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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 7 months ago

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1968 [Chapter 2: Hera, Goddess Of Childbirth]

A/N: Enjoy Chapter 2 a little early! See you on Sunday for Chapter 3 🥰

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

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

Word Count: 5.4k

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

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

You are buzzed at a private party in the Rainbow Room of Rockefeller Center, Midtown, February 1966, chandeliers and candlelight, pink and red hearts made of paper hanging from shimmering strings and littering the floor. Your roommate Barbara Nassau Astor—yes those Astors, Astor Avenue in the Bronx, Astoria in Queens, “the landlords of New York”—brought you along tonight, and the chance to be swept up into her glittering existence is precisely why your father sent you to a school like Manhattanville College of the Sacred Heart. Barb knows people who know people who know other people and every single individual in that grand design is wealthy and worldly and could possibly lead you into the generous arms of your future husband. You are from Tarpon Springs, Florida, heiress to a sea sponge fortune, and your father nurses powerful ambitions of intermingling his blood with the Northeastern elite.

You scan the selection as you sip your Pink Squirrel. You could marry a doctor and sit in the living room waiting for him to come home at 9 or 10 or 11 p.m., fix him a Whiskey Sour or a Sazerac, listen to him bemoan the complexities of nerves and veins before accompanying him to bed and repeating the whole process the next day. You could marry a lawyer or an advertising executive, and your fate would be much the same. Your own parents are partners in life and business, but you have seen enough to know how rare this is. These men of the Rainbow Room, 65 floors above icy streets radiant with headlights, want a wife whose hands will stay manicured and idle: nannies will tend to the children, maids will clean the house, mistresses will massage the knots out of the muscles of his back. And you—a relative upstart, new money among ancient bloodlines—will have no right to demand otherwise.

A man interrupts your reverie. He wants to know about the pendant you wear around your neck. You sigh before you turn to him; you resist the instinct to roll your eyes. And then you see him. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed, with a curious intensity and a teasing little smirk, an Old Fashioned in his grasp like molten gold. You don’t know it yet, but he is a senator from New Jersey, very recently elected, victorious yet still hungry. He steals the oxygen out of your lungs. He drowns you in the amber-musk warmth of his cologne.

“It’s Athena,” you say, touching your fingertips to the silver medallion self-consciously; and you are rarely self-conscious. The black polish has been scrubbed from your nails and replaced with a soft, shimmering champagne. You spent two hours this afternoon having your hair painfully teased and arranged into a Brigitte Bardot-inspired updo.

“Goddess of wisdom.”

“And war and peace. And math.”

“Math?” He is intrigued.

“That’s what I’m studying at school. Math.”

“And yet you are not disinterested in the humanities. You know Greek mythology.”

“Well, Tarpon Springs has a lot of Greeks, and that’s where I’m from, so.”

“Studies math. From Tarpon Springs, Florida. I’m learning everything about you.” He smiles, this magnetic stranger who has captured you like a moon lured into a planet’s gravity. He swallows a mouthful of his Old Fashioned, moisture glistening on his lips. “Do you like Greek food?”

You can’t seem to follow his words. Blood is rushing into your face, hot and dizzying. “What?”

“Greek food. Have you tried it? Hummus, tzatziki, gyros, spanakopita, horiatiki, baklava.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve had it. It’s great.”

“My family owns a house on Long Beach Island,” he says casually. “We eat a lot of Greek food there. You should join us for dinner sometime soon.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Very soon. Maybe this weekend. Are you free?”

No, you’re not; but you’ll cancel plans until you are. “Um, okay. Sure. And who…sorry, I might have missed it, but…who are you…?”

“Aemond Targaryen.” And he shakes your hand like you’re someone who matters. “I’m a senator. I’m trying to end the war.”

With him, you could be a part of something magnificent. With him, you could help save the world.

~~~~~~~~~~

Asteria is the goddess of falling stars, but the home of rising ones. On the north end of Long Beach Island, New Jersey—only 100 miles south of the sleek bladelike skyscrapers of Manhattan—lies the sprawling Targaryen estate. The nine-acre property features one main house and another three for guests, a swimming pool, a tennis court, a ten-car garage, a boathouse, a pier, and an ample stretch of beach that abuts the Atlantic Ocean, open water with nothing interrupting the infinite, miles-deep blue from the East Coast to the Iberian Peninsula. It is the first week of July, 1968, and your 23rd birthday. You are lazing in a lounge chair on the emerald green lawn and eating your third slice of melopita, a cheesecake-like dessert made with honey and ricotta. It originates from the Greek island of Sifnos.

“You two can’t murder each other while I’m gone,” Aemond says. He’s sitting between you and Aegon. His stitches have healed, the worst of his pain has subsided, his poll numbers have only improved since the assassination attempt. He has a glass eye that he can insert for public appearances, but he dislikes it; at home he wears a leather eyepatch that still unnerves the children. Tomorrow, Aemond is flying to Tacoma to campaign ahead of the Washington State Convention on the 13th. Most of the family will be joining him, with only three Targaryens remaining at Asteria: ailing Viserys, useless Aegon, and you, officially too pregnant to travel by plane. You are wearing a floral, flowing, two-piece swimsuit. The sun is blazing in a clear sky. The record player is piping out Time Of The Season by the Zombies.

Aegon waves a hand flippantly, then adjusts his preposterously large blue-tinted plastic sunglasses; he is shirtless, flabby, very sunburned. “I’ll barely be here.”

Aemond looks over at him, amused. “Oh yeah? And what pressing engagements do you have to attend to? I’d love to know.”

You take a bite of your melopita and scatter crumbs across the swell of your belly: seven and a half months along. “I’m sure the prostitutes miss him.”

“They do,” Aegon snaps. “I’m their favorite customer.”

“Well you’re a reprieve for them. It’s always over so quickly.”

Aemond is snickering. Aegon says to him: “23, huh? A 13-year age difference. She could almost be your daughter.”

“And 17 years younger than you. She could definitely be yours.”

“That’s how Aegon likes his girls,” you say. “Too inexperienced to recognize end-stage degeneracy. Still stumbling their way through Shakespeare for English class.”

“Why can’t she stay at the brownstone?” Aegon asks irritably. Aemond owns a historic townhouse in Georgetown for when Congress is in session, though he’s rarely been there since he announced that he was running for president.

“Because Doxie is here to make sure she’s taken care of,” Aemond replies. Eudoxia has been the head housekeeper of Asteria for decades, a formidable battleaxe of a woman who speaks very little English and has a seemingly endless supply of patterned scarves to wrap around her ink black dyed hair. There currently aren’t any permanent staff stationed at the brownstone, and Aemond does not trust strangers. “And because my future first lady is hosting a tea party on the 10th.”

“A tea party!” Aegon gasps, mocking you. “Surely that will patch the wounds of our troubled nation. She’s an inspiration. She’s motherfucking Gloria Steinem.”

“She’s Aphrodite,” Aemond says, beaming with pride, his remaining eye fixed on your belly. He’s lost one piece of himself, but in a month and a half he’ll gain another. “Goddess of love.”

“There must be a more appropriate mythological character. Medusa, perhaps. Lyssa was the goddess of rabies, Epiales was the goddess of nightmares.”

“Aegon, I had no idea you were so…” You search for the right word. “Literate.”

“Io was turned into a cow.” He grins at you, toothy, malicious.

“She’s also one of Jupiter’s moons,” Aemond muses. He draws invisible orbits in the air with his long, graceful fingers. “Beautiful, celestial, pristine…”

“A satellite,” Aegon says. “Mindless. Aimless. Going wherever she’s told.”

Aemond insists as he twists the bracelet around your right wrist, a delicate gold chain he bought during your honeymoon in Hawaii: “Aphrodite.”

“Didn’t she fuck around with, like, everyone?”

“Maybe you should be Aphrodite,” you tell Aegon.

Mimi appears, tottering across the lawn with the straps of her sundress sliding off her shoulders and her Gimlet sloshing precariously in its glass. The children are playing in the surf with the nannies and Fosco, who is entertaining them by diving for seashells and delivering his treasures into their tiny, grasping palms. Criston is supervising from the sand, though he steals frequent glimpses of Alicent as she feeds a wheelchair-bound Viserys—much diminished after a number of strokes—his own slice of melopita, one careful, patient spoonful at a time. “Can we…” Mimi bursts out laughing and almost falls over. She claws her way upright again using the back of Aegon’s chair. “Um…I was thinking…”

“What?” Aegon asks, annoyed, avoidant. If they’ve ever been happy, it was a transient epoch that came and went long before you joined the family. It was before the asteroid killed the dinosaurs.

“We should go back to Mykonos. We had such a nice time in Mykonos. Didn’t we? Didn’t we just adore Mykonos?”

Aegon sighs, glowering out over the ocean. “Yeah, we sure did. Ten years ago.”

“Exactly!” Mimi gushes, oblivious. “When can we go? Next week? Let’s go next week.”

“Mimi, you and the kids will be in Washington, remember?” Aemond says. Alicent will have to be her handler; usually it’s your job to make sure Mimi is ready for photos, eats enough to stay conscious, doesn’t trip over her own feet, doesn’t talk too much to the press.

“Washington?” Like she’s never heard of it.

“The state. Not the city. For the convention.”

“Oh right. Right.” She gulps her Gimlet. You could set your watch by Mimi’s drinking. Tipsy by lunch, drunk at dinner, crawling on the floor chasing the dogs around by 8 p.m. The Targaryens keep a drove of Alopekis, small and white and foxlike. “Well…maybe some other time.”

“After the election,” Aemond says with an abiding, encouraging smile. He tolerates Mimi because he needs her: happy wholesome family, American Dream. Down at the water’s edge, the nannies are giving towels to Fosco and the children as they scamper out of the frothing waves, Mimi’s five and Helaena’s three: Daphne, Neaera—no one can ever seem to spell her name correctly, least of all the six-year-old girl herself—and Evangelos.

Mimi departs, on the hunt for a fresh Gimlet. Aegon reaches into the pocket of his swim trunks—Hawaiian print, royal blue—and pulls out a joint and a Zippo. He sticks the joint between his teeth and goes to light it.

“No,” Aemond says immediately, yanking the joint out of Aegon’s mouth and stomping it into the earth. Then he points down the beach towards the sand dunes. “You know journalists will sneak around trying to get photos. You know we’re never truly alone out here.”

“They can’t tell what I’m smoking!”

“Don’t argue with me.”

“You know there are teenagers getting their limbs blown off in Vietnam right now? I think society has bigger problems than me smoking grass.”

“And yet to solve those bigger problems, I have to win in November. And the suburban housewives will not vote for me if they think I support legalizing marijuana. Trust me, I know. I’ve met them.”

“I wouldn’t want those people’s votes,” Aegon says derisively.

“You’d rather Nixon get them?”

Aegon doesn’t have a speedy rebuttal this time. He contemplates the Atlantic Ocean, the wind tearing at his hair.

“It’s hot as hell,” Aemond says to you, gathering up the newspapers he’s been leafing through, never not thinking about the election, never not strategizing. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

As you accompany Aemond towards the main house—and of course you follow him, always, anywhere—Alicent waves you over to where she and Viserys are sitting to wish you a happy birthday again. From this vantage point, you can just barely spot Otto and Helaena strolling through her garden, a jungle of butterfly bushes and herbs. The stricken Targaryen patriarch beams at the swell of your belly. Viserys likes you, you are his favorite daughter-in-law, though perhaps this is not so lofty an achievement. Moreover, he likes that you are carrying the child of his decent son. Aemond has already decided on the baby’s name: Aristos Apollo. If it is in fact a boy, you suppose you’ll call him Ari, but he doesn’t feel real to you yet. He belongs to Aemond, to the Targaryens, to the nation, but not quite to you. He is more myth than flesh.

“Nothing is more precious than children,” Viserys tells Aemond, raspy and frail. “I would have had at least five more if I could.” Alicent bows her head, an acknowledgement of her failure in this regard. Viserys expects it. You and Aemond politely avert your gazes.

“Thank God for this baby,” Alicent says. “After the year we’ve had? That the whole world has had? We all need something to be grateful for.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees, smiling. It must be the promise of a son that has made his maiming go down smoother, and maybe it is his soaring poll numbers too, and maybe it is gratitude that he escaped with his life, and maybe it is even the fact that he has you.

But long after dusk when you’re getting ready for bed—slathering yourself in Jergens, stepping into your chiffon nightgown—as you pass through the sliver of light pouring out of the bathroom, you catch a glimpse of something that stops you. Aemond is standing in front of the mirror with his hands on the rim of the sink, his eyepatch slung over the towel rack, his voided eye socket exposed and gory and irreparably wounded. There’s something in his scarred face that you can’t recall ever seeing before. There is a seething, secret, animal rage. There is fury for everyone who has ever denied him anything.

You remember who you were before you met Aemond at the Rainbow Room in Manhattan at a party you were almost not illustrious enough to attend. You wore your hair long and loose, you downed shots, you smoked, you swore, you slept through class almost every Monday; and then you packed all of this away in your allegorical attic and became someone who could stand beside a senator, and then a candidate, and then a president, someone who could tip the scales of fate.

And you think as you lurk unnoticed in the doorway: Maybe he’s been hiding parts of himself too.

