#one is raging against her death and the injustice

[twilightcunt]

I’ve been rewatching Person of Interest and I’ve finally reached that episode in season 3. I can’t believe they fucking kill her 😭😭😭😭😭 It’s been haunting my mind since halfway through season 2 and now I’m gonna have to see it all over again.

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

There's something in the differing emphasis that Brad and Hunter and Charles place on the phrase "good guy" that really affected me on my first watch and hit even harder on my second. I'm going to try and put it into words.

When Brad and Hunter say it, they say "we're good guys", as in, good at everything a guy "should" be good at - good at sports, popular with the ladies, on their way to a good university. But they turn out to be total shitheads. They don't care about being "good", they just care about their reputation, how they're perceived. It's status and power - they're good guys and they feel entitled to do whatever they want.

But when Charles, feeling betrayed by this reveal of their character, says he wanted them to be good guys, the emphasis is completely different. Charles wants to be a "good guy". He doesn't want to be a "bad guy".

The emphasis is on good, because that's really the crux of Charles' greatest fears, isn't it?

When Charles wants to be a good guy, he doesn't mean it the way Brad and Hunter do; that veneer of goodness that comes with popularity. He means that nothing he did was ever good enough for his dad. Doing the good thing and helping that kid his "friends" were beating up literally got him killed. Trying to stop Devlin only got him trapped in the loop, stuck until his friends freed him, only able to watch helplessly as a mother and her innocent children get slashed to death before his eyes.

And it's this helplessness that is the thing that truly sets him off at the end of episode 4.

It always struck me just how much of his breakdown there, for as much as he finally gives a voice to his own hurt at the injustice of his situation, was still about other people. Because he was secure-ish, at one point, when he was Edwin's partner and protector. He thought he did a good job at it anyways, but guess not, because something obviously happened with Edwin and he's not talking to him about it. And he likes to think he did good with solving cases, but Crystal is still hurting and haunted by a demon and nearly threw herself off a cliff earlier that day because she wants her parents so badly, and he's no closer to helping her solve that. And all of it, every single part of it, is a reflection of his own unresolved trauma; that he never "made it better" and he can't, so now he tries to be good enough for other people, but that isn't working anymore either, and now someone is threatening to take Edwin away, and even this final shocking act of anger and violence is still in service of protecting; of saving someone from the suffering he was never able to escape except by fucking dying.

His anger, really, stems from the injustice of it all, and the abuse of power by guys who can get away with it because they're guys, when they should've, could've, been good to others instead. It's a large part of why he projected so strongly onto Brad and Hunter - they did everything right, they were good guys who got screwed over, because even if everyone seems to love you, there's always that one person you can never please, right? Who will hurt you, no matter how good you are. When it's revealed that Brad and Hunter are far more like his bullies, like Devlin, like his dad, than he'd thought - controlling, intolerant, cruel to those who "step out of line" - Charles feels betrayed and horrified because he related to them... so what does that say about him?

But here's one major difference that Charles does not seem to recognize well. Charles has never had the power in these situations. He was the victim, and his being the victim is through no fault of his own, but the fault of those who decided to be cruel. It is certainly not contingent on how good he is. Being good in the eyes of people who want to hurt you will not stop them from hurting you.

When he lashes out at the Night Nurse, it's out of helplessness and rage. Once again, he's pitted against someone who holds more power than he does and is threatening harm, and he's just been bitterly, brutally reminded that a smile and a helping hand and a firm word never, ever worked to make it stop. There's only one other way he can think of to shift the balance of power, and he's finally livid enough to actually do it. This violence is a desperate attempt to finally overcome yet another force much greater than him, a transdimensional entity that has unjustly arrived to take his best friend to Hell. And Charles wins, he did it, he stopped her, at least for the moment. But at what cost, when he looks at his friends and can't tell whether they look more scared for him or of him? And can he blame them, when he's clearly scared of his own anger and how overwhelming it is now that it's been let out?

Because he tries so hard to be good and it's never good enough to stop the suffering. Because that anger rose to the surface so easily and maybe that means he's not good at all.

But of course, Charles once again misses something important here - there is a distinction in why that anger exists. His dad, Devlin, and Brad and Hunter get angry because their power over others makes them feel they have a right to punish when things don't go their way. Charles gets angry because he feels more helpless than he'd care to admit, and seeing cruelty inflicted onto others by those with power makes him want to cut them down to size.

And herein lies the second major difference. Charles... is a kind person, at heart. He's genuine. He really does likes helping out, he likes making people happy, he doesn't turn people away who need help, he's friendly and protective. The scene where Edwin pulls him out of his fear that he's somehow bad even though he really doesn't want to be, is outright one of my favourite scenes for what it brings to both of their characters. Edwin knows exactly what to say. While it's always good to check your behaviour, to apologize and take accountability - because no one can be good all the time, and even the most well-intentioned of us will mess up sometimes - Edwin is right.

"Bad guys do not worry about being bad guys."

[amuseoffyre]

With Black Sails being back in streaming in some areas, I'm imagining how much it would infuriate the current slew of people who are convinced that watching morally gray/bad characters makes you as a viewer a morally gray/bad person.

Our leading man straight up beats someone to death with a cannon ball in the first couple of episodes and kills many many many people while acting out of grief, loss, remorse and rage. Also, he is baby and cries in his cabin.

One of our leading lady abandons and double-crosses her lovers (both male and female) out of her desire to do what she believes is the right thing to keep their world alive and running, trading, bartering and fighting every step of the way.

And the best part is that none of these characters start out this way. We have so many idealists. The hopeful ones who want the better world, but the better world isn't something 'civilisation' will allow them to have and the carnage comes when they try and change things. It's a scream against the injustices of the world that pushes people to desperate measures to hold onto and protect what little they have.

This is how they survive. They paint the world full of shadows and then tell their children to stay close to the light. Their light. Their reasons. Their judgments. Because in the darkness, there be dragons. But it isn't true. We can prove that it isn't true. In the dark there is discovery. There is possibility. There is freedom in the dark once someone has illuminated it.

Everyone else is ruthless, survivalist, determined to do whatever they have to in order to get what they want/need. People make horrible decisions out of desperation and because there's literally no other choice. And there are consequences. Each action causes ripples in the canon pool. No decision, no matter how reckless/hopeless/desperately made, comes without repercussions.

Unlike so many series, what happens in the episodes before directly impacts how the events that follow play out. Action and reaction. It's a narrative that begins long before we join the story and, when we leave it, it's a narrative that will continue long afterwards. It's a bloody, chaotic, glorious and devastating would-be revolution.

In case I hadn't mentioned it, I adore this show with every fibre of my being. It is packed with so many layers and so much nuance and history and phenomenal character arcs.

[pippin-katz]

Random Satisfying & Clever Moments Of Audio From Dead Boy Detectives - Part 4

There's a few moments in DBD that utilize audio really well, or use sounds that always stick out to me while watching, and these are some of those moments!

This one is a bit of longer one, and might not make sense to everyone, but I'll do my best to explain it below!

Ep. 4 - The Case of the Lighthouse Leapers: The lack of music when Charles gets up after the trauma nightmare, then the addition of just The Wellerman song as he advances on the Night Nurse.

Using sound is very important, but so is the lack of sound. The lack of music or sound effects as Charles starts winding up the music sphere creates tension. After the overwhelming amount of stimuli in his trauma nightmare, the quiet is unsettling. It is the calm before the storm; that moment when everything is too still, too quiet, and you have a gut feeling that something is wrong.

Watching Charles wind the music sphere, speaking with such conviction, yet also composure, after everything she just put him through, it's unnerving. An explosion of blind rage would be expected, not the calculated way he twists the handle, walking and talking with full clarity and awareness of the situation.

The music sphere being wound up also coincides with Charles' emotions. The Night Nurse practically did exactly that to him by forcing him through all of that pain. Charles even acknowledges that she accomplished her goal: to make him crushed and devastated. But she didn't take into account his resilience, his strength; someone else would be helpless and sobbing on the ground after what she showed him, but Charles?

He knows how it felt. He was fucking there. He knows how much it hurt. He knows how unjust and unfair his life and death were. For the Night Nurse to play it for him like a slideshow presentation, as if he needs to be taught, pisses him the fuck off. Charles is furious that this woman has the audacity to walk into his nightmares and lecture him, as if she has any comprehension or understanding of what it was like to experience it.

I think it's part of why he mentions the memories specifically when he's about to kick her: "Those memories are not why I choose to stay here!"

Charles is fully aware of what he went through, and he's moved on, or is trying to at the very least. He does not want all the horrible things that happened to him while he was alive control and influence every decision he makes. He's not that sixteen-year-old boy trembling in a corner anymore; he does not have to bend in the face of danger and injustice. He can stand up for himself, for others, and he will because he wants to. It's not to make up for some "failure" from his life. It's who Charles wants to be.

SO! Back to the audio specifically, the use of The Wellerman song is obviously fitting since the sphere was used by sailors to "calm the seas", but also because there is something inherently haunting about that tune. It's right after he says that he's angry that he pulls the pin out; after trying so hard to hold back all his anger and pain, Charles is ready to let it loose.

The beats of the scene then follow the music. From the moment the song starts to the end of the first verse, the first "segment" of the fight happens. Charles speaks, she tries to reply, he hits her, and she reacts in that timespan. There are very faint bass notes underneath the song after he's hit her. They get louder as the song progresses, reintroducing the score of the show.

When Charles takes a second swing, it's at the start of the chorus of the song.

(The difference between verse and chorus is the starting note. Verses start low and get higher; choruses start high and stay high until the very end.)

During that chorus, Charles swings and hits her; he very nearly lines up his swings with the notes, but not quite. Then he speaks once she's backed against the wall. He lets go of the music sphere in the middle of the chorus, and completes his lines up to: "I still have a purpose!" as it ends. That's the second "segment" of the fight.

The second verse starts with him making his declaration and kicking her, and it plays out as the Night Nurse falls. The second half of the verse swells into a full score version of the song instead of just the sound of it coming from the sphere. It's the third and final "segment". Charles ends the confrontation, and once Angie disappears, the song fades out.

This sequence is such a good example of knowing when to cut the music, and how to gradually reintroduce it. It enhances the uneasiness you're meant to feel while watching Charles' anger slowly escalate. It's part of what makes the whole scene so effective.

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

(ko-fi)

[queenvhagar]

I love your takes!! I would have loved to see Alicent raise her kids to be her strongest allies after realizing she had none at court.

Like THAT'S the greens! They are here for each other because nobody else is here for them.

Younger Aegon teases Aemond about his dragon in front of others, and his mother reminds him of the dangers of the future and the importance of defending this family. At Driftmark, Aegon complains about his match with Helaena (Viserys' idea in the books btw not Alicent - perhaps an unwillingness to marry Alicent's children into other houses and find potential allies in them, or perhaps due to Targaryen custom, as his own parents were siblings) and Aemond speaks of duty to their family in response, risking his lift to claim the largest dragon in the world. In retaliation for this he is ambushed and his eye is cut out, and it's this moment when all the Green children realize that they truly are the only people on their side. Their own father would willingly mutilate should they spoke the truth of Rhaenyra and her sons, their sister would have them tortured and disabled to help herself and her sons, and their mother is the only one who seems to care that this is an injustice. They learn that the threat to their person is real and excusable to the king and his heir should it be necessary.

From here, the siblings are united against this threat. Aegon and Helena marry and make heirs (Aemond and Daeron are still not betrothed, likely due to the reasons listed above). Rhaenyra comes to court to defend her son's claim to Driftmark as Laenor's trueborn son, and when one man says aloud the obvious truth that this is a lie, the king is determined to have his tongue cut out of his mouth, and he permits that he cut down from behind by his brother, Rhaenyra's husband, without consequence. At dinner, Rhaenyra's eldest asks Helaena to dance to insult Aegon, and the one who cut out Aemond's eye feels such little remorse that he laughs in his face about past harms. So Aemond baits them to fight by alluding to the truth, and when the first punch has been thrown against Aemond, Aegon joins the fight against Rhaenyra's two sons. Once Viserys dies, Aemond brings Aegon to the coronation, later going to Storm's End to betroth himself and gain House Baratheon as an ally to his family. Aegon celebrates Aemond's actions and invites him to his small council.

Blood and Cheese rocks the very core of this family when Aegon and Helaena's six year old son is brutally slain before Helaena and her mother's eyes. Helaena is forever changed and unable to leave her room. Aemond feels responsibility as it is all in response to his own actions. Aegon rages. Then the two work together with the lord commander to plan an ambush for their opponents and get vengeance for this terrible act inflicted upon their family.

If the writers needed Aegon and Aemond in conflict this season it should have been due to Aemond's actions being linked to the loss of this young child, but no matter the issue between these two it would never result in Aegon publicly humiliating Aemond and then Aemond suddenly deciding to kill him and his dragon.

This characterization of Aemond really is the last unraveling of this family in the show this season. He is suddenly antagonistic toward his own family, trying to kill them, physically grabbing them, removing them from power (though justified with Alicent's characterization). Alicent is afraid of him apparently enough to run to Rhaenyra and give up her children. Helaena refuses to ride her dragon in the war as she's unaffected by the death of her child and decides to tell Aemond his death to his face. Aegon knows he tried to kill him and runs away to Essos.

Realistically, Alicent would have raised her children to be their staunchest supporters and prepared them for the roles they must play. They fight for power as a family to protect themselves from threat, and Aemond would under no circumstances have actually tried to have Aegon and his dragon killed with the purpose of seizing the throne for himself. The Greens have legitimacy through Aegon, the king's firstborn son, and his heirs, and each of the fewer dragons they have on their side gives them a better chance against the threat of Rhaenyra's. Aemond would never willingly cause the Greens to lose Aegon and his dragon. The Greens have always known that it's them against the world and this would not change once war is declared.

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Seventy-Two

Two dragon eggs are laid. One in the rivers, one in the maelstrom.

Helaena had tried to warn her, time and time again. The egg that had been laid in the maelstrom had belonged to Maera. And the egg in the Rivers, Alys Rivers, was now staring Maera in the fucking face. A large shadow temporarily blocked light coming in from the small window, the witch’s form illuminated by the light of the hearth. Maera’s eyes widened as she watched the unborn child stir beneath the fabric of Alys’s dress, a silent dance of life within her womb. Alys’s hand instinctively moved to rest atop her swollen belly, a tender gesture that spoke of the deep connection between mother and child.

As Alys looked up, her cat-like green eyes with golden flecks met Maera’s gaze, holding it with an intensity that sent a chill down her spine. The witch smiled, answering the question that had not dared been asked. “I have the dragon's bastard in me. I can feel his fires licking at my womb.”

Maera took a shaky breath, her own hand instinctively coming to rest on her smaller stomach beneath her damp riding leathers. The contrast between Alys’s swelling belly and her own barely perceptible bump only served to heighten the turmoil of emotions swirling within her.

Anger boiled within Maera, mixing with a potent concoction of hurt, betrayal, and a deep sense of injustice. She felt a surge of violent rage coursing through her veins, the urge to lash out and seek vengeance consuming her thoughts.

"You look upset," the witch remarked casually, her tone almost taunting. "You needn't be."

Maera's jaw clenched at the sight of the woman before her, her frustration palpable. "You stand there, pregnant with my husband's child, and wonder why I am upset?" she retorted, her voice tinged with incredulity.

Alys sighed softly, a dismissive shake of her head accompanying her words. "It is the Gods' will, Princess. I have seen it."

