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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 2 months ago

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In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 1: Amethyst]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can't seem to get away from...

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don't like Titanic you won't like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 5.2k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @arcielee @nightvyre @camsdaae @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama

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

A note goes sharp, and you swim up through colorless currents—indistinct conversation, an iron-grey draft each time the front door opens, cigar smoke like fog over the ocean—and turn to the viola player. His eyes have caught on the place where your left hand rests on the table by a glass of pear cider, still cold from the icebox, misty with condensation. Rain pours outside. Logs fracture and hiss in the fireplace. Your gown is thick velvet, indigo like the night sky, and the ruffles of your sleeve have slipped back to reveal the evidence roped around your wrist: shadows of trapped blood, rubies that sicken and turn to sapphires and amethysts.

You hurriedly adjust your sleeve. Now the viola player’s eyes are on yours, an overcast blue and improperly direct, and something flies between you: his shock, your shame. You look away and pretend to ignore him. His horsehair bow finds its rhythm again, a tempo like a racing pulse. The quartet is playing The Wild Rover.

Daemon hasn’t noticed. He has ensnared the reporter entirely, here in O’Connell’s Bar in the heart of Galway, just across the street from Eyre Square and only a few blocks west of the Docks and the North Atlantic Ocean. The young man writes for The Irish Times and has traveled from Dublin to interview your husband, once a celebrated newcomer but soon departing and taking you with him. Five years ago a storm blew him in; now the gleam of distant treasure catches his eye and beckons him like the moon calls the tides. He has been this way all his life. You were mad to believe he’d change.

“Lord Targaryen,” the reporter says with his felt-tip pen hovering over his notebook, gazing at Daemon worshipfully, firelight dancing on both of their faces. You glance at the viola player again. He’s still watching you, and this is bad. “You’ve been described as a cowboy by numerous publications and business associates. Do you consider that a compliment?”

Daemon chuckles, smirking and imperious. He puffs on his pipe, elbows propped on the table. His eyes are a deep-set reptilian green, emeralds glinting from the mouth of a mine. Strands of dark blonde hair fall roguishly down over his forehead. “Oh, it’s a massive compliment, isn’t it? A cowboy eschews the safe and the predictable. A cowboy makes his own way in the world. My father was a duke, and now my brother is a duke, and one day my nephew will be a duke, God help us all. And so I always knew that if I wanted anything for myself, I’d have to go out and find it.”

The reporter is smiling, enraptured. He asks, already knowing the answer: “And what was it you found?”

“In the Wah Wah Mountains of Utah, we discovered red beryl.” Daemon talks with his hands, magnetic fields, incantations, spells that once worked on you. “It’s exceptionally rare and a gorgeous stone, high color saturation, not as hard as a diamond but durable enough for jewelry, essentially a blood-colored emerald. I was twenty-five years old and had just put together my first small mining expedition, and here we were sitting on the only known supply of red beryl on the planet. And it was then that I realized that there are these sorts of…natural monopolies that exist scattered across the globe, gemstones that can be found in only one location, and thus if you are the man who owns the mine…every single stone must pass through your hands before it ends up in retail establishments in London or Paris or Milan or wherever.”

“And so you took the lesson you learned from red beryl and applied it to other minerals,” the reporter says as he scribbles in his notebook.

Daemon grins, puffing on his pipe, exhaling smoke like a dragon. And how remarkable he is to have agreed to meet here in this pub like a common man, so unpretentious, so unafraid of the world’s dirt, effortless and yet untouchable, and this is why his miners love Daemon, why they will break their spines and poison their lungs for him. “We kept the Utah mine, of course, and bought up rights to thousands of acres of land surrounding it. I hired more workers. And then I investigated reports of mysterious, unnamed, brand new stones that had been stumbled upon in far-flung places, untamed by civilized men, the earth just waiting to be slit open and butchered like a fat hog. In Madagascar, we found Grandidierite, a bewitching blue-green, the Indian Ocean in miniature, crystalized form. In Tanzania, we discovered Tanzanite, halfway between an amethyst and a sapphire.”

The reporter nods to you as he says: “I believe Lady Targaryen is wearing some this evening, is she not?”

“Indeed,” Daemon replies without much interest. You touch your fingertips to your teardrop-shaped earrings and give the reporter a polite smile. You steal a glimpse of the viola player; he isn’t staring at you anymore—a blessing, a relief—but he frowns distractedly as his bow glides over the strings. “In Australia there was black opal, and in the Dominican Republic we were the first mining operation to encounter Larimar, and then…well, then I heard of Connemara marble.”

“Native to Ireland,” the reporter says proudly. “The lone quarry that’s still producing is right here in Galway.”

“So of course that intrigued me.” Daemon taps on the tabletop with his right hand, and now he is watching you, curling lips, taunting eyes. “And when I crossed the Atlantic to acquaint myself with this quarry and inquire into purchasing it, I was intrigued by the quarry owner’s daughter as well.”

His pen scratching against parchment; black rivers of ink filling up the page. “How would you describe the courtship?”

“Brief,” Daemon says, then laughs. He points to you with his smoldering pipe. “How about you, dear? How would you describe it?”

“Flattering,” you answer honestly, and the reporter makes his notes. “Daemon already had a reputation by then. A captain of industry, a staggering success story, a man who refused to rest idly on his family’s titles, which he could have easily done.” And a man who also refused to marry, rejecting Rockefellers and Morgans and Astors, duchesses and countesses, but asked your father for your hand in marriage after only a few weeks of tours of the quarry and dinners set alight with charismatic retellings of his travels. You knew the Connemara marble was part of the allure, but you took this as a common interest rather than the only thing Daemon wanted from you. Well…one of two things.

“You’ve resided in Galway ever since,” the reporter is saying to Daemon. “Barring a few trips for business. But that is about to change.”

Daemon sucks on his pipe. “I’ve received a very generous offer from Tiffany & Co. in Manhattan. They’ve been around for almost a century, did you know they supplied the Union Army with swords and surgical tools during the Civil War? Real patriots. Not afraid to get bloody. They want to expand into the sale of colored gemstones, not just diamonds and pearls and gold, the same unimaginative pieces peddled by their competitors. And after some long and arduous negotiations, Tiffany has agreed to pay a fair price for the exclusive rights to specimens originating from my mines, and I have agreed relocate to New York City for the foreseeable future to consult with them as a gemstone expert.”

“It’s my understanding that you have family in New York too, Lord Targaryen. Perhaps a reunion is part of the appeal of a move across the pond.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t assume that,” Daemon says impishly. “I haven’t seen Alicent Hightower or her children in years and years. I wouldn’t even know them if I passed them on the street.”

“Is that right?” The reporter’s pen hovers uncertainly over his notebook; he doesn’t think this is the sort of familial disharmony that should be printed in a newspaper.

“But my wife and I will have some company for the voyage,” Daemon continues. “My niece Rhaenyra and her charming husband Laenor will be joining us on Titanic. They’ve been on holiday in the Mediterranean and have several social engagements on the East Coast before they return to summer in England with my brother.”

“Viserys Targaryen, the 9th Duke of Beaufort.”

Daemon grins, not kindly at all. “One man earns a title, eight others wear it.”

The reporter shifts awkwardly in his chair. It’s not the sort of joke he’s allowed to laugh at. Changing the topic, he looks to the string quartet, which is now playing Danny Boy. The viola player’s eyes flick to you; you drink you pear cider and pretend you are unaware. “You’ll be sorely missed in Galway. But what a proper Irish sendoff you’re receiving here at O’Connell’s tonight!”

“Yes,” Daemon muses, the bit of the pipe in his mouth. “A week from now, tugboats will be hauling us out of Cork Harbor and into the Atlantic Ocean, perhaps never to return.”

You shudder as a man enters the pub and a cold draft blows through you. You are terrified of ships, tiny metal buckets at the mercy of bottomless blue, unnatural incursions into inhuman spaces. You have sailed twice before with your parents—once to Le Havre to visit Paris and again on a cruise of the Aegean—and both times you were consumed by visions of water rising up over your feet, bodies thrashing in the waves, bones turning to silt. You don’t want to cross the Atlantic. You don’t want to leave home.

“You look a bit familiar, boy,” Daemon says, and you realize he’s talking to the viola player. You startle, then are relieved to see that your husband has only a dim curiosity in the musician. The reporter has bored him, and Daemon’s eyes are wandering. He is a man of short and restless attention. You have learned this the hard way. “Have we met before?”

The viola player—early twenties, around your age, sandy blond hair and a beard trimmed close to the skin—pauses his fiddling as his three companions carry on. His accent is English, not Irish. “Well I’ve played all over Ireland, sir. All over Europe, in fact.”

“Were you by chance at the McPherson wedding back in February?”

You don’t believe he was, you think you’d remember him; but the viola player nods eagerly. “Yes sir, that was me.”

“Ah! That was a fine night. Excellent duck. Wasn’t the duck good, dear?” But Daemon only half-listens for your response. He has turned back to the reporter and is recounting how he and his expedition hacked through the jungles of Tanzania to reach the location of suspected gemstone deposits, how they endured attacks from crocodiles and chimpanzees and burned up from fevers.

“Please excuse me for a moment,” you say as you rise from the table. The reporter scrambles to his feet to stand as decorum demands.

“Yes yes,” Daemon replies abruptly, not looking at you, then continues his stories.

You escape from the pub through the front door and stand beneath the awning just out of the rain, watching the reflections of streetlights glow in puddles like stars. Across the street in Eyre Square, a public park established in 1710, shadows of ash trees rock in the wind. With trembling fingers, you fumble a Kerry Blue and your cigarette holder out of your black handbag, then realize you don’t have a lighter. Someone else always does that part for you. You sigh and stare out into the rain, taking deep breaths of Irish night, early April, cold and wet and green, the only air you know how to take painlessly into your lungs, blood, bones, the dark damp earth that built you. You cannot imagine living amongst metal skyscrapers and rumbling automobiles instead of verdant rolling hills dotted with sheep.

You hear the pub door open, and you assume it is one of the waiters or perhaps Rush—Edward Rushton, Daemon’s valet and bodyguard, ever-watchful and unwaveringly stern—bringing you the black mink coat you left inside. But to your horror, it is the viola player, carrying his instrument by its neck. You gape at him as rain continues to fall.

“Hi,” he says.

You are clutching your handbag, a cigarette and holder still tucked between your fingers. “What are you doing?”

“I just…I was…uh…” He spots the cigarette. “Oh, do you need a lighter? I have one, hold on…” He begins rooting around in the pockets of his olive green tweed jacket.

“No, I don’t need a lighter,” you snap, glancing anxiously at the door. “I need you to go back inside.”

“Wait a minute, I wanted to—”

“Why are you speaking to me?” Your eyes are wide and petrified, your voice is a sharp whisper. No musician has ever addressed you beyond pleasantries: Good morning, good afternoon, good evening, thank you ma’am, my pleasure ma’am. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Look, I came out here because…I just wanted to ask…” He struggles to find the words. His eyes fall to your left wrist, now fully obscured by the ruffles of your sleeve, then return to your face. “Are you okay?”

“What?”

“Do you…you know…do you need some kind of help or something?”

It’s improper, it’s unthinkable, it’s dangerous. “You’re deranged,” you say as you breeze past him towards the door. “You’ve clearly escaped from an asylum somewhere. I wish you all the best in your recovery.”

He does not grab you—that would be absurd—but he does get between you and the front door of the pub. “Wait, please, I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be rude or to overstep or anything, I’m trying to see if there’s anything I can do—”

“You will make it worse for me,” you hiss, and only then does the viola player go quiet and let you pass. You shove by him into O’Connell’s Bar.

Back at the table, Daemon and the reporter are engrossed in conversation. When you rejoin them, neither of the men take any notice of you beyond the reporter’s momentary rise to his feet. After a minute or two, the viola player returns to the quartet and slips seamlessly into the song they’re playing, Star of the County Down. You gaze into your pear cider, determined not to glance at him even once.

Daemon is saying as the reporter jots franticly: “I am reminded of something I read once in a French fashion critic’s guide from the 1870s. In the gloomy depths of the mineral world, stars are concealed that rival in their beauty those of the firmament. The fresh splendors of dawn, the sun’s incandescent rays, the magnificent sunsets, the brilliant colors of the rainbow, all are found enclosed in a morsel of pure carbon or in the center of a stone. Not everyone can see the potential, not everyone has the skill or the willpower to move the earth and free the treasures trapped beneath. But I found stars no one else knew existed. And my work isn’t finished yet.”

~~~~~~~~~~

At home in Lough Cutra Castle, your family’s estate since 1817, your parents are asleep and Fern is waiting up for you and Daemon, yawning into the back of her hand to try to hide it. She is your maid but she was hired by Daemon, and she scurries around the property like a mouse, eternally picking up toys and articles of clothing and papers that have slid off of tables, head bowed, footsteps so light you often don’t realize she’s walked into a room until she’s spoken.

“Care for some tea, my lady?” Fern asks as she takes your mink coat. Daemon goes directly to his study; you watch him leave with some feeling you couldn’t name, loss, relief, loneliness, resignation.

“No, thank you, Fern. I’m exhausted. Is Draco upstairs?”

“He is,” she says, but with hesitation, as if she is sending you into the lion’s den. You know what that means. You climb the staircase and find him in his bedroom sound asleep, four years old, surrounded by an army of teddy bears. Bears are his favorite animal; he likes the way they roar and brandish their teeth. He is named after the crest of Daemon’s family; Draco is the Latin word for dragon. His hair is white-blonde, a Targaryen trait. As they age it fades to an ordinary sand-like color, and by the time they are middle-aged—Daemon is forty, nearly two decades older than you are—their hair is a blonde so dark it’s almost brunette.

You stand in the doorway watching Draco for a long time. When you think of him, this is the image that comes to mind: your son across a room, or a lawn, or a garden, and you lurking on the periphery, longing to be a part of his existence, feeling so palpably unneeded. Already, he is becoming a stranger. He thinks it’s funny when Daemon insults people and breaks things. He stomps his little feet when he doesn’t get his way and rips flowers from the garden, tosses rocks through the windows of the greenhouse, hurls sticks at hissing geese.

“He’s asleep,” Dagmar says as if she’s scolding you. You whirl to see her behind you in the hall, glowering with those icy Nordic eyes, her hair grey and twisted into a tight bun, her face angular and cold-blooded. Legend has it that Saint Patrick expelled all the snakes from Ireland; you think he must have missed one.

“Yes, I can see that.”

“You’ll wake him.”

“I certainly won’t.”

“A boy that age needs his rest.” And this is how Dagmar has been since Draco was born: You can’t hold a baby like that, you can’t feed a baby like that, you can’t play with a baby like that, never showing you how to do things but only alienating you further and further until you looped around on some hopelessly remote orbit like Neptune circles the sun.

“Yes. Like I said, I won’t disturb him.”

But she does not leave; she only scowls at you with her bony arms crossed over her chest. She is ancient; she was Viserys and Daemon’s governess when they were boys, and your husband wrote to her immediately after Draco was born. She idolizes Daemon. The three of them are a family unto themselves, sardonic and spiteful and fiercely loyal, an oath you can’t figure out how to break. She wins this battle, as she’s won them all. It is not a war but an insurgency, a perpetual struggle for independence, sabotages and hunger strikes that amount to nothing. You retreat from Draco’s doorway and go to find Daemon in his study, bent low over his desk and sketching designs for jewelry men will buy for their wives, sisters, mothers, daughters, mistresses.

He glances over at you impatiently. “What is it?”

“You promised I’d never have to leave Ireland.”

Daemon shrugs, smiling wryly. “And yet…”

“Draco and I could stay here,” you say, as if this has not already occurred to him.

“And people would say my house is not in order. How am I to command the respect of American businessmen when my own wife does not obey me?”

You are desperate. “Half the year,” you plead. “I’ll spend winters in Manhattan and summers here.”

“Absolutely not.”

“What if I won’t go?”

“I don’t see how you’d accomplish that,” Daemon says, as if he’s already bored of this conversation. “You could throw yourself over the ship’s railing and into the Atlantic Ocean, I suppose. But that’s the only way you’re not ending up in New York.”

“You don’t even really want me there,” you reply, your voice quivering. “You don’t care where I am or what I do. Lots of men live separately from their wives, you can as well.” And even now—horribly, humiliatingly—you want him to contradict you, to swear that he does care, that he wants you, that he loves you in the sick brutal way he knows how.

Daemon picks up the dagger he keeps on his desk and uses it as a letter opener to unseal a piece of correspondence from one of his many mines, left in the care of managers just as your father’s Connemara marble quarry soon will be. The hilt is made of gold and has seven small gemstones imbedded in it, one on top of the other: amethyst, tiger’s eye, black opal, emerald, ruby, bloodstone, sapphire. “You know,” Daemon says offhandedly as he skims the letter. “Draco is getting old enough for boarding school.”

“What?” You are shellshocked; it takes a moment for you to sputter a reply. “He’s…he’s four, Daemon. He can’t read more than a handful of words. He just learned how to write his own name.”

“I was only five when my father sent me away.”

“And you turned out to be so normal.”

“No,” Daemon says, a blade-sharp warning, his eyes burning into yours, ruthless green fire. He aims the point of his dagger at you. “I turned out to be extraordinary.”

Draco. Draco sent away. If I lose him now, I’ll lose him forever. He’ll never know me. He’ll never love me. “Please let me have a few more years with him.”

“Sure. In New York.”

“I’ll go,” you surrender. “Fine, fine, I understand. I’ll go. No more complaints.”

“Good.” He sets down his dagger and the letter and resumes his sketching. You’ve been dismissed, but you can’t look away from him: cunning hands that won’t touch you, blood that runs hot enough to scald.

What is this feeling, this hunger, this hatred, all gnarled up together, dark earth glimmering with flecks of jewel-tone light, constellations of subterranean stars? He has hurt you, but he has given you pleasure too, this man who is so impossible to know, to predict, the only man who has ever been inside you. It’s not that you want him, not exactly; you want what he can give you, and the cold truth is that if it’s not him it’s not anyone, never again for as long as he lives. You’ve never craved another body, another soul. If you ever took a lover, you believe Daemon would kill you.

He grins, mocking and cruel. And you are transported back to your wedding night, still euphoric and flushed and panting on the bed as Daemon sighed and got up to go to the washroom, the satisfaction and the shame, the inescapable sense that you have disappointed him. “Did you only come here to be vexing and disobedient, or did you have something else in mind?”

“No,” you say softly, turning away, leaving him with his drawings of rocks stolen from distant corners of the world.

At breakfast the next morning—Fern cracking Draco’s soft-boiled egg and feeding him careful spoonfuls, Dagmar reading aloud to him from The Three Billy Goats Gruff, giving him smiles radiant with warmth you’ve never received from her—you sip tea and spread butter over your soda bread, gazing listlessly at the mist that hangs cool and heavy beyond the windows. Daemon is at the quarry already. You are suddenly acutely aware of the absence of music.

“Hey, lassie?” your father says as your mother tries to coax him into eating his full Irish breakfast: fried eggs, bacon, beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, white pudding.

You look to him, clearing the fog from your skull. “Yes, Daddy.”

“I saw the luggage. Where are you going?”

You keep telling him, but he doesn’t remember; he was becoming forgetful five years ago but now he can’t work at all, can barely even carry conversations. You had a brother who died in infancy and a sister who was taken at eight years old by convulsions. You are the only child left, and there are no other evident heirs to the quarry. This must have been something that occurred to Daemon when he met you, seventeen and overwhelmed by the black magic of him. He had seemed like the right choice: dashing, capable, from an illustrious family, a man who could take charge of the quarry as your father’s health continued to fail.

“Daddy, I told you. We’re going to Manhattan.”

He is stunned, grief-stricken. “What? That far?”

“Yes, on Titanic. It’s the largest ship ever built.”

“Who the hell cares about the ship?” your father says. “When will you be back?”

Never. You and your mother exchange a heartsick glance. She tries to be strong for him; she tries not to show you that her world is ending as you and Draco are taken across the ocean like gemstones mined and smuggled away for cutting. “Soon, Daddy,” you lie. He won’t remember anyway. “We’ll be back really soon.”

And then again ten minutes later, and then again after a half hour, and then again at lunchtime:

Where are you going?

When will you be back?

