#hot takes that are hot for a REASON (treason)

[powderblueblood]

HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER THREE — EDDIE MUNSON COMMITS TREASON (BREAKS UP a CAT FIGHT)

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summary: you deal with the fallout of your fight at steve harrington's party... in the passenger seat of eddie munson's van. so much for pretending you didn't exist to one another, huh? content warnings: as always, MINORS FUCK OFF, because we have *deep breath* implied fantasy smut, lots of swearing, confused yearning, themes of threat, heavy snark, another mention of the drink tab which i feel like is/was gross word count: 7.2k

Dear Dio, Tommy Iommi, Gary Gygax, Pee-wee Herman, Ronnie Ecker — forgive me for what I’m about to do. 

I know I’ve done a lot of stupid shit in my life. Like the time I lit all my hair on fire and spent middle school with a buzz cut. Or the time I almost trapped myself in a spread eagle with my own handcuffs. Or the time I got my arm stuck in a wall for an entire afternoon when I was trying to rescue a feral cat. 

I’ve done a lot of stupid shit. But the stupidest among it all has got to be saving this girl from the bare knuckle wrath of Carol Whatsername. You know the one. 

Tonight, for whatever reason, this insane ex-rich chick has decided to teeter on the edge of a pool of boiling hot lava and for whatever reason, I feel like it’s my responsibility to yank her back.

Which sucks, because she’s a total bitch to me. 

Even if she just told everybody Tommy Hagan had crabs and has been cheating on his girlfriend in such a deranged way that it almost made me pop a semi. 

Anyway. Tell my guitar I love her. 

The world around Eddie slows to the tick of a football game replay as you let the last incendiary word you speak to Carol bounce around the goddamn Roman amphitheater Harrington’s back yard has become. 

This is insane. What he’s watching is insane. Like, he knew you and your dumb little court of Hawkinsites bickered back and forth, but you’re the last person he’d ever expect to air their dirty laundry like this. 

It’s incredible to watch the fascist leadership that he and the rest of the social nobodies have suffered under for so long rupture in real time. 

What’s even more incredible is how little hesitation there is on his part, shoving through the crowd when he sees Carol leaping for you. Eddie’s nearly jostled backwards by some slobbering roid heads— they’ve already called CAT FIGHT! and a crowd is clamoring. But Eddie’s got years of thankless equipment lugging behind him, giving him deceptively strong arms.

And thank god, because you are not an easy girl to hold onto. 

Carol lands a decent punch to your face, slamming with a dull knuckle-on-cheekbone crunch that makes all the onlookers, including him, go ooof! You stagger back in a state of shock (though, c’mon, you heard what you said just now, right?) and Eddie takes his shot just as you dive forward to retaliate.

He grabs you under the arms so you can’t like, elbow him in the fucking nose, a pale imitation of an illegal wresting move that Al Munson had forced him to learn at the tender age of seven. His dad had fancied himself a wrestling manager at the time— you can imagine how that worked out. 

But Jesus, can you ever squirm! Your body writhes against him—stop—hips bucking—don’t go there—as you try to get free. He doesn’t even think you realize who’s dragging you away from the screaming harpy, otherwise you’d probably turn your fury on him. 

He takes full advantage of the rage blackout and manhandles you through the party, earning a baffled look from Steve Harrington, who’s finally graced his own party with his presence. A pinch-faced Nancy Wheeler lingers behind him, but then again, Wheeler’s always all pinch-faced.

“What the fuck?!” Harrington breathes, exasperated. 

Eddie struggles against you struggling, just about dragging you over the front doorstep. Trust this guy to be upstairs in a domestic dispute, missing all the action while getting no action. 

Even in the chaos, Eddie will never pass up an opportunity to fuck with Harrington.

“You gotta start hidin’ your bath salts, man! Chicks are going crazy in there–Evil Dead type shit!” 

—

“You’re dead, Lacy! Monday morning, you are fucking dead!” Carol screams down the hallway. 

“It’s a date, bitch!” you screech, Munson’s nelson hold on you stronger than your thrashing. With a lot of work, he manages to haul you as far as Harrington’s front yard before you wriggle out of his grasp. You shove him, hard, all white hot and punch drunk and regular drunk on top of that. 

He yelps, high and frightened. You weren’t expecting a noise like that to come out of a surly-looking dude like him. 

So you do it again. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” you spit, and Munson flinches.

“Cutting you off!” he exclaims, this half-yell, half-laugh. It stings, the way he’s looking at you– like your anger isn’t anger, like it’s just amusing to him. 

“Well, who gave you the right? Who died and made you my parole officer, Munson?!” 

“Oh, I’m not– but I also didn’t feel like being woken up at home when the cops come looking for you after you go all Raging Bull on Carol. You haven’t been around the park long enough to hear ‘em, but those sirens really perforate the eardrums!”

Your jaw sets itself stiffly and you bind your arms over your chest. Unfuckingbelievable. “I would’ve, you know,” you breathe, seething, “Beat her up.” 

Munson’s dark eyes glide over you, like he’s checking you for concealed weapons or signs of a zombie bite— you avoid his gaze entirely, staring square into the middle distance. 

You promised that he didn’t exist to you, yet here he is. Driving you off the road. Breaking up your fights. Existing.

“Yeah, I know you woulda. You’re scary,” he says. You shrug, and he reaches to massage his shoulder. “And strong. Shit.” 

Your eyes flick over to him, but you don’t feel bad. You don’t feel bad because he’s grinning at you now and despite yourself, despite everything that’s transpired and the everything about him, you’re trying your hardest not to grin back. Adrenaline and vodka are still burning a hole in your chest. 

“Stay out of my way, then.”  

“Noted, but,” a couple of steps from Munson’s end closes some space between you. He’s peering at your face, right where Carol clocked you. A hand reaches out, angling your chin closer to the Harrington’s glaring porch light with his fingertips. You stiffen and squint, performatively wary, but you don’t stop him. You just let his eyes pan over you, looking anywhere but into them. “You might need a little first aid first. And a ride home.” 

“I was actually planning on carjacking Hagan,” you say coolly, the smile you were trying to beat away edging its way across your face. Munson releases your chin and the spot where his fingers were buzzes. It’s just the cold. It’s just your slutty librarian outfit, you tell yourself. You have to swallow in order to speak again. “Seems like fitting payback.”

“Jesus, sweetheart, what did I just say about cops?”

—

Eddie tolerates your eyes rolling back in your head when he props the passenger door open for you, helping you into the cluttered van with an outstretched had. 

See, I’m not the kind of asshole who doesn’t open doors for girls wearing stilts for shoes.

Those things were not made for clambering into a vehicle like this, sure, but they’re– nice. For what he knows about shoes, which is nothing. They make your legs look more… leggy, and for whatever reason this is making his brain soft. 

In your other hand is a cold can of High Life, which is the closest thing to an ice pack he could nab. That bruise blooming under your eye is going to be nasty, and he’s a little curious how you’re gonna look with it. You, with nary a hair out of place on a bad day, with a big ol’ purple shiner in a place that’s hard to hide.  

Gunning out of Harrington’s hood, a silence settles between Eddie and you. The radio hums in the background– a mainstream station for once. He thoughtfully figured that an aural assault by Sabbath would kinda rub salt in your wound. 

He’s thoughtful, but he’s not not nosy. So, of course he’s gonna ask– 

“That whole… verbal smackdown back there,” Munson starts after clearing his throat. “With Tommy H and everybody.”

On your end, the adrenaline has worn off and the numbing effects of the booze have amped up. You feel loose and warm, apart from the beer can cooling your bruise. There are twice as many streetlights streaming past you as usual. This is going to blow later– if you don’t blow chunks first. 

“All that about your dad pimping me out?” God, I mean, Hagan couldn’t compose a written sentence to save his life but maybe he had a future in speculative fiction. Did he just come up with that on the fly? “Take a wild guess, Munson.” 

Eddie recoils in his seat– gross. Gross. “Not the– the shit with Tina and Carol and–”

“Oh, the crabs? Yeaaaah, that’s true,” you slur, “But I rejected Tommy waaay before I knew that. Call it my brilliant instinct. And then he has the nerve to call me frigid, which– trust me, I’m anything… anything but.”

Munson seems a little surprised at this. You can see it in the way his eyebrows dart under his curly bangs. 

But you’ve had your share of disappointing experiences with the blandly acceptable boys in your circle– it’s par for the course, it’s part of advancing in the field. You can’t throw your cat into the street completely, but god forbid you be choosy about the boys you want to copulate with. The ones you’ve hooked up with, all unremarkable and perfunctory, always seemed so smug afterwards. Like they’d conquered something. 

But from Eddie’s purview, you always held yourself like you were above everyone else; not just the underclassmen and the social rejects, but even your own friends. He’d watch you sometimes, because it’s hard not to watch you. He’d wait for the few flickering moments you let your guard down, when you thought no one was paying attention as you sat at the lunch table or walked the hallways. So achingly unamused by the guffawing, the backslapping, the forced camaraderie of your forced high school persona and your forced high school friends. Then, one of them would say something like, Right, Lacy? and your brow would unarch and you’d be right back in the groove with the rest of them, giggling dumbly and glossing your lips. 

He always wondered how you did it, tolerated it. And why.

“Now, far be it from me to agree with a shithead like Hagan–and I don’t, before you get scary–but I kinda get where he’s picking that up,” Eddie winces, throwing a glance to you, glassy-eyed with your head against the window. You’re looking at him with narrowed eyes, eyeliner smudged. Even that look could cut down a man with twice his ego. “You’re a little bit frosty. Cold shock in the middle of a summer’s day– which, y’know, could be–”

You absolutely do not let him finish the thought.   

“It’s caaaalled being aloof, Munson,” you drawl, shuffling your shoulders against the passenger door and pulling a stray thread from your skirt with a sharp snap. “Playing hard to get, duh? Leave them wanting more? You wouldn’t get it because you’re so goddamn big and obvious all the time…”

“Obvious!” he brays, letting his jaw hang open with theatrical flair, “Obvious! Lacy, you wound me, I–”

“Obvious,” you bark back, “Obvious like a neon sign, obvious like a circus tent, obvious like– like– look at me, look at me, I’m a weirdo!” Your Munson impression, complete with devil horns, is a little dorkified but it shuts him right up. That loose little tongue of yours has trasmuted your mood from wrath to barbed silliness. “So obvious you wouldn’t know that kind of subtlety. Not if it hit you in the face.” 

A familiar tune whistles from the radio, distracting you. “… or cause you’re a virgin.”

“Okay—!“ Eddie starts, immediately assuming the position of point guard. His hackles are raised, but to be honest, he’s so willing to let you ramble on. It’s the first time he’s heard you talk this much, ever, save your little tête-à-tête by the lockers the other day. 

Eddie doesn’t want to stem the flow just yet. He’s not thinking about it too hard.

“Oh shit, do you hear that?” Like a Virgin pumps from the tinny speakers and you reach to turn it up, your head drunkenly bobbling on your neck. Eddie winces; it’s so weird, watching you like this. It’s like dream logic. It’s like opposite day. “Munson’s a virgin! I’m gonna touch him for the very first tiii-iime! Munson’s a vii-iir-gin—“

“First off, no I am not and no,” he audibly swallows, positive you didn’t realize what you just sang, “no, you are not, ‘cause— well.” He clears his throat. A flare of heat burns around his collar. “I’m not the type to bone and tell.”

“Bone and tell.” You guffaw, a sound so unbecoming yet so endearing coming from you, and slump back in your seat. That tight little skirt you’re wearing rides up about an inch and a half. “Sounds like something a virgin would say.”

Eddie huffs; no way around this. You’re fucking with him, and it’s the indefatiguable male ego that’s not going to let him let you win. 

He fucks, okay? Or has fucked, prior to this. 

Not that there’s anything wrong with not fucking. 

But he’s done it.  

Eddie’s eyes dart between you and the road, and you’ve got him like a stuck pig with that expectant glare. His eyes linger on your exposed upper legs for a half a second. 

Christ, you’re annoying. It occurs to him that wants to bite the soft flesh of your thigh and hear you squeal about it, but you are annoying as hell. 

“Fine. Fine. You wanna know?”

Your head lolls against the rough upholstery of the seat and you bat your lashes at him. “I really wanna know.” 

And Munson will tell you, you know, because you’re the kind of person people tell things to. 

“Nicole Summers.”

“Bullshit. Nicole Nicole? My Nicole?”

“Nicole Nicole. Nicole, formerly yours. The only-girl-meaner-than-you Nicole. It was tenth grade,” he snorts bitterly. “Most unforgettable thirty seconds of my life.”

“Nicole told us she got her v-card stamped by a board waxer in Maui.”

“I’ve got a lot of side gigs. You don’t know about me.”

You snort too, despite yourself. That’s a lot of despite-ing tonight, Lacy. You sit up in the seat a little, interest catching. Flame to a candle wick. 

“How was it?” you press. 

Munson furrows his brow, like duh. “Most unforgettable thirty seconds of my life, I just told you.” A beat. “Until— …Cass Finnigan.”

Now, an encounter like that is less surprising, but still you holler, “Bullshit!”

“I’d say the same shit if it hadn’t, y’know, happened to me,” he stage whispers, “In this van.”  

Your eyes widen, a flicker of a grimace sailing across your face. You wonder how he pulled that off, but all that comes to mind is the start of a bad porno– Cass meets him at that dingy little bench out back of the school to pick up and he’s, I don’t know, test driving some of his new supply and offers her a toke. She’s all, why the free samples, Munson? and he’s all, I only let the prettiest girls test the product. And because Cass is notoriously insecure–who among us, girl–she’s all, who, me? and he’s all, come back to my van, and she’s all, but I’m going steady with Mikey B, and he’s all, I won’t tell if you won’t and then he fucks her in the ass. 

Because Cass is saving the first hole for marriage and you know that. You’re the kind of person people tell things to. 

What you don’t expect is a weird pull of… envy. Why, in this imaginary scenario, had he never invited you back to his van? Well. You know why. But you’re drunk, so logic begone. “When did all this go down?”

“Uh, right before school got back,” Munson answers, kind of apprehensively. He could be lying, you figure.

“Well, Cass has been having a weird year,” you mumble, meaning to think that rather than say it. You know, because you’re the kind of person people tell things to.

“What’s that supposed to imply exactly?” Eddie says, an edge in his voice. He can’t help the way something in his chest flares; like he forgot to wait for the other shoe to drop with you, and now it’s dropping. 

“It stands to reason that she’d wanna, like, do something stupid,” you explain, and you know how it sounds. It’s mean. But honestly, you’re so drunk, and so past the point of attempting to spare people’s feelings.

“Like hook up with the local freak,” Eddie finishes for you, tone flat. You couldn’t not put him in his place, could you? Not that he thought Cass liked him or anything, he could feel her (literally feel her) going through the motions like a social experiment but– God, a little delusion doesn’t hurt now and again. 

“Exactly!” and even in your inebriated state, you can feel the tension in the air, hanging between you like a balloon full of noxious gas. Rather than cut it, you want to poke at it, unfeeling as to whether that’ll make it worse or better between you and the boy in the driver’s seat. You hike yourself up further, leaning toward him, pulling the can of High Life from your face. 

Munson’s profile is this beguiling mix of hurt and irritation, lit by the scuzzy orange hue of the passing streetlights. 

“What, did you want me to act impressed? Did you want me to lie to you?” 

“What? No– look, I know what girls like that– think of me, but,” Eddie’s voice shrinks in his throat, making him sound completely pre-pubescent. He notices you lean forward in his peripheral vision, like you have to strain to hear it, “that doesn’t make it any less shitty.” 

Oof. He did not need to unleash that little piss-shake of earnestness right now. He mentally steels himself for a ribbing from you, a cackling, piercing laugh like you let out before Carol punched you. 

“Of course it doesn’t!” you froth, “Just like it doesn’t make it any less shitty when guys act like they’re settling a bet with their buddies when they hook up with me.” You cross your arms to your chest with a quickness, slamming back into the seat. “Bet you couldn’t make it with Lacy, she’s got a combination lock on her pussy. Fuck you, dude.”

That coaxes a bark of a laugh from Munson, which makes you giggle a little in turn. It’s a weird feeling. It’s not quite relief; more like satisfaction. One point to Lacy, you made him laugh. 

“Combination lock, huh?”

“Allegedly.”

“Bet none of those losers even know how to crack a lock.” 

Your head tilts in his direction, forward this time. “And you do?”

Munson’s eyes flash at you, a dangerous orange glint sparkling in the darkness of his irises. “My criminal skillset is pretty diverse.”

He pins you down with this look from the driver’s seat and for a heartbeat or two, and you let him. Just long enough that a stab of sobriety sneaks in– and you can’t deny it, but you wish it didn’t. 

You’re drunk. 

If you can stay drunk, all bets are off. 

If you can stay drunk, whatever you do doesn’t matter, because you were drunk. 

You could reach over and press your fingers into the soft denim between his legs, make something hard there. You could squeeze the thickness of him over his zipper and kiss the shock of alabaster skin on his neck, where his pulse goes all jackrabbity under your touch. You could make him forget he ever heard the name Cass Finnigan. 

And it would mean nothing. 

And you wouldn’t have to justify it, because you were drunk. That’s what you’ve always been taught.

But you uncross your arms and you pull at the hem of your skirt and look to the road, just as the van swerves into the trailer park. Munson doesn’t take such a hard turn at the corner this time, probably wary of your risk of ralphing all over the van if he does. He pulls into that negative space between your trailer and his and instructs you to wait in your seat. 

“Trust me, the descent out of this baby is much trickier than it looks,” he assures you, jogging to the passenger door, a jingle of keys and pocket chains and belts on leather, “and you’re way too gone to make it in one piece, princess.”

So he holds his hand out again (“M’shitfacedlady,”) and gingerly you take it, and it becomes very apparent very quickly that your legs have turned to rubber on the drive home. 

“Oh, shit!” 

Your attempt at gracefully exiting the van is ruined by an unsteady ankle, sending your weight right into Eddie Munson’s chest. Luckily, he was braced for it– just about. “Told you you couldn’t make it without me,” he breathes as you clutch a handful of his Metallica shirt, vision quadrupling. He’s warm, and you suddenly realize that you’re freezing.

Trembling.

“Stop flirting with me,” you hiss to one out of the four Munsons in front of you. “I need to go to bed.”

Eddie forces himself to bite back another double entendre, which is a shame, because they’re doing an awesome job of covering up how goddamn nervous he suddenly is. He moves his arm to your waist, helping you haul ass to your front door. He’s got to keep one arm outstretched behind you in case you lose your balance again– which you almost do, a couple of times, wavering around like a dashboard Jesus. 

He watches you like he’s trying to commit this to memory, the rare case of you being so beyond your usual composure. He’s even got to intervene after the first five minutes, making unlocking your front door a two idiot job.

Eddie’s about to wave you off and disappear to scream and something else into his pillow when he sees you take a dangerous lunge into the darkness of the trailer. “Woah, girl–” 

But you recover, in a kind of brainless way, taking a measured Bambi-like step forward. One after the other. 

Fuck. He can’t leave you like this. 

You’re gonna trip and brain yourself on a Fabergé egg or whatever the fuck it is you and your mom have in there. 

“Uh– Lacy?” 

The trailer is eerily quiet. You feel like you’re trespassing in your own place. Boxes of out-of-place, too-expensive ephemera are still strewn everywhere, but you navigate the maze of them like it’s nothing. Sense memory. You don’t even entirely register that Munson is following you inside, that he’s frantically whispering after you, until you reach your bedroom door. 

A coldness shoots up your spine as you turn on him. You didn’t invite him in here, did you? 

“What do you think you’re doing?” you ask for the second time tonight. This time, it comes out a little fearful. 

Eddie picks this up, right where you’ve erroneously dropped it. His chest gets a little tight. You didn’t think he was trying to–? 

