighs softly, and, through the mirror, you can see her eyes are closed. The poor thing must be exhausted.

"How are you feeling?" You ask her, tying the plait you weaved and wrapping your arms around her shoulders. You prop your head upon hers, cuddling her into you.

"Better, I suppose," she nods gratefully, grasping your hand hanging loosely across her chest. "I am tired," she admits.

"Let's get you to bed then."

Before you can slip away, Helaena protests and holds your wrist. "No, please." You're taken aback by the desperation in her voice. Why is she refusing to rest when her body begs for it?

"Helaena, when was the last time you slept?"

Helaena appears guilty. She swallows the knot on her throat, preparing to answer. "Not since that night. The nightmares do not allow me respite."

You sit beside her on the bench, keeping a firm grasp on her hand. "Do you wish to speak about them? It might help."

Her voice is barely above a whisper. "It's always the same. They return when the nights darkest and take Jaehaera."

Helaena is terrified. Many of her dreams have become reality, and this is one she would not be able to bear witness to. The things they do in her dreams are unforgivable. She cannot lose her daughter to those monsters.

Silence takes upon the room. Helaena cannot survive in a sleep deprived state, there must be something you can do. "What if we bring her here? She can sleep with you. That way, you will know she's safe."

Helaena ponders your suggestion, her eyes drifting away. "Will you stay?" Although a question the way Helaena's voice cracks, it's more of a plead.

"Is that what you wish, my Queen?" You ask, caressing her cheek so she returns to you from that faraway place in her mind.

She's quick to nod and squeeze your hand in gratitude. "Please," she whispers, leaning into your touch.

"Anything for you."

Helaena accompanies you to Jaehaera's new chambers. The King saw it fit Jaehaera did not reside in the room where her twin brother was murdered. A wise choice.

If your memory serves you well, Jace used to inhabit the space once upon a time.

Helaena almost runs to her daughter's cot, ensuring she's alive and well. You sympathize with her, it's natural to worry about your child if another was stolen from your life.

"Mama," Jaehaera yawns when Helaena picks her up.

"You're sleeping with mummy tonight, yeah?" Helaena whispers, cradling the back of her head and kissing the crown of her head.

Jaehaera, too tired to reason or even question it, nods and nestles into the crook of Haelena's neck. The sight is eerily similar to that fateful night.

The guard posted to protect Jaehaera escorts you to the Queen's chambers, standing on the opposite side of Helaena's white cloak guard.

Once inside, you slip off your robe and join her and Jaehaera on the bed. The girl is safely nestled between you both, pale lashes fluttering shut.

Helaena reaches for your hand to ensure you do not leave, and you lace your fingers with hers. "Sleep, 'Laena. I'll keep you safe," you promise her.

All it takes for Helaena to sleep is a lullaby your mother used to sing to you. It was of great tales of the people of Old Valyria. It was your favorite growing up, and now it is Helaena's.

By the song's end, Helaena's breaths even out and she succumbs to slumber. Although her face reflects her tiredness, the resemblance between Helaena and Jaehaera is stark.

When your eyes begin to close, eager to follow Helaena and Jaehaera to the land of dreams, the door creaks open. Startled, you sit up on the bed to search for an intruder, ready to scream if need be.

Aegon stands by the door, his chest heaving and his face pale. His hair is in disarray, and his eyes are wild with worry. "Where is Jaehaera?" he asks.

"She's right here," you respond, lowering the sheets and moving your body to reveal her resting upon Helaena's chest.

Aegon sighs in relief, and after a moment of hesitation, he timidly steps closer to the bed, observing the scene in front of him. He has taken to visiting his daughter's chambers throughout the night. He doesn't trust the guards, even if he is the one who assigned them. Aegon needs to see with his own eyes that his remaining child is alive and not endangered.

He had been frightened when the guard who was supposed to be posted by her door was gone, and worse, so was his daughter. Before he could scream, a maid walked in and, upon questioning, told him Jaehaera was in the Queen's chambers with her mother and the Princess.

You lay back against the headboard and observe him. He sits on the edge of the bed, reaching over you to brush a strand of hair away from his wife's face. Then, his hand lowers as his fingertip traces the slope of his daughter's nose.

"You should talk to her."

Helaena's words are clear as day in your mind. After witnessing Aegon in the same position, you reckon it would be good if they spoke to one another.

"I wouldn't know what to say," Aegon responds with a shake of his head.

"Yes, you do," you insist, resting your hand upon his, which lays on the bed. He glances questioningly at you, silently asking you to explain.

Your voice is light and soft. The last thing you want is to wake Helaena, although your instincts tell you it is doubtful. "Nobody understands what you're going through better than Helaena. She lost a child as well and feels just as hopeless as you do. Talk to her and tell her the words you would've liked to hear."

"It is that easy?" He asks in disbelief with a scoff. He looks at you for guidance. You've helped him more than anyone in the council or his own mother.

"Yes," you chuckle, and he joins you, if only for a moment. "Would you like me to go so you can stay?" You wouldn't want to intrude in a moment that can unite a family yet again.

Aegon shakes his head and urges you to stay abed. "It is alright. I will soon talk with 'Laena."

For a brief moment, Aegon presses his forehead against yours to show his appreciation. He stands with a press of his lips to your forehead and one more glance at his family. "Thank you for everything. I hope one day I can repay you for all your kindness."

"There's no need."

He does not speak but shares a glance that says a thousand words. Aegon closes the door behind him and turns to the guards standing by it.

Their backs visibly straighten when he addresses them. "Under no circumstance are you to leave your post. Your goal is to protect the Queen and the Princesses."

After all, his heart and soul are in that room.

STAY WITH US

came out a little longer than aegon but there was much to do with lovely helaena. queen helaena is a big reason as to why i hate alicent so much. alicent has let her down time and time again. how can she fucking ask helaena not to say anything about her and cole? fuck, alicent, she's not even thinking about that.

did you enjoy this one shot? please don’t forget to like or comment (i accept keyboard smashes, emojis, words of encouragement, praise, virtual hugs and alicent and cole slander) and if you want more of it feel free to let me know!

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controld3vil · 10 months ago

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𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐞

pairing(s): young!rhaenyra targaryen x velaryon!reader (can be read either as romantic/platonic) synopsis: Rhaenyra always seemed to like her position as the only dragon rider in King's Landing. Besides her uncle who rarely visits, she flys with Syrax whenever she can as proof of her imperial lineage. When word comes that you claimed Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, Rhaenyra becomes strangely jealous of your newfound attention.

notes: this takes place closely timeline-wise to the first season. cw: reader experiences a near-death incident, slight angst

Rhaenyra always felt at ease after riding with her dragon, Syrax. She had a distinctive bond with Syrax that no one could replicate. No one could discourage the truth. Her ancestors rode dragons and conquered the Seven Kingdoms. And rightfully so, as she acknowledges its power on the world. They were fierce beasts, little in number, but ferocious and praised as Gods to the people. The Princess of Dragonstone understood that well when she climbed off of Syrax’s saddle. Her golden scales glisten gloriously from the sunshine.

She gleams brighter than before. Switching into a rich blonde gown, Rhaenyra rushes to the Court Council. Hoping none of the Councilmen would be bothered by her disturbed presence, the princess fixates on flattening down her silvery hair with her fingers. Combining through her tangled locks, the princess enters, drawing attention to haste and bewildered looks.

“I was visiting Mother,” The Realm’s Delight she was named, smiled at her father, the King when asked about her whereabouts. She knew he would be displeased by the fact that she was dragon riding incredibly early. But she told the truth wholly. Rhaenyra did visit her mother.

“On dragonback?” Viserys asked after catching a whiff of his daughter’s distinctive scent. It smelled of smoke and sea, resembling the dragon’s nature and their fiery breath. His daughter returns with a cheeky smile when she goes about to collect the pitcher, full of wine. There was much pride in the princess of her ancestral lineage. It was clear as histories can be able to tell of Old Valyria. A dragon was considered a rare delicacy despite having an abundance around the world. King’s Landing, Dragonstone, and Driftmark. Yet people did not consider them to be flesh and blood. Surprisingly, most were wild and had never been bonded with a dragon rider.

“Haven’t you heard? There was a sighting of the wild dragon, Vermithor along the coastlines of The High Tide,” Coryls Velaryon spouts, in cautiousness and weary. His clenched fist was unmistakable to Rhaenyra as he leaned forward with agitation. “My men are terrified, Your Grace. Surely we can think of a way to return the dragon’s course to Dragonstone.”

The silvery-haired girl looks to her father, King Viserys who beams with fazed delight. He thinks in light of the Master of Ship’s concerns. A dragon flies as it pleases. It did not flee far from Dragonstone as her familial home was a mile away from Driftmark itself. Eventually, Vermithor would have to return to rest. “And I’m sure he will return to Dragonstone when he deems it appropriate.”

The lighthearted remark sparked some casual laughter from the table. A few lords shamelessly coughed between their coats while Hand to the King, Otto Hightower could only contemplate silently how to move the conversation to something more time-consuming. Rhaenyra has witnessed enough Council meetings to know that her father is restless. He never wanted to stay in the room for far too long before becoming disinterested in every political matter. What a dull position, she thought, to be the King of the Seven Kingdoms, you must abide by everyone's opinion and request.

Rhaenyra traces her thumb around the handle of the pitcher. It’s glass and gold melded together. Its purity reflects wonderfully when she’s shown it to the light. As she strides around every seat of the table, the princess notices the little nuances each lord has. The old and cold pin of the Hand on Otto’s chest. The chainmail rings around Maester Mellos. And the rustic bronze rings Lord Corlys carried on his right hand. She recognizes why they are so distinctive now.

“Nyra!”

It was like a bell went off in her mind when the Princess of Dragonstone blinked again. Now the Council meeting was left in their final moments. The doors that connected the room to the passive hallways opened, and flooded with the lords, one by one exiting. Well-mannered and poised was she when Rhaenyra placed the pitcher back onto the tabletop. Greeted by her father with a brief smile, she heard the sound of sweet nectar. Did you expect she did not hear you?

“Princess,” Rhaenyra laughs, coming down the stairs. You appeared eager to be near her, as you wrapped your arms tightly around her waist. A warm ache grows in her chest as Dragonstone’s darling caresses your shoulders, pushing you aback to see your face. “My you are eager this morrow.”

Your cheeks were plastered in rosy plums. Pink and delicate. As you burst into unfathomable joy at her proximity, you couldn’t contain your giddy blubbering. “I missed you! Is it so wrong to miss you?” She’d imagined your energy and heart beating simultaneously in the rhythm of a hummingbird. You were such a lively spirit, it complimented well with her own. Can she say that?

She peers at you, fondly. As you were the most precious being one could ask for. If she could, Rhaenyra would shield you from every inconvenience and proposal your way. Even when you would become of age and pursued by your parents, she still would protect you from anyone who deemed you accessible. She brought both of her hands around your small one. They were adorned with rose-colored jewelry. Each is a colored gemstone to match your House colors. Rhaenyra slowly traces the flesh of your palm, “Of course not, Princess! It’s- I haven‘t seen you in so long,”

Your name is hollered and echoed against the looming halls you both stood in. She was sure for a moment, you two would be alone. A pang of discomfort flourishes in her throat when Rhaenyra becomes mute to the person to grab your attention. You, however, were deemed unbothered by it all, and held onto her grip tighter, and firmly, radiating heat and sweat.

“There you are,” Your father, Lord Corlys groans in relief. It was evitable to find you lost around the castle, King’s Landing was a vast place. However, for how long you have visited, Rhaenyra depicts you knew the structure of it all and simply faked being clueless around. She saw it once. When you vaguely asked a guard where the library was to distract him, knowing you would be off avoiding your lessons with the Septa. She wishes she could chuckle out loud for that memory. “Do not get yourself carried away with the Princess, we have important matters to discuss with the King.” Your father seemed adamant about separating you from Rhaenyra, she recognizes. Which offends her greatly. You were a good friend and cousin. But more importantly, you were the only person to enjoy her company and mischief.

For the longest time, the eldest daughter of King Viserys was lonely, not having anyone to relate to with her ancestral blood. The ladies in waiting were shy and polite. They were not her forte, Rhaenyra disliked how courtship worked. The daughter of the Hand, Alicent Hightower was a pleasant fresh air and surprise. When she had arrived at King's Landing years ago, Rhaenyra was rather avoidant of her. Now, they were good friends, only ever to be in each other's presence. Daemon, her uncle, is rarely seen nowadays. His position to the City Watch had in truth bothered and encouraged him to wreak more havoc with the townsfolk. She dismisses everyone clearly, anyone closest to her Targaryen bloodline is old or distant.

But you, and your siblings, Laenor and Laena were much needed in the capitol. Your brother and sister visit rarely, they listen to your father and mother. On the other hand, you weren’t as uptight. As the youngest member of the Velaryon family, you had fewer expected duties compared to her and Alicent. Rhaenyra envied it truly, forever longing for your freedom.

“Yes father,” You mope, an obvious frown on your lips when you depart from Rhaenyra’s side to your father. He stares at you with amused eyes, much contrast when he turns to her direction with a cold glare. It brings a chill down her spine as she quickly bows her head at the Master of Ships. She meant no offense. You did not notice the demeaning tension between your father and cousin. Because childishly, you excitedly tugged on Rhaenyra’s golden sleeves. “We’ll meet again soon, alright?”

God, she can only smile at you. You were so sweet, endearing, and innocent. All traits she could find in any other lady. But you were much lively, more genuine than the girls she watched by the courtyard. They were pretentious and fickle. Alicent was also sweet and innocent. Innocent in the ways of adventure and courage. She was attached to duty and for that, Rhaenyra could not blame her. But for how much it mattered to her, she believed it to be an outrage. Out of everyone, you were just right.

The next time you met Rhaenyra was unconventional. Somehow you managed to convince your father to journey beside him to King’s Landing once more to meet the King’s family. Corlys hardly shrugged, putting little effort to stop you from climbing aboard the Sea Snake. Under unfathomable moments, you were condemned to sail to the capitol to tell the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms the great news. The last islanders left behind were your mother, Rhaenys, and sister, Laena who waved at you, earnestly, honing her fond smile as your figure grew smaller and smaller. Your mother, the Queen who Never Was, stood warmly with her arms crossed, with a look of pride on her face.

Yes, your mother was ecstatic about what you had accomplished. No other dragon rider besides The Old King, Jaehaerys could claim the beast, the Bronze Fury. Many attempted, and many failed. However, because of your efforts, create a sense of joy and relief in your mother’s eyes. Never would she imagine her youngest child to claim one of the largest dragons alive. Vermithor was an untamable beast with a feisty personality. Perhaps it takes likeness to your spirit and simply bonded. She would have to ask you again to recall how you did it.

The walls of the grand castle were empty and welcoming. You felt adrenaline scorch through your veins when you climbed up the stairs of the grand hall. The exterior was glorious. You could holler and scream and it would echo throughout all the corridors like a never-ending chamber. You held a skittish smile, as you made your way up, placing one hand on the rails for support. You could hear your father’s voice echo behind. Careful, you mustn’t fall, my love!

Even if you dropped to the ground, you would immediately pull yourself up and climb the stairs again. It was how desperate you were to meet Rhaenyra. You desperately wanted to tell her!

Across the royal chambers, Rhaenyra was lounging outside notably. She sat under the Weirwood tree at leisure with Alicent beside her with a book in hand. She read aloud one of its stories, a romantic tale of a Dornish princess. But the dragon princess barely paid mind to what the Hand’s daughter was reading, she was more in tune with the moving sky. The baby blue ocean from above and the fluffy clouds that looked like soft cushions. The Realm’s Delight longed to ride with Syrax, despite only returning from her morning ride. If she could live in the sky forever, Rhaenyra would want to.

She spotted a few of the Kingsguards that patrolled stop in front of someone. It looked as though they were permitting passage but seconds later, she saw them nod in unison simultaneously. They cleared the path and there you were. Striding in happy and irregular steps with your flowy dress of blue seashells and gemstones. She is reminded each time of your wealth and beauty. Cool-toned colors were your style as there was no other pigment you dressed in confidently and proudly, Sometimes she wonders how you would look in crimson red and black.

“Princess!” Alicent was the first to speak on your behavior. It was not every day to see you all of a sudden in King's Landing. After Lord Corlys’s many disagreements with the Council. he chose to be absent from court. This irritated King Viserys and the rest of the Council, knowing without their Master of Ships, their collaboration would be deemed incomplete. Nevertheless, your appearance would confirm that your father had once again returned to the capitol. “I didn’t expect to see you here!” The brown-haired princess gleams, shutting the book entirely, and rising to meet you in a short embrace.

Your giddiness is affectionate. It makes Rhaenyra feel light and blissful of your unannounced arrival. “It is good to see you, my Lady!” You’re teasing, tightly wrapping your arms around Alicent before releasing with sweet laughter. Alicent snickers, as the highlights of her dimples flush in soft pales of the color rose.

“I told you, Alicent is fine!”

“I know!” The two of you seemed to be in your world whenever your visits happened. You would appear, and Alicent bursts excitement and jitteriness. Rhaenyra finds it amusing to watch it unfold. But for not witnessing your presence for so long, she rather feels a little hurt and apprehensive of your attachment to the Hand’s daughter. If your mere attendance brought such delight, then your words brought an abundance of warmth and tenderness. “Nyra!”

Finally, the Princess of Dragonstone looks up, feeling slightly closed off from your welcome. Yet when she lays her velvet eyes on you, she can’t help but feel you are forgiven. Your expression was gentle and serene. “Princess,” Your name feels light off her lips as it always did. You playfully roll your eyes before releasing your grip on Alicent to hold onto Rhaenyra’s hands. They were inviting and delicate.

“I missed you,” You whine, dramatically, dragging out the last part as though you haven’t seen each other in months. When really, it has been less than a month. The most you have visited were a full three days, staying overnight in the guest's bedrooms. It was when your father had an important mission to relay with the lords he chose to stay longer. You, on the other hand, wanted a sleepover. And by now, you should have a bedroom, personalized for whenever you wish to come to visit. You have on many occasions to irk your father and mother’s minds.

“The last time we spoke you were whisked away by your father,” She scoffs lightly which earns a questionable raised brow from Alicent. Your expression does not falter at her offense. “even though you said we would meet again.” Petty and stubborn were the words you describe Rhaenyra Targaryen. She was rather protective and loyal to the people closest to her. You importantly, she greatly values you. And weeks ago, you promised her, however, things took a turn with your father and you had to abide.

“And we have,” You grin, lovingly, holding her hands up to your chest. It was a subtle sign of an apology and care. You carried your promise, even if it had taken weeks to fulfill because of interpersonal matters. But you are here now, in front of her, your energetic personality never failing. “I have great news.”

The silvery-haired princess seemed to take your understated gesture sincerely as she closed the gap between you two. Curiosity caught her gaze as her lavender orbs did not move away from your own. “Well, what is it?” Suddenly you’re aware you’ve kept a tight grip on Rhaenyra as she allowed you to trap both her hands. The close intimacy is acknowledged by you when you try not to break away your gaze from hers. Alicent seemed visibly bothered by it but you are not facing her to know.

The wind whistles in anticipation, and the Weirwood tree heaves and blows the dead leaves off of its branches. The luscious green fields dance back and forth in little tiny unison. The scent of dirt and fresh mint is present. As you inhale deeply before revealing, “I claimed a dragon.”

A moment of silence before a heaved gasp came from the Hightower princess.

“Congratulations!”

You can feel the butterflies float up to your chest when you see both of the girl's expressions in a state of happiness and revelation. You give an animated smile, “Thank you!”

“Are you joking?” You can see on Rhaenyra’s face, she is still in shock which morphs into pleasure and ecstasy.

You shake your head enthusiastically, and repeatedly, shaking both you and the Princess in a hop. “No!”

“Oh thank the gods!” Your cousin blurts, embracing you in a well-deserved embrace. Her arms coil around your back with a squeeze. The encouragement both Rhaenyra and Alicent had given you was something you cherished dearly. For the longest time, you blame yourself for not being able to claim a dragon. No egg would hatch or a wild dragon would approach you. You studied and performed all the ways to encounter them. Yet none had prevailed and up until recently, you felt exasperated on the idea of bonding with a dragon. You were extremely jealous of Laenor and Rhaenyra for their impeccable bond. You and Laena longed for it for your entire lives, it made you moody and neglectful.

Therefore their support had kept you least tolerable. Your mother and father were understanding and patient with your fits. Even King Viserys and Queen Aemma sometimes consoled you that one day you would claim a dragon. Whichever dragon you did not care for, you knew your companion was out there.

“Which dragon did you claim?” The brunette girl comes to your side, eager and curious to know what of your new beast.

“Yes, which one did you claim?” Your silver-haired cousin urges, shaking your hands back and forth.

You felt like a bubble waiting to pop with excitement. You wanted all the streams and ribbons the castle could offer to be released for your accomplishment. You took a deep breath before letting out a slow exhale to calm your beating heart. “Vermithor.”

In an instant, Rhaenyra’s face falls. “Vermithor.”

“Yes, Vermithor!” You were blinded by the enthusiasm Alicent portrayed with her hands, clapping and squealing in awe at you. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Vermithor!” The Hand’s daughter takes your left hand and swirls her thumbs around your knuckles. “I’m so happy for you!” Again the call of your name is murmured frankly and in reverence. “One of the largest dragons alive in the world and you had claimed it!”

Satisfaction filled your chest. Nothing could compare to the prideful looks your friends and family had for you on this day. It truly was something to celebrate something this spectacular. Not since Jaehaerys, your great grandfather rode the dragon. Your mother would surely want you to ride Vermithor immediately as he was still considered wild. But if Jaehaerys managed to tame the beast, you knew you could.

She could not explain it. Rhaenyra had always thought highly of you. She would disparage you out of anything. You were too pure for her frustration. What is she angry about? The princess could not explain. But whenever she passed the corridors of the Keep or the chambers of her mother’s ladies in waiting, she would hear the praise and compliments for your achievement. My, haven't you heard? The youngest daughter of Corlys Velaryon claimed Vermithor! The dragon King Jaehaerys rode! It must be fate.

To what end was it fated? Dragons chose their riders. It was unclear how the bonds between rider and dragon existed but it was something genuine. So it shouldn’t confuse her when she sees you when on Driftmark, practicing to fly with the Bronze Fury. You struggled the first few times. She recalls those moments well, laughing and teasing you to no end of the amount of times you fell into the mud. Mounting on a dragon was a gradual adjustment. As she stared into the view of the ocean shore and deep gray-blue waters, you and your dragon were by the shorelines, attempting to be in sync with one another. A few feet from you was Rhaenys. As commanding and benevolent she was to you and not to her.