~~~~~~~~~~

Titanic is not a ship but a wonder of the world, unbreakable like the pyramids, towering like the Colossus of Rhodes, beckoning seafaring travelers like the Lighthouse of Alexandria. It is too large to dock in Cork Harbor, and so two tenders—named, quite appropriately, Ireland and America—are used to shuttle the passengers to the anchored goliath waiting to carry you across the ocean. Aboard, a five-piece string ensemble greets the first-class passengers with The Sunny South, and beaming stewards distribute flutes of champagne, liquid gold freckled with bubbles of trapped air. The men are chucking and shaking Captain Smith’s hand and the women are sighing with soft, feminine awe at the soaring funnels and the sprawling Promenade Deck, steel overlaid with yellow pine and teak, and you stare vacuously back at the shadow of the shore, speaking to no one, noticed by no one, alone in a wonderstruck crowd on a cloud-covered, warm afternoon, April 11th, 1912.

Rush is giving bellboys instructions for the luggage to be taken to your rooms. Daemon disappears with Rhaenyra to inspect the accommodations, their steps swift and careless, laughing like children, Rhaenyra’s blonde hair—yellow jasper, yellow jade—streaming out behind her, her gown a shallow-water bluish-green like the Grandidierite Daemon found in Madagascar. Fern skitters after them to unpack the bags when they arrive in the staterooms and offer to make tea. Laenor, wearing a deep and dignified shade of blue, immediately makes the acquaintance of several Parisian passengers and sets about to stroll the deck with them, smoking their pipes and remarking on the ingenuity of the ship’s design, planning to enjoy the Turkish Baths together this evening. Draco is getting tired and ill-tempered; Dagmar merrily whisks him off to see the Grand Staircase and distract him until the rooms are ready.

Meandering, rudderless, you walk to the deck railing and look down into the water as the ship weighs anchor, unmooring itself from Ireland, stealing you away forever. Trying to distract yourself from weeping—tears burn in your eyes like a stoked furnace—you pretend to adjust your earrings. You wear amethysts to match your gown, dark mauve, a color not long ago only owned by royalty. One of the musicians has appeared to soothe your maladies, desperate terror and melancholy he perhaps mistakes for seasickness. But no, it’s not one of the men from the ensemble that welcomed you aboard; he is not wearing a pristine black suit but a pale green tweed waistcoat and unceremonious plaid trousers. He isn’t a crewmember of Titanic at all. He’s the viola player from Galway.

You jolt away from him, spinning around to ensure no one from Daemon’s party has reappeared to witness this. Then you whisper furiously: “What are you doing here?!”

The viola player stops fiddling and holds his instrument by its neck. His answer is amiable and innocent. “Playing viola.”

“No, why are you on this ship?!”

He shrugs, smiling, his hair blowing in the wind as the tugboats pull Titanic out to sea. “Heard it was the biggest one ever built, unsinkable, extravagant beyond compare. Seemed like something I’d like to experience given the opportunity.”

“You followed me,” you say flatly.

He winks, resting an elbow on the railing. His teeth are small and white; there are lines from the sun around his eyes.

“You overheard our arrangements at O’Connell’s Bar and bought a ticket for yourself? Crossed Ireland, travelled south to Cork, all to stalk me like some lunatic? A nautical Jack the Ripper?”

“Well…I wouldn’t say I bought a ticket.” He is playful, teasing you. “I found one.”

“How did you manage to by pure happenstance find a ticket for Titanic’s maiden voyage?”

“I ran into an aspiring passenger at a pub in Cork,” the viola player explains. “A very nice man, his name was Fergal. Unfortunately for poor Fergal, when the time came to board the tenders, he was…indisposed, and I found myself in possession of his third-class ticket. A strange coincidence!”

“Indisposed?” you say, squinting suspiciously.

“Perhaps he had a few too many pints in celebration and passed out somewhere. Perhaps he got lost on his way to the harbor. Or perhaps he was locked in the pub’s storage room and therefore unable to make it to the tenders in time to sail blissfully away on his trans-Atlantic journey. Who could say for sure?”

“So you stole a ticket.”

“I think that’s a cynical way to put it.”

You are incredulous. “How would you put it?”

“Fortune brought me a ticket. The stars aligned, the saints were looking out for me.”

“If you hold a third-class ticket, you are on the wrong deck of the ship.”

“Shh!” He holds a finger to his lips. “No one knows that, I just wander around playing songs for the rich people and they assume I’m supposed to be here.”

“You have to stay away from me,” you plead, staring out over the ocean. “Daemon can’t see us talking, he can’t know you followed me from Galway, he can’t find out that you saw…” The bruise, the evidence, the betrayal of you not keeping his secrets.

“Relax, I’m not here for you,” the viola player says, and of course he is lying. “I have family in New York City. I left home and haven’t been back in years, and I think now’s a good time for a visit.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah. Okay.”

He grins, slow and mischievous, and you are alarmed to realize some part of you wants to smile too. “You know what?”

“What,” you offer resentfully.

“I think you want me to be here for you.”

You turn away from the railing to make your escape. “I want you to leave me alone.”

“I’ll think about it,” the viola player quips. And when you glance back at him from the end of the Promenade Deck, ocean wind tearing your hair out of its pins and salt stinging on your skin, he’s still watching you.

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

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bluefunkybeats · 2 months ago

Text

LAUNDRY STORIES WITH ZAYNE

pt1 headcanons. sfw

ZAYNE WHO RETURNS TO YOUR CROSS-LEGGED FIGURE ON HIS BED HOLDING THE WHITE LATTICE-PATTERN LAUNDRY BASKET. He gives you a small smile as he comes through the doorframe and sets the basket on the bed and takes a seat himself on the mattress, already getting a start on folding the clothes freshout the dryer.

There’s a gentle light coming in through the window, and the sky such a pure light blue shade for the autumn.

The t-shirts and sweatshirts get neatly folded quite quickly with your two pairs of hands, and Zayne begins stacking them to store them. All that’s left in the apple-pie-latticed basket are a sea of mostly white socks.

Zayne turns back to you after storing everything where it should be in the wardrobe, quite inquisitive at the scene he’s now watching.

He flumps down again at the bed and already curiously grabbing one of the rolled pair of socks.

“Well this is unusual,” he says piqued in his hypnotic velvet voice, rotating the sock like if studying it will uncover something new. “I didn’t know you organised your socks this way.”

“Mhm. Foolproof for finding the right sock,” you comment.

Of course he won’t tell you that you can just make piled matching pairs. It’s cuter this way anyway.

He lets the little snowy ball smelling of fabric softener rest in his palms between his opened thighs as he queries back to you, looking a bit distracted making the little rolls.

Before you know, the side of your cheek is met with a small bun of white against your cheek, making you look up to Zayne extending his arm to a v-shape to let it reach you.

“It’s look like a little snowball,” he remarks, with his signature little smile on his face.

Now you’re clearly piqued by his behaviour, which you let know with a breathy smile.

IT’S VERY EARLY IN THE MORNING, AND THE SKY IS STILL GLOWING DARK INDIGO IN THE WET WINTER WEATHER.

Zayne is already risen for work, finishing with what he needs to get done before heading off to the hospital. He’s in the kitchen under only the dim white light of the range hood, looking at his phone for any updates in his schedule. He already transcribed a doodle response and short phrase to your mess on his wall-hung calendar, which he had to complete under the very same scarce light source because it’s so dark outside it illusions night time. There’s leftovers suitable for breakfast in the fridge in case you doze in for a few more minutes and don’t have as much time to prepare it.

The reminder to not forget his watch jolts to his mind, and so he enters the bedroom very quietly, so very slowly turning the door handle and slowly lifting it back up to lessen the recoil sound.

In the same cautious manner he slides open his wardrobe to find his watch. He can’t find it for a while, and turns his head around to where you’re still sleeping.

From his viewpoint looking at you, he can see a little further behind you something silver shine on your bedside table. Ah, he remembers now: when he came home last night, very tired, you insisted on giving him a well deserved hand massage before he head into the shower. With the both of you sat at the foot of the bed when he’d just come in the bedroom, gently kneading his hands…; you took the watch off him then.

But, then you did put it back in its correct place, because he remembers finding it there as he dressed into his loungewear whilst you took your own shower followed by him.

However, before closing the closet door, Zayne quickly began missing your touch on his hands again; which led to him fiddling with his watch, his favourite watch, engraved with his name in your handwriting and a heart.

Then he recalls how he had the watch on during dinner, and how you took it off him again when he settled in bed with you and you continued on his hand massage for a little while. That’s how it wound up there.

Zayne quietly steadies to grab his memento of you on your bedside table, and a very rumbled and near silent thunder brings a streak of light between the small gap of the closed curtains.

From the short-lived light source, he was able to catch glimpse on how your fluffy house slippers now appeared a bit stained and discoloured. He surveyed it was likely from the night you crept to the garden, still in your pijamas and slippers to let a collar-clad cat inside the solarium for the night; who was well received with food, water, and a woolly blanket. It was cold and the grass damp that late night, which is the reason why you let the cat come in and why your slippers got soiled.

Zayne grabs a page from a handy small notepad handing ‘round, clicks his pen once and starts writing on it. He clicks it once more and puts it away.

Zayne follows by lifting your hand that’s almost hanging off the bed and bringing it to his lips with a kiss, settling it back down gently, and turning to fasten his watch clasp secure on his wrist.

Your lover then bends down to pick up your slippers, his flexed index securing one slipper, and a flexed middle finger securing the other. Then he makes a job of toeing off his own slippers.

You wake up a few hours later, and notice the little note by your bedside: “Your slippers are in the washing machine. Wear mine.”

You look down and sure enough, Zayne’s slippers are facing outwards from the bed, just where your feet would naturally go to stand.

#love and deepspace #zayne love and deepspace #love and deep space zayne #love and deepspace zayne #zayne x reader #zayne x you #l&ds zayne #lnds zayne #zayne x mc #dr zayne #lads zayne #zayne snowman #doctor zayne #l&ds x reader #l&ds

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clockwayswrites · 1 year ago

Text

Like Betta Fish Do Part 25

WC: 3,537 Masterpost CW: Canon typical violence

“I can’t believe I’m in a custom suit,” Danny said as he admired himself in the mirror.

“It is really weird the first few times,” Jason agreed as he did up his own cufflinks.

Danny twisted so that the very faint blue on blue pattern sewn into the suit caught the light. It gave the impression of rolling waves. “So how many fish things did you manage to fit in?”

He watched the reflection to catch Jason’s lips tick up into a pleased smile.

“Well there’s the fabric itself, deep ocean blue.”

“And patterned like waves,” Danny finished. “I caught that.”

“Your shirt and tie are sea foam white.”

“Okay, that one might be a stretch,” Danny said, but he touched the fabric gently.

Jason rolled his eyes. “I’m counting it. The pocket square, very nontraditional, is a Japanese indigo linen in a pattern that is a historic representation of waves. The buttons are abalone, the cufflinks red coral, and the tie pin is mother of pearl.”

“Six, if I give you sea foam white.”

“You better, I worked hard on this. And it’s actually seven, one last thing,” Jason said. He picked up a blue velvet jewelry box off his side table and held it out.

Danny took it curiously. It was bigger than a ring box, but smaller than a necklace case. He brushed his thumb over the soft covering before he snapped the lid open. His breath caught.

Inside was a set of earrings. Simple silver studs for for his cartilage piercings, a pearl earring for his left ear, and then the show stopper: a crystal studded and delicate woven silver betta fish on a chain for his right ear. Its black pearl eyes were bright. They almost made it seem alive.

“Jason…”

“I tried to stay subtle with the rest, but this I couldn’t resist,” he said. “You’re my fish, and everyone at the gala should know that.”

Danny carefully closed the box before he flung his arms around Jason’s neck and pulled the other down for a kiss.

“Careful,” Jason murmured when the kiss broke, “if we show up late and mussed Tim will frown at us the whole night.”

“That would be a shame,” Danny whispered back before kissing Jason again.

“I can’t believe I’m being the voice of reason,” Jason said, “but you have to let me get dressed.”

“Fine,” Danny said, even if it made him want to pout. “Maybe… I can take it off after the gala then?”

The pink that Jason blushed was more than worth being bold and Danny took a moment to admire it before he turned to put in the earrings.

Behind him, Jason knotted a white (or sea foam, Danny supposed) tie and shrugged on a matching jacket. The suit looked bright, almost glowing, against the rich blue dress shirt that complimented Danny’s own suit. He couldn’t be sure what it was from this distance, but Danny thought he saw the glint of white on white embroidery on the cuffs and lapels of the suit. It was the silver fish bone tie pin that made him laugh.

“People are going to have questions.”

“Let them,” Jason said with a cheshire smile.

“I’m starting to get what going to a gala with you will be like,” Danny said.

“Oh, this is tame for me,” Jason said. “I’m behaving.”

“I know, it’s part of your charm.”

“If only the press thought that,” Jason said, grabbing his phone as it beeped. “That’s our car.”

“I wish we could just take your bike,” Danny said, watching Jason put his phone back down, “and our phones.”

“Suit lines. I’ve got a connection to the family,” Jason assured Danny.

“Still. But I guess those suit lines do really great things for your ass and it would be a shame to ruin that,” Danny agreed with a put upon sigh.

“You’re incorrigible tonight,”Jason said (not that he seemed to mind if his smirk was any hint).

“Maybe it’s just that new years mood,” Danny said with a little shrug, lacing their fingers together as they left. “This year turned out pretty great, and I bet next year is going to be even better.”

“Yeah? Any reason for that?”

“Well, I happened to move to a city that’s pretty weird but also pretty awesome,” Danny said.

“Good reason,” Jason agreed. “What else?”

“I’m finally in the degree for what I want to do, and I’m kicking ass at it.”

“Of course you are, you’re brilliant,” Jason said, holding the door open to the town car after he subtly checked the plates. “Nothing else?”

“Well,” Danny drew the word out as he slid into the car. “There’s this guy I met, maybe you know him? Tall, dark, and handsome?”

“I don’t know, he doesn’t sound real,” Jason teased and leaned into Danny’s space.

Danny leaned up and pressed Jason into a light kiss. “He is pretty magical.”

“The red carpet, less than magical,” Danny said once they were through the sea of reporters and photographers. “I’m going to be seeing camera flashes for weeks.”

“Only a few hours at most,” Jason said.

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not, your whole being is just one blinding white blur,” Danny said, motioning at Jason, who laughed and caught Danny’s hand.

Jason pressed a quick kiss to the fingertips. The cameras went off in another round of flashes, apparently not having enough of the lost Wayne and his boyfriend. “Come on, let’s head further in away from this circus.”

“Is your family here yet?” Danny asked as they headed into the gala proper. Jason was skilled at keeping them moving without getting caught up by any one group, even as he greeted some of them.

“Bruce, Damian, and Duke arrived pretty on time so Bruce could greet people. Tim is around here somewhere too, networking I’m sure unless Bernard has distracted him. He’ll have arrived with Cass and Steph, who you haven’t met. Steph isn’t family, but she’s family, you know?”

“I think so?” Danny at least assume that meant she was in the Bat life.

“And Dick should be around here or will soon, likely with Barbie.”

“Barbie?” Danny took one of the drink glasses that Jason had snagged. The tart tang of cranberry bloomed across his tongue followed by the burn of alcohol and lingering taste of sugar. It was good.

“Yeah, but don’t call her that. Her name is Barbara, but she goes by Babs.”

“But you can get away with Barbie?”

“He was a very cute kid,” a voice behind them said. “Somehow he convinced me to let him.”

Danny spun and then had to look down to meet the gaze of the red headed woman in a wheelchair. He couldn’t help but feel a pang for Jazz, but it was softened by the fact that he’d get to see her soon.

“Bull,” Danny said with a smile, offering his hand. “I refuse to believe that Jason was ever not a little shit.”

“Oh, no, he was still a little shit,” Babs said, returning the handshake firmly. “But he was a cute little shit.”

Danny sighed dramatically and looked over at Jason. “Where did you go so wrong?”

“Hey, I believe it was you who were extolling the virtues of my ass in this suit not that long ago,” Jason said with just the hint of a pout.

“I think most of the press will be doing that too, so I’m not sure how much weight that has,” Babs said, painted lips ticked up in clear amusement.

Jason just sighed while Danny laughed.

“I like you, Babs. Is Babs okay for me to call you?”