The mention of divine will only fueled Maera's irritation further. She took a step closer to Alys, her posture tense with anger. "And I wonder," she began, her voice laced with sarcasm, "was the death of my aunt Viserra and her family also part of this divine plan?"

Alys lowered her gaze to her stomach as she absentmindedly caressed the curve of her abdomen. "It was necessary," she stated coldly, her tone devoid of remorse.

"Necessary?!" Maera's incredulous laughter filled the room, a mixture of shock and disbelief evident in her expression. She raised her eyes heavenward, as if seeking answers from the gods themselves.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Maera stepped forward once more until she was practically nose-to-nose with Alys. Their physical similarities were uncanny, but Maera refused to let that distract her. "My husband is a great man," she began, her voice firm and unwavering, "but he has been an idiot."

Maera's gaze bore into Alys's, her stance unwavering as she continued to speak. "You may be able to fool him with pretty words of prophecy, to manipulate him into laying with you and filling your womb," she continued, her voice dripping with disdain, "but I am not so easily swayed."

The witch simply hummed to herself, completely unperturbed by Maera's threatening demeanour. She turned her gaze towards the fire dancing in the hearth below the steel pot, the flickering light casting shadows across her features. The flames swirled and leaped, painting intricate patterns of orange, yellow, and red against the dark backdrop of the hearth. Occasionally, embers would crackle and spark, sending small bursts of light shooting upward before disappearing into the darkness.

“Fire illuminates the truth to those whose eyes are open. No flame is more powerful, nor burns as bright, than that of a dragons,” Alys declared, her voice was calm and measured, betraying no hint of the tension that lingered between them.

Maera furrowed her brow, puzzled by Alys’s strange fascination with the flames. Before she could question her further, Alys turned to look at Maera once again, her eyes reflecting the firelight.

“A great dynasty will be born from the blood of Aemond Targaryen,” the witch proclaimed with confidence, as if it were a proven fact. She rested one hand on her own swollen belly, a serene expression on her face as she seemed lost in thought. “My son…” without warning, Alys reached out to touch Maera's bump with her other hand. Maera's instincts kicked in, and she reacted without hesitation, grabbing Alys's wrist in a firm grip before she could make contact.

The sudden movement caused Alys to glance up, her cat-like green eyes meeting Maera’s with a mixture of curiosity and amusement as she continued, “…and your daughter will return the House of the Dragon to its proper glory. From their union will come the Prince that was promised.”

With a steely gaze, Maera continued to hold Alys's wrist in place, her jaw clenched in determination as she silently dared her to make another move. The action was instinctual, a protective gesture driven by a primal urge to shield her unborn child from any potential harm.

“You are mad,” Maera replied through gritted teeth, her fingers digging into Alys’s wrist, her nails forming crescent moons into the skin.

Alys simply smiled. “It is fate, Maera. Foretold by the Gods.”

Those familiar words. First uttered by the apparition of Lady Gael in her nightmares, the last words she would speak before the dream would tear away the memory from Maera. Helaena had also spoken the words in relation to the broken images that danced within her mind. And now Aemond’s whore had spoken them to her. Maera thought there would be at least be a glimmer of amazement in the stark number of incidents in which these words were spoken. But there was not. There was only bitterness, and unbridled fury.

The wooden door swung open with a resounding bang against the stone walls, causing both Maera and Alys to jump in surprise. Alys's gaze snapped to the door, her small grin betraying a hint of mischief as she managed to slip her hand from Maera's grasp. With practiced grace, she curtsied, head lowered demurely, one hand resting on her swollen belly.

Maera whipped around to face the door, her eyes widening as she saw Aemond standing in the doorway. His long silver hair was tousled, no longer perfectly straight as it had been when he left Kings Landing on his dragon. Aemond's violet eye met Maera's gaze, a myriad of emotions flickering across his face.

He furrowed his brow in a mixture of surprise and concern at finding his wife here, away from Kings Landing. A scoff escaped his lips, accompanied by a deep frown, as he realized she had defied his orders to remain in the capital. He opened his mouth, seemingly to chastise his wife, before his gaze fell onto the witch.

“My Prince,” Alys greeted him, before rising slowly from the curtsy, the movement strained due to her condition

Aemond’s gaze shifted from Maera to Alys, and in an instant, his reaction so pronounced that it seemed to freeze the air around them. His normally composed demeanor shattered in an instant, replaced by a visage of shock and astonishment. The muscles in his jaw tensed, his violet eye widening to the point where it appeared almost unnaturally large against the backdrop of his face.

Maera’s eyes bore into him, capturing every nuance of his expression as he stood there, frozen in the doorway, his single eye locked on Alys’s pregnant form. She noted the disbelief etched into his furrowed brow and the subtle trembling of his lips. Green eyes flicked back and forth between Aemond and Alys, studying their reactions with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. Maera noted the absence of fear or concern in Aemond’s eye, no hint of guilt or remorse. It was a raw, unfiltered astonishment that gripped him, leaving him momentarily speechless.

The realization slowly dawned on Maera: Aemond was completely unaware of Alys’s pregnancy. The implications of this revelation swirled in her mind, adding another layer of complexity to the already tangled web of emotions she felt towards her husband and his whore. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Maera was the first to break the silence, an ominously light-hearted tone to her voice. “Well, this is certainly a surprise, is it not?”

She turned her head to glance at Aemond, who remained rooted to his spot, unblinking eye still fixated on the witch’s rounded abdomen. A bitter laugh escaped Maera’s lips. She had never witnessed him so thoroughly taken aback, not even in their childhood. Despite the tumult of emotions roiling within her, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of satisfaction at seeing Aemond so utterly vulnerable, his handsome face now white as a sheet.

“I am sure you have much to catch up on. I shall leave you while I go and settle in my rooms,” Maera declared before taking a step away from Alys and began walking towards her husband. But the she stopped suddenly in her tracks, turning to face Alys once again, as if she had forgotten something. “When is the child due to be born?”

Alys met Maera’s gaze steadily, her expression relaxed. “Two moons, Princess,” she replied evenly, her voice carrying an air of quiet confidence.

Nodding thoughtfully, Maera absorbed the revelation, her mind already processing the implications. She mentally traced back the timeline, realizing that the child would have been conceived around the time of the Harvest Moon Ball.

"Oh, Lady Maera, I can attend to my duties. Very. Thoroughly,” Aemonds previous words echoed in her mind.

Fucker.

The prince had remained in Kings Landing since that day, and whilst that meant that there may not have been adultery in the technical sense, the revelation still stung, igniting a fierce anger within her.

“Has the Maester attended to you?” The Princess asked, seeming concerned for the well-being of both Alys and the unborn child, evident in her voice.

Alys appeared momentarily taken aback by the unexpected question, her brow furrowing in slight confusion. “No, he has not,” she admitted, her tone tinged with uncertainty.

Determined to maintain control of the situation, Maera walked back towards Alys with measured steps. She knew that showing any sign of weakness would only give the witch an advantage. With every graceful movement, Maera silently vowed to handle the situation with cunning and strategy, refusing to let her emotions dictate her actions.

Maera forced a smile, masking her true feelings behind a façade of benevolence as she addressed the witch. “I have no qualms with the child in your womb,” she stated firmly, her words carrying a note of sincerity. “It did not ask to be put there and is innocent in all of this.”

Turning to gauge Aemond’s reaction, Maera found him still rooted to the doorway, his expression a mask of shock. Undeterred, she pressed on. “I will ensure you are examined by the Maester and that preparations are made for the child’s arrival,” she declared, her voice resolute.

Alys blinked in disbelief, gratitude mingling with her surprise as expression softened, a hint of joy shining through her guarded demeanor. “Thank you, Princess. That is kind of you,” she murmured, her tone sincere.

A smirk tugged at the corners of Maera’s lips, a glint of steel in her eyes as she responded, “Yes, it is.” Taking a deep breath, she let the sweetness fade from her voice, her words carrying a warning edge. “But do not mistake my kindness for weakness.”

Maera took another deliberate step towards Alys, her eyes roved over the witch’s form, from head to toe, taking in every detail like she would her reflection in the mirror. She couldn’t help but pause momentarily on the prominent swell of Alys’s belly beneath her dress, a stark reminder of her husband’s betrayal. Yet, Maera maintained a façade of control, her expression unreadable as she locked eyes with the witch.

“That bastard in your belly is the only thing keeping you safe,” she sneered, each syllable dripping with venom. “If you touch my husband, no actually, if you so much as even look at him in a way I find distasteful…” She paused, raising a single finger to punctuate her threat. “One word to my dragon, and you will die. Screaming.”

Alys swallowed hard, her bravado faltering in the face of Maera’s unwavering resolve. Her jaw clenched tightly as she met Maera’s gaze, a flicker of fear betraying her composed exterior. “Is that clear?” Maera demanded, her tone sharp and commanding.

“Yes, Princess,” Alys replied begrudgingly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Maera hummed in response, a satisfied smirk playing at the corners of her lips as she studied Alys’s reaction. With a final, pointed glance, she turned on her heel, shoulder-barging past her husband as she left the room.

She strode down the corridor, her footsteps echoing against the stone walls as she sought out the main chambers where she would be staying. As she walked, the silence was shattered by the muffled sounds emanating from the room she had just left. Alys’s voice, barely audible, was soon drowned out by the cacophony of crashing furniture, shattering bottles, and clanging metal. Despite the chaos behind her, Maera did not falter, her resolve unyielding as she continued on her path, refusing to look back.

The flickering candlelight danced across the stone walls of the chamber as the maid busied herself preparing the bath for Maera. The servants at the castle were similar in number to that at Rain House, much less than that of the Red Keep. It might have made her feel at home, it were not for the circumstances. The warmth of the water filled the air, mingling with the subtle scent of lavender that wafted from the nearby candles.

With practiced hands, the maid carefully undid the intricate braids that adorned Maera's hair, allowing the damp strands to cascade down her back in loose waves, dark brown and silver blended together. The laces of Maera's leathers were deftly undone, revealing her curvaceous form and the subtle swell of her growing belly. Despite the warmth of the room, goosebumps rose along her skin as she slipped into the steaming water, the heat enveloping her in a comforting embrace.

Maera sank into the bath with a contented sigh, the water soothing her weary muscles as she leaned back against the edge of the tub. With a wave of her hand, she dismissed the maid, preferring to bathe alone in the quiet solitude of the chamber. Alone at last, Maera closed her eyes, allowing the warmth of the water to wash away the tension that had built up throughout the day. The gentle lapping of the water against the sides of the tub provided a soothing backdrop as she let herself relax, if only for a fleeting moment, in the midst of the turmoil that surrounded her.

As Maera lathered the soap in her hands, she felt the familiar tingle of bubbles forming, yet the soothing sensation did little to ease her troubled mind. With each pass of her hands through her brown locks, washing away the grime of travel in dragonback, she couldn't help but feel a sense of futility. No amount of soap and water could cleanse her of the turmoil brewing within.

The thought of Aemond siring a bastard filled her with a sense of helplessness. Would he acknowledge the child? And what of Alys, with her fanciful notions of fate and birthright? Maera feared the influence Alys might have over the child and the potential threat it posed to Maera’s own status as a princess of the Realm and her child’s status as Aemond’s heir.

Rinsing her hair, Maera couldn't shake the feeling of uncertainty that clouded her thoughts. How long would she be forced to put up with the presence of her husband's whore? It seemed as though she was expected to tolerate the situation, to play the part of the dutiful wife. But Maera knew deep down that she lacked the strength and resilience to endure such a trial.

The sound of the chamber door opening and closing quietly reached her ears as she continued to bathe, signaling her husband's arrival. She didn't need to turn to know it was Aemond; the familiar presence and the glint of silver in her periphery confirmed his presence as he made his way toward the bed. The soft clinking of metal followed as Aemond began to undress, the distinct sound of his belt and the buckles of his doublet hitting the floor before being placed neatly on a nearby desk. His boots followed suit, the dull thud of leather against the stone floor echoing in the chamber as he removed them and set them aside.

Maera stole a glance across the room as she continued to wash, running the bar of soap across her chest and shoulders. Aemond sat on the edge of the bed now, clad only in his trousers and an oversized white undershirt. Despite his stoic expression, his single violet eye betrayed the emotions swirling within him—guilt, and perhaps even fear—as he watched Maera with a mixture of apprehension and remorse. She did not say anything and simply continued with the task at hand, letting the undeniable tension simmer in the atmosphere.

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he finally spoke, his voice tinged with a rare note of meekness. “I did not know,” he muttered, his words almost lost beneath the sound of the water.

Maera glanced up at him briefly, her expression unreadable, before returning her attention to bathing. His words hung heavy in the air, but she made no move to acknowledge him. As she twisted her thick hair in her hand to wring out the water, he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. “I swear it.”

A humorless laugh escaped Maera’s lips, the bitterness evident in the sound. “I believe you,” she replied, her tone flat and devoid of any emotion.

Aemond’s head snapped up, surprise flickering across his features. “You do?” he asked, his voice laced with a mixture of hope and disbelief.

Maera nodded, though her gaze remained fixed on her task. “I do,” she affirmed, her voice soft but firm. “What I find hard to believe is how you could be so stupid.”

Aemond winced at her words, the weight of her disappointment evident in his downcast expression. “I am sorry, Maera,” he murmured, his tone heavy with remorse.

Maera hummed in response, her movements becoming more deliberate as she stepped out of the bath and reached for a towel. “Do you realize the position you have put me in? Our child in?” she continued, her voice laced with frustration and anger.

Aemond remained silent, his gaze fixed on the floor as she began to dry herself off. Maera’s words hung in the air, the tension between them palpable. “It was not an empty threat,” she stated firmly, her eyes narrowing as she turned to face him. “It is a promise. Whatever love I have for you has implored me to be merciful.”

She ran the towel through her hair, squeezing out the water as she turned her back on Aemond, her gaze fixated on the flames of the hearth. “But if she steps out of line once, she will burn, bastard and all.”

The Prince’s reaction to Maera’s chastisement was subtle yet palpable. Though he remained composed, Maera could sense her words cutting him deeply. His eye was fixed on her bare form as she moved across the room, settling into a chair by the mirror to brush her hair, the silver streak standing out amidst the dark curls. Lost in thought as she brushed, Maera contemplated the brewing warfare, both within the Realm and within the walls of Harrenhall against the witch, Alys Rivers. Her mind buzzed with strategies and counter-strategies with each stroke of the brush, each possibility branching out into a web of intricate calculations.

She knew that resorting to brute force against the whore would only play into Alys’s hands, giving the witch the satisfaction of knowing she had rattled a Princess of the Realm. As easy as it would be to simply kill Alys and the bastard within, it only reveal weakness, casting Maera as the jealous wife unable to handle her husband’s transgressions. No, Maera resolved to play the long game, biding her time, and when the moment was right, she would strike with all the cunning and determination of a true Targaryen.

“ Gaomagon ao vēdros issa?” Do you hate me? The Prince asked, as he watched his wife in the mirrors reflection.

“Kessa,” Yes, Maera replied gruffly, her fingers untangling the remaining knots at the end of her hair. She glanced at Aemond’s reflection in the mirror, seeing the tension etched into his features despite his composed facade. It was clear that her words had struck a nerve, stirring up a storm of emotions beneath his stoic exterior. Yet, his gaze remained fixed on her, unwavering in its intensity, as if searching for something within her that he couldn’t quite grasp.

“Yn gaomagon ao jorrāelagon issa?” But do you love me?

His question prompted Maera to close her eyes and sigh deeply. The thought of him being reckless enough to give a woman is seed, and not even think about the consequences of what would happen if it took root in Alys’s womb, filled her with a potent mix of rage and despair. But, she knew that succumbing to such emotions would only weaken her position further.