~~~~~~~~~~

July 10th, 10 a.m. He’s snoring on a couch in the living room, the one patterned with sailboats. He’s hugging his acoustic guitar like a child clinging to a teddy bear. Sometimes he plays it for the kids: Get Rhythm, Twist And Shout, Stand By Me, You Can’t Hurry Love. That’s about the extent of his involvement in their lives. He has a law degree from Columbia that his father bought for him. Aside from a brief and disastrous stint as the mayor of Trenton, he has never been gainfully employed. You pour the cupful of ice cubes you collected from the freezer all over his bare chest.

“What the fuck!” Aegon screams as he startles awake. “What is wrong with you?!”

“The guests are arriving in two hours. And you’re going to help me host.”

“I’m not slobbering at the feet of those manicured elitists.”

“It’s easy to say ‘vive la révolution’ from your family’s mansion that you reside in as a professional failure.”

“Yeah, you’re right, I’m so worthless. If only I spent more time hosting tea parties.”

“I can’t small talk with governors and congressmen, so I have to charm their wives instead. That’s how it works, you idiot.”

Aegon rolls off the couch and rubs his forehead, wincing, hungover. In the dining room, Eudoxia is readying cups and plates, polishing silverware, folding napkins. The caterers will be here soon, and there are also three dishes that you made yourself: stafidopsomo, a bread with raisins and cinnamon; rizogalo, Greek-style rice pudding; and baklava you spent hours chopping walnuts for. At least one show of domestic prowess is an expectation, two is impressive, three is above and beyond, something for the other political wives to chatter about. You know the importance of making a good impression on them. They are as much a part of their husbands’ careers as the speech writers, communication directors, fundraisers. “I need a Bloody Mary,” Aegon groans.

“You need to pull your goddamn weight. Everyone else is working to get Aemond elected. Your five-year-old kid is out on the campaign trail and you can’t walk around with a tray of hummus and mini spanakopitas? Are you serious?”

“I’m dead serious,” he says, standing with some difficulty and then shoving by you. “Fuck off, Miss America.”

“Aegon!”

But he’s padding off towards the kitchen with his bare feet, tiki print boxer shorts, bedraggled hair. You follow after him in your spotless white heels and sundress patterned with common blue violets. Your earrings are pearls. You’ve wrangled your hair into a tidy French twist. Aegon is getting a pitcher of tomato juice out of the refrigerator, a bottle of vodka from a cardboard Apple Jacks box. He keeps booze and pills hidden everywhere; you’re always stumbling across his caches.

You open your mouth to unleash something hurtful, something hateful, but then you feel the cold flare of liquid on your thighs as the ocean breeze gusts in through the windows. My dress, you think, alarmed. What did I spill on it? One of the ice cubes you threw at Aegon must have caught on the skirt somehow and melted. That’s your first guess, and it is welcome; water doesn’t stain, and you aren’t sure if you have another outfit that is both formal enough and will still fit you. But when you reach down to touch your leg—now the liquid reaches your knees—your hand comes away red.

You look up at Aegon. He’s staring back at you, thunderstruck, horrified. His Bloody Mary ingredients are now forgotten on the countertop. He shouts for the housekeeper: “Doxie?!”

There is indistinct, cantankerous Greek grumbling in return.

“Doxie! Call an ambulance!”

“I don’t understand,” you say to Aegon, bright clotless blood dyeing the whirls of your fingerprints. I ruined my dress, you think nonsensically. “It doesn’t hurt. Shouldn’t it hurt?”

“Don’t move, don’t do anything, just wait for the paramedics.”

But the edges of your vision are going dark and hazy, and the room spins like a flipped coin. Your knees and ankles fold, bones turned to paper. As you drop, Aegon dives for you. You clutch at him, but there’s nothing to grab onto, no suit jacket, no tie, only skin that glows with sunburn. “If I don’t wake up, tell Aemond—”

“You’re not dying, bitch. My luck’s not that good.”