“Of course, you’re Jason’s man, so you can call me Babs. And I really do prefer it to Barbara. The name is just a little old fashion, you know?”

“And you’re a modern kind of woman?” Danny asked with a smile.

“In so many ways,” Babs said. “But I better go make the rounds, or at least find where Dick is. He got distracted.”

“Isn't he always?” Jason said and bid Babs farewell.

“Are they together? Dick and Babs?” Danny ask as he watched her wheel away.

“Not anymore, but they were,” Jason explained. “They’re still really close. And Babs has been close to the family for a lot of years, so she’s special to all of us, you know? She’s a real inspiration to Cass and Steph.”

Oh, that sort of friend. “Wait, was she?”

“Yeah. So you know.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Danny said. The wheelchair meant something a little differently now. He took a breath and looked around the gala, which was already swarming with beautiful, laughing people. He felt out of place without Babs’ friendly face distracting him.

“Come on, I bet we can find some family to talk too,” Jason said, taking Danny’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “There are a few people who I’ll need to hit up tonight for the Foundation stuff, you know, try to get some donations from them or build up the start of that, but you don’t have to hang with me during any of that. There's plenty of siblings around for you to chat with and use as a distraction. Hell, could always introduce you to Lucius or some of the other inventors we have and you all could talk nerd shop.”

“Nerd shop,” Danny repeated with a sigh. “You say Lucius who I’m going to assume is the Lucius Fox and call it nerd shop like that man is not out there breaking barriers and changing the world with his inventions? And that’s just the stuff that’s been announced to the public! Who knows what else he’s been doing behind closed doors! It must be mind blowing.”

“Well, thank you, but I have a lot of very smart people working for me, so it’s hardly just my work that’s out there making waves,” a silky voice said from behind them.

Danny spun and couldn’t help the little squeak he gave.

Jason chuckled and reached out to shake the man’s hand. “Lucius, how are you doing? Did you manage to drag any of your family to tonight’s event?”

“Just my lovely wife. The rest found excuses, you know how it is.”

“I do. Sadly I’m in a position of note now,” Jason said, the words practically had air quotes around them, “so I’m afraid that my days of excuses are gone.”

“Oh, I’m sure that you can still find a few when you truly need them. You’ve always been mighty good at that.”

Jason just shrugged with an unrepentant grin. “Well, you know. But anyway, Lucius, this is my boyfriend Danny. Danny, this, as I guess you know from that sound you made, is Lucius Fox.”

“Of course I know. Really, sir, the work you and your teams have done… amazing.”

“Just Lucius, Danny,” the man said, reaching out to shake Danny’s hand. “If you’re dating Jason I expect that we’ll run into each other from time to time and I am too old for formalities like that.”

“Alright, just Lucius then. I can’t wait to tell my friend Tucker I met you.”

“Another one for, what was that you said Jason, ‘nerd shop talk’ like you are?”

“Totally. He’s in computer sciences, but he’s not bad at engineering some hardware when he needs to. Mostly to be able to get his software to run on, but I always make fun of his soldering.”

“So you must solder a lot then?”

“Yes s— er Lucius. Aerospace engineering, but I grew up always tinkering and things. I still do it some, but it’s harder here when I don’t have the space, you know? First dibs on tables and tools go to the other majors, which I get, since they need them more than us.”

“Still, hard not to be able to get your hands dirty when you want to. Are you going to be in Gotham for the summer? Not sure where you call home.”

“Well, at the moment, home is Gotham. I want to visit some friends and my sisters, but I’ll be here, yeah. I might take a summer course and get an advanced math knocked out or something.”

“A good plan. You should reach back out to me around early May then. I bet we can find a corner of one of the labs for you to at least use on the weekends when no one is around doing work much.”

“Really?” Danny said, hands twitching at just the idea of getting into a space where he could do some inventing. He had so many new ideas from his time at Gotham U on to improve some of his parent’s inventions or even make new things.

“Really. There will be the usual red tape and all, background checks and paper work and hours you’re allowed in, but those things can be worked out. Can’t keep a curious mind and skilled hands stagnant, now can we?”

“I know I can’t,” Danny said with a little laugh. “Thank you Lucius, really, I’ll definitely take advantage of that again. And start planning! I mean I have plans, of course I do, but a lot is just rough sketches, you know? I need to do some proper diagrams for a few things.”

He didn’t want to waste a moment once he had access to tools again— especially not the tools that were available to him at a place like Wayne Enterprises. Danny idly wondered if it would be out by summer that he knew about the Bats. Lucius had to be involved in that work and it would be so cool to take a look under the proverbial and the literal hood of those gadgets. Did they store the Batplane here?

Lucius chuckled and smiled. “Yes, I think you’ll fit right into that corner. You two boys behave now.”

“Never,” Jason said with a laugh and shook Lucius’ hand one more time as they parted ways.

The night turned into a slew of little meetings like that— people coming up to talk to Jason. Some of the conversations were enjoyable like with Babs and Lucius (Steph was overwhelming, but cool), some were with the many family members Jason had, and some were with the tpyical the socialite crowd. Those people seemed either to be there to get their claws in Jason or to observe Danny like he was some curiosity. Danny really could do without that type. Luckily, Jason seemed to know this, and Danny was passed off to Dick a few hours in and then freed to the food table after some teasing.

Really, even with the gawkers, the night was pretty fun.

“Hey Barbie, have you seen Danny recently?” Jason asked as he crossed her path at the party.

“No, but I’ve been talking tech. Have you tried over by the food?”

“That’s where I just came from,” Jason said with a little frown. These things were really too busy, one of the many reasons that he hated them. “I guess I’ll go try another sibling. Dick hadn’t seen him in a bit either, he got distracted by one of the people from the foundation that works with kids.”

“I keep waiting for him to join you there, you know. You could try Tim if he hasn’t been co-opted by Bernard yet,” she suggested. “How long has he been schmoozing?”

“Too long, Tim is worthless to me I’m sure. Cass would be—”

Jason dropped instinctively to cover Babs before he even registered the sound of shattering glass.

“Jason—”

The all to familiar muzzle of a gun pressed into the base of Jason’s head. “Turn around slowly. Try anything and I’ll shoot through you to get your lovely friend.”

Jason locked eyes with Babs, a thousand messages passed in that look as he slowly raised his hands and turned around.

It was one of the waiters.

Okay, it was a number of the waiters, Jason mentally corrected as he took in the room. Each of them with a gun pointed at some portion of the party. Jason spotted Bruce and Damian where they were being rounded up and Steph over on the edges of the room, but he couldn’t find Tim, Dick, or Cass on the quick glance at the space.

He snapped his focus back to the gunman at a popping sound. The man raised his left hand to his face and smeared the popped paint pellet across his face, coating half of it in a splotchy blue.

Guess they knew what Two Face was up to now. Speaking of the man of the hour, Two Face walked through the shadowed window, black and white suit spotless and fit for the event, and flanked by henchmen. He was clapping. Head tilted so that the bright lights caught his good side.

“Lovely event Bruice! Really, a shinning light in Gotham to ring in the new year. Don’t mind us, please, we’re just here to pick up the usual, jewels, watches, money clips, wire transfers. I’m afraid we need the extra funding…” He twitched, twisting so that the scarred side of his face was tilted forward. “Because the damn Bat made sure we lost it all! I’m hoping he shows tonight. I’d like to make sure he doesn’t make it to the new year!”

Dent cleared his throat; his right hand smoothed back his hair, tipping his head back the other way. “Sorry about that. Just some… linger resentment. You all know how it is. But let’s not get too serious yet! Brucie! And his adorable little spawn! Some of our guests of honor too! Behave if you don’t want to be shot in the head.”

Jason watched helplessly as Bruce, Damian, and several other social elite like the mayor were lashed together with rope. Two Face walked over after they were trussed and slapped a bomb to Bruce’s chest. While the the henchman secured it, Two Face turned to the crowd.

“Where is he? Our darling lost prince of Gotham?”

The gunman stuck the cold metal back to the base of Jason’s neck and pushed him forward.

The bomb started ticking down.

“There you are! When I heard you returned to us, my heart swelled, truly,” Dent said, looking up with his good eye as if praying to heaven. “And now! Now I hear you’ve found love!”

Dent bent over, cackling. The enlarged, yellow eye looked up at Jason from under the white bangs. “So let’s play a game while we count down to midnight.”

Two Face’s goons dramatically rolled out a podium. Two bright red buttons were mounted to it, right below a large television.

Danny was on the screen.

He was tied to a chair in some building’s basement. A bruise was already blooming to life around his right eye, deep blue as his suit. He had clearly caught a fist to the lip too. The fish earring was bright silver, catching light reflected from the pool of water that the chair was sat in.

“As you see, we’re giving your boyfriend some hospitality,” Dent said, smooth side of his face to Jason as he walked around the podium like some perverse Vanna White. “So you have a simple choice: decided what type of love is more important to you. Do you press the left button and save your boyfriend, letting your family and these other lovely people die to the bomb…”

He rounded the screen, scarred open eye starting at Jason accusingly. “…or do you press the button on the right and save the people in this room, but fry your boyfriend to death with electricity?”

Two Face snapped his fingers.

Danny’s head jerked up, unfocused eyes staring just to the right of the screen.

“Hey, dead boy,” Danny rasped. Just talking made the split on his lip crack and bleed again, adding another line of blood to his chin. On the screen the red was bright, bright, bright—

Jason clenched his hands. He was going to kill Two Face. “Hey, fish.”

“You know, the irony of this whole thing is that it does make me realize I'm pretty sure I'm in love with you.”

“Yeah? That's convenient. I've been in love with you for weeks.”

Dent cackled and motioned grandly at the trussed up people. The bright, bright red of the bombs’ timer counted down another tick. “Looks like you're all out of luck! True love always wins.”

He twisted to Jason with the scarred side of his face and growled, “Forty-five seconds left.”

“You know what you have to do, don't you?” Danny asked.

He was smiling at Jason, a soft calm thing. But Jason didn't know if he could trust it. He didn’t know Danny's limits. He didn’t know if this would kill him the rest of the way.

But he did know what Danny would never forgive him for. He knew he didn't really have a choice. “I do. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be.”

Jason lunged and hit the right button. On the screen, the wires sparked bright with electricity, lighting up the pool of water. And Danny screamed.

And screamed.

The camera cut out.

---

AN: We're finally here! To the scene I wrote last year! Aaaaaah~

I would say I'm sorry, but this time I truly am not. (Please don't stab me.) ._.

It will be fiiiiiiiine... right?

#dp x dc #dead on main #like betta fish do

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nanawritesit · 1 year ago

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SM Entertainment Girl Group Idol AU (fem!reader insert)

feel free to use this for shifting or as a fanfiction backstory! (just tag me if it’s the second one hehe)

disclaimer: the extra info sections aren’t all original ideas, many were found on pinterest/tiktok :) images aren’t mine either

tw: none that i’m aware of

Group Profile:

Group Name: Etoile (meaning star/ point of a star in French)

Members: 5 (5 points on a star)

Fandom: Starlight

Concept: Ethereal, Cosmic, Elegant

Debut Year: 2017 (between Red Velvet and Aespa)

Debut Song: “Constellations”

Debut Album Title: “5 Makes 1”

B-Sides: “Aries,” “Nebula,” “Orbit,” “Stardust,” and “Pisces”

Fandom/ Lightstick Color: Indigo and White (stars in the night sky)

Group Chant: All: “Twinkle twinkle!” Nabi: “Hi Starlight! It’s…” All: “Etoile!”

Members Profile:

Y/N: Oldest, Center/ Face of the Group, Main Vocalist, Speaks Korean, English, and Chinese

Cho Nabi: Leader, Lead Vocalist, Korean, Speaks Korean, English, Chinese, and Japanese

Marie Tang: Main Dancer, Chinese-American, Speaks Korean, English, and Chinese

Han Iseul: Visual, Lead Dancer, Korean, Speaks Korean

Ikeda Kaori: Maknae, Main Rapper, Japanese, Speaks Korean and Japanese

Extra Info about the Group:

Pre-debut, Etoile released a cover of Girls Generation’s “Genie,” and it blew up so fast that fans couldn’t wait for them to debut

Etoile is known as “the bridge between third and fourth generation” in the kpop community

The members are also known as “the princesses of SM”

Etoile does a lot of variety shows because everyone loves the members’ funny personalities and playful group dynamic

Etoile was featured in a popular kdrama as themselves, though they only had a few lines in a couple episodes, it became a fan favorite and made the ratings sky-rocket

Etoile’s second comeback, “Andromeda,” is said to have one of the most difficult girl group choreographies in kpop. It was also the song that got them their first win

When Etoile got their first win with “Andromeda,” all of the girls were crying hysterically, including Nabi who was supposed to give the speech. She ended up handing the mic to Y/N, who had just been smiling happily the whole time. Y/N pulled Nabi into her arms as she gave the speech, and then the other three girls assembled a group hug around them. It became such a tender moment for Starlights that everyone watching started crying too

Etoile did a collaboration music video with Sailor Moon where all the members got to dress up as the sailor guardians. Y/N was Sailor Moon, Nabi was Sailor Mars, Marie was Sailor Mercury, Iseul was Sailor Venus, and Kaori was Sailor Jupiter

Etoile has their own plushie characters that are put on headbands and other merchandise for Starlight, similar to BT21 and Skzoo. Y/N’s is a white swan, Nabi’s is a blue butterfly, Marie’s is a black cat, Iseul’s is a pink puppy, and Kaori’s is a yellow duck

Etoile did a collab with “rom&nd,” a korean makeup brand, where each member got to create their own shade of lipstick. The five shades the members created sold out in just three minutes.

Etoile performed a cover of EXO’s “Growl” during one of their concerts in male school uniforms, and Starlights were so impressed by how cool and masculine they were

Being sandwiched between the two girl groups, Red Velvet and Aespa are like the older and younger sisters of Etoile (respectively.) The Red Velvet members are always checking in on them and giving them advice, and Etoile does the same thing for Aespa.

Starlight is famous for being one of the most loyal and devoted fandoms. They buy the girls billboards and food trucks for their birthdays, protect them from antis, and offer so much love and support.

The members have their own youtube channel called “Etoile Clubhouse” that they have permission to use freely. They post lots of different content, including challenges, games, song/dance covers, mukbangs, get ready with me/us videos, and q&a’s

Extra Info about Y/N:

Y/N is known as the loving mother of the group, while Nabi is more like a strict dad

Kaori was still in high school when she debuted, and Y/N took care of her like a mother would her daughter. She would wash and iron her uniform, prepare her breakfast and lunch, and help her with her homework every night. Kaori’s mother was so thankful, as she couldn’t do all this for her daughter herself, still living in Japan

While all the girls are close, Nabi and Y/N are best friends, they even have friendship bracelets

While Iseul is the visual because she fits the KBS the best, Y/N is the center/FOTG because her visuals match the group concept the best. She’s known for her “white swan�� visuals: ethereal, graceful, and elegant.

Y/N and Iseul were also chosen as members of GOT the Beat

Y/N was the first member to have a solo debut in 2021. Her debut song was fittingly titled “White Swan.” Nabi helped her compose the songs, Marie helped her with the choreography, and Kaori had a rap feature on one of the tracks. Y/N performed it at the MAMA awards, and everyone was singing/dancing along to it so hard they almost forgot about the actual awards show!

Y/N is an ambassador for Dior and Chanel. Many brands were offering her deals after Etoile became popular due to her unique visuals, so she got to choose the ones she liked best

Y/N is known as the “OST Queen” of the group, she has sang many drama OSTs

Y/N’s best friends at the company include Yeri (Red Velvet,) Taeyong (NCT/SuperM,) Karina (Aespa,) and Ten (NCT/SuperM/WayV)

Y/N has had cameos in many different artists’ music videos, including Stray Kids, Enhypen, and NCT Dream

SHINee’s Key dubbed Y/N “SM’s secret weapon”

Y/N was part of a one-time collaboration unit with Dreamcatcher’s Dami, Weki Meki’s Doyeon, IZ*ONE’s Yena, and fromis_9’s Chaeyoung. They released a single called “Wild Mind,” and it was so popular that fans were advocating to start a new group with just these idols!

Y/N once dyed her hair indigo to match the fandom color, and fans started to dye their hair the same color to match her. The shade became known as “Y/N hair” on social media

Y/N and Marie were mentors on a Chinese idol training show, all the girls loved them because they were super helpful without being too tough. It also gained Etoile a lot of Chinese fans

Y/N has very impressive high notes, Starlights have made several youtube compilations with titles like “Y/N obliterating the sound barrier with her high notes for 5 minutes”

Y/N’s nickname from Starlight is “Angel Voice” due to her clear, bright voice

Y/N sang a cover of Taylor Swift’s “Anti-Hero” on Etoile Clubhouse, and Starlights tagged Taylor in it so much that she was shown the video in an interview. Taylor responded: “I’ve watched this video so many times! Her voice is so pretty. I met her once in Korea too, she’s so genuine and sweet! I’d love to collab with her, or Etoile as a whole. They seem so fun.”

Y/N was getting a lot of lip-synching rumors, until one day a staff member shared a video of her practicing before a concert with her mic on. It revealed her raw vocal talent and debunked all the rumors.

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alpydk · 4 months ago

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Tattered Souls - The whole thing!

Gale x Rugan - Pining, strangers (mostly) to lovers, angst, romance

It hit under 10k words. I don't want to wait posting it in parts. It's done, I'm tired. Have it and enjoy it as much as I did writing it. My rarepair baby!

Ao3 Link

“By the gods...” Rugan whispered, uncovering the glinting gemstone from under the indigo velvet cloth. The information had been correct for once, a small treasure trove of goods for the taking available in the supposedly haunted tower of Waterdeep. He’d kept silent, his leather boots soft against the creaking of the wooden floorboards, his movements experienced and automatic, but his voice, quiet as it was, had been enough to trigger the trap. “Shit.”

He’d disabled the spike trap, of that he was sure, the large, blackened switch obvious near the shelving as he’d entered the dimly lit room, but the arcane runes upon the oak cabinet had been practically invisible to his trained eye. He felt the spell travel quickly through his fingertips and up his forearm, a Hold Person spell meaning he’d be caught red-handed as soon as the owner awoke. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, his calves tensed as the magic took over his body. A bead of sweat clung to his forehead, its journey to his blue eyes halted suddenly. If he could have cursed further, he would have, his lips held tightly against his will.