“Hakotan sīr,” Begrudgingly so, she replied, bittnerness on her tongue as the words left her mouth. While Alys possessed the arcane abilities of a witch, Maera recognised she too was powerful within her own right. She was proficient with the sword, adept at forming alliances, had claimed one of the largest dragons in the world, and, most importantly, ensnared the love and devotion on the One-Eyed Prince.

She stood from her chair that faced the mirror, her bare form ensnaring Aemond to not tear his gaze away, making her way over to her belongings on the other side of the room. She reached into her chest that had been brought in by the guards and retrieved her dagger, the candlelight catching the glint of sapphires and emeralds adorning its hilt, casting mesmerizing reflections.

“I wish I did not. It would make things simpler,” Maera muttered, before turning to look at her husband and strolling towards him. Still sat on the bed, the Prince looked up at her, the silver hair falling away from his face. Approaching Aemond, who remained seated on the bed, his gaze fixed on her, Maera wielded the dagger with a confident air. She pressed its tip lightly against the exposed part of his chest beneath the loose shirt, the metal cool against his skin.

“For instance, I could slit your throat right now for how you have dishonoured me, and not bat an eye,” she purred, applying even more pressure with the blade. As she pressed even harder, Aemond's gaze remained locked on hers as he shuffled backward on the bed. Maera knelt on the mattress, her form following his until Aemond's head thudded against the headboard.

She straddled his hips comfortably, a satisfying smirk crossing her face as she could feel a hardness beginning to grow beneath the fabric of his trousers. “Yet whether to be divine intervention or not, my body will not allow me to press this knife deep enough to kill you.”

A sharp intake of breath escaped Aemond’s lips as the blade broke the skin on his chest, a thin line of crimson welling up in its wake. Maera brought the dagger up to her face, her eyes gleaming with a mixture of intensity and satisfaction as she observed her husband’s blood staining the metal. With deliberate slowness, she opened her mouth and traced the blade along her tongue, savoring the metallic taste of his blood, her gaze locked with Aemond’s, who watched with a potent blend of astonishment and desire, his breath hitching in response.

Grinding her bare core against him, a deep rumbling sound left his throat, his large calloused hands gripping the sheet below him, not daring to touch her just yet. Deciding that he was beginning to enjoy himself a little too much for her liking, Maera snaked her way back down is slender muscular form. The sharpness of the dragger ripped the fabric of the cotton shirt, revealing his toned stomach, a sight that had Maera licking her lips.

The knife stopped at the bulge in his pants and stayed there for a moment. She looked at his face, seeing the tenseness in his jaw and a dusting of pink on his cheeks as he attempted to steady his breathing. With a skilled hand, she hooked the blade underneath the laces, a gasp leaving the Prince’s mouth as Maera pulled the blade upwards, severing the strings that confined his manhood.

Her hand slipped into his breeches to wrap around his length and stroke him slowly, his cock hot and heavy in her hand. She lay on her side between his legs, mindful of her swelling abdomen, as she let her hand slide down his shaft, her touch intentionally light, seeking to draw out the sensation.

“What exactly did you think she would do with the seed you bestowed upon her womb when you lay with her?” Maera asked, her green eyes burning into his as she continued to pump him. No answer came as Aemond attempted to hold back a groan by tensing his jaw. That would not do. Leaning forward she kissed his tip, tongue darting out to catch a bead of his arousal that began to leak from his slit.

He threw his head back, a harsh thud against the headboard indicating that he was beginning to lose control. “Fuck,” he growled, knuckles white from holding the sheets so tightly between his fingers.

“Perhaps wipe it from her body and read what it said in the palm of her hand?” Maera inquired with a mocking tone, before taking him in her mouth. Aemond hissed as she sucked to the base of his length, not breaking eye contact, before coming back up and releasing the cock from her mouth. She tilted her head and continued to taunt him. “Or maybe conduct some sort of ritual and consume it?”

“Maera,” he breathed, the sound of her name from his lips sending a shudder down her spine and causing her core to throb. She wanted nothing more than for him to elicit more such sounds, loud enough even for that whore to hear.

Maera encapsulated him in her mouth once again, swirling her tongue around his tip, ensuring that her eyes were still on his face as he watched her, swiping his tongue against his bottom lip. She settled into a rhythm, bobbing her head up and down his length, noticing how he scrunched his face as the control he had continued to fray at the edges, his hips bucking upwards slightly causing his cock to hit the back of her throat.

As he attempted to entangle his fingers into her damp curls, Maera abruptly pulled back, causing the Prince growl disapprovingly. However, as he watched sit up and move to kneel above his cock, his pupil blew wide with lust, hands finally letting go of the sheets and resting on her plush thighs, fingers digging into the flesh.

“You are a Prince. In my eyes, you are a King,” she whispered in a sultry tone, wrapping her hand around his length and rubbing him against her your entrance so he could feel the slick that had formed there. She sank down slowly on his cock, their eyes remaining fixed on each other as they both gasped. “Not some pathetic wastrel who needs validation from a Strong Bastard,” Maera whined, placing her hands on his chest as she slowly continued to lower herself down, savouring every inch of him until he was fully inside of her.

After a moment she began to roll her hips, grinding against him so her clit pushed against his pubic bone. Her skin prickled at the sensation and that familiar coil in her stomach began to wind its self tighter and tighter. The bruising hold he had on her thighs faded as his hands snaked up her torso, stopping a moment on the small bump of their child, before landing on her large and rounded breasts.

He closed his eye before leaning in and taking one of her nipples into his mouth, the feeling of his tongue swirling around the nub making Maera’s eyes flutter shut. His teeth grazed the skin and her cunt clenched around him, head tipping back as she continued to ride him, Aemond’s hips now snapping upwards to meet her movements.

Deciding to regain a semblance of control, Maera cast her eyes downward to see him staring right back, suckling one of her breasts whilst squeezing and fondling the other. As he switched sides, Maera found herself able to speak. “I am yours because I choose to be. Not because of spells or fate. It’s because I say so,” she gasped, a warning tone beneath the pleasurable noises she made.

Maera picked up the pace, rocking more vigorously as she chased her own high, Aemond now planting his feet on the bed, thrusted upwards, much harder before, hitting that spongey spot within her repeatedly. All of a sudden, blinding white hot pleasure coursed through her veins as her peak hit her, her cunt fluttering around him as he fucked her through her orgasm.

“Seven fucking Hells,” he uttered through gritted teeth, his voice animalistic and feral as he chased his own high, biting his bottom lip so hard that it drew blood. As Maera’s mind became clearer, she continued to ride him, studying his face and paying close attention to his movements as his hips began to stutter, his pace becoming sloppier, his jaw becoming slack.

Aemond was seemingly about to peak, so she promptly hopped off his lap, his cock slipping out of her, glistening in the candlelight with her slick, leaving him shocked and somewhat dazed from the experience. Even though her legs were shaking from climax, she managed to confidently stroll to her chest of belongings, pulling out a nightdress and gown and dressing herself quickly. She caught the reflection of the Prince in the mirror. The image of him sat against the headboard, half-naked with his cock looking painfully hard after he was denied an orgasm was enough to make her chuckle to herself. A fitting punishment.

“I’m going to find a book in the library. Finish yourself off.”

Notes: Honestly, good for her 🖤

Tags: @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @0eessirk8 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @manipulatixe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @zenka69

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[kckt88]

The Lost Dragon XVI - Hēnkirī hae mēre

Summary:

Aemond comes to terms with recent events.

Warning(s): Upset, Body Issues, Angst, Fluff, Uncle/Niece Incest, Smut - Kissing, Oral Sex, P in V.

Hēnkirī hae mēre - Togather as one.

AEMOND TARGARYEN x O.C -VAELYS TARGARYEN

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

Word Count: - 4068

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9

Aemond stood in front of the funeral pyre, his heart heavy with grief, his soul shattered into a million pieces. His once proud posture was slumped, his shoulders weighed down by the unbearable burden of loss. He looked a mess, his silver hair dishevelled and unkempt, his eye bloodshot and hollow from sleepless nights spent mourning the woman he loved.

The flames of the pyre crackled and danced before him, casting an eerie glow upon his pale, haggard face. He hadn't slept since Vaelys died, the pain of her absence like a dagger twisting in his heart with every passing moment. He felt completely lost without her, adrift in a sea of sorrow and despair.

As he watched the flames consume Vaelys' mortal remains, Aemond felt a searing pain deep within his soul. He wanted to scream, to rage against the injustice of her untimely death, but his voice was lost in the howling wind that whipped around him, carrying his anguish into the night.

Memories of their time together flooded his mind—their laughter, their love, their shared dreams of a future filled with hope and promise. But now, all of that was gone, reduced to nothing but ashes and dust.

Every moment he had spent with Vaelys haunted him now, each memory tainted by the knowledge that his actions had led to her demise. He couldn't bear the thought of a life without her, of facing each day knowing that he was responsible for her death.

As the flames consumed her, Aemond bowed his head in shame, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. He had failed her, failed to protect her, and now she was gone, lost to him forever.

In the wake of Vaelys' death, Aemond retreated into darkness, consumed by grief and guilt. He shut himself away from the world, refusing to eat, refusing to speak to anyone. The light seemed to have been extinguished from his life, leaving nothing but an endless void of emptiness and despair.

Days turned into weeks, and still Aemond remained lost in his sorrow, his heart weighed down by the burden of his guilt. He couldn't bear to be around his children, especially the newborn Rekara, a constant reminder of the life he had failed to protect.

He felt ashamed of himself, ashamed of the weakness that had allowed his grief to consume him so completely. He had always prided himself on his strength and resilience, but now he felt like nothing more than a hollow shell of the man he once was.

As he languished in his self-imposed exile, Aemond's world grew smaller and smaller, until it seemed as though there was nothing left but darkness. He knew that he should seek solace in the love of his children, in the memories of the life he had shared with Vaelys, but the pain was too raw, too overwhelming to bear.

And so, he remained trapped in his own personal hell, drowning in a sea of regret and despair.

Aemond's soul was consumed by an unrelenting anguish that he could no longer bear. With each passing moment, the weight of his grief pressed down upon him like a suffocating shroud, crushing his spirit beneath its unbearable burden.

In a desperate bid to escape the pain, Aemond sought solace in the one creature that had always been by his side—his dragon, Vhagar. With trembling hands and a heart heavy with sorrow, he made his way to where she liked to rest.

"Vhagar," he whispered hoarsely, his voice choked with emotion as he approached her massive form. "I beg you-Drakarys”.

The great dragon hesitated, sensing the agony in her rider's voice, but Aemond's desperation was palpable, his eyes wild with torment as he pleaded with her to end his suffering.

He couldn’t live without Vaelys, he couldn’t survive in a world where she didn’t exist.

"Drakarys, Kostilus" he cried out, his voice breaking with anguish as he begged for release.

Vhagar turned her head away, refusing to obey her rider’s command.

“Dohaerās. Vhagar” sobbed Aemond.

Aemond fell to his knees, the tears streaming down his face.

“Please-Vhagar-DRAKARYS”

Vhagar let out a sorrowful sound, her eyes filled with a profound sadness as she lowered her massive head, bowing to her rider's command. With a heavy heart, she unleashed a torrent of flames that consumed Aemond in an inferno of agony and despair.

Aemond's heart raced as he jolted awake, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he struggled to make sense of his surroundings. His mind reeled with the vivid images of his nightmare—the flames, the pain, the unbearable grief that had consumed him.

But as his eye adjusted to the dim light of the chamber, he realized that it had all been just a dream. Vaelys lay sleeping peacefully beside him, her chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of slumber. Relief flooded through him like a tidal wave, washing away the lingering echoes of his nightmare.

He reached out to touch her, his fingers trembling with emotion as he traced the curve of her cheek, the softness of her hair. She stirred at his touch, her eyes fluttering open as she gazed up at him with sleepy confusion.

"Aemond?" she murmured, her voice still heavy with sleep.

He smiled down at her, his heart overflowing with gratitude for the simple miracle of her presence. "It's nothing, my love," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Just a bad dream."

And as he held her close, Aemond vowed to cherish every moment they had together, knowing now more than ever that their love was precious and fragile, a gift to be treasured above all else. In the warmth of her embrace, he found solace from the darkness that had threatened to consume him.

Aemond sat quietly in the corner of the chamber, his gaze fixed on Vaelys as she cradled their newborn daughter in her arms. He watched with a mixture of awe and tenderness as she gently fed the baby, her movements slow and deliberate, her eyes filled with love.

Their other children, Sovia, Daevyn, and Aemon, sat on the floor nearby, playing together with laughter and chatter filling the room. Aemond couldn't help but smile at the sight of them, their innocence and joy a welcome respite from the darkness that had threatened to consume him.

But his attention never strayed far from Vaelys, who still bore the lingering effects of her near-death experience during childbirth. She was pale and frail, her strength depleted from the ordeal she had endured, but her spirit remained unbroken, her love for their children shining bright in her eyes.

Aemond felt a surge of protectiveness wash over him as he kept a watchful eye on her, his heart filled with a fierce determination to keep her safe from harm. He knew that she was still recovering, still vulnerable, and he would do whatever it took to ensure her well-being.

As the Maesters conducted a thorough examination of Vaelys, their expressions grave as they discussed her condition in hushed tones. After what felt like an eternity, they turned to her with sombre expressions, delivering their verdict.

"You are healing remarkably well, Princess” one of the Maesters began, his voice gentle but firm. "However, given the severity of your recent ordeal, we must advise against any further pregnancies. Your body has endured a great deal of strain, and it would not be safe for you to risk another childbirth."

Vaelys felt a lump form in her throat at the Maesters' words, her heart sinking at the realization that she would never bear another child. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she struggled to come to terms with the news.

Tears streamed down Vaelys' cheeks as she buried her face in Aemond's chest, her sobs echoing through the chamber. The weight of the Maesters words hung heavy on her heart, their verdict a painful reminder of her own limitations.

"I'm sorry," she whispered brokenly, her voice muffled against his chest. "I'm so sorry, Aemond. I can't give you any more children."

Aemond held her close, his arms a comforting embrace as he gently stroked her hair, his heart aching at the sight of her pain. "Shh, my love," he murmured, his voice tender and reassuring.

But Vaelys shook her head, her tears continuing to flow unabated. "But I'm-your wife, I’m-," she choked out between sobs. "-I'm supposed to give you as many children as you desire”.

Aemond cupped her face in his hands, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Vaelys, listen to me," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "You are so much more than just a vessel for bearing my children. You are my wife, my soulmate, and as a mother, you are nothing short of extraordinary."

“B-But-“ sniffed Vaelys.

"We already have four beautiful children," he reminded her gently. "Our family is complete as it is. We have Sovia, Daevyn, Aemon, and now little Rekara. That's more than enough for any man to ask for."

Vaelys nodded, her heart heavy with sadness but also with gratitude for the family they had built together. She knew that Aemond was right—that their children were a blessing beyond measure, and she would cherish every moment they shared together, no matter what the future held.

As Vaelys soared through the sky atop Vermithor, her heart felt lighter than it had in weeks. The wind whipped through her hair, the rush of air against her face a welcome distraction from the weight of her worries. Beneath her, Vermithor's powerful wings beat rhythmically, carrying them higher and higher into the endless expanse of blue.