But his eyes are panicked; and they are the last thing you see before you black out.

~~~~~~~~~~

Arteries of cement, bones like lead, heavy eyelids opening to reveal strange white walls.

Am I dead?

But no: you hurt all over. Heaven isn’t supposed to hurt. There are needles pierced through the backs of your hands, a splitting rawness in your throat.

Was I intubated? Did I have surgery…?

You try to sit up. The pain is blinding; the severed and sutured latticework of your abdominal muscles is a pit of glass. You gasp, moan plaintively, fumble for the nurse call button on the wooden nightstand.

“Will you stop moving?” Aegon says as he walks into the room. He’s slurping on a straw that pokes out from a Dairy Queen cup. The fluid inside is clumpy and red. Instantly, you think of blood, and a wave of nausea punches through the shredded gore that was once your belly. Aegon flops down into the salmon pink armchair beside the bed and props his combat boots up on the ottoman. “They sliced you up like the Black Dahlia. You’re gonna rip your stitches.”

“They did a c-section…?”

“Yeah, you had some kind of uterus…thing. I don’t remember.”

The baby?? Is the baby alright?? “An abruption?”

More slurping. “No…I think it started with a P.”

“Previa?”

“Yeah, that one.”

You remember waking up a few times: on the kitchen floor as men were lifting you, in an ambulance as the siren shrieked. Someone said you were being taken to Mount Sinai in Manhattan. And that makes sense, that would have been Criston’s plan. Mount Sinai is one of the best hospitals in the country. You look around the room for a bassinet or a crib. Instead you see a wheelchair and a myriad of flower bouquets; word has already gotten out, and so the customary well wishes are pouring in. Lady Bird Johnson sent bluebonnets, the state flower of Texas; Abigail McCarthy sent lilies of the valley; Muriel Humphrey sent roses, traditional, safe, uninspiring; Pat Nixon sent blood orange gladioli. Mrs. Wallace, newly deceased, neglected to call a florist. “Where’s the baby?”

“He’s fine. He’s downstairs in an incubator.”

Ari, you think, though he still doesn’t seem real yet. “What…?”

“His lungs are underdeveloped. But the doctors think he’ll be alright. You want a Mr. Misty? There’s a Dairy Queen like two blocks from here.”

“No, I don’t want a Mr. Misty,” you say, incredulous. “I want to see the baby.”

“Well they can’t move him and they can’t move you, so you’ll have to wait.”

“I’m going to see him—” You swing your feet off the bed and feel daggers, fire, a splintering like someone has taken a hammer to your bones. You almost scream; it takes everything in you to choke it down and only gasp as your flesh becomes an inferno. I want a joint, you think randomly, an urge you’d believed you had exorcised from yourself, an archaic relic of a past life.

“Told you,” Aegon says smugly.

You lie panting, helpless, glancing at the phone on the nightstand. “Aemond knows?”

“Oh yeah, I’ve called everyone. He knows.”

“Good. So he’ll be here soon.”

“Sure,” Aegon says, perhaps a tad noncommittally.

“Okay.” You’re still trying to catch your breath. Tacoma is a six hour flight away. Even if Aemond doesn’t leave until morning, he’ll be here by sundown tomorrow. “You can go now.”

“Go?!” Aegon exclaims, then laughs, one of his reckless, taunting cackles. “Oh no. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You definitely are.”

“No, I’m not,” he insists, grinning. “For once in my life, I’m the person who’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. I’m the honorable one. The sacred heir of the favorite son has just been born, and the blessed mother has been sawed in half like Saint Simon the Zealot, and where is Aemond? Where is literally everyone else? Across the continent shaking hands and forcing smiles to win him the great state of Washington. I’m not going home. I’m collecting every second I spend here like coins from a slot machine. I won the jackpot, babe. No one is ever going to be able to call me the family fuckup after this.”

The pain is horrible, insurmountable; you can’t think through it. You close your eyes and try not to sob, to wail, to split yourself open in body and soul. I can’t let him see me break down.

“What’s up?” Aegon asks. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I want a Mr. Misty. Go get me a Mr. Misty.”

“Okay,” Aegon says doubtfully. “What flavor?”

“I don’t care. Not red.”

“They have orange, lemon-lime, grape—”

“Just pick one!” you shout, tears brimming in your eyes. Get out, get out, get out.

“Calm down, psycho!” he yells back, heading for the door.

As soon as he crosses the threshold, you snatch the call button off the nightstand and press it frantically until a nurse arrives. You get more morphine and sink into a stillness like deep water, down, down, down.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s dark outside, stars and a crescent moon. On the television is grainy footage from the Battle of Khe Sanh. American soldiers younger than you are dragging their wounded brethren to a Chinook helicopter for evacuation: bandages, burns, missing limbs and faces. Aegon had dozed off in his chair—assisted by an ample amount of Vicodin, surely—but is stirring awake now. He blinks groggily at the screen.

“It’s so fucking awful,” you say, and Aegon’s eyebrows shoot up; it’s the first time you’ve ever sworn in front of him. You trained yourself to stop when you met Aemond. “30,000 Americans dead, God knows how many Vietnamese peasants, Buddhist monks setting themselves on fire, and for what? So we can say we did everything we could to stop communism? So we can humiliate the Russians? There is no liberation of Vietnam. All we’re doing is making those people hate us. And we’re destroying ourselves too.”

“I didn’t know you cared about the war.”

You look at him, mystified. “Everything I do is about the war.”

“But you never really talk about it.” Aegon yawns and stretches, reaching up towards the ceiling. “You talk about Chanel dresses and tea parties.”

“Well yeah, because it’s…it’s unseemly, I guess. For me to speak on the war. Me specifically.”

He snorts. “Because you’re a woman? Who told you that? Aemond?”

You hesitate, watching the television again. Now there are napalm bombs incinerating villages and rice paddies. “I had a boyfriend before Aemond, you know.”

“What, in kindergarten? Chasing each other around the playground? Illicit snuggles beneath the slide?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “A real boyfriend.”

“No way. You did not.”

“I did,” you insist, smiling a little. “We met at a party my freshman year of college. He was at NYU studying…oh, I always forgot, that was one of our jokes. It was either archaeology or anthropology. I actually thought I was going to marry him for a minute there.”

“Scandalous.” Aegon is gazing at you with his murky blue eyes, grinning, playful. “What happened?”

“He had a moral crisis about poor kids getting shipped off to Vietnam to be slaughtered while he was tucked safely away in his ivory tower. So he enlisted, and honestly it was shocking how quickly I started to forget about him. We exchanged a few letters, it didn’t last long, I think he was forgetting about me too. But he ended up getting killed in action in October, 1965. His old roommate told me.”

Now Aegon is thoughtful. His crooked grin dies. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s his parents I feel bad for. He was an only child. I heard his father drank himself to death.”

“You’ve been carrying a story like that around with you and you never used it? Not in an interview or an article, not at one of your asinine little tea parties?”

“I can’t,” you confess. “Aemond doesn’t want me to. He doesn’t like to be reminded about…you know. That there was someone else before.”

Aegon throws his head back and cackles, combing his fingers through his disheveled blonde hair. “As if Aemond was a virgin when you met him.”

But it’s not the same. It isn’t to Aemond, and it wouldn’t be to the rest of the world either. It is your eternal disgrace. It is something you will be expected to atone for until you’re in the grave. “Give me a joint.”

Aegon is amazed. “What?”

“I know you have some, you always do. I want one. Give it to me.”

“You smoke grass?”

“I used to. Then I gave it up. But I’m making an exception.”

He gawks at you for a while, then slips a joint out of one of the front pockets of his green army jacket. He places it between his lips, lights it with his little chrome Zippo, and inhales deep and slow. Then he offers it to you.

“I don’t want herpes.”

Aegon laughs. “I don’t have herpes. I swear.”

“Not yet, maybe. Give it time.”

“Are you gonna smoke or not?”

You take the joint and fill your lungs with earth, floral notes, a tinge of spice. It’s been years, but it comes rushing back in an instant as the high hits your bloodstream: calm quiet weightlessness, a sense of wellbeing that fills the honeycomb hollows of your bones. “I need to see the baby.”

Aegon stalls. “The doctors were really insistent that you stay here.”

“And all the sudden you care about rules.”

He considers this, drumming his palms on his thighs. His jeans are ripped; he’s biting his lower lip. Then abruptly, he stands. “Alright.” He grabs the wheelchair and pushes it up against the bed. “Let’s go.”

You take another drag and then discard the joint in your empty Dairy Queen cup. You throw off your blanket and try to touch your bare feet to the cool linoleum floor. It hurts, it feels like razor blades, but you keep going. Then you remember you still have one IV in the back of your left hand. “Wait, how am I going to…?”

“You’re in luck. I am well-versed in needles.” Aegon holds out a palm. Nervously, you give him your hand. He peels off the medical tape, takes a moment to examine the vein, then slides out the needle so smoothly you don’t feel it at all; it barely even bleeds. He balls up a Kleenex from the box on your nightstand and secures it to the wound with the same strip of tape. “You’re welcome.”

“Junkie.” You try to lower yourself into the wheelchair and a yelp rips from your throat.

“Oh, this is pathetic,” Aegon says, but not quite unkindly. “Here.” He leans down in front of you. Too desperate to be prideful, you link your arms around the back of his neck. Aegon’s shaggy blonde hair tickles your cheek; his hands skim gingerly to settle on your waist, steadying you without too much pressure. He helps you into the wheelchair, where you collapse gasping and sweating bullets.

“If you ever mention this again, I will guillotine you.”

He winks. “Relax, little Io. I never kiss and tell.”

“I’d assume you’re usually too plastered to remember the details.”

“Be nice. I could roll you down a staircase.” But he doesn’t; he rolls you into the hallway instead.

The lights in the corridor are dim for night, for dreams. You see a few nurses shuttling in and out of other rooms from a distance, but none seem to notice you and Aegon. He steers the wheelchair into the elevator and you ride it down two floors, then cross another hallway and pass through a set of doors. There must be a dozen incubators, half of them occupied. The nurse on duty—currently cradling a tiny infant in her arms, a girl judging by the pink hat, and feeding her from a bottle of formula—gapes at you.

“Ma’am? You aren’t supposed to be—”

“Shut up,” Aegon tells her, and the nurse doesn’t say another word.

Aegon pushes the wheelchair down the line of incubators until you reach the one with a name card labelled Targaryen, Aristos Apollo. And there he is: unmistakably fragile, impossibly small, blue veins like a roadmap beneath translucent skin, tangled in tubes and wires. In his sleeping face you don’t see Aemond or even yourself, but rather an inexplicable familiarity. You feel like you’ve met him before. You feel like you’ve known him all your life.

You press your hand to the clear, domed wall of the incubator; shadows in the shape of your outstretched fingers fall over Ari’s face. “He’s real.”

“Of course he is.” Aegon is watching you; you can see him on the periphery of your vision, a blur of blonde hair and high cheekbones. When you turn to him, he immediately looks away.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing.” But his voice is distracted, bewildered, like someone fumbling for a light switch in a dark room.

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

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 5 months ago

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Kalim, Vil: Pyrite, Prince, and Pauper