“Making sure you lie down in the recovery position, that’s all,” he throws his hands up in total surrender, Scout’s honor, all that shit. “I’m not tryin’ to pick any locks tonight. I swear.” 

“I don’t need your help, Munson,” but just as you twist the doorknob, you keel over through the door, hitting the floor like a lead balloon. 

“Yeah, you keep telling me that,” he blearily smirks down at you, “And yet.”

But Munson’s not such an asshole about it that he just leaves you there. He hauls you up, again, and you stagger towards your bed, flopping face down on top of the comforter. He says some variation of okay, well, that’s how you choke to death on your own vomit, Jimi Hendrix and bullies you into the recovery position. 

“Don’t freak out, I’m just–” and Munson sits gingerly on the edge of your bed, taking one of your high heeled feet in his hands. 

What the fuck, you mumble, either aloud or in your head. But he’s fiddling with the tiny buckle at your ankle, gently undoing it. Another chill runs through your body but you don’t move, not an iota. You just… let him do it. His hands on your aching feet aren’t a totally unwelcome touch. He’s being featherlight about it, almost afraid to touch you even though he had no problem sheepdogging you into bed. 

“You could do anything to me right now,” you hear yourself saying. “No one would even know. No one would even care, I bet.” 

It’s meant to sound like you’re goading him, or even flirting with him, but it comes out sounding pitiful. You cringe, your hands creeping up to cover your face. 

“I’d care.” Munson’s voice is a tiny mumble– you know he’s just defending himself, but it kind of sounds like something else. He slips your right shoe off and sets it on the floor next to your left one. He hesitates for a moment before getting off your bed. 

“Alright, well– we can forget this ever happened. Resume being assholes to each other on Monday. Don’t, like, die in the meantime.”

“You say resume like we ever stopped being assholes to each other.”

“Have a fun hangover, Lacy.” 

–

You do not have a fun hangover. You wake up late Saturday afternoon after Friday’s bacchanal and don’t emerge from your room save from the occasional bathroom trip to puke up what little dignity you’ve got left. Sunday morning is when your mom hammers on the door and drags you to the kitchenette after confirming that you’re still, y’know, alive. 

“This is your game face, hm?” she says, pulling at your chin to examine your violet bruise that seems to have developed its own heartbeat. She doesn’t hold your face the way Munson did, gentle and searching, just tugs into the sparse light streaming into the dingy kitchenette.

You attempt to steel your jaw, but your bottom lip is starting to waver. 

“What happened?” your mother asks, and beneath all the jagged broken glass, there’s a tiny sliver of tenderness. 

Call it your pride, but you don’t reach for it. 

“I went out,” you say tightly, “and I made a fool of us.”

She hacks up a scoff through her smoker’s cough and disappears into her bedroom, leaving you alone to pick at a cold waffle. The few moments of consciousness you’ve had since Friday night have been spent trying to piece the party together– you remember clearing the better part of a bottle of cheap, cheap, shitty vodka with Robin Buckley’s help (weird), you remember getting into it with Hagan and Carol and getting wailed on. You remember getting a ride home with Munson, but the finer details of that are fuzzy. 

You think, and this is a thought that turns your already 180’d stomach, you let him into your bedroom, but you can’t be one hundred percent sure. All you know for an absolute is that your shoes came off that night, and you would never bother to take your shoes off after a night like that. 

So somebody must have. 

Meanwhile, Eddie’s been having a hell of a meanwhile. 

Fact of the matter is that you managed to detonate a nuclear bomb at Harrington’s party just under an hour after your arrival, which has got to be some kind of world record. It was also a world record for how little product he’d managed to sell during one of those parties, because he was preventing the manslaughter of a teenage girl– could’ve been you, could’ve been Carol. He nearly wishes he let that fight play out, as he stares into his empty wallet. 

Eddie’s gotta busy himself somehow, gotta do something– weirdly, he’s not in the mood to make a whole lot of noise. It’s not such a terrible day for working on his van, so he slams his toolbox on the ground and gives a couple dozen casual glances toward your bedroom window.

Your blinds still aren’t fixed. That’s got to have been shitty when you woke up with a splitting vodka headache and a shiner the size of Canada. 

Eddie keeps finding excuses to pace back and forth in perfect view of your window. Not in a peeping Tom sort of way, but in a way where he’d kind of like to see any sign of life from you. Even if you just rose from your bed like Nosferatu and gave him the finger. Then, he could relax. 

“Ed,” a gruff voice comes from the makeshift trailer porch, “fuck’re you doin’.” 

Those dulcet tones would belong to his beloved Uncle Wayne, who, ever since his hours got cut at the plant, has become unbearably observant of Eddie’s every movement. Wayne’s not a neglectful kind of father figure, not like his blinders-wearing real dad is, so he actually gets concerned when Eddie’s acting out of sorts. 

“Engine,” Eddie mumbles, pivoting fast like a kid caught doing something he shouldn’t, “Engine’s making hinky noises.”

“Sounded alright last night,” Wayne levels him instantly, “when you came home.” 

“Didn’t mean to wake ya,” he twists an oily rag in his hands, avoiding Wayne’s stony stare. 

“I was up.” He crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe. God, whenever Wayne susses him out, it’s like drip torture. He’s slow as molasses with the confrontation on purpose, making Eddie sweat and out himself on every little fuck up he’s ever made. “You go in there?”

Chin jerks towards your trailer. Eddie’s shoulders shrug towards his ears, head tilting back. “Wayne, it’s not– she was real drunk, like blotto, I just–”

“You steer clear of that one.” It’s the definite nature with which Wayne says it that makes Eddie’s stomach drop. No prelude to it, no I know, kid, you were just tryin’ to do right by her. Nothing. 

“Wayne–”

“She ain’t what you think she is. Not if she’s anything like her bloodline.” 

He says this like the realization hasn’t hit Eddie like Carol hit you on Friday fight night. 

He says this like people haven’t been saying the same thing about Eddie for years.

–

Monday morning comes and you’re still somewhat suffering. A headache nags at your temple, but you pin that down to anxiety rather than an extended play of your hangover. 

It occurs to you that you should dress as down as possible today– realistically, of course, as you’d never be caught dead in sweatpants. You need comfort, you need something that feels like a well-worn blanket so you opt for a deep burgundy sweater dress that actually belonged to your mom in the 60s. 

You’d found it in the back of her closet when searching for a belt you knew she’d stolen from you and pulled it out. Mom! you chirped, How cute! How come you never wear this?

Oh, God, she’d cringed, batting the garment out of her way as she passed you in a cloud of Shalimar, Just throw that ratty thing out for me, would you?

But you didn’t. You kept it tucked away in the back of your closet and took it out when you needed it. When you needed to bury your face in it. Substitute it for a comfort she refused to give you. Which you realize is terrifically sad, but so’s life. 

The warm red is a distant cousin in the color family to the bruise under your eye. That bruise, it’s a glaring reminder of what a fucking loser you’ve become. The old you, the real you would never have stooped to that level– never had let them drag her down like that. But now you’re the kind of girl that screams and starts fights at parties, you guess. 

Your rage feels ugly in the cold light of day. 

You’re locking the door of the trailer behind you just as Munson emerges from his humble abode and it’s nothing short of awkward. Like you’d both seen each other naked or something.

You both stand there, in your relative doorways. His mouth gapes like he’s about to say hi, say something, and a memory comes back to you. Cold shock in the middle of a summer’s day. No one likes that. No one wants that. 

Regret stabs at you.

“Can you see it from there?” It’s the only thing you can think of to say, because you’re sure as fuck not saying hi. 

“What?”

“The bruise. Can– can you see it from over there?” 

Munson sort of half-snorts. “Not from here–”

“Ugh, thank god.”

“--but this is like, over fifteen feet away.” 

You roll your eyes, which hurts a lot, thanks guy, and walk toward his van. 

“Now?” you say, waving a hand under your eye, right where you’ve applied and blended and applied and blended a criminal amount of concealer. Munson leaves about a foot of space between you, on purpose, and you crane your neck back, on purpose. Reinstating the forcefield between you. 

“Oh yeah, you can barely even see that you got your ass kicked.”

“It’s not even eight in the morning, Munson. Do you really want to start your day with a knee to the balls?”

“You’re right. That’s usually an after-dinner activity,” he grins and jerks his head toward the van. “Need a ride?”

Need a ride? Like it’s the most ordinary, everyday thing in the world, Eddie Munson offering you a ride to school in his deathtrap of a van. Your stomach pulls at the sense memory of being in there on Friday night, and what you’ll look like getting out of it in the parking lot of Hawkins High. 

“No,” you say, shaking your head, definite and resolute. “I’m walking.” 

He scoffs. “C’mon. It’s too late to start walking now. You’ll be late for first period.” 

You scoff back, imitating him. “So what?”

“You’re never late for first period.” 

“I can be late– how the hell do you know I’m never late for first period?” 

“Because, dummy, I’m always late for first period,” he tells you, yanking open the passenger door, “And I sit behind you in History, and you’re always there when I come in, leaning back with your nose in some dumb book and your stupid hair all over my desk.” 

It’s true– you are always reading in history, because Kaminsky can’t teach for shit and you’ve already read ahead on the coursework anyway. You liked to rub that in his face by pulling out some unprescribed literature during class. Plus, no one you really care about is in your class, so you don’t have to worry about getting made fun of for having your nose in some dumb book. Illiterate jocks would never try that shit with you– nobody there would. 

Until now. 

And it’s true that Eddie Munson sits behind you, and barrels in like an idiotic excuse for a hurricane with some idiotic excuse for being late that you always scoff at, because does he ever get tired of his own bullshit. But after that brief cameo appearance in your day, you really do forget about him. 

Until now. 

“So?” he says, all expectant. 

And you consider it for a second, you really do– but you don’t think you can handle the blowback of leaving a party with Eddie Munson on Friday then turning up with him on Monday. Going to the same class. Where he sits behind you. It’s just… overexposure. 

The same realization must hit him, because all of a sudden he’s slamming the door shut with a roll of his eyes. “Whatever. Your tardy slip, babe.” You can’t help but think he sounds a little wounded. 

But fuck it. Fuck it! Since when do you stand around feeling sorry for Eddie Munson? 

Before you know it, the van roars out and leaves you in the dust. 

You don’t make it to school until after second period, because that so-called bus route a fifteen minute walk from the trailer park must not even exist, so you forge a note from your mom in the parking lot. 

As your fountain pen hovers over the paper, brainstorming an excuse, you consider pulling out the big guns– say you had to attend visitation day at the penitentiary. Use this disaster to your advantage for once; but you pull back. Scribble something about a doctor’s appointment and dot your mother’s ‘i’s with eerie precision.  

You make quick work of dropping the note off in reception– the uptick of being the kid of the town’s gossip beacon is some people still feel sorry for you. Some people weirdly include Janice, Principal Higgins’ secretary, who snatches the note from you before you can even reach the actual receptionist’s desk. 

“I’ll file that for you, dear,” she says, all coo-cooey with an unwelcome hand on your shoulder, “How are you and your poor mother doing these days? And your,” her croaky voice drops to a whisper, “dad? How is… he being treated?”

You blink at her, gripping the fountain pen in your hand. “Do you know what a shiv is, Janice?”

Just then, the bell trills and you take your leave, stepping out into the linoleum. 

Someone calls your name from down the hall. You crane your neck to see Ronnie Ecker jogging toward you, paper in hand. 

Now look, you’ve never had a problem with Ronnie Ecker. You can’t say you’re particularly fond of her but she’s smart; she keeps to herself and she was a decent lab partner during your junior year of dissecting frogs together. Squeamish, but that’s why you were there, to handle the scalpel. As much of a social outcast as she is, she’s not nearly as odious as the rest of them. That’s pretty goddamn remarkable amongst the Hawkins student body. 

She is also, you’ve come to notice, a resident of Forest Hills trailer park. 

“Hey!” she says, “Um, I noticed you missed first period and Kaminsky was handing our papers back so I figured you’d want yours…” 

“Why is everyone so obsessed with me missing first period?”

“Huh?”

“No– nothing,” you huff, taking the paper from her. A solid B on A+ material– told you Kaminsky couldn’t teach for shit. He’d be hearing from you about this. “Thanks for this, Ronnie.”

You start down the hall but notice Ronnie’s keeping in step with you. “I also just wanted to say– I heard about what happened Friday. And I think it’s sick, you standing up to Hagan like that. Asshole needed to be put in his place.” 

Well, there’s only one person she could have heard the nitty gritty of that news from. You know she’s trying to flatter you, but all you feel is a flame of embarrassment, plus a touch of anger– even though the news has easily circulated the school hallways by now. 

Along with the rumors of you taking Hargrove, Buckley and Munson, and not in a fight. 

“Well. Y’know. I was pretty wasted,” you attempt to brush it off and you see Ronnie deflate a little. 

Like you’re not the blazing hero someone made you out to be. 

“Okay, but is it true you had a threesome with Billy Hargrove and Robin Buckley and Robin was wearing the Tigers mascot suit?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.”

–

Classes pass in a monotonous blur, like most Mondays, but worse. That would be thanks to the extra shot of dread that’s served with your cafeteria meal of a wilted salad and soda. Last week at lunchtime, you at least had a tenuous standing with your former circle– you could still sit between Tina and Nancy Wheeler and suffer Tina’s thinly veiled jabs at you with a semi-placid look on your face. Nancy would look at you with eyes full of pity, and you’d want to punch her face in, but you’d be fine. 

But now, as you stand in the cafeteria swirling with people and catch the death glares from your old table (save for Nancy and Steve Harrington, who just straight up refuse to make eye contact with you), you’re just about ready to snap. 

Your flight instinct tells you to toss the tray out of your clammy hands and run, and keep running, until you disappear into the woods behind the school, never to be found. Your body becomes mulch before anyone remembers to look for you. Maybe you make really good fertilizer and a couple of pretty weeds sprout up from where you die. 

Your bruise, under its flaking layers of concealer, throbs twice– as if to say, don’t you fucking dare.

You make a confident beeline for the table, chin tilted and eyes set in a stare that could be categorized as withering, if only it was trained on anybody in particular. You grab a chair that some dumb underclassman is about to sit in and drag it with you, legs screeeeeching across the waxed floor. 

Who gives a shit who you were on Friday night. 

“I can sit here, right?” you say, and place your tray on the table next to Ronnie Ecker. 

She just stares at you for a hot second. That’s too long to stay standing in uncertainty, so you settle your stolen chair at the table and sit next to her. 

Ronnie isn’t the only one staring, however– the rest of these dorks, all in their matching t-shirts with Satan’s fiery head emblazoned across them, are watching you with their mouths agape. 

“Is this a prank or something?” one of them, a curly-haired freshman, says. 

This question is directed toward their fearless leader, decked out in denim and leather at the head of the table. That is to say, the direct opposite end of the table that you’re sitting at. 

“That’s no way to greet a lady, Gareth,” Munson says, feigning coolness but you can tell he’s a little flustered. The dead giveaway is in the way he misses his mac and cheese with his fork, the way his solid gaze double-blinks. You’ve thrown him off game– and because he’s impossible not to overhear sometimes, you know that game is all he’s got going on at this table. 

There’s that feeling again– point to Lacy. 

“To what do we owe the pleasure?”

This is Munson’s version of what the hell do you think you’re doing, but you choose to ignore him. It’ll drive him insane, and you know that, glaring red warning sign that he is. Instead, you flash a smile at the freshman that almost makes him pass out, Cupid’s arrow struck straight through the heart. 

You cross your legs and angle your body toward Ronnie– and by extension, in the direction of your old table. You can see Carol burying her face in Tommy’s shoulder, the both of them on the verge of losing bowel control with laughter. Laughter at you. 

Who gives a shit who you were before Friday night.

“So, Ronnie,” you say, taking a sip of your Tab, “You get up to anything fun this weekend?”

author's notes: let me get ahead of everything and say yes, i am absolutely fucking with the timeline. suspend your disbelief, my beautiful babies, and enjoy steve, carol, tommy and ronnie ecker still being in high school because I SURE WILL. but on an absolutely serious note, thank you so much for all the support and each and every note you’ve put on the chapters so far. i seriously, seriously appreciate it. now, the notes: - you think eddie munson doesn’t fuck with pee-wee herman heavy? you think he didn’t watch this movie in reefer rick’s, high out of his gourd, and think oh yeah i love this freak? get REAL! RIP paul reubens, this one’s for you. specially every time i mention a handjob - eddie munson also has charlie kelly disease - speaking of iterations of always sunny characters, much like frank reynolds, there’s not a get rich quick scheme al munson hasn’t tried. we’ll get into that a little more… later - admittedly, the whole ‘face eating on bath salts’ thing didn’t gain traction until the 00s, but if hawkins is going to be ahead of its time in anything, it’s fucked up shit happening to people! - did you notice how i blended eddie and lacy’s povs in the van? i’m going to continue doing that in moments where they’re on a similar ~wavelength~ - jimi hendrix did unfortunately die of asphixiation, but instead of thinking about that, watch this sick video of him playing guitar that eddie definitely has committed to memory - RONNIE ECKER KLAXON. i know that in flight of icarus she’s described as tall, but that hasn’t stopped me fancasting her as ayo edebiri in an eddie munson wig - at this point, you might be thinking damn, everyone sure seems to hate each other in this story. like, why is nancy wheeler catching strays? i’m here to remind you it’s the 1980s and teenagers kind of suck. play the track - thanks again for all the love! you can keep this crazy train going by liking, commenting, reblogging and generally showing me the same kindness you’ve shown me so far. love u my little hellcats

[drakaripykiros130ac]

TG stans: “It’s so unfair how Daemon is given a free pass by fans, while Alicent is constantly criticized. They are both gray characters. Fans only forgive Daemon because he is played by a hot actor.”

No. No. No. And no.

You can try to spin it however you want but Alicent will never be considered a gray character. Not even the shitty show version of her.

Book Alicent - there is nothing to debate here. She is a greedy, manipulative upstart b*tch who got hers in the end. Evil stepmother and her evil sons perished. Happy ending. Bye bye.

Show Alicent - oh boy. Here we go.

Being a gray character often implies doing some pretty terrible or at least immoral things for the greater good. And a lot of other characters around them have a hard time understanding that what this gray character did was for the best. This character’s actions are often misunderstood and perceived to be done with selfish intent (and most of the time, greater good and selfishness overlap).

In what way does Alicent fit this description? In the show, she was driven by jealousy and resentment and done some pretty unnecessary and cruel things simply because she could:

1. Demanding that Rhaenyra’s newborn be brought to her immediately after birth. A disgusting display of cruelty. As a mother herself of four children, she surely understands the difficulty of labor, the vulnerability of a newborn baby as well as the immediate motherly instinct to protect her young (which is why Rhaenyra took the child herself, refusing to part with him).

2. Turning her children against Rhaenyra. As the Queen, and stepmother of the heir to the throne, it was her responsibility to attempt to forge relationships between her children and her stepdaughter, because this stepdaughter would one day be the reigning Queen and the fate of Alicent’s children would rest with her. But no, she was bitter, jealous and shortsighted and somehow thought that turning her children against Rhaenyra would somehow…what…do her family good?

3. Cheating on her husband by offering sexual services to a deranged clubfooted freak, in exchange for information. Call it whatever you like, but sexual favors in exchange for something is called “whoring”. I am not even going to debate this. No one forced her. This was her choice.

4. Taking a known murderer as her sworn shield for the single reason that he turned against Rhaenyra and that reason would benefit her.

5. Badmouthing children to their grandfather. The vendetta Alicent pursued against Jaecaerys, Lucerys and Joffrey is reprehensible. It was unnecessary, cruel and it certainly hadn’t done any good to anyone.