Rhaenys Targaryen was quick-witted. She never had a great relationship with the Queen who Never Was. But in contrast, she was soft to you and held untainted remorse for her youngest child. Meleys was beside her rider, cooing and staring at you and Vermithor in inquiry. Much similar to her companion, Rhaenys said something Rhaenyra could not understand before watching you shake your head in disbelief. Vermithor was a grueling and deadly creature. The fact that you were young did not change its attention. It croaks and cranes its neck down for you to climb on its upper back.

A saddle was neatly strapped on the beast. It must take ages to put on. Vermithor was known for his savage behavior. Yet if you were present with him, she deems he would have been docile to take care of.

“Why are you pouting?”

It was the late evening on Driftmark when she proposed a walk with you along the beach line. It was the many hobbies you both enjoyed in your homeland. Salt and sea were everywhere as opposed to her home, King’s Landing filled with endless brick walls and dust. The island is peaceful and serene when there are no fishing ships in the water. Rhaenyra can never be tired of the view and the sea salt air Driftmark supplies. It’s refreshing and so calm.

“I’m not pouting.” The Princess of Dragonstone argues, her off tone marks it remarkable that her fickle state of mind. She should know better. You know her well, more than most of her maids and sometimes father.

“You are,” The corners of your lips curve as you kick a few clumps of sand off the ground. “I’ve noticed since coming here, you’ve been…distant.” A personality all of your siblings share is your tenderness. Laena had a graceful heart and Laenor a compassionate one. Yours was resilient. You held onto things for far too long and you’re incredibly devoted to the people you love. You become easily attached to things, people, and the attention. Can she blame you? For a long time, you felt ridiculed and ashamed for your lack of a dragon. Your sadness must be more out of sympathy than Laena’s. By the time your sister claimed Vhagar, you were left as an outcast.

The Realm’s Delights huffs, crossing her arms behind her back. “Seasick I suppose,” In truth, she never was seasick. Rhaenyra had traveled to Driftmark many times to be immune to the sickness. She knew it was a weak lie, one you would catch easily. But she did not like being confronted on whatever was on your mind.

“Nonsense,” You jest, before stomping both your feet firmly into the brown sugar sand. Your stance makes the princess stop. “I know you dislike Vermithor.”

She looks at you, astonished. “What?”

You push further into the dirt until your heels are engulfed. “I can see it, Rhaenyra. You do not like him.” Your assumption makes her head spin. Because in what world would she have any disregard against a dragon? Rhaenyra adored all dragons the same. They were a part of her family’s legacy. But she figures you must’ve seen her sometimes glare in the direction of your dragon to believe she had no love for the Bronze Fury.

The silver-haired girl shakes her head. “No, it’s not that.” She did not want to explain this to you. Feeling ashamed and embarrassed at her feelings, Rhaenyra deems you unfit to hear such nonsense. “It’s more childish than that.”

Your head quirks sideways. You looked confused as your eyebrows rose as well. She can feel the winds pick up as the tides come toward you both. Its cold water brushes past your feet but you ignore it completely. “How so?”

Must she explain at such a time? “I must admit, for the past few days, I’ve been feeling remorseful.” She quipped, finding the freezing chill of the sea comforting for this kind of conversation. “I’m sure you’ve seen me grow bitter, even resentful towards you and Vermithor. For that I apologize but- it’s a small feeling.”

“You feel resentful towards me and Verm?” She can see your eyes flicker, as you contemplate and allow your mind to take in her words. Your loose hair is down, you’re gorgeous. Even in your night clothes and were of the absence of jewelry and pretty colors.

“Was,” She reaffirms, unable to look you in the eye. Rhaenyra feels ashamed for feeling this way. She does not want to hurt your feelings. “The attention, the people, they spoke of you for days about what you have done, claiming King Jaehaerys dragon. All everyone wanted to do was talk about you and how you proved yourself to become the greatest rider.” The more she rambles, the hot tears flood her vision. She does not seem weak to you. She was spilling her truth to you, she had to let it out.

You held a calm expression. “But I’m not the greatest rider,” Yes, you were not. Your bond was still young. You still struggled with communicating with Vermithor sometimes daily. How can you be considered the greatest even when you struggled to mount your dragon?

“That is what the people say,” Accidently your cousin snaps but quickly regains her composure. She looks at her feet and the sand below. It was as if she pleaded for forgiveness. There is nothing to forgive, you’re angry. You’d say but she continues. “I was sick and tired of it all. Even my father spoke highly of you and it offended me. Why do I feel this way? I should be happy for you!” The mist around you clouds the floor. It’s sombrous and cool to touch. Everything Rhaenyra had held back was gone and it felt somewhat cathartic. She knows you must’ve felt hurt by her words, she was harsh.

She was afraid to touch you. But you did not care, gripping her forearm suddenly. Rhaenyra’s gaze finally breaks and stares at you, wide-eyed. Her tear-filled eyes shattered your heart, fully aware of her fragile condition. “I don’t blame you for what you feel, Rhaenyra. I too felt the same way when Laena claimed Vhagar, do you remember it? I was restless, unable to sleep at night - why couldn't I do what she had done.” The Princess of Dragonstone does not pull away from your grasp but simply gazes at your quivering lips. “I grew to be resentful of my sister. My heart grew dark and left people in danger. I regret feeling this way towards her now because of it. Do you understand?”

The expression on your face said it all as she observed. The strained look flashed before you as you recounted the painful memories. In the days after Laena’s bond, you were cruel and cold. You spoke less to your family, ashamed and poisoned by jealousy. You would snap at the sailors more often and drive them into more dangerous scenarios to spite them. Your pettiness was revolting to watch, your father, Corlys growing instantly tired of your immature tantrums for something you could not control. He would cry out to you about how ignorant your actions were and then dismiss your privileges to sailing his ships. All while your mother felt she could do nothing to stop you in your frustration. She watched from a distance as her husband criticized you openly for your infuriating flaws, making it known to all you had gone too far.

Slow but surely, when you stepped closer to her gave you the courage to tell her what needed to be heard. “I cannot change what you feel, but if you wish for me to leave, then please tell me.” You huffed in pain as your cold fingers traced along her arm and then moved to her hands. In some ways like this, you were fragile like porcelain. Sometimes Rhaenyra forgot you were younger than her. And now she felt like the childish one.

“No, I—” She gulps, her fear evident. She didn't want to lose you as well. “Please don’t go.”

Your eye-opening conversation marked the beginning of a new chapter in your life. Connecting with the Bronze Fury required some time to adapt to both yourself and those around you. As the newest rider, you felt the world embracing you. However, what you cherished most was the experience of riding. You hailed from Old Valyria, with the blood of the Dragon in your veins. Riding with Vermithor became a daily routine, a privilege you savored. It was the most incredible gift you could have received.

Rhaenyra slowly became accepting of it as well. You can tell by the way her lips curl when you mount off of your dragon, that she was proud of you. You were a dragon rider! Now, you and she could soar through the skies for eternity if you wished. It was a dream come true, and you were overjoyed that she had forgiven you.

When you were above the skies, it was breathtaking. No view from below could compare to the ones over the clouds. You admit now why you found Rhaenyra’s obsession with flying to be so addicting. It was. When you’re up there, it feels as though nothing matters but you and the pale blue heavens. Vermithor would always groan in his grumpy way to show affection. He enjoyed riding above, you’ve felt his calm heartbeat and knew he too felt as relaxed as you did. When Rhaenyra joined you, which was a regular occurrence, you two would race. Up and down the clouds, like both of you danced in between the midst.

She looked dashing in her rider’s uniform. Black leather, plastered to resemble dragon scales alongside matching gloves. You resembled a familiar approach, having bronze leather strapped all over to stimulate Vermithor’s charming scales. You reminisced that he even once nudged at you from behind as a sign of appreciation for it.

Vermithor, the ruthless wid dragon growing soft because of you. You always had your chance to mention it to him before riding as a reminder of your sincere relationship. As a rider and dragon, the two of you bonded over adventure and tricks. You loved exploring the faraway lands to only encourage the Bronze Fury more driven to fly.

But there were also moments when you were reminded of how reckless you could be with him. On the morning of your uncle’s name day, you convinced Rhaenyra to fly out to the Estermount Sea, close to the Triarchy of Essos. At first, the princess urged you of the danger, the Triarchy were pirates who paraded in raiding others for fun. Additionally, they had been targets of your father’s ships, disrupting trade. Yet you dismissed her pleas and pursued with an eager grin.

The first few moments entering the sea territory were quiet. Both of you were mindful of the harsh waves there and how foggy it was similar to the Stormlands. But Rhaenyra persisted with her worries when you wanted to challenge her to dive down close to the sea.

“We shouldn’t be here!” Her lilac eyes were defined with anxiousness as the princess held her dragon’s reins tightly. However you were indifferent, all too casual in uncharted areas.

“We’re fine! We’re high enough in the sky!” you shout, a broad grin stretching across your face as you gaze at the small islands of Essos below. They look both foreign and beautiful. You’ve never ventured this far from home before.

But that was the last moment of calm you experienced. Suddenly, a harpoon appeared out of nowhere, narrowly missing you and Vermithor by the shoulder. The weapon moved with such speed and force that you had no time to process what was happening. Rhaenyra saw it clearly—she watched as the massive arrow zipped past you, inches away from your body, before plunging into the sea below. Someone had attempted to attack you. The worst followed: the harpoon's impact sent you and Vermithor into a chaotic frenzy. You leaped as your dragon swerved violently, causing you to be thrown from your saddle. For a moment, your body was there, and then it wasn’t.

The princess screamed in desperation, urgently commanding Syrax to dive into the water in an attempt to catch your falling body. Your dragon was beside hers, plummeting and speeding towards the sea floor as you descended. With a whoosh, Vermithor swooped in at the last moment, grabbing you from a fatal plunge. His claws, though sharp, gripped you with surprising gentleness, and you stared in terror as he held you safely.

The memory was deeply distressing. Your hair was now disheveled and tangled from the fall. Tears streamed down your cheeks, leaving your skin glistening and drenched. Rhaenyra could only sob with relief, feeling utterly exhausted and wishing it were all just a nightmare. Yet it was all too real. She felt Syrax’s comforting purr in response to her discomfort. Her father and yours would have been shouting endlessly about this.

Despite everything, all she could remember was the devastated look on your face.

It was madness. Jacaerys would tell her, her son parading around her room as they waited for all of the Targaryen bastards to arrive. Here she was, Rhaenyra Targaryen, in Dragonstone, pursuing the inevitable. The idea of recruiting Dragon Seeds was bizarre but what choice did she have? There was no one left in her family who could claim one. Distant Houses with the blood of Valyria were risky. She had to sacrifice one of her knights to do it. Perhaps this was the only way to win the war.

Years without your presence brought Rhaenyra sorrow and time to reflect on herself. It had been long since she was gifted to speak your name so openly. Everyone knew of her relationship with you. The princess cherished you deeply and with your absence, left the Realm soulfully longing. Rhaenys despises her because of it. She wondered if part of the princess's resentment was directly tied towards you or the fact she was given the title of heir or both. Yet after Alicent’s son had taken her throne, Rhaenys stood by her side, as did her husband.

Meeting all of the Targaryen bastards was daunting at first. Rhaenyra knew many infidelities were common for any lord to allow their seed to spread. To witness so many of them in a room made her all the more encouraged to believe her plan would succeed. It must, it should. She could feel all of their eyes focus entirely on her like a beacon of hope. They believed what they were doing was right to protect the realm. And for that, she will use it to attain.

The Dragonpit had never felt so cold or so secure. It was secluded within a murky cave, miles tall and wide. It’s humid, water drips everywhere as the Black Queen strides down onto the platform where the dragon would be summoned. Forty or so Dragon Seeds followed her, paranoid and trembling about what was to come. She would have to believe in the gods, Rhaenyra sighed. If there is a strategy better than this, she would take it. But Alicent’s son had taken something from her by force and for that, she could not comply.

“Come forward, Vermithor.” Her accent revealed her fluency in the High Vayrlian language. Rhaenyra readied herself for the beast. Seconds of silence loomed over all those in the Dragonpit like a neverending time bomb. The wait was excruciating yet the inevitable was daunting to witness. Out of the shadows comes a growl, which causes a few of the Dragon seeds to slightly panic. But the Queen knew better. And Vermithor as well.

He looms, towering over the cockpit like a living nightmare. His crooked teeth glowed an intimidating appearance for all, and the simmer of his bronze scales shined. “Obey! Stay calm, Vermithor!” Commanded by Rhaenyra as she stares up at the beast, unafraid. She holds an imposing scowl before witnessing the Bronze Fury lower his snout. The Black Queen reaches out of her hand, cautiously and slowly.

Her hand makes contact with his snout and calmly Rhaenyra recognizes the sense of calm Vermithor had with her whenever you were around. It felt as though he resembled your presence and familiarity. This intuition puts a warm smile on her face.

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ckret2 · 4 months ago

Text

Bill's getting a makeover from Pacifica!! Yaaay

And what good will it do him?

Here's chapter 83 of human Bill Cipher being more of a prisoner in his body than in the Mystery Shack by this point: the shack's decided that the only possible thing that can save them from certain doom is getting Bill to flirt with a government agent, and Pacifica's recruited to help.

She does NOT know who her customer is.

####

"Folks, I'm not exaggerating when I say that out of all my duties as mayor, there's no greater honor than getting to host the county's annual Best Baby Ever Pageant and meeting all your beautiful and talented children. When I look in each young shape's bright little eye, and know that in this room are this county's future priests, police officers, teachers, doctors, entrepreneurs, maybe even the mayor of tomorrow... It gives me hope for the future." The mayor lowered his voice conspiratorially, "And it doesn't hurt that I get to declare it a city holiday and lock town hall's door for the day, either."

The parents in the audience chuckled appreciatively. Their children, who would have had the day off anyway and frankly found this a whole lot more work, mostly didn't.

"But all good things must come to an end, and we've reached the end of this year's competition." The mayor gestured to the contestants behind him, lined up in front of a temporary backdrop with a cheapy, shiny curtain. Most of the contestants were being held by a parent, but a few were old enough to fidget in front of the crowd all alone. "We've awarded all the individual prizes for each age bracket—which have gone to kids with any number of sides, with ages ranging everywhere from five years old to five hours old—and now all we have left is this year's grand prize!"

An enormous trophy waited to the mayor's side. It was plastic and hollow, but it was painted gold and taller than most of the children.

The mayor said, "And the winner of this year's Best Baby Ever award is... " Someone at the back of the hall played a pre-recorded drumroll through a tinny speaker. "The overall winner from the Age 0-6 Months category—Billy Cipher!"

Scalene let out a squeal of excitement that was audible over the applause. Bill startled awake in her arm and blinked sleepily around the room.

Several of the other parents on stage surreptitiously shot Scalene dirty looks—of course her kid had won, who could deny a newborn a prize on his birthday? It would be adorable. The judges had probably leaped at the opportunity.

Scalene shifted Bill in front of herself so the audience could see him better and so she could flash a hidden razor-sharp grin to a couple of her defeated rivals. That was exactly why she'd brought him today.

"Congratulations," the mayor said, placing a very tiny crown atop Bill. Bill endured this with patient, sleepy befuddlement. "Billy will be going home with the grand prize trophy and cash prize—as well as a full set of cutlery from our sponser, Knifeco Knives! But of course we'll hand that to mama to handle," he chuckled. "And the top winners from the other brackets will receive four-piece cutlery gift sets from Knifeco, which include—"

Scalene snatched the microphone from the mayor, jabbed him aside with one corner, and gushed to the crowd, "Thank you so much! I'm sure I'm speaking for my little Billy when I say just how grateful and honored he'll be when he's old enough to understand what a gift you've given him." She beamed out at the crowd, her flashy candy apple red makeup (she'd hastily slathered herself in side liner on her way to the pageant) drowning out every other shape on the stage—except for the naturally neon yellow infant in her arm. "As some of the pageant regulars—"

The mayor said, "Scalene, we didn't actually schedule time for the winners to make speeches—"

She sweetly whispered, "No one wants to hear about the sponsor, Otto," and pushed him aside. "As some of the pageant regulars here already know—I see you out there, hello!—I'm a pageant queen myself—(Miss Teen Curvy Strait three separate years!)—so, as a new mother, I'm so pleased that my little golden child is following in the family footsteps. I..."

The spotlights were blazing hot. She didn't understand how Bill—now wide awake again—could stare straight into the piercing lights without even blinking. Maybe he was blind; it would figure, considering what the afterbirth looked like.

Her knees were weak. Her sides screamed in pain. She shifted her grip to hold Bill more securely and to try to coax the sharpest spot of pain on that side to migrate to a fresh spot, shook off a wave of dizziness, and went on, "I hope that this is just the first of many future crowns for me—myyy sweet little Billy, ahem. I can promise you'll be seeing a lot of him in... in the..."

With a thud, she passed out and collapsed against the theater backdrop.

A nearby child squeaked in alarm.

"Scalene?!" Euclid was at the back of the audience, having snuck in during the closing ceremonies and hovered near the door where he could at least hear as the winners were announced. Now, as the mayor and several other pageant parents rushed to Scalene's side, he shoved his way through the crowd. "Move, that's my wife! Dang it, I told you to use your cane!"

One of the other mothers pulled out a copy of the program and fanned Scalene's eye. The mayor scooped up Bill and checked him for injuries. "Are you alright, little tri?"

Still too small to move himself, his eye darted in a panic to his mother's face, to the bright bright spotlights, to his mother again, to the blurry blue of his father buried deep in a sea of other shapes, to the mayor and the many strange faces crowded around him—and then he swallowed back his oversized eye to open his mouth and wail.

Which was the exact moment the stage curtain caught fire.

####

A bearded man with his hair done up in black liberty spikes and a spider web tattoo climbing up his left arm watched as Pacifica dumped several shopping bags of makeup onto her desk. "This visitor must be really important. You never pass up doing these guys' weekly grooming." He was sitting on the barn floor, brushing an alpaca with long, silky white hair.

"You have no idea." Pacifica stuffed the shopping bags in the wastebasket surreptitiously hidden under her far-too-big U-shaped executive desk, and quickly sorted the beauty supplies into their proper order of operations.

"Didn't you say it's Mabel and one of her friends? Mabel's here all the time."

"It's not just any friend, Spiderwebs!" Pacifica pulled a locket out of a desk drawer, ran over to Spiderwebs, and popped it open. "It's this friend! I've never met him before, all I know is that he has the most gorgeous hair I've ever seen. I have got to make a good first impression."

Spiderwebs and the alpaca inspected the locket's contents. He said, "You've never met him and you've got some of his hair in a locket?"

Pacifica flushed. "Th— Shut up!" She snapped the locket shut and stuffed it in a pocket. "I had the locket just lying around anyway, it's whatever."

At the sound of voices outside, Pacifica gasped. "They're here! Do I look okay?!"

Spiderwebs—whose entire outfit cost less than Pacifica's left sock and who quite frankly found the amount of makeup Pacifica wore concerning for a child her age—said, "Sure, fine."

"Great!" Pacifica bounced on the balls of her feet, squealed in excitement, and ran outside to greet Mabel and her friend. "Heyyy there! I'm Pacifica Northwest, it's so nice to meet—" She froze, "you..."

Before her stood a person with the most beautiful golden hair she'd ever seen.

Which was attached to a lady in a t-shirt, an eyepatch, a bedsheet, and cheap novelty slippers that look like fish.

On top of that, the lady was mildly sunburned (obviously no moisturizer), wasn't wearing a bra, was leaning on an umbrella like a cane, clearly hadn't shaved in a while, had a very obvious fake tooth, had a weird bulgy eye, sort of smelled like fish (please don't let it be the slippers), and, to cap it all off, was fat.

Pacifica was working on herself. She was trying to unlearn the lessons about beauty she'd learned from her mom, and from the child pageant circuit, and from all her judgy friends, and from the modeling industry. She was slowly getting comfortable with the idea that physical beauty wasn't everything.

However. So far, that meant she'd been working on accepting ideas like it's okay if sometimes I'm an 8/10 instead of a 10/10. She had not yet tackled the far more daunting proposition of internalizing concepts like it's okay if sometimes other people are ugly.

Which was a problem, if she was going to give this person a makeover.

She swallowed hard and rearranged her expectations for the afternoon.

"Hey Pacifica!" Mabel beamed at her. "Thanks sooo much helping! This is Goldie, he's your customer. Goldie, this is Pacifica." Mabel gasped. "Giorgio, you're lookin' so fiiiine!" She ran into the barn to greet the alpaca Spiderwebs was grooming.

Leaving Pacifica outside with a stranger with a very creepy smile. Pacifica said, "Ummm..."

"The feeling's mutual, haha." On top of everything else, Goldie had a weird, nasally voice.

He, Mabel had said. "Hey, um," said Pacifica, who had never actually been in this position before and wasn't quite sure the polite way to handle it, "not to be rude, but... are you a guy, orrr...?"

"I'm whatever makes this conversation easiest. Don't overthink it!" He swept around Pacifica, hands clasped behind his back and around his umbrella, and sauntered into the barn. Which was kind of impressive, because fish-shaped slippers didn't seem designed for sauntering.

"So... guy?" Pacifica tried.

"For you? Sure," Goldie said indulgently. "Our target's expecting a lady, though, so—" Without turning toward Pacifica, he gestured up-and-down at his body. "Expect to femme this thing up."

Pacifica bit her lips as she swallowed down the most profound disappointment of her life so far, readjusted her expectations for the evening, and figured out what to say. She may not have unlearned the instinct to be shallowly judgmental, but she'd at least made progress on learning to keep it in her head. Most of it. Some—some of it. She'd keep some of it to herself. "Oh-kay. I don't know what Mabel told you, but—just so you know, I'm not running some charity barbershop for the homeless, all right? I'm a professional. I take looks seriously. I'm not going to soften the truth just because you're Mabel's friend, so—if you're not okay with that, you should just go home now."

He turned to glance at her, his trajectory curving to the side as he did; and suddenly she felt like a very small fish being circled by a hungry stingray. "Wow! You and Mabel both had to warn me! At this point, I'll be disappointed if you're polite." Goldie laughed. "Don't worry, I wasn't expecting a barbershop." He used his umbrella to gesture around at the barn, "A barbershop would smell less like farm animals." He flipped up his eyepatch (he had a whole second eye under there?) so he could shoot Pacifica a sly sideways glance. "Maybe personality can make up for looks. Right?"

Pacifica's face flushed red. Personality can make up for looks was what Pacifica's mom said other moms told their ugly daughters when they entered pageants they had no shot of winning. "Hey, how dare you! Maybe this barn is an ugly salon—but it's a beautiful ranch!" She huffed, "Anyway, I didn't have a choice! I couldn't bring you home in front of my parents. You're better suited to the barn."