Wah 😭 I really love the initial art!! The water shimmering and making a rainbow… ✨ (Not used to seeing Kalim without his headscarf though, feels weird to see him bare!)

A Tale as Old as Time.

If Kalim had to pick one word to describe what he was looking at, it would be celebration.

It was both humble and extravagant at once—the city streets, the venue, livened up with flags, confetti, and fanfare. A large elephant fitted with a vest and hat towered over the gathered townsfolk. Seated upon him was a young man in a turban and glaringly white robes, an arm extended to the sky.

A grand party for the public, and all were invited. Children and adults, animals and humans, nobles and street rats.

Kalim broke out into a wide smile. “Wow, it looks like everyone’s having so much fun!”

“You never seem to tire from the idea,” Vil commented dryly.

The supermodel patiently tapped a manicured nail against his arm. “I suppose a host showing his best face to the public is far from undesirable. I’ve certainly been to my fair share of events where the host was less than that.”

“Gahahah! You’re famous, so it makes sense you’d be in high demand at parties. Jamil told me about that red carpet you walked a little while ago. I managed to catch some of it on TV!”

Kalim’s garnet eyes glinted with excitement.

“You were all sparkly and the crowd was so happy to see you! You’re like the prince in this painting, hyping everyone up.”

“My, thank you for your support.” Vil’s lip curled. “I’m sure you’re in high demand as well… albeit for different reasons than I. Many would love to have the attention of the Asim heir on them.”

The third year chuckled, a hand tucked under his chin. “It’s only natural for people to be attracted to that which shines.”

“Shines, huh…”

Kalim folded his arms, inclining his head to one side. His mouth pinched slightly, disrupting the arc of his smile.

“… Hey, Vil. Can I ask you something?”

“You need not request for my permission.” Vil waved a hand. “Continue.”

“Do you really think I shine? Like, on stage.” A pause, then he quickly added, “And you can be honest with me. Please… be honest with me.”

“What’s this now?” Vil planted his hands on his hips. “Certainly, you’re not ordinary by any means, but I’d hesitate to call you a refined gem. A one month boot camp isn’t enough to polish your singing and dancing skills to that of a pro—but you’re not talking about VDC, are you?”

“Ahahah… Looks like you caught me.” Kalim let his arms fall to his sides.

“You can’t fool this actor’s eyes,” Vil said simply. “So? What is it that you’re actually after? It’s not like you to talk in circles.”

“It’s nothing. I… A lot’s been on my mind since winter break. Too many things. When I think about it for too long, I start to wonder if I’m really what people say I am.”

You’re so talented, Kalim-sama.

So handsome.

So smart.

So kind.

The very best.

“Sometimes...” He tugged at his collar, watching how it sparkled and shifted as he maneuvered the fabric. “it feels like I'm all dressed up with nowhere to go. Or like my clothes don’t fit me right.”

The golden boy, the prince to make way for, the sun all looked to. They were the roles he wore, but suddenly they felt hollow.

Lies set adrift on an errant wind.

Dust of pyrite, fool’s gold.

Am I pretending to be something I’m not?

“… I’m not making a lot of sense, am I?” Kalim laughed softly, forcing a smile. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have made today feel sad.”

“On the contrary,” Vil tutted, “I understand all too well. All the makeup in the world, the nicest clothes, and the most skilled stylists cannot make a pauper become a prince. A pauper is a pauper, no matter how they present.

“However… a perfect little prince is not all that has value. I’ve played enough parts and been in enough productions to know. There are swash-buckling pirates, daring space heroes, dastardly villains, and, yes, even clever, honest street rats who find themselves in the public eye. Perhaps they did not start off as diamonds, but in the end they proved themselves to be diamonds in the rough.”

Vil lifted his chin—indignant.

“Regardless of how others perceive you or what ensemble you wear, you remain yourself. So long as you hold true to your own moral compass and principles, you shall always be someone who shi… Ough!!”

He could scarcely finish his sentence before he was tackled. Kalim was embracing him tightly, only pulling back when Vil muttered that he was creasing both of their suits.

“Thanks, Vil!! Talking with you made me feel so much better! You’re really not as bad as they say you are.”

Vil frowned. “I’m aware that I have my detractors, but you must learn to be more tactful with your choice of words.”

“Tactful, right! Got it! I can do that.”

Kalim released him and spun around, splaying his arms out. He pretended to present the painting with a flourish, looking back at Vil.

“Someday, maybe I’ll be as sparkly as he is here!”

So I can meet everyone’s expectations. Talented, handsome, smart, kind, better.

But no matter how I might change, I’m still me.

Still Kalim Al-Asim.

And that was something worth celebrating.

#twisted wonderland #twst #Kalim Al-Asim #Vil Schoenheit #Kalim birthday takeover #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #something no one asked for #spoilers #twst imagines #twst scenarios #twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland scenarios

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emmedoesntdomath · 1 year ago

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it has occurred to me that this was supposed to be a parkner blog. so here’s some parkner thoughts.

fun fact- harley’s a little gay boy from tennessee who grew up hearing that the devil came for kids like him who wanted to kiss the wrong person. so when harley moves to new york, he’s not immediately waving a pride flag. instead, he has a beat up leather jacket, an old car, and a smirk that could cut glass. peter is sold and practically swooning because hello, gorgeous. but he’s also like,,, harley’s from tennessee. what if he’s like, homophobic??? and not an ✨ally✨??? and then harley full on outs himself to an asshole who harasses peter on the street with an ‘I’m gay, dickface’ and just. punches him hard enough to break his nose. (peter is THIS close to proposing okay)

harley forgets everything. out of sight, out of mind. keys? gone. phone? poof. jacket? who? and peter’s memory is kind of shit, too, honestly, but karen’s memory is fucking golden (perks of being a computer) and she’ll remind peter to remind harley to grab his stuff. harley still doesn’t know peter has karen do it, so he just thinks his boyfriend’s awesome. peter’s not gonna correct him.

peter doesn’t wear nail polish that often, but when harley casually (definitely not feeling casual internally, but that’s fine) mentioned that he was considering sometimes wearing it, peter went ALL OUT. like, he added color, he added glitter, he made his nails the biggest and brightest part of his being. harley called him an idiot, but he would always grin when he saw them, so peter considered it a win.

harley likes country music. but only the country music from 70s-90s. the rest is absolute slander to him.

(yes, I wrote a whole ass fic about that, and no, I’m not sorry.)

peter can’t draw for shit. he just can’t. harley swears by stick figures. (watch the insidious part two promo with ty. you’ll get what I mean.)

peter does unironically call himself biderman. harley calls him homophobic.

harley’s defining emotion is offense and/or what he calls his ‘bitch, fucking excuse you?’ emotion, and he’s very proud of this fact.

peter’s favorite color changes pretty consistently, but he’s really attached to his blue and red, especially when they’re together.

harley’s is dark red (darker than peter’s), and gold. he will deny to his denying breath that it’s tony’s colors, because ‘why would I care about the old man? fuck off’

they aren’t allowed to have a dog, because new york (peter is so sad about this, okay), so harley just brought home a pet lizard one day. no warning. no call. peter asked zero questions and named her mrs. cheeto.

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lxkeee · 7 months ago

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I want to know more about Azrael Hfvbafhvbaefhjv 💗

I don't have any art of him (unfortunately, because I cannot draw)

Manifesting that someone will draw him omg 👀

APPEARANCE:

Azrael is a throne angel, his angel form consists of four golden rings that are filled by countless dark black eyes, his angel form is also accompanied by two pairs of black angel wings.

His semi-angel form is a male gendered body, except his head is a mini version of his actual angel form just floating above his neck.

Now to his humanoid or human body,

Azrael is tall, is 243.84 centimeters tall, has very long and slender legs and arms, skinny and slender body build (yes, he has a slutty waist), pale skin, dark black monolid eyes, long eyelashes, sharp jawline, pretty face (ethereal and out of this world, his facial features differ to the souls he's guiding. Terrifying to sinners, angelic to winners), clean and trimmed fingernails (sometimes he wears a black or gold nail polish), and his halo as dark as the abyss floats stop hiss head.

I don't know what hairstyle this is called but his hair is like this(https://pin.it/5WZCzuwcU) but his hair color is black.

He has the touch of death and he can activate and deactivate it at will. When activated, darkness crawls up from his fingertips up to his elbow, creating an ombre color of light and darkness.

Azrael Pinterest board (https://pin.it/L5weDj6X9)

PERSONALITY & BACKGROUND:

Azrael is a mystery amongst the three triads of heaven, doesn't make an appearance often amongst his kind.

Azrael has a laid back yet teasing personality; teases anyone if he has the chance to, he finds it amusing to see the person's reaction.

He always has a smirk on his face.

He has a bit of a flirty personality, he knows he has the looks and won't hesitate to use it to his advantage.

Especially asking the angels underneath his leadership to do favors for him, such as doing paperwork or doing boring tasks that he doesn't feel like doing.

Due to his laid-back personality, he sometimes doesn't take serious situations seriously and often cracks a joke during it.

He usually skips meetings unless it's a meeting that is held at the First Triad Embassy.

The First Triad Embassy is where angels who commit serious crimes are to be judged.

As the angel of death, he couldn't possibly roam the mortal realm on his own.

That is where the angels underneath his leadership come in.

Each virtue oversees their assigned angel types

He watches over the thrones and dominion angels, giving them lists of souls they needed to reap, usually souls of winners.

He wants to personally reap the souls of sinners, he wants to scare them.

When guiding a winner he just summons a portal that leads to heaven's gates.

When guiding a sinner, he just opens a portal underneath the soul's feet and drops them to hell without notice.

Azrael was born into existence when earthly creatures were created, no, humans aren't the first creatures on earth.

He was created because mortal creatures existed.

He is death, he is what awaits them after their time ends.

Yes, he also sends animal souls to heaven.

Azrael is currently seventh in rank among the seven main virtues, embodying the virtue of humility.

MISCELLANEOUS FUN FACTS:

• His favorite flower is a red spider lily.

• He is a cat person, he loves cats. His favorite are the orange ones.

• His bird form is a black swan.

• He doesn't like doing paperwork.

• He likes drinking black coffee with two cubes of sugar.

• His favorite colors are black, white, and gold.

• He wields a black scythe with golden edges.

• He gets distracted easily.

• Slightly narcissistic.

• Amongst Luke's ocs he is the favorite child.

#lxkeee answers #hazbin hotel #Lxke's Azrael character

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poraphia · 1 year ago

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"I’ll Hold Your Hands."

Wilbur x anxious!reader 1303 words • 8.16.23 Request from @ax-y10! Reader has anxiety and picks at their hands and fingers. Reader is also overstimulated and nervous, but Will comforts! wilbur soot masterlist here :)

It's our first date, but you've shown me that even through anxious habits, you'll do anything to make me happy.

♡♡♡

“Hey, you ready?” A soft voice asked through the phone. Even with no effort his accent could send shivers down my spine.

