#into the iron throne succession. like it would just fuck everything up so badly

[a-commas-a-pause]

I'm on an asoiaf kick at the moment apparently and I 100% blame you for this Kai, so you're getting all my 1:30am thoughts on the crack theory I developed when I first read these goddamn books at the age of 17.

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I'm copying tags that were responding to my own tags here so this is a bit of a non-sequiter. My original tags for reference:

#i had a crack theory once that jaime and cersei were the bastard kids of mad king aerys #cos they're pretty. and incestous. and also because Tywin deserves it honestly like the irony would be on point #but I'm starting to think that maybe that wasn't a clue so much as george just really likes writing incest

and Kai(@listen-to-the-inner-walrus)'s:

#okay but your crack theory is like #a way better version of the tyrion targaryen theory #(im being mean to the theory but like. tyrion is a reflection of all the parts of tywin that tywin hates about himself and tyrion is very #much the son of tywin lannister and that inner turmoil for tyrion is like a good thing) #because its like #tywin is proud of cersei and of jaime as they grow up to be what noble children should grow up to be #they are his accomplishments #but when he takes them to kings landing aerys gives jaime the ''honour'' of being the youngest to join the kingsguard which is#paramount to stealing tywins heir from him and is an insult that tywin is forced to take as if a compliment #and then again he is snubbed by yhe targaryrns as cersei is passed over in favour of elia as bride to rhaegar #his daughter should have been future queen (queen regent?) #the idea of them being aerys' bastard children fits so well thematically as yet another snub to tywin

#but also because when the books begin jaime and cersei are bastardised versions of what they could have been under targaryen rule #if it was continued #yes jaime is a kingsguard but he is jaded and disillusioned and his name is forever tarnised by him being a kingslayer #and cersei is queen but to a man who has no interest in her nor the realm nor for being a king. her children are bastards and if they had #not been everything in kingslanding in agot would not have happened #also like youd have the parallel of tyrion killing his father and jaime killing his #and like thematic consistency with the ''all dwarfs are bastards in their fathers eyes'' #and its also just a little heartbreaking for tyrion who spent so much of his life learning about dragons and being interested in them #just for his siblings - who have always gotten it better than him - to be the ones who might be able to control dragons #i have no idea if this timeline works with the books but i like it so much

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Kai, you have correctly identified basically all the reasons I became so enamoured with this theory in the first place (I'm certain I'm not the first to come up with it but I did come up with it independently because I was way less online(tm) when I was 17). I think my original thought was the Tyrion theory, but then I was thinking about it and I was like "wouldn't that just prove Tywin right that Tyrion was a bastard though?" and I hated the idea of proving Tywin right. But that got me thinking about the other Lannister children. So spiting Tywin('s ghost) was basically the motivation. But I also like the nifty symbolic implications/mirroring of Tyrion and Jaime both killing their own fathers.

The more I thought about it, the more satisfying it became, as well. Like, the fact that had they only been trueborn this would spin Jaime and Cersei's three kids right back around to being legit heirs again (before Dany but after Jon, by my accounting) is SO hilarious to me. Like sorry Dany, I know you were super mad at Robert the Usurper, but technically the firstborn line of succession actually does legitimise the "usurper's" kids as the rightful heirs because literally no-one in this goddamn family could manage to keep it in their pants for five fucking minutes. Also would piss off Robert's ghost so much. Like his WHOLE GOAL was to COMPLETELY wipe out the Tareryens, to a frankly ridiculous and self-defeating degree, only for ''his'' kids to not only not be his, but to ACTUALLY BE SECRET TARGERYENS? From Robert's perspective not only are his kids not his own, his kids' parentage is in fact the worst it could possibly be. I just think it would annoy him so much and that delights me.

I checked the timings when I first came up with this and it's technically possible I think, but only because of how little we know about the exact locations of various people in the years before the Rebellion...

...Ok, having checked the asoiaf wiki page for Joanna Lannister again because I am not rereading the books for this (I mean, my copies are currently in storage about 200 miles away so I coudn't if I wanted to), yeah, Joanna married Tywin in 263 AC, was dismissed from Rhaella's service an unspecified 'short' time later and visited the capital 'seldom' after that. Jaime and Cersei were born in 266. So the timing is not encouraging by any means, but it's also not technically impossible, since one of her 'seldom' visits could have been 9 months before the twins were born, but you would think that Tywin would have noticed. The implausibilty is why I call it a crack theory but like. It's POSSIBLE. Technically.

I'm mostly attached to this because it would upset EVERYONE in-story who is remotely affected by it (Cersei's the most likely to react positively, but even for her, she's so attached to the idea of being Tywin's daughter/heir. She wants his approval so bad. She never knew Aerys - sure, she can project whatever she wants onto him, but he's never going to live up to Tywin as the perfect ideal in her head because she's already so invested in Tywin. The queen of sunk cost fallacy is not going to back out of the sunk cost fallacy of trying to get Tywin's approval now. Not if she didn't give up on it AFTER HE DIED. As for the other two, Jaime is ALREADY guilty about killing Aerys this would only make it worse; meanwhile Tyrion really wants to ride a dragon and would probably LOVE to be set free of the spectre of Tywin as his father, and this would reiterate that not only is he Tywin's son, he is actually Tywin's only son) while still being extremely thematically satistfying because it adds all of this extra character mirroring into a canon that is already very mirror-heavy.

george specifically plotted out a potential arya jon romance if i remember correctly

I really like ASOIAF (as much of it as has been published anyway) but the more I learn about George's plans for it the more I feel like maybe George and I just have different preferences in what makes a good (ending to?) a story. And that's ok. This is what fanfic is for.

[valleyof-goldenlilies]

Se Zaldrizoti’ Prumia - Chapter 5: The Withering of Hearts (Daemon Targaryen x Tyrell!Reader)

Chapter 5: The Withering of Hearts

The Seven Kingdoms is plagued with a succession crisis, and drunken impulse never leads to a good end.

Se Zaldrīzoti' Prūmia Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | 

HOTD Masterlist | Main Masterlist |

Warnings: Extreme slow burn, angst, Daemon being an ass, excessive costume detailing 

Word Count: 3.4k words 

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire and Blood characters, save for Y/N Tyrell, although I did expand on their characterisation, which might deviate from canon. All credit for the characters goes to George RR Martin and the showrunners of HOTD. The GIF above is also not mine, original credit to the creator is stated above. Go check them out!

A/N: thank you guys for the comments you left on the last chapter! it was really nice to see you guys theorising about what would happen next haha 👀 most unfortunately, the slowburn must keep slow-burning, and Daemon isn’t done stirring up shit yet lol. happy reading! PS, please see the end of the chapter for an extended A/N to get a rough grasp of how the next two chapters will be like! 

wonderful dividers courtesy of @firefly-graphics​  !  

Scarce had a week passed since the funeral of Queen Aemma, and the Red Keep was once again abuzz with a new scandal. 

Prince Daemon had been caught at a brothel, raising a drunken toast to the late Queen and her ill-fated babe. 

He had toasted Baelon as the Heir for a Day. 

That fucking bastard. 

Fuming, you lurked in the shadows of the secret passages by the throne room, listening as Viserys denounced his brother in an angry tirade. ‘How dare he?’ your eyes were shining with ferocity as you paced the halls, eyes fixed on the proceedings in the throne room. You had guessed the truth after all: Daemon only wanted to use the power vacuum left by the death of Aemma and Baelon to instil himself as the heir to the Iron Throne. You couldn’t believe you actually thought the advice he offered on the cliffs was an act of goodwill. That maybe, Daemon was not the vicious, annoying little bastard you once knew. 

Alas, you were wrong. And what a fool you felt. 

Your lips were pressed in a thin line as you watched Viserys disinherit Daemon permanently from the line of succession, and watched with your very eyes as the relationship between the two brothers deteriorated into ruin. 

What you didn’t know however, that you had also just witnessed a part of Daemon’s heart wither away into nothing but coldness, as he heard his brother’s proclamation. ‘Was this what grief felt like?’ Daemon bitterly pondered. ‘At long last, I understand how she felt that day.’ 

You moved to navigate out of the secret passageways as soon as Daemon turned his heel to leave the throne room, intent on cornering him for an explanation, or to scream at him. Perhaps both. 