She regretted it the moment the words were out of her mouth—that was the kind of thing she was trying not to say to people as often—but Goldie's grin only widened. "Just do what you can with this flesh scarecrow I'm wearing, Alpaca. I know what beauty standards around here are like, I know what I look like, and I'm more apathetic about this body than you could possibly imagine. You won't hurt my feelings!" He flipped his eyepatch back down and glanced away from her, eye roving around the barn ceiling like a searchlight trying to find a stray bat. "Nobody goes to a coach because they're expecting to be told 'you're beautiful just the way you are'!"

A coach—like a pageant coach? He was making an awful lot of allusions to the pageant world. Just to make fun of her, or...? "You're lucky I'm not a coach. You couldn't afford my rates."

Goldie laughed. "You'd overcharge!" And then he ignored her, turning his attention to her one full-time employee. "Hey, Spiderwebs! So this is where you ended up! Workin' hard or hardly workin'?"

Spiderwebs looked up from the aplaca he was tending to to frown at Goldie. "Do I know you?"

"Know me? You picked a fight with me once!"

"Oh. Who won?"

"By the time I was finished with you, you were stone-cold unconscious!"

"That's probably why I don't remember it."

While Goldie was distracted talking to Spiderwebs, Pacifica knelt by Mabel—who was crouched to wrap her arms around Giorgio's neck and nuzzle him—and muttered, "Your friend's a major creep."

"What did he do," Mabel asked.

Pacifica thought. What did he do? Say he wouldn't be offended by brutal honesty? Tell her her barn smelled like a barn? "Nothing, it's just—the way he did it."

"Yeah," Mabel sighed. "We're working on his people skills." At least she didn't think Pacifica was crazy.

"Hey, does Goldie have any, like... beauty industry experience, that you know of?"

"His mom was a model," Mabel said. "And he did some stuff with beauty pageants?"

"Yeah? What kind of stuff?"

"Ummm..." Mabel grimaced uncertainly. "Tech... stuff...?" Okay, she clearly didn't have a clue. But that was what she'd wanted to know: yes, he was familiar with the pageant scene. She readjusted her expectations for the afternoon for the second time in as many minutes.

Apparently finished with Spiderwebs, Goldie called, "Anyway, I'm not trying to win ay supreme crowns!" Make that familiar with the pageant scene and wanted to make sure Pacifica knew that. "Just seduce some government agent who already thinks this is hot. You're lucky, we have an easy target!"

Mabel said, "This guy!" She unwrapped one arm from around Giorgio's neck to hold her phone out.

Pacifica took it. It was displaying a distinguished-looking middle-aged gentleman with a no-nonsense frown in a classy black suit. Her eyebrows went up. Ooh. The suit was kind of cheap, but it was well-tailored, which made a world of difference. Looked like he took care of himself, too. Definitely worked out. Too bad about the hair, but hey, Pacifica happened to know a great product that could help with that.

She put a hand on Mabel's arm. "I will help Goldie win his heart."

####

Bill hardly glanced around as Pacifica led them into her office; he was familiar with the space. By daylight, it looked less "rustic" and more "cutesy overpriced modern farmhouse."

"I've got everything set up in my office," Pacifica said, coming in with Mabel behind her. There was indeed a wide variety of makeup supplies spread out on her desk. "But the makeup has to wait, we've got to start with your hair."

Bill fought back a cringe. "Don't want to save the best for last?"

"Always do your hair first," Pacifica said firmly. She ducked through a door into a bathroom connected to her office. "That's your first fashion lesson. You can't wash your hair with a face full of makeup. And trying to use a blow dryer or hair iron around your makeup makes you look like a melting wax figure."

"I've seen those in person," Mabel said. "Pacifica's right, that's not a cute look. Especially when the eyeballs start rolling out! Apparently, wax figures' eyeballs are made out of glass?"

Bill made a beeline for the corner where he knew Pacifica kept a folding chair and asked, "Hey, what happened to all those eyes, anyway?" Mabel always needed new arts and crafts supplies, and he bet those would be great for jewelry.

"We stuck them in a big jar." Mabel was lurking in the bathroom door, watching Pacifica. "They're still cursed, though. They turn to look at you when you walk by."

"Even better."

"I can see why the Pines family likes you," Pacifica grumbled.

Bill could think of three Pines who would heartily disagree with that claim. "Oh, please! They can only wish they were half as weird as me." He set up the folding chair in the open space in front of Pacifica's desk—then froze. Huh.

Bill knew lots of things. He had trillions of eyes. He was used to walking into rooms and just knowing what was in them.

Except this room hadn't existed when he'd had all his eyes. It had been built after his death. So why did he already know what it looked like? How had he known where to find a folding chair?

He shut his eyes, trying to work through the déjà vu to picture what angle he'd seen the room at before, and where his eye must have been in order for him to see it; and then he looked at the wall beside the desk. There were several flat glass cases against the wall with alpaca wool goods sealed inside—a scarf, a sweater... He stared at his own face in the middle of a tapestry of his zodiac, preserved like a hunting trophy in a case labeled "First Blanket." Huh. It wasn't some local hick's den after all. Just a local rich girl roleplaying at being a hick.

He studied his true face for a long moment—and then cast a resentful look at the desk covered in makeup, in shades of beige and red. What would any of this sludge do for him? He'd be just as ugly at the end of it.

But Bill wasn't getting a makeover to look beautiful. He was getting it to seduce a human. And those were two diametrically opposed goals.

He missed his face so much.

"It's not illegal," Pacifica said.

Bill gave her a baffled look. "What?"

She pointed at the blanket, "It's not illegal to display a picture of the triangle guy as long as it's got that ring of symbols around it. It, like, repels him or something."

"Oh, does it," Bill said dryly. "It takes the evil eye to avert the evil eye, huh? Hey, maybe I should get one of these! Whaddaya think, Mabel?"

"I already told you I'm not making another!"

"But how am I gonna repel the triangle guy?" he asked, grinning impishly. "What if I'm in danger! The triangle guy could get me! Wouldn't that be terrible?"

"Knock it off! You already stole Soos's."

He expected Pacifica to come back from the bathroom with a brush or something; instead, she held up a spray bottle and said, "Okay, come in—and bring the chair." Bill's heart sank. "We're gonna have to rinse your hair in my sink, sorry."

Bill suppressed a sigh. "It's not the worst thing I've ever done to this hair!" He picked up the chair to carry into the next room.

"All I can do for now is rinse your hair. I don't have any shampoo for your hair texture because I did not think the situation was going to be this dire. No offense," Pacifica said. "You'll have to shampoo at home. You got the hair product samples I sent to the Mystery Shack, right? Were you able to order the full products? I don't know what your budget looks like."

"Don't worry about it, I still have the leftovers from the samples."

He watched in glee as Pacifica died a little on the inside. "Th— Those were one use sample sizes. It's been a month, how do you still have leftovers."

In truth, Pacifica severely overestimated the amount of hair product needed to keep hair clean; but on the other hand Bill was deliberately showering as little as he thought he could get away with and making up the difference in the downstairs half bath sink, so he didn't think smugly flaunting that he technically knew more about minimum human hygiene requirements than she did would make him look as cool and knowledgable as he wanted it to. "Don't worry about it!"

Bill cast one last longing look toward his true face; and then he followed the humans into the restroom to let them reorganize his stupid human hair.

####

"This is just a temporary measure," Pacifica warned as she dunked a few more of Goldie's curls in the sink. "You have got to take a real shower before your date. You literally smell like fish."

"What kind of fish?" Goldie immediately asked. "Is it salmon? If it's salmon I can work with that."

Sitting on the closed toilet lid, Mabel let out a long-suffering sigh; and Pacifica got the horrifying impression that this was an ongoing conversation.

"It... I don't... know what kind of fish."

Mabel said, "It's probably just the trout guts from yesterday." What the heck was life like in poor people's homes?

In Pacifica's opinion, Goldie's hair was both his biggest asset and his worst disaster area. It was that beautiful, natural, curly gold, like something out of a fairy tale; but it was nightmarishly tangled and there was literal sand in it, and he'd clearly used conditioner at some point in the last few days but he hadn't fully washed it out and it just made more sand stick.

Goldie was sitting in the folding chair with one arm rested on the lip of the sink and his cheek resting on his arm. Pacifica had to alternate between soaking his hair under the faucet and trying to gently untangle it, inch by inch, with a comb. To his credit, he patiently endured it without making a word of complaint, even though both the positioning and the manhandling had to be uncomfortable.

But he'd turned his face away from Pacifica and Mabel as much as he could from his awkward position; and whenever Pacifica moved to an angle that let her glimpse a bit of his face, his eyes were squeezed shut and his mouth was pressed thin in a grimace. The hand resting on the sink's lip had clenched into a fist, and his other hand was digging its (badly painted) fingernails into his thigh through his bedsheet skirt.

Hesitantly, she asked, "Are you comfortable?"

"I'll give it three out of five stars," Goldie said, "but if you want a lower score, I can try to find a worse angle for my neck!" He kept as much tension out of his voice as he could; but now that Pacifica had noticed it, she could tell his voice was a bit flattened.

"Never mind," she said. "No offense, but—when's the last time you combed this?" She'd been saying no offense a lot.

Mabel asked, "Have you done it since I brushed your hair at the sleepover?" He had Mabel doing his hair?

Goldie made a noncommittal noise. "I've washed it since then."

"That's not the same," Mabel said.

"You've washed it?" Pacifica asked skeptically. "Because you look like you've been sleeping in mud." She'd found a few flecks deep in his thick curls.

"Okay, in my defense," Goldie said, "it was just garden-variety heavy metal-enriched local dirt when I went to sleep. It only turned into mud while I was unconscious."

Pacifica stopped combing and leaned over to stare at Goldie, speechless.

With an air of affronted dignity, he said, "It wasn't my idea. I wanted to be indoors."

"Goldie's been having a really bad week," Mabel said.

"I've been having a really bad month," Goldie said.

Mabel asked, "Haven't you had a shower since you got home, though?"

There was a pause. Goldie muttered, "Yeah, but—it's hard to get through all that hair." (The worst part was, Pacifica thought he was telling the truth. The fact that she'd found mud so deep meant he must have washed the majority off the outer layers of his hair.) "I—I've been—tired, okay?"

He had that air of impatient irritation that suggested he was embarrassed, but trying to hide it because he was embarrassed of being embarrassed. Strange from Mr. Apathetic About His Body to be self-conscious. Why? Did he not know how to take care of his hair? (Maybe if he'd properly used the samples she'd sent him...)

But Pacifica thought back to Mabel showing her a lock of his hair at the beginning of summer—and the liquified roots, melted off. That wasn't an accident. Whatever depilatory cream he'd used had to sit there on the roots, it wasn't like he'd just grabbed the wrong product by accident. There was something more than ignorance going on here. Self-sabotage? But if it was intentional, why would he be embarrassed?

She could call him out, interrogate him for it—hey, she was supposed to be his style consultant, she needed to know what was going on—but if he was already getting defensive, he'd just clam up if he thought he was really under attack. Her mom got the same way when she was getting cagey about something and Pacifica was trying to figure out why. So she switched her focus. "Mabel—did you say you brushed his hair?"

"Yeah?"

"You meant 'combed his hair,' right?"

"No, I brushed it," Mabel said.

Pacifica stared at her. "Why."

Mabel stared back. "Because... combs are for short guy hair and for parting your hair? And Goldie doesn't have a part?"

Pacifica looked down at the big ball of frizzy curls that made up the bottom half of Mabel's hair and suddenly understood so much. "Oh, hon." What were her parents like. What did their hair look like. "You're supposed to comb natural curls. And only when they're wet, if you can help it."

"What. Why."

"It keeps the curls together," Goldie said, "instead of separating them all into separate strands."

Mabel's eyes widened. "Wait, that's the secret?! I thought that's what expensive shampoos are for!"

"The expensive shampoos make it worse," he cheerfully informed her. He'd brushed Pacifica off and sat up, chin in hand and hair dripping over his shoulders, so he could talk to Mabel. "It strips off the grease your pores naturally excrete to lube up your hair and replaces it with manmade grease! Which is why your hair dries out when you stop using the fancy shampoo. It's a big scam!"

Mabel stared at him in shock; then asked, hesitantly, "My strawberry shampoo?"

"A dirty traitor," Goldie said. "It's one of those toxic friends that manipulates you into depending on them and then tells you you're nothing without their help! There's half a dozen chemicals you wanna avoid in shampoo—I don't remember all their names but I can draw their chemical structures, Sixer can translate 'em into English for you."

"What else am I doing wrong?"

"You shampoo your hair too often," Goldie said. "And blow dry it. Which is fine if you want to keep that dry frizz! But somehow I don't think you do!"

Okay—so he clearly did understand curly hair care. (Or at least, he understood it as much as Pacifica, whose knowledge came entirely from reading magazine articles that technically weren't aimed at her.) Then why didn't he do it?

Mabel dragged her hands down her face. "So all this time, I've been messing up your hair too? Goldiiie, why didn't you say anything!"

"I didn't really care!"

Pacifica said, "Okay no, I am not standing for this. Goldie, out. Mabel, sink. It's some kind of crime for me to know more about curly hair than you do. I'm showing you how to do this the right way."

Goldie sighed in relief and escaped as Pacifica subjected Mabel's hair to the faucet and comb.

####

(Here's this week's What Was Edited Due To TBOB summary: the pageant scene itself was already planned, but obviously, all the details—it's the day he was born, the mayor's there handing out knives and declaring it a holiday—came from the info we get on Bill's history via TBOB. Finding a way to make the knives make sense was fun. Nothing major in the rest of the chapter was changed.

Hope you enjoyed! Next week is more Pacifica!)

#(I'm forbidding myself from drawing backgrounds in chapter art until March)#(If i draw a background put a skunk in my inbox)#bill cipher #human bill cipher #(for the art & chapter)#pacifica northwest #mabel pines #(for the chapter even tho they aren't in the art. this is pacifica's chapter!!)#scalene cipher #(<- yknow what?? she gets a big scene too. might as well tag her.)#gravity falls #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanart #fanart #my art #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher

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witchthewriter · 5 months ago

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𝐃𝐚𝐞𝐦𝐲𝐫𝐚 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐀𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭'𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

⤷ platonic, gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!

a/n: thank you for the request anon!

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘: Interally, Viserys was very stunned that he was able to have five children with Alicent. Five new Targaryens to add to the family legacy. He was happy about that. But uneasy about how the relationship dynamics would work.

In an (awkward) attempt, Viserys gave his youngest to Daemon and Rhaenyra to raise. As a way for the two sides of his family to connect.

Doing this was both a hopeful gesture and a desperate gamble. He couldn't deny the tension that had long simmered between Alicent's children and Rhaenyra's. By entrusting his youngest—a vulnerable, unifying piece of his legacy—to Daemon and Rhaenyra, he hoped to bridge the rift before it grew insurmountable.

・You can expect the reaction Alicent had when Viserys told her what was going to happy.

・Even though she did not mind giving the child to someone else to raise, Daemon and Rhaenyra were not on her list.

・But she was able to calm herself.

・Rhaenyra and Daemon would ultimately ruin her - showing that Alicent wasn't a bad mother afterall!

・You had been given a dragon egg when you arrived on Dragonstone, it was warm, a swirling oval of pink, blue and purple. Golden accents hinting in the sunlight.

・You were so excited, you were obsessed with dragons, with your House and how everything came to be.

・You LOVED the conquorers Rhaenys & Visenya; and you believed they loved one another too.

・Despite his earlier dispute and nonchalance towards the idea, Daemon takes his role as surrogate father very seriously. Moreso than anyone expected him to.

・Rhaenyra was torn. Torn because this child belonged to her once best friend who had snubbed her for years and now her father wants her to look after it.

・Soon though, she found herself softening toward you.

・He frequently calls you "little dragon" and takes you on dragon rides before you're old enough to handle a dragon on your own.

・Daemon is fiercely protective of the child and makes a point of teaching them about Targaryen history, perhaps even embellishing it to suit his own views.

・He wouldn't say anything, but Daemon secretly enjoys that raising the child annoys Alicent

・Rhaenyra takes on her role as mother quickly and easily. Love was confusing - because you were her little sibling. But she also has the love of a mother towards you.

・Rhaenyra teaches you about politics and ruling, determined to ensure you'll never feel caught between two worlds.

・Alicent is heartbroken to see one of her children sent away but forces herself to believe it’s for the greater good.

・Alicent writes letters to you constantly, but they don’t always reach their destination, thanks to Daemon’s interference.

・You're seen as a traitor by Alicent’s other children, especially Aegon and Aemond, who view the situation as a betrayal by Viserys.

・Helaena, ever the gentle girl, sends gifts and tries to maintain a relationship with you, even sneaking messages through servants.

・Daeron has no idea about you - only what Alicent writes in letters as he too was sent to Oldtown.

・Rhaenyra’s children are initially wary of the new addition, but eventually forms a bond with you, in their own way.

・You're bonded with a dragon at a very young age, one that reflects your mixed heritage.

・Daemon ensures the child learns how to ride and control their dragon, much to Alicent’s horror when she hears tales of their early flights. Alicent sees the dragons as abominations in the eyes of religion.

・When you visit King’s Landing, your presence causes a stir. Your siblings are hostile towards you (beside Helaena), while Rhaenyra’s children are overprotective.

・Obviously, Otto Hightower tries to use the child as a political tool, but Daemon’s fiery temper keeps him at bay. He sees you as his child. His baby.

・Over time, Viserys actually regrets his decision, seeing how it causes more tensions rather than diminishing them. Yet, he clings to the hope that his youngest child will one day unite the family.

・When you really start to grow into yourself and create your own opinions, you basically turn out as a mix of Daemon’s boldness and Rhaenyra’s sense of duty. This...is your Nurture. However, you're Nature is that you have great kindness. Just like Rhaenyra, Helaena and Viserys have.

・You do have a longing to be accepted by your biological siblings...

・Maybe, you have a moment with Daemon and tell him that ... so then he tells you to hop on Caraxes and the two of you will confront Aegon and Aemond...maybe even spy on them. Because Daemon knows they aren't people to want love from.

・As you grow older, you become a key player in the family’s drama, refusing to pick sides and instead working to carve out your own path.

・You may eventually become a mediator between the two factions, though not without significant personal cost.

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mythicmanuscripts · 10 months ago

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SUB!AEMOND HEADCANNONS

Hello lads! Sub!Aemond lives rent free in my brain so I have decided to dump some head cannons for my thoughts on it. If you like what you read here, would like me to expand on some thoughts or would like to request an imagine/blurb, then check out my blog!

Needless to say, NSFW content under the cut.

Aemond tries to seem dominant at first, especially when you first met him. But that is very much just a facade. The first time you kiss, you give his hair a little pull and he whines and whimpers and just melts.

The moment you give him an order, no matter how small, he will do it instantly. Like, he'll be pretending to be in control but then you ask him to pour your wine and instantly he's doing it, and slapping the servant's hand out of the way when they go to do it because you asked him!!

Once he's done whatever you asked of him, he looks at you. He tries to seem indifferent, but he's watching you very closely to see your reaction, he can't relax until you've thanked him and praised him. If you don't praise him, he will think that he did badly.

Speaking of praise, he THRIVES on praise. From the first time you complemented him, he's hooked. Even the smallest complement or praise will make him struggle to hide his smile.

Also, once you start to praise him regularly he just... stops caring about what anyone else to say about him? He's not trying to impress Allicent or Otto anymore, not at all. As long as you're happy with him, he needs absolutely nothing else.

He LOVES being manhandled? He never expected to like it, until one day you're kissing and you just kinda move him to whatever position you want and just melts. He loves it, he will let you do whatever you want with his body.

I actually don't think it would take very long for Aemond to submit and be vulgar? And I think this because I think that the moment you start to praise him and support him he just... he's hooked. You call him pretty and walk away and instantly he's running after you, not wanting to without you for even a moment.

He's so desperate for that love and affection that when you offer it he just can't resist, and then couple that with you actually taking charge and telling him what to do? Marriage. Marriage right now.

alright alright let's do some real NSFW absolute filth now

the day Aemond discovers he can make you cum by giving you head is the day Aemond discovers his new favourite pass time.

Not only it is just very enjoyable for him but he gets to please you?? He gets to please the person who loves him and takes care of him?? He has that person moaning his name?? God he needs it.

He will beg to give you head, will cry and whimper and shake if you tell him to fuck you immediate. He only stops whining when you promise he can use his tongue to clean you up after.

He loves when you're rough, push him against the wall, pull his hair, choke him. He just melts under your touch.

However, and this is very very very important, absolutely no humiliation. None. Zero. He can't handle that, he lets you manhandle him because he knows you love him. Treat him harsh while saying the sweetest things. Call him your sweet pretty boy while choking him.

He loves to vent to you about his day, but he wants to do it between your thighs. Aemond's ideal way to end the day is to crawl into bed, licking and sucking you to his heart's content while he complains about how fucking stupid the small council is every time he takes a breath.

I have more thoughts but this is already longer than I thought so let me know if you want more!

#sub!aemond #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #aemond x reader #house of the dragon imagine #house of the dragon x reader #aemond smut #hotd #house of the dragon fanfiction #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen smut

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year ago

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1968 [Chapter 3: Hermes, God Of Thieves]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 4.5k

Tagging: @arcielee @huramuna @glasscandlegrenades @gemmagirlss1 @humanpurposes @mariahossain @marvelescvpe @darkenchantress @aemondssapphirebussy @haslysl @bearwithegg @beautifulsweetschaos @travelingmypassion @althea-tavalas @chucklefak @serving-targaryen-realness @chaoticallywriting @moonfllowerr @rafeism @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @herfantasyworldd @mangosmootji @sunnysideaeggs

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

They say it’s the most dangerous job in Vietnam. That’s why I wanted to do it.

Chinooks transport men and equipment, Cobras are gunships, Jolly Green Giants are used in search-and-rescue missions. But the Loach—Light Observation Helicopter—is a scout. We have to fly low enough to spot fresh footprints in mud, glints of sunlit metal, blooms of firelight from smoldering cigarettes in the primordial maze of the jungle. And when you go looking for the enemy, sometimes that’s exactly who you find. U.S. Army regulations decree that each Loach must be inspected after 300 hours of flight time, but they rarely make it that long. I’ve been shot down twice already. You roll out of the wreckage, grab your buddies, and book it out of the area before the Vietcong kill you, or worse: drag you back to the Hanoi Hilton so you can die slow.

Currently we’re just north of Pleiku, coasting close enough to the treetops that I could reach out and touch them. I’m in the back seat with my M16, no door between me and the outside world, my hair tied back with a green bandana, the wind hot and sticky. It’s so fucking humid here. Why can’t the communists be trying to take over Malta or Sweden or Monterey Bay, California?