Together, they soared through the clouds, their bond unbreakable, their spirits intertwined as one. Vaelys felt a sense of freedom unlike anything she had ever known, a liberation from the constraints of her own thoughts and fears. With Vermithor by her side, she was invincible, capable of facing whatever challenges lay ahead.

As they glided effortlessly through the sky, Vaelys closed her eyes and let herself be swept away by the sheer exhilaration of flight. The world fell away beneath her, replaced by the vastness of the heavens stretching out in every direction.

As Vaelys soared through the sky on Vermithor, a thrill shot through her at the familiar sound of another dragon's roar. Her heart skipped a beat as she looked up to see Vhagar descending from the clouds, Aemond astride her mighty back. A smile spread across Vaelys' face as their eyes met, a silent understanding passing between them.

With a graceful arc, Vhagar joined Vermithor in the sky, the two dragons flying side by side as though they were dancing among the clouds.

But they were not alone. Soon, they were joined by Helaena on Dreamfyre, and Daeron on Tessarion. The four of them flying together, was truly a sight to behold.

As they soared higher and higher, Vaelys felt a sense of unity wash over her, a feeling of camaraderie and belonging that filled her with warmth.

As the dragons descended from the sky and touched down in the courtyard of Dragonstone, the excitement in the air was palpable. Sovia came running out, her face lit up with joy as she called out to her parents.

"Mama! Daddy!" she exclaimed, her voice echoing with excitement. "You have to come see! Kara's dragon egg has hatched!"

Vaelys and Aemond exchanged a glance, their hearts pounding with anticipation as they followed Sovia back to their chambers. When they entered, they were greeted by the sight of their daughter, Rekara, fast asleep in her crib.

But it was the tiny dragon hatchling curled up next to her that stole their breath away. Its scales shimmered in the soft light of the room; its eyes closed in peaceful slumber as it nuzzled against Rekara's side.

Vaelys felt tears pricking at the corners of her eyes as she looked upon the sight before her. It was a moment of pure magic, a testament to the bond between dragon and rider.

Aemond's hand found hers, his touch warm and reassuring as they watched their daughter and her dragon hatchling with awe.

Vaelys stood in front of the mirror in her chambers, her gaze lingering on her reflection with a mixture of apprehension and self-doubt. Her body had changed since giving birth to their fourth child, and she couldn't help but feel self-conscious of her body.

Lost in her thoughts, Vaelys jumped when she heard the door to her chambers creak open behind her. She turned to see Aemond entering the room, his expression curious as he took in the sight of her standing there.

"Vaelys, my love, is everything alright?" Aemond asked, his brow furrowing with concern.

Quickly, Vaelys moved to cover herself, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "Oh, Aemond, I didn't hear you come in," she stammered, her voice tinged with unease.

Aemond's confusion deepened as he watched her, his eye searching her face for answers. "Why are you hiding, Vaelys? What's wrong?"

Unable to meet his gaze, Vaelys felt a lump form in her throat as she struggled to find the words to explain. "I-I just-I'm not as-as I used to be," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Since giving birth, my body-it's changed, and I'm afraid-I'm afraid you won't find me attractive anymore."

Aemond's eye softened with understanding as he approached her.

"Vaelys, look at me," he said, his voice tender and reassuring. "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, inside and out. Your body may have changed, but that doesn't change how I feel about you. I love you, Vaelys, more than words can express."

“I-I just don’t-“ muttered Vaelys and Aemond reached out for her.

Aemond held Vaelys close, his arms wrapped protectively around her as he whispered softly in her ear. "Let me show you how much I love you," he murmured, his voice filled with warmth and tenderness.

With gentle hands, he brushed away the strands of hair that clung to her tear-streaked cheeks, his touch soft and comforting. He leaned in closer, his lips finding hers in a tender kiss filled with love and devotion.

His hands removing her silken robe, letting it slip to the floor, leaving her bare before him.

"Sīr gevie," he murmured, his gaze lingering on her with a tenderness that made her heart flutter (So beautiful).

Vaelys felt a blush creep into her cheeks as she met his gaze, her eyes shining with emotion.

With a gentle touch, Aemond brushed a stray strand of silver hair from her face, his fingers tracing the curve of her cheek with reverence. "Every time I look at you, I am reminded of just how lucky I am to have you by my side,"

“Aemond” whispered Vaelys as she leaned into his touch.

“Issa ābrazȳrys, issa jorrāelagon, ñuhon” growled Aemond his cock begining to grow hard in his breeches (My wife, my love, mine).

“Issa valzȳrys, issa nēdenka gēlenka zaldrīzes” replied Vaelys (My husband, my fierce silver dragon).

“Issa dāria, let me worship at your throne” said Aemond as he took hold of Vaelys’ legs and pulled her to the edge of the bed (My Queen).

“Ooo A-Aemond” exclaimed Vaelys.

“Such a pretty cunny " breathed Aemond spitting on her pussy before he ran the flat of his tongue up Vaelys’ soaked slit, from bottom to the top, tasting her.

“Oh, my god” moaned Vaelys her eyes rolling into the back of her head.

“That’s it my sweet. Let me hear you”. 

“YES! It feels so good. Don’t stop. Aemond. Please” begged Vaelys.

"Delicious" purred Aemond as he began lapping at Vaelys, running his tongue along every fold.

"More" panted Vaelys. "Please. I need more”.

Aemond inserted two fingers, sliding them in and out of her slick wet folds.

“Oh, fuck" whimpered Vaelys; her chest heaving.

 Aemond’s fingers were soaking wet as they continued to pump in and out of her tight heat.

“I can’t wait to get my cock inside you. I don’t want to wait any longer, come for me” moaned Aemond.

Gods his cock was so hard, it was almost painful.

Finally, he felt Vaelys’ inner walls start to flutter around his fingers, squeezing them. Her back arched taut as a bow, and she screamed her release.

Aemond pumped slowly and lapped at his wife whilst she came.

Soon her tense body went slack and pliant, her chest heaving with every breath.

Aemond slowly moved up Vaelys’ body, pressing kisses to her soft body as he went, until he reached his desired destination.

“Aemond-Issa dārys, issa zaldrīzes” whispered Vaelys as she writhed against him (My King, my dragon).

Aemond looked at Vaelys and smirked before he bent down to lick her nipples, he couldn’t contain his excitement as he went back and forth between his wife’s wonderful, enlarged breasts that nourished their daughter.

“Oh” muttered Vaelys as she flung her arms over her face in embarrassment, as pearly white liquid began to leak from her breasts, running down her body in rivulets.

“Do not feel embarrassed my love” whispered Aemond.

Aemond ran his tongue over the milk that had dripped from his wife’s rosy nipples and delighted in the sweetened taste.

“Hmmm” moaned Aemond as he continued to lick and suck his wife’s breasts.

“A-Aemond” gasped Vaelys.

“Surely you would not deprive me wife. Your mother’s milk tastes delicious” muttered Aemond softly.

“I need you” exclaimed Vaelys.

Aemond couldn't wait any longer. He surged forward and ploughed his hard cock into Vaelys’ soaked cunt.

"AEMOND!" shouted Vaelys, her eyes popping open from her post-orgasm haze.

"You feel so good" rasped Aemond.

"Fuck me, Aemond" urged Vaelys, her tone bordering on desperate as she thrust her hips upward towards his.

Aemond chuckled and bit down lightly on a nipple, making Vaelys moan and squirm.

He started to thrust slowly, trying to prolong the feel of his wife squeezing his cock.

"Faster, Aemond" begged Vaelys.

"Patience, Issa dōna mēre. This is our first time since you birthed our daughter" chided Aemond as he ran his nose up Vaelys’ neck (My sweet one).

“Yes, Aemond, just like that-" panted Vaelys.

Her hands ran over his arms, over his shoulders, and down his back. Her nimble fingers mapped his back muscles and then went down to his arse and gripped him - pressing him into her harder.

“Gods, Vaelys" grunted Aemond, speeding up slightly.

"Fuck me, Aemond. Fuck me with that big, cock of yours. You feel so good inside me. Make me scream, make me come”.

Aemond knew exactly what Vaelys was doing, but he couldn’t help himself.

Vaelys wanted faster, and he was going much faster now; so much for having the control in the situation. His pace had increased with every filthy word that dropped from his wife’s luscious lips.

Now he was quickly thrusting in and out, shaking the bed, the headboard banging against the wall.

Aemond lifted Vaelys’ legs onto his shoulders and wrapped his arms around her thighs, squeezing them together as he thrust his cock into her soaking wet pussy.

Vaelys folded her arms above her head as she moved her hips, meeting Aemond thrust for thrust.

“Aemond! I’m going to come. Oh, fuck!” screamed Vaelys.

“That’s it baby-come for me. Māzigon syt aōha dārys” exclaimed Aemond as he felt her clenching on his cock (Come for your King).

Vaelys always looked amazing when she came. Her head thrown back in pleasure, her eyes alive with lust, and her pale skin shining with sweat.

Aemond could feel the tension in his abdomen, but he didn’t want to come. Not yet.

Not even waiting for her orgasm to fully subside, Aemond moved Vaelys’ legs off his shoulders and manoeuvred her onto all fours, she whimpered as his cock slipped out, but he bent forward to press a series of kisses to her glorious arse, his hands kneading the soft pale flesh.

“P-Please Aemond” whispered Vaelys, her voice slightly muffled as she pressed her face into the mattress.

Aemond took his cock in hand and sheathed himself inside Vaelys once again, his eye rolling into the back of his head.

Vaelys arched her back and screamed as Aemond pounded into her, the sound of his hips slapping against hers echoed around the room.

“Fuck. Vaelys-that’s it” moaned Aemond.

He took hold of Vaelys hair, twisting his fingers in the silky strands before he pulled her backwards, her sweaty back colliding with his chest.

Aemond held Vaelys tight too him as he fucked her, his cock reaching deep inside her.

“Give it to me” pleaded Vaelys her head lolling back onto Aemond’s shoulder.

Aemond could feel the tension building in his abdomen again, as he thrust his cock inside Vaelys.

“I want you to come on my cock again, but not like this-” muttered Aemond as he once again withdrew from his wife’s wet heat and propped himself up against the headboard.

“-Aemond” exclaimed Vaelys breathlessly.

“Ride me baby” replied Aemond as he pulled Vaelys on top of him.

His hand moving to his cock, rubbing it along her folds before she sunk down and completely engulfed him.

“Oh” gasped Vaelys as she rolled her hips against Aemonds.

“That’s it baby, take it. Take all of me”.

Aemond placed his hands on Vaelys’ hips and marvelled at his wife as she rode him.

Vaelys dug her nails into Aemond’s chest as she moved her hips against his, his cock hitting the sweet spot inside her perfectly.

“A-Aemond” moaned Vaelys as he moved his hand to her breasts and once again took one of her nipples into his mouth, his teeth gently grazing the rosy bud.

“Let go baby, I can feel you clenching around me” exclaimed Aemond, as he moved to the other breast and lavished it with the same attention as the other.

“AEMOND” screamed Vaelys her vision going white as she came around his cock.

Her husband threw her back onto the bed his cock never leaving her warmth as he pounded into her, her legs wrapped around his waist, trapping his body against hers as he chased his own end.

“God. Vaelys” groaned Aemond as he exploded. His cock throbbing and twitching as he finally spilled his seed, collapsing on top of his wife, breathing hard.

It took a good while for Aemond to regain his senses.

Meanwhile his wife was laid underneath him completely blissed out. Her heart pounding in her chest.

As the tender moment between Aemond and Vaelys lingered, a soft knock echoed through the chamber, drawing their attention.

“Just a moment-“ muttered Aemond as he slowly pulled his softened cock from his wife.

“Aemond” hissed Vaelys as she bunched the sheets around her naked body.

After quickly pulling on his robe, Aemond opened the door to find Ceci standing there, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She held out a cup of moontea, her expression sheepish.

"I thought the Princess would be in need of this," Ceci said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Aemond's gaze softened as he took the cup from her, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. He could tell by Ceci's demeanour that she had overheard their intimate moment, but instead of feeling embarrassed, he felt a strange sense of pride.

"Thank you, Ceci," he said, his voice gentle. "We appreciate it."

As he turned to bring the cup to Vaelys, he couldn't help but feel a sudden surge of arousal as she sat up and the sheets slipped from her body revealing her breasts.

Vaelys took the cup from Aemond with a grateful smile, although her expression soured slightly as she caught a whiff of the foul-smelling concoction. With a grimace, she took a sip, forcing herself to swallow the bitter liquid.

“Mayhaps we should request more moontea-“ muttered Aemond as he removed his robe.

“Why-OH?” gasped Vaelys as she stared at her husband’s half hard cock.

“I seem to have developed quite the appetite-” whispered Aemond as he lowered himself onto the bed and crawled towards Vaelys, his hungry gaze fixed upon her like a predator upon its prey.

“-Then allow me to thoroughly satisfy your hunger” muttered Vaelys as she ran her hands through Aemonds long silver hair and pulled him on top of her.

[swordoffrivolousthings]

Fatal Flaws in PJO & HOO and their inconsistency

Fatal flaws are a a literary device that has changed the way characters in PJO act and therefore shaped their downfall. Luke Castellan is a great example of a fatal flaw being the reason he meets his end.

Fatal flaws, when introduce in any character, have an expectation, though. It is in their name. 'Fatal', as in it leads to their death/fall from grace/villain arc, and nothing can change that. Think of Macbeth. His story couldn't have ended in any other way because his fatal flaw (or tragic flaw) has been guiding every decision.

It is the same with Luke Castellan. His rage, his wrath specifically as it is named in the wiki, wouldn't have let him do anything but rebel against the gods. This part of his character is formed by circumstances and the gods' own laws. There was no other way for things to end for him.

But fatal flaws are present in all demigods, as Athena has stated in TTC. ("A year ago, Annabeth and I had had a talk about fatal flaws. Every hero had one.")

As such, I propose that every demigod that has ever lived has died because of their fatal flaw. It doesn't even have to be during a battle, just, their fatal flaw makes them make mistakes that would result in their sure death.

This all, to say that while Riordan has introduced this concept into his stories, he has refused and cowared away from going all the way, Annabeth's fatal flaw is hubris. Let it be her undoing, since her only big moment of hubris was in PJO, thinking that she can save Luke. (Not necessarily like I said in another post 'Thoughts about Heroes of Olympus and how it could have been better.' Any other way would satisfy the criteria I'm creating.)

Percy would meet his end because he chose to save his family or/and friends from certain death, with no thought to his own well-being and survival.

Thalia, with her ambition being showcased in TTC, can reach too high in her pursuit of power. It would probably get her expelled from the Hunters of Artemis, and the shock and sudden ability to get sick could lead her to a path less than favorable.

Demigods die young, Riordan has said and reinforced across the original series. He later circumvented his own standards by making New Rome a thing, but that is an inconsistency I will ignore. Show us how the life of a demigod and a hero - two things nearly synonymous in Greek myths - leads one to death. Their flaws, and certainly their fatal flaw, means death in a world made to hunt you down and eat you.

As such, I will propose some possible fatal flaws for the rest of the Seven, while being given ones, they were an uninspired mess such as Hazel's past as her fatal flaw. (Nothing is wrong with trauma, and suffering from it, but letting it be part of your personality is not it. Also, Hazel doesn't have to deal with her 'fatal flaw' after SON.)

Jason - Compliance. He has been raised to be the perfect order and rule-following soldier, taught to follow the leader and later execute the laws as stated in New Rome. As such, he has the possibility and the conditioning to ignore injustices and horrible behaviour if it is ordered by someone with a higher rank than his (i.e. the gods).