Daemon was lost in a flurry of furious thoughts as he saw a familiar figure step into his way, obstructing his path. Her chin was jutted out defiantly, and the expression of anger on her face was visible. For a moment, Daemon thought she looked like a true Targaryen, with fire and blood running through her veins. He held up a hand to stop whatever reprimand she had for him, eyes dark, “You saw everything that happened in the throne room. I have no need for you to parrot whatever words my dear brother has already bestowed upon me.” 

You have never wanted to slap a man so badly. “Have you no shame?” you demanded, temper flaring. “How could you have been so cruel?” “it was a drunken jape, made of impulse. Why does no one understand that?” Daemon seethed. Your jaw dropped at his audacity, and you stepped forward to jab a finger into his chest, “You, Daemon Targaryen, are truly the scum of the earth. Your nephew has just died. Your sister-in-law has just died! And here you are, making drunken japes with poor taste. Are you so utterly boorish that you would stoop so low to mock the dead?” 

Daemon listened to her, an impatient look upon his face. “Are you quite finished, my lady?” Your eyes widened in outrage, and suddenly, it was like you lost control. You lifted your hand to slap him, but he caught it with a vice grip, eyes narrowed. “Let me go!” you struggled to twist out of his grip, but it was futile. Daemon took the chance to drag you to a more secluded corner of the castle, eyes blazing as he braced himself to confess the truth. 

“If you would just shut up, and listen to me, you daft woman, then I would’ve told you that I didn’t do it!” Daemon snapped. Your jaw sagged, “And now you’re lying to evade your responsibility? Seven Hells, Daemon, you never cease to surprise me.” 

“I didn’t!” Daemon nearly yelled out. His brother would not listen to the truth, but he had a sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, Y/N would be the exception. That she would be the only person who didn’t constantly see the worst in him. 

“Aemma was my sister-in-law, and while I did not cross paths oft enough with her that we would consider each other close, she was still dear to me. She was kind to me. Why would I dishonour her memory so? And my nephew. I harbour no grudge against his memory. He was a babe who perished tragically. Do you think I would’ve stooped so low to the point where I would mock my family? Think rationally, byka zaldrizes.” Daemon stared deep into your eyes, an almost pleading look in his eyes. Please, Daemon thought, please believe me. Don’t see as the monster everyone sees me as. Please. 

You bit your lip, looking into Daemon’s violet eyes, glinting orange in the firelight, and pondered on his words. It was true, Daemon had never shown any ill will towards Aemma, and they had always treated each other respectfully. How could you have never considered this possibility? You felt a little ashamed that you had assumed the worst of Daemon, although it had felt like habit by now, but you had grown up with him. You’d like to believe, that under all his brashness and arrogance, that he was still that same boy who snuck out with you nearly every night when you were both children to the kitchens, giggling as you munched on lemon cakes and strawberry tarts. That underneath all his brutality and his lusts, he was still a good person. Your eyes softened as you saw the look in Daemon’s eyes, beseeching you, to believe him. 

Daemon felt his hope dwindle away as he watched you hesitate for a long time, and his eyes began to darken again. So she is the same as everyone else, he thought with much gloom. But your next words took him by surprise. “I...believe you,” you said quietly. 

Daemon stared at Y/N after the words left her lips, lilac eyes filled with disbelief. Then he threw back his head as a hoarse laugh burst from his lips, and he let go of your wrist. You watched uneasily as he continued laughing like a crazed madman, but you said you believed he didn’t do it, and it was always difficult to sway you from your convictions. 

Daemon finally stopped laughing, though a twisted smirk still painted his lips, but it looked more pained than amused. “How is it that you always seem to have faith in me, while even my own brother cannot seem to conjure up the slightest hint of trust for me?” “I know the calibre of your character, Daemon,” you said quietly. “You may be many things, but even you would not be predisposed to such innate cruelness.” 

There was a pause as the both of them eyed each other, Daemon with some disbelief, and you with faith glittering in your eyes. Daemon sometimes had a hard time reconciling how you could both be so naive and wise. “If only,” Daemon muttered bitterly, breaking the silence, “Someone like you was the Hand of the King, instead of that power-hungry leech of a Cunttower.” “The Hand was the one who slandered you?” you blinked in surprise. Daemon let out a snort at your reaction. “You do know that that cunt would never stop until he turns my brother against me, do you not?” 

“But-” you inhaled sharply, “The Hand serves the realm. Otto Hightower might hold a strong dislike for you, but he is not one to let his pettiness blind his judgement-” 

“And what do you know of that cunt’s nature? Do not act as though you know him well,” Daemon spat out, hand running through his hair in frustration. “Would you be so dumb as to believe it is not in his nature to concoct such a scandal to sow discord between me and my brother? He has done so many times, and he will not cease until he has what he wants: which is uncontrolled access to my brother so that he may sway him with the venom he spouts from his lips.” His purple eyes were dark with rage, and his fists were clenched as he gritted his teeth. 

Suddenly, without warning, he swung and struck his fist on the wall. You covered your mouth to stifle your gasp, wide eyes watching as he breathed heavily and withdrew his fist from the wall. A sheen of scarlet covered his knuckles. For a long moment, the air was filled with nothing but the sound of your breathing. 

“House Targaryen cannot stand like this,” his voice was more tempered now, yet more steely. “We were raised with the belief to stay together. That no matter the circumstances, the house of the dragon cannot divide.” His voice grew more agitated as he began pacing around in circles, while you observed him warily and listened, knowing that no good would come out of interrupting him. “What happened to preservation? What happened to ensuring our dynasty lasts for eternity?” he snapped, banging his fists on the walls once again in frustration. “My dearest brother always stressed the importance of family. Yet he continuously allows those scum on the Small Council to rule his kingdom, and worse still, he allows that Hightower cunt to guide him.” 

In a heartbeat, he was in front of you once more, seizing your shoulders in a vice grip. You stiffened at the sudden gesture, but there was no stopping him now. “He should’ve made me Hand. I am his kin, I am of his blood,” he nearly shouted out those last two words. “I would never steer my brother in the wrong direction. If he would have more faith in me instead of those lickspittle lords, House Targaryen could surpass even the noble dragonlords of Old Valyria at the height of their power. Yet he is blind to all that, preferring to stew idly.” You were unsure of what to say, however Daemon paid no heed to your speechlessness, turning away from you and muttering, “He will see that without me, he would not be able to run this city, much less the realm.” 

It was then you finally found your voice once more. “What are you planning to do?” He turned to you, with a baleful gleam in his eyes. In that moment, he looked like Balerion’s fury reborn once more. Your heart filled with dread at his next words. 

“Wait.” 

You watched pensively as he stalked down the halls, his demeanour much like a predator stalking its prey. Just as he was about to turn the corner, he stilled, and said coldly, “You should wisen up, you know.” 

You furrowed your brows. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.” 

He didn’t turn around, yet you could picture the menace on his face as he spoke his next words. “Just think, if court gossip was enough to get me, a Targaryen prince, to be disinherited and banished, what exactly do you think it can do to you, a mere lady of no status and influence at court?” 

“I’m not like you-” Daemon didn’t let you finish. He knew his words were cruel, but with the fire pumping through his veins and the roaring in his ears, seven hells be damned if he was still going to be polite. You needed to know, you needed to understand, that survival was a treacherous thing here in the Red Keep, how relying on the power of people above you for protection was foolish. People with power are oft mercurial, and once the tide of their favour turned against you, like it had with Daemon…

He needed you to see just how much danger you were in staying in this court of vipers. 

“Who knows, maybe you would end up ordered home by your lord father and forced to marry by the morrow. Seven Hells,” he chuckled darkly, recalling your conversation at the cliffs, “Maybe you might even be ordered out of court by the King. He can barely stomach the sight of my niece after Aemma’s death. What will he do to you, who was so close to my dear late sister-in-law?” He heard a shocked gasp behind him, but he didn’t pause in his tirade, though a twinge of something like guilt filled his chest. But he wanted you to know, to see, how this court was filled with nothing but vicious schemers who would not care a fig about her. And so, with malice in his voice, he forced out the final crushing blow. “Mayhaps you will end up like my dear sister-in-law even, her belly cut open as if she were nothing but an animal. Even if she had been Queen, that did not save her regardless.” 