It was the old men who suggested I might be of greatest service to the family by enlisting. I was 25, newly graduated from Columbia Law—a family tradition—and dreading the desk job that awaited me at the Department of Justice. Some people are born to type their lives away in some leather-upholstered office with a view of Pennsylvania Avenue, but not me, and I know this like I know the sun or the stars, ancient truths that can never be changed. And so when Otto and Viserys sat me down—my father had only had one stroke by that point, and was still relatively involved in the day-to-day minutia of putting a Targaryen in the White House—and said Aemond having a brother in Vietnam would make him more relatable, more sympathetic, more noble, not an observer to the carnage of the war but a fellow victim of it…I told them I’d go.

Everyone needs a project. If you don’t have something to distract you from the futility of human existence, it’ll break you in half. I have the Loach. Otto and Viserys, both immigrants ineligible to serve as president of the United States, have their shared ambition of getting their bloodlines in the Oval Office. Aemond has his legacy. My mother has her children, and Criston has my mother. Helaena has her gardens, her bugs, quiet gentle things that she tends with her own thorn-pricked hands. Aegon doesn’t have a project, he never really has, and it’s driven him to the cliff’s edge of insanity. See what I mean?

Anyway, let me tell you something about Vietnam. The Army gives us all the steak, beer, and cigarettes we can handle, but I’d kill for a lemon-lime Mr. Misty—

“Daeron, get down!” the guy to my left screams over the noise of the rotors. His name is Richie Swindell, and he’s from Omaha, Nebraska, and now he’s plummeting out of the helicopter as bullets riddle his chest. I duck low and cover my head as we spiral sideways into the trees, snapping branches, shredding leaves like confetti. I can hear the pilot yelling something, but I can’t tell what. When we hit the earth, the lightweight aluminum skin of the Loach does exactly what it’s supposed to, crumpling to absorb the shock of the collision and reduce trauma to us mortals inside. I scramble out of the rubble on my hands and knees and go to check on the pilot, but it’s too late. He’s already being hauled out by the Vietcong and gets a bullet to the brain. I reach back into the ruins of the Loach to grab my M16, but there are hands around my ankles yanking me out. And now I’m next, and there’s nowhere left to run, and I’m hoping Criston will be there to hold my mother when she gets the Western Union telegram.

One of the soldiers shouts and stops the others, shoving them aside to get a better look at me. With the barrel of his AK-47, supplied by either China or the Russians, he prods at the patch displaying my last name: Targaryen. His compatriots don’t seem impressed. Again, he batters my nametag, speaking to them in Vietnamese.

He knows who I am, I realize. He knows Aemond is running for president.

Now there is a hell of a lot of excitement. The men are talking rapidly amongst themselves, marveling at me, poking and examining me. Then two of them grab me by the arms. I look to the soldier who knows English, at least enough of it to read those nine fated letters. He smiles at me, not like a friend. Like a wolf baring its teeth.

He says: “It is okay, Targaryen boy. We just have some questions for you.”