The candlelight flickered around him; a ruby held tightly in his grasp. How could he have been so reckless? Age had clearly clouded his judgement, and his reflexes were no longer what they used to be. He could hear the footsteps approaching down the hallway, his mind working quickly on either a decent lie or a bargain to get him out of there unscathed. He knew, though, this would be the last time he’d listen to information from a Guild member, especially Zenovia.

“Well, this is a not so pleasant surprise.”

Rugan heard the male voice nearing him from behind, an upper-class enunciation he’d learnt to despise over the years. He wished he could roll his eyes as he recognised the person stood before him, chestnut hair partially tied back, silver strands a mark of age and adventure, deep brown eyes, and the smuggest smile that needed to be punched away.

“Over the years, many a burglar and wizard alike have tried to steal from me, but a Zhent... Well, this is an unexpected turn of events.”

An abandoned wizard’s tower... Zenovia, I’m going to fucking kill you when I get my hands on you.

“Wait... I know you.” Walking around Rugan, the owner of the tower examined the intruder, dark eyes trying to pinpoint features that would draw out the long-buried memory. They rested on the thin lips that lay before them, a momentary halt of his investigation as if distracted. “Rugan, wasn’t it?”

The spell began to diminish, the pressure on Rugan’s lungs lessening. He wondered why his heart rate refused to slow despite now having the ability to escape his captor should he so wish it. He kept the ruby in his one hand, using his other with flexing fingers through dirty blonde hair to act as a distraction as he slid the red gem up his sleeve. This entire heist wasn’t going to be for nothing after all. As the magic released its grasp fully on him, he rolled his shoulders, the tension in his muscles more than it should have been for such a simple job. “And you’re the exploding wizard, from what I remember. Word gets around. Shouldn’t you be in pieces by now?”

The wizard smiled and held out his hand, forearms firmer than expected extended from a loose dark green shirt. “Gale Dekarios. Former exploding wizard.”

Rugan held his hand back, sceptical of the intentions that lay before him. He casually began to circle around, a need to get to either the door or the window in an impromptu escape without bringing too much attention to what he was doing. He wanted to ignore the energy in the air, the way his eyes kept falling upon the delicate fingertips in front of him. Get a hold of yourself, you idiot. He gritted his teeth and focused on the cool feeling of the ruby pressed against his wrist. “Well, Gale. Been great seeing you again, but I should be off.”

Gale’s hand remained extended, his welcoming handshake not lowering despite Rugan’s reluctance. “The ruby, if you please.”

“Ah... No idea what you’re talking about.”

A small smile emerged on confident lips, a quick flick of the wrist drawing the gemstone against the fabric of Rugan’s sleeve, its shape obvious. “I could always paralyse you again, if that is what you so wish.”

Rugan sighed, an annoyance that tonight had resulted in nothing but stiff muscles and a stirring in the back of mind that refused to shift. He took the stone out and clasped it in his palm, still hesitant to part with it. The candlelight reflected upon it brightly, a red glow dancing in his hand, and for a moment he stood back in the darkened cave, the smell of alchemical fire filling his nostrils, blood soaked into his leather armour.

The gentle touch from Gale’s fingertips drew Rugan out of his memory. He felt the magic of the weave warm his palm, saw the ruby slip from his hand only to be replaced with a small bag of gold.

Whilst speaking softly, Gale placed the stone back under the velvet cloth where it had once belonged. “A small word of advice from one whose own thievery has caused quite the debacle: Do not attempt to steal something unless you have all the information beforehand.”

---

Hours passed and Gale sat alone in his tower, the silence deafening. During his travels, he’d hoped to have come back to Waterdeep with Tav, but their many nights alone had meant nothing once he’d stupidly decided to propose. He’d been too hasty, too blinded by love to see it was not what she’d wanted, and with his ambition, he’d once again come to fail. Now he spent his days working at Blackstaff, research thankfully giving him many an excuse to lock himself away from the world. It was no wonder that Rugan had believed the tower to be empty when its inhabitant kept themselves secluded to a small study of musty tomes and inked quills.

Gale turned over the ruby in his hand, questioning why he’d even handed over the few gold. Had it been a moment of pity or had the stirring of his heart drawn him to want to form that connection? He remembered Rugan clearly from that year ago, one of tadpoles and uncertainty. Even as his chest had thrummed with the orb, he hadn’t been able to ignore the piercing blue eyes that had buried a grief on that day in the cave. They’d arrived too late to rescue the caravan, all but Rugan dead to the gnolls and hyaenas which cackled viciously, and Gale had ignored the rising beat of his heart as he watched the lone survivor trek out of the darkness, bloodstained and weary.

The memory dampened his spirits as he sat under the candlelight, but he pondered on why Rugan was in Waterdeep, what had drawn him to the City of Splendours, and more importantly, where was he staying? Rugan may have been a member of the Zhentarim but for the first time in a year, Gale felt something other than a deep loneliness; he felt the distant light of hope, knowing that a better time of his life was at last within arm’s reach.

---

Days passed, and the markets of Waterdeep were busy, the perfect location for picking pockets and making an easy bit of gold. Stall owners haggled with the tourists, regular city folk looked for the best deals on fruit and vegetables, and Rugan watched as a young woman opened her purse, taking out a few gold pieces to pay for some overpriced tat which lay on the bench before her. He ignored the ache in his stomach, his last gold piece wasted on the ale at the tavern the night before. He knew it had been a stupid decision, but then he seemed to have been full of them in the recent months since leaving the Sword Coast. Watching the way the purse weighted down at her side, he guessed her to have around twenty gold pieces, maybe a little more, if he was lucky. He sided up next to her, his gaze passing over the trinkets in front of them both, and then, with no hesitation, turned suddenly towards her as he leant over the stall, knowingly bashing into her. “Oh, my apologies, lass. Eyes just aren’t what they used to be.” She looked into his pale blue eyes, his gravelly voice an instant distraction from the way his hand clutched at her purse. “No, it’s quite alright.”

He nodded his head politely, the charming smile working its magic upon her and with it he pulled himself away from her and the vendor, the small bag of gold tucked between his hand and the leather of his belt. He walked away into the crowd of bustling market goers, his mind already working out where to spend the money, what he felt like to eat and, more importantly, drink.

It was as he passed the darkened alley he felt the hand on his arm, warm and firm, pulling him out of the flow of people and into the narrow-sheltered passage between the towering buildings of the city. The gold he’d been counting in his palm was clutched tightly to avoid losing it; more of a worry over where the next coin would come from next rather than the fear that the Zhentarim he’d escaped from had found him.

Rugan felt his body uncomfortably pulled close to that of another, the broad shoulders and grip upon him warning him this was not going to be some nimble prostitute he’d run out on weeks prior. His instincts kicked in, his muscles tensing and holding him firm in position to avoid being captured or beaten. The gold was held tightly as his other hand reached for the steel dagger at his side. The one upon him loosened ever so slightly, an acknowledgement that he was armed and would not be taken so easily, and he breathed a small sigh of relief, trying to back up towards the crowds again.

“Wait.”

Rugan knew the voice, and with it recognised the smell of musty tomes and black coffee, not one he was used to when in so close a proximity to another person. He’d expected one of his former associates, perhaps even the Guild to be after him. What he hadn’t expected as he looked up and focussed through the shadows was to see that of the dark-haired wizard, a navy suit adorned with silver embroidery, standing in the dingy alleyway with a palm resting upon his upper arm. The hand fell from his side and although the stress left him with the knowledge he wouldn’t be captured today, a fleeting sense of loss passed by as he felt the warmth disappear from his body. “The exploding wizard returns. Didn’t think kidnapping was your style, though.”

Gale scoffed at him. “Someone must keep you in check, unless you’ve taken to adorning yourself with women’s purses now?”

A delicate finger was pointed towards the now empty purse, the knowing look, one making Rugan feeling judged for his actions. It was a feeling he was used to over his years of mercenary work, but from Gale, it made him almost feel...guilty. “A gift from a friend, none of your business, that’s for damn sure.”

Gale took a step closer to him, cracks of light shining over his features, his eyes almost glowing as if the Weave danced within and he gave a subtle smile. “So not pilfered from the young lady I saw you with?”

“Even it was; got nothing to do with you.”

Trying to step back a little was met with reflected steps, almost a dance within the confines of the shadows. Rugan halted his steps, Gale halted his, neither wanting the cat and mouse between them to end and yet neither wanting to point out the very clear hollyphant in the room. The air felt charged between them, the silence heavy, and neither moved as they waited for each to take the next step in their unspoken tango.

It was the sound of a woman shouting in the market that drew both from the tension. Rugan pocketed the gold in his palm, turning to look out from the alleyway. He could see the guards in the sunlight, the young woman he had stolen from explaining all she had lost and trying to recount where she’d been previously. It was only a matter of time before she figured out it was him. He considered merging himself into the crowd again and then finding a bar a little further away from the marketplace, possibly a brothel for the night if luck went his way, though it would need to be cheap. The hand on his shoulder pulled him back and the stern voice of Gale drew his senses.

“Give her back the gold and inform her you found her purse in the near vicinity.”

“Or, and this is just an idea, I could not.” Rugan could feel hunger stirring again, his temper fraying the more time he wasted. He wanted to slip into the crowd and vanish again, but something held him back, a whisper in the back of his mind, a longing stirring within that he tried to ignore. “Why did you even grab me anyhow? Was it just to lecture me on the ethics of pick pocketing?”

Gale stood close, his dark eyes reading the situation, knowing that no matter what he said, Rugan wouldn’t hand back that gold taken unless given something else in return. His heart beat a little quicker, a fleeting memory of his control the other night passing through him. “Lecturing is one of my better qualities, I’ll admit, otherwise it was to barter with you. You hand back the gold and I will, with copious amounts of wine, cook for you.”

The guards began to patrol the marketplace looking for anyone suspicious and Rugan knew his chance of getting away without drawing attention had gone. He could feel the rumble of his stomach, the thought of something home cooked and not just cheap salted pork being on the menu, a very tempting choice after so long in murky taverns. He looked over at Gale and sighed. “Just food, little conversation.”

“Of that, you have my good word.”

Pulling the gold from his pocket, he eyed it up one last time, seeing the night of the brothel vanish before his eyes, and slipped it back into the purse. “You better be a decent cook.”

They’d sat in uncomfortable silence for some time, the candles flickering upon the walls, the red wine flowing into the glasses without hesitation. Rugan ate without worrying about social norms, enjoying the meal that had been served to him. Even he had to admit that he’d underestimated Gale’s cooking ability, and he was happy with the fact that the agreement of little conversation was being stuck to. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to build a connection with someone else; it was simply he didn’t want to indulge the small voice in the back of his head, the one that told him to look upon the chest hair that trailed from the shirt across from him, the one that noted the poetry books on the shelves and imagined the dulcet tones they’d be read with. He simply didn’t feel that way about Gale.

“Is good.” Rugan mumbled in between bites.

“I expect that it is. Cooking with a fully stocked kitchen isn’t quite as indulgent the experience as over a campfire using ingredients scavenged from the roadside.” Gale brought his glass to his lips, the full-bodied red welcome to dulling the senses. “But the amount of wine is interestingly enough the same.”

“Hm, yeah.”

Gale sighed to himself, an evening of broken silences not what he had in mind. “I know we agreed on a limitation in conversation, but there are some things that I’m rather curious about. Like, for example, what brings a lone Zhentarim to Waterdeep?”

“Ex Zhent...” Rugan mumbled through the last of what was in his mouth. “Where’s your bird?”

“Bird? Oh, you mean partner, companion.”

“Hm, that one from the cave with the nice-“

“Tav. She’s, well...” Gale thought back to the cold room of the Elfsong tavern, of her back to him as she walked out. “Well, I’m sure she is in good health somewhere in the world.”

Rugan took the hint, taking a swig of the wine. He could already tell that his tongue was becoming looser despite a hearty meal lining his stomach and the little voice that he’d managed to push down was now screaming at him to act on his heart’s desires. “Ah, right. Ended up with the elf?”

Gale chuckled. “Not quite, but not a tale for such an unusual evening.” He smiled sadly, the sight of Tav watching the flames at the party, so close and yet so far from his grasp, sitting in his mind’s eye.

The weathered hand reaching across the table and covering Gale’s softened palm was welcome but unexpected and he froze momentarily, lifting his eyes and seeing Rugan’s own staring back at him. For a few seconds, neither moved nor said a word, simply lost in the act of connection with one another. They sat in the welcome peace, the mindless tracing of a thumb on the side of a hand occurring as if it was the most natural thing in the whole of Toril.

It was curiosity that came between them, and Gale cursed his ambitious tongue as the words emerged, causing the warm hand to withdraw from his own. “So, an ex Zhentarim, I believe you said?”

“Yeah...” Rugan drew out the word slowly, not knowing how or even if he wanted to talk further about all that had happened since that blood spattered cave, but the empty bottles of wine before him had done their job in removing what little logic and reason he’d once had. “Got that job with the transport done with a few hiccups, as you know. Made it to Baldur’s Gate and then it all went a bit tits up.”

“In what manner?”

“Ah, your princess got all involved and stuck Roah in charge, didn’t she?” He thought back to the long walk from the graveyard in Rivington, Olly buried under the sun-touched earth. “Got back to the headquarters. Next thing I know, I’ve got a blade to my neck and a price on my head.” He tilted his chin up slightly, a pale pink scar lining under his jaw showing the history he wished to forget.

“Tav did what she believed was right for the city.”

The reply was met with a scoff. “The city or her pockets makes little difference to me. That bitch was my death sentence.”

Gale bit his lower lip, but it was not enough to hold back his temper that flared instantly at the insult to the woman he had once loved. “Or maybe it was your incompetence that brought about such punishment. Did you not think that even being involved with such a despicable organisation would one day result in something like that happening?” The words came out quickly, a venomous disdain, a year of hurt dripping from flushed lips. “No. You made your choices, and you have nobody else to blame but yourself.”

“Ah, yeah. Here it all comes. The mighty wizard with the easy life and no idea of how things in the real world actually work. Piss off with your judgement.”

“Easy life? Are you-” It would have been so easy to just list off the hardships: the orb, Mystra, his abusive father, Tav, but he held back, instead choosing to focus on collecting up the plates and cutlery, anything to take his mind off the seething anger.

“What, touch a nerve?” The alcohol was heating Rugan’s blood and not in the way he’d initially wanted. Now he wanted a fight, to let out the buried anger, to drown out the guilt that it had all been his own fault. “You live here in your tower, cast a bit of magic to get things done, get on your knees for that astral whore every now and again. Not exactly hardships, is it?”

The plate flew quickly through the air, smashing into the wall, Gale’s anger flaring in his eyes. The sparks flickered at his fingertips as he held back his rage, trying his best to compose himself. “Get out,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

Rugan didn’t even flinch as the object passed near his head, instead choosing to finish off the glass of wine before him. He lifted his drunken body to his feet, using the table as a support. “Don’t worry, not like I want to be here.”

Shuffling feet and the slamming of the oak door left the tower in a quiet depression. The wine bottles lay empty and the cosy atmosphere from earlier in the evening had gone, replaced with the lingering of heated words and unspoken emotions. Gale tidied up as if moving only with muscle memory, the ceramic plate left in fragments upon the floor just another regret to add to the pile in his life.

---

Rugan stood in the cold air of the Waterdeep night, his anger slowly dissipating as he breathed in the salted breeze that passed over him. He’d messed up yet again, was alone again with no one else to blame but himself. The job a year ago had been his fault; how he had drawn the caravan into the cave to be safe, but in doing so had created a prison they would all die in. Living thanks to Tav and her companions had left him to carry on as best he could, but he’d often wondered what he’d done to deserve a life when so many had died around him. Now he knew this wasn’t some miracle blessing; he’d just been cursed to more misery. Karma for the choices he’d made.

He walked down to the docks, his mind clouded by alcohol and guilt, a combination he’d become all too familiar with, and he looked into the murky waters. It would be so easy to join them. He thought over the cave, the faces of those he’d travelled with, of Olly, so young and naïve. The wooden board creaked underneath his leather boot as another step was taken forward. So easy.

The blow to the back of his head knocked him to the ground, and he felt the warmth of blood as it trickled down behind his ear. The world grew blurry around him as if he’d been caught in the waves he had wished to join, but before he could lift himself to find stability, another hit came, this time only leaving him in darkness.

Rugan’s wrists hurt, the bruising around making them stiffer than he was used to, and he knew that the job he’d agreed to wouldn’t be helped by it. He’d woken up in a dilapidated warehouse to the small feet of Friol in his face; her new role as leader of the Zhentarim in Waterdeep, one she had been taking very seriously. Thankfully, she’d had little to do with him over the years and so hadn’t killed him outright as Zarys, Roah, or really any of the ones he’d been associated before would have. Instead, he’d been able to make a deal with her, steal one poxy item for her and she’d report he was dead. Seems almost too good to be true.

He’d been right with this thought. She’d left him battered and bruised in an alleyway in the city, his head pounding, a rib or two broken, he guessed, and a deadline of only two nights to break into the Blackstaff Academy and steal the Rod of Rulership. Rugan knew the moment he woke up that he’d been a fool to accept the deal, but there was little he could do than what he’d ever done; get the job done or die trying.

---

Gale walked the empty corridors of Blackstaff, his colleagues having gone home for the day and nothing but the grand paintings lining the walls keeping him company. Dancing lights lined the ceiling and reminded him of his time lying under the fabric tent, the pale blue bringing him to calm on long nights. He’d found himself at the academy more often since the argument a few evenings prior, either working more hours or simply reading from the library as a better comfort than from the bench on his balcony. It was easier to concentrate without the memories of comments made and the mixture of guilt and anger swirling within. He regretted his harsh words and especially the plate, but it had been a more preferable option than the Thunderwave, which had been his knee jerk reaction.

He knew he’d judged Rugan unfairly from the very first day a year ago, watching as the Zhent had still acted cocky despite the bloodshed around, despite the knowledge that there was no out when it came to an organisation like the Zhentarim. Ex Zhent... Death sentence. Possibly it had been wrong to judge entirely. Maybe Rugan was right when mentioning the “easy life” of magic and towers. It was certainly a stark contrast to mercenaries, thievery, and being in the pocket of others against your will.