You stared at Daemon’s back with wide eyes, a mix of rage and horror seeping through your bones. Somehow his words brought about such a chill in you that even the coldest winter nights were incapable of. “Have a good night, Lady Y/N. Think about what I said. I trust that you are clever enough to come to your senses.” ‘You have to tread carefully now, Y/N,’ was Daemon’s final thought as he stalked away from your still frame. 

You waited until his heavy footsteps faded away, before slowly sinking down onto the floor, mind in a daze. 

You stayed there for a long time, unable to move a muscle. Daemon’s cruel last words had conjured up a sleight of images in your head, each more horrific than the last, and all of Aemma, of being forced to wed, your freedom snatched from your very eyes. Eventually, the sound of footsteps approaching made you aware of your whereabouts once more, and you quickly stood up before a servant wandered across your despairing frame and asked you some awkward questions. Numbly, you made your way through the halls, back to Aemma’s apartments. You paused in front of a familiar door. Aemma’s bedchambers had been left untouched since her death, save for the removal of her blood soaked sheets. You thought you could not bear to even be in the place where your dear friend had breathed her last, painful moments in this world, but you needed the company tonight, even if it was the company of a woman long dead. You inhaled shakily before opening the doors. 

The room was quiet, the stench of blood having not quite dissipated yet, which sent a wave of nausea rolling through your gut. You ventured towards the lounge where Aemma used to sit, where you had fed her grapes and laughed with her no less than a week ago. You took a seat gingerly. Your gaze wandered across the room, before it fixed grimly on Aemma’s deathbed. 

Moonlight streamed through the windows, and you wrapped your shawl tighter around you as a cold gust of wind enveloped the room. You had been winded and horrified, and even angry at Daemon’s words when they were first spoken. You wanted to ignore his words as that of someone who was bitter and raging, but your thoughts kept spiralling into terrifying scenarios of your freedom being snatched right in front of your eyes, and being utterly powerless to do anything to stop it. You had spent so long, relishing in the freedom of being home at the Red Keep, and now, you realised darkly, that you had taken it for granted. 

Tracing your fingers along the soft material of the lounge, you bit your lip as you imagined the wide smile Aemma always reserved for you and her soft voice, like she was still here, sitting right next to you. “Aemma…” you thought mournfully, tears clouding your vision, “You always knew the right thing to say, and the right thing to do. What course of action would you have advised me to do?’ You tilted your head back, resting your head on the lounge backing, letting your tears fall freely. ‘I wish you were here,’ you sniffled, ‘I wish I had saved you.’ Mayhaps the thought was utterly ludicrous, but you felt guilty and pained that you had allowed yourself to get distracted by the tourney. ‘I should have insisted on staying by your side,’ your thoughts tumbled out bitterly, like a violently raging storm. As wishful as it was, but you thought, maybe you could’ve prevented it all. Maybe you could have pleaded with Viserys that the effort was useless or fiercely declared that you would snatch the Maester’s own blade and slaughter whomever dared harm Aemma. However, even you could not change the gods’ plan: the babe had been in breech, and Aemma’s time in this world was fated to be cut short no matter what. But you didn’t even care to think of that fact, too lost in your self-loathing and blame. 

Just then, you felt a soft hand on your shoulder, jolting you out of your reverie. Startled, you looked around the room. There was no one there. But you could’ve sworn that for one moment…there had been a presence here. Could…could it have been Aemma’s ghost? 

Heart thumping, you stood up with shaky legs and began to tidy up the various misplaced items in Aemma’s room, like you had done so many times before. The familiar ritual calmed you down, and allowed for you to gather your thoughts and circumstances coherently again. Perhaps it was coupled with the strange phantom presence you swore you sensed in the room somehow, but you pulled yourself out of your grief long enough to settle on a resolute thought. 

‘Daemon was right. I do need to wake up. It’s time I stop relying on the grace of those more powerful than me and start fighting to protect myself.’

In that moment, even the Seven would be taken aback by the fierce fire that shone in Lady Y/N Tyrell’s eyes. The naive girl of 23 was gone, and someone more hardened had replaced her. 

‘No matter the cost, I must stay at the Red Keep. I will not end up shoved into a fate I do not desire. I refuse.’ 

‘I have a plan.’ 

The bells tolled in celebration as all the lords and ladies of the realm were gathered before the Iron Throne, save for one. The Rogue Prince soothed his mount, the Blood Wyrm, Caraxes, as the figure of Lady Mysaria approached. 

Meanwhile, a lady with a mind of steel and heart of determination stood with her hands clasped, next to the Lady Alicent and Lord Hand, where the King had insisted for her to be. The lords who were acquainted with her whispered to themselves, having known of her hot-tempered past and rivalry with none other than the Rogue Prince himself. “The Rose with Thorns of Fire,” some whispered. “The third head of the dragon,” some chuckled, referring to the affectionate nickname the late Prince Baelon had given to your rather unusual trio: you, Daemon and Viserys. 

The lady heard them all, but she was silent as she watched each of the great lords of the realm swear their fealty to the new heir, the first Princess of Dragonstone. Clad in a dark blue gown of silk and brocade with a square neckline, the dress drew whispers for its visible opulence, even compared to the other ladies who were decked out in their finest. The bodice consisted of intricate diamond patterning with beading, and the gown had puffed sleeves that were banded with a few stripes of rocaille brocade, and the ruffles of her chemise were visible at her neckline and at the end of her puffed sleeves. Underneath the ruffles, however, were long fitted sleeves that were strangely reminiscent of…dragon scales? It was a look that undoubtedly signified the allegiances of Lady Y/N to House Targaryen, as well as her close bond to their reigning monarch. It was a look that exuded power. 

Far away in the Dragonpit, Daemon took one last look at the Red Keep, lips pursed as his mind lingered on that one person. But then he shook his head, and bade Caraxes to soar through the skies. 

As the lords and ladies in the throne room burst into applause and bowed for their new heir: The Realm’s Delight, no one but you could hear the distinct screech of the Blood Wyrm as it lifted into the skies. 

You lifted your head, and smiled encouragingly at Rhaenyra, who, while visibly looked startled, returned a genuine, warm smile. 

The game of thrones had gained a new player, forged by Daemon Targaryen’s hand, and time would only strengthen her mettle.

Taglist: @drwho-ess @graniairish @urmomsgirlfriend1 @thelittleswanao3 @animelover18 @llovinjoonie @gracielikegrapes @salembridger @itszzmoon @kmmg98​ @travelingmypassion​ @zae5​

Daemon General Taglist: @aiyaiy​ 

those who are bolded are those who couldn’t be tagged! let me know if you wish to be added to the taglist for this fic or for my other hotd characters in the comments or through this form! thank you for your support 💗

translation: byka zaldrizes - little dragon 

also, a sketch i did of y/n’s gown at rhaenyra’s investiture :)) uncolourised because I’m lazy 😭 hopefully it’ll give you a better visualization though (also a/n below! pls scroll to read :))

y/n about to become the fashion icon of westeros 💪🏻

A/N (pls read!) : and that makes chapter 5! chapter 6 will unfortunately, we will not be focusing a lot on daemon for the next 2 chapters as we will be delving more into how Y/N attempts to navigate court politics and keep herself at the red keep. in other words, character development for y/n and more moments with alicent and rhaenyra, as well as viserys (ugh). this fic is titled se zaldrizoti’ prumia for a reason, after all, it’s the dragons’ heart, not the dragon’s heart, so Y/N needs her other relationships with the other characters. i hope you guys will be as excited for the other chapters as i am though, because i love writing about politics and character dynamics outside of romantic relations. thank you for your support! 💗

[iheartsunset]

Papa Louie Scarlett HCs

-Rosabella Ocampo is a 23 year old singer/songwriter and graduate school student who lives with her fiancé, Rudy, in a Powder Point condo. She is widely known by her legal/stage name, Scarlett Heart and is the lead singer/songwriter of Scarlett and the Shakers. While punk ska and playing gigs with her friends are her true passion, Scarlett plans to become a game theory professor in the future. She can mostly be seen writing lyrics for a new song, riding roller coasters with Rudy, climbing trees with Clover, and just vibing with Marty.