Guess I’ll be checking into the Hanoi Hilton after all.

~~~~~~~~~~

You wake up to Aegon strumming an acoustic guitar and singing Johnny Cash. The guitar must be new. The one he left at Asteria is plain maple wood and covered in stickers; this unfamiliar instrument is a vivid, Caribbean blue and has Gibson written across the headstock.

“I hear the train a-comin’, it’s rolling ‘round the bend

And I ain’t seen the sunshine since I don’t know when

I’m stuck in Folsom Prison, and time keeps draggin’ on…”

“Let me die. I’m ready to go.”

Aegon laughs, setting his new guitar aside.

“Is Ari okay?”

“Yeah, he’s doing great. And I got the stuff you asked for.”

Sure enough, there are three roomy sundresses hanging from the coatrack—you wanted to have options in case you had trouble finding one that fit correctly, though you gave Aegon a general neighborhood for sizes—as well as an array of cosmetics on the nightstand, including a bottle of shimmering champagne-colored nail polish. “I’m really impressed. You barely forgot anything. Though I will look odd with blush but no foundation.”

“Ohhhhh. Fuck.”

“And this isn’t human shampoo. It’s for dogs. That’s why it has a mastiff on the label.”

“I thought it looked like you,” Aegon says, smirking mischievously.

“Well, thanks for trying.”

“And I found this at the gift shop.” He tosses a card at you like a frisbee. You open the envelope to see a cartoon cow on the front, black and white and wearing a huge copper bell and a party hat. Inside is printed: May your graduation be legenDAIRY! Aegon has crossed it out and written instead I thought this was blank…congrats on the new calf! followed by his illegible scribble of a signature.

“A cow,” you say, smiling despite yourself. “Because I’m Io.”

“You’ve got about a million of those pouring in from all over the country. Congratulations cards, get well soon cards, we really hope your husband gets elected so we aren’t consumed by nuclear Armageddon cards. And then Richard Nixon sent a pipe bomb.”

You set Aegon’s card on your nightstand, half-open so it will stay standing upright. Then you drink the apple juice from the tray the nurses left for you. “Aemond’s not here yet?”

“Uh, no, not yet,” Aegon says vaguely, kicking his feet up on the ottoman. He’s been shopping for himself too. He’s wearing a denim jacket over a black The Kinks t-shirt, ripped jeans, moccasins. He uses the remote to turn on the television: The Dating Game. “So, what did you study in college? You went to Manhattanville, right?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “You really don’t listen when I talk, do you?”

“I try not to.”

“Yes, I went to Manhattanville. And I studied math.”

“No way. You didn’t major in math.”

“Women can’t do math?” you tease. “That’s sexist.”

“I didn’t say women can’t do math. I’m saying there’s no way your parents sent you to a housewife factory like Manhattanville College of the Sacred Heart to get a math degree.”

“They didn’t, which is why my bachelor’s is in math education. So half-math, half-kid stuff. Makes it a little more…domestic.”

“Cool. Teach me math.”

“What, really?”

“Yeah. Really.” He digs around in the pockets of his jeans until he finds a receipt, then locates a pen in the nightstand drawer. He hands both to you and then stands so he can watch over your shoulder as you work. You can smell him: cigarette smoke, rum, the cool grey rain that is falling outside. It drips off his hair, carelessly slicked back from his face.

“What’s something you don’t know how to do?” you ask, expecting to get an answer like exponents or calculating the volume of a pyramid.

“Uh. Long division.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Going all the way back to 4th grade. Alright then.” You begin writing. “So let’s take a large number—this year, 1968—and divide it by…hm…how many kids you have. So five.”

Aegon whistles. “Five kids. Goddamn.”

“Yes, and you probably couldn’t name them, but there are indeed five. Trust me, I’ve counted.”

“Okay, this is the part I don’t get. Five goes into 19 almost four times. But there’s no way to say almost four.”

“There certainly is not. Five goes into 19 three times, so we put a three up top and then subtract 15 from 19. We get four, drop down the six from 1968, and now we’re dividing 46 by five.”

“Nine.”

“Right. Five times nine is 45. So the nine goes up top and we subtract 45 from 46.”

“45 is basically 46. Let’s call it a day. Close enough.”

“No,” you insist. “We get one, then drop down the eight from 1968, which makes 18.”

“And five goes into 18 three times.”

“Where’s the three go?”

“Up top,” Aegon says, observing fixedly.

“And then we subtract…”

“15 from 18, which is three. So the answer is 393.3.”

“Wrong. Loser.”

“What! How am I wrong?!”

“You don’t just put the three after the decimal,” you say. “You drop down a zero—”

“A zero?! Where the fuck did a zero come from?”

“From the fact that 1968 is a whole number, so it’s actually 1968.0.”

“Oh.” Aegon blinks a few times. “Gotcha.”

“Add the zero after the three to get 30—”

“And 30 divided by five is six. So the answer is 393.6.”

“I am so proud. You are officially as smart as an average nine-year-old.”

He takes the receipt from you and studies it. “This was super enlightening.”

“You want to try calculus now?”

He cackles and sinks back into his plush salmon pink armchair, his miniature dominion in your hospital room kingdom. “You like teaching?”

“I love it,” you admit. “I had to do a semester of student teaching the spring before I graduated, and at first I was kind of petrified. But the kids are so hilarious and interesting and full of excitement about everything, and they’re sweet in totally unexpected ways. They’d chatter all through a lesson and make me want to jump out a five-story window, and then bring me some of their Easter candy. That’s when I realized they weren’t trying to torture me. They’re just kids.”

Aegon is meditative. “Yeah, kids are fun.”

“I wasn’t aware you had much interest in them.”

“No, I do.” And something about the way he says it makes you feel bad for taking the shot. He runs his fingers through his hair, perhaps debating how much he wants to share. “You know Viserys made us all do these little missions after college so we could learn about the real world, right?”

“Right.” Daeron spent his on lobster boats up in Maine, Helaena learned horticulture in France, Aemond helped register voters in Mississippi and Alabama. You can’t recall ever hearing about Aegon’s.

“I got sent to Yuma, Arizona to teach on the reservation there. When I stepped off the bus, I thought it was hell on earth. And then when my time was up I didn’t want to leave.”

“What did you teach?” And then you add: “Hopefully not math.”

“No, definitely not math,” he says, smiling but distant, remembering. “English. Books, poems, all that. But my favorite thing to do was take a song and break it down line by line, really get them curious about what the author was thinking. And then of course we’d all sing it together. I’d play guitar, they’d run around jumping on the furniture, it was a good time.”

“But you couldn’t stay.”

“No,” he sighs. “I had to come back here so I could get dragged kicking and screaming through law school and then married off.”

“And elected mayor of Trenton,” you say, trying to make him laugh. It works.

“Oh God, we are not talking about that. Most miserable two years of my life.”

“So far.”

“Yeah. If Aemond wins and makes me the attorney general, that might be worse.”

“Knock knock!” comes a cheerful trill from the doorway, and then Alicent and Mimi rush in. They descend upon your hospital bed, cooing and soothing, squeezing your hands and trying to smooth your untamed hair.

“What did it feel like?” Mimi is morbidly fascinated, swaying a little, eyes bleary with gin. “When they were digging around in there?”

“Well, obviously she was sedated, hon,” Aegon says, a bit impatiently. He and Mimi share a nod in greeting, no warmth, no depth. You wonder what it must be like for someone you spent so much time tangled up with to become a stranger.

“Oh, darling, I barely recognize you!” Alicent says. “You poor thing, you must be in such awful pain. I’ve never seen you like this before. Your face, your hair…”

Aegon gives her a quick, disapproving look and then lights a cigarette of the traditional variety. He puffs on it as he gazes at the window, like he’s counting the raindrops on the glass.

“I’m feeling a lot better now,” you assure Alicent.

Her eyes flick down to your belly, still swollen beneath your blankets. “Will it scar terribly, do you think?”

You shrug; you haven’t thought much about that part yet. “It’s a battle scar. Aemond gets them in the real world, I get them in here. Same war, different arenas.” You peek out into the hallway. “Is Aemond…is he with you…?”

“He wanted to be,” Alicent says, like it’s a consolation. “But, Washington, you know…the primary there is so close. So, so close. He kept saying that he and Humphrey were neck and neck, and they still are, I believe. Every vote counts, and he’s campaigning all over the Puget Sound.”

“He’s still in Washington?” Your voice is flat with disbelief, with disapproval.

“He wishes he could be here with you and the baby,” Alicent insists, stroking your hair. “I’m sure he’ll fly back as soon as he’s able. But he’s thinking of you so, so much. That’s why he let me and Mimi leave this morning.”

“Right,” you reply numbly. And then you remember what you’re supposed to say. “The election is important. It affects everyone, our son included. For the greater good, personal sacrifices are necessary.”

“We saw him,” Alicent tells you, radiant with joy. “Aristos Apollo.”

“So precious,” Mimi says. “But so small! And trapped in that hideous machine! We could only see him through those little round windows.”

Aegon casts her a violent glare. You are alarmed. “He’s not in an incubator?”

“They have him in a…what was it called, Mimi?” Alicent asks. Mimi has nothing useful to contribute. “A hyperbaric chamber, I think. To help him get more oxygen.”

“But he’s fine,” Aegon says firmly, giving his wife and mother a warning. “Didn’t the doctor say it was a precaution?”

“He did, he did,” Alicent promises you. “Yes, just a precaution, that’s what we were told. The doctor has been trying to reach Aemond, apparently, but since he landed in Washington, he’s never in one place for long…”

“We should buy gifts for the baby,” Mimi says excitedly. “Adorable hats and shirts and trousers. Although even the tiniest clothes might be too big for him right now.”

“Yes, gifts! We must shop for gifts. Oh, it’s all been such a whirlwind. We hurried off the plane to come straight here, love,” Alicent tells you. “Can Mimi and I get you something for dinner?”

“Sure, sure.” You are distracted, still thinking of Ari. “Anything is fine. Wherever you end up.”

“Would you like me to bring a priest to pray with you? Saint Nicholas Church is right around the corner.”

You smile. “That’s very kind, but I think I’d prefer some books.”

“Baby clothes, dinner, and books. We can do that. Can’t we, Mimi?”

“We absolutely can,” Mimi agrees with tipsy, girlish enthusiasm.

As an afterthought, Alicent says: “Aegon, have you been here all this time? You must be exhausted. We’re going to book a suite at the Plaza, there will be plenty of room for you too. We can drop you off there on our way to go shopping, if you’d like.”

“I’ll stay,” he says softly, watching the rain again.

Alicent’s brow furrows; her dark doe-like eyes are puzzled. “Alright, dear.” Then she and Mimi disappear into the hall.

“Is he really okay?” you ask Aegon when they’re gone.

“Yes. That’s exactly what the doctor told me, just a precaution. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Aegon,” you say, and don’t continue until he meets your eyes. “Why are you still here?”

He lights a fresh cigarette. “I don’t think you should be alone.”

“I’m not alone anymore. Alicent visits me, Mimi visits me.”

“Yeah, but you feel like you have to put on a show for them. Play the perfect Targaryen wife with all that stoic, dignified, unshakable faith. You hate me, so there isn’t as much pressure.”

“I don’t hate you, Aegon.”

“Yes you do. You always have. You don’t have to be polite about it.”

“Well…I have valid reasons to hate you.”

He smiles, exhaling smoke. “Right.”

“And you hate me too.”

Now he shrugs, avoiding your gaze. “Everybody worships you, everybody thinks I’m a waste of chromosomes, is it really that hard to psychoanalyze?”

“No one worships me. They worship Aemond.”

“But you’re a package deal. Jack and Jackie, Franklin and Eleanor.”

You trace the lines in your palm with a fingertip, not knowing what to say. You’re so close to Aemond, so inseparable, and yet so vastly far. “Will you wheel me downstairs to see Ari after dinner?” It’s best to go at night when there are less staff around to try to stop you.

“Sure. You want a Mr. Misty?”

“Yeah. Lemon-lime.” That’s what he brought you last time, and it wasn’t bad for a cardboard cup of florescent green sugar water.

“Got it,” Aegon says, and leaves you alone.

You look at the phone on your nightstand. You’ve tried to call Aemond to no avail, though you spoke to Criston twice; on both occasions he said Aemond was in the middle of an interview. It’s understandable that you would have difficulty getting ahold of your husband while he’s off campaigning, leaping from town to town like an electric current. There’s nothing unusual about it at all. But Aemond could call you anytime he likes. You haven’t moved; he knows exactly where you are.

You keep staring at the phone. It doesn’t ring.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s night again, and you swim up from morphine-soft dreams into your hospital room, dark except for the flashing color of the television, low volume, NBC news. Aegon is curled up in the chair he’s claimed, snoring and half-covered with a cheap, pale blue hospital blanket. And it’s a strange feeling—a foreign language, a new religion—to realize that you’re relieved to see he’s still here, that there’s a comfort in it, a safety.

Suddenly, Aemond is on the television screen. You sit up in bed as gingerly as you can, leaning in, listening close. He’s rarely looked better: blue suit, prosthetic eye, rested and measured and sharp. He’s giving a speech at the Hotel Sorrento in Seattle, three hours behind the time you’re living in on the East Coast. Flanking him on the stage are Criston, Otto, Helaena, Fosco, the eight charming children. Five-year-old Cosmo keeps waving at the camera.

“Right now, my wife and newborn son are at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City,” Aemond says, beaming, and the audience whistles and cheers. You should smile, but you can’t. He’s not supposed to be there. He’s supposed to be on his way home. “But tonight I’m here with all of you, fighting with everything I’m made of to win the great state of Washington. And I won’t leave until the job is done, because I know the greatest act of devotion that any of us can show our children is to ensure they grow up in a better America than the one we find ourselves in today…”

You look over at Aegon and see that his glassy eyes are open, watching the television just like you are. You don’t know how long he’s been awake. The two of you exchange a glance, and there is a silent, shared recognition of what won’t be said. You can’t criticize your husband. Aegon isn’t going to kick you while you’re down. You are grateful for this. It is a conviction he has only recently acquired.

Aegon pulls his blanket up to his chin and rolls over, turning away from you. You close your eyes and dream of being a child back in Tarpon Springs, mesmerized as you watch Greek sponge divers emerge from the bubbling depths in their suits of rubber armor.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s the afternoon of the 13th. The Washington State Democratic Convention is being held tonight, and so win or lose Aemond will be walking into Mount Sinai Hospital tomorrow. He has to, he doesn’t have a choice. He’ll have no excuse to be anywhere else, and journalists will be swarming at the entranceway like bull sharks in the Gulf of Mexico.

It’s raining again. You’re reading one of the books that Alicent brought you, Dr. Spock’s Baby and Child Care. You had been meaning to get a copy before you were consumed by Aemond’s campaign and then his near-assassination, his maiming, his fleeting brush with oblivion. Aegon is cross-legged in the salmon pink armchair and plucking lazily at his guitar, singing so low no one outside the room would be able to hear him. It’s a Rolling Stones song, slow and mournful.

“You don’t know what’s going on

You’ve been away for far too long

You can’t come back and think you are still mine.”

As you flip a page and raindrops patter gently against the window, you find yourself thinking how easy this is, your hair undone and your feet bare, no photos to take or lines to remember, no practiced smiles, no overwrought itineraries, only compassion that is quiet and small and real.

“Well, baby, baby, baby, you’re out of time

I said, baby, baby, baby, you’re out of time…”

Aegon abruptly stops playing, cutting off with a twang. You look up at him. He’s gazing back with eyes that are filling up his face, glistening with horror. You turn to find out what he’s seen. There’s a doctor standing in the doorway, but he’s not alone. There’s a Greek Orthodox priest with him.

“Mrs. Targaryen,” the doctor begins, then glances to the priest. The holy man—black robes, gold chains, clasping a komboskini like the one Aemond keeps in a box on his writing desk at Asteria, stained with his own blood—gives an encouraging nod. “We’ve tried to reach your husband. We’ve called his hotel in Tacoma several times, but the senator must be out campaigning, and…” Again, he looks to the priest. Aegon is setting his guitar on the floor, covering his mouth with his hands.

Ari. Too early, too fragile, too defenseless in a world full of wolves.

Your words come out in a whisper. “He’s gone, isn’t he?”

“We must remember, child,” the priest tells you, vague patronizing pity. “That the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, but what is lost to us in this life is never truly gone. Those we love wait for us on the other side in paradise—”

“Please leave. I don’t want to talk to a priest. I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

I just gave birth to him. I just started to believe he was mine.

The doctor begins: “Ma’am, I’m so sorry to have to deliver this news—”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone, I want to be alone. So please leave,” you beg, your voice breaking. “I want to be alone. Please leave me alone.”

The doctor looks to Aegon. A man’s permission is sought. “Go,” Aegon manages, raspy and strangled, and the doctor obeys.

“God bless you and your husband, Mrs. Targaryen,” the priest says as he departs with a swift bow. You can’t reply. You’re biting back sobs as the tears begin to slither down your cheeks, scalding and furious, not just grief but the bottomless rage of Nemesis.

Aegon is watching you, not knowing what to do, not knowing what you need.

Aemond would want you to be stoic. Aemond would want you to have faith, forbearance, grace. “It is God’s will.”

“Hey.” Aegon reaches across the space between you, grabs your hand, holds it so tightly your bones ache. Still, you wouldn’t want him to let go. “You’re allowed to be fucked up about this. I am too.”

When your eyes drift to him, they are glaring and heartsick and poisonous. “Where’s Aemond?” Why isn’t he here?

Aegon sighs deeply and picks up the phone with his free hand. He spins the rotary dial with his index finger and then holds the handset to his ear. He waits as it rings. “Pantages Theater, Tacoma, Washington,” he tells the operator. A minute or more crawls by. “I need to speak to Senator Targaryen immediately. Yes, I know there’s a convention underway there, that’s why I’m calling you. Go get him.” More minutes, eternal, terrible beyond description. “What do you mean you can’t find him?!” Aegon snaps. “Okay, give me someone else. Anyone travelling with him. Criston Cole, Fosco Viviani, Otto Hightower, Helaena Targaryen. Hurry up. Let’s go.”

Outside the rain grows heavy and loud; it falls in sheets against the misty windows. In the distance, thunder growls.

“Hi, Criston, it’s me. He needs to come home now. Right now.”

Aegon closes his eyes. Criston must be arguing with him.

“No, you don’t understand,” Aegon says, forcing the words to leave his lips and ride the wires to the West Coast, to where the sun sets, to where the future is dawning. He’s still holding your hand. “Aemond doesn’t have a son anymore.”

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii x reader #aegon targaryen ii x you #aegon targaryen x you

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hold-him-down · 1 year ago

Text

Hold Him Down (pt. 1)

TW: Med Whump, Gratuitous Med Whump, Medical Restraints, Chemical Restraints, Noncon Touch, Referenced Noncon, Parker Destin, Institutionalized Slavery, Noncon Drugging, Conditioning, Referenced Food/Water Restriction, Referenced/Described STI testing, Referenced/Described Shock Collar, Whumper POV, literally over 4k words wtf, get leo a pet fish and warm hug when.

Notes: This is one of those things that I'm, as usual, not sure needs to or should exist, but I spent so much time writing it that I couldn't just NOT post it, sooo here it is. Parts 4-6 coming eventually. Takes place in the 12-ish hour span after Leo is prematurely returned from our best guy, Parker Destin. This may be one that I revisit and try to refine down the line.

✥ ✥ ✥

From behind a two-way mirror, Handler Otto Gray and an unfamiliar intake handler stand, arms crossed over their chests. They watch Leo quietly, relieved that, at least for now, the dust has settled.

His eyes finally closed, a few hours earlier, following a massive fight that ended in a sizable dose of Lorazepam. Even drugged, it took what felt like ages for him to settle down, and even longer for his body to finally go limp. Hours later, the salty tear-streaks are still visible on his cheeks.

The doctor asked them to wait on cleaning him up; in spite of the second handler’s objections, in spite of the apparently innate desire to put this unconscious boy in his place, the handler turned on his heels and left in a huff. Otto hesitated, sparing a quick glance at Leo. He wondered, briefly, how he had managed to fail so spectacularly, before dismissing the thought all together. Against his better judgment, he squeezed Leo’s hand briefly, then he checked to make sure the restraints were appropriately secured and exited. Today was sure to be a long day, sure to be even longer if they could not get a handle on whatever panic-induced psychosis Leo was clearly grappling with.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, shift change happened. The handler who had spent the evening scowling at Leo’s lifeless form clocked out, muttering a, “Good luck,” to his replacement. Otto stayed, though, with a quick glance at handler Nick Ford, according to his name tag, and a muttered greeting. Hopefully, he thinks, this one is better suited for this type of work than the last. The doctor comes up behind them, and the three stand in silence for a moment.

“He’s asleep?” the doctor asks, which is a question that could ordinarily be answered with a quick glance through a chart, but Leo has a notoriously unpredictable response to sedatives and that, if nothing else, has been noted numerously in his file.

Otto nods, his jaw locked. “I think so.”

Leo’s wrists are red, raw where each strap hugs them, but for the last few hours, they have been still. Mostly.

“For how long?” the doctor asks, thumbing through the notes from the night before. A colorful account of the events that led to this moment, which, although maybe not immediately helpful, might lend insight into the inner workings of Leo Evans.

“A couple hours,” Handler Ford supplies, and Otto is struck suddenly with a potent distaste for how this night has played out.

It’s not out of the ordinary, exactly, for a worker to require this level of support after a contract. He hoped, though, maybe naively, that Leo was more resilient than this.

He’s been drugged out of his mind, and as hard as he fought it, the drugs eventually dragged him under. To Otto’s understanding, it was only after several hours of trying to calm him down using other methods that he was eventually medicated, and, to Otto’s understanding, the doctor intends now to keep him drugged until he’s under control. He idly wonders if there’s a chance at modifying those plans. Leo is tough, sometimes damn near impossible to work with, but they had found a kind of balance when Otto was his handler. And he thinks, now, he can perhaps spare everyone some heartache if he can have a go at his former trainee.

Otto peers in closer to the window as Leo gasps, his wrists pulling once, lightly, at the straps.

“Alright,” the doctor says, at the same time that Leo’s eyes crack open. As Handler Ford reviews the notes with the Doctor, Otto studies Leo. He hadn’t been an easy trainee. He had been downright defiant at times, resistant to every standard training tool the DLS employed. Otto had been called in in his second month, after his primary handler was fired for, more or less, losing his patience with Leo one time too many, with Leo landing in the ICU. Even after that, success came in short, nearly unpredictable bursts.

When Leo had finally been cleared to take his first contract, that would usually have been the end of Otto’s time with him. But, at least in some of his most challenging successes, he liked to keep an eye on them, if not just to see how they did. He would tell you he did this to improve his own methods, and to help him understand the longer term implications of his work. That wouldn't be the whole truth, though.

Leo was one of the select few that Otto found himself keeping an eye on. He had gotten through his first contract easily, and Otto recalled the feeling of immense relief as he read through Ms. Smith’s post-contract interview. Leo had been put in a short term holding site and almost immediately secured his second contract. That one wasn’t set to terminate for three months still, so when Otto got the notification that Leo’s file was being updated last night, he called in some favors with the intake department.

He stands here now, mostly frustrated, a little bit confused, and perhaps, maybe slightly sympathetic. Simmering beneath all that is anger, misplaced but a constant undertone that, he worries, may drive some of his decisions today. He buries it as deeply as he can. It serves neither him nor Leo.

Leo blinks hard toward the ceiling, but seems to clock his circumstances quickly. His head turns toward the mirror and for a moment, Otto thinks Leo can see him, right through him, right into the place Leo used to occasionally access and attempt to exploit.

Otto stares at his eyes, red, heavy, and unfocused, and wills Leo to remain calm. Leo swallows, and pulls again against the restraints.

Stop, Otto silently commands. But he doesn’t. Of course, he wouldn’t.

“What are the odds he’ll take it on his own?” Otto hears from next to him.

“What?” Otto responds, shifting his focus.

“The meds?” Handler Ford says as he holds up a small cup of pills in one hand, a syringe filled with an off-white liquid in the other.

“Oh,” Otto responds. The odds, he thinks, are nonexistent. The good news is this isn’t explicitly his problem anymore.

“Any pointers?” Handler Ford asks then. At Otto’s look, he says, “You worked with him, right?”

Otto nods, but doesn’t offer any pointer. Handler Ford stares at him intently, so, out of some misplaced desire to prove that he is not, in fact, completely incompetent with his trainees, he says, “A long time ago. I did his initial training after his first handler got canned.”

“What for?” Ford asks. He’s stalling, Otto thinks.

“Assault,” Otto supplies. He inclines his head toward the room, and turns away from Handler Ford, re-orienting himself toward the window.

“Wish me luck?”

“Good Luck,” Otto says, not unkindly, as the handler disappears behind the door. Moments later, he is in Leo’s room.

Leo’s demeanor immediately shifts, from alarmed and fighting to gain function to panicked, but he stills, he swallows, he forces his eyes on the handler, and takes a breath. Good boy, Otto thinks.

He’s whispering something, but Otto can’t make out the words. He thinks he’s heard Parker’s name, and Handler Ford shakes his head.

Leo nods, then, and takes one of those deep, shuddering breaths that usually mean he’s on the edge of some big feelings. Otto, once more, leans closer to the window.

Handler Ford begins listing out the things he needs Leo to do this morning, and Leo’s brow creases as he takes it in, nodding after each item, but seemingly oblivious to the actual requests.

Inside the observation room, the doctor joins Otto.

“Do you know what happened?” Otto asks the doctor. Otto, immediately realizing he could be asking any number of things, clarifies, “That led to this. He didn’t have an issue after his first contract.”

“Sometimes they get freaked out after spending some time with a particularly cozy buyer,” he replies.

Otto nods.

In the room, Handler Ford’s hand is on Leo’s neck, pressing under the collar. Leo stays still, but Otto can see the fear in his eyes, behind layers and layers of grief. It’s odd, seeing him like this.

“You didn’t last too long, did you?” Handler Ford is saying, dripping condescension, as Leo swallows, holding in a fresh wave of tears.

✥ ✥ ✥

“It’s nothing personal, Leo.” Parker’s driver waits for Leo just beyond the threshold. In his hand, Parker holds out a DLS-issued bag.

Leo nods.

Parker grabs his face between his hands and presses his lips to Leo’s forehead. “You have to understand I didn’t plan for this,” he’s saying, but Leo’s ears are ringing. “I would have waited to take on a worker if I had any inclination I would be called away.” His words are kind, Leo thinks, but there’s almost a note of condescension under them.

Leo feels a sort of emptiness spreading throughout him, a cold void that precedes what he could only describe as terror. For what’s next. For losing this thing, that he isn’t sure he should want, but he wants, so desperately. He clings to it.

“Parker, I– I can,” Leo starts, taking a step back. He can, what? fix this? do better? be better? “Please don’t do this…”

Parker’s thumbs glide across Leo’s cheeks.

“I thought they beat that out of you,” Parker says, his lips pulled into a half-smile. Leo falters, the words he has prepared are completely knocked out of him.

“I– I’m sorry,” is all he can now formulate. He can feel his circumstances changing as every second passes. He’s going to be sick. The feeling of bile rising wars against the knowledge that if he is sick at this moment, it will be unforgivable.

Parker’s hands drift down to Leo’s shoulders and he pulls him into a half-hug, pressing his forehead against Leo’s.

“Don’t worry about it,” Parker says. He wants to say more, Leo thinks.

Instead, Parker uses the grip he has on Leo’s shoulder to push him away and rakes his eyes slowly over Leo, from his head to his toes. He smiles and grabs the collar of Leo’s shirt, poking out from under a deep blue sweater. It’s Parker’s favorite.

He inclines his head briefly toward the door and Leo counts every breath he takes.

“They said not to send your books and clothes and things,” Parker explains as he pulls open the front door. “It’ll just go to waste. I can donate it, if you’d like?”

And Leo, in that moment, hesitates. Can he ask Parker to keep it, for when he gets back from his trip? Maybe, he thinks. Maybe Parker hasn’t considered that Leo could stay in the house and look after it, and he doesn’t need to send him away.

And then it occurs to Leo that maybe Parker is using this time to help figure out the gaps in his training, because they’ve been butting heads lately, and if that’s the case, he wants to tell Parker that he will take this time seriously, and will be better suited to be what Parker needs him to be when he returns.

Leo opens his mouth to say this, to say any of it, even just to tell Parker that he will try harder when he gets back from his trip.

But the panic wraps itself around Leo’s throat, and Leo says nothing.

✥ ✥ ✥

“Are you ready to behave?” The words distort around the edges and Leo blinks hard, willing himself to focus.

This handler, Leo thinks, is unfamiliar to him. There is a fuzziness to both his vision and his thoughts, compounded by blurry memories of the night before. The handler is standing just outside of his line of sight, offering terse reprimands each time he fails to respond. He is trying, though. He wants to tell them he’s trying, but his tongue feels too thick and his voice won’t work.

There’s an added danger that Leo tries not to acknowledge, even silently. They’ve put a training collar on him, but they haven’t gone so far as to shock the world into focus. Even if his limbs didn’t weigh a thousand pounds, he would not be able to lift them. Thick canvas straps wound tightly around each wrist and ankle keep him in place, and Leo blinks at the unexpected wave of terror: these people can and will hurt him with no regard for the fact that he is wholly unable to protect himself.