Walking the halls always gave Gale the same feeling of being judged himself, as if the faces of the past had their opinion of his actions. He’d always strived to be the best he could be, unsatisfied with all he’d achieved, never good enough, and the paintings merely hammered this in. His face would certainly never hang amongst them after all that had occurred with Mystra. He found himself gazing up at the most recent portrait, lost in the purple tones depicting the robes, wondering at what point it had been that he’d moved on from his own weave touched shades.

It was the flicker of a shadow from the nearby classroom that drew him from his thoughts, as if someone were moving with a candle in hand. In Waterdeep or any other location, this would not be unusual, but in an area where dancing lights were the more regularly used form for getting around at night, candlelight was suspect. He moved his steps towards the sight, the orange glow flickering around the room from wall to wall. Opening the door a crack, he could see the figure clad in leather armour rummaging through a desk drawer with the intent of finding something. The candle was placed down on the table, paper was thrown with little regard for the contents, and a quiet muttering could be heard as the intruder grew more frustrated.

“Key, key... bloody wizards...of course there’s no key.”

Gale recognised the voice and opened the door further, letting the conjured light of the hallway shine over the room before him. “First my tower and now my place of employment. Are you really so self-destructive?”

“Bollocks.”

The classroom door was closed behind him as he entered and approached slowly with a hand raised to show he was not there to carry on the fight of nights past. “Rugan, all you’ll find in here is a loose quill, certainly not the treasure you’re hoping for.” The candlelight flickered with the draft of the door, casting a light onto recent bruises caused by a determined beating. “What in the hells...?”

Rugan closed the drawer and looked away with a passing of shame fleeting over his eyes at the knowledge of his own appearance. He’d hoped the job would be easy; get in, get out, but now he’d been caught by the one person he’d hoped to avoid. He hated what he’d drunkenly said, hated that again he’d pushed someone away, hated that again his choices were proving to be his downfall. “It’s nothing, just took a stumble.”

Footsteps approached quickly past desks and chairs, a deep concern from dark brown eyes over the split lip and injuries. “This is more than a stumble.” Gale spoke, raising his hand up to the bruising and brushing his fingers lightly over the wound. “What happened to you?”

Rugan batted the hand aside, too much vulnerability flowing through him to feel comfortable, and he stepped back, feeling the cool blackboard behind him blocking a wanted exit. He could see the way the candlelight danced upon Gale’s features; how silver strands of hair turned to treasured gold. “Zhent business...”

“They tracked you down?”

“Would’ve eventually.”

Cautiously approaching, Gale reached again for Rugan’s cheek. There was another flinch to look away, another swing of the hand in the defiance of care, but each time with a little less resistance.

“What are you...?”

Gale pressed soft fingers to the face in front of him, turning it to see each blemish. He could feel the beat of his heart increase with each movement, and he glanced over the pale blue eyes in front of him before his own eventually settled on the slight cut over thin lips. Swallowing hard, he took the chance, a momentary lapse of reason as he leaned forward, his mouth finding Rugan’s, his hand holding the bruised cheek as the world vanished around them.

Rugan was quick to react, not with the defensiveness that had lain at the surface but with a deep adrenaline fuelled want that had plagued him since their first meeting. He was quick to push Gale back onto the desk firmly, a dexterous hand pressing down on the shoulder beneath with little regard for the injuries that cried out.

The intensity could be felt between them, hands drifting under clothing with yearning. Gale felt a familiar ache as firm thighs pressed down on him, and it took all his self-control not to start on the drawstrings which lay between them. His hands worked around the hem of the trousers thrusted upon him, the pads of his fingers finding a patch of flesh which differed from the thin scars lined around the abdomen.

Rugan’s movements halted with the sensation, a recollection of where he was and what he was doing. He looked down at Gale lying beneath him on the oak desk and pulled back further as the added realisation hit him. “That didn’t happen...” Standing to his feet, he padded down his clothes, giving out a quiet hiss as his palm hit down on an already agonizing rib.

“I apologise. I’m not sure what came over me.” Gale angled himself up on the desk with his arms behind him, his breathing slowing, and he tried to hide the rejection he was feeling, even if on some level he understood it.

“I just need to focus on the job...”

---

They walked silently through the corridors together. Gale had tried to talk to Rugan about the plan of stealing not just some random magic item but a powerful artifact, but it had all fallen on deaf ears and with that, neither had spoken further, especially not about what had happened in the classroom. Eye contact had become non-existent, despite each trying to sneak a glance at the other, and both buried the memories of lusting and wanting.

Gale was the first to break the peace. “So, you acquire the rod, and then what are your intentions?”

“Then I give it to Friol, get told I’m free to go, and settle down with a pint.”

“And you trust the word of those that left you for dead in an alleyway, those who will most likely kill you even after you’ve done all of what’s required of you?”

“Not like I’ve got much other choice. So, yeah.”

“Rugan...”

“Look, mate. You’re a smart one. This is how it is, how it’s always been. Just accept it.”

Stopping in his tracks, Gale let out a heavy breath. “I can’t let you do this.”

“Well, good thing I don’t need your permission.”

“But can you not see that you’re just throwing your life away?”

Rugan turned back with his shoulders relaxed and resignation written all over his face. “Not much of one to throw away...” He looked around, noticing a large door to the right of the corridor. “Come on, open this one and then you can be rid of me.”

It wouldn’t be as simple as opening one door; it would be explosive runes, warding spells, or even the construct, if they were unlucky and weren’t paying attention, and Gale knew this as he stepped in front of the magical seal. “I’m not unlocking this for you. You have options. You could do better than this.”

The naïve comment was met with a scoff and an annoyed response. “You say that as if you have any idea what you’re talking about. Don’t see you with a noose around your neck.”

“No, you saw that a year ago instead.”

Rugan raised an eyebrow sceptically, looking over the figure in front of him as if searching for an answer to what had been said. Had he really seen it a year ago? “Nah, you guys chose your whole fight.”

“I wish it was that which I spoke of. Either way, it does not alter my decision.”

“Huh, figured the exploding wizard thing was about fireballs. I’m guessing not quite?”

There was a hesitation to give the whole story. “Hm. My own death sentence, in a manner of speaking.”

“Not all an easy life in a tower, then?”

“Maybe not as much to endure as what you have been through, but I’ve had my fair share of struggles.”

Both stood without words, an unspoken understanding being shared between them. Each had been through their own hardships and, though the outcomes had been very different, in some ways they had turned out very similar.

Rugan sighed, knowing it had all become a bit too sentimental for him. “Think you could just open the bloody door? It’s not hard.”

Leaving Rugan behind, Gale walked down the corridor alone, wishing he knew the words to change the doomed fate of the one he’d finally felt a connection with. “Sorry, but no.”

---

Rugan picked at the lock of the enchanted door for a while before inevitably giving up and thinking about another entrance to the vault. His wrists were feeling stiff, and he could feel himself becoming further frustrated with each piece of metal that snapped in his fingertips. Biting his lower lip to concentrate proved useless as his mind drifted to his behaviour hours earlier. He still could not work out what had happened, why he’d responded to the kiss in the way he had, in desperation. All he knew was that in that moment, as his body ached and his defences had lowered, he’d wanted it; he’d wanted the comfort that Gale could give him.

His last lockpick snapped and with it, so did his hope of reaching the Rod of Rulership. He slouched back against the door, rubbing a palm against the bruising around his ribs, wishing that he’d visited a cleric for some healing whilst he’d had the chance to. The options were to find a scroll of Knock somewhere in the rest of the academy, most likely also locked behind more spells, find another wizard he could con into opening the door, or just leave, escape to another city and start a new life once again. Neither seemed possible and so, like an injured cat, he thought of where he could crawl off to so that he could simply die alone.

---

Gale watched the shaded corner of the courtyard from his office. He’d noticed the three silhouettes lurking around out there, waiting amongst the cobblestones and statues. By the way they moved, he knew they weren’t staff or students staying late at the premises, and the glinting of weaponry made him even more wary. He’d heard no alarms at the academy, nor the sound of traps being triggered, so either Rugan had succeeded or had given up. Either way, neither filled him with confidence.

The shadows outside began to converge to a meeting point, one lone shape drifting towards them. Gale could make out the shape of Rugan carrying a large object in his hands: a quarterstaff or sceptre, but the colour was muted, not that of the magical artifact they’d gone in search of. Muffled shouting could be heard through the window and the staff was thrown to the ground before the armed figures moved in quickly on their target.

Gale instantly set up a Dimension Door spell, transporting him to the courtyard, his hands static with the lightning bolt he was prepared to launch. “Get away from him!” he snarled, drawing the attention of the surrounding mercenaries. He hadn’t realised another three armed with crossbows waited at the walls or that a sorcerer stood near the gate, prepared with their own flaming fingertips.

Rugan lay on the cool stone floor, crimson blood pooling beneath his leather armour as the dagger pierced into his side. The random quarterstaff he’d found propped in a classroom was meant to be enough to let him get away unscathed, but they’d seen through his ruse instantly, bloodthirsty and without mercy. He barely heard Gale’s voice as the world span and darkness closed in; there was only the warmth and sting of the blade.

One mercenary stepped forward, the black-winged serpent upon their crest confirming to Gale exactly who they were. She was light on her feet, with ebony hair that seemed to absorb any light in the area. “Not your fight, wizard.”

“I’m not here to fight, simply here with the intentions of aiding an injured man.”

She scoffed at his words, a smirk upon her lips. “He’s all fine, a little drunk. We’re taking him home, aren’t we, lads?”

There was a murmured chuckle from around her and Gale could sense the growing hostility. He peered down at Rugan, wishing there was a way out of this. Moving suddenly would mean the archers firing, but if quick enough, maybe another dimension door could get them both out of there without further harm.

“Just get out of here...” Rugan’s voice was weak, his gravely tones quiet, and he tried to lift himself from the ground.

Gale spoke calmly, keeping his eyes on the mercenaries in front of him. “Not without you.” He could unleash the lightning bolt and possibly fire a magic missile before being hit if he moved quick enough.

“This isn’t your fight.” A hacking cough brought up small amounts of blood, which were spat onto the ground. “Just leave.”

An arrow flew from a trigger-happy archer whistling past Gale’s ear and he almost unleashed the lightning bolt in reaction, stopping only as he saw Rugan stand before him in defence of the female Zhentarim.

“Gale, not your fight...”

With a frustrated sigh, the static ridden hand was lowered. “I can’t let them kill you.”

Rugan felt the blood on his palm, tasted the copper tinge mixing with his spit. All that was missing was the Alchemist’s Fire and Olly’s corpse to complete the set. “I’m already on borrowed time.”

A sharp voice cut through the tension. “Well, this has been all sweetness and light, but Friol’ll want to do this personally.” The mercenary lifted her sword and with no hesitation hit Rugan to the back of his head with the hilt, giving her a satisfaction as he crumpled to the ground. She signalled to the two others around her to collect him up, keeping her eyes pinned on Gale. “If you’ve got any smarts, you’ll take this as a lesson to stay out of Zhent business.”

Watching as Rugan was dragged away, Gale felt helpless. He knew on the Zhentarim’s terms the fight would be impossible to win and so if there was any chance of victory it had to be planned out, a game of lanceboard where he was down on pieces. There would be little time to strategise, only time to act and react, and with this thought, he started to move forward.

He would follow the Zhents to their base, and as he’d done a year ago, he would risk all to protect another. Creeping along in the shadows of the Waterdeep alleyways, he hated that his knees still ached as they used to be, but with the stars twinkling above came another welcome reminder of a year ago, of a time of friends, laughter, and most of all, love.

---

Friol was annoyed, not surprised at what had happened, but inconvenienced. She knew she should have just killed him outright and had done with it, sent in her crew to complete the job, but she’d trusted the whisper that Rugan was competent enough and so had let him be. Now he lay amongst the barrels and crates at her feet, his blood pooling beneath him and his breathing heavy.

“You seriously thought that any staff was going to be enough?” she hissed through her teeth. “Absolute fool.”

There was little point in objecting, little point in anything really as he watched the multitude of shadows drift around him. He could smell the gunpowder stocked at the back of the warehouse, acrid and sharp, hear the whispers of the other Zhentarim around as they awaited his judgement. For his actions, he wouldn’t just be killed; they’d make an example out of him for all to remember.

“We all know the rules here, don’t we, lads?” Friol gestured around the room where various other mercenaries watched the sight, their quiet murmur becoming a joining of voices in unison.

“Everything—and everyone—has a price. // You are the master of your own destiny. Never be less than what you deserve to be. // The Zhentarim is your family. You watch out for it, and it watches out for you.”

Rugan did not hear the last of the rules he’d memorised over his years with the organisation. He’d said them so many times before, always in the same half-arsed way, never really believing the words and, as always, they seemed pointless now too. They were like religious beliefs, only ever useful when you were out of all other options, a prayer when all hope was lost. He’d been caught by the second line, though: You are the master of your own destiny. Never be less than what you deserve to be. Is this what he deserved, to die at the hands of scoundrels? He had been one of them after all, had stolen, smuggled, murdered. Nothing had been off limits over the years and though there had been moments of questions, they were nothing a shot of whiskey couldn’t drown out. You are the master of your own destiny. He’d made the choices; he’d lied and cheated his way here and, as such, his destiny was to die.

Friol’s voice was sharp over the din of those around her, cutting through and bringing order again. “Rugan here has turned his back on his family and for that, there’s a price to pay. What do we think about that?”

There was an outburst of anger, yells of murder and torture which overlapped, and he accepted each one as they came. Darkness fell upon him and there was nothing but the cave before him now, the metallic taste upon his lips, the smell of burning as the Alchemist’s Fire exploded. He heard the screams of those that died around him, the yelling of commands and the desperation that came with fear. The arms that dragged him across the floor were those of the gnolls, only this time, he did not fight back. He was ready to join each person who had died a year ago; this was the price to pay, for all his choices.

---

“What do we think about that?”

Gale stuck to the shadows of the walkway which run above the warehouse. Thankfully, few torches had been placed around due to the gunpowder that was being stockpiled, and he was grateful that at least some sense had been used by the Zhentarim. He could see Rugan practically lifeless on the floor, hear the risen voice of Friol as she riled up those around her. There was little time to waste as he threw the firebolt towards the barrels beneath him, running towards the stairs in a hope that the sudden chaos of the explosion would give him enough time and cover to get Rugan out to safety.

“Impero tibi!”

A sorcerer’s spell fizzled out into nothingness as a blur of crackling lightning and chestnut locks ran past. Gale was quick to launch the Magic Missile, beams of pink light emerging from his hands, some flying behind him, others forward towards confused mercenaries who scrambled for their crossbows. He saw as Friol grabbed at the sword at her waist, yelling commands to get the warehouse doors open, to kill both him and Rugan immediately. Smoke bellowed from the burning crates, and as the flames spread, more barrels blew open with splinters of wood and iron taking out anyone unfortunate enough to be close enough.

A nearby blast was enough to knock Gale to his knees, and he cursed them silently before crawling under the blackened smog that filled the warehouse. A stray arrow whistled past him, hitting the stone in front of him, metal and wood snapping in two with the impact. His lungs filled with smoke and for a moment he felt as if the orb were back in chest, sapping his energy like the tightening of the noose once again around his neck. He could see Rugan not far from him, eyes closed, skin an off grey from smoke and blood loss.

The iron sword stabbed down as Gale pulled himself along the ground, missing his shoulder by centimetres, and with it he rolled onto his back, seeing Friol viciously staring down at him, ready for the next strike. “Detono!” he yelled out of reflex and watched as her small body flew back through the air into the smoke that now clogged his lungs.

“Veni et iuva me” It took the last of Gale’s energy for the spell to be cast, a translucent ball of light erupting over Rugan and him as he reached forward. The heat of the flames rose around them, and it wouldn’t be long before they found themselves trapped within the crumbling wreckage of the warehouse. Gale tapped at Rugan’s bruised cheek, getting no response. “Rugan... Rugan, you need to wake up...”

There was no answer, only the sound of the rafters creaking from the lick of flames. “Quod dico face.” Holding onto him as tightly as possible, casting the dimension door and dragging the limp body the short distance meant for a lucky escape. As both men appeared outside under the night sky of the Waterdeep docks, one last burst of flame-touched gunpowder brought the warehouse down into ruin.

///

Rugan awoke to a sweet medicinal smell around him and a cold compress draped across his forehead. He didn’t recognise the scarlet bedsheets he lay under or the shelves of books which lined the walls, and trying to lift his head resulted in a moment of dizziness. He let out a muffled groan as his head pounded with the unwanted sound.

“Try not to exert yourself too much.”

He felt a hand press down on the compress, holding him still to a pillow and a relief came as his eyes closed yet again, falling into a restless sleep.

---

Gale had spent some time since the warehouse had burnt down, carrying Rugan to the tower with the assistance of an Unseen Servant spell. Night had turned to day and as the grains of sand had passed through the hourglass, healing oils had been rubbed over every wound visible. The dagger had been pulled from Rugan’s side upon the bathroom floor, blood trailing into the cracks of the wooden floorboards as Gale had held on pressure in a hope that his experiences on the Sword Coast were enough to stop the bleeding. After that, it had just been a matter of time, dressing wounds and watching for any fever. He considered contacting a cleric, but with the Zhentarim having spies all over Waterdeep, he worried who would end up showing up at his door.

“Olly, lad...”

Gale listened to the mumbled nightmares. Some spoke of the massacre to the gnolls, others of what must have passed afterwards at the Guild Hall, but each time he reacted in the same way, of taking Rugan’s hand in his own and waiting for the silence to fall once again.

On the third day, the healing oils finally seemed to take effect and the cold compress could be removed. Rugan woke with the light from the window stinging his eyes and he found his fingers were entwined with Gale’s, who slept peacefully in a nearby chair. There was a warmth with the sunlight that drifted in, and the medicinal smell had passed, now drowned out by the scent of books and sandalwood.

Rugan could feel the ache of his ribs and he dragged his hand away so that he could sit up. Bandages wrapped around his abdomen and sweat-soaked sheets clung to his bare chest. He still felt weak after all that had occurred and as he looked around, questions began to form in his mind. How long have I been here? Where even am I? Why am I still alive? As he sat up, he groaned, feeling the flesh of his side pull tightly against the dressing. With it came the small feeling of disappointment, the pain proving to him he hadn’t died.