-Scarlett is rather bold and seductive, often playfully flirting with others or making jokes about inappropriate topics. I stole this from Rouge, thanks SnapCube fandub for revitalizing my love for Sonic. Alongside her flirtatiousness is her intelligence and desire to succeed, using rules and lessons that she learned from various games to apply to her daily life. Thanks to her love of poker and mahjong, Scarlett has grown to be very analytical and sly in her motives. Out of the shakers, she is undoubtedly the big sister friend as she’s kind of a bad influence on the rest of them and is always subjected to scoldings by mom friend, Janana.

-Rudy calls her “Princesa” because of her Cinderella-like backstory. Her mother was a very kind woman and Scarlett lived happily with her and her father. Her mother died in a roadside construction accident when Scarlett was only 9, leaving Scarlett heartbroken. Her father then married a woman named Moira with two sons, Graham and David, who was emotionally abusive towards Scarlett until she moved out at age 16. Scarlett’s relationship with her dad deteriorated over time and she’s basically disowned them since. She finds solace in Marty and Clover’s parents, who think of Rudy and Scarlett as their own. She also got along with the other Frostfield residents and helped Willow get back into hockey after her infamous car accident (the first one).

-Stan Twitter often makes memes of her because she’s so iconic and quotable. One of her most iconic moments was when she screamed “I wrote this next one about my bitch ass stepmom. Moira, if you’re listening, your hair is limp and you fucking suck!” at the VMAs.

-Music was her escape as a child, hence why she learned to sing and play multiple instruments. However, her stepmother made her play the violin in the school orchestra as opposed to being allowed in a punk rock band. Even though she was concertmaster and first chair, she hated life so badly. Scarlett can play the guitar, bass guitar, violin, cello, drums, the trumpet, the saxophone, the bassoon, the piano, the xylophone, the harp, the flute, the recorder, the French horn, the clarinet, i didn’t even list all of them and I’m tired already. When one of the other shakers has lead vocals on a song, she’ll take over playing their instrument.

-Scarlett met Rudy during their shared freshman year of high school. Hazelnut High’s orchestra department had its annual field trip to Powder Point (based off my actual orchestra field trip!). Scarlett decided to sneak away from her snobby classmates and teachers and have the time to herself. On one particularly large roller coaster, she sat next to a boy with a Mohawk who told her that since he was a Powder Point native, he could more than handle it. He then proceeded to cry the entire time while holding her hand. They realized how much they had in common and kept in contact even after her trip was over. Their relationship is super lovey dovey, yet chill at the same time. Couple goals, but not on the level of Prudence x Cooper x Taylor.

-The shakers got together during the 23rd season of Flipline’s Got Talent. After the shocking elimination of Taylor Morales in the quarterfinals, the remaining acts were merged together. Scarlett and Rudy and Marty and Clover were two sets of pairs merged together. They all got along beforehand and loved Scarlett’s songwriting, so they all wrote an original song together for the finals. Even though they were fan favorites and had lots of support from the audience, Bill and Boopsy’s amazing ventriloquy act was what won the show, with the upset Shakers coming in second place. Afterwards, they were approached by Janana who offered to become their agent, and all they’ve known since was success. Fun fact: Rudy wouldnt accept Clover and Marty into their act unless they beat him and Scarlett at poker. They did.

-The shakers each can speak multiple languages, with Scarlett being able to speak fluent English and Tagalog, Tagalog being her native language (Filipino gang!). She can also speak some Spanish, Japanese, Arabic, Hindi, and Gaelic because she hangs around the other Shakers and Janana so much.

-All of the food, drinks, clothes, and personal belongings Scarlett loves are various shades of red. Cherries, longanisa, red wine, and candied strawberries are her favorite. Her entire wardrobe? Red. Her LED lights? Red. It honestly scares Rudy how red everything is.

-Her voice would either be Jessica Sanchez from American Idol or Gwen Stefani from the No Doubt era. She also covers a lot of No Doubt songs during their concerts. Speaking of covers, the shakers like to sing classic rock songs as well as modern day hits. Scarlett has the vocal range to do Ariana and Mariah Carey justice.

-Her and Marty are best friends. They’re both on the same wavelength and will most likely have the same reaction to memes, like word for word the same reaction. They usually have to get Rudy and Clover out of trouble most days. I love their chaotic, yet chill energy, like the types that just sit and observe and quietly make funny comments to each other.

-She determines whether she likes you or not based off of how good you are at mahjong or poker. If you suck enough to let her win, she’ll love you forever but if you match her in ability, she’ll respect you but kinda fear you as well. If you refuse to play altogether, she hates you. She’s a game theory student, so playing any board game with her is grounds for disaster because she’ll use her weird psychology and tricks to win all the time. Ironically, she sucks at video games. Even though she loves games of chance, she’s hugely against casinos and betting, instead trading small trinkets like food or makeup.

-At the Cheeseria, she set up a poker table, a mahjong table, and a pool table for the entertainment. They unfortunately had to get rid of the Uno table because somebody (ahem, Jojo) got a little too heated over a match with Papa and Wally. And by “got a little too heated”, I mean that Jojo literally got in a fist fight with Papa and lost.

-All she watches are telenovelas. Don’t ask about The Office or Game of Thrones, all she knows is stuff like Rubi and Maria la del Barrio.

-She doesn’t like musical theater except for Phantom of the Opera. She has taken a few roles as Kim in Miss Saigon, but secretly regrets it because musical theater is so much harder than just a regular concert. She still respects theater actors, but will never again sit through Anything Goes.

-She is the only one of the workers who has managed to successfully punch Guy Mortadello. Koilee and Rudy came close, but Scarlett landed an especially hard punch to his nose. Next to being engaged and forming Scarlett and the Shakers, she says it’s the third happiest day of her life. Now, Guy Mortadello is extremely scared of Scarlett and will cry if he sees her or hears her song on the radio (which is all the time).

-She has a tattoo of a heart of her hand along with a crown. On three of her fingers are a yellow Diamond, green clover, and blue spade.

-Scarlett is absolutely gorgeous and badass, I always kept rewinding Papas Cheeseria just to see her and Rudy in the opening because I had crushes on them both. Anyways, stan Scarlett for good grades (it’s not working though I’m still failing two classes)

[tyrustrash]