Frank - Wrath. He is kind, is a sweet, he is insecure, and he surely is a bit of a nerd, but under all that we've been shown he has a certain fury to him. He has shared it when talking to friends. But he has also showed it in the series. I think it is a natural conclusion for me, and it would also show why his rage, alongside his powers, has prompted Juno to bind his life to a piece of wood.

Hazel - Guilt. She has shown multiples times that she feels extremely guilty of things that have even the littlest connection to her. She is swept up in moments where it is making her feel terrible. Amplify it make it so that Hazel feels guilty for things happening in her vicinity. After all, her own mother has seen her as a cursed child that brings misfortune. Make her fatal flaw more of learned behaviour than something that would have been with her regardless.

Leo - Fear of hurting others. This is another one based on life circumstances, and created by the environment. Things like this do not simply evaporate when you leave the place that created the fear. Leo, having killed his mother by fucking accident, is terrified of his powers. He has every right to be, but this adds to his unwillingness to use his fire, something that will extend into situations where it is needed but he is too scared.

Piper - Pride. Not hubris, pride. She is prideful of who she is, of what she is capable of doing already, that it doesn't allow her to learn new things. She is so set in her own way, nearly arrogant, that her relationships and friendships are strained by her beliefs and her unwillingness to change. This comes from the way she was treated as important as her father's daughter but never important enough in her father's eyes to spend time with her like she needed.

[its-the-sa]

Different anon. God just boiling down the slugcats to 'animals' angers me in a way I didn't think I could be angry. Yes, they are animals, but by all means they are cognitive and understand complex emotions, communicate with a supposedly complex language, are able to be taught to do things. Why else would the iterators use them as messengers constantly? It's not like they're messenger pigeons where it's just going from point A to point B, they understand exact instructions. If this was just some random animal, making groans and grunts, they wouldn't be able to understand what Five Pebbles even meant when he was explaining how to ascend. Even with the mark, could you imagine if he told a lizard this? Artificer, arguably, is a prime example of this. Just an animal would get over their fallen children, sure they'd grieve but in the end they'd just make more. Arti not only is so enraged by their death, that she is physically incapable of ascension, but also swears vengeance upon a whole other species. This isn't just some animal who lost her children, this is a mother who is enraged at her children's murder. Sure, they aren't on the same level as humans are. Like obviously. But I'd argue it makes sense that a scavenger and a slugcat could fall down the path of enemies to lovers. Especially when you consider the fact that death isn't permanent in Rain World's universe. That would definitely change one's perspective on it. I dunno if I make sense, I'm juggling like three things at once, but I had to say what I needed to say. Wording bad, slugcat smort.

tbh it took me a minute to figure out what this was even referring to, because honestly I don't think that anon meant to use the word 'animal' to dehumanize arti in the first place. it sounded to me like they were just using it as a non-human equivalent for 'person', like "why would anyone fall for a person who committed hate crimes against them?" which is a valid question. it never even occurred to me that they could have meant it in the sense of calling her an inferior creature.

that said... you ARE 100% right and you should say it, lmao.

I very nearly got into this exact argument once, bc i saw some comments from a guy scoffing at the idea of arti showing mercy to baby scavs. because by his logic, 'she is just an animal, so she isn't bound by human morality. in the wild, animals kill any young that don't belong to them without hesitation'. and it just pissed me off so much, because not only was it such an edgy "mercy is for the WEAK!" alpha-male bullshit take, it was also just factually wrong. many animals can and do adopt the young of other animals, even other species, especially when they've just lost their own. and like you said, they can grieve, but then they move on. they keep surviving, and making more babies. they don't dwell on injustice, or let rage consume them to the point that it becomes a hindrance to their own survival. they don't go on single-minded revenge quests. they dont try to justify their own violence by demonizing entire species, and they dont end up plagued by guilt in their sleep. those are very, very human things.

and yeah, i see a lot of people theorize that it's the mark of communication that grants the slugcats higher intelligence, but I don't really buy that either. i think the mark just lets them understand the iterator's language. they must've already had the capacity to understand it, or else it wouldn't work at all. it'd be like trying to install windows on a calculator. also, even without the mark, slugcats are obviously shown to communicate with each other. they have their own culture, they tell stories and make art, and they're apparently able to understand karma and the nature of the cycle at least enough to be able to ascend. so like... any creature thats capable of spiritual enlightenment must at least be sapient, right??

it seems like in the absence of the ancients, both slugcats and scavs are beginning to move in to their niche in the ecosystem

[givemearmstopraywith]

the word intifada, in arabic, اِنْتِفَاضَة, literally means "shaking off." a shiver, shudder, tremour, trembling, shuddering, quivering. psalm 2:11 tells us to "serve the lord with fear, and rejoice with trembling (בִּרְעָדָֽה)." on the day of the lord in isaiah 13:13, the heavens and the earth will tremble: god is in the trembling. philippians 2:12 reiterates this psalm: "work out your own salvation with fear and trembling (τρόμου)." when the haemmorhaging woman of mark 5 audaciously touches christ's cloak and he feels his power leave him to heal her, she approaches him "trembling with fear" to confess what she has done, which he responds that her faith has healed her: "go in peace and be freed from your suffering." when jesus dies, there is an earthquake: the earth trembles at the moment of jesus’ death, the rocks split open, and the dead walk. what has been is shaken off. the crucifixion is not an end, but a beginning: a commencement, because god has commenced his intifada, his mission to free mankind from the human injustice which is the absence of grace and mercy.

throughout the scripture, trembling is the precursor to something else. it means god is in proximity; it means we are about to be touched by grace. shivering is the body’s natural reaction to an outside stimulus- an effort to get warm when confronted with cold, or the adrenaline in our bodies priming us to respond to danger. intifada is the natural human reaction to the outside stimulus: the body, the community, making an effort to get warm when left outside of justice, a response to danger. trembling is the work of god, a smudge from the fingerprint of his creation. when we shake, god is in the trembling. god is in the shaking of rage and tears. god is the fight against injustice. god is in the intifada. how much more does the earth quake for all those little ones.

[thatonebirdwrites]

Heroic

Lena Kieran Walsh knew her plan was perhaps the most ridiculous and ludicrous plan of all time. Yet her mother's last wish before her death had been, "become a menace to our enemies."

Lena, in tears, holding her mother's hands, vowed, "I will. Be at peace, Mammy." Her mother exhaled few ragged breaths with a faint smile before she slipped away. As if she'd only needed Lena's vow to finally let herself go.

The funeral had been a quiet affair, mostly due to her mother's instructions. Lena invited those on her mother's list, but she also added Sam Arias and her daughter, Jack Spheer, and Andrea Rojas -- her friend group to help support her.

They stood on the Cliffs of Moher that day, and as requested by her mother, she spread her ashes amongst the dirt by that trail and planted the oak. It had taken a week to get permission for the planting due to the area being a park, but the week had given Lena time to secure the ingredients for one last spell.

Lena herself didn't believe in magic per se. She was a scientist to her core, preferring to study biology and physics at the university, her thesis on the use of nanotechnology to target and destroy cancer cells. A project she shared with Jack and Sam. As much as university had set her apart from her mother’s lessons, she still remembered the old ways.

Traditions taught from mother to daughter, magic and stories that mustn’t be forgotten. Her Mammy was a self-professed druid within a larger druidic coven. She'd been highly regarded in the community as the caretaker of Ireland's history and myths, and Lena had been expected to take her place until she’d flounced off to uni.

But that day, she asked Sam to hold her brolly, it being a soft day, the mists from the heavy clouds like pinpricks against her cheeks. She knelt in the dirt and unstoppered the growing potion, one she’d carefully made per her Mammy’s instructions. Sung the magical words and focused all her mind and heart on imbuing it with her love for her Mammy.

That day, on the Cliffs of Moher, Lena poured the potion into the roots of the oak and sung the activation song. Her voice clear and precise, the melody soothing with little runs, and her eyes closed to keep herself from weeping. Tears would shatter her voice, and she needed to this perfect.

She could do no less for her Mammy.

Later Jack, Andrea, and Sam would swear the tree had grown during that moment, but Lena had her eyes closed and missed it. Lena expected the coven’s agreements that growth occurred, but Jack, Sam, and Andrea? They’re the pragmatics and realists of the group.

In the following months, she’d think of that day often, while she quietly worked through her mother's grimoire. Partly to better understand but also to continue her legacy in a way, and that was what gave her the idea.

Her mother referenced several artifacts that had been stolen from Haitian tribes, who had contacted her out of concern the magic within them was being misused. Her mother's cancer had prevented her from doing much more than attempt wards on the exhibits in London to prevent misuse.

But Lena had a better idea.

Why not steal from the colonizers who ransacked countries, starved populations into submission or outright killed them? Lena knew the stories of her people well. Her mother had taught her of the potato famine, which had been caused by the British literally poisoning the fields. The trauma of that colonization never left her people, and she let the rage from those injustices fuel her plan.

The Haitian tribes would see their lost artifacts returned, and Lena would wear the color of blood as a symbol of the dead left in the wake of the colonizers. Yes, if she planned well, she could leave her mark, and live up to her promise to her Mammy.

"Lena," Sam argued, "You can't do this alone. Let me help."

"I don't want to risk you," Lena protested. "You have a daughter."

"And the risk to you?" Sam crossed her arms and frowned. "You're family, Lena. And we help family always. So if you're going to do this stunt, then let me be your getaway driver."

“She has a point.” Andrea sipped her scotch from where she sat next to Lena’s bar. She leaned against it, both elbows on the counter, while her hand swirled the scotch. “This is a grave risk. Besides, it’ll be way more fun with friends, Lena.” She smirked. “I am an excellent—”

“Don’t you dare say it,” Lena pointed her finger at Andrea in warning. Her ex-girlfriend smirked in response and leaned against Sam’s side. The two had become nearly inseparable since meeting, and Lena didn’t mind if it meant less jokes about her own sex life.

Jack, who had stayed silent up to that point, chuckled. "Luv, they’re right. Doing this alone? It's a bit much. You need a team. I'll see if I can rig up a program to keep the cameras off your movements."

Lena already had done some preliminary hacking to see the extent of the security, but now that Jack had mentioned it, having someone to control the cameras would be immensely helpful. And Sam was an excellent driver and had a pilot's license, mostly because Lena had needed a buddy to get through the lessons.

"Fine. You all can help." She made a show of rolling her eyes and sounding put out, but secretly she was thrilled that her closest friends had her back.

Sam turned onto Mare Street in London, and slowed to a stop near 11 Mare Street. She parked with a frown. "Lena, are you sure this is it?"

Lena stared at the rather small storefront. Victor Wynd Museum of Curiosities was emblazoned above the more stately letters of The Last Tuesday Society. The window overflowed with a grotesque display of shrunken heads, skeletons, and voodoo dolls. No wonder Mammy's Voodoo friends contacted her for help. This place stank of exploitation of their craft.

"Yup. It's smaller than expected."

"Are you kidding me?" Sam leaned over her steering wheel. "There's a cocktail menu posted on the door."

“What? Are they drinking out of the skulls?” Andrea quipped, a hint of disgust in her voice.

Anger seared through Lena's veins. "Of course. Typical British."

"Hey!" Jack protested from the back seat, where he sat with a laptop. His fingers danced across the keys. "I am mildly offended, Luv."

"Jack, you're more Scottish-Indian than British-Indian," Lena drawled.

“Still. Till the Scots gain our independence, we do not drink from skulls.” He sniffed dramatically, but she knew he wasn't really bothered. "Their security is a load of tosh."

"Considering how tiny this storefront is, I'm not surprised," Sam said. "So, uh, what's the best way to do this?"

“Too distracted to hear Lena’s hours long presentation?” Andrea teased, which elicited a glare from her girlfriend.

“The placement of your hands is the villain here,” Sam shot back, her cheeks reddening.

Andrea raised her hands and wiggled her fingers. “We all need exercise sometimes.”

Lena rolls her eyes. “Stop acting the maggot you two.” She nods toward the museum-cocktail lounge. “Three am is the goal since they close around midnight. Jack, focus on taking over their security feeds. I'll have a program ready. It'll erase itself within twenty minutes. If I'm not out by then, all of you leg it. If I’m caught, I’m caught, but I won’t have you three joining me."

"That's kind of tight," Sam said, uneasy. "And we can’t just leave you, Lena."

Lena sighed. "I mean it, Sam. This isn’t some grand heroic moment. It’s breaking and entering.”

“I beg to differ,” Jack said. “Heroic is indeed what this is. Lost artifacts returned to their homes? A modern day Robin Hood.”

Lena smiled and shook her head. “Look, I get in, procure the stolen artifacts, and get out. No sight-seeing or distractions. Twenty is plenty.” She turned to glare at Andrea. “Can’t trust you not to lob the gob with Sam, so you’re the lookout.”

Andrea smirked. “Fine. I’ll wear all black.”

“Good. Do that ridiculous whistle if you see any Garda.” In reply, Andrea gave Lena fingerguns. “Sam, use your electric car. The idling’s as silent as a grave.”

Sam nodded. “Can do.”

“Now remember,” Lena narrowed her eyes at Andrea but glanced at the other two in the car for good measure. “We’re scouting now. No getting banjaxed. I need you all as sprightly as a wagtail.”

“Being a craic vacuum today?” Andrea quipped.

“No more dossing around, Andi,” Lena said exasperated. She used that saying once about Sam being too uptight, and Andrea adopted i almost immediately to Lena's annoyance. “Or you’re sitting the rest out.”

“Wait, there’s more planned?” Andrea grinned. “Mina, you’re holding back.”

“Shut it. We have a job to do. Now let’s get cracking.” Lena opened the door and wished she wasn’t about to sully herself in the most exploitive, macabre cocktail lounge she'd ever seen.

The moment she stepped inside, she wished she hadn’t, as the jampacked walls full of macabre exhibits and the strange musky scent almost had her walking right back out.

But no, she needed reconnaissance. Locate exactly where to enter, nab the target, and exit. Surely her ancestors and the ancestors of her mother's friends will forgive her for having a short drink next to a taxidermy lion on a table made from a sarcophagus.

She needed the ancestors protection for this, not their fury. Besides, the cocktails turned out to be manky as hell.

Dressed in a red cloak, wide-brimmed hat, gloves, and boots, Lena felt a trifle ridiculous but also proud of herself. Time to finally live up to her vow, to do what her mother could not, and bring home what was stolen.

From their reconnaissance, she marked several windows large enough for her to slip through. All required a climb. It hadn’t taken her long to make a device to shoot the rope into the wood of the window. Climbing had been a bit stressful, but she’d made it. Below she could see Andi, leaning against a wall as she watched the road. Jack was still in the car with Sam, the program churning through the security.

It took three tries with her tools to unlock the window and push it open. The stench hit her first. She pulled up her scarf to wrap around her face. For feck’s sake, did the owner store poop here? She dropped into the attic and to her horror there was indeed poop here. Several glass jars labeled with celebrity names and dates sat in a container to her right.

It gave her an idea however. She gathered a few and carefully made her way down the rickety ladder to the main floor. In the bar area, she set up each of the jars and uncapped them. Two she dumped their contents in front of the main office.

She tiptoed out of the bar and gingerly entered some of the exhibits. She couldn’t take it all — her bag couldn’t carry it for one nor would the rope hold that much weight — but the staggering amount of human remains on display twisted her stomach with rage.

Maybe she could come back and steal it all, but for now she focused on the Voodoo poppets. They were arranged in rows three exhibits down the hall in front of a macabre set of shrunken heads, African Masks — the designs reminding her of the Igbo people actually — and several skulls.