6. Showing up at Rhaenyra’s wedding in a dramatic manner and wearing the Hightower color for “war” simply because her ex-friend lied to her. Ironic, considering that she herself didn’t tell her friend that she was sneaking into her father’s chambers late at night, seducing him and getting him to marry her (I don’t give a damn that Otto made her).

7. Replacing the Targaryen heraldry with symbols of the Seven. Naturally, she couldn’t put up the Hightower symbols without “Hey look at me! I am committing treason!” written all over her face. Subtle, but it got the point across. And no, she wasn’t trying to “find comfort” or “honor her mother” or whatever bullshit TG stans like to invent. It was a strategic move through which she showed very clearly that she was turning her back on the House who made her everything she is.

These are just a few examples. If you take into account Alicent’s actions, none of them were done for the greater good. They served only her, and her own ambitions.

She married into the most powerful family in Westeros. She was a lady in waiting, a daughter of a second son from a low-ranked House with few prospects who was helping the Crown Princess dress.

When she married into House Targaryen, she was expected to remain loyal to House Targaryen. It was a privilege. One she completely disregarded in order to further the ambitions of House Hightower. It was Otto’s plan at first, but she pretty much took over in the long run. Simply because she was jealous and bitter. Because she didn’t know how to suck it up and accept that her father screwed her over, and her husband figured out their “master plan”.

Nothing about Alicent Hightower spells out “gray”. As much as the showrunners attempt to whitewash her, she remains the antagonist in this story. The war that started was one she had been nourishing for years.

Say what you will about Daemon but he is the very definition of “gray”. Whether or not his actions also benefitted him is irrelevant. His actions, although immoral and sometimes cruel, were for the greater good of the royal family, a House he belonged to, one he never betrayed. And despite the constant attempts of the showrunners to make him out to be the “bad guy” by pilling on him things he never actually did in canon, it still makes him look a whole of a lot complex and gray than Alicent ever will be.

Daemon is forever loyal to his family, and the House who rightfully holds the power in Westeros. Despite his actions, that makes him the anti-hero of the story. Alicent betrayed the House she married into, betrayed her husband, and committed high treason when she attempted to change the line of succession, for the sole reason that it benefitted her side of the family. That makes her the anti-villain (and I am being generous here, acknowledging the very few good qualities she possesses in the show, but her deeds are ultimately done in the name of evil).

And P.S: Let’s not pretend like the main obsession certain fans have with Alicent Hightower isn’t because she is portrayed by Olivia Cooke. If she were portrayed by a perceived-ugly/average actress, no one would be so quick to defend the character.

[coralinnii]

Hello, may I please ask for part 2 for Malleus in that isekaid villainess au? Heacanons please

"If you are a villain, then let me be your accomplice" 

feat: Malleus

genre: hurt/comfort?, romance

note: sequel to “being reincarnated into a new world as the bad guy”, roughly 1.5k word count

I hear you simps. I had an idea for an interaction with the heroine but the post got kinda long so I stopped here.

The past few weeks felt like a roller-coaster. You were pushed, pulled, and blindsided by the amount of things that were happening simultaneously. 

Firstly, you had to deal with the sudden proposal your family received for you, literally on the day you just had your previous engagement annulled. 

Secondly, your family had to deal with the accusations of treason from multiple families, which suspiciously included the families of the capture targets. 

Thirdly but probably the most concerning, your precious pen-pal and the man who sent the proposal was the Dragon King and hidden capture target of the game you were reincarnated into, Malleus Draconia. And he keeps appearing by your house to receive the answer you refuse to give yet. 

“Are you upset that I am the Dragon King, dear human? Do you hate me?” 

Screw him and his sulking figure right now. How does a Dragon King be so good at pouting?

After everything that has happened, you wanted nothing to do with the main protagonist and her harem and with Malleus being a capture target, he was just as liable to betray you like everyone else did. Your heart couldn’t bear any more. 

You were scared, which was why you attempted to distance yourself from him with logical reasoning. You tried to convince him that marrying you was too socially damaging. 

“So long as my family is suspected of treason, I cannot in good conscious marry you, Belle- King Malleus”

“Oh, is that all?” And with that, Malleus left leaving you confused. What did that mean?

Apparently that meant that Malleus had a mission to destroy what stood in the way of his beloved. Within a week, he and his aids searched for foul play regarding the accusations and soon found what he was looking for. The offenders responsible were arrested and sent to the imperial family in secret. He found something interesting but thought it would be better to hold onto this trump card for a bit. 

Thus, the accusations were dropped and your family was joyous over the news. And so was Malleus, albeit for different reasons. 

“What say you now, dear human?” 

“P-Please distance yourself, King Malleus!” 

Malleus was persistent and determined to woo you the human way if he must. With the advice he received from Lilia (poor choice, really), he attempts to win your hand in marriage. 

“My young Malleus, before humans marry, they tend to court each other first” 

And so he did. He would bring you expensive gifts and take you to “dates” (walks around his extravagant gardens count, right?) 

“King Malleus, please-“ 

“Call me by my pet name, dear. I believe humans call their lovers by terms of endearment” 

“That's beside the point! P-Please step back!” 

“But Lilia reported that humans are fond of physical contact and close embraces? In addition, you were fond of holding my hand when we first met”

“!!”  

Still, despite all of your fears, Malleus found his way into your heart and you chose to trust him despite his position as a capture target, against your better judgement. 

Which was why you chose him to come with you to meet them again. 

“They truly have no shame” your father seethed as your house received an invitation with the imperial seal on it, an invitation to a ball celebrating the new engagement of the prince. Your mother held you in a comforting embrace but she wore a look of great distress and rightfully so. Because it was sent as a royal invitation, to refuse is to insult the imperial house and your family was already in hot waters. 

“Sweetie” your mother spoke to you worriedly to which you tried to smile to ease her worries. You weren’t happy but you knew what you had to do. 

Luckily, Lilia heard of your predicament and offered a solution. 

“Dear, a human’s greatest arsenal could be those they have bonds with” the wise viscount hinted. “I’m sure my King would be more than happy to accompany you” 

Which brought you to where you were now, with Malleus offering a hand to you as you walked towards the castle you used to be so acquainted with. 

You were quite a sight to those attending the ball, the jilted former princess candidate being escorted by one of the most powerful beings in the land. Being unable to bear their piercing stares, you started to put focus on keeping pace with your partner, tightening your hold on his arm which you realized were rather built and firm. You knew Malleus to be lean based on his game design but the feel of his arms had your mind wandering slightly if he’s more muscular than you thought. Was he this firm everywhere else? 

“Dear human, are you alright? You seem deep in thought” 

Your body flushed with embarrassment as you got caught drifting too deeply in your thoughts. You released your hold on Malleus and stepped away a little to cool down before the draconian man realized. Luckily, he seems none the wiser. 

“So you chose to come afterall” 

You flinched at the voice. You dreaded your instincts to be true but it turned out to be so. It was the prince, accompanied by his closest companions and the star of the ball, the heroine. 

Swallowing your nerves, you bowed as expected towards the royal family. “As a loyal servant of the royal family, it is my duty to respond to the invitation” 

However, the prince scoffed at your figure. “Even when you and your family's disgraced themselves, you call yourself loyal?” 

You held back your tears but it was difficult when you could feel the heavy weight of disgust the prince held for you. Once upon a time, he was your dearest childhood friend and you thought the years the two of you spent together meant something to him. Sadly, it must have been one-sided on your part. 

However, as heavy as that disgust, it was getting overwhelmed by the aura of something else. The growing anger coming from next to you. 

“Young prince” your partner spoke in a warning tone, narrowing his striking green eyes. “I recall the misunderstanding was resolved and the true perpetrators were apprehended by the imperial knights” 

The prince was quick to silence himself and avoided your eyes which hinted he was already aware of the arrest. 

"Your anger towards my partner seems to be misguided, despite the knowledge of the true situation. Quite unbecoming for a future ruler, I must say"

Malleus continued to stare down at the shaking royal heir and let out a disappointed sigh. 

“I cannot blame you, however” Malleus said which surprised both the prince and you. 

The powerful fae, with gentleness contradictory to his reputation, held your hand in his. He brought your hand closer to his lips, bringing your attention, and the attention of others, to the tall man. You felt your heart jump as he smiled at you before speaking once again.

“I’ve come to understand the feeling of anger for the sake of others and the desire to protect those dear to you” 

Your nerves returned tenfold as your heart was beating to the point you were nervous to think if all of the surrounding attendants was able to hear it. 

Although his green eyes were soft when holding your gaze, it was quick to harden when he turned to stare down at the prince and his associates. 

“But I suggest you tread carefully, young prince,” Malleus daringly warned the capture targets. “In my investigation regarding the accusations against my dear’s family, I came across something curious” 

With that, the intimidating king took a step closer and leaned slightly forward, closer to the nervous prince but still situated in a way that seemed to look down at the prince. 

“The families that reported the treason were in one way or another connected to that woman of yours, which begs the question if these false accusations were done for her benefit” 

The prince froze and glanced at his new lover, who looked as worried as he did. No matter the power the heroine and the prince may hold, that kind of conspiracy would damage the heroine’s reputation as well as the prince and his associates who were quick to condemn your family due to these accusations. If it turned out that underhanded methods may have been used to dirty your name then…high society and the kingdom would be in an uproar. 

And Malleus was counting on that. 

“So…” Malleus' deep voice broke through the prince’s mental spiral. “I do hope you choose wisely before ever trying to interact with my precious one again”

[catflorist]

omg that sasusaku art you reblogged... i would pay so much money for your take on that prompt!!!

hi anon! here you go! :) thank you for this prompt, it's been a long time since i wrote anything and it was really fun! i hope you like it!

inspired by this incredibly beautiful artwork by @millientea!

dreams [post-war sasusaku, rated T] ao3 / ffn

In the brief time between the break of his fever and the break of dawn, Sasuke was absent of all his guilt. He held onto Sakura’s hand, and fought sleep to experience the sensation for as long as possible.

After the war, Sasuke's injuries keep him stuck in the hospital. Sakura visits every day.

First Sasuke lost a war with himself. Then he lost an arm. Then the infection and the fever struck, making him keel over then shiver feebly in his hospital bed for three days straight.

His more lucid moments were filled with strangers whizzing into his room to poke and prod him and stick needles horribly into his arm. And when the fever took hold, it carried him downstream to delirium. His nightmares were kind enough to visit him in waking hours, magnified and painted in strong color and detail. And each time he drifted briefly back to consciousness he was greeted with hot, billowing pain at the stump of his arm and the sound of his vitals blaring.

Later a team of doctors inform him that he’s survived a deadly case of sepsis and avoided a second amputation of his left arm. He’ll need bedrest and continued close monitoring. Naruto’s healing well, he hears. Figures.

The days blur. An IV chains Sasuke to bed, where he chokes on boredom thick as smoke. He memorizes the markings of each bird that lands on his windowsill. He watches a ball of dust in the corner move three riveting inches to the left over the course of twenty-four hours. He whips out his sharingan to memorize the lines of his palm, and compares that image to a corresponding record from the last time he was bored to death in a hospital. His heart line has grown longer.

Monotony breaks whenever Sakura breezes into his room.

“I brought you apples.” She smiles at him, a little knowingly. The apples are cut neatly into decorative slices.

She visits at the beginning and end of each shift. In the mornings she smiles brightly in a crisp white coat, and twelve hours later she still smiles brightly, with tired circles under her eyes and loose uncombed hair. This time she’s wearing civilian clothes, here to see him even on her day off.

She’s fearless, for her part. He’s quiet.

When he thinks back to the haze of fever, he remembers slender and cool fingers smoothing damp hair from his brow. A swirl of healing chakra that felt like the way her voice sounds. When he awoke, a nurse mentioned the doctor attending his case invented a new chakra technique on the spot to siphon away the infection.

Sasuke didn’t need to ask who. She never said anything, and he never asked.

He suspects Sakura’s involvement elsewhere, too. When he thinks about why he’s not kept in handcuffs or locked away entirely. In the roasted tomatoes that appear on his meal trays. The reason why Naruto is allowed the occasional visit, shuffling in on crutches and staying until the nurses chase him away.

Sakura sets the plate of apples at his bedside. Today, they resemble rabbits. Sasuke has never eaten more apples in his life, but he does not think of complaining.

“Good news. Your IV is coming out tomorrow!” She smiles, waiting for his reaction.

Right. He should be happy. The feeling flickers dimly and goes out like a damp torch.

Sasuke doesn’t know what his life will look like from here on out. There’s nothing left to hunt after. The main sources of his suffering have all vanished or changed form. All that awaits him is empty space and time—time to reflect, to let the cumulation of all his actions and decisions sink in.

He doesn’t regret the desertion, the treason, as much as others might hope. If he were to go back in time, knowing what he knows about the village, his choices might even look similar. But he regrets hurting the people who cared for him.

He regrets hurting her.

Sakura’s smile has faded. “What’s wrong?”

Sasuke wants to sink under his blankets, to be alone with his guilt. “Nothing.”

“Are you in pain?”

He throws her a glare. “I said it’s nothing.”

Years ago, this would have been enough to scare her away. Now green eyes meet his with full force. “Don’t do this. Don’t be distant.” Sakura’s fingers flex and curl at her sides. “Whatever is on your mind, you can tell me.”

She treats him with such kindness, such patience, though he’s certain he doesn’t deserve it.

“Why are you here, Sakura?” he asks quietly.

“I’m a doctor,” she says, with a flash of irritation.

“You know what I mean.” Sasuke’s vision swims like the beginnings of a migraine. “Leave me. Get on with your life.” He wants the words to carry a touch of contempt, but the lump in his throat filters it all out.

“Why would I leave you?” The pure sincerity of her voice cuts him through. “We just got you back.”

His tongue feels thick and heavy. “I’ve hurt you.” How could she forget?

“I’ve hurt you, too.”

He manages a shake of the head. It’s not the same.

“It’s in the past,” she insists. “We want you in our lives—we always have!”

“I don’t understand why,” he bites, gaining strength.

“Because I love you!”

Birds take off from the windowsill.

Wringing her hands, Sakura clarifies, more weakly, “I love all my friends.”

An icy flame tears through Sasuke’s entire body. He doesn’t believe her. Somehow, he must have tricked her. After everything he’s done, how can someone lower themselves so deeply as to love him? Hot pressure rises behind his eyes. He opens his mouth to recite every reason why she’s wrong.

“So get used to it,” Sakura snaps, recovering and doubling down, like she knows what he’s about to say. Sakura, who has always been a little brazen with her affection, who has so much love and care to give that it confounds him and most others. “I don’t care what’s happened or how long it’s been. You’re still my teammate.”

Sasuke feels a phantom of his past self crouch on his chest. It whispers, push her away, break the plate of apples. Trust yourself and no one else. Be alone. This is the way he knows to protect himself. It’s worked so well, all throughout his life, he can’t imagine anything different.

Does he need to protect himself, from her? Did he ever?

“And…you’re still my friend.” Sakura’s shoulders rise and fall in a deep breath. “If that’s what you want.”

Outside, a raven’s feather drifts in a slow spiral of wind. Sasuke nods.

Sakura straightens. “Good.” Her eyes are jade reflecting fire. “Being friends won’t kill you, I promise. See you in the morning.”

In the morning, Sakura arrives to remove his IV. She’s still carrying an air of quiet victory. To inch this close, to insist on picking up their friendship exactly where they left it, that’s some audacity. Bravery, even.

He needs it.

His heart would crack without it.

Sakura carefully loosens the adhesive and presses gauze over the IV site. Sasuke is already looking away, taking a shallow breath to prepare himself.

“There’s no needles at this part,” she says.

It’s true, he hates needles—one glimpse and he breaks into a cold sweat. But he’s never told anyone. It bothers him that she noticed. “How did you know?”

“I’m a doctor,” she says, which explains very little. “It’ll be quick, I promise.”

“Still hate it,” he breathes.

“I know,” she says. “Done.”

He looks back. She smiles when their gazes meet, holding down pressure on his arm. He didn’t feel a thing.

“You make a small sound.” Her voice is soft. “Under your breath. Like you’re trying to speak but hold it back.”

Sasuke thought he hid the discomfort well. If he can miss such small details about himself, no wonder he was wrong about almost everything—what path to take, and where to place blame, and who to trust. His world has turned over too many times to count.

His senses hone in on Sakura’s touch, muted as it is through gloves and layers of gauze. She’s never changed. Never failed to ease his hurts.

He wants to ask about the fever. The infection that strode in like one last attempt by the world to kill him. She saved his life.

He feels his hand float through the air, stretching towards her face.

Empty air buzzes where his fingers should be grazing her brow. He’s still not used to the loss of his dominant hand. His stump lowers back to his side. Sakura’s expression remains calm, unknowing.

“Thank you,” he says instead.

He knows what the words will mean to her. And so he says it.

A soft smile overtakes Sakura’s face. Sasuke is known for his infamous gaze, but now he doesn’t know where to put it. When to meet her crinkling eyes and for how long. If it’s considered normal to observe the rise of her cheek, the strands of pink hair falling around her face. If he should risk a glance at her smiling lips. The decisions overwhelm him, and he finds he must look away.

Something is different, he thinks.

.

.

“He’s on your roster today? Good luck.”

Sasuke’s room is stationed at a quiet bend of the hall, a blind spot between patient rooms and administrative offices where hospital staff stop to gossip before continuing on their rounds. Whether he wants to or not, he’s often forced to eavesdrop.

“—ripped out his IV. Yes, just ripped it out. Three times. Maybe four. Wouldn’t let anyone touch him.”

“Have you noticed all those horrible birds outside his window? The crows?”

A laugh. “Never seen anything like it. Like a curse, I swear—”

“Excuse me.” The conversation grinds to a halt at Sakura’s sharp voice. “Room Four is still waiting on warm blankets.”

Footsteps scatter in two different directions. Sakura sweeps into his room. Her face is a storm. If he saw that expression on a battlefield, he would reach for his weapon. He pictures her cutting apple slices into playful shapes to reverse the effect.

“Don’t listen to them,” she mutters, and throws the curtain divider closed.

“I don’t care.”

“I care.” Absent-minded, a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth, Sakura does something she’s never done before: she sits on his bed. All Sasuke’s attention is pulled to the hand’s width of space between his ankle and the slight dip of her weight on the mattress. He slowly shifts his legs away, careful not to draw her notice.

Sakura pulls a velvet pouch out of her coat. “Here. I brought something.”

The most exciting part of Sasuke’s day was when the scent of antiseptic wafted through the door a little stronger than usual. His interest spikes. “What is it?”

Sakura opens the pouch and pours dozens of black and white Go pieces onto the bedspread. She begins arranging the board among the folds of his blankets, and after a moment, Sasuke leans forward to help. He hasn’t played Go since he was a child, but the smooth, round stones feel familiar in his palm, and the rules come back quickly. They play five games in a row without speaking. Sakura wins the first, and he wins the last four.

When they look up again, it’s dark. Sasuke’s neck is stiff from bending over the game for so long. Time has never passed so quickly for him in the hospital.

Sakura is sitting fully atop the bed now, as she has for the past three games, legs crossed with a pensive hand held to her chin. She packs away the game pieces in silence and pulls the drawstring shut. A crease lingers between her eyebrows.

“You could have died.”

Her eyes swell with tears. She doesn’t make a sound.

“I didn’t,” Sasuke says, soft as he can.

“But you could have.” The tears flow faster than she can wipe them away.

“You didn’t let me.” It makes his gut twist to see her cry, even if she cries because his life matters to her.

“I almost didn’t bring the flowers that day. I didn’t know if you’d want them.” Sakura lifts a sleeve to her face. “If I wasn’t there when the shock hit…”

Sasuke struggles to follow. His memory of the whole ordeal is hazy. He has a vague recollection of a nurse removing a vase of wilted flowers from the bedside in the days after the fever lifted.