Today- A Red White and Royal Blue fic

It’s taking every thought of his abuela and vision of not making congress to make Alex get rid of his raging boner right now. He’s currently trying, and miserably failing, to not stare at Henry’s perfectly round ass that’s showed off in his well fitted trousers. Henry’s costume made suit showcases every part of his body as if it were trying to seduce Alex. The suit is a new shade of white called “Pure Holy Light White”, which is somehow whiter than the average frat house. That name itself is ironic since he is not as pure as his ancestors were when they were coronated. It is encrusted with jewels of every color of the rainbow that are aligned down the jacket’s lapels. The back of the jacket has a peace sign with the US, UK, Mexico, and gay flags inside of it. The trousers have gold roses stitched up the sides. And now back to that ass. The fit of the trousers lifts it and it so tights that the outline of his boxers could be seen. He’s wearing Alex’s necklace of the key and ring so that way he has a piece of his heart on him. Everything about the suit is perfect, just like he wanted. He also plans on wearing the suit at his wedding. They’re currently in the middle of Henry’s coronation. The Queen and Henry’s mom passed a few weeks ago, Philip got arrested, and Bea got married without consent of the Queen, so that means Henry is the only one left in the line of succession. He would have never thought this day would come, the day he becomes the King. The thought never occurred because he was sure Philip would beat him to it, or at least have kids by now, but no, he had to fuck up his life and land in jail. Bea has always been the wild child of the group, so it wasn’t that shocking when she eloped with Nikolai, Prince of Denmark. The two make a really cute couple, and their son inherited every possible gene that attributes to cuteness. Anyway, the time has come for Henry to take the throne. He’s scared more than anything. Scared of being the worst leader in history. Scared of being the most hated. Scared of trying to live up to people’s expectations. And worst of all, scared of losing Alex. He keeps worrying that the new role of being the king will be too much for Alex. They’ve talked about it since they found out Henry would take the throne, but the conversations mainly consisted of playfully insulting each other, which would then lead to sex. However, Alex always assured him that no matter what, he’ll be by his side every second of it. That he’ll always be able to give his support and anything else he needed. Henry holds the scepter with both his hands as he kneels, nearly ripping his trousers from the tightness. He looks up at the archbishop, who is holding the crown. After reciting the oath, the crown is slowly placed on top of Henry’s head. It fits perfectly. Henry gets back up and turns to face the spectators, and he waves. Alex approaches him and takes his hand and leads them to the balcony of the palace. The doors open and the two stand over the country. Although it wasn’t, but it looks like the entire country is standing outside, cheering for their new king. Some are holding up poster that say “History, Huh?”, others are holding up rainbow flags, and some are holding up unity signs of both their countries. Henry thought that no one would even support him since he is the first openly gay ruler, but this proves him wrong. He waves to the people, receiving an enormous cheer. “Today,” Henry begins to say. He takes a deep breath and his mind his able to calm down. He looks at Alex, who is still holding his hand. He takes his free hand and pulls Alex’s head in for a kiss. The crowd cheers even louder. His first kiss as the king. It’s passionate, thrilling, and most of all, sexy. He wants to keep going, but remembers he was about to give a speech. He pulls away and wipes off the drool. “Today, we made history. Today marks the begging of a new era. Today is the day anything is possible. Out of all the positions I’ve been in, I’ve never imagined myself in this one. Whenever someone would ask me what I would do if I were king, or even thought about being king, I usually shrugged it off because I kept assuring myself that time would never come. But here we are. I can’t promise anything specific right now, but what I can do is assure you that times are changing. Rules will be changed. We will live in a society without discrimination. Most of all, I will marry this gorgeous, charming, sexy piece of man right here and we will rule in style!” Loud screams from the crowd nearly made the two of them deaf. It was all worth it though, they knew that this is the sound of a new generation. Later that night when everyone left and they were alone, Henry dragged Alex all the way to the throne. Henry took the seat and brought Alex to sit on his lap, Alex’s feet hanging off his own. They start making out, more heated than before. Alex starts grinding his hips. The friction is already getting both of them hard. “I’m so used to fucking a prince.” Alex says as he runs his hands through Henry’s blond hair. He’s having to gasp for breath because he doesn’t want to stop kissing him. “I’m going to enjoy fucking a king.” Henry smiles and bites his bottom lip. He grabs Alex’s ass and gives a firm squeeze. He gets up and switches their positions. Now Alex is the one sitting on the throne with Henry in his lap. “Right here, right now.” “You sure?” Alex asks teasingly. “I mean, you already have a scepter, but you can have mine too.” Henry slaps his chest. “Shut the bloody hell up already and do me, you little pain in my arse.” “There’s nothing little about me and you know it. And you’re about to feel a pain in your ass, but I don’t see how since it should be loose by now.” Alex unbuttons Henry’s pants and slides them down to just get his ass out. Henry does the same to Alex, but manages to pull them down to his ankles. Alex takes off his own shirt, leaving him only in his light blue American Eagle boxer briefs. His erection standing straight up, slighting touching the tip of Henry’s. Henry pulls down his American flag boxers, revealing himself to his boyfriend. Alex reaches into Henry’s jacket pocket and pulls out a condom and the small bottle of lube. Before he could do anything, Henry swats the items to the ground. “Not yet.” The King tells him. Henry slowly, and seductively, makes his way onto his knees, stopping where his face meets his lover’s dick. He plays with the waistband of the boxer briefs for a minute. Lifting them up then snapping it onto Alex. Hearing the shriek of enjoyment in his voice sent electricity down his spine. After snapping the waistband a few more times, Henry pulled it up, causing more friction than Alex wanted, but didn’t complain. Now pulling it down, Henry stops just before Alex’s dick could spring out. He rubs it a little, just to be more of a fucking tease. He stops and finally pulls his underwear down, letting his dick hit his stomach then stick straight up in the air. Henry admires all nine inches of it. “Blow me already.” Begs Alex. He’s already sweating from all the teasing. “I need to cum so badly.” “I need you to stop whining like a little bitch.” “You obtuse motherfucking asshole.” “Never gets old.” Henry massages Alex’s dick until he can feel Alex about to cum, then he stops. Alex whines, of course, but Henry like doing this to him. He likes having control for once, which is also ironic since he was a prince, and now the king. He slowly licks up the shaft until he reaches the tip. The moans of pleasure coming from Alex was enough to let him know that it was working. Henry presses his soft lips on the tip and gives it a kiss. Alex couldn’t take it anymore, he needs Henry’s mouth on his dick now. He grabs the King’s hair a holds it with a tight grip. He pushes him down to where his dick is all the way in his mouth, hitting the back of his throat. Henry loves when Alex gets this dominate. Alex starts moving Henry’s head up and down, really feeling the sensation. Henry hollows his cheeks to allow better suction, which warrants more moans from Alex. The slurping sounds really set Alex off and causes him to thrust his hip and face fuck Henry. Henry looks up at his boyfriend and recognizes that face. Alex is about to release. The way his breathing gets more scattered, his mouth forming into a goofy grin, and the way he curls his toes and the way his body tenses up. Henry smiles knowing the pleasure he’s causing, but also knowing the torture that’s to come. Henry pulls away to stop sucking, earning a whine from Alex. A line of spit from his mouth to the tip of the dick is formed. Henry wipes it away as he stands. “Come on, baby.” Alex whines. He has the biggest puppy dog sad eyes as he quivers his lips. “Why did you stop? I was about to cum.” Henry chuckles. He removes his trouser and boxers and tosses them to the side. Alex stares at Henry’s seven incher and drool drips from his mouth and onto his chest. He takes of his shirt and jacket to hang them on the back of the throne. Alex attempts to grab his own dick, but Henry slap his hand. He sits on Alex’s lap, his ass pressing against Alex’s erection. “I know. I’m not done with my fun yet.” “Bitch, if I don’t cum right now, we’re not fucking until the rest of time.” “You wouldn’t last until dawn. You can’t resist my sweet ass. And I can’t resist your nice bubble butt. Face it, we’re horny creatures.” “I don’t want to face it. I want to fuck it.” Alex tries to grab the condom that’s on the floor, but Henry grabs his arm and places it on his ass. Alex smiles and rubs it in circles. He gives a hard smack, causing it to jiggle. Just the way he likes it. The moan from Henry is enough to cause there to be precum for Alex. “Please, baby. I love you so much, and I want to show it.” Instead on responding, Henry leans down and kisses Alex. Instead of the kiss being rough, it’s soft yet passionate, just like their first kiss under that tree in the garden. Alex rubs Henry’s back as Henry does the same to his chest. As Alex is about to reach for Henry’s dick, Henry stands. Another whine from Alex. “Not fair. I can’t touch myself, I can’t touch you, I can’t cum. You, sir, are a very bad king.” “I’ve been bad, have I? Maybe a little bit naughty. And what are you going to do with me?” Henry asks teasingly. He teases some more by perking out his ass, granting a lip lick from Alex. The curve of his ass is so plump and spankable, giving Alex an idea. “Get over my knee, now!” He demands, making Henry even more hard. Henry obeys with a smile and positions himself over Alex’s knee. He ass up in the air ready for what’s coming its way. Alex kneads Henry’s ass like it’s pizza dough. Giving it a firm squeeze, Henry knows what’s going to happen next. Alex raises his right arm and brings it down on his ass. The jiggle was about too much for Alex to handle with cumming already, but he keeps it together. A small red spot has appeared on Henry’s ass from where it was spanked, but he knew it would get redder. Alex repeats the process for about three minutes. Each spank sent an even greater amount of electricity through both of their bodies. Ever since Henry said he has a spanking kink, they’ve made sure to include it just about any time the get it on. Other times Alex likes to spank Henry when they’re passing each other as they’re walking. Whenever Henry had to bend over, Alex took the chance to smack his ass. Any time that Alex randomly spanks Henry, he knows Henry will return the favor and do something to him, which is usually a blowjob in the most random places whenever they get horny. When Alex finished spanking the naughty king, he pulls him up and sits him back down on his lap. The king laughs as he runs his hands through Alex’s now sweaty hair. Henry leans down to Alex’s ear and gives it a little nibble and says, “Now.” Not even a millisecond later, Alex already has the condom in one hand and tears it open with his teeth. The sight of it makes Henry eager for it. Henry takes the condom out of the packet and places it on the tip of Alex’s dick. He slowly rolls it down, making sure to tickle the shaft as he makes his way down. Finishing unrolling the condom, Henry teases even more by hovering over the dick and barely touching the tip, then moves away. “If you don’t stop that teasing, I’m not going to go easy on you.” “When are you ever easy? You know I like it rough. I like it when you pound me like no tomorrow.” “Talk dirty to me, you filthy cock slut.” “You mountain biking vampire witch from the future. Fuck my pussy with a rake.” “Oh, god.” That was it. The final straw before Alex completely lost it. He grips Henry’s hips and brings him down onto his dick. The sheer scream of pleasure that Henry made is music to his ears. He starts thrusting harder than ever, going in and out, also bringing Henry up and down as well, causing both of them to release sounds of erotic love. Henry is loving every second of this. He kisses Alex again, this time harder. He bites his lip. “Harder, daddy.” Fuck it. He couldn’t resist it when he called him that. He has such the biggest daddy kink. He was unsure of how Henry would react to it, but turns out the king is completely into it. He was so into it that there were times he called him that in front of family and press. It was embarrassing as hell, but it completely turned Alex on and he gave it to Henry later on in bed. “You like this, baby?” Alex asks in between thrusts. “I do, daddy.” Henry leans forward and looks Alex straight into his eyes. “Dámelo, papi.” After that, it doesn’t take long before Alex blows his load, mainly because of that goddamn tease of a boyfriend. However, he manages to give one final thrust to hit Henry’s prostate, causing the loudest moan ever. It managed to have an echo. They both cum at the same time. Henry releases his load all over Alex’s chest, some even getting on his face. Alex pulls out and wipes his face, licking the cum that was on it. He pulls off the condom and waves it in front of Henry. “This is because of you. Damn, this is the most I’ve ever produced.” Henry takes the cum filled condom and slaps Alex’s face with it. “You’re welcome, daddy.” Henry gets off Alex and stands on the floor. He walks over to his underwear, but is walking as if he has a limp. Alex grins, knowing that he’s going to have trouble walking and sitting for a while. As Henry bends down to pick up his boxers, Alex doesn’t miss the chance to give him one last spanking for the night.