The drugs help him accept these facts, but do not help him to forget them.

Memories of the night before claw their way to the surface. Of the sound of his own screaming, of gloved hands pinning him down, of his clothing being pulled off of his body. Of Parker's favorite sweater, which he held tightly to his chest, as it was ripped from his arms. He flinches at the memory of himself, just [some?] hours earlier, as he begged them to let him keep it, as a needle digs its way deep into his thigh. The darkness was quick to swallow him up after that.

And then there are other memories, too, from later in the night. Distorted flashes of the handlers coming to visit him, of cold hands pulling off the thin blanket that had been draped over him. He wondered if the drugs might ease the pain. When they didn’t, he allowed himself a moment of relief in the hope that this might all just be written off as a drug-induced nightmare in the light of day.

And now, the drugs fading, and the light of day doing nothing to erase ache deep inside of him, he swallows, blinking slowly, and longs only for the reprieve that unconsciousness may bring. That maybe they will drug him again, before they touch him again. His stomach turns over, and he draws his focus to the lights on the ceiling.

“He’s lost some weight,” he hears the doctor say, but they aren’t speaking to him, so he closes his eyes and taps each finger on the pad beneath him, just to see if he can feel them all.

“His buyer kept him hungry,” the handler replies. He can, he thinks, feel them all. “My understanding is he kept him on a pretty strict eating plan.”

Leo recoils, hearing Parker’s voice in his head. The DLS has asked that you start out on a kind of strict meal plan for a little bit. He blinks back tears at the unwelcome memories. Of Parker, event after event, selecting everything he ate, everything he touched. Of the imperceptible nod Parker would give him when he reached for something at the dinner table. Or the terse shake of his head when he moved to something unacceptable.

Leo wants to tell these men that Parker didn’t keep him hungry. That he was just enacting the plan he had been given.

“I’ll need a copy of it,” the doctor responds, and Leo squeezes his eyes shut, forcing his mind blank.

“It’s in his file,” the handler says. Leo’s ears ring.

“Good.” The doctor presses his hands fingers into the back of Leo’s neck, the collar momentarily tightening as the fingers explore under it. “He’s dehydrated,” he says, and Leo can picture the handler typing his notes. “Are you going to tell me the buyer restricted his water intake too?”

From somewhere far away, the handler laughs, and Leo’s expression tightens, momentarily stunned by the mockery.

“It’s alright,” he thinks he hears, but the voices are so far away now. He doesn’t know that he’s crying until he feels a thumb wiping at his cheek, and Leo sucks in a breath. “You’re alright.”

The world stands still for what could be seconds or minutes or longer. When the doctor’s hand finally migrates upward, and a light is shined into each of Leo’s eyes, he is momentarily blinded, but immediately aware that he has lost time.

The doctor’s fingers, inches from his face, snap once. “Hi, Leo,” he says simply. And then, “I’m Dr. Grant. Are you with me?”

Leo swallows, which hurts, and other memories slide to the surface of the night before. He tries to nod. The movement makes his head pound. “Yes,” he whispers, but based on the doctor’s– what was his name?– grimace, he doesn’t think it came out right.

The doctor sighs and seemingly gives up on Leo’s active participation, instead pulling the blanket down to Leo’s waist and putting a stethoscope to Leo’s chest. It’s nothing, Leo thinks, but it’s never just this. He closes his eyes again and begins counting in his head. Every so often, he forgets where he left off, and he starts over.

The doctor explains what he’s doing as he works, and Leo wonders idly if it’s for his benefit or for some other reason. To pass the time, and maybe to distract himself, Leo imagines a new doctor in the adjacent observation room, learning this trade. He wonders if it’s a good doctor or a bad doctor, and opens his eyes just enough to glance toward the mirror, to see if he can spot him back there. There are no good doctors here, he decides, and starts counting again.

The doctor looks at Leo’s wrists and describes them to the handler, who writes it all down. He examines Leo’s arms and his shoulders and his chest and his stomach as he searches for signs that Parker hurt him beyond what would be considered reasonable, which he didn’t, Leo wants to say, and that Parker will come back for him after his trip, and that he needs to be ready to go home. Then he starts counting again, because the idea of telling this man that Parker will come back for him will be met with laughter, and Leo doesn’t know if he can handle it. He’s pretty sure he can’t.

Fingers prod at Leo’s stomach and he can’t suppress the accompanying flinch, and as the drugs start to wear thin, he feels himself less and less able to accept what is being done to him.

“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says, and Leo opens his eyes and is met with mostly, he thinks, concern.

“I’ll be back.” The doctor shoots the handler a look, and Leo wants to close his eyes again, but as the handler approaches, Leo knows, acutely, that it’s a bad idea.

“Are you going to cause a scene?” the handler asks, before lifting the blanket from Leo’s lap. Leo shrinks back, an instant passing in which his entire body goes rigid, but shakes his head ‘no.’ He hopes it’s enough.

He holds his breath, waiting for it to be over, or, waiting for it to start, and feels the handler’s eyes sliding down his body.

He thinks he might be shaking, but he isn’t sure.

The doctor returns a moment later, and after a quick assessment of how things have evolved, issues a quick but gentle, “It’s alright.” It’s not, though, and Leo locks his jaw to keep from crying. He wants to ask if he can close his eyes again. Sometimes they would let him, when things were about to get really bad, in initial training. Sometimes, if he asked clearly, and if he caught them on a good day, they would let him.

“No wonder he was returned,” the handler says, leaning back against the wall.

“Can I close my eyes?” he whispers then, before he can catch the humor in the handler’s expression. The doctor looks at him once, and nods. Leo doesn’t hesitate to clamp his eyes shut, unwilling to chance opening them at all, maybe ever, and instead continues counting in his head.

“Continue working on your empathy,” the doctor says evenly, but Leo is pretty sure he isn’t speaking to him so he works on breathing and counting and nothing else.

He tries to block out the words. This is another moment in training, and it too will end eventually.

“They put him through hell in training. He has a right to be mistrustful.” And then, to Leo, he says, “I’m going to give you something to help balance you out,” and his touch disappears. “Just hang tight, Leo.”

Without warning, a hand clamps around his neck, pinning him in place. His eyes fly open, his arms pull instinctively against the restraints, as the tip of a syringe is pushed past his teeth and to the back of his throat.

He gags, his head knocking back against the thin pillow, but the handler’s grip is merciless, and in the next instant, a thick, bitter liquid is sliding down his throat. Tears well in his eyes, and he would swear the culprit was simply the bitterness of the medicine.

It’s mistaken for something else, though, and the handler releases him as the doctor runs a hand through his hair and says, “You’re alright.”

Leo’s shaking harder now, and his fingers grip into the pad he lays on and he urges himself to still. His chest aches as he tries to catch his breath, the taste of the medicine still heavy on his tongue. But still, almost immediately, he can feel his body lightening, the tension pulling back until the shaking eases, and the doctor nods, and approaches. Leo can’t feel the fear he knows he should feel.

He can feel nothing.

Even with the memories of the night before, even with the doctor and the handler so close to him, he can breathe again.

Still, Leo can’t contain the subconscious jerk of his body as a flash of sharp pain shoots through him. The doctor issues an apology, along with a soft, “almost done,” and turns the swab, over and over, as Leo’s legs fight against the hands that hold them in place. He tries to find a place in his mind to retreat into, but he hasn’t been there in months, if not longer, and in that moment, it offers no reprieve. He thinks he cries out, locking his teeth and pressing his head back into the pillow as hard as he can to distract himself from what goes on lower. When the doctor is finished, he wipes Leo down and drapes the blanket over his lap.

What he doesn’t say is ‘Good, Leo,’ because they would both know it to be untrue.

Still, in the next breath, the restraints are being unbuckled, and Leo is lifted at his shoulders until he is sitting, and his wrists are being examined, and there is a hand rubbing his back. He blinks slowly, willing the room back into focus, and he can hear voices but he isn’t able to follow their conversation.

“It doesn’t need to be this hard,” he thinks the handler is saying, and even though his head is hung low and his shoulders are scrunched to make him as small as possible, in his peripherals he can see the doctor shooting the handler a sharp look. “What?” he bites back. “It’s true.”

“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says then, ignoring the handler entirely. Leo keeps his eyes locked on the ground and he takes the blanket in a white-knuckled grip.

The doctor lets him catch his breath, rubbing his back every few seconds. Leo thinks he’s using it to get a read on his heart rate, but he doesn’t care just then. The doctor explains what’s next, and moves to ease Leo onto his side. Leo, for his part, cooperates, lowering himself slowly, watching as his fingers shake. He wraps his arms so tightly around his stomach he think he might leave bruises, but when the doctor touches him, he doesn’t flinch.

“There’s some bruising,” the doctor says neutrally, but Leo can’t look at the handler to see if he types it. It could be from the handlers, or it could be from Parker’s friends the night before. Leo chokes on his next breath, and in spite of the drugs, he can feel the panic rising.

“Leo?” the doctor says. “Are you doing alright?”

The handler takes a step forward.

“I don’t consent to this,” Leo whispers, so softly he isn’t sure anyone hears him. The look the handler levels on him is scathing. “I–I kn…know it doesn’t… I know it doesn’t matter.” His voice is soft, slurred around the edges, but clear enough. “But I… I j-just– I want to make sure you know.”

The doctor says nothing, and the handler frowns. Leo wants to ask him to type it into his chart, but the doctor moves behind him, and Leo’s vision is suddenly and immediately blurred by his tears.

By the time they finish, by the time the doctor drapes the blanket over his hips, letting his hand rest on Leo’s head briefly before retreating, Leo’s body is wracked with sobs. They leave him to calm himself down, and he finds himself, for a moment, grateful for the simple mercy.

But he cannot stop crying, as he stares into the mirror and thinks of all he’s lost. Of what, in spite of what he tried to convince himself he could have, he will never have. Of Parker, laughing with his friends as he picks out a new worker. Of the handler, and all those that came before him, smiling as they hurt him. The door opens with no warning and a familiar voice, a voice warm enough to burn Leo’s entire world down, issues a commanding, clear, “Stop this, Leo.”

And almost instantly, Leo stops.

FIGHTER TAG LIST:

@whump-cravings

@afabulousmrtake

@crystalquartzwhump

@maracujatangerine

@pumpkin-spice-whump

@distinctlywhumpthing

@thecyrulik

@highwaywhump

@batfacedliar-yetagain

@finder-of-rings

@dont-touch-my-soup

@skyhawkwolf

@suspicious-whumping-egg

@also-finder-of-rings

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@peachy-panic

@melancholy-in-the-morning

@urban-dark

@nicolepascaline

@quietly-by-myself

@pigeonwhumps

@whump-blog

@seasaltandcopper

@angstyaches

@i-msonotcreative

@mylifeisonthebookshelf

@anonintrovert

@whump-world

@squishablesunbeam

@considerablecolors

@whumpcereal

@whumperfully

@pirefyrelight

@whumpsday

@whumplr-reader

@lonesome--hunter

@darkthingshappen

@alexmundaythrufriday

@whumps-and-bumps

#Med Whump #Gratuitous Med Whump #Medical Restraints #Chemical Restraints #Noncon Touch #Referenced Noncon #Parker Destin #Institutionalized Slavery #Noncon Drugging #Conditioning #Referenced Food/Water Restriction #Referenced/Described STI testing #Referenced/Described Shock Collar #Whumper POV #literally over 4k words wtf #get leo a pet fish and warm hug when?

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syndrossi · 24 days ago

Note

it’s that time again where i had a scene created in my noggin from a very cool song. today’s song: run boy run by woodkid

so i know that you’ve kept the Dance as something far off, you’re not confirming anything, you’re not exploring anything bc you’re simply not there yet and wanna focus on the now, which is great for the rest of us who enjoy fanfic on fanfic on fun (there’s gotta be a better way to phrase that). anyway, here it is.

today’s scenario:

right around the time Viserys dies and the Greens are quietly moving with mutiny, i know you explored the idea of the twins possibly being in KL during this happening, that way they’re a very good bargaining chip for them with Daemon, they don’t have to worry about their eldritch horror dragons being used against them, and the common folk love the boys.

The idea is that the boys are up late talking, perhaps even by one of those towers, idk, the idea is they aren’t in their chambers. Rhaegar notices things are weird from up where they are, people rushing through the night and lots of whispering and ordering servants into a line. Something’s up and Jon notices just as fast. It’s after a little moving around and overhearing they learn Viserys has passed, you get the usual rush of emotions for their uncle and how their father will be heartbroken, but then they remember: this is how it begins, the Dance. They realize they are outnumbered and alone and form a plan to get back to Shadow and Qelebrys. Only it’s very difficult. Lots of shots of them running to the beat of the song all throughout the castle, trying to stay hidden from guards and anyone who may rat them out.

Of course, it doesn’t last long. They do run into a few somebodies who call for more somebitches who are now becoming a strain and more difficult to handle. The boys fight back, swords clash, bones break, etc. But this time it’s the twins doing the breaking. They fight very well, but you can tell they’re outnumbered and won’t last forever. pretty soon they down to just a few more guards— until Alicent and Cole show up with another gaggle of guards. They boys look at each other and then at the fading moonlight on top of the balcony. They share a knowing look, nod, and take off in the direction of the balcony. They climb to the railing and Alicent orders the men back, for her to talk to the children (well, they’re teenagers).

She’s trying to coax then back in, promising different things she may not even have the authority to give. They have one final look before taking a step off the railing’s edge and falling down. Everyone freezes for a single second, then rushes over to where they were. Visions of what Daemon will do to them once they learn his children had committed suicide— something he will never believe to be true, instead a lie or a disgusting attempt to try and save themselves from Daemon and Caraxes’ rage. The Greens in the room are well aware that Daemon won’t believe a single thing they say about his children’s deaths, they also know he will never stop until each one of them have died bloody and screaming. Cole (and Otto if he were there) would almost think that the clever little dragons had planned it that way to ensure the end of the Greens.

Then they hear the sound of wings flapping, the familiar low growl that they’ve learned from the Dragon Keep, and they stare off that balcony into the darkness. They couldn’t see her coming, she was too fast. Qelebrys and a spot of white atop her spooked them easily enough to retreat back as fast they could. Following her was Shadow, the great beasts were both hidden amongst the darkness, called there by their riders to rescue them. The twins were alive, so Alicent breathed a bit better then, only for someone to mention that they had just lost their biggest leverage against the Blacks.

damn this got long; anyway the moment they decide to get on the ledge coincides with the song at around 2:22, then during that time it’s the Greens rushing to stop them and beg them not to until 2:44 when they finally do step off and then the rest of it is just the Greens freaking out until 3:29 (honestly wish the song had a bigger end here to signify or reveal better that they were alive, a bigger base drop to to speak).

i fell asleep in the middle of writing this.

Imagining dramatic scenes while listening to the perfect song is a time-honored tradition! It's actually very fitting that the song starts off with church-like bells (to signify Viserys's death).

Very cinematic, all of it! It is definitely harder to reunite with their dragons when they're no longer able to fit inside the halls--but it does make for a perfect escape.

(Qelebrys and Shadow being stealthy dragons has always been very intentional, so it's fun to see that being leveraged!)

I'm sure Alicent was considered their ace in the hole in terms of persuading the boys to surrender peacefully. Had they been in their rooms, they might even have sent Helaena to talk to them under heavy guard, in sort of a "see? don't you trust your sweet cousin Helaena?" gesture.

#resonant asks #i love when people have fun envisioning different future scenarios!#(otto cannot believe that a castle's worth of armed men couldn't detain TWO princes)#(it was the perfect setup HOW)

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archaospetryx · 3 months ago

Text

TW; Death and the descent into madness😭

im gonna yap abt my ppt4 oc bc i can so here’s as much information i can make and get of my oc: Arthur Quinntel, now known as Otto Tarantula or Experiment 1430

Beginning

Arthur Quinntel is the head psychologist of Playtime Co. and, almost akin to Harley Sawyer’s implied background, came from a dysfunctional family background. His step sister, Penelope Huntsman, was the child of their mother’s ex husband and Arthur is the byproduct of their mother’s fling with the other lover and eventually left Penelope’s father for him. (So needless to say: they share the same mother but different fathers)) and the reason Penelope refuses to change her name from Huntsman to Quinntel bc she absolutely hates their step-father.

And while Penelope and Arthur do have a decent sibling relationship, they’re very distant and lack communication with one another where he feels like she is actively against him or putting him down(which she was until she actually tried to stop him from getting too engrossed with Harley)

Arthur wasn’t exactly looked well upon unlike Penelope:

Where Penelope succeeded, Arthur took the easy route and became a psychologist(which he could’ve been looked down upon given the 1900’s weren’t so kind to those with mental illnesses) while Penelope became a surgeon(one of the best even) and at the time the head surgeons of Playtime Co.

Their parents prioritized Penelope bc i feel like the dad wanted to impress her and get her trust the same as her mother while neglecting Arthur and constantly overshadowing him for Penelope’s succession when she never wanted their approval.

Arthur was even constantly berated by his mother and father where often they wound up feeding him lies and delusions how he would only be of importance and loved whether platonic or romantic if he wasn’t the way he was—so he was denied of any sort of approval or affection that he molded himself into what his family had taught him:

‘You will never be loved or appreciated for who you are’

Aka he was convinced that he’ll die alone and be unloved so he just accepted that fact and moved on with his life growing up

He was starved from attention and love, basically growing up not needing the basic needs to belong so he isolated himself but took the job of being a therapist to assure and help people who feel like him, but he’ll always dismiss his own feelings compared to other people.

Arthur was selfless and very coordinative with others though ignoring his own health and feelings for others knowing well he’s a lost cause from the neglectful and rather harmful environment he grew up in to the false perception he’s been fed into.

Hired by Playtime Co.

Around February 13 of 1990 Arthur was hired by Playtime after Penelope recommended him to Leith in case they are in need of a psychologist given its probable that they were severely understaffed as mentioned by Harley in one of the tapes so Arthur took the job thinking that they just need him on the side in case of emergencies or counseling.

From then on he became the counselor/psychologist everyone would turn to including Leith and excluding Penelope if only for requirements in case of stress within the environment. Afterwards he would give the news to Leith if there are needs to improve with the work environment as it is a given requirement that everyone MUST be evaluated by Arthur within the month.

Of course before meeting him, he was very respectful and responsible in handling all the confidential records of his patients and outright refuses to give specific details to Leith if they ask. He was always considerate with his patients, especially if they were children.

Sometimes others would catch him staying in the facility overnight just to tend to his duties and file up all the files of his patients.

Meeting Harley Sawyer

Some time around February 13 of 1990, Arthur was made aware of the Bigger Bodies Initiative and finally got the position of head psychologist being one of the few to know about this since they need someone to observe the behavior of the upcoming experiments and evaluate the environment affecting employees aware/unaware of the initiative and the orphans.

At first he was against the project but knowing damn well that they’d refuse to let him go after knowing about his true involvement with Playtime, he had no choice but to accept his position as head psychologist once the project would come into fruition. He was sickened by the idea because to be honest— what kind of sicko would think about this idea? he hated it but kept quiet because:

He had bills to pay

He felt valued—the fact that he was promoted to Head Psychologist, being able to help evaluate and point out problems within the factory to make it a better place for both the orphans and employees alike—he found his purpose for once and was seen as important that he couldn’t just step down…

He was introduced to Dr. Harley Sawyer, the man behind the Bigger Bodies Initiative being suggested in the first place, given that he needs to cooperate with him and give evaluation results to him as well. And oh my god did he hate him with a passion— let’s be real: if you were to work with someone who suggested the idea of making humans into toys to avoid lawsuits, you’re a red flag… but of course Arthur had no choice but to be tasked to mentally evaluate the man given it was standard protocol next to being consulted by Joel Sinclair(who i can see both of them working where Joel helps Arthur juggle all the needed patients if he can’t finish it within the day)

And oh boy was Dr. Sawyer being a pain in the ass for him… constantly avoiding his needed evaluations stating that it’s a “waste of his precious time” in his stupid experiments. And if Arthur wasn’t going to get his evaluation at least sooner or later, then his salary would be deducted(yikes) so after time and time, losing his salary the more Harley avoided his sessions, he was desperate to at least get into the mind of this psychopath even if it meant acting vulnerable and forming a bond with him…

And holy cow did it work albeit only bc Harley wanted Arthur to leave him alone… finally Harley takes Arthur’s sessions just to get it over with, opening up about his background and answering the needed questions about the work environment and his opinions. And after their first session Arthur grew… intrigued by him… Dangerously intrigued as he found some vulnerability within this bastard of a scientist which he thought was incapable of feeling human emotions like those evil mad scientists you’d see in childish cartoons.

Arthur would make it apparent to check on Dr. Sawyer once in a while up until the confirmation of the Bigger Bodies Initiative, getting to know the doctor well enough to convince himself that Harley has fully opened himself to him when in reality; Dr. Sawyer only did so to get Arthur out of his skin.

Eventually he was the indirect reason why the Game Station was created to observe the mental capability one has to multitask. Though he was still disturbed and surprised how this would be used on children just to see who were capable to be part of the experiments… which he still resented but somehow he got used to it much like Penelope.

The obsession of Harley Sawyer

Overtime he would shift his attention to Sawyer, still being able to function properly and do his tasks much better than before but the more he and Sawyer got to interact, the more he craved for his attention— even going as far as to let Leith Pierre assign him to become Harley’s assistant for the Bigger Bodies Initiative given the doctor does need someone to evaluate the mental capacity of his works…

Eventually Arthur became Harley’s assistant, assessing his experiments such as Boxy Boo just as a means to get closer to him. Of course still being empathetic as he is he would try to form a bond with the experiments Harley had done. Going as far as to talk with Boxy and feed him some home cooked meals he made only to get seriously injured and nearly lose his leg(that’s why in illustrations especially when he has short hair he has a bandage over his leg)

And overtime the two were ironically bonding well than anyone else has with the doctor—especially Penelope, who has a bitter rivalry with him being a former neurosurgeon now being the main reason Playtime Co is succeeding compared to before. One would say that Harley was starting to show some type of interest and affection towards the psychologist. It was strange and twisted only for the two to understand and bond over.

And that was the last thing Arthur needed from a psycho like him— his love and approval. It didn’t help that Arthur was starved of attention or the need to belong within society, and it was all that he needed to finally snap and obsess over wanting to hear more of Harley’s praises and affirmations even if they’re as simple as a “good job” to him, a part of him that he would’ve found ridiculous years ago finally emerges and takes over his own psyche.

And finally Arthur loses himself and the once grounded and logical man became overwhelmed and overtaken by his need to be with Harley Sawyer even if it meant embarrassing himself or showing himself to other employees as “unstable”. You really think i would give Harley a good person to be shipped with? WRONG that bastard doesn’t deserve to have anyone decently moral so instead I’m making BOTH of them worse

Of course the two become a duo most of the employees are concerned of… and that’s because mixed with Sawyer’s apathy towards the consequences of these inhumane experiments; Arthur began to develop a dangerous behavior only he and Harley knew and eventually Leith, Dr. White, and Penelope.

The madness of Mr. Quinntel

Of course there would be employees opposed to Harley’s ideas, those that would be jealous and willing to do anything to get his dear doctor demoted or lose his status, whether it is out of logical reasoning or spite— you are no longer safe from Arthur.

Being used to the nature of Playtime Co since they use Boxy as a means to discard those who should’ve remained unaware of the initiative, Arthur began to take measurements in regards to helping Harley keep his position while receiving the attention and affection he would often give him.

Arthur began sabotaging employees who were said to go against Sawyer’s ideations. And how does he know this? Those said employees told him everything he needed to know…

Once Arthur knew about what the employees thought of him, what they would do to stop Harley or the company itself which he too would’ve done a long time ago ironically, he found ways to lead them straight to Boxy. Of course he would never harm the ignorant and the innocent, not even the children, no… but if you knew about the BBI and you were against Harley’s actions? Then for sure you’re dead either way…

One of his main options is to:

Expose what they had in mind to Leith and Harley, who know about the purpose of using Boxy to discard unwanted employees within the facility, and ultimately get them fed to Boxy

Another is leading them to Boxy himself and covering it up using the confidential information during their talks as a means to hide his tracks

No one knew about this except for Harley eventually (which he himself is impressed and even flattered how he went as far as to do that just for him. They’re such an evil duo fr…)while Leith was convinced by Arthur’s lies as to why these employees died which did save the company for a little while but left an immoral scar within the psychologist.

Naturally his step sister would find out about Arthur’s unhealthy obsession with Harley and their relationship(but she doesn’t know the extent of Arthur’s obsession to get his fellow employees killed) so she would attempt to stop him from growing obsessed with the mad doctor but it would always fall on deaf ears.

Arthur was stuck to Harley’s hip, being a very close assistant of his and inevitably succumbing to his feelings and finally allowing himself to be a part of Harley’s experiments.

Becoming a Bigger Body

Around 1991 after the creation of Yarnaby, Boxy, Arthur finally offers himself to Harley to be experimented on to prove his hypothesis that the better they perform or are capable of being aware mentally and physically, the more they are able to function and even speak as their Bigger Body forms.

Without hesitation Harley accepted the offer and allowed Arthur to be part of the initiative—stating that it will also help expand on Arthur’s capability on working as a psychologist and helping other experiments and being able to communicate with them much easily.

Soon Arthur becomes a bigger body version of Otto Tarantula—a toy-line shortly released after Mommy Long Legs and the Long Legs family but not selling quite well—and as to be expected, his hypothesis were correct and Arthur now known as Otto functions well and speaks fluently just as he was as Arthur…

Though the only reason being because he has Harley by his side… he can fulfill his duties and function well as an individual capable of consulting employees, children, and the other experiments all because of Harley Sawyer…

What happened to Harley…?

Otto was working as usual, to the point of being unaware of what Leith and the others had in mind to do with Sawyer and eventually turning him into an ai just for their use.

The moment Leith breaks the news to Otto in hopes that the massive former psychologist would understand their decision, he snaps. That one part of him keeping him stable and functional despite being in a state where one would lose sense of rationality? Gone…

What remains of Arthur is lost to the absolute rage of the tarantula. And given Harley modified Otto’s body to be tanky and resilient, it was difficult for the employees to hold him down(considering he was almost as tall as Huggy Wuggy) before containing him after he was heavily sedated— almost killing him

There Otto has been kept far away from Harley and was “demoted” from his position as head psychologist due to his now erratic and uncontrollable behavior, screaming and demanding answers to what they did to Harley…

For the years to come until the Hour of Joy happens, Otto was kept far away from Harley and refused to eat or care for himself. No one answered his pleas and desperate need for an answer to where Harley was.

The Hour of Joy+Reuinion

Finally when the Hour of Joy happened, Otto was released from his confinements— and that was the last thing everyone needed…

Though avoiding the innocent, he only went after the people who were involved in Harley’s experiment: the scientists, Dr. White, and even Leith though he failed to kill him…

Finally once everything was over he searched the entire factory for Harley, anywhere wherever he was and he found him… The Doctor.