“Mhm,” I hummed. “Give me a moment to come downstairs.” I took one final look in the mirror, making sure my outfit was pressed down enough to compliment my curves and gorgeous enough to let Will know there won’t be any regrets in asking me out. I slipped on the perfect set of shoes before walking out of my hotel room and toward the nearest elevator.

I was only staying in Brighton for two weeks before heading back home. Wilbur and I have been friends for a while beforehand. It wasn’t until recently that mutual feelings started to bubble up between us. It was a late night 2 AM call when Will asked me:

“Hey, (y/n)..?”

“Yes, Will?”

“Um… If you do come to Brighton anytime soon… I know a lovely place for us to eat dinner.”

I chuckled, noticing the shyness of his voice. “Are you asking me out, Mr. Gold?”

“Perhaps.”

After some packing and planning, I flew out to the United Kingdom to visit friends, travel to different locations, and most of all, go on my first date with the one and only, Wilbur Soot.

The elevator doors slid open. I walked out with the clicking of my shoes echoing down the hallway. Once I made it to the lobby, it didn’t take long to spot the dashing tall man sitting on one of the complementary couches. His legs were crossed with his glasses resting upon the bridge of his nose. I waved at him in an attempt to get his attention, and soon enough he spotted me as well.

Once he got up, I was able to see his outfit more properly. He was wearing black slacks with black dress shoes on, and he wore an orange dress shirt with the top three buttons unbuttoned. His hair was fluffier than usual, and his sleeves were folded up to show his forearms.

A big smile was planted on his face now as he outstretched his arms. I picked up my pace before nearly throwing myself in his embrace, hugging him tightly. His limbs wrapped around my waist before lifting me in the air and twirling me around.

“It feels good to finally see you!” He exclaimed through laughs. He put me down and stepped back a bit, admiring my outfit. “You look so beautiful..” He muttered.

A soft chuckle escaped my lips. “I could say the same for you.” I said, making sure I hid my hands behind my back. He raised an eyebrow before reaching for my arm and holding my hand.

“Come on, the restaurant is just a taxi cab away.” He said, to which I nodded in response. We walked side-by-side, but a bit of my confidence faltered. Did he notice my fingers? I painted them this morning so that from a glance, they looked perfectly fine. But I know that with a good look, anyone could notice the peeling skin, the bitten-off nails, and the swollen tips. It’s safe to say, I wasn’t opting to be a hand model anytime soon.

Wilbur kept my hand in his as we entered the taxi. After he directed the driver and paid him, he turned to me. “Hey, you doing alright?” He asked. He used his thumb to soothe the back of my hand, but his furrowed eyebrows and worried glance never left my face.

“Hm? Oh, I’m fine, Will, don’t worry.” I reassured.

I was very much not fine.

I didn’t have the realization that I was in an entirely new country, going on a date with a long-term best friend I’ve had on the internet, to what I presume to be a relatively fancy restaurant in the city—

until now.

Nervously, with my other hand, I started to pick off the skin of my thumb with my index finger, a little frustrated that I was unable to use both hands. Wilbur and I continued to have regular conversations as I absent-mindedly scratched off nail polish and skin.

Once we got to the restaurant, I made sure to hide my other hand in my pocket or behind my back. Anywhere out of Wilbur’s vision. The only time Wilbur let go of my hand was to check off the reservation he had for us as we followed the waiter to our table. In cushioned chairs, we sat across from each other. The white tablecloth and circular surface sat promptly in between us.

Our waiter placed the menus in front of us, and Wilbur immediately picked up the booklet to begin examining the options. I, on the other hand, quickly flipped it open and hid my hands under the table, still fiddling with swollen fingers. Once again, my heart was racing. The abundance of people in the room chattering with utensils clinking against plates, someone I consider important in my life sitting right in front of me, my shaking leg bouncing my hands up and down— I’m getting overstimulated.

“(y/n)? (y/n)!” His voice snapped me out of my thoughts. I looked up, only to notice our waiter was back with a pen and notepad. I glanced over to Will. His head was tilted, and he only looked at me with concerned glistens in his eyes. “Do you know what you want to drink?” He asked softly. I looked over to the waiter again.

“Oh— uh, can I just get a water?” I asked, stammering over my words. The waiter nodded before walking away to retrieve our beverages.

“(y/n), you haven’t been holding up so well and you look pale. Is everything alright?” Wilbur asked. His hands were placed on the table, almost reaching at me so that he may take my hand in his. I sighed, looking down at my lap in shame.

“You promise not to judge, right?” I said.

Wilbur shook his head. “No, no, of course not, love… Tell me what’s wrong.”

With a deep inhale, I placed my hands on the table. My nail polish was chipped, and the tips of my fingers were beet red. By the sides of my nails, my skin was peeling off.

“Oh, sweetheart,” He sighed. Carefully, he picked my hands up by the palm and brought them close to his lips, gingerly kissing each finger with the softness of his lips. My face flushed at the sight, not being able to look away.

“I-it’s just,” I started. Tiny tears started to prick at my eyes. “I didn’t realize how fast this was all happening, and I guess I started to get all… Panic-y. I-I’m just really sorry. I didn’t want to ruin tonight.” I stuttered out with a trembling voice.

“Love, I promise you, you didn’t ruin anything. Everything is okay. Do you want to get out of here? If this is all too much we can go back to the hotel and just hang out there. Anything you want, (y/n). Because what matters at the end of the day, to me, is that we have a great time together.” He planted one last kiss in the palm of my hand. “That’s all I want for us.”

I couldn’t help the small sniffle as the warmth of his words wrapped me tightly in a blanket. I looked at him with lovestruck in my eyes. I wanted to do nothing but melt in his embrace, bury myself in the crook of his neck every morning, to hold hands while walking around the big city. At that moment I knew—

I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him.

With the sincerest smile, I looked at him.

“Just keep holding my hands, Will.”

In turn, his dimples nearly lit up my whole world.

“Only for you.”

♡♡♡

a / n ~ eep hope you enjoyed! Ax i hope this comforts you in some sort of way I lowkey had to do my research for this one loll

#wilbur soot #wilbur soot x reader #wilbur soot oneshots #wilbur soot x y/n #wilbur soot x you #will gold #wilbur hc #wilbur soot fanfiction #wilbur soot fluff #wilbur x you #wilbur x reader #mcyt x you #mcytblr #mcyt x reader

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oh-surprise-its-me · 1 year ago

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Roy would definitely let Phoebe paint his nails.

First he only ever lets her do black or dark blue. But then she begs (asks more then once because Roy is a sucker for her) him to match her so there he is walking into the locker room with neon pink nails with a glitter top coat.

Jamie sees them almost instantly and asks if she can do his when he sees her that weekend at Roy’s house because some how that’s something that happens very frequently now, so of course he tells Jamie yes.

Colin overhears all of this and later asks if he can tag along for some gold nails, then Sam asks if she has any blues that would look good on him, Dani is obviously into it so he goes with them and gets polkadots.

They all end up around Roy’s coffee table in the living room blowing on their nails while Jamie leans against Roy’s good leg painting Phoebe’s nails to match his and Roy’s glittery black because “I want to match my uncles!”

(Jamie later cries about the uncle comment and Roy just kisses his head and runs his thumb over the smooth polish)

#ted lasso #jamie tartt x roy kent #roy kent #jamie x roy #jamie tartt #colin hughes #dani rojas #sam obisanya #phoebe!#write a fic if you wanna!!#fluff #ted lasso fluff #nail polish #idk what this is #but I thought it was cute #could technically be read as platonic Roy x Jamie #but I definitely want them to kiss so like #mac writes ted lasso

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lunchtimebedamned1997 · 5 months ago

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Cosplay WIP and Doodle Dump >:3

Haven't really been working on a bunch of digital art lately bc I've been busy working on cosplays and crying over Stolitz XD

But I thought I'd show you all what I've been working on since I'm really excited about it! <3 (So many updates :D)

Let's start with Helluva doodles!

I finally started drawing Blitzø and Fizzy-Frog! <3 Fizzy looks so much healthier in the newst ep I could CRY ohhh my goddd. And both Fizz and Blitzø look so dapper! Little cuties! Little cuties who are friends again! My heart!

Next up: Cosplay props!

We've got a lot of stuff for the Vees, and then a liiiitle bit of Angel Dust progress to show y'all!

Let's start with Vox since I only have one main thing I've made so far!

I had an old pair of headphones that stopped working, and I'd already worn them to costest Vox (since I'm not going for the TV screen approach) and so I thought I could give them a makeover! I decided to do the symbols from his silly little hat, and paint the microphone tip to resemble the little red bauble at the end of his antenna!

I just sanded the labels off, painted everything in acrylic and then sealed it with clear nail polish, pretty simple stuff, but I'm really pleased with the effect! And I think it will be a nice touch for the costume! <3

Now onto Valentino! I have the most stuff for him so far bc everything that wretched man owns is cool AF and I wanted to make, like, all of it XD

I started with the guns from 1x02 ala: "Which of these makes me look sexier ;3" since I thought they were both pretty iconic and I definitely want to film that little clip once my cosplays are ready to go hehe

(My reference Image ^)

This pink one is definitely my favorite, both in the show and based on how it came out in the end! I've only ever built one propgun before this for Jinx, so it was really fun to get back to it again! Lots of math and measurements, but luckily I'm a little racoon creature who hordes recycling like my life depends on it XD Even though he actually bedazzles another gun in the meeting room in 1x02, I was not about to make a third one in the span of two weeks, so I decided to just put it on one side of the pink, and I really love it tbh!

The gold and grey definitely looks a bit more... cardboard-y, but I'm okay with it tbh, I don't love the design of this one as much, so I probably won't be using it on it's own as often as the pink! But I still think it turned out well overall! Especially bc by the time I got to this one my exacto-blade was crapping out on me hardcore lmao

I also have two hand options ready for Valentino! I noticed that sometimes he has gold claws, and sometimes his hands are fully black, so I thought it would be good to have a couple options!

I went ahead and ordered some pleather gloves which I think work really well for him on their own, but then I also took some fake nails and layered them with gold acrylic paints and clear nail polish to make his 'actual' hands. I figured if I need a particular close-up for a shot it would be really cool to use black facepaint on my skin, and then have these nails stuck on! I just used eyelash glue to test out affixing them last night, and I think it actually worked super well!

Since the nails are pretty, well, claw-like I don't want them on all the time, but I still need them to stay when I'm moving around in costume, and I think the eyelash glue is kind of the perfect things for my at-home cosplay needs! I'd definitely want to do something stronger if I was going to a con in these, but yeah - XD I'm rambling, anyways -

Let's move onto Velvette!

I had an extra set of gold nails I'd made, that I was originally planning on attaching to the gloves (I did not like how that looked lmao) but I didn't want them to go to waste, so I used some of the little gems and do-dads that I had laying around to make them match one of the bra-tops I'm planning to use for Velvette! (Yes that sparkly orange and pink thing on the left is what I tried to match it to!)