Sakura’s shoulders tremble with a sob. “I could have lost you.”

“You didn’t lose me.” He catches her hand. Fingers slide together like whispering a secret. “You have me.”

She lifts her tearstained face. Sasuke feels feverish as his words echo back in the silence of their breathing. Her lips part, bitten and red.

“You only ripped out the IV twice, Sasuke-kun.”

Her expression is knit with determination. Sasuke can’t stop himself—a smile twitches onto his mouth. Sakura seems confused by the reaction, studying him hard.

Movement flashes in the corner of Sasuke’s eye as a large black bird lands smoothly on the windowsill. He recognizes this one for a miniscule nick in its leftmost flight feather.

“And the birds. They’re ravens,” he says evenly. “Not crows.”

Sakura smiles, sudden and shining and wide. Sasuke doesn’t fully understand the meaning of the exchange, but contentment sweeps over him.

The warmth of her hand lingers long after she lets go, and he remembers something about the fever.

.

.

The infection stalls for days, but when the worst comes, it comes quickly.

First Sasuke’s mouth fills with saliva, then arrives a tsunami of inexplicable dread, and that’s all the warning he receives before an important current in his body shifts off-course and begins to sweep him away. Sasuke breathes deep. A sweet scent hovers in the air. Sakura arrived a moment ago with fresh-cut flowers.

His stump throbs with such a sick, bleeding ache that he loses his grip on his senses. His limbs are all trembling. Another breath. His lungs allow just enough air to call out her name.

Footsteps, a sharp voice. “Sasuke? What’s wrong?”

Healing chakra skims over his body. Sakura lets out a tense breath.

Sasuke knows suffering like he knows the face of an old friend. He can feel it loom over him, its breath ghosting the back of his neck.

“It’s—it’s serious, Sasuke-kun.” The air thickens with chakra, a thrum strong enough to detect by ear. “But you’re going to be fine.”

The breath returns to his lungs, but in exchange, screaming hot pain erupts at his arm and reverberates through every corner of his body. Each pain that flares and fades is replaced quickly by another. His mouth and the tip of his nose go numb. His vision cuts in and out. He is a boat tossed by angry waves, kept afloat solely by the light touch of Sakura’s fingertips.

“Don’t leave,” he hears himself say.

Her voice finds him like sunlight. “I won’t.”

“Do you hate me, Sakura?”

Not long ago, Sasuke hated her. The ache of hatred never left his chest. He hated her so much that her face sometimes replaced his nightmares, and he would wake up blinking away tears. He understands if she feels the same.

He never hears her response. A dark, turbulent quiet rushes over his head, and his old friend follows after him.

At dawn on the day his fever breaks, Sasuke floats awake, greeted by swirls of light floating on the inside of his eyelids. His body feels like his own, but different, like he’s been pulled apart and put back together in a different order. He curls his fingers—the numb tingle of phantom pain lights on one side. The fingers of his other hand tighten around something.

He opens his eyes to a world washed in soft grey. To Sakura’s sleeping face, her hair silver in the light. A dream? No, his mind doesn’t grant him peaceful dreams.

Her head rests tired and heavy on the edge of the bed. Between them lies their hands, tightly clasped, as if they met in a moment of turbulence and held on ever since. Long enough so he can’t distinguish her touch from his own. Flowers watch on the windowsill, shedding petals.

.

.

Sasuke plays more games of Go. Less needles are stuck into his arm. He begins to walk again. He feels fresh air on his face. Sakura’s visits continue like clockwork, until one morning she fails to walk through his door.

He sits and watches the birds as morning stretches into afternoon. The chair that has never left his bedside remains empty. After years apart, how quickly he’s grown accustomed to her presence. But this stretch of time is coming to a close. When he leaves the hospital, he doubts he will see her so often.

His window looks out onto the hospital roof, crisscrossed with pipes and exhaust vents, and a small sliver of the street. When the wind blows just right, the branches of a sakura tree wave into view, buds unfurling.

Hard as Sasuke tried to shunt away his past life, he could never escape the spring. The torture of falling petals, of green and pink. The world around him transformed as if to ensure he could never forget her.

Daylight is getting long when Sakura wobbles in, rubbing her eyes. “Hi.”

Sasuke’s spine straightens. “Hey.”

She sits in her spot by the bed, where he’s been playing a game of Go with himself. “How’s the game?”

“I’m losing,” he says.

Sakura smiles and shifts one of the white stones to a dangerous location. Warmth floods Sasuke’s chest, though now he’s certain to lose. Their hands move back and forth over the imaginary board, bold and quick.

Sakura yawns victoriously as she captures his last tile. “Another?”

Exhaustion shadows her eyes, but if he answers yes, she’ll delay sleep even longer. Does she ever sleep? Hospital staff are always wandering the halls to seek her opinion, or pull her into surgeries, or hand her a stack of paperwork. Yet she carves out a portion of her valuable time for him.

Sasuke shakes his head. But he’s not selfless enough to give up her company so soon. “How are you?”

Her tired gaze lifts and flicks away. A faint blush dusts her cheeks. Why? Is it strange for him to ask? He’s still ruminating when she answers. “I’m okay. It’s been a long day. Emergency surgery, complications, everything. I can’t remember the last time I slept…” Their fingers brush twice as they put away the game pieces. “I’m really sorry I couldn’t come earlier.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

Sakura leans against his bed and drops her head onto her arms. “Hope you didn’t miss me too much.”

What can he say? He did miss her.

Springtime has come again. The season used to drive him mad. The sakura flowering all at once, all over the continent, wherever he looked. The petals scattering like rain in the wind, catching in the folds of his cloak. The sight of blossoms on bare wood, crossing over his head in a blooming lattice. The five-petaled flowers, the five fingers of a hand he would never touch again. The color. It tested his patience, his devotion to his goal like nothing else.

Sasuke skims his fingers over the pink wave of her hair. He’s always wanted to, deep down. Sakura cracks open her eyes, catches him red-handed in his affection. He runs a thumb in the barest caress across her cheekbone. He is at his weakest in the spring.

“Come here,” he mumbles, fairly certain that she will. Terrified that she won’t.

“Where?” she whispers.

Sasuke lifts his chin. He rests his hand on the blanket. His fingertips burn from touching her. “Here.”

In the brief time between the break of his fever and the break of dawn, Sasuke was absent of all his guilt. He held onto Sakura’s hand, and fought sleep to experience the sensation for as long as possible. He did not deserve her, but he pretended he did.

Even as Sakura slides into the bed, rests her head in his lap, he cannot fully believe what he’s seeing. She presses closer to him, as if she wants to be close, and her eyes drift shut, as if his presence soothes her. A spell falls over Sasuke as he listens to her breathing. His hand lowers to her back.

Maybe, in the end, it’s as simple as she said. She loves him.

Sleepy green eyes blink open with a trace of shyness, of the girl that used to blush each time he spared her a glance. He will never admit how often he tested his powers. “You don’t mind?”

“No,” he says.

Sakura climbs higher. She folds her arms across his chest like he’s a pillow and tucks her cheek into the crook of her elbow. Sasuke’s heartbeat grows unsteady. Her hair smells the same, like jasmine.

Sasuke never imagined a future beyond his revenge, that his life could continue on and contain moments lit in a glow like sunlight through petals. Holding her awakens desires that have nothing to do with pain and sacrifice. He wants to stroke her hair until she falls asleep. He wants to visit her dreams. He wants even more. His chest aches in the way he once thought was hatred.

He touches her cheek, straightening out a lock of silky hair. She doesn’t stir.

Sasuke closes his eyes, and like he’s never had trouble with it before, dreams.

.

.

.

.

[mira-likes]

I've previously joked about Fan Xian's daddy issues wrt the emperor, but on a rewatch, they surprisingly seem to surface for the first time in s2 episode 6. Or at least, that's the best way I can explain Fan Xian's approach to accusing the Second Prince of treason at family brunch.

I mean, it goes without saying that he wanted to reveal the Second Prince's crimes and bring him to justice. That's a given. But frankly, there were better ways to do that if that was the only thing on his mind. No, imo his other goal here was to test the emperor—the emperor's feelings about justice, and also about Fan Xian himself. He wanted to get a read on his importance to the emperor after finding out that he was secretly one of the emperor's kids.

The emperor has blown hot and cold to Fan Xian over time! He's given him a lot of leeway and indulgence, but on the other hand also sent him to Northern Qi and put him in danger, and also got properly furious at the whole fake death act. It's hard to figure him out. Fan Xian has reason to believe the emperor might value him; even right before the confrontation, the emperor summons him to family brunch with the princes (point 1 in the 'favour' column) and fakes his punishment for deceiving the ruler (point 2 in the 'favour' column). But ultimately Fan Xian doesn't know whom to trust at the moment, and he wants to see where the emperor stands on everything. And how Fan Xian measures up against the real princes in his estimation.

So he takes a gamble. And loses.

"Who do you think you are?" the emperor thunders at him, after he accuses the Second Prince.

And Fan Xian's mouth twists, like: also your kid, actually. But apparently my words don't weigh anything with you when an actual prince is here.

And he says as much to Chen Pingping later, while angrily cleaning the monument with his mother's words: "The emperor protected his own son. It's only natural." With the heavy implication of—he's chosen the son he wants to protect, and that's not me. And he's mad about everything that's happening—that the emperor chooses to shield the Second Prince even when he's committing crimes—but also a little about the fact that the emperor sided with the Second Prince over him.

(And then Chen Pingping says that the emperor didn't actually take Fan Xian's bureau position away, and does want him to investigate the Second Prince after all. And in so doing, he gets Fan Xian to calm down. Much of Fan Xian's new equilibrium is, of course, down to how he now sees a way to fight against the Second Prince! But he does stand up a little straighter once he realises the emperor wasn't actually against him that whole time. And imo that means something.)

[tortillamastersblog]

𖣂 Not My Commander - Part 2 | Lexa kom Trikru 𖣂

Pairing: Lexa kom Trikru x reader

Warnings: Blood, violence, injuries, cursing and some steamy scenes

Summary: Sending a hundred underaged prisoners down to Earth to find out if it’s inhabitable again is undoubtedly immoral, so The Council decides to send you down first, rather than float you for your crimes.

If you survive for more than a couple of hours, they can —in good conscience— send down the 100. If you don’t, well, then good riddance.

Previous Part | Next Part | Masterlist

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“You can’t tell anyone, you hear me?!” Bellamy hisses. “If they find out someone else knows—“

A commotion down the hall makes both our heads snap around and when a woman screams, we spring into action.

“Hey! What’s going. . .” The words die on my tongue when I realize the scream came from inside my family’s living quarters. “Mom!”

A handful of guards are pinning my mother and father against the wall. My younger brother is on the ground, thrashing around with a bloody nose and a furious glint in his eyes.

“Get off me!” he grunts and kicks at the guard trying to detain him only to have the back of a gun slammed against the side of his head, rendering him unconscious.

“Hey!” I shout, my hands shaking with adrenaline. “What are you doing? Get away from them!“

I try to pull the guard restraining my dad away from him, but then the other guard who hit my brother aims his gun at me.

“WHAT ARE YOU—?!” I yelped and freeze when I get tased from behind.

Bellamy shouts and tries to catch me before I go down, but he’s too late and I end up hitting my head on a chair, leaving me dazed.

“Y/N L/N, I am placing you and your family under arrest for treason,” the guard who tased me says, taking the gun off my belt and putting me in handcuffs.

“Wait. . .” I croak, black dots dancing in my vision. “Please, my family has done nothing wrong.”

My mother’s desperate whimpers and my dad’s furious shouts are the last things I hear before passing out.

I wake with a start and slap my hand over my mouth. My heart is racing and my sweat soaked shirt clings to my body.

It was just a dream, I remind myself. But it wasn’t just a dream actually, was it? It was a memory. A memory that haunted me almost every night.

There’s a rustling outside of my tent and I freeze, hoping I didn’t wake anyone.

It’s quite for a couple of seconds and when I’m sure nobody’s going to come check on me, I push the sleeping furs off my body and take off my shirt.

The cool air that meets my flushed skin makes me shiver, but I don’t get back under the furs just yet.

My eyes roam around the small tent, looking for a distraction only to land on my bracelet a moment later.

It’s glowing faintly because of all the sensors and when I hold my breath I hear it buzz ever so slightly.

I wonder what the people on the Ark are doing with all the information it’s transmitting to them. Do they even still care about it?

It’s been over a week since I’ve been on Earth now, so they know it’s survivable which means the bracelet is now useless to them and me.

Still, for some reason I’m attached to it because it’s the only connection I have left to my former home and even though it’s of no use, I don’t want to take it off.

I don’t think I could take it off, even if I tried, but that’s beside the point.

I drag my hands down my face and run my fingers through my hair. The memory of the dream is painful, but the happy memories of life on the Ark are even more so and before I know it hot tears are streaming down my cheeks.

I bite my tongue to silence my strangled sobs and clutch at the chain around my neck.

It used to be my brother’s— a Christmas gift from me a couple years ago— and attached to it are my parents wedding rings.

All three things were given to Bellamy, who in turn gave it to me before my entire family was floated one by one.

Two days later, I was sent to the med bay where Abby Griffin performed tests on me and put the bracelet on my wrist.

At that time I had no idea what was going to happen but once Abby was done, Jaha told me about their plans and within another few hours I was strapped into my pod and hurtling to Earth.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. I squeeze my eyes shut and bring the chain up to my lips. “I’m so sorry. . .”

My family is gone and it’s all my fault. I told them about the deteriorating air filters I had discovered when I was on patrol and came across Clarke Griffin’s dad.

He’d been hunched over a tablet with wide eyes and when I asked him if he was okay he just shook his head and explained what he’d discovered in hushed tones.

That was the day it all went to shit and now I’m here on Earth. I’m not a prisoner per se because Lexa keeps insisting I’m a guest, and in a way I am a guest (she frequently invites me to the community dinners at the tower and asks me to tell her more about life on the Ark) but I’m not allowed to go anywhere without a guard and I’m forbidden from leaving the tower when it’s dark outside.

I mostly keep to myself, pacing around my room and looking out of the window at the city below, but two days ago Lexa told me I would be joining her and some soldiers on a trip to a small village east of the capital city (which I now knew was called Polis) to negotiate some trade deals.

I honestly don’t know why she would want to bring me along— I know nothing about trade deals nor do I speak their native language— but I’m pretty sure one of the reasons she brought me with her is because she wants to keep an eye on me.

Which is why I’m here now in my own small tent outside of the village with guards surrounding the area and Lexa’s tent next to my own.

Even without my shirt, my skin is still slick with sweat and I know I won’t be able to go back to sleep anytime soon.

Sighing, I take my damp shirt off the ground and pull it back over my head. It clings to me immediately and makes me want to take it off again, but I don’t want to be caught sneaking around without it. Well, I don’t want to be caught at all, but if I do get caught I’d rather it be with clothes on rather than without.

When we were setting up camp earlier, I caught a glimpse of a small lake between the trees nearby which is where I’m planning on going.

I’m thirsty and I’m sure splashing some water on my face will help clear my mind, so, sticking my head out of the tent I make sure none of the guards are looking in my direction (they’re all sitting around a fire close by, chatting quietly) before slipping outside.

I get to the trees unseen and once I’m sure I’m out of earshot, I exhale loudly and stop walking on tiptoes.

Pine needles scrunch under my shoes and an owl hoots close by which makes my stomach drop for a second.

I continue walking, tugging on my damp shirt every now and then until I get to the lake. Its surface sparkles like liquid silver in the moonlight and I’m sure if I knew how to swim I wouldn’t hesitate to jump right in.

Stepping over a couple of boulders that reach all the way into the water, I crouch down on one of them and scoop some water into my cupped hands before drinking it.

Its refreshing but not as cold as the water in the stream I drank from the day I got here and once I’ve quenched my thirst, I close my eyes and splash some of it on my face and neck.

It’s peaceful and the memory of the nightmare is as good as forgotten, but then I hear a twig snap behind me and I spin around to see two grounders watching me with smirks.

“Planning on running away?” the bigger one of the two asks, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword.

“I— No,” I stammer. It still surprises me how good their English is. Lexa told me only the warriors know it and that only some of them are fluent, but so far all of them I’ve interacted with spoke flawlessly. “I was thirsty and just needed to cool myself off a little.”

The smaller one raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

I watch them warily as they make their way toward me. “Yes. I don’t have anywhere else to go, so why would I run away?”

“You never know,” the bigger one says with an unnerving glint in his eyes.

The two guards are now right behind me, towering over me, so I get to my feet and bush some imaginary dust off my pants.

I try to step past them, but the smaller one grabs my arm and pulls me back. “Where are you going? I thought you wanted to cool off.”

I swallow thickly, feeling a lump forming in my throat. “I did and now I’d like to go back to my tent so if you’ll excuse me I—“

“You still look a little hot to me,” he interrupts me and then shares a look with the bigger one who agrees with a sickening smile.

“You sure do,” he murmurs and before I know it his hand is wrapped around my other arm and the two of them are dragging me to the edge of the water.

“What are you— Hey! Let go!” I kick and thrash around which only makes them laugh and then I’m being shoved backward and my stomach lurches.

The fall isn’t particularly long, but as soon as I land in the water and my head goes below the glittering surface I scream.

No sound comes out of my mouth, only air bubbles, and I frantically try to push myself off the bottom of the lake and back up to the surface. The bottom isn’t within reach though, much less visible in the dark abyss below me, which makes me scream again.

Helpless. I feel utterly helpless just like the day my family was arrested and floated.

The water which was cool against my hands and face is absolutely freezing now. It’s everywhere, in my nose, my mouth, and my ears, but the worst part is that it’s weighing my clothes down like a ton of bricks and making it impossible for me to reach the surface with flailing arms and legs.

I don’t know how to swim. No one on the Ark knows how to because why would we? I never thought that something this trivial would cost me my life. . .

I literally fell through space and crash landed in a forest, but the thing that ultimately kills me is the inability to keep my head above the surface of a body of water.

I continue to kick and thrash around, but the surface above me seems to be getting more and more out of reach as the seconds tick by.

It’s no use. No one is coming to help me. Especially not the grounders who threw me in. They probably think it’s funny and they’d most definitely be glad to be rid of me.

They don’t like me. None of them really do except Lexa, which only makes their disdain for me worse.

It seems their commander has taken a liking to me and the fact that she’s granting me a place to sleep and food to eat is making it worse.

It’s an unwarranted luxury in their eyes especially because they all have to work their asses off to survive, so I get why they hate me.

I tried to convince Lexa to let me work, or do something to at least pull my own weight but she isn’t letting me.

All that doesn’t matter anymore though because my lungs are burning, screaming for air, and my arms and legs are numb.

Then, I see the blurry outline of my necklace floating in the water in front of me and the little fight to survive I had left within me vanishes.

I’m sorry, mom. I’m sorry, dad. I’m sorry, Lucas.

I stop moving and just close my eyes, waiting for my body to finally give into the urge to take a deep breath which in this case would be a deadly breath of water.

I’m sorry, I think again but then I’m yanked upward by a hand around the collar of my shirt and within a second I’m back on the boulders, shaking and coughing and wheezing.

“Just breathe, you’re okay. . .”

I squeeze my eyes shut and claw at the rock beneath me.

“You’re okay, Y/N. Just breathe. . . That’s it.” The familiar voice slowly brings me back to reality and when I open my eyes they land on the last person I expected to be here.

It’s the commander, kneeling in front of me with worry written all over her paint-free face. Her hair is pulled back in a simple braid and she’s not wearing her armor.

I stare at her wide-eyed, my chest still heaving when a hand on my shoulder suddenly makes me flinch.