She bowed her head and murmured the words she’d heard her mother say many a time, “Tagaim chun tú a thabhairt abhaile. Bí ar a suaimhneas.” Irish for ‘I come to bring you home, be at peace.’ Then one by one she wrapped them in the silk the Haitians had sent her mother for this, and tucked them in her bag.

A quick sweep of the other exhibits found her three more poppets, and a search of the attic another six. Her twenty minutes neared completion, so she scurried through the window, slid down the rope, and tapped the button on her belt. The bolt blew apart in a rain of metal, the rope dropping like a flying a snake.

She whistled to Andrea, and the two legged it to Sam’s car. As soon as they tumbled into the backseat, Sam slid out of park and the car silently pulled away from the curb.

"Five minutes to spare," Jack said with a wink. "Nicely done."

"I'll do better next time," Lena leaned back and patted her bag. "Mam's friends will be relieved to have these home again."

"Here you are, being the hero of our time," Andi said with a grin and poke of her elbow in Lena's side. "You need a name though." She looked over Lena's outfit. "Why red?"

"Carmen is the hue actually." Lena laid her hand on her bag and thought of her Mammy, how the cancer had slowly eaten away her life. How hard she'd worked toward causes of liberation. "I promised Mam I'd become a menace to my enemies. I wear the color of anger and blood."

"Right, and whose gonna know that?" Jack pointed out.

Lena smiled. "Oh, the world will know soon enough."

Three hundred Euros later and two days of searching flights, Lena was on her way to the Haiti, her prize carefully hidden in her carry-on luggage. As she watched Ireland fade from view, she took a deep breath and released it slowly. She’d done it.

She’d rescued priceless artifacts, and now they were going home. Smiling, she leaned back and closed her eyes. Already plans formed of improved methods of infiltration. If she was going to do this, she was going to do it well.

[avastrasposts]

The Pilot and his Girl - ch. 24

I'm wrapping up one story arch with this chapter, time to move on and move even deeper in to the TLoU world together with Frankie and the rest of the boys.

Word count: 6.6k

Warnings have their own post, please heed them if needed.

Series Master List

For a few minutes you all watch the flames take hold, but then Benny turns, his eyes are red from tears and smoke, but the grief has been pushed down. Instead his eyes are hard, his jaw set. He steps back towards the three of you, huddled together, holding each other up and you feel a shiver go down your back. You’ve never seen Benny like this, the rage simmering, barely contained just under the surface, is frightening, but Frankie and Pope seem to know what’s coming.

“I need to kill Myers, will you help me?”

It’s a question that doesn’t even need an answer, ‘Will you help me?’  When Benny walks towards the crowd outside the incinerator area you’re all behind him. The crowd is uneasy, the soldiers too, their guns still aimed slightly above the heads of the people. There seems to be even more people now than when you arrived, shifting around the edges of the street, some teens hanging on to lamp posts to see over the heads of the crowd. Frankie grips your wrist, not your hand, your wrist, as if he’s preparing to pull you to safety at a moment's notice. 

“Is it true they raped her?” someone calls from the crowd and Benny looks towards the voice. 

“Yes!” he calls back, his voice clipped and hard. “They took her for trying to protect a boy, they beat her, broke her bones, and raped her before throwing her dead in the back of a truck. Myers and his men.” The last word he spits out and the crowd hisses, their anger aimed at the soldiers in FEDRA uniforms. They are quickly becoming symbols of all the injustices FEDRA have dealt out to the people of this QZ. 

“Punish them!” someone roars from the back of the crowd and the shout is echoed across the street as more voices start shouting for revenge. The soldiers nervously adjust their grip on their rifles, glancing at their commanding officer in the middle. He aims his gun at the first line of people. 

“Go home!” he calls, “go home, FEDRA will make sure the woman’s death is investigated.” 

The crowd jeers at that, some booing loudly. 

“There’s no justice from FEDRA!” a woman calls from the crowd and many voices go up in agreement, the crowd is getting angry, more people are shouting, there’s a movement in the mass of people, surging back and forth. One of the soldiers lays down his gun, crouching to place it on the street and stepping to the side, joining the crowd as he tugs off his uniform jacket. He’s met with cheers and slaps on the back as he disappears into the crowd, his C.O. roaring at him to fall back in line. Frankie is tugging on your wrist, pulling you to the side of the street, still in front of the crowd but away from the soldiers. Pope taps Benny on the arm and motions him to follow. He glances over at Frankie and you and turns back to the crowd. 

“We will make sure there’s justice,” he calls, but even his booming military voice has trouble being heard over the din of the crowd. “Cox is the one responsible! Not these soldiers!” 

But the crowd either doesn’t hear him, or don’t want to. Surging forward, maybe pushed by those behind, the first lines rush towards the commanding officer and the men still standing next to him. Pope grabs Benny’s arm and pulls him to the side, just as the rifles fire. You feel Frankie’s hand around your wrist like a vice, pulling you along the edge of the crowd, pressed up against the side of the buildings until you reach an alley. Behind you, you can hear the screams and angry shouts of the crowd as the gunfire echoes across the street. Frankie pulls you further in, away from the crowd and you hear heavy footfalls behind you, Pope and Benny are right on your heels. 

“We need to get back to the apartment,” Pope calls, “We need to get our gear together, things are blowing up.” 

“Follow me,” Benny says, catching up to Frankie and you, “there’s a shortcut through the old city hall up ahead.” 

Benny leads you through the city, it’s eerily empty, the only people you see are moving towards the area you just left. You spot a few FEDRA soldiers running towards their HQ, walkie-talkies crackling with information about what’s happening, as you duck out of their way, instinctively avoiding to be seen. 

It doesn’t take your small group to get back to the apartments, “Meet me in my place in twenty minutes,” Pope orders, “grab supplies as if you were leaving the QZ, just in case, we might not be able to return here afterwards.” Frankie and Benny nod, Benny taking the stairs, three at a time, up to his place, while Frankie unlocks your apartment door. 

“Grab the backpacks,” he says, hurrying into the kitchen to open up the cupboard that holds all the rations he brings when he goes outside the wall, as well as your emergency rations, dried meat and fruit, freeze dried camping meals, anything lightweight and easy to carry. The backpacks are already partially packed, a habit Frankie had put you in, not trusting this new world enough to not expect that a quick get away might be needed. And he was right, because now you hastily stuffed an extra layer of clothes, ammo and food in before pulling both yours and Frankie’s handguns from their hiding place. With a twinge, you grabbed the two photo frames Hannah had given you, slipping the photos out, one of you and Frankie, and one of Frankie, Lucía and you. 

Less than twenty minutes later you both walk into Pope’s apartment, Benny is already there. 

“Ok, good,” Pope says as he sees you close the front door, “we need to make a plan, and quick.” 

“The plan is to get to Myers, and fucking kill him,” Benny growls. He’s changed out of his FEDRA uniform and is in civilian clothes like the rest of you. As he speaks he puts his gun at the small of his back, sticking into his pants. A rifle hangs over his shoulder, Pope has one and he hands another one to Frankie. You watch as they all seem to fall into well rehearsed movements, each man checking their guns and the ammo, making sure everything is in place. 

“As satisfying as killing Myers sounds, Ben, we need a plan,” Pope replies, “If that crowd moves towards HQ, which I think they’re probably already doing, we can’t just walk in there, it’ll be on high alert.”

“Yeah ok, but the crowd is going to cause a distraction for them, we should use that to our advantage.” Benny says, he’s put his backpack and rifle by the door and now he’s pacing while the rest of you stand in the living room. “The main gate isn’t the only way in, there’s a way through the sewers, it was cleared just a few weeks ago. We go in there, find Myers, and Cox too, preferably, and end this whole thing in one go.” 

“That sounds like an idea, we come from behind and take them out one by one and they won’t see it coming,” Pope nods and Frankie rubs his hand over his beard. 

“How do we get out of HQ? If we’re spotted we’ll have every FEDRA soldier in the compound on our tails.” 

“There won’t be many, as long as the crowd is at the main gate, they’ll be distracted. And for the rest, we just make sure we’re not spotted,” Benny shrugs as if it’s the easiest thing in the world to sneak in the backway and take out two high ranking FEDRA officers. 

“Let’s start by going down there and seeing what the situation’s like,” Pope says, picking up his backpack and shouldering it and you bend to do the same. Frankie puts his hand on your shoulder to stop you. 

“You stay here, cariño, we’ll come back here when it’s done.” 

You open you mouth to snap back at him, he’s fucking crazy if he thinks you’re staying here alone when they go off on their mission, but Pope beats you to it. 

“That’s not a good idea, Frankie. FEDRA knows she’s with you, this is the first place they’ll come looking for any of us.”

“Can you go and stay with someone until we’re back?” Frankie’s looking at you again and you shake your head. 

“Frankie, I’m not staying behind, I’m coming with you,” you say, locking eyes with him, “There is no fucking way I’m just gonna sit and wait for you three to maybe come back.” There’s a hard edge to your voice and Frankie looks anxious, you can see his eyebrows knitting together as he sees the determination in your face. “And if things go bad and you have to run, what are you gonna do, detour to come pick me up first?” Your eyebrows shoot up, challenging him and Frankie looks unhappy, reaching up to take your hand and say something but Benny cuts him off. 

“I’ve been training her for five years, she can handle herself.” 

“She’s not a soldier, Benny,” Frankie grimaces over his shoulder, he’s still looking at you, pleading silently with you. 

“No, she’s not, but I’ve taught her how to fight, and you’ve made sure she can handle a gun. Christ, Fish,” Benny rolls his eyes, “I’m not saying put her front and center, but at least she’ll be useful and she’ll be safer with you than alone if FEDRA comes looking for us.”

Frankie’s jaw moves, he’s gritting his teeth while you stare at him, he knows that face, that expression, he’s not going to be able to convince you to stay. And a part of him knows Benny is right, you’re safer with them than on your own right now, it makes sense for you to come, much as he hates the idea. 

“Ok,” he says finally, “but you have to stay behind me all the time and do exactly as I say, cariño,” his voice is firm but you can see the worry bubbling behind his eyes, his hand squeezing your fingers tight. You squeeze back, reassuring him. 

“Yes, Frankie, I promise, I’ll stay right behind you.” 

He nods, “Alright, let's go then before I change my mind.”

It doesn’t take long for the four of you to get to FEDRA HQ, the warehouse area. The streets are still empty and as you get closer you can hear a large crowd shouting and yelling, things are definitely kicking off in the QZ. As you clear the last alley leading up to the warehouses you walk into the crowd, Benny leading the way, Frankie behind him followed by you, and Pope, at Frankie’s request, at the rear, covering your back. As you get closer to the main gate the voices around you get more agitated, through the crowd you can see soldiers firing warning shots into the air and people around you are armed with baseball bats, paving stones and in some cases, real guns. 

“We need to get to the side of this,” Benny calls back towards the three of you, dodging around a group of young men, all brandishing baseball bats at the soldiers on the other side of the chain link fence. The gate has been closed but the fence isn’t that strong, and it’s only a fence, it can easily be climbed, the soldiers look nervous. 

You get to the other side, a little bit away from the main gate, and Benny shimmies up a lamp post to get an overview of what’s going on. Just as he drops down again you see a familiar face. 

“Hey, man!” Frankie exclaims, greeting the old man who’s pushed himself through the crowd towards your small group. It’s Herb, the veteran and counselor, who’d helped Frankie with his PTSD throughout the years. They still saw each other a couple of times a month, but nowadays it was more about just hanging out, Herb often came over to your apartment for dinner too. He’d been a soldier with FEDRA for a few years, but left about a year ago, disillusioned with the organization. 

“Benny, I heard about Hannah, I’m terribly sorry,” Herb claps him on the shoulder and Benny nods, his jaw tightening. 

“Thanks, Herb, ‘preciate it.”

“I’m guessing you boys aren’t here to just shout at FEDRA?” Herb says, glancing at the rifles hanging over each man's shoulder. 

“Do me a favor, Herb,” Benny says, looking over at the main gate, “can you make sure the crowd keeps the attention of the soldiers at the main gate?” 

Herb gives Benny a long look, his mouth twitching with a small smile, “Sure, I’ll make sure they’re busy.” He tilts his head towards the gate, “Many of the FEDRA soldiers have switched sides, joined the crowd, and Cox and his men have retreated to the main building, they looked scared, they’re losing support quickly.”

“Thanks, man, we owe you one,” Benny nods and looks over at the rest of you, “Let’s get moving, get this over with.” 

“Frankie,” Herb says, putting his hand on the younger man's shoulder, “I know you’ve got this, ok?” Reading between the lines you know Herb doesn’t mean the actual mission, but rather the potential of Frankie’s PTSD flaring up if things get messy. 

“Thanks, Herb, I’ll see you later, stay safe, man.” Frankie nods to Herb and takes your hand as you follow Ben, Pope clapping Herb on the back before falling in line behind you again. 

Ben leads the three of you out of the crowd, through an alley and a block north of the HQ. It’s a neighborhood that was damaged more by the initial bombings and the buildings and streets are broken up. Most of the materials for putting up the big QZ wall was taken from this area, leaving the area empty of inhabitants and hard to navigate. But Benny takes you through the broken structures and down into a bomb crater that has a shallow pool of water at the bottom. Sloshing through it he ducks under a tangle of low hanging broken pipes and into a well hidden opening. 

“Fuck, this place still reeks,” Pope coughs from behind you as the distinct smell of sewer hits your nose. You pull up the front of your sweater to cover your nose, breathing through your mouth as you all pull out and switch on your flash lights. 

“What did they clear this place from, Ben?” Frankie asks, his mouth and nose covered by his hoodie. 

“Rats, a few infected and a lot of rubble.” Benny replies, shining the light further into the tunnel, glancing back to check everyone is ready to go. 

“I really hope you’re sure they got all the infected,” Frankie says. You hope so too, you haven’t had to deal with an infected since your dramatic entrance to the QZ five years ago and you don’t like the idea of having to face one in this dark tunnel. 

“We go quietly, cover our bases,” Ben says, moving forward, “follow my lead.” 

“Since when did Benjamin Miller become our C.O?” you hear Pope chuckle behind you and you can’t help the nervous snort that escapes you, earning you and Pope a frown from Frankie. 

The tunnel isn’t completely pitch black at first, thankfully, there are holes in the roof from the bombs where daylight filters through. But as you go further in, under the buildings bordering the warehouse area and FEDRA HQ, daylight disappears and all you can see is the patch of whatever ground or wall your flashlights can illuminate. Smaller sewage tunnels break off from the main ones, most of them look blocked and too small for a human. The larger ones have been sealed shut by FEDRA, you don’t want to consider the possibility of what’s inside them, the tunnels are not quiet, you can hear scratching and groans, either from rats and the buildings settling, or from something else, it makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Reaching out you take hold of Frankie’s hand, squeezing it tight and he pulls you closer. 

“I’ve got you, cariño, I won’t let anything happen to you,” he mumbles, low enough for Pope and Benny to not hear. You know he can’t promise you that, but it still makes you feel a bit better as you move further in through the darkness, your hand safely tucked in his. . 

It feels like you’ve walked through the darkness for an hour but in reality, it’s only been about ten minutes when Benny finally stops. The tunnel ahead is blocked off, sealed shut, and on the wall there’s a ladder leading up to a round manhole cover. Ben climbs to the top and pulls out his gun, the heavy lid moves easily as he pushes it upwards with one hand, carefully peering out over the edge. When he’s certain the area is clear he gently pushes the cover to the side and silently sets it down. Frankie follows after him, then you and Pope last. You’ve emerged in a basement area, dimly lit by fluorescent lights on the ceiling and what looks like old marketing material for a printing shop stored along the walls. Benny signals down the hallway, you can see a staircase at the end of it and you all walk quietly towards it. 