I have a plethora of blank fake nails now, so I think it would be really fun to make a pair that matches each of Vel's outfits! I hyper-fixated on nail art for a couple years when I was a kid, so I'm really excited to play with those skillz again lmao - especially because I can use acrylic paint for these instead of nail polish which really cuts down on cost and expands my color ranges exponentially!

The last thing I have to show you for the Vee's specifically is the wigs I ordered for them! (I want to scream, I'm so excited!!!!)

(All of these are from Wig Is Fashion btw, notspon or anything I just have really loved their wigs so far! I really hope these three work well!)

Finally, my gloves for Angel and a couple of my colored lights for filming came in, so I just threw on one of the outfits I have ready for him, the wig I styled, and the gloves to get a feel for how it was coming along :3

I think I want to get different little shorts for this look (maybe pleather?) and figure out a couple other details to add in, because I feel like there is currently too much 'blank' space in the look. I'm sure that will be lessened by the makeup, set, etc. But I want to make sure the extra looks I have for characters still feel 'designed'/styled well, obvi.

Anyways! Lots of work to do, and I still need to buy a new sewing machine so i can make some of the actual outfits from the show, but it's all a process lmao

I'm planning a full-on Angel CMV atm, as well as a ton of other videos, but that's all a ways away lmao, I wanna really put effort into it which means time haha

I did already post some little Cherri, Angel, Vox and Charlie closet-costests to my TT if y'all are interested! I've also made Millie and Blitzø horns, but tbh I just can't be assed to get pictures of all of that rn XD if you look at the most recent (as of rn lmao) 'cosplay updates' vid that's up, you can see the horns, wigs etc that I didn't show in this post!

My main links are all right here if you want 'em: https://lunchtimebedamned.carrd.co/

And with that I'm going to go have brain-off time LMAO I've been working non-stop for weeks on this. I'm also sorry to anyone waiting for the Ch.4 update on The Space Between Us, this chapter is deciding to be very slow-going and difficult. IRL stuff is probably heavily contributing to that, but oh well. Know that I am working on it <3

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jellyfishloveletterghosts · 6 months ago

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👀👀One Kings Pawn Is Another Kings Treasure

This is an omegavers where Steve who's spent his whole life posing as a beta to avoid being a pawn still ends up being sent off to a neighboring King Billy to be his consort with demands that he's to spy.

A lil snip from when Steve and Billy first meet. Warning for a little ordered self harm.

Steve examines the table where the candles are as he stands next to it, a few books are laid out, nothing he is familiar with, next to a bowl of plump grapes and a goblet of wine. His stomach grumbles, he should have eaten more this morning, or brought something with him. There are herbs being burned somewhere in the room, muddying the scents making it impossible for Steve to pick up if anyone else is here. It is an old practice that many use when assessing if someone is friend or foe.

Steve stands there waiting, sharing a weary glance with Tommy when it feels like it has been too long. Steve eyes the grapes with desire, edging closer, fingers skimming the gilded table edge. Before he can give into the urge to pop one of those tempting grapes into his mouth a voice speaks from the shadows, “you’re mine to do with as I please.”

Steve frowns at the lack of manors, feeling an introduction would have been a better start as Tommy tenses hand on his hilt, eyes scanning the room looking for the owner of that voice. Steve has no doubt about who is speaking to him even if the heavy incense make it impossible to sniff him out, “yes.”

“How do you feel about that?” Steve thinks the voice has gotten closer but it is hard to say with the acoustics in the room making it echo.

Steve turns toward where he thinks the voice is coming from, frown deepening, what an odd question. “I’ll do my duty.”

There is a touch of growl in the king’s voice, “that isn’t what I asked.”

“I-” Before Steve can offer up another bland polite answer the king cuts in again.

“Speak truthfully, I won’t punish you for it.”

Steve doesn't exactly believe him but he has never enjoyed holding his tongue, still he keeps his words polite as he offers up the truth, "I’m not fond of the arrangement. It would not have been my choice.”

"Yet here you are," there is a soft hum, the sound of clicking like nails drumming on a hard surface, “and you’ll do anything I say?”

Steve sucks his teeth, “yes.”

A knife clatters across the polished marble floor, skidding to a stop as it bumps into Steve’s shoes, it is made of gold, the inlaid gems catching the fire light and casting spots of color. Steve glances at Tommy when he takes a step forward, sword pulled from its sheath a few inches, ready to defend. Steve shakes his head with a firm look, if Tommy tries to do something foolish like kill the king the situation they find themselves in will be far worse than a little bloodshed.

“Cut yourself.” Steve picks up the knife and unsheathes it, it is undeniably sharp, reflecting his uncertain face back at him as he holds the tip against his finger. “No your face," the growl has him pulling the knife from his finger tip where a bead of blood is already well, "cut your face.”

Steve feels queasy, can smell Tommy's distress and desire to intervene even over the cloud of incense. He does his best to remind himself that this is for the people of his kingdom, if Billy is happy he won't go to war and that will be a little less stress on those sent to do the dirty work of the royal family. He shakes his head again, hand unsteady for a long moment. Steve takes a breath steeling himself as he raises the dagger up to his face until the sharp dangerous tip is at his hair line an inch above his eyes. He pushes it in before pulling it toward more skin, the sting making itself known as the sharp edge moves onto new flesh.

It is not pleasant but he keeps moving the knife, lessening the pressure as he goes, making the cut more shallow to eases his discomfort. He is nearly at his eyebrow, after a slow shifting angel, he hadn't meant to follow but occasionally the shaking won and shifted his destination. He is contemplating lifting the blade and starting in a new location to keep his eyes from any damage, hesitating wondering if this man will be angered if he does.

Suddenly out of the shadow comes a man, rushing forward before either of them can react. Steve expects pain but the beautiful blond man in fine furs and intricate fabric knocks the dagger from his hand, callused fingers rubbing under the sting. The bluest eyes Steve has ever seen bore into him, “such dutiful dedication, I don’t think they know what they've given up." The man moves away as suddenly as he came into Steve's space, the warmth of his touch lingering long after he disappears out the door.

Steve sits there, staring at the shadows, perplexed, annoyance growing in his belly at the man’s dramatics. Tommy moves from his post, pushing into Steve's space, hand on his face tipping his chin up to get look at the damage, "are you okay?"

"I'm fine," and he is but, "what the fuck was that?" He doesn’t know how to feel about this new king he has been bound to.

Thank you for the ask 👑💜

#harringrove #jellyghostfic #fanfiction #st fic #wip #wip wendesday #jellyghostask #ask game #billy hargrove x steve harrington #harringrove omegaverse

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theinkedknight · 3 months ago

Text

Rose Quartz

Based off this post by @cryptotheism that I saw on FB

I sat behind the counter, looking up at the twin sets of flat screens perched over the high shelves carrying boxes of cereal and multipacks of toilet paper. On the left screen, a multiple panel view of the various security cameras set up all around the bodega, the right screen a rerun of Judge Judy. I was mostly paying attention to the right one.

At the table set along the window to the outside sat an older Puerto Rican man, his straw triby on the table next to him, brushing something I couldn't see off the tank top he wore under his unbuttoned bowling shirt.

“Listen, I'm telling you. New yor-wiccan.” He said, drawing out the word.

“Shut up Danny.” Called out the older woman behind the deli counter as she worked the grill.

“What? It's good! I can see it on the shirts.” He retorted.

“You're not even wiccan.” I said, shaking my head.

“So what? You think everyone selling gold crosses is a Christian?”

The door alarm dinged as a pair of young people entered. I could smell the tourist on them. Spend enough time behind a counter in Manhattan and you'd be able to as well. It's the wide eyed gaze and almost deer-like quiver.

They start to roam what amounts to aisles in the cramped store. Next to the cup soups, various small packages of laundry soap, and ice salt stood Catholic candles of various colors and saints, icons from a dozen various idols from the faiths of the people who lived or worked in the neighborhood, and bins of assorted crystals. Through the windows and on the cameras I could see the piles of garlic, oranges, apples, and bundled dried herbs for sale under the shop’s awning.

“He has a point, Flora.” I say, eyes returning to the court show.

“You're so full of shit, Danny,” she replied with a tone that sounded like this was a basic fact of reality.

The two tourists came up to the front counter, either sisters or very, very close friends. Their auras looked as though they were the same, or else rhyming so closely it was hard to tell the difference.

“Do you…um…do you sell rose quartz?” The slightly taller one asked.I continued watching Judy for a beat, as it was about to go to commercial anyway, before looked down at the two.

“Flora, we got rose quartz?” I called over to the grill. A black cat walked around from the corner and wove herself around their legs before jumping up to the table next to Danny’s hat. Flora walked around the counter with an aluminum tray filled to the brim with boiled yucca, pickled red onions, grilled sausage, and fried eggs. She put the tray next to Danny, his hat, and the cat, pulling a fork and small bottle of hot sauce from her apron and all but dropping both on the table with them.

“Yeah, no. Fresh out, remember that little bracelet brujita always buys me out. The one with the green hair. Plant name.”

“Aspen.” I supplied.

“Yes, her.” She looked the two women up and down. “What you need if for? You looking for someone?” Their cheeks reddening was all the older witch needed to hear.

She walked behind one aisle, muttering to herself in Spanish. When she returned, she held a pair of pink candles in an unmarked glass cylinder and two cans of soup.

“Damien, get them two vials of rose water.” She told me. She continued speaking to the girls as I turned my back to search the wall of incense, oils, single dose packs of Advil, condoms, and “nail polish remover” behind the counter. “What you wanna do is anoint yourself and the candle and burn it next to your bed at night.”

The taller one nodded as if taking mental notes. “And the soup?”

“Cook it for him. Men love soup.” Flora said as if speaking to an idiot.

As her friend/sister was turning redder still, the shorter one was looking at Danny eating his breakfast.

“Isn't it, like, unhygienic to have a cat in a place serving food like that?” She asked, genuine concern in her voice.

“I'm cleaner than you are, Princess Midwest.” The cat replied, looking up at her with emerald green eyes. “This one needs some Florida water too, Damien. Her aura is a little…much.”

I tried to keep the smirk from my face as she jumped.

“Hannah, I told you if you're going to talk to customers, you need to be a person.” Flora admonished. The cat sighed, jumping from the table to the other chair. Between one blink and the other, the cat was gone and a pale skinned woman in a black dress replaced her. For a moment she still had feline eyes, before blinking and her human form completing.

“Anyway, spritz it on yourself after you shower. If you're good, you'll clear that…” Hannah made a general hand gesture to encompass what must be the woman's aura. “...in about a week.”

They both stepped up to the counter, wide eyed and more than a touch shaken. “So, would that be all together or separate?” I asked, trying to calm them with a gentle smile.