With the sound came the stirring of Gale, who opened his eyes in confusion. Unsure of when he had fallen asleep, it took him a moment to gather his senses and comprehend what had occurred. He’d spent most of the time in the chair playing the part of the healer and as the nightmares had died down, he’d found his own eyes growing heavy with the need for sleep. Glancing over now, he saw Rugan sitting up with colour back in the bruised cheeks and curious pale blue eyes. “You should rest. Don’t worry, you’re at my tower. You’re safe here.”

“How long have I been out?”

“Roughly three days. The injuries you sustained were quite serious.”

Trying to move resulted in more pain. “How did you even manage getting me out of there?”

Gale gave a subtle smile before moving to the side of the bed and sitting down on the covers. He brought his hands to the pillows behind Rugan, helping him to sit up more comfortably. “After the mindflayers, the Netherbrain, Mystra...” There was a brief silence as if a memory were trying to claw its way out into the open. “Well, mercenaries in a warehouse full of gunpowder just don’t seem as terrifying anymore.”

Rubbing at his ribs, Rugan fell quiet. The question of why clung to his lips, and he fought against it. Despite being injured, being saved again, he still didn’t want to be seen as the victim. He pushed down the emotions that hit him as Gale grew closer, as the heat rose between them. Their fingers found each other amongst the bedsheets, hooking around one another and from there their eyes met.

“Why did you come for me?”

Gale had thought over that for some time, not just afterwards when they were both safe, but before as he crept through the streets towards the warehouse. Their interactions had been brief, usually including snide comments and judgement, but the pull they had to one another could not be denied. He felt, in some ways, that Rugan making the same mistakes he’d made in his life, just striving to be better but always falling short, and for that he had to save him.

He felt their hands together, the weathered skin from years of hard work stroking the back of his hand, and he gave a soft smile. “Because I refused to believe it was the end for you.”

There was a short huff and a smirk. “Gale, mate, you’re living in a dream.”

“Then let us hope I never wake.”

---

Steam rose from the water of the wooden tub and Rugan lay with his eyes closed, letting his body relax for what felt like the first time in years. He could feel the weave touched hands working through his hair, removing knots before letting running water run down the locks. He’d objected initially, but his strength failed him as he’d tried to stand from the bed and as such, he’d resigned himself to the evening of being waited on.

Gale’s hand worked down from the hair to the pink scar near Rugan’s jaw. “So, this was from Roah in Baldur’s Gate?”

“Hm...”

“And this one?”

“An arrow from a guard on Boareskyr Bridge.”

Fingers traced down a large scar that seemed to wrap around Rugan’s abdomen. It was more recent than the others, the texture that of which Gale had felt nights ago under a moment of passion. “And what of this one?”

Rugan pulled away uncomfortably, reaching for the edge of the tub to signal that his moment of vulnerability was over.

“It was from the cave, was it not?”

He ignored the question, bringing himself to stand only for his muscles to shake, threatening to drag him back down.

“Here, let me help you.” Gale stepped close, offering his body as support to be leaned upon.

“I don’t need your help.”

“Rugan, I apologise if I’ve overstepped. It was simply curiosity, something which I’ll admit is one of my many flaws.”

A long sigh was released. “It was from the cave...”

Gale nodded with understanding, now knowing the discomfort that had come with his actions. He stepped forward, wrapping a firm arm around Rugan’s midsection and helping him from the water.

“Was meant to be a straightforward job, but I fucked it up. Got a lot of good men killed that day.”

“And you blame yourself?”

“Noone else to blame; was my job, my choices. And we both know my track record there.”

They made their way to the bedroom together with Rugan wrapped mostly in a towel, but from it could be seen the large scar that spread up and around his abdomen, a clear burn of some variety. He continued to explain what had happened that day, how the Gnolls had attacked, how men had died before even getting into the cave, and how their screams could be heard as they were torn apart. Flasks of Alchemist’s Fire had been thrown, but it had not been enough, and he’d felt as one had exploded too close, causing the leather of his armour to burn into his own flesh. He’d had a potion to drive him through the pain, but he’d accepted his fate that day. “And then you lot showed up. Saved the day like some proper selfless heroes.”

Gale had no words of comfort he could offer; he simply hoped his touch would be enough to convey that he was listening and cared. Saying it wasn’t anyone’s fault would have been pointless and mostly likely met with arguments and so he chose to sit quietly, rubbing soothing circles with his thumb upon the top of Rugan’s arm.

“I just... I’m done with it all. I’m done with jumping between taverns and brothels, running for my life constantly. Be nice to just... end it all.”

“As someone who’s traversed that lonesome path, you’ll find no peace there.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Rugan looked over and saw the concern in Gale’s eyes. “Your noose was proper tight, wasn’t it?”

A light chuckle was let out. “For a long time, yes. I was resigned to my fate, embracing it, perhaps.”

“And now you’re alright?”

Placing a soft hand on Rugan’s cheek was really the only answer Gale needed to give, but the confirmation was whispered out nonetheless before a tender kiss met its mark. “I am now, yes.”

Rugan felt the heat rise in his cheeks as the flushed lips met his own but unlike the desperate reaction he’d had of previous nights, he instead relaxed into the kiss, letting his body fall back onto the bedsheets with Gale in complete control of how the night would go. There were no thoughts of the cave, of the Zhentarim, of whether this choice was another poor one on the list of failures; there were only the gentle touches laid upon his body, loving kisses on hostile scars, reward in risk.

---

They spent a lot of time in similar embraces over the following months, desperate whimpers and longing moans shared between them with fervour. Rugan had found the comfort he had been seeking for so long and Gale felt as he had a year ago: alive, with purpose and connection to another. There was always the worry of the Zhentarim or even the Guild appearing at their door, but favours had been called in from across Faerûn, mostly in the form of Astarion and his seven thousand spawn to act as a deterrent to anyone who got overconfident. With the destruction of the warehouse to a single wizard and now the rumours of another of the Baldur’s Gate’s heroes in the wings, the hunt for Rugan just did not seem worth the pitiful reward.

He was not used to his freedom for some time, finding himself constantly looking over his shoulder down dark alleyways, expecting Friol or another of his old associates to stab him in the back, but over time, things became easier. He still drank in the taverns, eyeing up the odd young woman that caught his fancy, but rather than escorting them to various rooms and falling into meaningless nights of indulgence, he’d chat with them, a smirk on his face, before stumbling back to the tower he’d eventually accepted was home.

Gale continued to enjoy cooking for the two of them, especially after he received the gift of a new plate, and though Rugan at times was crass and unrefined, it mattered little for the moments when they sort comfort in one another. There were nights of red wine under candlelight, discussions on the ethics of pick-pocketing, and on one occasion a tour of Blackstaff Academy after night had fallen, with one classroom, in particular, a main attraction.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 gale #bg3 fanfiction #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #gale bg3 #galemance #bg3 rugan #zhentweave

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cinderswrites · 10 days ago

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S A C R I F I C E :: 30 Fics in 30 Days

8560 / 30000 words. 29% done!

───⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰───

This challenge is something I made based off the 30k November challenge. I plan on writing one short story per day every day of November, and since I know I'll probably blow past the 30k mark, I changed the name.

───⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰───

"Sacrifice" is a story about sisterly love, and the lengths one sister will do for the others. It's also a story about needing to recognize your boundaries.

It is also, in part, a small fanfic since it features the character Viktor from @yga-vn, an upcoming dark/horror romance visual novel by @kuruchyo.

───⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰───

WC: 2,286 :: CW: I don't think there are any, but there's a demon, so lmao.

───⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰───

“Ugh, Nova, you always take everything from me!”

Verity’s shrill voice carried through the corridor, ringing in the ears of the housemaids as she shouted at her older sister. Ariadne flinched and sighed softly from the sitting room just a few feet away from the main hall where her sisters were arguing. She was the middle one of the three of them, the beautiful and sought after Greywind sisters from House Greywind. A family name as old as time itself and the very definition of “old money family”.

The short woman stood up, pulling the velvet purple cloak tight around her shoulders again and setting down her book. Just one evening of quiet is all I asked for… her thoughts were bitter as she went to find her sisters.

Nova was standing with her hand on her hip, her other hand holding a bag high out of Verity’s reach. Nova’s impressive height was something she used to her advantage often. Verity’s face was flushed red in anger and she looked like a petulant child throwing a tantrum, the way she was stomping her foot and crossing her arms.

When her gray eyes spotted Ariadne’s form, she stomped over and grabbed her older sister’s wrist and tugged on it, pointing at Nova. “Ariii,” Verity whined, using her doe-like eyes to plead with the short woman. “Nova stole my new clutch.”

“I did not!” Nova said fiercely. “I just bought this one, today.”

“Since when have you ever had a lick of fashion sense?!” Verity shot back.

Ariadne wanted to smack both of them upside the head for being so loud and disruptive. They knew better. It was quiet hours in the manor, for their father suffered chronic migraines in the evening. “Both of you knock it off, now!” she snapped quietly.

Both sisters straightened up and looked at her with apologetic expressions. “Sorry,” Nova mumbled, looking down and fidgeting with the zipper on the bag.

“Yeah, me too,” Verity said, letting go of her arm and sighing.

Ariadne ushered them both to sit on the couch, herself taking a seat between them. “Verity, when was the last time you saw your purse?” she asked.

“A week ago when I went out with that Scarsbee man,” Verity said, brushing back her short pale blue hair. “I came home and went to my room and left it on my vanity table and haven’t been able to find it ever since.”

Ariadne turned to Nova then, whose long indigo waves were drawn like a curtain around her features. “Nova, do you have the receipt for the bag you bought today?”

“Of course I do,” she snorted, opening the bag and pulling out a slip of white paper. She handed it to the middle sister, who looked it over.

“Mm, yeah, Verity,” she showed the receipt to her. “The date of sale is listed as today. This bag isn’t yours.”

Verity’s gray eyes squinted at the receipt, as if trying to find hints of forgery or tampering. Then she let out a long-suffering groan and fell back against the couch. “Okay, fine! But that still doesn’t solve my issue.”

“Your issue is that you’re a lawless spoiled brat,” Nova muttered, earning herself a painful nudge in the ribs by Ariadne.

“Enough, both of you. Nova, why don’t you go find something to do? I’ll help Ver find her purse.”

“Fine by me. Oh, and when you have the time, could you call the Dorsby house and let him know I’m not attending his banquet tonight?” Nova stood, pulling her own black cloak around herself and walking away without another word.

Ariadne reached up and rubbed her temple for a few seconds before turning to her younger sister. “Come on, let’s go to your room.”

…

“I’ve looked everywhere, Ari, it’s just not here!” Verity was whining again a few minutes later as she threw herself on her bed.

Ariadne ignored the younger woman’s whining and searched the area where her vanity table sat. “If you let the maids come in here, you’d be more organized and could find things better,” she chided. “Look at this mess on the table. You’re wasting makeup by letting it spill out everywhere!”

Verity just hugged a cylindrical pillow and pouted.

The middle sister’s keen yellow eyes swept over the surface, her hands picking through the items, checking behind and underneath things. When it was clear that the bag wasn’t in the heaping pile of feminine products, she checked the drawer. She thought it was ironic how clean and spotless the empty drawer was compared to the surface of the vanity.

She stood back a moment, planting her hands on her hips and glancing around the area. Her eye caught the glint of a gold chain slung over the mirror and disappeared behind it. As she walked up to it, she thought she’d caught a glimpse of a pair of glowing purple eyes in the mirror, hiding in the shadows of Verity’s bed canopy. The corner of her mouth twitched upwards and when she blinked, the eyes were gone.

Ariadne grabbed the thick gold chain, pulling it off the mirror. Lo and behold, on the other end of it was the exact bag the woman had been looking for. With one hand remaining on her hip, she turned and gave her sister a look. “It’s been here the whole time, Ver,” she said.

Verity’s face flushed in embarrassment, her pout lingering as her gray eyes flicked away. “Guess I forgot I changed the strap…” she mumbled.

Ari sighed and rolled her eyes, slinging the bag forward and tossing it onto the bed. “Use your brain next time. You know you’re not supposed to get Nova all worked up like that,” she chastised. “Come to me if you need help.”

Verity finally sat up on the bed and held the purse in her hands, fiddling with the zipper. Despite how often her sisters were at each other’s throats, the resemblance between them was plain as day to anyone else but them. It still shocked Ariadne when Verity would display the same little quirks Nova often had.

“Yeah, okay,” she said. “I’m sorry I made a scene.”

Ariadne’s expression softened. She walked over to the young woman and reached out with slender fingers, preening her hair and brushing it to the side. Something she always did out of habit, ever since they were young. She was the middle sister, the one that had to look after her younger sister since Nova made it very clear she wasn’t going to. But Nova had always been that way, and not in a selfish sense. She just couldn’t care for other people as well as Ariadne did.

And that was fine with Ari. She loved taking care of and helping her sisters, even if it was mentally and sometimes physically exhausting, always having to be the middle woman, the messenger, the one that smoothed things over. “Don’t worry about it,” she pulled her hand away. “I need to go take care of Nova’s thing now.”

“You’re always so helpful, you know?” Verity’s fond tone carried out the door after Ariadne had left.

───⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰───

“Yes… Mr. Dorsby? Good evening,” Ariadne stood at the manor’s house phone, twirling her finger around the chord. Her parents were always fond of vintage aesthetics and this rotary phone that still worked even now, in 2024, was a favorite item of theirs. “It’s Ariadne Greywind from House Greywind calling.”

“Ah, Miss Greywind. To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?” Mr. Dorsby was a middle-aged man with average looks and a wealth that almost rivaled theirs.

“I regret to inform you that Nova will not be attending your banquet this evening,” she said. “She’s down with an illness tonight.”

There was a heavy sigh that breathed in her ear, and she knew what was coming next. “What a shame… I was looking forward to having one of the prestigious Greywind daughters. I even bragged about it to my friends, you know. I planned a wonderful evening for her.”

Ariadne’s lower eyelid twitched, and she pursed her lips. “I do sincerely apologize, Mr. Dorsby. Perhaps-“

“Say, are you doing anything tonight?” he asked suddenly.

She slumped against the wall, “… I am not.”

“Why don’t you come in her place? You said you’re Ariadne, right? The middle daughter?”

“Yes, that’s correct, Mr. Dorsby.”

“Join me. I’ll have my driver come pick you up in, oh, say… Two hours? Is that plenty of time for you to get ready, Miss Greywind?” Dorsby’s voice sounded delighted.

Ariadne pinched the bridge of her nose, “That’s plenty of time. Thank you, Mr. Dorsby. I’ll see you in two hours’ time, then.”

“See you soon, dear.”

───⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰───

It was almost midnight by the time Ariadne was walking back up to House Greywind, her feet throbbing with pain and smelling like expensive colognes and cigar smoke. The banquet had been… alright, if not a bit stuffy. Many influential men and women were in attendance, and Ariadne herself was seated next to Mr. Dorsby the entire night. He had gotten loose-lipped and flattering with every scotch he drank as the night went on, but he was thirty years her senior.

She did her duties as best as she could, avoiding casual touches and questions with hidden implications. Not just from Mr. Dorsby, but from a whole slew of “eligible” bachelors that were in attendance. At the end of the night, when Dorsby had bid her farewell, he had expressed his appreciation for her attendance and apologized if anyone had made her uncomfortable, including himself.

Overall, it had been a good time, she thought. Not that she wanted to repeat the experience anytime soon, but she was glad she went in Nova’s place now. Nova wouldn’t have been able to stand so many people sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at a long table. At least with Ariadne there, she could continue to keep House Greywind’s reputation to high standards with her maturity and grace.

Once she was in her bedroom, she kicked off the heels that had been pinching her feet all night. She undressed completely and pulled on a pair of soft cotton pajamas. Ariadne sat at her vanity and removed the makeup she had applied earlier. Staring at herself in the mirror, with every swipe of the makeup wipe, she revealed pale patches that starkly contrasted her otherwise warm brown tone.

It’s not that she was ashamed of them, no. She only covered them up with makeup to avoid being stared at and being asked question after question of what afflicted her. It was Dorsby’s banquet, after all. Not Ariadne’s.

“You’re a terrible liar,” she told herself as she continued cleaning her face, frowning.

A little while later, she had turned out the lights and settled into her large plush bed, her yellow eyes glancing out her window. She could see a strip of night sky just barely, and she focused on that as her eyelids became heavier and heavier.

───⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱✿⊰───

Some few minutes after she’d fallen asleep, she was woken up abruptly by feeling a presence plop onto her side and stomach, covering her legs as well. “Ari,” a voice whispered like smoke, wrapping around her and pulling her out of sleep. “Wake up, I’m lonely.”

Ariadne groaned and reached up to rub her eyes, shifting to lay on her back. The presence on top of her practically purred and laid its head on her soft stomach area. “Viktor?” she mumbled, blinking several times.

Those glowing purple eyes gazed up at her in an almost innocent manner, before flashing a set of pearly pointed teeth. “Mornin’, starshine,” he said.

She could see his tail lazily flicking back and forth beyond the purple horns on his head. Her hand went up to stroke through his dark tresses at the top of his head, being careful to not touch his horns. The action was instinctual at this point, since she’d done it so many nights before. “You couldn’t let me sleep a little longer?” she huffed quietly.

The demon pouted a little, “I was bored.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a small smile on her lips, “You’re so troublesome, you know that?”

“Mm, I could be more troublesome if it’ll make you feel better,” he teased, lifting his head off her stomach and resting his cheek against one of his fists. He watched her expressions with those striking violet eyes of his.

“Don’t you dare,” she scolded lightly, a soft laugh escaping her.

He grinned again before speaking, “So, where’d you go tonight? I tried to follow but I lost the car you were in.”

His tail whipped through the air, smacking against the bed with a thump, indicating his frustration. Viktor had gotten… quite attached to her in the months after she’d finally caught him trying to torment her like a pest. He didn’t like not knowing where she was, or when she left her house.

Ariadne tugged on a strand of his hair lightly, making him pout again. “I went to a banquet in Nova’s place,” she explained. “I didn’t get home until a little while ago.”

He wrinkled his nose in distaste, folding his hands over her stomach and resting his chin on them. His eyes looked away. “No wonder you smell funny,” he grumbled, still clearly displeased.

“I smell fine,” she protested, “I was too tired to bathe tonight.”

“Why couldn’t Nova go? Or that little brat of yours,” he huffed.