“I’m sorry,” a deep voice says and when I slowly turn around to see who touched me I’m surprised to see that it’s Gustus, the guard who slapped and dragged me to the throne room. Only this Gustus is almost unrecognizable. He’s soaking wet, obviously being the one who jumped into the water after me, and he has a sympathetic look on his face.

I open my mouth to speak and thank him for saving me, but then another cough shakes my entire body and Lexa tells me to save my breath.

“It’s okay,” she says, tentatively touching my forearm. “You’re okay.”

I shake my head and look down, but don’t pull away from her touch. “The guards— They-“

“- are being taken care of,” Lexa interrupts and when I look back up I see a reassuring smile on her face.

It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her smile and even under the current circumstances my heart skips a beat at the sight.

“Thank you,” I finally manage to say after a couple more deep breaths and when I look over my shoulder at Gustus he waves me off.

“Let’s get you dried off,” Lexa says and when she gets to her feet and offers a hand to help me up, I take it without hesitation.

________________________________________________

Part 2 is finally here! Thank you all for being so patient and supportive <3

Tag list: @tigerlillyruiz

[ewanmitchelll]

Imagine Taylor Swift’s Songs (XX): No Body No Crime.

Imagine you uncover Aemond Targaryen’s crimes… until you fall in his trap.

Warnings: smut, incest, drama, fluffy endings.

***

• He did it. He did it…

You enjoy more than what’s appropriate how he indecently holds you, like an unprotected boy who needs assurance of firm, truthful affections. Your body is warmer when his strong arms snake around your waist, unintentionally brushing against your nipples underneath your nightgown.

You wish you did not feel it. It’s sinful, notwithstanding this is an old practice in your family. However, under the sphere of influence of your mother makes you feel repulse at it. Or it’s what you tell yourself since the repulse is only because he doesn’t see you the way you might.

That night you cannot breathe. His breath is hot against your neck, you hear his snore, and you wish you were as pure as your elder sister Helaena. But it appears your innocence exists only on the outside.

As Aemond presses his body on you, your thoughts drift at an alternative universe where he would kiss your neck and explore your nipples with his hands… whispering things you’ve only heard doing with his…whore.

You grumble under your breath, turning subtly and in quiet riot on him. Then the fire dragon dies subsequently at the sweet face your eyes scan, that face whose features conceal an alluring darkness that draws you to him.

Your twin. Your other half, your partner, whose soul is linked to yours for reasons unknown. As you watch him sleep, with no eye-patch to his away his scar, you read through him.

You know why he comes at you instead of her and this gives you small percentages of pleasure, a deliciously tasted illusion upon which the desires of your heart drink to.

As you pull away discreetly the few silver locks that fall on his face, you mumble, lips barely touching:

“Must you always beseech war, my prince?”

And you feel tempted to add that in you he finds peace, but you say nothing, not when you spot tragedy crudely exposed. When he hugs you, it is as if moon and sun meet. It is as if an eclipse rises…

***

• We meet up every Tuesday night for dinner and a glass of wine. Este's been losing sleep. Her husband's acting different and it smells like infidelity. She says, "That ain't my merlot on his mouth". "That ain't my jewelry on our joint account". No, there ain't no doubt. I think I'm gonna call him out…

“Infidelity is not always physical, but an aching that begins at the heart”, your sister muses at you in one of these days she gets into your brain like a prophetess.

She looks into your eyes as if she can read your future. What she may not know is that you too possess the ability of dreaming. It just comes perhaps in other shades.

“Treason often starts with ill intentions, whichever these may be”, you agree.

Yet, the conversation disrupts something that troubles your conscience. Specially when you know what he’s about to do, what path Aemond is going to take and in many ways it’s treacherous and horrendous. But you are comprehensive at it.

Later the same day, as you walk to the gardens, Aemond comes to meet you. It’s a sight to behold, the embodiment of innocence—a stark contrast to the darkness there is in him.

“Y/Nickname”, his husky voice startles you, but he sees how easily affected you are towards him.

A good observer like him needs little to see. He’s aware of how your body reacts to his, how synchronized you both are, sharing a unique connection that always binds him to you.

“Aemond, darling”, you turn abruptly and without thinking twice you run to him.

He smiles to himself as he is engulfed in your arms, tasting a rare sentiment of peace that only your company provides him. For some reason, the prince admonishes himself for letting be easily dragged into your kindness, mesmerized by your alluring beauty that matches his dragon fire.

Cleaning his thoughts, Aemond has to remember himself the reason why he’s here. Reluctantly he parts, his heart aching when detecting sadness in your eyes, aware of how attached you are to him.

“I need a favor.”

“Of course you do.”

Aemond blushes, fighting away remorse.

“Don’t look at me like that, my sweet. You know you’re the only one of this family I trust, aside Helaena, but it’s with you I am connected to, emotionally and carnally.”

You sigh, hands resting on your waist. Aemond’s good eye seems to see you as who you are, not as the epitome of handsomeness, but as the woman you’ve become. The gown you dress is silk green with short sleeves, showing some cleavage. He swallows, fighting away this strange urge of possessing you right here right there.

“Tell me, what’s it you require of me?”

“How you speak it makes me sound I only come for you to pursuit redemption for my sins. Though now that it occurs me this may be true.” He chuckles, but there is no joy in him. It’s when his true self comes to surface. “I think I’ve started a war.”

You barely blink, and every sexual tension in the air dissipates as you pale. You are suddenly dizzy and Aemond has to hold your elbows, leading you to a spot nearby.

“D-Do not think ill of me, I ask you this”, he begs, never before looking nor sounding so fragile.

You soften at him, cupping his cheeks before resting your forehead against his.

“I shall not, this I assure you. I suspect I’ve always sensed somehow due to our bond.”

Aemond’s long hands stroke your hair before sliding to your neck, there hesitating for a few seconds before breaking into an embrace in complete ignorance of how deeply he affects you.

“How can you be so good to me? I do not deserve you, Y/Nickname. You’re the only one who understands me”, so he snorts. “How can this be?”

You should not say it, nor think it, but Aemond is not entirely surprised when he hears these next words of you:

“You are my other half, Aemond. I could never refuse you anything.”

You close your eyes, subtly agreeing to be the one to hold his darkest secrets. The prince doesn’t know it yet, but he loves you for it.

***

• I think he did it but I just can't prove it. No, no body, no crime but I ain't letting up until the day I die. No, no. I think he did it. No, no. He did it…

You are bathing yourself at a lake with your sister. With no witnesses, both of you are deprived of your clothes, chuckling at such a defiant moment, aware this would raise your mother’s sharp reprehension.

It’s when he comes, since Aemond is sent to summon you and Helaena. The moment he finds you with your long locks completely wet, exposed in such a state under the sunlights… he freezes.

Aemond’s good eye stares at the happiness glinting behind your lilac gaze, watching how you throw yourself at the grass before standing and getting ready to dive in. He lingers at the sight of your firm breasts and large hips, good thighs to hold on.

His body may react at it. Worse than being mesmerized by you is that he’s caught staring at you.

“Aemond!”, you let a cry out, instantly going red before diving in.

Trying to conceal his boner, Aemond too blushes. Not until now he realized how easily you affect him. He clears his throat before saying:

“Mother is summoning.”

And then like the wind he disappears, leaving a hole where there is a heart beating in your chest.

“I think he’s fond of you”, says Helaena in giggles. “Marry him and the merrier you’ll be, dear sister.”

You hate how red your face is.

“Allow me to disagree, my beloved. Haven’t you heard he’s taken to his bed a bastard named Alys Rivers?”

The Queen laughs quietly at the jealousy that escapes your reasoning. You swim for a little more before getting yourselves dressed, back to meet your mother.

“Carnal needs are hardly met by the ones of the heart, my sister.” And then, before you two disappear into the castle, she mysteriously whispers: “You are the one he needs the most… considering the wayward path the gods chose him to follow.”

*

• Good thing my daddy made me get a boating license when I was fifteen and I've cleaned enough houses to know how to cover up a scene. Good thing Este's sister's gonna swear she was with me ("She was with me dude"). Good thing his mistress took out a big life insurance policy…

You omit his illicit affairs, not judging him for doing so. You watch as your mother, Queen Alicent, scowls at her dysfunctional children for their misbehavior on a war she attempted to prevent—more likely as she addresses the word to Aegon and Aemond.

Civil war has brokered out and the Seven Kingdoms bleed for Lucerys Velaryon. However, no judgement is found in your eyes as Aemond is scowled upon.

“You should be married to a noblewoman by now”, she says. “Perhaps a Baratheon lady, since this is a house loyal to us. Don’t give me this look, Aemond Targaryen, after disgracing us before the Gods.”

You pity his future wife, knowing his heart and flesh are tied to another woman. Aemond sees how quiet you’ve been in comparison to Aegon and Helaena’s odd bubbling and Daeron’s impatience at how this gleefully dinner is going.

“No body has been found”, you dare to raise your voice and instantly every sound dies. Aemond raises eyebrows and so do the others. You blush, but persist in your speech. “How can anyone think Aemond did it?”

Alicent looks at her daughter, puzzled by your sudden defense of your brother.

“My darling child, I’ve always judged you had put your brain to better use.”

You tilt your head.

“Why, my mother. Has the prince my brother spoken anything at all? You assumed he committed a crime by facts that were brought out by our enemies. Give him some credit!”

Opting to believe that your staunch belief that Aemond is innocent by all costs comes rather from your unshakable faith than your cynicism, Alicent limits herself to laugh away your arguments.

“Y/N, I am not tolerating this. Be quiet and meddle not where you are not concerned!”

It’s enough to cast a shadow in your rarely sentimental display. Disappointed, you are back to your seat, missing the thankful gaze Aemond shoots at you.

Yet, restless as you are, the crowed room does not silence you…

Until Gerold Hightower, unusual guest and witness of his Targaryens cousins squabbling, invites you for a dance. This angers the prince, who projects his frustrations at his mother.

Whilst the world burns in flames, you release your energy when you take your cousin’s hand and let be led him to dance, tired of caring, tired of feeling feelings that are the result of others deeds, you just want to be conducted out of this troubled world.

*

It’s late night when Aemond comes to your privy chambers. He needs you, his partner, his other half. The prince needs to reach his particular heaven, to gravitate to his sun.

You are just slipping inside the soft Dornish sheets when he follows you.

“Goodness me!”, you let a cry out when seeing Aemond next to you. “Aemond! I hate when you do that!”

“You don’t!”, he chuckles before poking your sides. “I’ve always done it and you never complained it.”

You squeak, falling into laughters as he tickles your side until you are breathless and laying on his lap.

“What brings you here, Aem?”, you ask him eventually rolling back on your side of bed.

He throws himself back at your bed, hands behind his neck, never unlocking the gaze you hold.

“I missed you”, he takes your fingers and interlock with his. “Your sweet disposition, your wit… everything I cannot be, the embodiment of virtues I cannot possess…”

You turn abruptly at him, and Aemond realizes how beautiful you look under candlelight, with a few locks dropping on your brow. He promptly takes them and puts behind your ear, diving in your lilac eyes and seeing the protest that has been forming in your mind.

“You are good. I know my prince, my other half.”

His gaze lingers at you, but lowers too to your neck. You still wear the necklace he gave you many moons ago, the day you reached ten and three summers. Aemond smirks, peeking your pink nipples that are this close to leave your nightgown.

“You do not what you say”, he quickly looks away, now stroking your cheek. “Such a faithful woman.”

“What a faithless man you’ve become”, you put him to an embrace, caressing his long locks, playing with your hand as he nuzzles against your neck, which makes you shake lightly.

Aemond cannot help a smile, feeling what you feel. This unusual connection never ended, he sees it now. It remains strong enough to erase him… the woman he’d publicly made his paramour.

As if you read his thoughts, you speak with a hint of disdain in your voice:

“Shouldn’t you be somewhere else?”

Aemond detects the poorly dissimulated jealousy he finds in you and it makes him smile. You two really complete the other.

“What makes you think I have another place to be at?”

He now plays with the necklace and you pretend you do not feel that old ache rising to burn what’s between your legs. Aemond, however, spots the moment your nipples get hard. He sighs in content, pleased to have his confirmation. But the prince is in no rush to stop enjoying it.

He remembers the day he had an inter course with lady Alys and it does scare him that he came to climax thinking of you.

Aemond blushes at the memory.

“We all know the woman you are devoted to”, you say, gently turning against him in a manner to push him away.

“Come on, now, love. Do not do that”, he pouts, resting his chin on your shoulder, snaking his arms around your waist. “Who am I without my fiercest defender?”

Gently, he places a kiss on top of your shoulder, eyes glued at your face, part of him praying not to be shooed away. You don’t do so, but neither give in as he hopes.

“Somebody’s husband and paramour”, you snark sarcastically, folding your arms.

Aemond chuckles, between annoyed and amused at your words. You try to ignore how suddenly his hand rest in your belly, pushing gently your nightgown as in a way to make you look at him.

You feel your breasts are about to leave the cloth that covers each, so you are about to adjust yourself when you find yourself locked in his arms. It doesn’t help you how he puts a knee to part your legs and discreetly lay in your womanhood.

Which of course messes with your reason, but you still hesitate.

“What do you think you are doing? Do you take me as your whore?!”, you frown, already moody because fire now burns your belly.

“Never”, Aemond scoffs at you, speaking more seriously now. “I meant every word I said. You are dear to me, my sweet loving sister to whom I devout myself to.”

You sigh, unsure what to say. You rest your head against his shoulder now, unknowing what to say.

“I think you keep too much to yourself”, he whispers, gently pressing his knee into your womanhood, earning a gasp that makes him smirk.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?”, you protest rather weakly.

“You think I wouldn’t notice?”, he looks down at you, his fingers now stroking your face before letting his index finger brush over your rosy lips.

“Notice what?”, by now your voice betrays you and almost unconsciously you rub onto his knee.

Aemond holds back a heavy sigh, sensing a boner growing the moment you suck his finger.

“You know what”, he takes it out of your lips and lifting your nightgown, slowly inserts it in your core. “There is no need to repress yourself, my love.”

You flutter your eyelashes, barely believing in what is happening. Your mouth forms an “o” as his finger investigates you, sliding farther before being joined by a second finger.

“Heavens!”, you throw your head back at the pillow, his gaze burning you.

“Yes”, he looks at your mouth, wondering what’s like to kiss it, to taste your tongue, but the prince is patient. Even if it arouses him to an unbearable point where his boner is troubling his self control. “Burn with me. It’s something you have always wanted haven’t you?”

He smirks as you arch your back, giving in completely.

“How’d you know?”, you ask in between whimpers.

Closing the distance between your lips, he says:

“What you feel I feel. The fire burning you inside, consuming desperately all that you heave…”, he bites your bottom lip, increasing the pace of his fingering. “I felt it too. You should have woken me up, told me countless times…”

“Aemond!”, you whimper under his good care of you.

No words are needed to be said. The moment his lips collide against yours coincides with when your legs are heavier, as if you are levitating, and then…

Every tension dissipates.

“I love you”. Aemond whispers against your ear, cuddling you protectively.

Rolling onto him, you kiss him again.

“I love you”, you mewl under his care, locking him still with your legs as his hands help removing you out of your nightgown.

“That day I spotted you at the lake”, says he, whose famine hands are now pursuing your freed nipples, which make you moan quite loudly. “Got me into another woman’s bed that wasn’t yours.”

You purr under his words, forsaking reason and good sense at your best. It is insensible to fight your heart’s desire, to not be consumed by the fire as he burns you with the other part of you he possesses so well.

“Aemond”, you moan out his name as his hands begin to play with your weak spots.

When he’s with you, no need there is to conceal who he truly is. His eye-patch is not there to hide away his scar, as well as others begin to be seen when your hand removes his clothes.

“Will you stay?”, you ask, insecurity shadowing the moment m.

Aemond looks into your eyes as he holds your face with both hands.

“Yes, my sweet princess. I shall make you my wife…”

“Lawfully”, you hint at refusing becoming his mistress.

Aemond chuckles.

“Lawfully”, he agrees.

So he kisses you.

***

• They think she did it but they just can't prove it. She thinks I did it but she just can't prove it. No, no body, no crime…

You are there when another crime happens. Aemond has been committed to his word. You are going to be espoused by your twin, thus respecting the Targaryen tradition that has been followed for ages.

But to every great delight is followed by a greater torment.

You are the one looking after your niece and nephew with your sister today. She’s been occupied with sewing and you are noticing sadness growing so suddenly in her features. You know what cause is there—you dreamed about it too, the loss of the precious Jaehaera and her twin Jaehaerys. The image daunts you.

As if moved by strange instinct, you summon them:

“My darlings, come here. I want to show you something…”

It happens very fast. Before the twins come to you, the royal privy chambers are taken by two strangers. Lowborn men dressing nothing but wickedness in their eyes take possess of the heirs of the crown.

“My children!”, Helaena squeaks. “Lords, please! Give them back to me!”

You try to get to the door, but not only it’s locked as the man who holds Jaehaerys slaps hard on your face, making you fall.

“An eye for an eye… But maybe this can be prevented if you choose one of your children to be saved!”

You panic, and so does Helaena. The older one that smells bad and holds a fanciful dagger says:

“Well? Beauty is not eternal, Madame. So perhaps you’d like to continue the lineage with your prince and let your princess attend the divine call?”

“This is not a divine call”, you scream. “It’s a crime!”

You try to find a weapon to avenge your sister, who is too nervous and shocked, having a breakdown at the scene, but the next thing you know you get yourself to a fight.

The next event was not predicted by Helaena. You jump into the back of the man who’s kidnapping Jaehaerys and thus release the boy. As you try to steal the man’s dagger, you manage to hurt him, which makes his partner get himself distracted and promoted to help him.

Whatever the case, you are not Aemond and your lack of strength is only an advantage to cause distraction. It works, but at what cost?

Soon the blade meets your belly and screams are heard like a haunted ghost throughout the castle. The sound is not yours, but Helaena’s.

Your beloved sister is about to lose her best friend for the sake of a dynasty that was damned from the beginning.

Your mind goes blank, though. All you remember is the days spent in relatively peace, quiet and studying, always omitting Aemond’s sins and ensuring these never reached your mother’s knowledge.

As you gasp in pain, weeping silently as your murderer twists the dagger in you. Believing your body will be disappeared after your last breath, Aemond will not know a crime has occurred.

Is your sacrifice worth of this dusted and dysfunctional family you are part of? When thinking of the safety of your nephews and the love you received of Aemond, you believe so.

Then you comfortably slip out of your conscience.

***

For some reason, you are spared by the Gods. Aemond is there next to you, concern stamping his features. It softens though when you move your hand, surprised to find it holding his.

“Y/N! Y/Nickname!”, you see tears in his good eye when he reaches for you, peppering your face with kisses. “I thought I lost you. I…”

He could not say another word. Still shaken for finding yourself alive and well, you have nothing to say as he rocks you in his arms. Only then you look at him, confused.

“What happened? I thought…”, and then you remember the events of that evening and you start to panic. “Aemond! The children, where are…?”

“Shh, shh…”, says the prince, kissing your lips gently. “No need to stress yourself over this matter, love. All has been resolved and our nephews are well. You are well and y his is mostly important.”

You snuggle onto his arms, weeping silently. Aemond understands what you’ve gone through, having spent the last days in great distress. He could not fight a war knowing you are not well. He could not bear in mind a world where you are not part of it.

Later you’d know Aemond rescued you because of the strong bond you two share. When he was about to fly Vhagar, he felt an excruciating pain flinch over his body, a terror that tormented his reason. Quickly he understood this was about you, that you needed him.

By the time he arrived at the Great Tower of the Red Keep, you have been just under a terrible attack that nearly costed your wife. The attackers escaped but Aemond hunted them down—after ensuring you were under the best care of the best men of the realm—and personally ensured to execute such criminals.

As he did, Aemond knew who was the responsible for sending these two after his nephew and niece. The prince soon found his uncle Daemon’s whereabouts and a fight followed—to no avail, although Daemon was forced to seek exile.