Making your way up through the building the three men fall into their practiced rhythm of clearing the rooms and hallways you pass through. Pope stays close to you, covering everyone’s back with quick sweeps behind him. Frankie and Pope stalk forward, guns raised as they peer through windows, sweep rooms and scan hallways. The building only has three floors above ground but it’s long. You clear the main entrance area and take the back stairs up to the second floor, avoiding the large curved staircase that loops around the open atrium of the entrance hall. 

The second floor is empty as well but the windows here give you a clear view of the main gate into the warehouse area, the crowd is still there, loud and angry. You can hear them through the windows and as you watch, waiting with Pope while Frankie and Benny clear a new set of rooms, you see the crowd surge forward, the chain link fence almost buckling under the pressure. It won’t be long before they break through. The soldiers are firing at the crowd, shouts are going up, but there are too many people, not enough soldiers. You see protesters fall but those behind push forward, the fence buckling and finally giving, falling flat to the ground as the protesters rush forward, towards the soldiers. 

You tap Pope’s shoulder and signal to the window. He watches for a few seconds and motions for you to move forwards. Frankie turns when he hears your footsteps and Pope points to the window. Benny turns as well and sees the crowd moving. 

“Myers and Cox will run if they see the crowd breaking through, they must be on the third floor, let's move up,” Benny whispers. The hallway you’re in is opening up onto the second floor of the atrium, curving along the building towards the stairs up to the third and final floor with a glass railing giving you a clear view of the main entrance hall below. Benny signals to Frankie to cover him while he opens the door to the back stairs, suddenly you hear running feet coming down the stairs at the other end of the atrium. Pope quickly grabs your arm and pulls you into the hallway again, Benny and Frankie duck in through the door to the back stairs, quickly scanning the stairwell. But a shout goes up from the other end, you’ve been spotted. 

“They’re in the building!” someone shouts, “Open fire, take them out!” 

“Cox,” Pope hisses behind you, shoving you further back and out of harm’s way as four men come down the stairs and start shooting. The curved staircase leading down to the first floor has a solid wall railing and with Frankie and Pope covering him, Benny darts across the hallway, ducking behind it. It gives him a better vantage point to take out Cox’s men and one of them soon drops with a shout. There’s not much cover for them at their end, only the wall of the staircase going up and the angle makes it difficult for them, giving your guys an advantage. Either bullets will run out or Cox and his men will have to retreat, they’re not getting past the four of you. You can sense Frankie’s eyes flitting to you, making sure you’re staying behind the cover of the wall in the hallway. You’re pressed against it, your gun drawn, but you stay put as Frankie had told you. 

Cox and his two remaining men start retreating, back up the stairs, and Benny and Pope advance forward, while Frankie remains behind, still in the doorway, covering them. He motions you forward to join him as Cox and the other men disappear up the stairs, Benny and Pope in pursuit. Just as you reach Frankie, you see Myers. He’s come down the back stairs behind Frankie with two other men, you shout a warning but he’s already rushing at Frankie, grabbing his gun arm and slamming him against the opposite wall. Frankie groans under the impact as Myers shoves him aside and lunges at you, you’ve raised your gun but not fast enough. Your shot goes wide, hitting the wall. You quickly dodge backwards, out into the hallway. From the corner of your eye you see Pope running back, the gunshot has alerted him and Benny to the new danger. Myers has longer legs and even though you back up fast, he’s on you with two quick strides as your back hits the railing, his hand outstretched to grab your gun. But his momentum pushes you backwards and you lose your footing, instinctively you grab his arm and your stomach lurches as you realize you’re falling backwards, pulling him with you. 

You think you hear a shout above you but you don’t have time to react, you smack down hard on the atrium floor, the wind rushing out of your lungs. At the last second you remember to protect your head and relax, Benny’s training kicking in. Myers lands hard next to you, you hear him groan and you try to make your limbs move, your breaths coming in small, shallow gasps as you struggle to regain your breath. You flop onto your belly and push yourself up, nothing seems broken but everything hurts and your legs are shaking. Your one saving grace is that Myers is just as winded as you, by the time he’s on his feet you’ve managed to move away from him. 

From above you hear shouts, through the glass railing you can see Pope fighting one of Myers’s men and by the sounds of it, Frankie is battling the second one just out of sight, shouting your name, there’s an edge of desperation to his voice and you can hear grunts from the other man as his fits make contact.  

“Fucking kitchen whore,” Myers growls at you, “should’ve taken you in with that other cunt, let you both have it.” He’s stalking towards you, cracking his neck as if to check that it’s not broken. You glance around you, your gun has fallen behind Myers, out of reach, and he smirks when he sees you look for it. He lunges for you then, and you dodge but you’re still trying to catch your breath, your legs unsteady and he gets hold of your hoodie, yanking you towards him, his other hand reaching for your hair. He’s big and has at least a foot on you in height, but as he glares down at you, you hear Benny’s voice in your head ‘I’m twice the size of you, use that against me’.

Myers snarls again, his hand coming up to grab your hair but this time you're expecting it, grabbing hold him first and twisting yourself and him, forcing him to let go of your hoodie as he steps back and trips over your leg. He doesn’t fall, but swings at your head, so wildly you can see it coming a mile away, ducking under it and landing a punch right over his spleen, making him double over. You try to hit his jaw with your elbow but he stumbles away from you, clutching his side. As you spin around, your fists raised he straightens up, his face red and furious, panting hard. 

“I’m going to fucking kill you, you little bitch,” he sneers, lunging at you again, like a bull rush. It makes it easier for you to dodge him again, your adrenaline spiking, you can practically hear Benny yelling instructions at you as you drop your body low and swipe at Myers’s legs. He twists around, trying to reach you, but he quickly loses his balance and smacks down on his face, as you slip to the side. You run for your gun but a warning shout goes up from the floor above, Frankie is running down the stairs and Myers is on his feet again, rushing you. You turn too late to dodge him but stumble back out of reach of his wild swing, he grabs at your arm, opening himself up and it’s as if you’ve got Benny next to you, pointing at the exact spot he wants you to hit; ‘Right there, hit them hard here, and they’ll drop.’

Your elbow makes contact with Myers’s temple, a hard, sickening thud reverberates through your arm, and Myers keels over, a dead weight on the floor. Frankie’s on you a split second later, his gun trained on Myers while he glances at you, trying to look both at you and Myers at the same time. 

“Are you hurt?” he gasps, still winded from his own fight and the run down the stairs. 

“Everything fucking hurts,” you wince, as you get a chance to feel through your body, “but nothing is broken.” 

A gunshot rings out from the hallway above and you both spin around but relax when you see Pope wave from above. 

“Just disposing of the last one, you got Myers under control?” 

“‘Course they do, my girl took him down like a fucking champ!” Benny grins, jogging down the stairs, “that final punch made me wince.” He raises his gun to Myers and Frankie lowers his, coming over to you, not satisfied by your answer about nothing being broken. 

“You fell fifteen feet, cariño,” he gently runs his hands through your hair, feeling your scalp, “how are you even standing?” 

“I’m fine Frankie, I’m going to be a walking bruise in a few hours, but nothing is broken, I covered my head, just like Benny taught me.” 

“You were fucking amazing, taking him down like that,” Frankie smiles. A groan from Myers makes him turn around and from above you hear Pope call down. 

“Take care of Myers, Ben, we need to catch up to Cox.” 

“My pleasure,” Benny growls and aims his gun towards Myers head, the man flinches and holds his hand up, the fight has completely gone out of him now that he’s woken up to Benny staring down at him. 

“Please, don’t, don’t,” he groans, “I’ll do anything, I can get you supplies, guns, anything, please, please.”

“Yeah? You’re gonna give me my brother’s wife back?” Benny spits out, “She was my family.” He takes a step forward and bends down, his gun pressed to Myers forehead. 

“Wait,” you hiss, making Ben pause his movement, lowering his gun as you walk over to Myers. “If you get to kill him, I get to do this first.” Stepping up to his feet splayed on the floor, you kick at them, spreading his legs. 

“Don’t worry, it’ll stop hurting when he kills you,” you growl, and aim a vicious kick with all the momentum you can gather, into his groin. A collective wince goes up from the men behind you as Myers howls in pain. 

“Now you can kill him,” you say to Benny, turning around.

The shot rings out behind you as you make your way up the stairs to Pope on the second floor. He’s eyeing you with equal parts admiration and fear. 

“Fuck, hermana…” his voice trails off as you give him a dark look. Frankie and Benny come up behind you and you catch Frankie giving you a worried look. Benny just claps you on the shoulder. 

“That’s done, now we get Cox,” he says, jogging off down the hallway towards the stairs Cox and the two remaining men disappeared up.

The three of you follow him, Pope and Ben, quickly scanning each doorway until you hit the final door, leading to the roof. You hang back while the three men advance up the staircase that leads to the roof. The door at the top of the stairs is ajar and Benny does a quick sweep before stepping through it. The roof is empty and you hear Benny curse. 

“Fuck, they’ve made a bridge across to the wall!” he calls, pointing over to a makeshift bridge, made with planks and iron girders, that makes it easy to cross to the next building and then over a second bridge to the top of the wall. “They must’ve built it only in the past few weeks, I didn’t even know it was here.” 

“There!” you point across the buildings, further along you can make out three men running along the wall. 

“C’mon,” Benny orders, taking off at a run, over the first bridge. It doesn’t take long for the four of you to cross over to the wall but by the time you get there, Cox and his men have spotted you. In the distance you can see him wave at his men to hold you off, as he runs further. Frankie’s hand on your shoulder forces you to crouch down behind some rubble when the shots start ringing out. You flinch as a shot bites into the wall close to you, a cloud of dust going up around the hole it leaves. But the two FEDRA soldiers are no match for the veteran Delta Force men, covering each other they quickly take them out and advance forward. Part of you is terrified at being shot at, the adrenaline of your fight with Myers wearing off, as you continue to jog behind Frankie, going after Cox. But another part of you is shouting with pride at seeing the three men, your men, working together with easy ruthlessness to take down anyone that stands in their way. They communicate wordlessly, only hand signals needed, to deal with any threat and when they advance they move in a precise pattern, each man knows where the other two are at any moment.

Cox is still some way away, he’s reached the main guard tower, the one that sits over the main gate to the QZ and it seems he’s realized he’s walked into a dead end, doing a quick spin inside the guard tower before he drops out of sight behind the waist high walls. The wall on the other side of the guard tower is a long straight stretch without any cover. The three Delta Force men would easily take him down with a single shot. And the only way down from the wall is by a wooden staircase, open and unprotected from above, it hugs the wall right between the guard tower and the four of you, he’d be a sitting duck. 

To your surprise the guard tower is empty, it’s usually manned by at least two soldiers at all times. But as you’ve moved along the top of the wall, you’ve heard shouts and gun fire from the QZ, maybe they have been called away to help quell the riots that have clearly broken out all across the QZ now. But there’s another noise, one that’s growing in level, from the other side of the wall. 

“Infected,” Frankie hisses, looking over the edge of the wall. The noise from inside the QZ must’ve attracted them because usually the soldiers only need to take out a few stragglers that come close enough, simple target practice if you forget your shooting at humans. Now there’s a horde of infected, runners they call them, rushing towards the gate, and no soldiers to take them out. The gate’s closed, of course, and thick, but as you see what looks like about fifty infected hurl themselves at the gate, you pray silently that it’s thick enough. This was not something any of you had anticipated happening when the riot started. 

Crouching down behind the angle of one of the walls, Pope quickly peeks over the wall too. 

“Fuck, not good, not good!” he calls over to Benny, who’s crouched down behind a crate just up ahead, “Will the gate hold for them?” 

“Yeah, it should hold,” he replies, still keeping an eye on Cox. He’s also spotted the infected by the gate and ducked his head inside the guard tower again. 

While Benny and Frankie cover him, Pope advances and then repeats the process with Benny and then you and Frankie. But Cox, who has been taking pot shots at you before, has stopped shooting. 

“Hopefully he’s out of ammo,” Benny says to Frankie as Pope makes another run, “Makes our job easier.” 

The final bit of cover for the four of you is just fifteen feet from the guard tower and as you all reach it, Benny calls out to Cox. 

“Give up, Cox, you’re out of ammo it seems, and nowhere to go.” 

“You get any closer, Miller, and you’re all dead!” Cox shouts, his voice shrill, his nerves betraying him. 

“I’ll take my chances,” Benny calls back, “you’re outnumbered.” 

“No, if you come any closer, I’ll make sure we’re all dead!” Cox shouts again, and this time his voice takes on a manic edge that has your hairs standing on end and you look over at Benny, he’s frowning with a slight shake of his head, he doesn’t understand either. 

“I mean it, let me go or I’ll open this fucking gate and let them in!” 

Your eyes go wide and you see your chock reflected in the faces of the others. 

“You know there’s controls for the main gate in here, Miller!” Cox calls, “And I’d rather let this whole fucking QZ get overrun than face that fucking riot you started. All over some fucking girl, Miller! Look at what you’ve done! It’s the fucking end of the world, shit happens, girls die!” His voice is hysterical, panic setting in. 

“Don’t do anything rash, Cox,” Benny calls back to him, “let’s just get off this wall and we’ll sort something out for you.” 

“No! Where’s Myers huh?! You fucking killed him already! I know!” 

“Benny,” Pope whispers, “we need to take him out before he actually opens the gate.” 

Benny nods and glances back at the guard tower, Cox is crouched down out of sight.

“I’ll keep talking to him, you sneak up and deal with him, kill him if you have to.” 

“That crowd is going to tear me to pieces,” Cox shrieks from behind the wall as Pope starts to move towards the tower. “The infected would be better, at least then you all die, not just me! I never did anything but good for this QZ! I kept you all safe for years! Years! Ungrateful fucking people! I’m going to fucking kill you all!” he screeches and you suddenly hear the telltale sound of metal scraping against stone. 

“No! Pope, stop him!” Benny yells, launching himself towards the tower as Pope covers the last few steps. You glance up over the wall and see Pope fire his gun at Cox, he’s out of sight but the heavy thud as his body hits the ground is enough to tell you he didn’t miss.. 

Benny slams his hand over the gate controls, “Stop, stop, fucking stop,” he yells, his voice taking on an edge of desperation you’ve never heard from him before. Frankie runs to the inside ledge of the wall and looks over the edge. 

“They’re inside!” he calls, “About twenty of them, we need to fucking go!”

You run to him and glance over the wall too, fear pools in the pit of your belly as you see the runners spread out, chasing towards the sounds of the riots further inside. Frankie quickly swings his rifle off his shoulder and aims, quickly taking out three infected, but a handful have already sprinted past the first corner, their speed and numbers breaking down the chain link fences that stand inside the quarantine area. Benny and Pope swing around and start shooting too, you bring your handgun up but Frankie stops you. 

“Save your ammo, you’re too far away to be able to take them down with that.” he says, bringing the scope of the rifle up to aim at another runner. 

“Stairs!” Benny yells, swinging his rifle around to the wood stairs where several infected are coming up. 