“Because Nova can’t handle large crowds, and that little brat—“ she tugged on his hair again, “—would probably embarrass us.”

“You’re always doing something to help out your sisters,” he looked at her then, his expression rather serious. “When do you ever do anything for yourself?”

Ariadne hummed softly. Her eyes traced over the similar light patches on his own skin. He had been the only one she’d ever seen like herself before. Maybe that was part of the reason she put up with his presence. After all, not many people would welcome a demon to come back every night. “I don’t know,” she admitted after a few beats.

Viktor’s tail lashed again, angrier this time. “You’re going to burn out one of these days, you know? And who’s going to help you, then?”

She opened her mouth to speak but no words came. Instead, she sighed and looked away. “I’m fine…” she didn’t even sound convincing.

Her hand was still playing with his hair, and his tail came up to wrap around her wrist, pulling her hand away. He pinned it to the bed as he suddenly lifted himself up onto his hands, hovering over her now, his face just above hers. “You’re not fine,” he murmured. “I can see it in your face. You’re tired and wearing thin.”

She clenched her jaw for a moment, before relaxing and meeting his eyes once more. “I’ll… try to not be…” she trailed off again, struggling to find a suitable word.

“A pushover? A doormat?”

Her eyes narrowed before she rolled them, “Compliant.”

Viktor hummed thoughtfully in response, settling his taller frame on top of hers. His clawed hand came up to brush through her hair as he looked down at her, only inches away from her. “I can find other ways for you to fill that… need to ‘comply’, as you put it,” he teased, his other hand stroking her cheek with his thumb.

Ariadne laughed softly, her face heating up with his implication, “You’re too much sometimes.”

He placed a soft kiss on her chin, trailing them along her jawline. She let out a relaxed sigh this time, a soft hum of her own emitting from her lips. “On the contrary,” he whispered, nuzzling his nose against her cheek, taking in her sweet scent of jasmine and shea butter. “I like to think I’m just what you need, my little lamb.”

“Little lamb?”

“Mm. Because you can’t stop sacrificing yourself for those ungrateful sisters of yours.”

“… and here I thought you were just being cute.”

Another wicked grin from him as he lifted his head and nuzzled his nose against hers. “I’m also being that,” he added.

His tail had let her wrist go finally, and Ariadne drew her arms up, wrapping them around his neck. She pulled him closer in an embrace, hiding her face against his shoulder. “I promise I’ll try harder to be less of a pushover,” she whispered, her tone almost vulnerable.

“Sweet lamb,” he crooned softly, and suddenly he had her pulled against his side, laying on his back with her nestled into him. “I’ll take care of you since you can’t be bothered to do it yourself.”

“How do you make that sound so sweet and infuriating at the same time?” she huffed as she snuggled up to him more, almost clinging onto him at this point.

“It’s just one of my charms, darling,” he pressed his lips to her forehead. “Sleep now.”

“Mm,” she hummed, resting her head on his warm chest and letting herself be lulled to sleep by the soft touches of his hand stroking through her hair.

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forgingtheblade · 2 months ago

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MATERIALS!!!

Hoo boy am I working with a TON of different materials for this build! I haven’t documented them super well over time, but here’s a glimpse into some of the things i’ve gathered over the last couple months.

1st img: Fabrics and trims!

from left to right— Trims—a black and gold ribbon trim and a maroon and gold beaded trim. These will go on the cloak. also a bell! These, and the red and blue fabrics next to them were bought on a trip to chicago from a MASSIVE textiles outlet, while hanging out with some of my best online friends.

The white fabrics & red above the trims are linens and cottons from Joann, for the base outfit. These are being dyed to my desired colors, because I have access to some natural dyes in my fibers lab and really wanted an excuse to use them.

The red and blue also from the textile outlet are for the cloak. The blue, which I’m assuming is a polyester satin was out of a clearance room for like 2 bucks a yard, and is for the lining. The red velvet is an upholstery fabric that I’m really excited about because its weight creates a really rich looking drape.

Furs!! These are from BigZ fabrics, and it was my first time ordering from there! Their selections of short pink was better for what I wanted than what Howl Fabrics had to offer, and I didn’t want to have to shave down longer fur for the head. I’m really excited about the color variation in the gray, which is for the cloak’s collar, a trim along the bottom of the cloak, and as a buffer layer between armor layers, like a trim.

All of this is layed out over various foams, 1 inch and 3 inch upholstery foam which will be used for the head base, fursuit-y bits, and shoulder pads between the shirt and the cloak to give me some breadth. as I am kind of small relative to this design. and some floor mat foam, which is a cheaper alternative to EVA foam, and will be used for a lot of the armor-y bits, like the crown, weapons, and the armor itself.

2nd img— YARN

This yarn is something I bought from a local weaver’s studio, about a half hour drive out of town. I came to her looking for an undyed wool yarn, because I wanted to weave the AE banner from scratch. I dyed these yarns in a living indigo vat, and this is the color samples from that—more on that later.

3rd img—BEADS!!

This is the collection of beads I bought for some wither rose appliques I’m making for the hem of the cloak. I’m not using all of them currently, but I really like the variety I ended up with and will eventually figure out a use for all of them later down the line.

This is by no means comprehensive and doesn’t even begin to get into tools and consumable stuff like glues, thermoplastic, resin, paints, etc, but I’ll try to document all that stuff as I go too!!

#info #materials #cosplay #ctechno #ctechnoblade #dsmp #technoblade

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wherethefireliliesgrow · 2 years ago

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Palette

Myoui Mina x reader

Your refusal to actively search for your soulmate could lead to a painful demise. But a chance encounter with your soulmate leaves you torn between embracing destiny or continuing to defy convention. Will you take a chance on love and reveal yourself to your soulmate, or will you continue to resist the pull of fate?

TAGS: idol x non-idol reader, AU, angst, fluff, soul mates, slow burn

FEATURED: Twice, New Jeans, ITZY, AESPA's Karina, Red Velvet’s Seulgi and Irene, and more

STATUS: Finished

Chapters:

(1) 1825 days: colorblind

(2) 1446 days: ivory black

(3) 1070 days: whisper gray

(4) 1008 days: champagne gold

(5) 1005 days: roseate pink

(6) 970 days: mahogany red

(7) 942 days: auburn brown

(8) 730 days: teal blue (9) 626 days: phthalo green

(10) 409 days: indigo purple

(11) 191 days: burgundy

(12) 79 days: burnt sepia

(13) 1 day: colorless

(Alternative Ending) 79 days: bursting blooms

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 9 months ago

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Napoleonville [Chapter 7: The House Of Cards]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, smoking, drinking, drugs, infidelity, kids, parenthood, bodily injury, ANGST!!!!!!

Word Count: 5.8k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @marvelescvpe @toodlesxcuddles @era127 @at-a-rax-ia @0eessirk8 @arcielee @dd122004dd @humanpurposes @taredhunter @tinykryptonitewerewolf @partnerincrime0 @dr-aegon @persephonerinyes @namelesslosers @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @gemini-mama @daenysx @chattylurker @moonlightfoxx @huramuna @britt-mf @myspotofcraziness @padfooteyes @targaryenbarbie @trifoliumviridi @joliettes @darkenchantress @florent1s @babyblue711 @minttea07 @libroparaiso @bluerskiees @herfantasyworldd @elizarbell @urmomsgirlfriend1 @fudge13 @strangersunghoon

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 🥰🧁

Under blue light like the gleam of sapphires, Aemond is standing shirtless at his bathroom sink and cleaning blood and grime from his face with a wet washcloth that has turned from white to a muddy maroon. His missing left eye is angled towards you; his scar looks black beneath the cobalt glow. He’s gingerly manipulating his eyelids so he can wipe away the filth, leaning in close to the mirror. Then his hands begin to shake and he throws the washcloth to the dark tile floor. The walls are painted like Van Gogh’s Starry Night; you remember learning about it in your 8th grade art class. The bathtub is deep, spacious. You think of Aemond filling it and sinking into the water with you, misty with soap and steam. You wonder how long it will be until Christabel is lolling in this tub, clean before she ever touched the water: no scars, no history, blue blood and pure fantasies.

He hears when the floorboards creak under your bare feet. He turns his face so he can see you, an intruder lurking in the doorway of his bedroom, soaked clothes beneath the warm, dry, smoke-smelling Marlboro jacket he gave you. “Get out.”

“Aemond, let me help—”

“Get the fuck out.”

But he hasn’t said the right word, and you both know it. He hasn’t told you to stop. You go to him and ignore it when he tries to push you away, when he tries to yank his hands away from yours.

“Don’t touch me—!”

But you aren’t trying to grab him. You’re trying to give yourself to him. You force your wrists into his grasp and then he understands, then he feels the desperate hunger flare up in him like a lighter flicked to life.

His fingers tighten; he drags you closer. Then he says, low and husky: “I’m in charge now.”

“I know, I know. I want you to be.”

“You’re going to do exactly what I tell you to.”

“Yes,” you whisper, perfect obedience, helpless need. You gaze up into his glinting, savage right eye. You do not allow yourself to glance at the empty socket of the left. That would be disastrous, ruinous, an irredeemable betrayal.

Aemond takes you to his bed: thick wooden bedposts and a navy blue velvet canopy swimming with koi fish built of silver stars, celestial fins and constellation tails. He tears off the Marlboro jacket, your drenched Pepsi t-shirt, your simple cotton bra. “Don’t move,” he growls, and momentarily leaves you. Moonlight streams in through the stained glass windows of fractured, kaleidoscopic blue. Goosebumps rise on your bare skin. You can hear the friction of a drawer opening and then closing again. Aemond returns. Every move of his hands is rough, insistent. You don’t care if he hurts you, if he scrapes or bruises you. You wish he could bruise you down to the bone, stay trapped there in an indigo pool too deep for anyone to cut out, remind you of his closeness with every ache, never leave you.

Aemond clicks a handcuff around your right wrist; not a silk scarf, not the weight of his own hands, but cold metal that he tightens until it bites into your flesh. You should tell him to loosen it, but you don’t. You want to help Aemond. You want him to keep going; you want him to touch you until you forget about Jade Dragon Energy, Lake Verret, The Last Desire, Christabel.

He loops the short chain around one of the posts at the foot of the canopy bed and then fastens your left wrist as well. The handcuffs are secured in an indentation between ornate carvings of the sun and the moon; you cannot slide them up or down more than a few inches. Your arms are trapped above your head. You are facing the bed—the one he’ll soon be sharing with Christabel—and cannot turn around. Behind you, you can hear Aemond unzipping his jeans that are still dripping with brackish lake water. Now he’s yanking off your shorts and panties, so hurriedly you almost trip when he wrenches them past your ankles. Aemond kicks your feet apart—farther, farther—and then pushes you down until your back is bent as low as possible. You moan, just as much in pain as ravenous anticipation: your wrists burn, your shoulders stretch until you can imagine them splitting open and spilling blood like a river, knots of ivory bone peeking through the gore.

He’s touching you, but it doesn’t feel like much. He’s saying things, but you can’t hear him over the hurricane raging in your skull, thrashing waves of fear, dread, agony, heartache.

Has he brought other women here? Who will distract him when he’s done with me?

Aemond’s hips are braced against yours, his fingers are between your legs. He’s making you wet, but you know you aren’t ready. Inside, you are tense, uneasy, unable to surrender yourself to him. You close your eyes and try to remember what it was like the first time you were together, or the second, or the third time in the back of his Audi Quattro. Those memories feel so far away now, like they happened a hundred years ago or in a different galaxy or at the bottom of the ocean. Aemond’s teeth nip territorially at your throat. He’s tearing open a condom wrapper.

He’s not mine, he’s not mine, he’ll never be mine.

Now he’s forcing his way into you, and he has no way of knowing that it feels like gasoline on a fire, like scissors and knives, like the first time Willis convinced you to sleep with him again after Cadi was born. And Aemond is so big that the discomfort doesn’t fade into a vaguely unpleasant numbness but swells like gales as a storm rolls in. You’re facing away from him, so Aemond can’t see when you wince or squeeze your eyes shut. You don’t try to slow his rhythm, you don’t ask him to be more gentle, you don’t tell him to stop. You want to help him and he needs this, even if he doesn’t need you.

Aemond twists your hair in his fist and tugs your head back, and when you whimper he mistakes it for kindling passion, for something approaching euphoria. His thrusts are hammering, merciless. He’s panting as he battles against his own climax. And he’s beginning to get impatient, too; his fingers stroke you relentlessly, when you glance back at him his brow is creased with thinly-veiled frustration, confusion, disappointment.

I have to finish, you realize, horrified. If I don’t, he’s going to think it’s because of him, his face, his eye, his weakness, his unworthiness.

You’re nowhere close to finishing. You know you won’t be able to; there’s too much pain in your body, too much torment in your mind.

I’ve faked it plenty of times before, on other nights with other men. I can fake it again.

You breathe in gasps, you moan, you beg, you arch your back, and then—

Aemond strikes the bedpost with an open palm, hard and loud enough to make you yelp. He hisses through your hair, fever-red, hateful: “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

“Aemond, it’s not you, it’s not your fault, it’s me, I’m so sorry, I’m just—”

“I want you out.” He disentangles himself from you, snaps off the condom, snatches a set of tiny keys off the floor where he must have left them.

“Don’t do this,” you plead as he unlocks the handcuffs, cold rattling metal. “Don’t make this about something it isn’t. Aemond? Aemond, please, it’s my fault—”

“Get out,” he says, stepping away from you. “Right now. Go.”

You reach for him, your fingertips settling on his bare chest, damp with sweat and still tarnished with the ancient silt of Lake Verret, with streaks of his own blood. “Aemond, listen to me—”

“Stop!” he roars, and your hands fall away. He points to the door that leads to the hallway. “Get out. Get the fuck out. Find someone else. I’m done.”

“What? No!”

He picks up your denim shorts and hurls them at you, then your Pepsi t-shirt and bra and panties. You fumble to catch them, and as your hands are occupied Aemond leans in close, grabs your face roughly by the jaw, forces you to look at him. The gory void of his left eye socket is close enough that you can see the flecks of dark grit from the lake that he will have to wash out of it. And you flinch—not at the wound itself, but for the child who was once maimed—and now you’ve proved him right.

Something flashes across Aemond’s scarred face, so animalistic in its mindless fury that for a sliver of a second you actually think he might hit you. Then he turns away without a word, walks into the bathroom, slams the door shut. As you pull on your clothes, you can hear his knuckles striking the mirror with sick thumps until it shatters. You bolt from the bedroom, through the hallway, down the staircase, surrounded by portraits of blonde strangers with foreign names, and whatever world they lived in wasn’t yours. Their world was made of gold and marble, contracts and lineage, chandeliers and champagne and coins sticky with some anonymous worker’s blood, and it was beautiful but it was cold, hollow, lonely, everything that would have made them human peeled away like a snake’s skin. You don’t belong here. You will never belong here. Your world is sloping floors and cracked paint and sun and salt and struggle, but it is real.

In the grand foyer, Vhagar is guarding the front door. The blue merle Great Dane bares her teeth as you approach. There is a rumble from low in her chest, a ferocity in her reptilian green-gold eyes.

“I really can’t deal with you right now,” you say, voice breaking as tears spill down your cheeks.

Vhagar trots towards you and you look around for a rescuer, Alicent or Criston or Daeron; but the house is hushed and still. You recall how Alicent once shoved Vhagar’s face away to fend her off. You don’t feel brave enough to attempt that.

“No!” you try instead. “Bad dog! Go terrorize someone else!”

The Great Dane snarls, ropy strands of drool dribbling from her jowls, and you fall silent. Vhagar sniffs at your ankles and then your fingers as you stand frozen. She seems to discover something that intrigues her. I smell like Aemond, you think, and almost start crying again. For the second time, your eyes search for a champion and find none. The dog nudges your right hand with her muzzle, licks at your palm, and then—bizarrely, shockingly—pushes her head under it and blinks up at you expectantly.

“What?” you say, confounded. Vhagar waits, suddenly cordial. Her long tail swishes; her floppy ears hang limp and relaxed. She doesn’t leave until you pet the top of her colossal head—once, twice, three times—and then she stalks off into the shadows of the kitchen. You hurry to the front door before Vhagar can return to second-guess your newfound alliance.

You step out onto the front porch, white paint and towering columns, lightning bugs and screeching cicadas. It is only when you survey the flock of Audis, Porsches, Alfa Romeos, and Lexuses in the cobblestone driveway that you remember you didn’t drive yourself here.

“Goddammit.” Then you catch a whiff of marijuana.

You turn to your left. Aegon is slumped in a rocking chair and smoking a joint. He has just showered. His long hair is wet and messy; he wears a tie-dye tank top, purple gym shorts, and neon yellow flip flops. Sunfyre is curled up in his lap. “You need a ride, cake lady?”

“Not from you.”

“It’s just weed. Weed isn’t a drug.”

“The Reagan administration would disagree.”

He rolls his eyes. “Those miserable fascists. They’d outlaw orgasms and ice cream if they could.” He slips his car keys out of his shorts pocket and spins them around with his index finger. “Come on. Let’s go for a drive.”

Aegon’s Porsche 911 has a custom paint job, glittering gold with pale pink accents. It’s even smaller than Aemond’s Audi; the back seats are impossibly tiny, and in any case they are filled to the windows with empty McDonald’s cups, Taco Bell bags, and Popeyes boxes.

“Here, hold him,” Aegon says, and tosses the ferret to where you sit in the passenger seat. The weasel-like creature scrabbles over your thighs, circling, burrowing, making some deranged gleeful sound halfway between a clicking and a chuckle.

“Um…?!”

“It’s fine, it’s fine, he’ll settle down.” Aegon starts the car and pitches the remains of his joint out the open window. “Where do you live?”

The directions are simple, a straight shot east on Route 401. But it’s going to be a long ride. Aegon is only driving 15 miles per hour.

“So,” he says, noting your bloodshot eyes and dazed preoccupation. “It didn’t go well. With Aemond, I mean.”

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Sure you do.”

You stare out your window, night wind in your hair and your lungs, stinging in your watery eyes. The southern live oaks—vague, monstrous shapes with branches like prehistoric claws—block out much of the moon, the stars. Distractedly, you rest a hand on Sunfyre’s small, furry back. “What happened to his face?” And then, remembering what Aegon told Viserys in the foyer: “What’s the North Sea?”