The blacks are now momentarily defeated and now all of your family are present in Aemond’s privy bedchambers—to where you were taken—looking after you.

“My dear girl. How imprudent of you to behave the way you did”, Alicent is weeping since the moment she saw you are awake. “I frightened for you. I prayed for your soul. I… My sweet Y/N! I have no words for what you’ve done and the great pain you made me suffer! Do you care so little about your life?”

Before you could give her an answer, which includes an apology, another teary relative comes to your sight. The Queen Helaena rushes to your side before carefully holding you in her arms.

“I didn’t see it coming, please forgive me!”

“There’s nothing to forgive. What it matters is that they are well… aren’t they?”

“They are”, a male, embargoed voice joins the party. It’s Aegon’s. “Y/N, your loyalty has always been the most admirable trait of a sweet heart none but Helaena possesses genuinely. Thank you.”

It’s an emotional scene, a reward for a duty you’ve never expected to earn. Aemond is there by your left side, him too sharing your sentiments. It is clear by now that what one feels, so does the other.

But what a greater victory there is to rejoice now than the harmony of the Dowager Queen and her children?

You know it… because you’ve dreamt it.

***

• Epilogue.

Harrenhal Castle, many years later.

No more shadows nor sorrows since war came to an end. For once every enemy is defeated and the king reigns uncontestedly with his family by his side.

Politics here, politics there, a rival to your man’s love is nowhere to be seen. Some of the servants believe you possess the same wickedness there is in Lord Aemond’s heart, for since you and him were married, Alys Rivers has gone to dust. Where has she gone, the ambitious witch?

A name that doesn’t remain in anyone’s mind when your Valyrian beauty is seen inside and out of the Castle. You are a good landowner and you do your charity.

You earn the epithet of “the good lady wife of Aemond, the kinslayer”. But you do not mind it. Not when you rule your household… and him.

Whilst children are fast asleep, you are found in great intimacy with your lord husband. In nude state, you sit at the edge of your bed, subduing him at your will.

“Aemond!”, you throw your head back, going insane at the wonderfulness his tongue does inside your womanhood, dancing around your clit until he drinks all the liquid you provide him. “Oh, oh Aem…!”

You gently push his face to your core, arching your back as that familiar wave rises from your already levitating thighs… before crushing in your belly. And you almost scream, had he not placed a hand over your mouth.

Soon after, he doesn’t let you take a break and promptly slides inside you, making you whimper and squint in surprise.

“My lady is soaked!”, Aemond pushed you by your thighs, his tone so indecently hot that you squirm and drop back in bed. “Goodness me, woman!”

The prince groans loud, throbbing right into you, watching you with lust and desire as you are about to get undone again. Specially when he intercalates his deep thrusts with his fingers.

“Sing it to me”, he now inclines his body over yours, both of you soaked. Aemond wraps a hand around your neck, holding it the way you like him to all the whilst slapping your bum respectfully. He’s about to come undone himself. “Yes, wife!”

And to his surprise, you lock him with your legs and turn positions. Barely you begin to ride him, though, when both of you reach orgasm.

“This was so good!”, Aemond cries out before making out with you passionately.

He then helps you come to his side, and there your bodies remain interlocked.

“I think we conceived”, you muse mischievously.

Aemond is cuddling onto you, holding you tightly close. You don’t mind his sweat, so mixed to yours that smell as one. You love him intently so and he feels it.

“I don’t mind if we do”, he chuckles. “The more, the merrier.”

One exchange of glances is enough to express how one feels for the other. It makes you happy, it contents him likewise. No signs of war, no crimes to be slandered of. No more.

It’s all good. Perfectly good…

[yesbutmakeitgay]

Once Upon A Time I Used To Know A Girl

Chapter 19

Carol Danvers x Reader

Masterlist | This work's masterlist | AO3

Summary: You get to see a different side of Carol.

Angst, Slow Burn, Amnesia.

Word count: 1011

Somewhere In The Bitter And The Sweet

You begin going to the gym regularly to start improving your physical health in order to be reinstated. You come back to your room after a training session to take a shower and, when you come out, you find Kamala on your bed, as you often do.

"How’s it going?" she asks, referring to you and Carol.

"I don’t know, she’s acting really weird." Your tone is gossipy.

"What do you mean ‘weird?’"

You hesitate, "I think she’s trying to flirt with me?"

"You don’t know? What’s she doing?"

"What do you call it when she goes to the gym at the exact same time as me and works out flexing her muscles in my direction?"

"I’d call that weird, is it working?" You remain silent, bitting your lip, "Come on, just tell me."

"It’s not, not working," you admit, your eyes looking anywhere but her.

A smile grows on her face, "Have you talked to her?”

"I’ve been meaning to, but every time I want to say anything my brain turns it into something awful, maybe I’m losing my mind.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Every time I see her I want to be mad at her, but my heart starts beating really fast like I’m nervous.”

“They erased her from your mind, not from your heart,” she muses.

“That's cheesy.”

Kamala grins, “It's true, though, you got that look in your eyes, even just talking about her.”

Carol walks back from the gym to her and Valkyrie’s provisional room, she’s been living in The King’s quarters after seeing how privileged she was and deciding that’s where she wanted to spend the remainder of her stay.

"You look oddly cheerful," Valkyrie remarks as she opens the door.

The Captain walks into the room, "I have a plan, I’m gonna win her back."

"By beating her ass?"

"That wasn’t on purpose," Carol's posture deflates slightly, "I didn’t think it would be so easy."

"Cocky aren’t we?" The King closes the door.

"I’m gonna remind her of the reason why she fell in love with me."

Valkyrie raises an eyebrow, "Which is?"

"My wonderful personality," Carol responds matter of factly.

"Um, I think it was mostly because you’re pretty," Val teases her.

"Yeah that too," The Captain grins, "and if that doesn’t work, I also have a plan B."

"Do I want to know about plan B?"

"Making her jealous with you," she jokes.

Val takes the opportunity to taunt her, "You do not want to do that."

Carol feigns offense, "Are you implying you wouldn’t help me?"

"I am saying she asked me if we’d fucked before." The King shoots a devilish smirk.

"She what!"

"Right after calling me 'hot.'" Carol immediately storms out of the room.

"Don’t go beat her ass again," Valkyrie yells.

Kamala has just left your room when Carol barges in, "You called Valkyrie 'hot'?"

Your head shoots up in confusion, "Excuse me?"

"Did you?" Carol insists.

"Uh, maybe? I don’t know." She really caught you off guard and you don’t understand the reason for her intensity.

"How could you?" Her voice goes up an octave.

"What is happening?"

"Treason, that’s what’s happening."

"Are you insinuating that she isn’t hot? Because you have eyes too, right?" You’re at a loss for words. Carol gets impossibly close to your face staring at your eyes intently and takes a deep breath, she starts giggling and you can’t help but giggle with her, "What is wrong with you?" you ask in a much lighter tone, still laughing.

"You’re what’s wrong with me." There’s a big smile on her face.

"I’m what’s wrong with me, I can’t be what’s wrong with you too."

"I’m going crazy." She lays in bed next to you, you encourage her by scooting over a little.

"Welcome to the club, Captain."

"Don’t call me that." Her voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it.

"Isn’t that what you are?"

"You never called me that before."

"What did I call you?"

"Carol," she reminisces for a moment, "angel."

"Angel?" you look at her, hearing the familiar pet name.

"Mhmm, because I glow and I can fly."

"Right," You nod in understanding, "what about 'Princess'?"

"No, that’s from Val, she used to call you that."

"She still does, I don’t know why."

Carol gives you a bashful smile, "Because you were dating The Princess of Alanda." You gasp loudly.

"You married Prince Yan?"

"It’s a marriage of convenience," she’s quick to clarify.

"Very convenient," you banter.

She rolls her eyes, "You knew about it, you were there!"

"Are you even able to get married again?"

"I think so, what, you wanted to marry me?" she teases you.

"I mean, you did see the ring, didn't you?"

"But you never actually gave it to me." Her voice turns small.

"You can take it if you want, I have no use for it"

"Not without a proper proposal," she jokes.

"Fine, I’ll just keep it then." She playfully slaps your arm, in an instant her expression turns serious.

"Hey now," your features soften, "don’t be sad, the offer still stands, Val said it was very expensive."

"Val knew about it?" Carol frowns.

You nod, "Apparently she gave it to me."

She jolts up, "You’re kidding."

"What?" You slowly sit up as well.

"The last time we saw her was like eight months ago, when were you gonna give it to me?" She looks outraged, but you can tell it’s all a ruse.

"I cannot stress enough how much I don't know," you exaggerate your words.

"You are unbelievable!"

"Thank you," you smirk.

"That was not a compliment."

"I decided to take it as one," you chuckle, "if we’re sharing non-compliments, I have to admit, you are not as awful as I thought you were when I first met you."

She stares at you for a moment, "Thanks," she whispers.

"I’m sorry, that was rude," you mutter in hindsight.

"No, you’re right, I almost killed you."

"I knew you wouldn't."

"Did you?"

"Not exactly, but I never actually feared for my life."

Chapter 20

This story is almost over AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!

Tags: @graniairish @carols-photonblast @thelittleliars @unicorniusfallapatorius @prplepeony @eringranola

Let me know if you wanna be tagged :)

[ackerifle]

Captain Levi x prisoner of war reader please 😊 🙏

spoils of war!

yan. captain levi ackerman x fem captain. reader (ft. special operations squad)

+ CW. — au: canon adjacent, war crimes, treason, imprisonment, abuse of power & authority: mistreatment/abuse of pow, non-sexual nudity, choking, restraints & hot iron branding, uncharacteristically long post because it’s combined with another work i was making; not proof-read.

it came as no surprise that paradis island was capable of producing and preparing such an overwhelming abundance of competent and proficient soldiers. even if many civilians had initially criticized their old-fashioned choice of weaponry, their contentious plays on the battlefield, and even their morales as a stand-alone concern in itself; their doubts would soon be long forgotten once the soldiers had returned, claiming their first victory that would soon become countless victories. the war may still have yet to be won, but it is no secret that lady luck certainly favored the survey corps’ soldiers with all she had.

and that is precisely why levi had so easily been able to whisk you away with not so much as a glance from his subordinates and superiors alike, during an attack no less. in retrospect, you should have adamantly defended your right to fall back on this particular mission to your commander, should have let this great burden fall onto the shoulders of one of your fellow captains, and have been done with the whole situation entirely. but there was much more for you to prove to your commander and newfound nation than your other marleyan peers.

even if you had demonstrated your worth as a valuable asset time and time again, had gotten your hands dirty for the sake of marley’s name and conquest, serve your own motherland and its peoples only to turn your back on them halfway through the war; you would remain the only ‘foreigner,’ in power, a potential traitor in the eyes of soldiers who were your supposed comrades. if you could betray once, you could betray again— and those who held such leery and low beliefs of you simply could not be reasoned with.

but the judgment and distaste that was made very well clear to you by the marleyan military was nothing in comparison to levi's contempt. actually, it was captain levi now, although that isn’t such a shocking revelation when you take into account that you had also been promoted to captain status during your years away from home. however, your title was a gift from marley, not paradis, and that alone made all the more difference.

you hadn’t remembered him when the two of you came face to face after half a decade. when all of your soldiers had either met their final fates or been broken down with wounds beyond repair, captured and detained; you too, had fallen with them. and when levi had stormed down the ghastly corridor of deadmen and far worse to reap his reward of the fight well won, he had found you. the first thing he noticed was that you looked better, happier. far happier than he could’ve ever dreamed to see you when you were still in paradis— even with the absolutely disgusting mud, grime, dirt, blood, and shit smothered onto your raw and tender skin, with injuries that were likely already infected and guaranteed to last you a lifetime of scars, and well over half of your comrades-in-arms deceased. for someone who was just about to lose everything, you seemed so alive.

at the time, he had approached you wordlessly. slowly trekking his way down to your pathetic and forlorn figure, limp with lassitude and slumped in defeat in a messy pool of your own blood. given enough thought, levi thinks he must’ve looked angry back then. teeth grinding together behind a disturbing sneer, and eyes left wide open until they felt dry enough that he may as well have cried; levi acted far quicker than even his own thoughts could. as the end of his blade dipped beneath your chin, experimentally tapping the sharp side against your neck before raising the entire weight of your head until you could face him.

for but a moment's time, something vulnerable had flashed through levi’s eyes, and he remembered this feeling from his youth, that of a scared boy. his relentless heart wouldn’t stop in its persistence to beat out of his rib cage, and his sentiment, his fondness for you had resurfaced with bone chilling ardor. he was rendered completely, and wholly speechless. mouth agape and stunned into silence, but levi must have let your name slip from his lips in a voiceless whisper, because you finally opened your eyes, “do- do i, know you.” and so you had forgotten all about him.

you truly had done something so utterly unforgivable. leaving him all alone and abandoned while he remained under the unanswered pretense that you were taken; only to have been double backing on paradis the entire time, while he was the only one suffering, left in egregious shambles over your absence. so now he was going to do something unforgivable to you.

“get up.” levi always finds a way to announce his presence before making his way down to your cellar— as if the sound of him (unnecessarily) slamming the rickety door open and stomping on the the concrete steps wasn’t enough for you to catch the hint. a faint window of yellow light from above could be seen framing his silhouette on the uneven stone ground, and you brace yourself for whatever words of wisdom levi has so graciously decided to enlighten you with today, “it’s your lucky day.”

biting back a mirthful huff and an equally incredulous leer, you study his next words carefully, “we’ve got visitors coming today.” you’re quite observant of how he intentionally takes his time when it comes to unlocking your cellar door, his eyes don’t leave you, as if he enjoys seeing you imprisoned behind bars, and it makes your skin crawl, “visitors?”

your copycat repetition was intended to be silent, though you can’t help but ponder his statement aloud. there is something odd here, levi slides the door open and enters the caged room with you, you don’t know what it is, he grabs you by the arm far too intimately for someone holding a hostage, no— you know what it is; his voice, levi doesn’t bother to close the cellar door as he guides you down the ill lit, damp and dreary hallway, he almost sounds like he’s looking forward to having these ‘visitors’ coming today.

“you’ll be happy to see them.” as if reading your mind, levi offered his ominous words of assurance, if one could even call them that. opting to ignore his response in favor of studying your surroundings, partially because you weren’t conscious for the trip down, and partially to soothe your nerves, you have distant memories here— “familiar to you yet? the old headquarters’ basement.”

levi bites his tongue to refrain from adding in a sardonic jab about how you would have been there to witness the construction of the new headquarters, the symbol of paradis island’s first victory in the war, if you had simply stayed. but levi trusts that he’s spent enough time re-indoctrinating your pasts together with the days he’s been granted leave to tend to his war trophy. but his heart still aches every time he remembers your neglectful memory was due to your own carelessness, nothing to do with marley brainwashing you, or any sort of militaristic torture into subservience. was he that insignificant to you that over the span of five short years, you would think no more of him?

the two of you seem to recall your trainee days on paradis very differently, and the notion itself puts levi in a sour mood, “hurry up, the ropes don’t make you fucking immobile.” he barks with a shove in between your shoulder blades, “cuffs with enough leeway for me to move a single centimeter at a time? how accommodating!” levi shoots you a dark glare, “behave.”

it leaves your body sore when you come to a standstill atop the steps, vision straining at the introduction of an unhealthy combination of natural and artificial lighting on your luminescent-deprived eyes. levi takes advantage of your poorly adjusting eyes, suavely escorting you into a new room. there is something that you notice immediately upon entering the unrecognizable area, it is the smell of smoke. instinctively, your eyes frantically search the room to locate the source, landing on a small coal fire, all the while levi continues to usher you forward until you bump into a wooden surface.

peering down, you’re greeted by a low, yet unusually and unconventionally capacious table. each corner holds an individual ring of rusted metal, hooked to the ends with suspicious purpose. but before you can dwell on it too much, the force of levi’s hands on your shoulder and waist have you coming to your senses. with one calculating motion, he swivels you around, turning your body until you’re faced towards him, and although your hands are tied together behind your back, you struggle like you can touch him. levi is unfazed by whatever attempts you can bring yourself to muster to aid in escaping his grasp, dropping his hands to your torso with dangerous constriction before slamming you down onto the table with all his might.

your lower back takes the brunt of the force, and by god does it hurt. the edge of the table digs spitefully into your back and spine, causing you to momentarily scream in agony. and in an instant, levi distracts you from the pain when his hands start roaming your body, starting with your shirt. when he gets closer, the severity of the situation finally sinks in, and you only hope you’re wrong about what will happen next. wildly moving in his hold does little when your limbs are bound, and your legs are lifted too high from the floor for you to even do anything, and despite still maintaining full control over your movements, levi lets out an annoyed grunt either way.

his right hand quickly descends down onto your neck, enveloping your airway with a firm squeeze, enough to get you to stop violently staggering about. levi is more concerned with the position this has now put him in, only a menial worry, really; unbuttoning your shirt with one hand proves to be rather difficult, so he’ll have to tear at the fabric. like it was an ordinary sunday morning, he is more worried with the tattered frays and cloth pieces your blouse will discard, than you, a literal captive, scrambling to get out from beneath him. he decides he will both unbutton and rip the shirt, using his thumb to sloppily shove the buttons through while also dragging the article further down your body.

“fuck, don’t. this is inhumane, even for an enemy soldier!” it hadn’t crossed his mind that you may have taken this the wrong way, his intentions that is. but you did give him an idea for another day, “well, you aren't quite a soldier— no, not even a civilian of paradis anymore, now are you?”

levi halts his movements, but doesn’t release you, instead, feigning a thoughtful pause before continuing, “but that doesn't matter, even if you miraculously find your way back to marley, they won't want you back, not after i'm done with you.” your heart drops, and your thrashing increases tenfold, causing his grip on your throat to loosen with every move, but levi is able to ignore it with his determination to get those insufferable buttons undone.

the sound of a door and hurried footsteps interrupt any frenetic and hysterical thought you’re having, even levi tilts his head in the direction of the clamoring, “hm, it seems they’ve arrived.”

casual chatter could be heard nearing the two of you, and when voices were revealed you were horrified. gathering at the open doorway was a group of four soldiers, or so you had presumed, as they had the same matching uniform as levi. there were three men, and one woman; all of which who are holding something. two with the same rope that had your arms and legs tied together, one with a singular iron rod, and the lady with a water basin and a washcloth resting halfway inside the bucket and halfway on the outside. and what terrified you even further was that they seemed unperturbed by the sight before them, it’s almost as if their smiles grew wider.

“sorry we’re a little late, captain!” the woman chirped, lowering the water basin in her hands to a more comfortable position to allow gravity to uphold its weight, rather than her arms, “it’s about damn time you all finally show up, restrain her.” levi was blunt and to the point, glossing over greetings entirely, and aiming his index finger in your direction.

there was a lot going on, and levi disappeared behind the three figures approaching you in the midst of it all. the short-haired woman must have placed the basin on the floor, because her hands were definitely free when she reached for your shirt, “it’s been so long since we’ve last seen you, you know.” how she had managed to keep such a cheery tone and face while also single-handedly witnessing your torment and anguish was beyond you, and you leaned away from her touch.