They indicted together and made to pay, pulling out a crystal bedazzled iPhone to tap on the terminal. I wrapped the candles in yesterday's Daily News and put everything into an ‘I HEART NY’ bag. As quickly as they could without running, they were out of the store again.

“I would buy that shirt.” Hannah said, reaching over and stealing a slice of meat from Danny's plate, who moved to slap her hand but was too slow.

“See! And she is wiccan. I am smart.” Danny proclaimed.

“Full of shit.” Flora replied, shaking her head and returning to the deli counter.

#Fiction #flash fiction #Fantasy #urban fantasy #Bodega #bodega cat

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katsu28 · 11 months ago

Note

bloro blurbs : steve harrington’s housewife behavior. ik many believe the rich bitch can’t cook but with all the excess resources, space, and alone time led to lots of practice. cause a guy gets hungry! and, cooking a good meal has a way of filling a space with warmth in several senses.

account for the kids coming into the picture, he is happily mother hen to a gaggle of teenagers. bet he has big dinners, packs lunches, always does his best to send any visitors off with something sweet or hardy.

when you come into the picture, he happily adds you to the list of people he loves to cater to and care for. as you get to know each other better he keeps an ear out (in general cause he’s…. but) specially for your favorite food mentions or any allergies or watching for reactions. meanwhile, you’re along for the ride of your life cause being this well fed by Some Guy who dances around the kitchen when he’s not jumping between stations, is oddly boggling but largely comforting so you accept the set up. you sit on the stool and watch, or fuck off to do whatever til you’re called or he brings the goods to you. then you eat however much of whatever you want, it’s consistently good and made with love.

(whether or not you do the dishes is up to you, idk why personally doing dishes is a love language and i’ll go there especially if someone’s made the food with me in mind.)

y’all get your nails done together. sipping on beverages through straws, getting polished, steve charming everyone in a given radius. gossip galore.

he looks so pretty on your dates if and when you’re ready to go out.

pretty boy with a heart of gold and skills to back up the hype.

oh my god yes this is so good, i don't even have anything to add to this. steve harrington—certified housewife <3

#answered!#steve harrington #steve harrington headcanons #steve harrington x reader

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atlasscrumpit · 28 days ago

Text

Miguel O'Hara x Reader

(trigger warning: mentions of past SA)

You walked into the spider society headquarters and skipped up to Miguel.

You were going to play guess who and cover his eyes but you learnt not to do that after he had thrown you across the room.

"Miguel! Guess what!" You sang out as he groaned and placed his head in his hand.

"Todos los dias con esta chica." He grumbled to himself before turning around to see you hiding something behind your back.

You walked closer to him and held out your hands, you held a small rubber duck that you had painted Miguel's suit onto.

He stared at it, not showing any emotion.

"Y/N, what the hell is this?" He grumbled as you kept up your smile.

"Well, I won a little rubber duck at an arcade and then I had nail polish paint in your colours so I painted it." You said with excitement as Miguel looked at it then to you.

"I'm not a child." He grumbled before turning around again.

"Miguel, is that how you treat someone who made you a gift?" You asked as he rolled his eyes.

He hated that he had asked your help to be more 'nice'.

He turned back around and looked at you with annoyance.

"Thanks." He grumbled taking the duck and placing it on his desk.

You sighed and rolled your eyes.

"Well, you tried. That's the main thing." You muttered as you pulled out a sticker sheet from your pocket and stuck a gold star sticker onto Miguel's shoulder.

"Two stickers this week! It was almost three...but then you threw Peter off a building." You muttered as he rolled his eyes once more.

"Maybe you should give Peter lessons on how to be less annoying." He said.

You smiled and sat on his desk.

"Listen, this whole thing isn't going to work. I can't be nice, I don't like people."

You rolled your eyes and looked at him.

"I don't like people either! But I still know how to be nice." You replied making him chuckle and shake his head.

"Look at you, Y/N."

You glanced down at yourself and then back to him.

"What about me?"

"You're tiny, innocent and sweet. I'm giant and always angry, people are bound to like you." He said, you sighed and spoke up again.

"I guess you're right... But, that doesn't mean you shouldn't try!"

"Yeah well maybe I can teach you a few things, I don't know how you even manage to be a spider person when you're so soft." He grumbled, your face fell and your eyes narrowed.

"That's not true... I'm a good spider person, okay?" You muttered as he looked at you and laughed.

"Yeah, I'm sure you're great at saving kittens and puppies. Never actually doing anything worth while."

You looked at him in shock.

"That's not true..." You muttered as Miguel stood up, he stood over you, placing his arms either side of you.

"Then escape. Escape, Y/N." He growled, his face close to you as you looked up at him in fear.

"Miguel, stop..." You whispered as he slowly reached up and gripped your chin.

"Escape." He growled, his talons slowly coming out to cut your skin.

"You're hurting me." You whispered as he watched tears form in your eyes.

"Escape!" He screamed in your face as you reached your hand up and placed it on his forehead.

He screamed in pain before collapsing to his knees.

You panted softly and looked down at him before getting up and trying to rush away, he grabbed you.

"What the hell was that?" He grumbled, he wasn't threatening anymore...he was scared.

"No one here has an ability like that, so what the hell is it?" He asked as you looked at him with wide eyes.

"I don't...I don't use it. Only if I have to."

His grip of you loosened as he stepped forward.

"What was it?" He grumbled lowly.

"I don't know... I could do it before I was a spider person, the radioactive spider just...enhanced it." You explained as he looked around, making sure no one was around.

"Go sit back down." He said leading you back to the desk, you sat down again and looked at him.

"Have you ever hurt anyone with this ability?" He asked as he began to pace.

"Yes..." You whispered as he paused and looked at you.

"Have you ever killed anyone?"

He turned and stared into your eyes, stalking closer.

You looked down before he grabbed your chin and forced you to look up.

"Answer me."

"Yes, yes I have." You whispered as he stared down at you with an emotionless face.

"Why, why did you kill?" He growled as you stared into his eyes.

"He deserved it. I controlled his mind and forced him to blow his own brains out with a rifle." You growled as he looked at you in shock.

Miguel never expected this, the innocent girl who gave him gold stars.

"Get out of my society." He growled before backing away. You paused and looked at him in shock.

"Miguel... No, please. Please just let me explain!" You begged, tears running down your cheeks.

He turned around.

"Then explain!" He screamed at you, his talons coming out.

"He hurt me! He hurt me so much! He made me feel like nothing!" You shouted back as you began to cry.

"How old were you?"

"I was ten..."

He paused and looked at you in shock.

"For six years...he tortured me. He stole my innocence, he stole my body, he took everything!" You shouted, sobbing.

Miguel slowly stepped forward.

"He...raped you." He muttered as you looked away and cried.

He slowly reached up and held your cheek in his hand.

"For six years..." He whispered as you looked up at him.

"I didn't want to... I didn't want to kill but I...when I reached nine years old he...he thought I was too old." You said with a manic chuckle.

"Too old..." Miguel whispered in shock.

"So, he moved on to someone else... I couldn't just sit and watch." You said, Miguel wiped away one of your tears.

"I'm sorry..." He whispered before leaning in to hug you tightly.

You smiled and hugged him back.

"How are you always so happy?"

"I was never allowed to be happy as a child, it was stolen from me. So, now that I have a chance to be happy and chirpy...I do it as much as I can." You responsed with a sad chuckle.

Miguel pulled away and you slowly pulled out a golden star and stuck it on his chest.

"You earned another one." You said making him chuckle and shake his head.

"Never off the clock, are you?"

#Miguel #Miguel o'hara #Miguel x Reader #Miguel o'hara x Reader #Atsv #Spiderman #Spiderman 2099

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actualbird · 1 year ago

Note

marius wears nail polish much to the chagrin of the stuffy old suit types on the board of directors yes or yes

ABSOLUTELY YES!!! marius von fashionable, marius von camp, marius von gender!!!!

marius and his personal-self-expression-outside-of-what-is-considered-the-"norm" is very important to me and very important to his entire chracter and also he'd just look so good. he's already still wearing his piercings when hes at work, whats some nail polish?

marius: //rocking up to board meeting #28374284 (derogatory) with black nail polish

old board member Man: //squints, frowning

marius: heh

black is the first that came to my mind for him since it's simple yet still Such a visual statement since it stands out from more neutral colors. but i also think he'd like glittery nail polishes (purple glitter and his SSR Fabulous Feast suit, think about it, are u seeing my vision) and OH OHHHH HOLOGRAPHIC NAIL POLISH TOO!!!

it can be an nxx team bonding bit too. marius walks into nxx meeting #23842847 (complimentary) and mc practically FAWNS over the nail polish hes wearing, asking where he got it, does he have any recommendations, can he do her nails please she has Such a hard time with it because her hands get shaky when shes applying using her non-dominant hand

the rest of the boys: ....

marius: aww, are you guys feeling left out?

mc: yknow, vyn, i think you'd look great with clear glitter nail polish. ooOOOOHHH OR GOLD, WAIT NO YEAH, TOTALLY GOLD

marius: hm yeah youve got a point, gold for vyn, something clear and subtle for artem, and luke //squints at him. cant figure you out yet

mc: //also now squinting at luke. hm, me neither....

luke: is that good or bad?

mc: we can just test out whatever kinds marius has and see which suits you or which you like!!

and thats how the nxx team ends up unintentionally hurtling towards a nail polish themed hangout

#tears of themis #diagnosing marius with nail polish lover #asks #anon #funfact: im super into nail polish!!!! i havent had the Time to wear any and i usually default to black but back in college i had #SO MANY TYPES OF NAIL POLISH....THE GLITTERS WERE MY FAVE

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flowersarefreetherapy · 7 months ago

Text

Shadow of Stars: Cameron pt. 2

CW: Creepy whumper, unhealthy relationship dynamics, power imbalance, implied past violence, mentioned past dubcon, age gap relationship (not underage), Cameron’s mind is its own little warning

The carriage ride is perfect. The man, who introduces himself as Patrick North, sits right next to Cameron, hand high on his thigh. Cameron doesn’t pay attention to anything he says. He’s overwhelmed by the proximity of Patrick, the smell of his cologne, and the hand resting so close to between his legs. It takes all his strength to not slide off the bench and beg Patrick to choke him.

The carriage approaches the largest house Cameron has ever seen. Three stories tall, with a large winding drive and surrounding gardens that would be beautiful if it weren’t so late in the year. Cameron peers out the window, mouth open as he watches the house get closer. The last building he saw this big housed forty families with rotting staircases and covered windows.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Patrick asks.

“It’s huge,” Cameron breathes. “I’ve never seen a house this large with only one person living in it?” He pauses and glances at Patrick. “Do you live there alone?”

Not like it would matter. There have been a few couples who have enjoyed his company at the same time. But for some reason he doesn’t want to have to share Patrick. Just sitting with him is enough to sense his commanding presence and Cameron doesn’t want to share it.