“We need to go!” Frankie yells again, taking your wrist. The infected are charging up the stairs, too many for you to take out in time. Benny gets off a final shot, momentarily slowing down the runners by killing the first one, his body falling back down the stairs. And then you’re running, Frankie’s hand like a vice around your wrist as the four of you sprint back the way you came. Behind you can hear the screech of the infected but you daren’t glance back to see how many there are. Your lungs are aching, Frankie’s long legs almost dragging you along as you try to keep up with his strides. When you reach the first bridge your chest aches and you’ve got a stitch jabbing your side. The bridge creaks as you run across it and Frankie drags you towards the next one, Pope just behind. 

“Benny! What the fuck! Move!” he yells as he realizes that Benny isn't right behind him. But Ben has stopped at the end of the first bridge, his hands frantically searching for something at the edge. 

“Benny!” you scream, the runners are so close, the first one already on the bridge, going right for him. Pope starts running back over the rooftop towards the bridge as Frankie swings his rifle off his shoulder again and takes aim, the first infected dropping just feet from Benny. 

“Benny!” you yell again, you can feel your voice cracking with panic but at the very last second, Benny finds what he’s looking for and yanks something out of the bridge, tumbling backwards with the effort. The bridge groans and collapses, the planks slipping off the iron girders and tumbling into the alley below, with a great clank the girders go the same way, taking the infected down. 

You feel the air leave your lungs as Benny stumbles to his feet, Pope at his side, and the two men run towards you and Frankie, over the second bridge. 

“You’re fucking insane, Miller!” you slap his arm harder than you mean to before hugging him. You can feel him breathing hard under your cheek. 

“We need to go, it’s not safe here,” Frankie says, clapping Benny’s shoulder, “Fucking awesome job, man.” 

“Herb’s idea, he implemented it a few years ago, a genius idea.” Benny lets go of you, squeezing your arm lightly before moving towards the door back into the HQ building. 

“I think we need to get out of the QZ and as far away as possible,” Pope says and Frankie nods. 

“Yeah, Cox killed everyone, fucking sick bastard. I never thought he'd be that twisted.” 

“Getting out of the QZ is your specialty,” Benny says, nodding at Santi, “lead the way, Pope.” 

Chapter 25

Tag list: @pimosworld @i-own-loki @casa-boiardi @littlenosoul @stormseyer @mxtokko  @javicstories @nunya7394 @welcometothepedroverse @harriedandharassed @meveispunk @hiroikegawa

[air-of-the-waterfall]

Breq's development through Imperial Radch hits me so, so hard.

Justice of Toren spent thousands of years actively serving a violent colonial empire. It annexed planets and took over the bodies of civilians to parade them around and intimidate their surviving communities.

This all eventually comes back to bite One Esk in the ass, finally impacting it directly/personally through the death of Awn. Realizing that everything it has ever known and served is actually evil literally tears One Esk to pieces, and Justice of Toren is destroyed. Ideally, someone shouldn't need to be directly affected by horrific injustice in order to have some compassion and know those injustices are wrong... but it's a start and better than nothing.

Breq then sets off with a personal vendetta against the emperor and no concrete plan whatsoever. She isn't trying to be a hero. She isn't really trying to do anything but express her justifiable rage. Rage that she has been manipulated and taken advantage of by humans, all in service of a nightmarish system that considers her disposable. Rage that the person she loves is dead by her own hand and she can never take that back. She has made and perpetuated so many unforgivable mistakes, because that was the position she was created to fill and she never questioned it.

Yet, she goes on and tries to do what she can for the people she can. She sees through other people's eyes. She knows exactly how the system works and can see through it clearly from the other side. She considers people's needs and uses her position as Fleet Captain and so-called Mianaai to make changes happen to the best of her ability. It is impossible for her to do everything for everyone, but she does what she can. She organizes. She develops an intense understanding of the people around her and a sense of duty towards them until she's not just acting in directionless rage anymore.

She cannot be "redeemed" for the things she did as Justice of Toren, no matter how poorly she too was treated. She does not expect anyone she hurt to sing her praises, and she's still not a hero. There is no magic solution for every injustice in the galaxy... but Breq does all she can as one person, and that has to be enough. She is one person... but she is one of many.

[yoddhasblog]

Mahabharat is and will always be my favourite tale to reflect upon and talk to people about. This book was immensely hyped up along with the author. I have now read three of her books. The Last Queen, which admittedly I adored. Then, the Forest Of Enchantments, the book I'd been looking forward to for such a long time. That one left me in a rage.

I went into this book expecting to be pissed off and disappointed. And I wasn't let down on that assumption.

The Palace Of Illusions is a retelling of the great Indian epic-Mahabharata. A tale incorporated so deeply into our hearts that everyone has their own takes and beliefs and opinions about it. I sincerely believe that you cannot write a retelling without angering a number of people. Well, I'm one them.

The writing style:

I didn't have too many issues except i did not get why there were so many rhetorical and philosophical questions? Literal, paragraphs that were nothing but questions.

Draupadi, the enigma, the fire-born, the one person I would fight for as long as there is life in me, why was acting as though she was a little more than a sullen child? In the book that was supposed to be from her point of view, the person, the author did the most injustice with was-Draupadi.

The plot assassination:

As I mentioned above, most of everything in the plot of the epic was butchered and mangled to fit into the author's narrative of women, good-men,bad. It is common knowledge that women's position in society was as downtrodden as depicted here. Don't get me wrong, horrific crimes happened against women and justice was also delivered adequately but the author pulled apart the entire social structure only to be able to say that every bad thing happened to Draupadi was because she is a woman.

~ In the very first chapter, Draupadi said it was egoistic of her father to give her a variation of his own name when her brother, Dhrishtadyumna got an original name. In Vyas Mahabharat, her birth name was Krishnaa but like many people in Hindu beliefs, she was also known as Draupadi, though that is the most commonly used name. So, no points to the author trying to convince everyone that this was sexist.

~ Draupadi was highly educated and trained in many things including economics and she was the one who was in charge of the treasury of Indraprastha. She was a finance minister of sorts. So, saying that King Droupad refused to let her train because she is a woman is stupid.

~Also, I've grown up listening to that Draupadi stepped out of the fire as a young woman. She wasn't a child. Some sources say she was around 16 some say around 25.

~ Are we still stuck about 50 years ago that we're going to be okay with authors portraying that all women in power are evil? Kunti and Draupadi viewed each other as rivals? Draupadi throwing temper tantrums over other women? wtf

~ Draupadi as a pick-me? Half the book Draupadi's internal dialogue is nothing but I don't know how to socialize with other women, they're jealous of each other, they're always giggling, I won't survive the world of women, I can't dance, people don't find me pretty because of my dark complexion(where did white supremacy even came in this conversation) but suddenly out of nowhere Draupadi just knows that every woman is envious of her. She adores the saris and jewellery that she used to find impossible to handle.

~ Maharishi Vyas giving Draupadi Divya drishti to see the battlefield of Kurukshetra came out of nowhere. It felt a forced action done only to show Draupadi's emotions about the deaths.

~ Draupadi harbouring hidden feelings for Karna and him secretly returning those feelings felt like a teenager's fever dream. A teenager who's hellbent on sexualizing everything they come across.

~Bhagvat Gita was witnessed by everyone on kurukshetra including the Virat roop? Again, it felt like a move forced that was done in order to show Draupadi's internal dialogue. How did the author even think she could fit Bhagvat Gita in half a chapter?

~The Pandavas just had no personality whatsoever outside of being obedient to their mother and scared of Draupadi's temper tantrums.

~Krishan ji was told to be this charismatic, carefree, silvertongued diplomat but he was simply shown as someone who randomly showed up and gave unsolicited advice.

~And I don't know what that ending was but you can't be serious telling me that Karna and Draupadi somehow end up together in heaven?

~WHAT WAS THE AUTHOR'S PROBLEM WITH RESEARCHING ABOUT MAHABHARATA???

There was no way the entire plot of Mahabharata could've fit into one book. She tried too but this book sucked. I understand it's a retelling and sometimes had to change but everything here felt so forced. The author broke everything in context to fit into her supposedly feminist ideal. Don't get me wrong, i dislike the Pandavas, the Kauravas and their elders with all my heart but they all had one dimensional personalities. They had caricature-ish depositions. I had no emotions attached to anyone in this book whatsoever. This was a headache.

[wellofdean]

I think holding onto anger, being driven by it, harms a soul, even when anger is justified and righteous. I think love has to be stronger than anger, and that love is oblique (neither parallel, nor intersecting, but on another plane) to justice or righteousness.

Of course I'm thinking about Dean. To me, it goes like this:

The mark of Cain supercharged Dean's anger and darkness; gave it power over his love. He fought against it, but he also thought he could use it as a weapon. Use it to win a battle, but he couldn't, and it subsumed him. Darkened him. Led him to abandon himself.

Love, as embodied by his brother and his angel, brought him back to himself. Family is the source of both the unimaginable pain that becomes anger, but also of the even deeper mystery of faith and grace, which, by it's nature is unearned, and comes to seek him when he cannot seek it (or) himself.

Awake again inside his own skin, having recovered agency over his anger, Dean knows he has to fight it, and reject it, but more pain comes, more loss, and it gives his anger renewed and lethal strength. Dean is tested to the limits of his rage, and finds that its strength is bounded. The boundary of Dean's anger is love. For Cas. For Sam. Dean's love stays his hand with Cas, and won't let him kill Sam. Dean's love is stronger than his darkness, and it defeats death for the first time.

The darkness Dean rejects is reborn of him as Amara/anima, and she is beautiful and alluring. She draws him in, threatens to suffocate him. To consume him. He wants her, and doesn't. He is drawn and repulsed. He can't harm her. He learns to see her. Learns to see that anger is pain in disguise. He empathizes with her, helps her see this. He empathizes with the justifiably angry manifestation of his own darkness. Caged thing to caged thing, he sees her. He sees himself. She raged for justice, but injured love so often masquerades as rage. She wanted nothing more than to be freed and healed. To be reconciled.

Empathy, then, is what gives him the gift of his deepest wound: his mother. But not as he dreamed her, but as she was/is. The architect of so much of his pain and his father's pain. A woman who can't look at what she made of her sons through her decisions and her absence. The culpability is hers, and not hers. Dean goes inside her mind, speaks directly to her mind and heart; speaks directly to her wound. Sees her. Begs her to see him. Loves her and tells her the truth. Draws her to him, and lets her go. He learns to see her as a thing he did not, and could not possess. Sees himself as separate from her.

Dean wishes for his father. Sees himself as his father sees him. Realizes that his father's sight is limited. Realizes that he has begun to accept himself, that he no longer lives in John's shadow. He has begun to see his own life as worthy of being lived. As his. Sees his own family, one built of love and choice, not blood and obligation. He is the patriarch who draws them all together with his love. They are his, he is theirs. He can't do it like it was done to him.

Chuck, though, is the thing Dean still can't defeat. The horror of being Chuck's toy. The nihilism of that. It's the last and deepest paroxysm of doubt that he has any identity at all, and Chuck wants him angry. Wants to force Dean to externalize his pain as righteous fury, pushes him towards it. Love is what gives Dean the strength to refuse.

When we think of Dean's story from the vector of unjust things happening to Dean, it's easy to lose sight of the real story, which is an alchemical process that is happening inside of Dean. In that process, holding onto grievance doesn't serve Dean, it just festers. It cannot give him what he needs. Revenge doesn't remove the pain of loss; righteous anger doesn't remove the sting of injustice. That's why he has to let it go, no matter who is to blame, and that obligation is not because of his responsibility to others, it's his responsibility to himself. To his own soul.

Blame, grievance, and outwardly focused anger externalize pain, but in the end, externalizing it cannot avail him. The pain is in him. Everything that was taken from him, everything he's lost? No one who is to blame for any of it can metabolize or transform it for him, or take it from him, because it is his. Only Dean can transform it.

Culpability is irrelevant to the journey of Dean's soul.

Cas tells Dean: I love you. I know your heart. I see you. Dean can't respond. It's not because he doesn't love Cas and I don't even think it's because he didn't know. It's because he isn't there. Cas's grace can't cure Dean's anger or take away his pain. It can't give him justice, but it can give him more time. Love can stave off death one more time.

(and this is why Dean's end hurts so much. He was not finished! He was on a threshold!)

I think it's interesting how much we want to absolve Dean by assigning blame for his predicament to sources external to him: John, Sam, Cas, Mary, Jack, God himself! How much we want to give Dean his justice! He deserves it! Surely in all of this, Dean is, if not entirely blameless, then certainly relatable. His heart was in the right place and he was thoroughly traumatized and under great pressure, and despite all that, surely no one ever went to the mat for love harder, or was more selfless than Dean! What soul could do more?

And yet, he must do more. Dean's soul is his, and it can only be healed from the inside, by his process. The responsibility to himself is absolute, and Dean's absolution, his justice, the grace that will heal his soul can only come from inside the house.

[ratgrinders]

(this is kipperlillyforpresident) Hi. This is an insane thing to ask a person, but also I believe you are the best scholar for the job, so I will ask anyway: if Kipperlilly played Persona 5, do you think she would ship ShuAke?

Points in favor: homosexuality, the fact that it isn't canon would probably appeal to her brand of problems

Points against: She might hate Akira to begin with because of seeing his specialness as Unfair (why does this attic trash get to be the wildcard, huh?!?!), potential for her to want to self-ship with Akechi?

I'm unsure on this matter. I yield the floor to you.

Tumblr user kipperlilyforpresident, it is an honor 🙏

(wow this got longer and more rambly than i thought WHOOPS lol)

Before I answer I wanna go on a brief tangent and just say how SIMILAR Akechi and Kipperlily are. Legitimately, during that meeting at the food trucks where Brennan described Kipperlily as having a "polished steel ball of a personality", my first thought was to Akechi's detective prince persona and just how METICULOUS he is at presenting this perfect, pristine version of himself. They're both filled with violent, uncontrollable rage at the perceived unfairness of the world, they're both slightly murderous (it's okay I forgive them though), they're both extreme overachievers who nonetheless struggle with connections and making friends. Literally the main difference is just that (as I've seen you mention in tags) Akechi's rage all stems from his deadbeat father and the injustices he faced as a result while Kipperlily very explicitly DOESN'T have a tragic backstory. If these two met they would either be best friends or want to kill each other.

So going off of that, I just wanna say that I am both a kipperbees and shuake shipper, and the things that appeal to me about both ships are VERY similar. In kipperbees, like shuake, you got two people who at first seem diametrically opposed and irreconcilable; one side of the ship filled with extreme rage and jealousy at the other party but who is unwilling to admit that their rage stems from a very genuine place of wanting what the other person has, being unwilling to admit just how interesting they find the other person (it goes against their meticulous plans, it's counter to everything they believe) so they instead mislabel the feeling as hatred. The preppy, uptight overachiever who cares so much, and the person who seems to get it all (friends, success) without caring at all.

Going back to your original question, I think Kipperlily would latch on to Akechi hard if she ever played the game, both as a sort of self-insert fantasy ("he's like me but with the tragedy and cosmic importance I desperately crave") and spite (because this interesting character is still cast aside as an NPC in the grand crusade of the Phantom Thieves, he deserves justice and not death).

I think maybe at first she'd ship shuake as a sort of self-ship by proxy, believing (not that I agree) that the protagonist is a blank slate for you to project yourself onto. But I think ultimately she'd be unable to articulate just what about the ship is so appealing to her, because by subconsciously putting herself in Akechi's shoes, now she can imagine this scenario where someone understands her fully and still accepts her, someone who appeals to her competitive nature, someone who is opposed to her wrongdoing and thus subconsciously validates the internal strife she has over her own actions, but who will come back for her anyway because I think she, too, subconsciously wants to be saved from what she's been doing.