[deathbyvalentine]

Post Epiphany, some FOIP.

But I didn’t die/A Successful Mission

Silvestro had been relieved. Astrid had been angry. Jones and Hawk had breathed out ‘sirs’. Others had alternately hurled themselves into his arms, hit him or given congratulations/condolences as required. It slid off him like oil on water, sticking to nothing except confusion.

It took a little while before someone actually explained what had happened. His brain, splattered across two couches and one very unfortunate guardsperson. Dead before his body hit the floor. Not in a time-loop, not the easy rewind and restart they had all gotten used to. Properly. Body limp, mourners, a funeral.

Yet here he was. With three hours of memory nobody else had. Back in a different timeline. This he was certain of. He knew when Astrid pulled his dogtags out of her pocket, when the last time he had seen them, they’d been ripped off by a particularly pissed off Magos. His bags weren’t in the armoury, his guns had less ammo, there was a little less food as they had finished lunch. Things had changed. Subtly, but surely. As if he hadn’t felt isolated from the populace at large enough, was now literally from a different world. The irony wasn’t entirely lost on him.

It mattered to nobody but him. For some reason, to him it mattered a lot. He couldn’t explain why. For all intents and purposes he was exactly the same. His childhood hadn’t changed, nor had his history. His personality was undamaged (as far as one could ever call his personality undamaged that was). Astrid, the true arbiter of all things Lance Durovera had cast her eyes across him and decided that was that. He trusted her more than he trusted his own judgement. So it should be. 

He almost wished he at least had the memory of what happened. A little context would go an awfully long way to making him feel like he hadn’t lost pieces of an extremely important jigsaw puzzle. How much pain was I in? Did I feel anything? Why did I do it right then? Why had he chosen who he had chosen? He had none of these answers and suspected he never would. That Lance, separated by a whole three hours, may as well have been a stranger. 

The feeling might fade with time, as he internalised nonsense about Alpha timelines and blended in seamlessly to a normal, linear way of moving through time. Or as he got used to... No. He wouldn’t let that become a possibility. Time, ironically, was would be what fixed him. Shame he was so impatient. He wanted healing now, curing now. All he had left to do was wait.

A wave of happy chatter and laughter rolled over him ungently. He felt raw, like someone had went over his skin with a flamer and everything that touched him felt painful. It was petty, expecting others to show a little consideration, particularly as he was standing up and walking and talking but still. The first line of their brief defined success as all agents returning alive. In the most technical sense, that had been achieved. There was certainly a Lance returning.

____________________________________________________

CO on deck

Lance hadn’t quite expected the visceral nature of his reaction. He felt the blood drain from his face, his stomach drop, his breath catch. He couldn’t breathe very well at all, his hands clenching so tightly his knuckles ached. It was very almost a panic attack, he thought dimly, through the sudden haze of white noise. He was familar enough with them, though it had been some years since his last one. Yet one sight of Nic, tunic pressed and spotless, shoulders set, had him shaking.

He was frightened. Frightened that Nic would hear about his actions and find fault with every one. The problem was with the XO was just how good he was. Lance half believed that had he been here, the problem would have been over by lunch time with a minimum of blood spilt and no awkward happenings to inform the new Lord Inquisitor was.

The litany of fuck ups played through his head. Killing Mu. Dying himself. Every time he didn’t follow an order perfectly, every time he wound up Astrid. When his hands shook too badly to do a routine task, when he shot up, when he became useless under torture. He wanted Nic to be proud, to look at him and Astrid and think his young officers had done good. Lance wasn’t even proud of himself.

What he wanted was to walk up to the man and ask for help. To get a hand on a shoulder, an understanding look. What he didn’t want was to walk over and break in anticipation of the trouble to come. His ideal situation would be heading to the Chaser and going the fuck to sleep and never talking about any of this ever again, but Lance had lived long enough in this world to know ideals very rarely came to pass. 

It was a matter of time before the XO noticed him. It would be really great if another time bubble happened about now. Or if he died again. Or literally anything would save him from the mortifying ordeal of having a conversation about his feelings. Charity looked up and he felt his life flash before his eyes. There would be no escaping this.

___________________________________________________________

Shared Blood

Being stuck to a psyker was bad enough. Being stuck to Silvestro was even worse. He wasn’t quite sure where the antipathy had come from but he suspected it had sprung to life around the time Silvestro had searched through his brain. It developed further once he realised that Silvestro had actual authority and respect to equal his own. Gant had been bad enough - his superior of all things, but this was worse.

He shifted, cringing in pain. Along his side, through fabric and skin, he had been sewn to the other man. A reset, and it was his arm this time. Another reset and it was nerves and muscles. He couldn’t remember another, but he was fairly sure he had been attached to Silvestro as he died. Hard to say who that was worse for. 

He couldn’t quite pinpoint the moment they had become friends. It could have been when they were clutching each other’s hands on the floor of the lab or when they spitefully ripped themselves apart. Could have been when they were bickering on the floor as they slowly bled out. But it was undeniable that they were friends now and close ones at that. There were some things that created an instant bond (pun intended) and being surgically attached to someone was apparently one of them. Who knew.

There was now an unspoken agreement that neither of them would ever mention this or any of the more specific moments of vulnerability ever again. They were both naval after all, and talking about it would mean something like dealing with it and neither of them were particularly up to that job. The respect and brotherhood would have to be enough.

_____________________________________________________

Giggled Admissions/Blush response

Mitra was beautiful, Lance realised with a jolt. Not just her machinery either. Her, her face, her eyes, her smile. He had never seen her laugh like this, self-consciously and without restraint. He idly thought of what it would be like to kiss her, to flatter her, to make that blush rise up on her cheeks more than once. He thought he stood a relatively strong chance. She wasn’t in any of his chains of command and besides, it would wind Astrid up something awful. 

He wondered if Mitra ever watched the memories of him for any reason other than dispassionate research. If she had thoughts and opinions on them beyond the obvious logistical study. The next thought was only a beat away - what were her and Astrid talking about? He hoped it was him, a silly schoolboy hope, but it was there all the same.