“yeah, captain said you forgot all about us.” it seemed that distancing yourself from the chipper lady had landed you into the trap of another, this time, a blond man with a blithe though hurt grin on his face, “we’ve got so much to tell you.” the tallest of the three added, carelessly placing a hand on the buckle of your belt.

entering your peripheral vision was the final soldier of what you presumed to be levi’s squad, he had been the one carrying the iron rod in his hands, now absent, as he made his way towards you, finding a spot next to the woman, “a lot happened while you were away.”

that’s right, you remember them. these soldiers were of the plethora of cadets that had enlisted in the military when you and levi had graduated. you had only encountered them a handful of times, but they were recurring guests in your life thanks to levi preparing for his promotion, the one you never had the chance to witness for yourself due to your leave. who knew they would be the same people to disgrace your pride and dignity by stripping you naked, even if they were much gentler than levi ever cared to be with you, there was no greater comparison than a pack of hungry wolves. and it was so draining to fight them, you tried and tried, but when the ropes had come out, you gave in.

and their names, they were: petra, eld, gunther, and oluo— which you had only picked up thanks to their small-talk with one another as they defiled you. shutting your eyes to avoid dwelling on the feeling of having your arms and legs strewn out, wrists and ankles bound by the rope that had been threaded through those worn out coils. all attention was focused on your shallow breathing, praying to disassociate hard enough to block out their jovial conversation. but you had picked up on something else, the burning coals. expectedly, the room was airless and sultry with a running fire and six people confined to such a small room. but this scent was different, like you could smell the heat, and that heat smelled like iron.

snapping your eyes open, you raise your head as much as your neck would allow it in your pitiful position, desperately scanning the room for answers. and you get them when you finally hear levi’s voice, “grab her arms and legs, i didn’t get this shit custom made for her to fuck it up.” readily, as if anticipating this specific command, petra and oluo had taken hold of your calves, while eld and gunther grabbed the inner side of your elbows. when levi leisurely drew near the side of the wooden table, the only thing you could see was the iron bar in his hands, the black metal now a light ash grey, emanating heat even with the distance levi was holding with you.

“wait, stop. get that fucking thing away from me!” the only control you had over your own body seemed to be your mind and mouth. even when you banged against the table, pulling away from the left side of the table where levi menacingly stood, recoiling as much as you could through the grip of the four soldiers and the ropes.

if it was forgiveness you wanted, you wouldn’t get it. that much levi would make sure of. if you wanted to run away? to be disobedient? then he’d reward your bad behavior with a deservingly bad punishment. carefully, levi lowered the scorching iron pole to align with the left side of your hips, though he wasn’t cautious for your sake, of course not, you deserved this and much more, but because he refused to let your little tantrum screw this up. you could feel the metal before it even touched your skin, burning away any body hair that may have been there to a crisp, and the sheer radiating from it had you screwing your eyes shut. you braced yourself, preparing to feel the searing iron, but it never came. levi contemplated whether or not he wanted to do it slowly, or to startle you after letting fifteen seconds pass, he fancied the latter.

it was so much more painful than you thought it was going to be. the sweltering hot iron rod blistered your sensitive skin, and you shrieked and cried in pain. it was scalding hot to the point it felt as if the metal was actually ice cold, and it pressed stiffly against your side, sinking into the fat of your hips. you had screamed until you couldn’t no more, until your voice cracked and your vocal cords bled, something the soldiers restricting you seemed to ignore. but the smell, the smell of your flesh being burned to the point it would leave a fresh, bloody mark. it was nauseating, and you gagged and heaved, but nothing to come of it. and despite how hellish it was, how it caused you unfathomable pain, caused you to convulse and spasm in your restraints, the pressure of the iron rod only lasted five seconds.

levi had counted, retrieving the metal pole and alleviating the pressure of its marking on your body after five maliciously counted seconds. you couldn’t tell if it hurt worse when the cold air nipped at the new wound than it did when it had been applied to your skin. tears fell from your eyes, and you don’t recall when you had started crying, but your face was wet with those salty droplets. shuffling resonated within the room, and the weight on your limbs was released. how tired you were, defeatedly laying your head until you could feel the rough surface of the wooden table. eyelids getting heavier by the second, you dared glance at the brand on your hip, the two letters ‘LA,’ bold and clear.

if you had the energy to, you would have flinched when a hand holding onto a lightly wetted rag came into contact with the new marking. the hand was tentative and mindful, applying little to no pressure on your hip, but just enough to cleanse the burn. you could have sworn you heard the sound of humming, but you knew you heard levi’s voice, “if you so much as think of betraying me again, i’ll do more than just mark you with my initials.”

[kittyandco]

breathes in

okay. i have literally never seen anyone advocate for hans' potential redemption because he "never did anything wrong," or solely because he was abused and therefore free of all blame (and yes, his abuse is CANON), or ESPECIALLY because he's hot. ever.

what fans are saying is that they want someone who's been hurt by the people who should have been protecting him and raising him and loving him finally achieving some kind of freedom from such deeply ingrained trauma, beginning by making amends with the people he hurt. his reasons are inarguably linked to his past; he didn't decide to commit attempted regicide and treason out of nowhere, and we know that. he saw it as an out. a desperate, last-ditch effort.

we want to see him move on. because, decidedly, he was not dealing with what he went through in any meaningful way. he was pursuing something that he thought would free him from constant inadequacy, but it was only reinforcing the same hierarchy that, in part, pushed him to this point. he wanted to achieve some semblance of freedom by escaping the southern isles, and he felt that this was his only way... but in many ways he would be living in the shadow of his family. he'd be proving that power & status is all that matters, no matter the cost, like his family (especially his father) taught him.

he's been treated as nothing more than a servant, a doormat, an easy target. why would he suddenly stop believing these things about himself the moment he became king? that's just it: if he takes the steps to redeem himself in some way, he may be able to break free of this self-image. he can be better than his family, and especially his father, who he doesn't want to become but whom he is dangerously close to becoming.

and in a film like frozen, where "letting go" and acknowledging your pain head-on, seeing hans actively not do these things, rather painting over it all with power and status, hurts a little. if you relate to any of the characters in any capacity, then you probably understand the hurt that comes with denying your feelings, your experiences that got you here, all your traumas and fears, and how quickly it can spiral. how it can turn you into a different person entirely, often a person that you don't like being.

that's what hans represents for so many people. for many, he's what we could become (hence why he's symbolic of the evil mirror from the original tale). but he also represents protection in an unsafe situation that you feel that you cannot escape. he blends in easily with any situation; he had to learn this for his survival. all we want is to see a reality where he doesn't have to do any of this anymore, just like we wanted to see elsa free of the fears of herself and her surroundings that held her back, and it begins with him being honest about what he did and trying to make amends.

i could go on and on about the ways i personally relate to him. but these are just a few examples and how redemption plays a role.

this is not "apologia." (i know it's coming.) this is simply an explanation as to why people might connect with someone like hans and would want to see him heal. in a film about healing relationships with oneself, a redemption arc would fit right in, and would show people that it's never too late. elsa & anna don't have to forgive him, but the fact that he might be able to try to seek forgiveness and a brighter fate is enough.

you don't have to sympathize with him, or even empathize with him. you can say he belongs in the trash can forever for all i care. but don't misrepresent our wish to see someone we connect with improve meaningfully and the reasons why we would want it.

[welcometothejianghu]

Welcome to another round of W2 Tells You What You Should See, where W2 (me) tries to sell you (you) on something you should be watching. Today's choice: 君子盟/A League of Nobleman

A League of Nobleman is the unfortunately translated English title of a 2023 historical drama about an idealistic country boy/genius detective/noodle seller, and a wealthy minister on a mission to exonerate his late father from charges of treason, even if he himself has to commit some treason in the process.

I watched this one not too long after it came out, and I was expecting there would be a lot of buzz as soon as fandom got hold of it. There wasn't, but I can understand why. The show is a lovely, ethereal drama that has some genuinely moving moments, stunning visuals, and charming character interactions.

It is, however, kiiiiiiiind of a hot mess.

What follows is an incredibly qualified rec. Unlike most of the previous shows I've recommended, this show is not something you could just throw at your Average American Television Enjoyer. Censorship got its claws into this one, and what's left is ... okay, imagine fliming all of Hannibal just like you want it, and then right before it airs, NBC comes in and says, okay, now we're just going to take out all the parts that are gay and violent and gory! You know what you'd have left? You'd have a League of Nobleman, is what.

(If you want a little more explanation of what's awkward about it, here's a take based on the first ten episodes. Note that not everything that bothers AvenueX bothers me, but they're fair critiques.)

Therefore, I'd have a tough time recommending this to someone who hasn't already built up a tolerance for the experience of seeing a scene end nearly mid-sentence, or hearing described something that happened just offscreen (while seeing no one's lips move). You need to be prepared to look through the jank to see the show we could have had beneath the show that actually arrived.

Even so, I have five reasons I think you should at least give it a shot!

1. That precious baby boy

Look at him. Look at his precious face. Don't you just want to stuff him down the front of your shirt and take him home with you?

That is Zhang Ping. He is the hero and he is a good boy.

He is a darling dumpling who grows up reading novels about how members of the judiciary nobly solve crimes and punish the unjust, so he decides that he wants to move to the big city and become a member of the judiciary to nobly solve crimes and punish the unjust! ...Until he gets there and realizes, no, baby, that was fiction. But gosh darn it, he's going to try anyway.

I have seen people say they read Zhang Ping as autistic. While I'm not sure that's specifically what the show itself was going for, that's kind of the effect -- which, I think, is why I've also seen a lot of people say they don't like Song Weilong's performance. I don't think he's wooden or unemotional; I think he just made a choice to play the character as not always real good about understanding why the people around him are having the emotions they're having. Similarly, I think what makes him read as anachronistic is mostly how he doesn't engage well with the rules of social convention that are such important parts of this historical setting.

Like, you see that picture above, with him and Lan Jue whispering at one another? Zhang Ping is doing this because he is absolutely convinced that this is appropriate subterfuge behavior. Lan Jue is matching him because he thinks Zhang Ping is adorable.

Just the goodest boy. A baby. Please care him.

2. the aesthetic

The show is beautiful. It looks and sounds amazing. For some reason I can't find a clip of just the opening credits, but here's a (strangely bloody) trailer that gives a sense of its general vibe:

As you can see a couple times in there, the show makes great use of tilt-shift photography -- you know, the thing where you change the focal length until everything starts to look fake? It creates a weird, dreamlike effect where parts of the frame are out of focus for no reason, or actual locations start to look like model-train miniatures. Many of the shots are framed like this, giving the entire thing a very pretty, very uncanny look.

And speaking of the dreamlike: If there's one thing I've come to expect from C-dramas, it's bad CGI. That is not the case here! The CG is used so sparingly that it's unobtrusive and actually quite nice. Much more of the weight of the show's look relies on practical effects that are supported and amplified by CG, which is the optimal combo. When it does go all in on CG, it's in the service of dreamscapes that are supposed to look unreal anyway.

The show does admittedly have a mild problem of using a cool effect and then largely forgetting that effect exists. For example, the first episode has a really neat "freeze time and walk through a crime scene" bit! And then we barely ever see that ability again. But the show's doing so many other lovely things that you don't really feel the absence until you stop to think about it all later. So don't stop to think about things! That's my motto! (It really isn't.)

The directors also just have a lovely eye for things -- which is extra-surprising considering that both of them are first-time directors. That can be fun, though, when you get people who haven't gotten stuck in their ways get, so they're still being new and weird with it. ...Of course, I bet that's also some of why so much of the show quite obviously got cut to ribbons, if you're also working with directors who also haven't figured out how to get away with things just yet.

Overall, the production values are very high. This show clearly had a fairly solid amount of funding behind it, but it also used its resources smartly. Most costumes are elegant but not extravagant. Detailed sets are small and beautiful locations are contained. While I have great respect for productions that try to create epics on a shoestring budget, there's something to be said for a project that sets its sights on the achievable, then puts its effort into doing what it can, well.

3. A ship for everyone!

There are so many potential ways to pair up them boys. The show's main pair dynamic is between country mouse Zhang Ping and city mouse Lan Jue, but it surely does not stop there. In fact, I've made a helpful chart that shows you all the potential flavors of gay you can enjoy at this particular danmei buffet:

(And yes, if you've seen the show, you know there's at least one more line that I could've drawn here, but I don't want to spoil anything.)

Now, whether you do read any of these dynamics as sexual/romantic is up to you. The point is that you could. For example, I personally am not that into Lan Jue/Xu Dong, but if you lose your shit when a competent sword guy owes a life debt to the defenseless noble he works for? You could have a lot of fun with what the show gives you.

Obviously, because this is a censored c-drama, there are no canon gay romances. However, a couple of them are more textual than others, especially the ones that center Lan Jue, because everyone clearly wants a piece of that fancy flat ass.

One of AvenueX's comments from the video I linked earlier is that the main couple has less sparkle together than each of them has individually with the man that's supposed to be his bestie. While that changes as the show goes on, these two side pairs never cease to be enjoyable. Whether you read them as sexual or not is up to you! Romantically or platonically, they're still a delight to watch bounce off of one another.

And Lan Jue/Gu Qingzhang (that one terrible ex from the chart) is, uh, basically textual? It's miles into "there is no straight explanation for this" territory. Again, avoiding spoilers here, but trust me. You get to see their secluded love nest and everything. Shit's real gay.

Then, of course, there's the main pair:

This is clearly the one that got hit real hard by cuts to the material. It's a damn shame, because this is clearly meant to be the core of the whole narrative. Despite that, the two of them have a fascinating dynamic that changes over the series from outright suspicion to cautious care to absolute trust. It's a great combo of someone who is too honest for his own good and someone so used to court politics that he lies as easily as breathing.

Ironically, the source material is Not Gay, to the point where the author has basically disowned this series as being so different from her original work as to be unrecognizable. You sort of have to wonder about the creative thought processes that led to taking a gen work and deciding to BL it up for the live-action adatation. I'm not complaining, mind you, but it is a little bit of an unforced error.

So whatever flavor of gay it is you're into, the odds are very good that this drama will have at least enough of it to keep you interested!

4. A very charming cast

I got to gush about Song Weilong's Zhang Ping earlier, but honestly I think everybody's pretty enjoyable, from the main cast to the recurring side characters to the one-off extras who show up for a single episode. Everybody's playing it weird and theatrical, so I get it if that's not your cup of tea. However, I feel all the performances are well-suited to the slightly surreal style of the production.

Here's just a couple of the real gems:

Jing Boran's Lan Jue has the perfect regal bearing of a fussy gentleman, but with a very endearing softness underneath. He spends half his time with eyes brimming with unshed tears, and the other half making heart-eyes at his boyfriends. You understand why everybody in the empire wants to ride him like they stole him, and that's even before he lets his hair down and starts dressing in slutty sheer robes. (I'm not entirely sure either he or the show knew how to play the character in the first few episodes, but he gets way better once he stops being so sinister and mysterious and gets to be cute and/or unhinged.)

There is one female character who shows up in more than one arc, and she is the Empress Dowager, and she is such a wonderful awful bitch. What a monster. Shi Yueling eats up every scene she's in by being the perfect mix of reprehensible and fascinating.

I was already primed to like Wang Duo because I liked watching him be a pretty snake boy in Yin-Yang Master: Dream of Eternity. Well, now he gets to be a pretty metaphorical snake boy here. I'm not spoiling anything by telling you he's bad news. He shows up damn near the end of the show and you know immediately he's bad news. But you don't know what kind of bad news he is, and that's fun to find out.

And speaking of actors I already liked from other places! Guo Cheng has mastered the art of acting with his mouth full. His Chen Chou is a sweet, earnest anchor in a world of tricksy boys.

There is something about Hong Yao's handsome face that makes Wang Yan perpetually look a little red-eyed, like he's trying hard to pretend that he wasn't just crying in his office. It's the perfect soft touch to his incredibly wonderful chad of a character. I'm usually not into the cocky jocks, but I will make such an exception for him.

I love you, fortune-telling gremlin grandpa.

5. Raw materials

Look, I assume if you've made it this far in the rec and you're still hanging on, you're interested for one of two reasons. The more normie reason is that you're into c-dramas in general (and probably period dramas in particular), and gay stuff is a selling point, so you see the appeal of turning on a drama where cute boys have emotions at other cute boys. That is a perfectly good reason to watch this drama, and if this is you, I hope you have fun!

The other reason is that you like making fan stuff, and you need some new blorbos to blorb in new and exciting combinations. Friend, I have that stuff for you right here.

A League of Nobleman has problems -- but they are problems that may be appealing to people who enjoy fixing things. There are literal holes in the series where actual, planned, filmed scenes were deleted! If you're looking for source material that's just begging you to fill in the gaps, look no further.

Of course I'm partial to the number of queer DIY romance options there are (see point 3), but that's not the extent of it. The setting is fascinating: an unspecified premodern Chinese dynasty magical enough to have a Bureau of Incantations, where the emperor is (for once) a cool dude, secluded village people live in semi-communal families, and one of the main characters can play Inception with people's heads. I'll say it plainly: If you are into kinky dream sex, this is the drama for you.

I should note that one of the things that doesn't need fixing is the overall shape of the series. The individual little case incidents seem disconnected, but they all weave together at the end as part of a (let's be real, ridiculously complicated) plot, giving the whole thing a pretty satisfying wrap-up. The show does not just fall off a cliff like Moriarty; it resolves in a way that's more than a little convoluted, but still overall satisfying. Also, a lot of those ships from the chart above, when it's all over, are still together. Some days that's all you need from an ending.

Maybe I sound like a broken record at this point, but to give you a sense of how heavy the hand of censorship clearly was, understand several of these episodes don't even break the 35-minute mark, and only four are even over 40 minutes long, when ~45 minutes is about the episode standard for this genre. (For comparison, every Untamed episode at least 42 minutes long.) I think it's important to realize just how much actual connective tissue got removed, way more than just individual censored shots or single redubbed lines.

And speaking of redubbed lines, the last episode of this show contains possibly the funniest NO HOMO in BL history. You have to see it to believe it -- or, rather, to not believe it, because the first time I watched, I didn't even understand what the hell the show was implying. I'll say no more.

Where to watch it!

I hope I've convinced you to at least give it a try! It's not a perfect show by any means, but it's a show with many good elements, and if you can embrace what's there without getting too hung up on what's not, it's a pretty good time.

If you're up for it, you can find it on this YouTube playlist -- though be prepared that it often mutes the opening music. It's also available on Viki (with ads, but less muting).

Just look at those precious, pinchable cheeks. Adorable.

[abstract-moth]

role swap villain!Ambrosius premise

Ambrosius villian AU starts with the same premise as the movie. Except when Amb cuts off Bal’s arm, the weapon aims into the crowd, instead of directly upward.

This changes 2 things: 1) Bal no longer has a hole to escape in and 2) a lot of the audience is now dead. Since Bal has no way to escape, the other knights quickly swarm and kill him. Amb is odiously very distraught over this. Not only did his boyfriend commit treason for seemingly no reason and he has no way to know why but Amb inadvetingly caused Bal’s death AND the death of innocent audience members. He finds himself overcome with grief and guilt, eventually unable to perform his duty as a knight. Seen as a failure, he is kicked out of the Institute.

To make matters worse, cutting off Bal’s arm is seen as the last heroic thing he ever did. Amb becomes the kingdom’s supervillain instead. He doesn’t really have much motivation left, mainly he’s looking for ways to resurrect Ballister. Thinking if he succeeds he will regain his loved one and purpose in life and they can become villains together. This mainly brings him to dark magic (bc ofc it must exist in this timeline) and drains his health and makes his mental state worse

This is also how he comes across Nimona. But while Nimona was expecting a fun supervillain, she was not expecting a depressed unbathed middle aged man with no direction in life. She basically has to take control of his plans (while still calling herself his sidekick mind you loser or not Amb has the villain brand). I would characterize Nimona as a mix of her comic and movie versions.

In helping Amb, she ends up working through her own issues too. It gets to a point where Amb is putting all his effort into resurrecting Bal. However he isn’t even sure that if resurrected, Bal would even still love the man he has become. Nimona also points out that they would basically have no future together bc Bal is still 100 percent a criminal and Amb hasn’t really improved the kingdom in all his years of villainy. Amb decides to put all his effort into exposing the Institute’s corruption (yay!) and also work himself up to a big heroic sacrifice bc that’ll totally fix all his problems (no!).