Otto finally gets to reunite with the Doctor, not needing to be separated ever again. Finally reuniting with HarleyThe Doctor after so long and after the painful realization of what they did to him.

It drove the spider mad— it finally made him snap. But there was nothing he can’t do anymore, no. This was the consequences of his actions and there was no turning back… this was his life now, and he reaped what he sowed to be with his partner once again…

End of timeline… for now

That was a ton of lore dump but I wanted to express this badly. It was a given i needed Arthur to spiral down into madness bc if you work in Playtime Co. you either: become as insane as the scientists behind this or die trying to stop the company.

And with that being said I refuse to give Harley someone good or decent for him in a way that he doesn’t deserve someone who will try to fix him or help him or someone he can manipulate—NO. He needs someone as MAD as him and Arthur was a string away from becoming as insane as Harley is and it already happened.

As much as i love drawing the two in silly situations whether Ottley or Harthur, I can’t forget how their realistic encounter/interactions would be like and it’s reeaaalllyyy heavy for me😭 But that’s abt it bc i might make a separate version with Otto and the timeline of his descent into madness and who he is now but that was a lot for me to yap abt. Thanks🫶

#poppy playtime oc #harley sawyer x oc #harley sawyer #they both can make each other worse #just writing info so I won’t forget abt my oc’s complex lore which I don’t look into that much bc I want to draw more Harley and Harthur #I really love Ottley/Harthur/drawing Harley but tbh I gotta address their madness together #they’re literally Joker and Harley Quinn in a way idk #they’re a dangerous duo. stay as FAR AWAY as possible from them

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daemonbrain · 27 days ago

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The one thing that’ll never fail to pmo is when people call Rhaenyra “spoiled”.

SIDE FUCKING EYE.

(My pretty, precious, perfect girl fr fr 😞)

I understand, Rhaenyra was very privileged for the time they lived in. After all, she was a princess whose claim to the throne was steadfastly held by her father, she got her pick of suitors, and she was always lavished with all the dresses and jewels afforded to someone of her station. Rhaenyra had it good. And the way she’s described sounds like any pissy, entitled royal kid tbh.

But i’d like to direct everyone’s attention to the fact that people also love to say that:

“Halaena didn’t deserve being married to Aegon or being pregnant at 13.”

“(Show) Alicent shouldn’t have had to marry Viserys.”

“Aemma shouldn’t have been married at 11 and then used until she literally died.”

Everyone wants better for women in Westeros until a woman ACTUALLY gets better. Then they crucify Rhaenyra for it and call her spoiled. Why is it that women in asoiaf need to suffer immensely to be favored/respected?

Mind you, Rhaenyra does suffer in a lot of ways that do get overlooked (not that i’m trying to argue her case in the “who has more trauma” race). To mention a few, she loses her mother at a young age with only her father, as she didn’t have anyone in the family who she was particularly close with, to share in her grief. Then she gets this huge burden which she didn’t even ask for of being the heir. Then Viserys marries an 18 year old from a power hungry family like an idiot (he still plans on keeping her as his heir, but other than saying it he won’t put any laws into place, nor anything else to affirm her place in court as the years wane on bc he was weak.) Aegon being born and the constant on edge of people whispering and the ppl trying to convince her father to replace her (which creates a whole faction of grown people against a teenage girl btw.) And to top it off when she had finally come of age she gets groomed tf out of and has her risqué escapades with daemon (men -like Otto and Daemon- love to pray on her like creeps bc everyone wanted smth from her), leading to Viserys’s genius plan to solve her lust problem by marrying her to a known gay man. I won’t even dive into everything she lost once the war started because then this’ll get REAL long.

Like i’m sorry, did you WANT Rhaenyra to have it worse? Perhaps certain people would like her better if she had been married to a man three times her age? Or maybe if she had cast aside and hated by her own father? ORRR maybe if she had a baby at 14 (because being a mother at 17, in a court half-full of people who are waiting for you to mess up and have malicious intentions for you, your husband, and your infant son isn’t already enough?)

Anways, the answer to the big question: people just want to see her suffer. They can’t handle a young girl/woman with all this looming responsibility ahead of her, with a smidge of power, so they just want to see her suffer/ knocked down a peg because she’s not cowering away from what’s been given to her and doesn’t want to be miserable.

Abuse and manipulation don’t make a character or person more worthy. It can cause someone’s perspective to change, or even ideals to change, but the abuse is only ever that. It’s not the potion to a more complex female character.

It reminds me of when Sansa in s8 says that Joffrey, Ramsey, and Littlefinger “made her stronger” and somewhat justified all the shit they put her thru. Terrible writing.

#rhaenyra targaryen #halaena targaryen #alicent hightower #aemma arryn #viserys targaryen #fire and blood #hotd #house of the dragon #daemon targeryan #to specify this isnt a tb or tg post #not even a if you like rhaenyra post #just the hypocrisy that surronds her in regards to this

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snowblack-charcoalwhite · 10 months ago

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When answering asks I mentioned several times that while I agree that Aegon's character arc is the best one this season (among the Greens and overall), I still don't like it. No one really asked but I decided to put it out there anyway - because he is my second favourite character of the book/show combo.

When I think about Aegon in season 2, this bit from the trailer comes to mind:

If we are to take Aegon more or less as a separate character (which is not so easy as no character can/should exist in a vacuum), his storyline has been quite decent (the effort to be a good ruler despite the lack of actual preparation, the obvious love and care towards Jaehaerys and heart-wrenching reaction to his murder, the failed attempt to prove himself at Rook's Rest - and now the signs pointing to him becoming a new man after what happened, more cunning and harsh). Besides, Tom has been given quite a few really good moments where he could show, truly and without being restrained, just how talented he is (it was the least HotD owed him after the treatment he got because of the shitty writing for the previous season). And even with that, I am still far from being convinced that the writers won't fumble it all in season 3 (just look what they did to Aemond this season after him getting IMO the most compelling and consistent beginning of the character arc in season 1).

But if we look at Aegon in connection with other characters? I am not merely disappointed, I am fucking furious, actually.

He's the character who suffered the most this season (feels like suffering takes up 90% of his screentime) - and this is understandable given what he's been going through. But how does the show present us this suffering? More precisely, who is presented as being responsible for it?

The first big blow dealt to Aegon was the murder of Jaehaerys. And which characters are actually shown to be the cause of Aegon's anguish?

Not Rhaenyra - she was as clueless as poor murdered boy himself. Not Mysaria - her opressed self "just provided the names" to Daemon. Daemon is the closest to it, but even here we were treated to this "ambiguity" bullshit about him supposedly not giving clear instructions to Blood and Cheese - and apparently he deeply regrets his actions. Boo-hoo, poor baby (I am not even a Daemon hater, actually, but the "he is just a tormented soul" thing he has going on this season has gone too far). The audience can't even properly hate the murderers themselves because of the shallow and cartoonish way the whole event was handled on screen.

But we get to see how Otto turns the horrible murder of an innocent child into a propo show - and Alicent sides with him (both are shown to disregard Aegon's feelings on the matter). Criston is presented as the one who neglected his duties and in doing so facilitated the heir's murder (and later he tries to shift the blame to Arryk which eventually gets the latter killed while fighting his own twin brother). Aemond doesn't gaf about his nephew's death (or the way it affected anyone in his family, specifically Aegon) for which he is partially to blame. And later Aegon gets a parting gift from Otto in the form of "you are a useless piece of junk - and a naive one for even daring to believe otherwise" - and Alicent's inability to console him when he needs it most.

Things only get worse from here. The Blacks are doing their thing on Dragostone (in Daemon's case - at Harrenhal) while Aegon keeps being abused, neglected and terrorized by those closest to him. His council members (including his mother and brother) do not respect him, Alicent flat out tells him he is useless in the most hurtful way possible (comparing him to Viserys who, as Aegon learned, didn't deem him worthy either after all). Oh, and by the way Viserys' neglect towards his children - Aegon in particular, in this case - is now completely taken out of the equation. Instead Viserys is presented as almost a godlike figure, someone to be worshipped and as infallible as the Pope.

And then, as the cherry on top of the cake, Aegon and his beloved dragon get horribly injured, almost killed by Aemond who Aegon trusted despite everything (Rhaenys' part in Aegon being hurt is minimal). And even after that Aemond proceeds to torment his bedridden brother, physically and mentally (I am aware there are supposed layers to it but I really doubt a lot of viewers gave that scene a second thought), so the former could remain in power; Alicent experiences remorse in all the wrong moments (and then proceeds to tell Gwayne how she is disappointed in both of the sons she actually knows and seems to redirect her hopes towards the one she doesn't). The only person who actually seems to care about Aegon is, surprise, Larys Strong, a reigning Kinslayer Supreme who actually murdered his father and elder brother while playing the game of thrones (and there is a BIG question whether Larys would give a single fuck about Aegon and his condition if he had been granted promotion by Aemond). While it's nice that the indisposed king has at least someone on his side, it's really fucked up that out of everyone else around him it had to be precisely Larys, whose loyalty is very much conditional.

To sum it all up, the writers gave Aegon an extreme amount of suffering (in accordance with his story in F&B and even more), clearly aiming to make the audience pity him as much as possible - and in a dirty and lazy writing move weaponized this pity against other TG characters (it's not clear for now whether it worked to the degree they expected for GA - but for the fandom it certainly did). Meanwhile TB is whitewashed once again. Now it's understandable where all this "they all hate each other" promo jokes (that turned out not to be jokes after all) made by TB actors came from.

In conclusion, I despise the way Aegon's suffering is being used in the narrative, and it takes a really big chunk out of the positive feelings I have about Aegon's arc in general. The F&B Greens, while being flawed individuals and not the most well-functioning family, were loyal to and cared for each other. HotD destroyed the majority of inter-Green relationships, and I am really, REALLY not here for it.

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd season 2 #anti hotd #aegon ii targaryen #team green

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hllywdwhre · 11 months ago

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Dreamer, Queen, Prince - Chapter 7

Pairing: Daemyra x fem!OC

Warnings: Please check masterlist for warnings. This work is 18+, MDNI

Masterlist

Notes: I’m sorry this update is so late. Life happened and shit hit the fan 🙃 also, after seeing the results of what you as the readers would rather see, I will be working on rewriting the next few chapters! As soon as chapter 8 is finished, it will be posted!

That afternoon, Viserea is surprised when she is summoned to the Small Council along with Rhaenyra.

“I would not let him fill your position, though mine own has changed,” Rhaenyra explained as they entered through the doors.

When Rhaenyra sat at the table, Viserea understood what she had meant. She was surprised she still was allowed to be cup bearer, so she held no anger at this. She hadn’t been in King’s Landing for a year, it was only fair that Rhaenyra be placed on the Small Council.

Viserea was surprised to hear of how Corlys had begun trying to make negotiations with the Sealord of Braavos for Laena’s hand though. It made sense, but it meant that House Velaryon was that much more powerful. Even if Corlys and Rhaenys supported Viserea and Rhaenyra’s future positions, this was cause for concern.

“The Sea-Snake is an over proud man to be sure, Your Grace. That pride has been injured. Perhaps we can salve the wound?” The Maester suggested, causing both Rhaenyra and Viserea’s eyebrows to raise at the implication.

“If House Velaryon were to enter into an alliance with the Free Cities, we would need our own marriage pact,” Otto said bluntly, not trying to avoid the topic the way the Maester was.

Viserea stayed beside Rhaenyra as the air became thick and Viserys tried shuffling to another subject, knowing no good would come if he tried discussing this with Rhaenyra after all of the events that had taken place between himself, Rhaenyra, Viserea, and Daemon.

Once the council meeting was over and the room had emptied, Viserea stayed in the room with Rhaenyra.

“He said I would get to choose, and yet I fear my fate has been decided. Even if he was the one we were hoping for, it feels a betrayal,” Rhaenyra said quietly, joining Viserea at the wine table.

“Allow him to come to you, try and use this to your advantage. We can try and force the Hand out. If he wants you to marry who he says instead of giving you a choice, make it worth your while. Go visit Alicent and mend your friendship, it may be needed. I will speak to the Rogue,” Viserea told her, meeting Rhaenyra’s eyes as they filled with questions.

“What are you thinking of?”

“I am not sure, but I am sure Daemon will have an idea. There might yet be an idea of how to complete our marriage without intereference,”

“If he is willing to go back on his word of my own consent in my marriage, I doubt he will listen to the Rogue,”

Viserea nodded, knowing she was right, but knowing Daemon would have more of an idea on how to handle this than she would. After checking that they truly were the only two in the room, Viserea leaned in and kissed Rhaenyra softly, feeling a great deal of tension leave both their bodies as they finally got to feel each other again. The moment could not last as long as either of them wanted though, and they pulled away.

“Please,” Rhaenyra begged, and Viserea nodded, kissed her forehead, and left the room.

Viserea found her way to her chambers, smiling when she saw Ser Ryden now at her door.

“Princess, I see your life has led you to… new adventures,” he said, his eyes motioning to her chambers where she was sure Daemon was waiting.

“New adventures are always welcome. Perhaps this isn’t a new one though, just the merging of two that have always existed,” Viserea replied.

“I hope to be by your side for them all then, Princess,” Ser Ryden said.

“You will, Ser Ryden. As will Amarda,” she promised, watching as comprehension flashed in Ser Ryden’s eyes.

Viserea stepped inside her chambers and found Daemon walking around the room, messing with the various items she had left behind.

“How was the meeting, my wife?” Daemon asked, chuckling as he saw Viserea’s face turn to one of annoyance.

“Lord Corlys is speaking of betrothing his daughter Laena to the Sealord of Braavos, an alliance that can only be matched by another proposal,” Viserea said, watching her husband’s face darken at the news.

“So he is going to go back on his promise of allowing Rhaenyra to choose?”

“I told her to use it to her advantage, to try and get Otto off of the Council, but this still raises more issues. If Viserys goes to Corlys offering the marriage, Corlys knows that he has the power in his hands even more than he already knows it. If it had been Rhaenyra choosing him, it would not be seen as the act of groveling it is,” Viserea pointed out, watching as Daemon began pacing the floor.

He remained quiet, his brows furrowed in thought.

“Then we lay claim to what is ours. We want her, and we don’t want to see the Crown groveling. Yes, Corlys’ power if the betrothal happens will be worrisome, but it would be more worrisome if he had the betrothal and the Crown groveling at his feet. We lay claim to Rhaenyra and make sure she is ours, if she will allow it,” Daemon suddenly suggested.

“And how do you plan to make that happen, my love?”

“I’ve always wanted to go with the two of you for a night in King’s Landing, show you two a side of the cities that I forbade Blood and Cheese from allowing you to visit.”

Viserea’s eyebrows furrowed as he suggested it, confused by where exactly he planned on taking them until it hit her,

“I will not be fucked like some whore in a whore house, and I will not allow her first time with a man to be carried out the same way-“

“You misunderstand me, dear wife. While I do want you two to visit the Street of Silk, I do not plan on treating you two like the common whores. I do, however, want to give you two a night to remember,” he explained.

“So… a courting before we ruin her virtue and make her only ours to marry?” Viserea asked, still not agreeing wholly with the idea.

“Something she will know is our intentions, and she will have the chance to object to. Plus, it is much easier for the three of us to sneak into her chambers from the outside than it is the inside.”

Viserea watched him for a moment, running through his plan in her mind before nodding and agreeing with it.

“And if she objects?”

“We will deal with the Crown groveling and have our marriage at a later time.”

Viserea and Daemon both stood at the top of one of the set of stairs in the passageway they both had memorized by now, their silver hair covered and wearing the clothes of the commoners. They were broken away from their conversation as they heard Rhaenyra let out a single exasperated burst of laughter.

Viserea offered Rhaenyra her hand and linked their fingers together, following Daemon down the next set of stairs to lead them outside. Blood nor Cheese accompanied them as they left the walls of the Keep and began exploring the city.

Viserea herself had only seen the city a couple times at night, finding it to be too large of a risk for many trips. Both she and Rhaenyra found themselves entertained by the many different acts across the streets.

“And now we come to the matter of the great, iron chair!” A voice bellowed, causing Rhaenyra and Viserea to exchange glances with each other.

Viserea knew Daemon wasn’t far behind them as they walked to the small stage and she soon felt Daemon standing behind the two of them. She expected the booing of the crowd when the narrator announced that,

“Our great King names his daughter, a girl, his heir!”

Her grip tightened on Rhaenyra’s hand to comfort her. Viserea knew the views of the commoners better than most, having spent many days in the streets. The majority of them truly did support Rhaenyra, but the night crowd was the loud minority.

“But then to him, a babe is born!” The narrator announced, watching as a grotesque and disrespectful depiction of Alicent giving birth to Aegon was shown.

The crowds laughter at the crude depiction of Rhaenyra had Daemon watching both she and Viserea closely, knowing neither of their tempers fared well when it come to their or their loved one’s claims.

When the man playing Aegon pulled out a rope shaped as a cock from his pants, Rhaenyra shouted out, “Lies! Slander!”, causing Viserea to jump slightly.

Viserea gave a sharp tug on her hand, trying to quiet her when Daemon spoke from behind them,

“Jest if you will, but many of the smallfolk are like to believe that, as a male, Aegon should be the heir.” His voice was low, but carried to them easily.

Rhaenyra let out a “hmph”, “Their wants are of no consequence.”

She walked away from them both, causing her and Daemon to follow while Daemon laughed lowly.

“She does not realize the powerful tool they are,” Daemon said to Viserea as they walked to catch up with her.

“She also does not realize that there are a great many on her side,” Viserea pointed out, looking up at Daemon as his hand on her back guided her through the streets.

“They’re of great consequence if you expect to rule them one day,” Daemon told Rhaenyra when they caught back up to her.

“For one night, I wish to be free of the burdens of my inheritance,” Rhaenyra said, clearly annoyed.

Without thinking, Rhaenyra reached for a tray of food, picking up a piece and taking a single bite out of it.

“Four coppers, street rat. In King’s Landing we pay for our pleasures,” he said, causing her to freeze for a moment before throwing the food at Daemon and running.

Viserea followed after Rhaenyra, hearing Daemon say something to the man and quickly catch up to her. They continued running through the streets, Viserea and Rhaenyra’s laughter eventually bouncing off the walls.

It was quickly silenced when Rhaenyra, quite literally, ran into a member of the Gold Cloaks, his threatening voice questioning her,

“And who might you be running from, now?” Ser Harwin questioned, causing relief to wash over her but quickly disappear as he saw Viserea step next to Rhaenyra.

“Ser Harwin,” Rhaenyra said, a level of fear on her face and in her voice.

“Princess?” He questioned, looking up and recognizing Viserea, “Both of you?”

“Please,” Viserea said at the same time as Rhaenyra said, “Don’t.”

He looked between the two of them and noticed Daemon’s figure approaching,

“Take care, boys. Next time, you might not be so lucky,” he warned, allowing the both of them to walk away as he exchanged a nod with Daemon.

“Enjoyed that did you?” Daemon asked, his arm coming to wrap around Viserea’s shoulder.

“Who knows when I’ll next taste freedom?” Rhaenyra said through laughter, causing both Viserea and Daemon to laugh along with her.

Viserea spotted Daemon take Rhaenyra’s hand in his and smiled, allowing him to guide them both through the streets she no longer recognized. She’d never been permitted this far into them with only Blood and Cheese to accompany her.

As the sounds in the building they were approaching grew louder, Viserea glanced to Rhaenyra from beside Daemon,

“Do you trust us?” She asked her.

“Of course,” she replied, curiosity and confusion lacing her voice.

Once they entered the building, Daemon took off his robe, having no quarrels at being spotted here. Rhaenyra and Viserea both watched as the naked women on the stage in front of them, covered in tattoos, did something Viserea could only describe as perform.

When Daemon caught their eye, Viserea and Rhaenyra followed him down another hallway in the building. The atmosphere changed from something lighthearted to something more intense. Rhaenyra and Viserea both removed their caps, silver hair on display, and gripped one of Daemon’s hands each.

They followed close behind him as they walked past rooms with people in them. Some held a woman and a man, multiple women and a man, multiple men and a woman, and only men or women. All of the people in the rooms were letting breathy moans of pleasure fill the air.

Rhaenyra had coupled with Viserea, while Viserea had coupled with both Rhaenyra and Daemon, yet neither of them were able to keep their eyes from flickering through the rooms of people chasing their own pleasure.

Daemon’s presence seemed to draw attention, some of the women stopping what they were doing to whisper his name.

“What is this place?” Rhaenyra asked as they stepped into another room that at least a dozen people were occupying.

“It’s where people come to take what they want,” Daemon replied as Rhaennnyra and Viserea watched the different groups of people.

“Fucking is a pleasure, you see, even if it’s a man and a woman,” Daemon said, drawing Rhaenyra’s attention to him. His forehead rested against hers and he used the hand that held Viserea’s to guide Viserea to stand behind Rhaenyra.

Viserea and Daemon allowed Rhaenyra to make the first move. When her lips met with Daemons, Viserea pushed her hair out of the way, beginning to kiss and nip at her neck the way she knew Rhaenyra liked.

“Marriage can be a duty, but that does not mean we have to stop doing what we want,” Daemon told her, going back to kissing her the moment the words had left his mouth, “from fucking who we want.”

As if to prove his point, Demon pulled Viserea into his kiss next and Viserea heard Rhaenyra’s quickened breath in her ear as she was pushed between them.

He backed the three of them up, pulling Viserea from behind Rhaenyra until Rhaenyra’s back was against the wall. Viserea kissed Rhaenyra this time and Viserea felt Daemon’s lips attach to her neck and guide her hands under Rhaenyra’s shirt, both of them touching the soft skin beneath it.

“Do you want this?” Daemon asked, looking to Rhaenyra as his lips left Viserea’s skin.

“Yes,” Rhaenyra said breathlessly against Viserea’s lips.

“Do you understand what this means?” Viserea asked Rhaenyra, searching Rhaenyra’s eyes.

“You plan to ruin my purity for any future suitors. To ensure that I can only be yours,” Rhaenyra confirmed.

“Come, then,” Daemon said, pulling away from them both and beginning to walk away.

Viserea and Rhaenyra shared another glance and followed behind him. He stayed a couple steps in front of them as he guided them back to the castle, taking the same path to enter the castle as they had to exit earlier that night.

“Ser Criston?” Rhaenyra asked quietly, scared of his presence possibly being on the other side of the door.

“Ser Ryden dismissed him earlier, stating that you and I wanted some privacy to catch up on the past year’s events and he would not be needed,” Viserea said at a normal volume.

It took nothing further from either of them for Rhaenyra to release her anxiety and begin kissing Viserea again. The three of their bodies become hopelessly entangled with each others’ as they all lost track of whose mouth was where on their bodies at any given time. Broken moans filtered through the room as Viserea and Rhaenyra finally reunited for the first time in a year. More followed as Daemon and Rhaenyra were finally allowed to release the pent up tension they felt for each other.

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agaypanic · 2 years ago

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Omg I’m obsessed w ur writing! I’m back on my Francis brainrot lol

Could u do a Francis Wilkerson x reader smut where she’s the baby sitter who he’s secretly dating and they let her stay for dinner and then after they have sex?

Keep Your Voice Down (Francis Wilkerson X Reader Smut)

Masterlist

Request Something!

Summary: You’re the Wilkerson’s go-to babysitter, able to handle any of the chaos the boys throw at you. But you’re Francis’ favorite for other reasons.

A/N: i <3 Francis brainrot. Warning for unprotected sex, wrap it before you tap it. AU where Piama doesn’t exist. As usual, bc it’s smut i’d love some feedback, no matter how much of it i write it doesn’t get easier lol

CW: p in v intercourse, slight praise kink, begging, thigh riding, dirty talk, unprotected sex (WRAP IT BEFORE YOU TAP IT), semi rough sex

***

You had been the Wilkerson’s favorite, and sometimes only, babysitter since you were 15. It had happened by complete accident. You had become friends with Francis before he got shipped off to military school. He had invited you over one day, and in a rush to get to work, Lois put you and Francis in charge of looking after his brothers. When she and Hal got home that night, you were serving dinner to the boys and somehow convinced them to take baths afterward and go to bed at a reasonable time.

The rest was history.

When Francis got sent away, you started babysitting more to help the Wilkersons out. They usually couldn’t pay you much, but you didn’t care because you got to hang out with boys that were basically gremlins, got free dinner, and when staying overnight, you’d always call Francis.

But the best days were when he was home for a weekend or holiday. It was hard because he was always away, but your friendship developed into a relationship when he came home for spring break one year. It was a little surprising that you’ve been together for so long since you rarely got to see each other, but you made it work. It was significantly easier when he got a job at the Grotto because a lot of his good pay went towards visiting his family, and secretly you. Secretly, because his family didn’t know you were dating.

“Mom, I like Y/n and all. But I don’t understand why we still need a babysitter.” Reese followed his mother around the house while she prepared for dinner.

“You do know I can hear you, right?” You laughed as you sat at the kitchen table he stood beside.

“No offense, but I’m sixteen. Having a babysitter is ruining my rep.”

“Reese, when you show enough responsibility to prove to me that you don’t need a babysitter, Y/n will stop being your babysitter.” Lois groaned, clearly done with this conversation.

“Mom, if we did that, Y/n would be my babysitter until I die.” You laughed at his seriousness.

“What’s so funny?” You leaped out of your seat from the voice. Francis stood on the step bordering the kitchen, grinning at the three of you.

“Francis!” You squealed, running around the table to launch yourself into his arms. Working at the ranch must have been a real workout for him because he caught you with ease, not stumbling an inch from your force. “What are you doing here?”

“Otto gave me the week off, said I deserved it for all the work I’ve been doing. So I decided to come up to visit.” He pecked your cheek before setting you down, which seemed to be in a friendly manner. But you knew better. You stepped away so the rest of his family could say hello to him, even though you wished you could have him all to yourself right now.

“Are you on the clock?” He asked when everyone gave him space. You shook your head.

“Not really. Your mom’s here, but I’m keeping an eye on the boys every now and then. I’m staying for dinner, though.” Francis nodded as he listened, and then smirked. He leaned in to whisper in your ear, a hand on your hip.

“Maybe after dinner, we can have some dessert?” You felt your cheeks heat up. Although he whispered so no one else could hear, his tone was bold and seductive. You cleared your throat, trying to regain composure.

“I think I’ll need some convincing.” You responded before walking away, out of his hold, to help Lois with dinner.

You didn’t need any convincing. With how long it’s been since the last time you saw Francis, it took everything in you not to drag him to the bathroom for some quick relief. But you knew that if you held out on him long enough, the end result would be amazingly worth it.

He made sure to sit next to you during dinner. He did nothing at first, putting food on your plate like a good friend would. Casually making conversation with everyone while you ate. Part of you thought he forgot about your little exchange.

But then, in the middle of dinner, he put his hand on your thigh. It was so surprising you almost choked on your water. Thank God there was a tablecloth to cover his actions. Above the table, he wasn’t even paying attention to you, too engrossed in a conversation with his father about something ranch related. You would’ve been hanging onto every word. You loved listening to Francis talk passionately about anything. But below the table, his hand was reaching the apex of your thigh, gripping it deliciously hard.

“Are you okay, Y/n?” Dewey asked from his place across from you. You cleared your throat, a hand discreetly moving to Francis’.

“Yeah, Dew-Dew. My drink went down the wrong tube.” You grabbed Francis’ wrist, and before you could pry it off you, even though you wanted to do the complete opposite, he brushed his finger against your clothed core. He smirked, drawing his hand away while you took a deep inhale. “Now, keep telling me about that piano competition.”

You insisted to Lois that you help her with the dishes after everyone had finished eating. Surprising to her, Francis offered to help you, saying he wanted to catch up more with you. You talked about everything and nothing, washing and drying slowly to prolong your conversations.