He was attracted to Mitra, obviously. In the true sense, not the ‘I’m bored and there’s precious few other prospects around’ that sometimes popped up on the Chaser before being rapidly quashed. Contrary to popular opinion, he did have standards. He wanted to believe she wanted him too - the blush and the giggle suggested as much and that effect was not exactly an unusual occurrence in other individuals, but he did have just about enough self awareness to realise he thought rather well of himself and could be skewing the data. 

More interestingly, he liked her too. This was a far rarer occurrence than attraction. He had been surprised by the depth of her compassion. Surprised and blindsided. He wasn’t sure what to do with something so heartfelt. Besides, she was funny. Clever. And most certainly did not take his shit which was a key part of maintaining any sort of relationship with him. He watched her talk, studying her, noting her habits, her tics. He remembered, with a smile, working with her in that throne-forsaken mine, the ease of which they took on roles and worked together. He hoped a similar opportunity would raise it’s head again soon enough. Until then, it was enough to simply have fun with what was very possibly, a friend.

____________________________________________________________

Null Fields

Being around Corvinus had been bad enough. It had been bearable at least, simply some waves of nausea and an altogether feeling of being wrong somehow. This room was not bearable. This room was like nails on a chalkboard, grinding teeth and soundproof ear pieces all in one. He felt as if they entire world had been moved slightly to the left or that he himself had been wrapped tightly in a substance that didn’t let him touch a single other thing.

He couldn’t help vomiting, turning onto his side from where he was chained to at least add a semblance of dignity to proceedings. Silvestro, positioned by his feat, did not seem to be faring altogether better. He could hear grunts of pain. He knew, vaguely, that Silvestro would be blind. That’s what happened when astropaths were cut off from the warp and indeed the light of the astronomicon. He couldn’t imagine such darkness. It must be more than physical. It would be profound. At least he didn’t experience that isolation.

Grasping with his eyes shut tight as though that would help the crackles of pain moving over him he grabbed Silvestro’s hand, tight. A small gesture, letting him know that he was here, he wasn’t utterly alone. Behind them, the insane Magos continued monologuing. They may as well have not been here at all. They were merely actors in the play about his genius. It was this that infuriated him enough to attempt to kick over the work bench. Lance Durovera refused to be a background character.

It was worth it for a whole three minutes before the fucking tech-barbarian broke his nose. Again. That hurt less than the null.

__________________________________________________________

Ungrief

He woke up in his quarters and counted to ten. The stillness remained. He closed his eyes, opened them and counted to ten again. Nothing changed. Only then did he sit up, running a hand over his face. His head still faintly pounded, his blood clamouring for more stimms, more opia, something, anything to make the world less grey. It was easy at this particular moment to dismiss the old urge - he didn’t need things feeling less real than they already did.

In the shower, getting dressed, making recaff, he held his breath. His entire body was tense, his shoulders aching, crackling pain occasionally shooting across his jaw. His hands automatically curled into fists if he didn’t monitor them. It all stemmed from the simple fact that he couldn’t relax. Every time he felt himself settling a single thought sped across his mind - what if this restarts? What if I won’t remember this? What if this is yet another time loop?

He made a note to himself to see if the Ordo Chronos had any unredacted texts he could look at. His mind had fixated on detail. How long could a time loop be? Could it be years? Would he be constantly looking over his shoulder, waiting for the moment he was thrown back? The worst came when he remembered that there was no way for him to tell if it had already happened. If he’d been around before. If he had lived this same morning before, in all its mundaneity. He didn’t need this existential dread added to his already large pile of it. He battled dread with knowledge. Unfortunately, in this line of work, it wasn’t forthcoming. 

He knew, deep down, that there was little to do but move on, act on the assumption it all was over and done with for the moment. But like a tongue running over a chipped tooth, his mind was unable to stop turning over the possibility in his head, over and over, to exhaustion.

He closed his eyes and counted to ten.

____________________________________________________

Chain of Command

Don’t get him wrong. It was the right decision. In fact, it was the one he would have made, were he in Astrid’s boots. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. Or that it was not a significant reason he threw himself into experimental surgery without truly doing all the checks and balances he could have to ensured his survival. 

Relief of command. Not through fault, through sickness, of a sort. Lance managed to curb the instinct to sulk, mostly through channelling his efforts into figuring out how to prise the damn chip out of his head. The thing was, command kept him steady. Looking after and protecting his team made him a better man, a better person. It brought out his best instincts in a world that seemed determined to tempt his worst.

Anoretta, Hawk, Jones, Teneros. He wondered if they knew that he’d give his life for them, if it came to it. He hoped they did. He would take an injury, take a fall, take the blame. That’s what commanding officers did. He was determined that even if he fucked up everything else in his stupid life, he would not fuck that up. He believed in it as much as he believed in the laws of the Omnissiah, in the will of the Throne. It was a whole other religion, precious and sacred.

He wasn’t perfect yet. Sometimes he was too casual. He knew that. He also knew he was young, with an entire career ahead of him. He knew what he had to change. Recently he had asked Bridge for training, for help. Nic had his best interests too, poor man. Perhaps even Nalen did, despite the surface tension.  It was an odd sensation, knowing for once he didn’t have to improve purely off his own back. That he had help, advice, support, a framework to drag himself up by. In the past, he had fixed himself, from detox to attitude. Not being alone was almost as frightening as being alone was.

After the mission, he’d write a list of his fixable flaws. He’d pin them up and cross them out one by one as he improved. New ones would take their place but he would not make the same mistake twice. Or at least, if he did, he would learn something new every time. Be a bit better than yesterday. That’s all there was to it.

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Surgery

It was novel, in a way, putting people back together again instead of stripping them apart. He tried to remember what Sister Anya said about bedside manner, about how to work, about how to act. The problem was when he thought about it as fixing, not hurting, his mind slipped straight into mechanic mode. Which was similar but distinctly different from being a medic apparently.

There were a number of key differences. The first and most important is that quite a lot of people liked painkillers when they were having surgery performed on them. That fact he usually remembered about the time they started screaming. Thankfully, it was an easy enough fix. 

Secondly, while a lot of body parts had a machine equivalent, not all of them did. Additionally, not all body parts would act like their machine analogue. This went particularly for the brain and the lungs. Brain surgery was hard he had discovered, much harder than programming a recalcitrant machine spirit. Only the toughest of spirits would punish you on such a microcosmic scale. 

Third, infections could be caused by a number of things that would not cause problems were you working on a ship. He had to constantly remember gloves for even the most mundane of tasks. After seeing his own chest ripen and burst with infection, he was better at remembering this one than others. He hoped his disgust was a good sign Grandfather had little hold on him.

The surgery he had performed and torture he had endured aside, it had been a brutal few days for himself as a patient. First, the St Sanginius wound opening for the third time in total, necrotised and stinking. Then his arm aging so quickly it was easiest to remove it. Then getting chem glands removed. Then brain surgery on a filthy couch, partially done with the end of a pistol. He suddenly felt a lot better about his own skills when he thought about the last one. He wasn’t too far behind people who had been doing this for a hell of a lot longer.

When he got on the Chaser, he had one more to undergo. To unfuck his heart and get that ridiculous suppressant removed before he removed it himself out of sheer frustration. When it was all done, he was going to sleep for a week and immediately start planning more augmetics so he had to deal with this shit less.

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Crystal

It was never a great feeling, knowing you had personally pissed off some sort of Xenos bullshit. He had felt it in the past, but usually he was in his fighter and usually he was flipping off some fungus with pretensions. Not exactly a high threat. But in recent years he had had rather more contact than he would like with things that were cleverer than him. This would be one of them.

In his head, the sound of shattering glass. Not as strong as it was on the Sanginius, but there all the same. Some morbid part of him wanted to touch the hunk of rock, just to see if it would hurt. He stowed his hand in his pocket purely to resist the urge. See? He was growing.

Part of the reason he was studying it quite so intently was the stupid feeling that something was following him. His heart was telling him that the fucker from the ship or something related to it was very unhappy at the stunt he had pulled and was tracking him with the goal of using his insides as confetti. His head was telling him he was pretty sure that thing died and anyway, he was pretty insignificant in the grand scheme of players on that mission. So maybe the crystal, borne from a Shavaasti was just causing the feeling, an echo or an aftermath. 