Amb eventually comes to the realization that maybe one day Bal will be resurrected one day or maybe he will never be; but Amb better not be a flaming hot mess when that happens. Unsure about the ending. I think it would be interesting if they actually do find a way to bring Ballister back and Amb initially is blinded by selfishness, but in a last minute decision he decides to bring back the audience members instead. The life granting deity decides to cut this man a break and returns Ballister too.

Meredith is probably also there somewhere twiddling around

[ilynpilled]

vows of knighthood:

“… do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captains, your liege lord, and your king, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?”

“In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women…”

“How can you still count yourself a knight, when you have forsaken every vow you ever swore?”

“So many vows… they make you swear and swear. Defend the king. Obey the king. Keep his secrets. Do his bidding. Your life for his. But obey your father. Love your sister. Protect the innocent. Defend the weak. Respect the gods. Obey the laws. It's too much. No matter what you do, you're forsaking one vow or the other.”

[…]

“They strangled Brandon while his father watched, and then killed Lord Rickard as well.” An ugly tale, and sixteen years old. Why was he asking about it now?

“Killed, yes, but how?” […] “No doubt Ned wished to spare you.” […] “There were trials. Of a sort. Lord Rickard demanded trial by combat, and the king granted the request. Stark armored himself as for battle, thinking to duel one of the Kingsguard. Me, perhaps. Instead they took him to the throne room and suspended him from the rafters while two of Aerys's pyromancers kindled a blaze beneath him. The king told him that fire was the champion of House Targaryen. So all Lord Rickard needed to do to prove himself innocent of treason was ... well, not burn.” […] “When the fire was blazing, Brandon was brought in. His hands were chained behind his back, and around his neck was a wet leather cord attached to a device the king had brought from Tyrosh. His legs were left free, though, and his longsword was set down just beyond his reach.”

“Gerold Hightower himself took me aside and said to me, “You swore a vow to guard the king, not to judge him.' That was the White Bull, loyal to the end and a better man than me, all agree.”

“Aerys was mad, the whole realm knew it, but if you would have me believe you slew him to avenge Brandon Stark …”

“I made no such claim.”

[…]

“I find nothing about you amusing, Kingslayer.”

“That name again.”

“A king hides no secrets from his Kingsguard. But whenever Aerys gave a man to the flames, Queen Rhaella would have a visitor in the night. The day he burned his mace-and-dagger Hand, Jaime and Jon Darry had stood at guard outside her bedchamber whilst the king took his pleasure. “You're hurting me,” they had heard Rhaella cry through the oaken door. “You're hurting me.” In some queer way, that had been worse than Lord Chelsted's screaming. “We are sworn to protect her as well,” Jaime had finally been driven to say. “We are,” Darry allowed, “but not from him.”

Ser Barristan looked up sharply. […] “I am a knight,” he told them. He opened the silver fastenings of his breastplate and let that fall as well. “I shall die a knight”

“I took Robert's pardon, aye. I served him in Kingsguard and council. Served with the Kingslayer and others near as bad, who soiled the white cloak I wore. Nothing will excuse that. I might be serving in King's Landing still if the vile boy upon the Iron Throne had not cast me aside, it shames me to admit.”

“Selmy had never approved of Jaime's presence in his precious Kingsguard. Before the rebellion, the old knight thought him too young and untried; afterward, he had been known to say that the Kingslayer should exchange that white cloak for a black one.”

“I want to know. I never knew my father. I want to know everything about him. The good and … the rest.” “As you command.” The white knight chose his words with care. “Prince Aerys … as a youth, he was taken with a certain lady of Casterly Rock, a cousin of Tywin Lannister. When she and Tywin wed, your father drank too much wine at the wedding feast and was heard to say that it was a great pity that the lord's right to the first night had been abolished. A drunken jape, no more, but Tywin Lannister was not a man to forget such words, or the … the liberties your father took during the bedding.” His face reddened. “I have said too much, Your Grace.”

“When King’s Landing fell, Ser Jaime slew your king with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were.” “Far away,” Ser Gerold said, “or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in seven hells.”

“The traitors want my city, I heard him tell Rossart, but I’ll give them naught but ashes. Let Robert be king over charred bones and cooked meat. The Targaryens never bury their dead, they burn them. Aerys meant to have the greatest funeral pyre of them all. Though if truth be told, I do not believe he truly expected to die.”

His sword helped taint the throne you sit on. Ned thought, but he did not permit the words to pass his lips. “He swore a vow to protect his king’s life with his own. Then he opened that king’s throat with a sword.”

“Seven hells, someone had to kill Aerys!” Robert said, reining his mount to a sudden halt beside an ancient barrow. “If Jaime hadn’t done it, it would have been left for you or me.”

“We are not Sworn Brothers of the Kingsguard.”

“I did not intend to give offense, Brienne. Forgive me.”

“Your crimes are past forgiving, Kingslayer”

“That name again.” “Why do I enrage you so? I've never done you harm that I know of.”

“You've harmed others. Those you were sworn to protect. The weak, the innocent...”

“…the king?” […] “You are not old enough to have known Aerys Targaryen…” She would not hear it.

“Aerys was mad and cruel, no one has ever denied that. He was still king, crowned and anointed. And you had sworn to protect him.”

"I know what I swore."

"And what you did." She loomed above him, six feet of freckled, frowning, horse-toothed disapproval.

“That was an apology. I am tired of fighting with you. What say we make a truce?”

“Truces are built on trust. Would you have me trust—”

“The Kingslayer, yes. The oathbreaker who murdered poor sad Aerys Targaryen.” Jaime snorted. “It’s not Aerys I rue, it’s Robert. ‘I hear they’ve named you Kingslayer,’ he said to me at his coronation feast. ‘Just don’t think to make it a habit.’ And he laughed. Why is it that no one names Robert oathbreaker? He tore the realm apart, yet I am the one with shit for honor”

“Has my tale turned you speechless? Come, curse me or kiss me or call me a liar. Something.”

“If this is true, how is it no one knows?”

“The knights of the Kingsguard are sworn to keep the king’s secrets. Would you have me break my oath?” Jaime laughed.

“He was going to burn the city,” Jaime said. “To leave Robert only ashes.”

“He was your king,” said Darry.

“You swore to keep him safe,” said Whent.

“And the children, them as well,” said Prince Lewyn.

Prince Rhaegar burned with a cold light, now white, now red, now dark. “I left my wife and children in your hands.”

“I never thought he'd hurt them.” Jaime's sword was burning less brightly now. “I was with the king.”

“Killing the king,” said Ser Arthur.

“Cutting his throat,"

“The king you had sworn to die for.”

everybody points out a bunch of reasons why jaime did not share why he did what he did (thinks the wildfire is better buried, it wouldn’t be in good hands and might not all be disposed of when revealed, we know he fears it happening to this day and he went out of his way to kill everyone who knew where it is, he admits to having recurring nightmares of the city in flames the moment he hears about tyrion using wildfire, he is not aware that it gets more volatile over time, jaime’s gordian knot perspective when it comes to problem solving) but I am gonna lay down the hot take that if I were him and I presented my argument that I had to save a whole city, also prioritizing another vow I swore and not just out of moral obligation, and they even believe me and take my motivation at face value, and there is even the slightest possibility that people respond with these inconsistent hypocritical and contradictory fallacies like they already do every single time I delineate that every single kingsguard had already broken vows they had sworn every single time they did not act against the king and stop what he was doing, and what they are judging me for regarding the ethics of “breaking a vow to kill my king [who apparently everybody knows is mad and horrible and did terrible things to innocent people. which is, again, another vow (defend the weak. protect those who cannot protect themselves. protect all women. be just. obey the laws etc.) that we all acknowledge that me and other kingsguard had sworn (and also rightfully condemn me for breaking later)] who is okay to be killed by anyone else because he deserves to die”, with the only argument now having to be that the kingsguard specifically can’t because they swore this vow, and breaking vows is not ethical/honorable, which actually doesn’t make much sense at all if you think about it for more than 4 seconds (unless the unspoken argument is that the kg vows by have to be prioritized in all circumstances by the kg so my justification is pointless), I would actually become the joker and set myself on fire.

[atopvisenyashill]

DAEMON BALLFYRE THEORY

it’s an unserious name but a serious theory!!!

WHAT WE KNOW ABOUT QUENTYN BALL

If Daemon had ridden over Gwayne Corbray . . . if Fireball had not been slain on the eve of battle . .

-small mention from eustace in the sword sword

For his hot head and red hair. Ser Quentyn Ball was the master-at-arms at the Red Keep. He taught my father and my uncles how to fight. The Great Bastards too. King Aegon promised to raise him to the Kingsguard, so Fireball made his wife join the silent sisters, only by the time a place came open, King Aegon was dead and King Daeron named Ser Willam Wylde instead. My father says that it was Fireball as much as Bittersteel who convinced Daemon Blackfyre to claim the crown, and rescued him when Daeron sent the Kingsguard to arrest him. Later on, Fireball killed Lord Lefford at the gates of Lannisport and sent the Grey Lion running back to hide inside the Rock. At the crossing of the Mandel, he cut down the sons of Lady Penrose one by one. They say he spared the life of the youngest one as a kindness to his mother.

-egg says this in the mystery knight, bolded parts mine

Daemon was the name Daena gave to this child, for Prince Daemon had been the wonder and the terror of his age, and in later days that was seen as a warning of what the boy would become. Daemon Waters was his full name when he was born in 170 AC. At that time, Daena refused to name the father, but even then Aegon's involvement was suspected. Raised at the Red Keep, this handsome youth was given the instruction of the wisest maesters and the best masters-at-arms at court, including Ser Quentyn Ball, the fiery knight called Fireball. He loved nothing better than deeds of arms and excelled at them, and many saw in him a warrior who would one day be another Dragonknight.

The king sent the Kingsguard to arrest Daemon before he could take his plans for treason any further. Daemon was forewarned, and with the help of the famously hot-tempered knight Ser Quentyn Ball, called Fireball, he was able to escape the Red Keep safely. Daemon Blackfyre's allies used this attempted arrest as a cause for war, claiming that Daeron had acted against Daemon out of no more than baseless fear. Others still named him Daeron Falseborn, repeating the calumny that Aegon the Unworthy himself was said to have circulated in the later years of his reign: that he had been sired not by the king but by his brother, the Dragonknight.

-these are both from TWOIAF, again bolded and italicized parts mine.

WHAT STICKS OUT TO ME

Quentyn is married, a landless knight, and clearly older than Daena - it’s not just about a man “spoiling” a young, royal maiden but imo also that Quentyn specifically would get in a LOT of trouble because he is low class (see: Bonifer & Rhaella) and married to boot

He was master at arms, which gives him the ability to be in Daemon’s life without arousing suspicion from anyone, and also proximity to Daena to allow for an affair, even with her on the Maidenvault.

He’s name dropped SEVERAL times and he’s clearly very important to the founding of the Blackfyre Rebellion despite being both very lowborn and also dying in a kinda lame way (not even during the battle, just by a lone archer)

He wanted so badly to be on the kingsguard he forced his wife into the Silent Sisters, only to be denied by Daeron

He seemed to be on good terms with Aegon IV

Everyone seems real sure that the daddy was Aegon and we’re not given a reason why

Aegon doesn’t claim Daemon as his bastard until after (presumably) Daena has died

Also, Aegon doesn’t claim Daemon as his bastard until after all of the Great Bastards have been born

EYE think that Aegon IV was purposefully trying to have a bastard that could challenge Daeron, and that his affairs weren’t just like lust, boredom, wanting to disrespect Naerys & Aemon, etc. There is, imo, a shift in his mistresses being just, any woman he has access to - Falena, Bellegere, Cassella, and Meg - to woman who are highborn maidens from powerful families in Westeros - the Blackwoods, Brackens, and Lothstons. Even Serenei fits in here, given that Targ-looking wives from Lys & Volantis are not uncommon before or after Aegon IV. He’s even mentioned as still having a role in Aegor’s life by visiting him, potentially trying to groom him to rebel. But then everything with the Brackens blows up in his face (which is his own fault tbc), and Brynden is an emo fuck with red eyes, and Shiera is a girl. Then Daena dies…..and an opportunity opens up. Daemon looks like a Targaryen, no one knows who the father is, but for some reason everyone already suspects him (imo this is due to Rhaenyra’s boys looking like Harwin - like just a misogyny thing that SURELY Daemon couldn’t get his look from his mother alone, look at Rhaenyra’s kids vs Alicent’s), so publicly claiming Daena’s child at last gives him the perfect rival against Daeron.

ALSO, we have a few times in the story where someone joins the Kingsguard to be closer to a woman they want to protect - Aemon & Naerys, Jaime & Cersei, and Loras & Margaery. I think Lewyn & Elia likely fall under this as well. I think it makes sense Quentyn would see joining the Kingsguard as an opportunity to be closer to both Daena & Daemon especially given his low class status; skilled knights can rise to the Kingsguard even from lowborn or baseborn backgrounds. ALSO ALSO again, our only evidence of Aegon IV being the dad is, ya know, Aegon himself. Daena stayed silent her entire life on the subject. I like to think she had a reason for this - not that she protecting Aegon, but that she was protecting Quentyn.

[papermint-airplane]

I was tagged by *inhales* @faeriefrolic, @nocturnalazure, @treason-and-plot, @drawing-way-outside-the-lines, and @anamoon63. I love you guys! Thank you for remembering me while I was taking an unexpected hiatus! 😭💖

I don't remember if I've done this one or not for any of my main three RT characters and I'm not going to go back to look right now because I'm lAaAaAzY today so I'm going to do this one for a slightly older character. Viridia. No reason. I just think people need to keep Viridia in mind. For no. reason.

OC Deep Dive Questionnaire Tag

A set of 20 questions to get to know your OC!

What uncommon/common fear do they have? Viridia is the daughter of a witch and a witch's thrall, so not a whole lot scares her. She's seen her share of spooky things growing up. That being said, she suffers from ephebiphobia, the fear of teenagers. It's not like she'll run screaming from them, or anything. She just doesn't trust them. Not one little bit.

Do they have any pet peeves? Oh a lot. Stuck up people, overly cheerful people, rules, being asked if she's an alien (she's half toad), not getting her way, libraries, and restaurants with a dress code.

What are 3 items you can find in their bedroom? Handcuffs, those little nose strips that stop you from snoring, and a grimoire. Viridia doesn't have any magic herself, she just likes reading spells to lull her to sleep at night.

What do they notice first in a person? Their reaction to her. Viridia is aware that she's...a lot and that her personality can be a little polarizing. So if people are flinching away from her or giving her a wide berth, those are the people she's the most interested in. What? I said she was aware, not that she was introspective.

On a scale of 1 to 10, how high is their pain tolerance? 4. She seems like a badass, but she's a total marshmallow.

Do they go into fight or flight mode when under pressure? Fight mode. Which makes the previous fact all the more hilarious. She's the walking personification of "can dish it out but can't take it".

Do they come from a big family/are they a family person? Viridia is the only child of a witch and said witch's toadified thrall.

What animal represents them best? I Googled "loudest land animal on Earth" and got "The loudest land animal is the bulldog bat, whose sound registers at 140 dB." So that one.

What is a smell that they dislike? Men's cheap cologne. I don't think I have to explain that one.

Have they broken any bones? Like, in her own body or in someone else's? Be more specific.

How would a stranger likely describe them? Loud. Hot. But loud.

Are they a night owl or a morning bird? Viridia is more of an "I'm awake when I'm awake and you just have to deal with that" bird.

What is a flavor they hate and a flavor they love? Viridia hates black licorice, which is the only correct opinion to have about black licorice. Her favorite flavor is black currant.

Do they have any hobbies? Viridia likes bar games. When she was in college, she hung out at bars a lot because she got a student discount and she discovered a talent for various bar games. Darts, pool, beer pong, poker. Anything she can hustle you at, basically. And she will. Don't put money on any game Viridia suggests.

Boom, surprise birthday party! How do they react to surprises? Loudly.

Do they like to wear jewelry? Viridia's not the biggest jewelry girl in the world. She likes to make a statement with her clothing, but she doesn't accessorize too often.

Do they have neat or messy handwriting? Viridia has Viridia handwriting. She tends to bear down on the pen, making bold lines that really make an impression...on the next six or seven pages underneath the one she's currently writing on. It's neat enough to be legible, I suppose, but that's not really what you're focusing on when you read it. Pens don't last long around her.

What are two emotions they feel the most? Lust and annoyance. Do with that as you will.

Do they have a favorite fabric? Lycra.

What kind of accent do they have? See this one is tricky because I don't ever really think about my characters having accents. I guess you could argue they have my brain's accent when I read what I wrote for them back. I don't know. I tend to focus less on their accent and more on their affect, like Aiden stammers a lot and Viridia screams at the top of her lungs all the time...that sort of thing. I guess what I'm saying is you can headcanon my characters to have any accent you want and you're technically correct.

I'm going to tag...uh...let's see...probably everyone has done this by now...

@happy-lemon, @bool-prop, @pralinesims, and Idk who else. I've been slacking on my Simblring so I haven't caught up on my dash in a while. I don't know who has done what. I'm so sorry. 😭😭

[sgiandubh]

Jottings: Season 7, Episode 3. Bloody newspapers, never get anything right

You will not need any tissues for this sort of dependable wrap-up episode, that probably packs a punch with regard to the books' timeline and helps explain some obscure points to show-only people, like me. Ice-cream is still a welcome side addition (B&J's Cookie Vermont-ster, this week), though: it is, after all, a very hot, sleepless summer in Europe.

Timeline and our attention are split between 1776 at Fraser's (f)Ridge and somewhere around 1978 in Inverness. While there is drama at the Ridge (the fire at the Big House, the Bugs, the Jacobite gold), in Scotland all the emotions of homecoming are quickly turning into a muffled affair, thanks to SS's evergreen DGAF monotony.

Spoiler: Bree's line while seated with Roger on the front steps of a -now- derelict Lallybroch ("I'm really happy right here") sounds and translates exactly like the supremely anticlimactic "I'm your daughter" (The Birds and the Bees). I will never, ever, ever forgive SS for that and I can only be relieved this time it wasn't such a big deal, in the great scheme of things. Or was it?

Unpopular opinion: Claire's Ave Maria fell a bit flat in these Catholic ears. I was expecting more, given the uber-dramatic context, and found it wanting. But this fleeting disappointment was soon enough redeemed with the soulfully subtle wink to Robert Frost's Death of a Hired Man ("Yes, what else but home?/It all depends on what you mean by home. /(...) ‘Home is the place where, when you have to go there,/They have to take you in.’). Immaculately delivered by C. - the woman does understand and feel poetry, and that, my friends, is a rare gift.

John Bell will surprise you in a very, very good way. Puck grew up. I see great things.

The J&C/S&C bubble: unsinkable. Because 'a thing of beauty is a joy forever'. And, it is my absolute conviction (along with Keats', of course) "it will never pass into nothingness".

Overall, we get all the right vibes from fizzled out Season 4 and underrated Season 5 in this episode that brings the Frasers back to Bree & Roger's humble pioneer cabin, for lack of a better solution.

For obvious reasons, I cheered and booed at the 'blood of my blood` scene, featuring C's new sgian-dubh (FYI, the handle fits perfectly in her palm). I admit, I sometimes am a vainglorious cretin (wee joke, Antis), but hey: it's been a while since we haven't seen knives and blades so prominently featured in this gunpowder, treason and plot segment of the saga.

With Vandervaart still off my radar, this rushed transition left me a bit hungry for more. Ever the optimist, I can only hope next week will be bigger, brighter, better and more. And the kilt is back (what's not to like, I wonder), because tee-hee, J&C are on their way to Scotland, too.

Little do they know, however. Onwards!