As everyone started trailing to their beds, you bid them all good night. You made sure to smother Jamie in kisses before he was taken off. Being a baby, he barely gave you trouble and was, therefore, your favorite Wilkerson to babysit.

You waited for the click of Malcolm closing the door to the boys’ bedroom. When you heard it, you finished the last dish and handed it to Francis.

“I can’t believe you did that.” You dried your hands off and looked at him. He had a stupid smirk on his handsome face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He dried the plate and set it down before turning to you, leaning against the counter with crossed arms. Francis stared you up and down, lip caught between his teeth.

“Oh, please.” You laughed, moving to the living room. He followed behind you. “You knew what you were doing.”

“Just missed you, that’s all.” His hands were on your waist, turning you around to face him in his hold. He leaned in closely, nose bumping yours. A hand slid down to squeeze your ass. “Is that such a crime?”

Francis’ words always had such an effect on you. You’d be flustered one minute, not knowing what to do with yourself. The next, it was like you had become feral, grasping and clawing for any piece of him. He kissed you with such vigor that your knees went weak. Francis led you backward, not stopping until you were pinned between him and the wall. He nipped at your lip and your breath hitched, the pain feeling so good.

“Francis, your whole family’s here.” You whispered while your boyfriend trailed kisses down your neck.

“Then I guess you’ll have to be quiet, won’t you?” He asked, pulling back to look you in the eye. You could barely meet his gaze, eyelids heavy with lust. A hand set against your jaw, tilting your head up to look at him. “You can do that for me, right baby?” You nodded, but he clicked his tongue. “Words, Y/n.”

“I’ll be quiet.” You whispered. Francis grinned.

“Good girl.” He kissed you again, the hand on your jaw creeping to the back of your neck. Francis’ words of praise made you wetter than his actions. You squeezed your thighs together, searching for some kind of relief. You couldn’t take the waiting anymore. “Need some help, baby?”

“Please, Francis.” You whined. He made quick work of unbuttoning your pants, yanking them down to pool around your ankles so you could step out of them. He dragged his hands up your bare thighs, leaving goosebumps in their wake. You kept begging and pleading, making sure your voice was low.

And then he brushed his fingers right against your most sensitive spot. You clamped a hand against your mouth to muffle the moan that escaped you.

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take care of you.” Despite all the time apart, he found your clit easily, playing with it like a button, begging to be pushed. He pushed his knee forward to separate your legs, bringing you down to grind on his thigh. You gasped, rutting your hips against him with Francis’ help. He pulled you back and forth, continuously teasing your clit.

“God, Francis, please.”

“What do you want?” He locked eyes with you again, refusing to let you get shy with him. “Come on, baby, what do you need? Just say it, and I’ll give it to you.”

“Your…” A particularly rough thrust against Francis cut you off. He smirked down at you.

“How can I give you what you want if you don’t tell me?” Francis knew exactly what you wanted. He just liked to be an asshole. Probably payback for you not giving in to him earlier.

“Your cock.” You whimpered. “Need your cock, Francis.” He grinned.

“See, was that so hard?” He asked condescendingly. Before you could roll your eyes at the tone, Francis grabbed the back of your thighs and lifted you up. You wrapped your limbs around him tightly to not fall and to keep him close to you. Keeping you up against the wall with one hand, Francis used his other to unbuckle his belt, tugging his pants down just enough to pull himself out of his boxers. He was hard against your thigh, so close to where you needed him most.

Francis pulled your panties to the side, showing off your pussy to him. He almost groaned at the sight, a sight he missed so much. He grabbed hold of himself, rubbing himself up and down, too agonizingly slow for your liking.

“Francis. Need you so bad.” You ground your hips down, and he got the message. After rubbing his tip through your folds a few times to gather your wetness, he buried his cock in you. You dug your nails into his back at the sensation. He filled you to the brim; the pain of him stretching you felt so good.

Francis didn’t take any mercy on you. He immediately started fucking into you, your head falling onto his shoulder as he turned your bones to jelly. You began to moan at the feeling, but he brought a hand to your mouth to stop you.

“Gotta be a good girl for me.” He panted. “Gotta be quiet. Fuck.” It took everything in you to follow his commands. Francis pistoned in and out of you hard; you don’t know how you contained yourself. “Jesus, you feel so good, Y/n.”

“Fuck, Francis.” You whined against his hand, throwing your head back against the wall while arching your back. He took his hand away to rub your clit, continuing to pound in and out of you.

Francis could tell you were getting close. You were practically squeezing the life out of him, clawing at his back and shoulders, gnawing at your lip to keep quiet because you wanted to be good for him.

“You wanna come, baby? I bet you do.” He teased.

“Please, lemme come, Francis.” You begged, gasping as all his attention on you brought you closer to the edge. “Please, I need to come so bad.”

“Okay, okay.” He shushed you, furthering his assault on your clit while leaning forward to suck at your neck. “You wanna come? Come. Do it.” His words pushed you over harshly. He had to keep you against the wall with his body, the hand previously holding you up now silencing you while the other helped you ride out your high. His thrusts started to become sloppy. “Oh, fuck.”

Francis reached his peak as well, coating your insides. His thrusts slowed to a stop as you both caught your breath. You gained enough energy to grab his face, bringing him to your lips.

“I missed you.” You whispered after a deep breath. Francis grinned, kissing you again.

“I missed you too, honey.”

#francis wilkerson x reader #francis wilkerson #francis wilkerson x reader smut #malcolm in the middle #malcolm in the middle x reader #agaypanic

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atopvisenyashill · 6 days ago

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How would You sort the guilty of Elia's death from more to less guilty: Robert, Tywin, the Mountain, Jaime (he is just here because he thinks he is somehow guilty Even if he was just a baby), Rhaegar and Aurys II?

Tywin

Aerys

The Mountain

Rhaegar

Robert

Jaime

tywin is the one who gave the order, he deserves the lion’s share of the blame. he claims he didn’t know what sorts of monsters he had in gregor or amory but a) i think he’s lying, this is the man who drowned castamere, i think he said it that way bc he wants to ~teach tyrion a lesson about knowing what tools are in your box, plus imo he knows both his sons find the elia rape a bit beyond the pale, and b) he still gave the order to kill two kids like 😭

aerys is next not only bc he lets the lannister army in & pulls elia and the kids from dragonstone while sending his Own wife and kids there, but also because he clearly doesn’t really care if they live or die? if he did, he would have had guards on them the way he did on viserys. not for nothing but he does make a passing attempt to protect rhaella, because she and their children are his ~legacy as a man. unlike say, stannis, who isn’t pleased by the fact that shireen is his only heir yet is CAREFUL to keep her safe, i think aerys is playing fast & loose with elia specifically bc he does not want her kids to inherit - he wants viserys to!

the mountain is right in the middle. he is a tool and nothing more. if he didn’t say yes, someone else would have, but he DID say yes and he enjoyed causing elia & the babies pain. @transdimensional-void replied once a looooong time ago that gregor is interesting bc so much of the plot really hinges on his behavior and yet he’s a glorified mook in boss’ clothing ya know. and it’s bc he really is the sort of end point of this violence - driven to anger and madness because of his gigantism, and able to take that rage and make it everyone else’s problem.

probably controversial to put rhaegar above robert. but all robert does is condone the action. he’s not involved in planning it, he’s not involved in carrying it out, he just laughs afterwards. heinous, a symptom of the rotted system they are living in that tywin, gregor, and amory can get off consequence free. but he does nothing to actually cause it. contrast to rhaegar. he knows his father is unstable and is in the middle of trying to overthrow him during the harrenhal tourney, then decides to abandon elia on dragonstone for the tower & lyanna. he does not leave any sort of plan b behind to keep her safe from his father, like placing her in DORNE or even sending her to the free cities. he disappears for a YEAR which is what allows elia to be recalled from dragonstone - completely abandoning his responsibilities as a father to keep his heirs safe. and not only that, but he then comes out on the side of his father! he leads all those dornish forces to their death on the trident and he doesn’t explain his rationale to anyone but like 2 guys, who he has hiding out in dorne anyways. his thing with lyanna is directly responsible for sparking the chain of events that gets his family killed. to me this is like saying otto has no blame for the deaths of his family - he didn’t hold the blade but he put them in a situation that was completely untenable and dropped the ball when HE is the one with some of the most power in this situation. that’s actual blame, whereas robert’s blame is less about elia dying and more about how he handles it.

and last is jaime, who was a teenager in over his head given an impossible situation to navigate and no help or backup who tried his best, and believed in the gooodness of his father. i can’t really blame him for not worrying his father was going to kill elia & the babies - it wasn’t even a sure thing what side tywin was going to take bc he’d been fencesitting. i get why jaime blames himself for this bc im sure it FEELS like he did something wrong but there really wasn’t a good or easy choice to make here, he was always going to do something “wrong” and earn an undeserved reputation because of it.

#asks #maegorsbignaturals

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edgarapoecolouredglasses · 8 months ago

Text

Little Mastermind, Part Nine

You know the drill

THE GIF IS NOT MINE

Pairing Troy Otto/Reader

Summary: Life without Troy is hard for everyone.

Part 9/?

Masterwlist

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

The clinic was bustling with activity. But back in a quiet separate room, Y/N had her hands deep in a surgical procedure, the patient before her barely holding on. The soft buzz of conversations, the occasional cry of pain, and the clattering of tools around her were all drowned out by the intense focus she had to maintain to finish the operation.

But there was something in the back of her mind that had been happening more and more lately. People kept pulling her aside with their problems, asking for guidance on settling disputes or requesting her judgment on group decisions. It was overwhelming. They all seemed to think she was the one to take over after Troy left.

Even Russel, Troy's actual assigned second-in-command, had started deferring to her for decisions, despite being the one who should be taking the reins.

Today, as she heard the door to the ‘OR’ open with a squeak, it had finally reached a breaking point.

"Y/N?" Russel's voice interrupted her concentration.

Her fingers twitched over the scalpel, but she forced her hands to steady. She could hear him shuffling his feet behind her. He hesitated, but pressed on, "There's a dispute over food rationing, and... uh, people are getting heated. I think I could use you to mediate."

Y/N exhaled through her nose, tightening her grip on the surgical tools. She tried to keep her voice even, but the frustration she'd been holding back bubbled up. "I'm in the middle of a surgery, Russel."

"I know, I can see that, but... the people trust you a lot right now. You’re the one they really listen to."

That did it. She snapped.

"I do not care if they listen to me or not, Russel." Her voice was sharper than the scalpel in her hand. "I’m not the leader! You are supposed to take over from Troy—not me! You're going to have to handle this, and stop pulling me away from my actual duties!"

Russel blinked in shock, taking a small step back. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came. Y/N had never spoken to him like this. She’d never been harsh. The look of hurt on his face, the way he glanced down like a kicked puppy, only added to her frustration.

Y/N’s chest heaved with the effort of holding back further anger. "Leave, Russel," she muttered, focusing back on her patient, her hands moving deftly as she finished the surgery.

The operating room went silent -aside from the command she made to her apprentice to hand her another tool-, and Russel retreated, leaving her to her work.

Later that evening, the weight of her outburst hung over Y/N like a dark cloud. The surgery had gone flawlessly—as it always did when she was in her element—but she couldn't seem to relax as the guilt over snapping at Russel gnawed at her.

She wasn't the leader of this community, and she didn’t want to be. But that didn’t excuse the way she had spoken to him.

She found Russel near the supply shed, sitting on an overturned crate and staring at nothing in particular. He barely looked up when she approached.

"Russel," she started, her voice softer this time.

He glanced at her briefly but said nothing. The hurt from earlier still lingered in his expression.

She took a deep breath and sat down beside him. "I'm sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. It wasThey sat together for a little while longer, the tension between them finally easing. Neither of them had chosen this life, or the leadership that came with it, but for now, they’d have to figure out how to carry it together.

Before long, Y/N broke the silence, her voice much quieter, more vulnerable. "I also just... I really miss Troy." Her eyes stayed fixed on the ground. "He was so good at this... leading people, making the hard decisions, knowing what to do even when things were falling apart."

n’t fair."

Russel shrugged, still not meeting her gaze. "It’s okay. You’re under a lot of pressure. I shouldn’t have interrupted you like that."

"It’s not okay," She insisted. "I’ve just been... overwhelmed. Everyone keeps asking me to step up, and I don’t know how to do that. I just want to help people the way I know how. I’m not cut out to lead like Troy was." Her voice wavered slightly. "But that’s not your fault."

Russel finally looked at her, his expression softening. "I didn’t mean to make things harder for you. I just... don’t feel like I’m ready to lead either because Troy left so suddenly. I thought you’d be better at it since you were always advising him."

They sat together in silence for a little while, the tension between them finally easing. Neither of them had chosen this turn of events, or the sudden leadership that came with it, but for now, they’d have to figure out how to carry it together.

Before long, Y/N broke the silence, her voice much quieter, and more vulnerable. "I also just... I really miss him." Her eyes stayed fixed on the ground. "He was so good at this... leading people and inspiring them, making the hard decisions, knowing what to do even when things were falling apart."

Russel looked at her, surprised by the confession. She was always so composed before her outburst today, rarely letting on how deeply she was affected by his absence. "Yeah," he said softly, "he was."

"I don’t know how to take his place, and I don’t want to" She admitted, her voice trembling ever so slightly. "It feels impossible. No one is." She rubbed a hand over her face, trying to steady her emotions. "And I hate that I’m disappointing him when he trusted us to take care of his people. And Tracy… I hardly have time for her anymore when she needs me the most."

Russel’s face softened. "You don’t have to be Troy, Y/N. No one expects that."

She swallowed, still not fully convinced. "It just feels like everyone does. Like I’m supposed to be able to do this just because I was always by his side."

Russel shook his head. "You were there because he cares about you and you ground him. Troy didn’t need you to be him—he needed you to be you. And we need that, too."

She looked at him for a moment, feeling the weight lift slightly. It didn’t solve everything, but at least she wasn’t alone in carrying the burden.

"We’ll figure it out together," Russel said again, offering a small smile.

She nodded, exhaling slowly. "Yeah."

—------------------------------

Tracy sat on the edge of a weathered picnic table, surrounded by a small group of PADRE kids who were chatting and laughing together.

In her boredom, because she missed her dad and Y/N had been understandably too busy to hang out, she decided to make use of her father's sacrifice to give her a normal life and make some friends.

She had been trying to get involved, hoping to share stories and connect, but every time she opened her mouth, she felt like an outsider.

“Did I ever tell you guys about my dad?” Tracy ventured, trying to sound casual. She smiled, thinking of him. “He taught me how to survive out there, and we’d camp under the stars. He taught me how to start a fire with just two sticks.”

A couple of kids nodded, but most continued to munch on their snacks, barely acknowledging her. One of them, a boy with a mullet, smirked and said, “Sounds boring. Why not just use matches?”

Tracy’s smile faltered. “Well, it was about being resourceful. Plus, it was our special time together. He always said that if we could survive without technology, we could survive anything. Because you might not always have matches”

“Special time?” a girl piped up, twirling a strand of hair. “We’re doing fine without parents. No one’s keeping us holed up all day or telling us what to do.”

Another girl chimed in, “What did he even do for you? He didn't even teach you how to fight” She shrugged, dismissing Tracy’s memories.

Tracy felt her heart sink. “Because I was always protected,” she insisted, desperation creeping into her voice. “It’s about the memories and love.”

But the laughter continued, and it felt like they were talking over her, as if her words didn’t hold any weight. Tracy glanced down at her hands, fidgeting with the frayed edges of her jacket. She could feel the disconnect, the way they didn’t understand the significance of what she was sharing. “Never mind,” she muttered, retreating into silence, wishing she could find a way to bridge the gap between her past and their present.

—--------------------------------------------

As Madison stood at the edge of the community, watching the sunset bathe PADRE in hues of orange and pink, she overheard a small group of the new arrivals talking nearby. Their voices were carried, punctuated by laughter and the occasional soft gasp of shock.

“Did you hear about why Troy left?” one of them said, his tone filled with disbelief.

“Yeah, I heard he went off to find some wild place to settle scores or something,” another chimed in, shrugging dismissively. “I don’t get why Y/N thinks she can lead. Troy was the real deal.”

“Troy knew how to handle things… It’s not the same without him.”

“Y/N and Russel are doing what they can, but we need someone like Troy. He was firm. Kept us together.”

Madison clenched her fists at her sides. Troy.

Troy had been a problem she couldn’t ignore, there was no way she would let him stay under her roof. Not after what he had done at the ranch. The condition of their stay was simple: Troy had to go.

But now, it seemed no matter how far she sent him, he was still here. In their voices. Their loyalty to him was appreciable.

Her thoughts turned back to that day. When he stood before her, trying to convince her he had changed. That he was no longer the same person who had nearly destroyed them all.

She hadn’t believed him then. Why would she? His presence was poison. She couldn’t afford to have him around, not when she had worked so hard to build PADRE into what it was.

Yet now, hearing his name again and again, Madison felt an uneasy knot forming in her chest. Could he actually have changed?

“Madison.” A voice pulled her from her thoughts. It was old man Ambrose, walking toward her slowly, his grandson trailing behind. The two of them had spoken a few times since their arrival and she was starting to grow quite fond of him.

But, Ambrose and his grandson hadn't forgotten that Troy had selflessly saved them from the fire. If anything, they seemed to carry that gratitude like a badge.

“Everything alright?” she asked, trying to keep her voice even.

Ambrose gave her a polite smile, though there was something tired in his eyes. “I was just thinking… it’s strange without Troy around, the people are growing restless. I know why you had to send him away. I get it, I do, Madison. But… he is a good boy, that one. Saved my grandson.”

Madison felt a pang of frustration. “I didn’t have a choice, Ambrose. I couldn’t trust him.”

He nodded slowly. “I do. But he was surely different with us than when you knew him.”

She scoffed under her breath. “Different how?”

Ambrose paused, glancing down at his grandson, who was tugging at the hem of his shirt. “He took care of us. The lunatic ran into a burning building for me,” He said with a small laugh before turning serious again “When things got rough, he always stepped up. Y/N and Russel are doing their best, but Troy… kept things running. People remember that and they won’t settle for less.”

Ambrose wasn't the first to come to her and plead for reconsideration and something told her that he wouldn't be the last either.

She had heard enough. She knew Troy wasn’t who they thought he was. He was manipulative and dangerous. He had always known how to win people over, to make them think he was on their side and he proved that to her from the moment they met at the militia base. But that didn’t make him trustworthy. It made him a threat.

Still, the more she listened, the harder it became to shut out the creeping doubt. Ambrose’s words stuck with her as she walked back toward the heart of the compound. Could she have been too close-minded? Was it possible Troy had changed?

Madison's eyes narrowed slightly. “You think I made a mistake by sending him away?”

Ambrose paused, considering his words. “I don’t know what happened between you two. But I can tell you this—he changed for us. He wasn’t perfect, but people trusted him because we knew he was only trying to do right by us.”

Trust. Madison almost laughed at the word. She trusted Troy once, long ago. And he shattered that.

“He wasn’t a good man, Ambrose,” she finally said, trying to hold onto her conviction.

Ambrose sighed and looked back at his grandson. “Maybe. But he saved my boy. He saved many.”

Madison didn’t reply. She couldn’t. The familiar anger flared in her chest, mixing with a growing discomfort she couldn’t shake. She had always believed Troy was incapable of change, that he would always be the same person who had nearly destroyed everything back at the ranch. But now…

Was it possible Troy had changed?

No. She pushed the thought away. She couldn’t allow herself to entertain the idea. She had built PADRE with her own two hands. She had fought to keep her people safe, to create something stable in a world full of chaos. Troy was a reminder of everything she had left behind, everything she had tried to destroy.

But even as she told herself that, the whispers continued, gnawing at her resolve.

The sun was low on the horizon when Madison made her way through the compound. She spotted Tracy sitting near the edge of the water, her arms hugging her knees, staring out at the horizon. Madison took a breath and approached, her footsteps crunching softly over the gravel.

"Tracy," Madison said gently.

The girl didn’t look up. “What?” she spit

Madison could tell she'd been crying.

Something tugged at Madison. She knew that look—the same look she'd worn many times when separated from her own children. But tracy didn’t know what happened to Troy. At least she knew her children were at rest.

“Tracy,” Madison said quietly, sitting down beside her.

Tracy’s grip tightened on her knees. “You didn’t have to send him away.”

“I did,” Madison countered, her voice calm but firm. “I couldn’t trust him. Not after everything.”

Tracy remained silent, biting her cheek as though holding back words she didn’t want to say. Because what she wanted to say was no language for someone her age.

“I miss him,” she said then, her voice raw, her anger from before stripped away. “The other kids don’t like me and the ones from my group are busy with their parents and Y/N is busy doing dad’s job. I feel so lonely.”

Madison blinked at Tracy calling Y/N by her name. “Wait… Y/N’s not your mom?”

Tracy shook her head, her expression confused. “Of course not. My mom’s dead. Alicia killed her.”

Madison froze for a moment, her thoughts halting in shock. “I see,” was all she could manage as her mind spun. That threw everything she thought she understood into disarray. Alicia? And who was her mom then? She’d assumed, since Y/N had been playing a maternal role for Tracy, but now she realized she had been wrong. The revelation sent her into deep thought, and for a few moments, she fell silent.

Seeing Tracy’s pain over losing her mother, combined with the fact that she still longed for her father, caused Madison to reconsider. This girl had been through too much already, and Madison was beginning to question if she was punishing Tracy forher fathers mistakes.

Madison looked at her with pity, her tone softening. “I can never forgive your father for what he’s done. But… I’ve been hearing things. People talking about him. About how things were when he was with your group. And maybe… maybe I was too quick to judge.”

Tracy glanced at her from the corner of her eye, still guarded but listening.

“I’ve made up my mind,” Madison said, shifting to face her fully. “I’ll let him plead his case.”

For a moment, Tracy didn’t react. She blinked, her face unreadable. Then, slowly, her expression shifted. Hope flickered in her eyes, cautious but undeniable. “You mean it?”

“I do. If he’s still out there, I’ll give him a trial. If anyone can find him.”

Tracy’s mouth opened as if she wanted to say something more, but she didn’t trust herself to speak. Instead, she nodded, her expression hard to place, a mix of anger, hope, and relief.

“I’m going to talk to Y/N about it,” Madison said, standing up.

Tracy remained seated, still gazing out at the water, but this time with a small smile.

When Madison found Y/N, she was in the middle of trying to settle a dispute between two members of Troy’s group. A man and a woman were arguing, voices raised, each claiming a small patch of land on the outskirts of the settlement. Madison paused, watching her from a distance.

As the argumentwent on, Y/N stood there, looking exhausted, her hands trembling slightly as she rubbed her temples. Madison stepped forward.

“I’ll handle it,” she said quietly, her voice calm but authoritative. She approached the pair, offering a simple, lasting solution that neither of them could argue with. The dispute was settled within moments.

Y/N stood back, her shoulders slumping as if a weight had been lifted, but tears brimmed in her eyes. She had been holding it all together for so long, and now it was all starting to crack.

Madison touched her arm gently. “I need a word.”

She nodded, her breath shaky as she wiped at her eyes, trying to pull herself together.

Madison led her up to the tower, away from the noise of the compound, where they could talk in private.

Once they reached the top, she slumped into one of the chairs, letting out a long, tired sigh. Madison leaned against the railing, watching her closely.

“I know it’s been hard,” Madison said, voice softer than usual. “Without Troy.”

Y/N let out a bitter laugh. “Hard doesn’t even begin to cover it. I’m not… I’m not like him. I’m not a leader. People keep coming to me, and I don’t know what I’m doing. I just… I miss him. I know you have this idea about him in your head but he...”

Madison was quiet for a moment, allowing the words to hang in the air. Then, she took a breath and spoke. “I’ve decided to give him a chance. A trial.”

Y/N’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with surprise and a flicker of hope. “A trial?”

“Yes. But…” Madison’s voice hardened slightly. “I won’t ask my people to risk their lives for him. If he’s going to get his chance, someone from your group will have to go find him.”

Y/N stood up, the exhaustion still heavy in her eyes, but now there was a spark of determination there too. “No one has to risk their lives. I know exactly where he is.”

Madison raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. “You do?”

Y/N nodded. “I do. I will get him myself, but I’ll be gone for a few days.”

Madison studied her for a moment, then gave a small nod. “Alright. If you think you can bring him back… I’ll listen.”

Y/N let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, feeling a surge of relief wash over her. She could barely believe it—after everything, there was still a chance.

—---------------------------

Y/N gripped the wheel, her knuckles white as she stared out onto the open road ahead.

The sun was starting to lower, casting long shadows that crept over the cracked asphalt, and her mind was a whirl of anxiety and determination. She’d said her goodbyes immediately, explaining to Tracy that she’d be gone for a few days and leaving the medical crew with instructions. The hardest part was keeping it all to herself, only trusting Tracy and Russel with the truth of where she was going. The rest didn’t need to know—not until there was something to tell.

Now, after two hours of driving, she was still pushing ahead. The stretch of road seemed never-ending, and it was the farthest she’d ever gone alone and she was just realizing it.

She felt exposed, vulnerable, and, as exhaustion began to creep in, her nerves were beginning to fray. Looking up, she decided that she would drive for ten more minutes before getting some sleep.

She swerved widely around stray walkers that wandered aimlessly in the middle of the road, their gaping mouths snapping at nothing as her car sped past. Her heart hammered in her chest, eyes flicking between the road and the rearview mirror. She had packed bags of supplies, food, water—everything she thought she might need—but when whe imagined one of the bags shifting slightly, she nearly jumped out of her seat and realized just how tired she really was.

Her breath caught, and for a split second, her mind ran wild.

She kept one eye on the mirror, trying to calm her racing thoughts. Her pulse was beginning to slow when she swerved violently to avoid a broken-down car lying in the middle of the road.

“God…” she muttered, steadying the wheel, trying to collect herself. The unease was still there, but she was starting to settle back into focus. She let go of the gas, realizing that it was time to stop and rest, the speed declined slowly but surely.

Until the sleeping bag in the back seat shifted again.

This time, her eyes shot to the rearview mirror just in time to see it unzip, and a figure, moving too fast for her brain to process, sprang out.

Y/N screamed, her hands jerking the wheel as her heart stopped in her chest.

Y/N didn’t have time to react. One second, her hands were tight on the wheel, heart dropping, and then the world was spinning, the car careening out of control.

The crash happened in an instant. The car slammed into the guardrail with a metallic crunch, throwing her forward as the old airbag half-deployed, cushioning her impact just enough to prevent worse damage but not enough to stop her head from hitting the steering wheel hard.

The atmosphere around her rang with the aftermath of the collision, a high-pitched whine that seemed to come from every direction at once. The dashboard lights flickered dimly, and the car groaned like it had taken its last breath.

Y/N’s head lay against the deflating airbag, her eyes closed, her mind caught somewhere between consciousness and darkness. Her body was still, slumped awkwardly in her seat.

Faintly, through the ringing in her ears, there was a small voice. “Y/N? Y/N!”

The voice was panicked, growing more desperate, but it sounded far away, as though she was underwater and someone was calling from the surface. Her name was repeated, but she couldn’t muster the strength to respond.

The last thing she heard before everything went black was the faint echo of a trembling voice calling her name again.

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