“It’s on the east coast of the U.K. It starts down by France and the Netherlands and goes all the way up to Norway. Jade Dragon has a bunch of North Sea rigs. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen offshore oil rigs, maybe on the news or something?”

“I haven’t.” When you look down at your wrists, beneath the dim silvery moonlight you can still see the indentations that the handcuffs left in your flesh.

“Well they’re fucking terrifying. You’re on a metal platform in the middle of the goddamn ocean, and the waves are smacking into it, and the whole rig is lurching back and forth. You’re standing maybe 200 feet above sea level. From that height, the water’s like concrete. If a man falls off, they never find the body. The sharks eat him, or the waves rip him apart, or if his gear is heavy enough he just sinks to the bottom and implodes like a crushed can when the pressure gets too strong. I hate those things. I hate them. And of course Viserys was always trying to drag me along when he’d fly up there to inspect the company property. Gotta parade the heir around. Gotta turn me into a real man somehow. I’d be doing lines in the helicopter the whole way there, trying to work up the nerve to step out onto the deck when we landed.” Aegon gives you a wry smirk, shadowy beneath the obstructed moonlight. “This was before Viserys gave up on me.”

“Aemond lost his eye on an oil rig?”

“Yeah,” Aegon says. “He was young, eight or nine, something like that. And he begged our father to take him with us. Can you believe that? I’m hiding under the dining room table and Aemond is clawing at Viserys’ feet, promising he can handle it. So Viserys says okay, fine, Aemond can come too. Mum and Criston didn’t want Aemond to go, Helaena didn’t like it, hell, even Otto thought it was too dangerous. But Viserys is God in the Targaryen family religion, so Aemond got to go to the North Sea.”

You’re watching Aegon, eyes wide, heart pounding, appalled. He was a little kid. He wasn’t even Cadi’s age. “Viserys didn’t protect him?”

“Oh yeah, at first he did. He was showing Aemond off to everyone—Look at my son! So brave, so clever!—and meanwhile I’m lying on the floor of the helicopter having a panic attack, I can’t stop thinking I’m about to go plummeting into the ocean, and Criston is kneeling beside me trying to strap an oxygen mask onto my face.” Aegon sighs, gazing at the yellow lines of Route 401. “And then Viserys got to chatting with some of the engineers and forgot all about Aemond. Aemond who? The middle son, the forgotten son, the runt, the backup plan. And Aemond started exploring, poking around in the wrong places, and he ended up watching some of the workers spinning chain, which is how they connect drill pipes together. A chain snapped. It hit Aemond in the face, fractured his skull, and basically liquified his eye upon impact. He was in a coma for two weeks. We all thought he was going to die. But he lived, and Viserys…that bastard was nowhere to be found while Aemond was lying half-dead in Moorfields Hospital. But the day Aemond woke up, you better believe our father waltzed into the room with balloons and Cadbury bars, gushing about how happy he was that Aemond was alright, how proud he was, how relieved. Within a month he was indifferent again. But Aemond’s been chasing that feeling ever since. Being wanted. Being seen.”

“Why do any of you do it?” you ask, nauseous with despair. “Why do you destroy yourselves for Viserys? Why do you listen to him, why don’t you leave?”

“I can’t leave,” Aegon says, stunned. “Do I look employable to you? I’d end up living in the woods with the paranoid schizophrenics.”

“But you’d be free.”

“I don’t want to be free,” Aegon replies. “Freedom? That scares the hell out of me. I don’t know who I am without my family. I don’t have the first fucking clue. I don’t want to be a Targaryen, but I am a Targaryen, you know? And there’s no going back. That’s my gravity. That’s everything I am. Trying to imagine a life without Aemond, Helaena, Daeron, Criston, Alicent, even Otto, even Viserys? I wouldn’t exist. I would blink out of existence like the Big Bang in reverse. They’re my bones, I’m just what grows around them. I’m a jellyfish, I’m a tangle of guts and arteries.”

You stare at Aegon as faint ribbons of moonlight stream in through the open windows, voice choked, tears falling onto Sunfyre’s sand-colored fur. “I don’t know how to help Aemond.”

“Yes you do.” Aegon smiles. “Give him what he wants.”

“I think he’s done with me now.”

“No, no way,” Aegon says. “What did he do, freak out and yell at you? Break things, tell you to fuck off? That happens sometimes. He doesn’t mean it. He’ll be back on your doorstep in a week.”

“He always has to have a girl. But that girl doesn’t have to be me.”

Aegon laughs, his blonde hair flying in the wind. “New girl, new rules. You ruined him.”

“What?”

Aegon grins. “He’s in love with you.”

You pet Sunfyre with one hand while you swipe tears from your cheeks with the other, sniffling, shaking your head. “I can’t be his mistress. It will kill me.” I want more than that. I want all of him.

“You’ll get used to it,” Aegon says encouragingly. “Criston did. Camilla did.”

“Please shut up about Camilla Parker Bowles.” You point as the mouth of your short gravel driveway comes into view. “That’s it. We’re here.”

Inside, the house is dark and quiet and cold; you were in such a rush to meet Willis and help Aemond find his ever-errant brother that you accidentally left the air conditioner on all day. You shut off the whirring machine in the kitchen window—Aemond put that there, he did it for me—and then turn on the little pink Panasonic boombox so it feels like someone else is here. Roxette’s Listen To Your Heart plucks mournfully from the speakers.

You draw yourself a bath, descend into the hot water, scrub Aemond off of you. The walls are adorned with no Van Gogh’s Starry Night, no stately portraits, no grandeur or glitter or marble or gold. They are only a pale, listless blue lined with thin cracks through the paint like the sinking house’s veins.

~~~~~~~~~~

Seven sunsets, six dusks, and then it is Friday all over again. You help Amir close up the bakery and then crawl into bed: head pounding, room spinning, that endless late-afternoon light of the summer flooding in through the window blinds. You unplug the phone on the nightstand and nestle into the pillows, hiding your face from the world. Cadi is fine, she’s blissfully playing her Nintendo and she knows there’s some of Amir’s leftover ribs and rice in the refrigerator. She doesn’t need you, and this will only become more true with each passing year. There was a time when you yearned for Cadi to become more independent. Now you’re beginning to see the horror in it, that bittersweetness that parents always talk about.

One day she’ll be gone. And she’ll get to choose whether she ever comes back.

No one has ever chosen you. It seems unwise to assume there will be exceptions to the rule.

You doze off for a while. There are distant noises you try to ignore: the kitchen phone ringing, the humming of the air conditioner, the drone of the microwave, the Super Mario Bros. theme. When you wake, it is because you hear the bedroom door creaking open. Through blinking, bleary eyes, you see Aemond’s silhouette in the doorway. You know it’s him; you would know even if he wasn’t wearing his familiar Marlboro jacket and red Converses and teal duffle bag slung over one shoulder. You would know him anywhere.

You say, unsure if you’re more angry or depressed: “I thought you were done.”

He ignores this. He has two eyes again, one real and one a lie, and this seems to be becoming a recurring theme in his life. “I called. Cadi said you were sick.”

“It’s just a headache. I’ll be fine.”

“Do you get them a lot?”

“Yeah.” When I’m stressed. When I’m sad.

There’s a palm on your forehead, cool and gentle, feeling for fever. “Have you taken anything for it?”

“Nothing ever works.”

You recoil from the thud of the duffle bag against the sloping wooden floor; every sound is too loud. You have your eyes pinched shut, but you can hear Aemond unzipping the bag and then opening some sort of container. “Try this,” he says, pushing a pill between your lips. “They knock out my nerve pain when it flares up.” Then he passes you the glass of sweet tea you left on your nightstand. You sit up to swallow the pill and collapse back onto the bed. The wildflower-patterned duvet covers you up to your chest. You moan softly, touching your fingertips to your temple.

There are small thumps as Aemond quietly kicks off his Converses, and then his weight settles onto the mattress. He waits to see if you’ll tell him to stop. You don’t. He folds around you, blood and bones and muscle and warmth. His lips brush against the shell of your ear. One of his hands interlaces with yours and settles on your waist. You inhale his smoke, his cologne, his strange intermittent tenderness. He murmurs: “I’m sorry I’m doing this to you.”

“I wish I could stop,” you answer through a thick fog.

“Stop what?”

“Wishing it was possible. Wishing we were different people.”

Aemond doesn’t reply. Perhaps there’s nothing more to say. Within minutes, you are unconscious again.

When your eyes flutter open—painless, glass-clear—the room is dark and you are alone. The flashing red numbers on your alarm clock read 10:14 p.m.

“What?!” you gasp, scrambling out of bed. You rarely nap, and never for that long.

You hurry to Cadi’s room, expecting to find her bored or irritated or prepared to launch a formal complaint. Instead, she and Aemond are sitting on the floor and watching Ferris Bueller’s Day Off; Ferris is currently singing Twist And Shout on top of a parade float. There are several Pizza Hut boxes scattered around them; Cadi is eating a slice of pepperoni and mushroom. She and Aemond are mid-conversation. She is asking him as you walk in: “Wow, so Bobbi was on the news and everything?”

“He sure was. But they made him sit in this glass box because the CBS Evening News staff were so scared of AIDS they wouldn’t go anywhere near him, not even to wire him up with a microphone.”

“That’s totally bogus.”

“Yeah. Yeah it is.”

“How old was he when he died?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Really?” Cadi says, alarmed. “Grownups can die that young?”

“Sure. It’s rare, but it happens.”

Cadi looks to where you stand in the doorway. “Mom, aren’t you like thirty?”

“Almost. I’m a few years away from it.”

“Still,” Cadi says; and you witness something unfold on her face that you can’t remember seeing since she was a toddler. She is shocked, she is afraid. Her eyes shimmer; she’s forgotten all about her pizza. Aemond is watching her, realizing he’s made her aware of something that didn’t exist in her mind before.

“Oh no, love, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Aemond tells Cadi, resting a hand on her tiny shoulder. “Bobbi Campbell had a very serious disease, he wasn’t your average person. Most grownups live a long time. Your mum is going to live to be a hundred, okay? Maybe even a hundred and ten. Maybe even a hundred and twenty. It depends on how many cupcakes she eats.”

“Okay,” Cadi says, somewhat pacified but still shaken up.

“Do you want any pizza?” Aemond asks you. “We got cheese, pepperoni and mushroom, and supreme.”

“No, I’m not really hungry, thanks though.”

“Are you feeling better?”

“I am. What did you give me?”

Aemond smiles. “Percocet.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “No wonder it worked so well.”

“I left a bottle with about ten pills in your bathroom cabinet. But don’t start liking it too much. You’ll end up like Aegon.” He staggers to his feet.

“You’re leaving?” Cadi asks, openly disappointed.

“It had to happen sooner or later. It’s long past your bedtime. And I don’t live here. You couldn’t pay me to either, not with that dinosaur that lives in your front yard. I’m in fear for my life every time I visit.”

“The gator wouldn’t hurt you,” Cadi objects. “She’s too small. She’s just a baby. Next time, can you bring Gremlins?”

“Sure. I think I’ve got that VHS. Daeron might have borrowed it.” Aemond gives Cadi’s hair an affectionate ruffle and she tolerates this, something you would not have believed was possible. “I’m going to go talk to your mum for a few minutes and then head out, alright?”

“Okay. Goodnight.”

“Cheers, love.” Then Aemond follows you to the kitchen.

You pour yourself a fresh glass of sweet tea as Aemond helps himself to a snickerdoodle cupcake from one of the cake plates on the kitchen table. He licks off the frosting as he gazes at you, and you try not to feel anything. “You didn’t have to stay.”

“I know. I wanted to.” His right eye flicks down to the copy of the Bayou Journal that lies on the counter. The headline proclaims: Early tests reveal increased salinity of Lake Verret; breach of underground salt dome is suspected. “I’m sorry about that,” Aemond says awkwardly.

“Sorry about what? Ruining our lake?”

“Well, it’s not ruined, technically. It’s just…salty.”

“Aemond, almost all of the fish are going to die.”

“Will the alligators die too?” he asks hopefully.

“No. They won’t.”

“Oh.” He takes an evasive bite of his cupcake then changes the subject. “Come to my house tomorrow. After Willis picks up Cadi.”

“We’ve had this conversation before.”

“Yes, and now we’re having it again.”

“I don’t think this situation is good for either of us,” you say, but with pitifully little conviction.

Aemond places his snickerdoodle cupcake on the counter and steps towards you. And for a moment you think he’s going to order you, to command you, and you know if he does you’ll obey. But that’s not what Aemond is doing. He cradles your face in his hands and kisses you deeply, unexpectedly, without any roughness to it. Then he touches his forehead to yours as he whispers: “I was wrong. I shouldn’t have done that. I was wrong, I was wrong. I was fucked up. But I’m better now.”

“Why did you jump into the water for me?”

“Come over tomorrow,” he pleads again without answering you.

“Aemond…I don’t think I can.” I think this is destroying me. I think it’s flaying me alive, carving me away piece by piece.

“I don’t have to fuck you. I don’t even have to touch you. I just want you to be there.”

“Can I bring a friend?”

This catches Aemond off-guard. “Amir?”

“Have you not yet memorized my long, long, long list of friends?”

“Of course you can bring Amir,” Aemond says. “He’s always welcome. The only reason I haven’t invited Cadi is because Aegon leaves coke all over the house and I don’t think a kid should be exposed to that.”

“Yeah, I mean obviously I agree.”

Aemond kisses you again, a swift parting token, kind and weightless. “Bye, Cupcake. See you tomorrow.” He wolfs down the last of the snickerdoodle cupcake, grabs his teal duffle bag from the living room couch and is gone, the off-kilter front porch steps groaning under his Converses. You stand in the kitchen sipping your sweet tea for a while, listening to the air conditioner purring and the cicadas shrieking and the long-eared owl hooting as it swoops for prey. Then you begin pulling bowls and baking pans out of the cabinets.

Cadi appears, helps herself to a beignet, and turns on the little pink boombox on the kitchen counter. “Hey Mom, listen, it’s your favorite song!” She cranks up the volume: Heaven Is A Place On Earth.

You force a smile. “Yeah, it is.”

And you wait until Cadi dashes off to the bathroom to take her shower before you change the station.

~~~~~~~~~~

“What the…?” Amir squints at Sunfyre, who is floating by himself on a neon green inflatable raft in the middle of the swimming pool. “What the fuck is that? A Chernobyl hamster?”

You laugh. You’re wearing denim shorts and an unceremonious white t-shirt over your swimsuit, Kmart sneakers, hair assailed by wind and humidity, a tiny bouquet of wildflowers that Amir picked for you tucked into your back pocket. “It’s a ferret.”

“It’s a freak of nature. This is how you know the Bible isn’t real, why would Noah have let that mutant on the Ark?”

“Oh, my very favorite Napoleonville residents!” Alicent calls, beckoning you and Amir over to where she, Criston, and Daeron are gathered around a dark green beach towel littered with playing cards, gambling chips, strawberry daiquiris, and Marlboro cigarettes. Apparently, they run in the family. Alicent puffs anxiously on one, rings gleaming on her elegant fingers. “Come play with us. Do you have good poker faces?”

“I certainly hope so,” Amir replies as he pushes his tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of his nose. He’s wearing swim trunks patterned with bright, multicolored geometric shapes. “I suspect we can’t afford to lose.”

“Can’t afford to lose,” Daeron’s blue macaw squawks from where she is perched on a nearby lounge chair, and Amir gapes at it, startled.

“Quiet, Tessarion,” Daeron soothes the bird.

“If you incur any debts, Aemond can pay them.” Alicent smiles warmly, then takes notice of the two white bakery boxes you’re carrying. “Have you brought us more of your scrumptiously authentic Southern desserts? I’ve been raving about them to all my friends back home in London. I ring them and they’re mesmerized by the notion of hummingbird cake and sweet tea. They’re even having their own kitchen staff try to replicate them.”

How antebellum. “It’s nothing too special. Just a blueberry custard pie. And some Cap’n Crunch Treats for Aegon.”

“Wonderful!” Alicent chimes. “Criston? You must get us plates and silverware immediately. We must sample this new delicacy straight away.”

Criston dutifully rises and disappears into the house they call The Last Desire. Helaena—with her chameleon Dreamfyre clinging to her shoulder—is absorbed in a conversation with Otto as they wade in the shallow end of the pool. Aegon has fallen asleep on a lounge chair and is snoring loudly; the boombox beside him is playing She Blinded Me With Science. Aegon is turning lobster red beneath the sun, but no one has bothered to wake him up. Before you can do it, Aemond walks through the French doors of the living room and out onto the cobblestones, wearing his black swim trunks. He beams when he sees you, then kicks Aegon’s chair as hard as he can.

“What?!” Aegon shouts as he jolts awake. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

“You fell asleep and you look like a Twizzler.”

“A chunky Twizzler,” Daeron adds.

“You want a palm reading?” Aegon asks. He grabs Aemond’s hand and flips it over. “It says you’re a bitch.”

“Aemond, phone for you,” Criston says as he breezes out of the house holding a stack of plates, forks, and knives. “I left it off the hook in the kitchen.”

“Thanks. Got it.” Then Aemond tells you: “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

When he vanishes, you and Amir join the poker game. Aegon splashes into the pool to grab Sunfyre, collects his bakery box of Cap’n Crunch Treats, and then pads into the house to presumably slather himself in Noxzema. Criston cuts everyone a slice of blueberry custard pie, which Alicent raves about. You can’t bear to have Criston inconvenienced once again to prepare daiquiris for you and Amir; before Alicent can think of it, you jog to the kitchen to grab two cans of Pepsi from the fridge. But just as you reach the doorway, Aemond’s voice stops you. It isn’t a phone call about the rigs or the stock market. It isn’t family, it isn’t friends.

“Yes, dearest,” Aemond is saying, and you peek into the kitchen to get a better look. He’s got the handset of a blue phone to his ear and is turned away from you. His back is straight and rigid; his voice is steady but dispassionate. “Right. I understand. Yes, completely. Don’t be ridiculous, of course I miss you. All the time. Yes, and we’ll discuss it then. I can’t wait either. I’ll see you soon. Yes, yes. And you as well. Cheers, darling.” There is a pause. “I love you too.”

Aemond hangs up the phone, sighs deeply, rubs his scarred forehead. You slip away before he knows you’re there.

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