Esme had said something about the shattering noise being the sound of their cities crumbling. He supposed he was meant to have some sympathy. But he didn’t. He hadn’t yet been told he was to be compassionate towards xenos and until that point he refused to be. Everybody had tragedy. He didn’t make his tragedy play in passerby’s heads really loudly.

The other rocks in the room were no better but he didn’t know what they were. They glowed and he felt a wariness that was very close to revulsion. People kept saying the word necron. He didn’t know that was and some deep part of him shied away instinctively from finding out. They were wrong, like the null field was wrong. He wouldn’t even entertain the idea of touching them.

A notion that was vindicated once he saw the batshit magos using it to manipulate time. No thank you, he didn’t want any. He made a note to himself that Mu was under no circumstances to be allowed to keep any of this. Period.

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Mistaken Identity

Pulling the Inquisition card always felt vaguely dirty to him, still. The same way pulling the Noble one had once he had gotten out of his wayward teenage years. The problem was it didn’t feel earned. He would happily pull up his naval rank at a moment’s notice. He had put blood, sweat and tears into that, had worked about it and cared about it. Not just been press-ganged and born into the damn thing. The power was a little terrifying, how easily people bowed and moved, no more questions asked, no double checks performed. 

But damn if it didn’t open a lot of doors. Within a moment of him uttering it, the magos has deflated and oh, look at that, he could finally do his damn job. He made up an entirely believable and mostly true lie about this being a routine xenos bust. Easily backed up when the place was crawling with illegal tech. He didn’t have to mention time travel at all, thankfully. He hoped the rest of the retinue were clever enough to do the same or the various workers here were clever enough to keep their mouths shut about what exactly they knew. In fairness, that was a key skill for getting anywhere in the Imperium. They had managed to get a research centre so chances are they’d already done it more than once.

He noticed his manner changed when he pulled it too. It wasn’t his usual work manner which was second nature to him, as easy as breathing. Here it was forced, mimicking the movements of career acolytes like Charity. Talking to witnesses in firm tones, his walk cutting through crowds easily, his expression becoming annoyed much quicker. It was the need to get stuff done, or die. When the stakes were this high and this tumbled up in bureaucracy, he couldn’t take any joy in it. What he wouldn’t give for a straight fire fight, for someone trying to smother him in his sleep, a situation where his perfect aim was enough.

He sensed those days might be long past and he allowed a small part of himself to mourn them. The bigger part of himself, the most Lance part, instantly turned it into a challenge. He would be good at this too. He would excel even in an environment he hated. He would flourish despite all opposition and pressure. Just you fucking wait. 

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It’s Complicated

She was maddening. It had been like, over a decade and he still hadn’t found a way to stop her getting under his skin.Not that he wanted that. Having her as close as possible to him, even if it hurt, was exactly what he wanted. There was very little he didn’t want when it came to her.

He wanted peaceful afternoons, drinking leisurely, laughing. He wanted her knuckles bruising his cheek, split lips, spitting venom. He wanted tumbling into bed, as close as they could be. He wanted screaming arguments, love struck confessions, obsession, jealousy, punishment. He wanted to die for her and ask her to die for him and knowing she would. He wanted secrets, but not from each other. He wanted them to play together, moving others like pieces on a chessboard. He wanted to work with her, each a smoothly oiled piece in a machine, not needing to speak to know what needed to be done. He wanted to be the most important person in the world to her, who she loved and hated in equal measure. He wanted it to be like this, always, just them against the world. Knives in each other’s back and then held out, keeping the rest of the sector at bay.

He didn’t need to say any of this of course. They didn’t need to say any of it. It could be understood in a glance, the twitch of a mouth, the flicker of an eyelid. He just wished this shitty bit would be over and done with so they could get to the later bits. The bits were they were incredible. That future was as certain as the fundamental laws of the universe. It was something that was easy to have faith in.

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So Close and Yet So Far

If he had to do this one more time, he was going to scream. He was already on the damn come down so his hands wouldn’t stop shaking and this is what he was supposed to be good at, what he could do in his sleep. Yet he could feel Jones carefully not saying anything behind him as he held the torch aloft, hoping the light would help. He may as well have been doing it in the dark. 

They fared better once they swapped, Lance keeping his voice low and calm as he guided Jones through the necessary steps. Jones had an exceedingly steady hand, yet another skill Lance noted for later use, impressed at the NCO’s reliability at, well everything. Lance kept his back clear, moving anyone along who seemed inclined to either jostle or distract the other man. It helped him feel like he was being useful. That and fixing the satellite dish which didn’t need a steady hand so much as brute force and an indomitable will. Which the stimms hadn’t quite robbed him off yet. 

He had almost been good enough not to relapse. Almost strong enough, almost brave enough. It was the fifth round that had broken him. The screaming for help with no reply. He needed something to steady himself, to make him feel like he wasn’t falling apart. Nobody else had crumbled like he had. Nobody else was seeking relief from anything chemical. The fury he felt at himself was hot and disgusting and he ignored it as best as he could. 

The thought of having to start the process all again was what paralysed him. An emotional time loop of his own making. Detoxing. Then throwing out anything that looked like he could get a buzz off it. Then the monotonous few months of denying himself what he wanted before the craving became a background buzz and he clawed his way back to where he was previously. All that work for nothing. It was galling and he didn’t want to fucking do it.

He clapped Jones on the shoulder when he was done, grinning. The comedown wouldn’t stop him doing his damn job. That had always been his saving grace. The job always came first. 

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Custom Chems

It was second nature. Names and combinations fired along his synapses, the knowledge excited to be used after so long underutilised. He was good at this, making poison into well, more exciting poison. Poison that changed you rather than killed you. It was exciting, showing off. The rest of the group didn’t seem to recognise the danger signs and that was how he liked it. He could play the role of ridiculous pilot, danger and charm mixed together in a shot.

He filled test tubes and handed them out, giving his best estimation of what each would do. One would make colour trails follow moving objects in your vision. One would get you drunk quicker than two bottles of amasec. Another made your skin extremely sensitive. All of them had extreme hangovers attached. You didn’t get something without a consequence. A fundamental law of the universe that went triple for imbibing strange substances. 

As he made a shot for Woods, he noticed Gwyn slip out of the room. Something that resembled guilt fluttered in his chest. He hadn’t thought of the effect his fuckery would have on them - he should have. Watching your friend crash and burn to spectacular effect wouldn’t be easy for an addict. 

He shoved the thought out of his mind with more violence than was strictly needed. He was allowed to be a disaster for tonight. He was allowed to be drunk and high and forget the day. He didn’t fancy his odds of coping without it. Tomorrow he would wake up and make the usual tiresome promise - to be good, to be sensible, to be better. Tonight, he would indulge in safe (r) destruction until the memories of the day were wiped from his head in a storm of chemicals and forced joviality. He avoided eye contact with Nic and Astrid, afraid he would see reflected in them the disappointment he already felt.

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Noble Spirit

He liked Conscience despite himself. So yeah she might have been an evil tech heretic with no conceivable morals and a habit of violating bodily autonomy at the drop of the hat, but who didn’t have flaws? If they had been in a different time, a different place, he would have wanted to sit down with her, discuss the finer points of her work in detail. He hadn’t seen intricacy like it before and he wanted to learn. Lance loved learning about every machine he could, especially from people that were pointedly better than him. She was. He had seen that much when studying how to disengage the chips. Each connection was delicate and beautiful and loaded with failsafes on a micro scale. He basically fell in love with them immediately. 

This was why, regardless of how much she remembered, he hoped the Inquisition would claim her into an asset. While the Inquisition may enjoy the blunt force of ignorance, the Admech in him abhorred the idea of all that skill, all that knowledge being lost. Sure they could download her memories, but they couldn’t download whatever she came up with next. He did what he could, mentioning it to Charity in several loops, mentioning it before she went off to her debrief. He had no high hopes. Expecting the worst would serve him much better than misguided optimism.

At least he had something to remember her by. His beautiful cybernetic arm, covered in synthskin. He was going to have to step his own bionics the fuck up if he wanted them to be as gorgeous as this one was. No heresy here, just good engineering. Almost worth the chem glands incident. Almost. He was keeping the thing, as a challenge and as some inspiration. He doubted he would see Conscience again. A shame. He had enjoyed flirting with her as well as negotiating for her release. Maybe in a decade he’d find someone with a similar limb and know she wasn’t completely gone.