“I do live there alone,” Patrick says. “Aside from my servants, but they don’t stay in the house.”

“All this space all to yourself? That must be lonely.”

Patrick shrugs. “It’s not awful. I enjoy the silence, it helps me think.”

“Well then, I’ll shut up.”

“That’s a good idea.”

Oh. Cameron shifts a little closer to the carriage door, ignoring how casually Patrick is able to do that. No other man has stripped away his defiance so quickly. The knowledge both terrifies and excites him. What else is Patrick interested in? Is he like Cameron’s first, who accidentally bit him too hard then left when Cameron asked him to do it again? Or is he more like the tavern owner who threw him down the stairs and fucked him over a wine barrel as spinters dug into his legs? If Cameron asks him, will Patrick choke him? Will he slip a knife into his skin with each touch?

Another glance at Patrick. He carries himself with the grace of someone who knows their own strength and isn’t afraid to use it. It’s likely the answer to all his questions is yes, and he is willing to do so much more.

The carriage pulls to a stop and a servant opens the door. Patrick gestures for Cameron to step out first and he does, staring up at the house towering above him. It’s so much bigger now, one corner tower blocking out the sun. A warm hand rests on his lower back and Cameron shudders.

“I apologize.” Patrick’s hand returns to his side. “Follow me, I’ll show you around before dinner.”

Cameron follows, adjusting the collar of his jacket. It may be threadbare and worn, but it’s still his, and he actually paid for it. There is no reason to be ashamed of who he is and his status in life.

Actually, no, there was a major reason to be ashamed. Cameron stepped inside the mansion and instantly was aware of the grease in his hair and the dirt under his nails and the butter stain left in his pocket from the rolls that are most likely flattened. There is not a single speck of dirt on the polished marble floors stretching in front of him. He swears he can see his reflection in the mahogany foyer table to his right and to his left a large painting fills the wall, the gilded gold frame catching the afternoon sun streaming in.

Patrick glances back at him with a smile as he hands off his jacket and cane to another servant. “You look shocked.”

Cameron tries to smile. “I-that’s a lot of marble.”

“Oh it’s nothing. The dining room floor was more expensive. Follow me, I’ll show you where you can clean up.”

Cameron does follow, barely paying attention to the servants who move quietly through the halls. The main floor consists of a large dining room, a library with more books than Cameron has ever seen before, a parlor, and smoking room. When he asks where the kitchen is, Patrick laughs and says he doesn’t need to know that. They walk up a large oak staircase to the second floor, where a long carpeted hallway leads to yet another sitting room and several large bedrooms. Cameron winces as he steps onto the rugs, each of them thick and clean, nothing like the threadbare ones at the tavern that attempt to cover up old beer stains. Every surface is spotless and the air is thick with the scent of lilac.

Patrick stops in front of a seemingly random door. “Here. This is one of the guest rooms. You may use it.”

“Thank you,” Cameron says, stepping close to Patrick. “And where do you sleep, if I may be so bold?”

Patrick smirks. “You may be. I sleep up on the third floor. Perhaps I will show you in person soon enough.”

“I-I would enjoy that.”

“Take the time you need to get ready. Dinner is in two hours.”

Cameron nods, watching Patrick walk away before opening the door. The room is huge, far bigger than any he’s stayed in before, even in the other nobles’ houses. To his right is the large bed covered in throw pillows. Cameron moves closer, daring to touch the duvet. Silk. Probably down pillows as well. He swallows back a curse, then moves to the rest of the room.

There is an armoire directly across from the door, full of clothing. Cameron picks up a few pieces that are in bright colors and smiles. There has to be something in here he can wear. On the far left of the room is another door and he steps into a bathroom. The bath is already full of water, steam rising into the air, with several towels stacked next to it.

A knock echoes through the room. Cameron hurries to the door, excitement twisting his stomach.

A young woman stands there. She dips into a bow when he opens the door. “Hello, sir. My name is Alice. Lord North assigned me to take care of you.”

“Oh, alright. My name is Cameron.”

Alice smiles, but it is just practiced, lacking any real emotion. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Cameron. If there is anything you need, please ask me and I will be more than willing to get it.”

“I-I don’t think there’s anything I need right now. Other than a bath, I suppose.”

“Of course. Have you found the bath?” When Cameron nods, Alice starts walking to the bathroom. “Good. I will show you what soaps you have and which ones I would recommend. Lord North has a few favorites, if you prefer them.”

Cameron’s stomach does another flip as he follows her. Patrick has favorite scents? He’s that particular? Oh, Cam, you found yourself the jackpot here.

Alice sets out a few glass bottles, explaining what each one is. Cameron barely listens. He just wants her to leave so he can spend some time alone and scream about the golden opportunity handed to him. Then he realizes she’s stopped talking, watching him expectantly.

“I’m sorry, I missed what you said.”

“Of course. I was merely asking if you were ready to bathe?”

Cameron nods. “Oh. Yes. Of course.”

Alice doesn’t leave. Cameron glances at his feet, shifting his weight. Is he supposed to ask her to go? Is there something he’s supposed to give her? He shrugs off his jacket and hesitantly hands it to her, hoping that’s enough.

Alice takes it and remains there, still watching him.

“Um, is there something you need?”

“The rest of your clothes. I’m supposed to take care of them and help bathe you.”

The blood rushes to Cameron’s face. “Oh, that really isn’t-”

“Under Lord North’s orders.” Alice flashes a real smile. Her words lose their stilted edge. “Mr. Cameron, I have a wonderful husband and three children at home. I am not interested in anything other than helping you relax and adjust to this new situation.”

Cameron’s shoulders slump. “Oh. Okay. I’m sorry, I’m just not used to all of this.”

Alice nods. “I understand. I will take care of your clothes and will be back in ten minutes.”

Cameron quickly undresses. It’s not the first time he’s been fully unclothed in front of someone before and typically he doesn’t care, but there’s something different about it happening when there’s no lust behind it. He knows how to take off his shirt in a way that perfectly accentuates his body, but just pulling it off somehow feels harder. He shimmies out of his pants and hands them over to Alice. She takes all his clothes with a practiced smile, then leaves.

The water is just as soothing as he expected. Cameron sinks down up to his neck, letting the hot water relax his muscles. He can’t remember the last time he took a bath, let alone a warm one. Maybe a year ago? When that nice noble had him over for a few days and wasn’t a fan of dried blood staining his bed? No, that water was barely lukewarm. Nothing close to the heat enveloping his body at this moment. Cameron sighs and his eyes slip closed.

Alice breaks the silence a few minutes later when she comes back in. “Mr. Cameron, I’ve laid out new clothes for you on the bed.”

“Thank you,” he mutters. I don’t want to think about leaving right now, all right?

Alice doesn’t push like expected. Instead, she nods and closes the door, leaving him to the peaceful silence. At least the silence of the room. Inside Cameron’s head, his thoughts careen around his mind. As the water cools around him, he already knows this opportunity is not one to pass up on. He will do whatever he has to in order to keep this position. Whatever this exact position is.

Cameron hums as he scrubs at his skin, trying to rub away years of grime and dirt. He avoids the scar by his ankle that still hurts on cold days. Patrick doesn’t have a spouse, so he isn’t here as a side piece or to invoke jealousy. Good, then there won’t be glass vases thrown at his head. Maybe he is lonely? Cameron tips his head to the side, curls sticking to his neck from the steam. No, very unlikely. Patrick has power and position. Who wouldn’t want to be around him? Merely companionship? That is a little more likely, but he will have to bid his time and figure it out later. Right now, he doesn’t have enough information to make a judgment. In a few days time, and with some patience, he’ll know exactly what Patrick wants from him.

If you last here that long.

Shut up, I will. I will. Whatever it takes, I’m going to stay here.

Tagging: @blood-is-compulsory @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @pigeonwhumps @whumpinggrounds (let me know if you want to be added/removed!)

#creepy whumper #intimate whumper #unhealthy relationship dynamics #power imbalance #implied past violence #mentioned past dubcon #emotional whump #cameron #patrick #shadow of stars au

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stars-and-birds · 2 years ago

Text

Hiii wenclair nation i miss you

Getting some nostalgia so here’s a scrapped wip I’m not sure I ever posted

Enid dangled upside down on her bed, watching Wednesday pack her black flashlight and black rope and black knife into her black backpack. It was past curfew, but Wednesday was up and dressed, planning to go stake out a house she thought might be related to the monster. Enid wrinkled her nose.

“Why can’t I go with youuuuuuuuuu?”

“For the last time. You need to be here in case Thornhill and Weems come poking around, which they have an unfortunate habit of doing.” Thing hopped on her shoulder, his fresh coat of black nail polish perfectly matching Wednesday’s stubbornly goth aesthetic. Enid let out an exaggerated sigh that dragged on and on and on and on and—

“Shut up.” Wednesday grimaced, glancing down at Enid with a glare she had become all too familiar with. If looks really could kill everyone would be dead.

“Whatever. You still owe me. For the bee thing.” Her and Eugene were on better terms now, but she could still remember the terrifying buzz that had seemingly closed in on her the moment Eugene let the bees out. For whatever reason, Eugene had stopped hitting on her as well. Enid assumed this was because Wednesday had made him, but he would sometimes glance over and giggle at them whenever Wednesday dragged Enid into the shed for some likely illegal scheming. It annoyed Enid to no end, especially when he would just shake his head and grin that weird little grin of his whenever asked about it.

Wednesday paused packing her particularly shiny medieval mace (black of course) and turned back down to stare derogatorily at Enid.

“I suppose an Addams always keeps her word. What do you want?” She turned back to her backpack.

“You’ll give me anything?” Enid rolled over onto her stomach, hair flying around her head like a tornado.

“Anything reasonable and within my power, yes.”

Huh.

“Like… a unicorn?” She challenged playfully

“Difficult and disgusting but not impossible.” Wednesday said without missing a beat. Enid rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, no way.”

“I could.”

“Knowing you, you probably could.” Enid relented. Knowing Wednesday, she would stop at nothing to get it should Enid dance with disbelief any longer.

“Okay. How about… the Mona Lisa.”

“You want me to break into one of the most famed museums of all time to steal one of the most prized artworks in history. As a favor for spending an hours worth of time with some bees.”

“No, just wondering if you could.” Enid said, gazing up at Wednesday still packing her things. Gosh, she was so pretty. The way the fading moonlight caught on her midnight hair, glimmered in her eyes, danced across her lips, dusted her eyelashes. She really was beautiful. Objectively, that is. A friend could think a friend was beautiful. Obviously. And anyways, anyone would think the same. Most people did, after all. Wednesday seemed to have boys falling over themselves and tripping for a half hearted smile never to be earned.

“There has to be something you can’t give me.”

“Try me.” The words were a challenge, an invitation. Okay then.

“An iPhone 13 Pro”

“Security would be laughable”

“A sarcophagus. A gold one.”

“My family stores some in our basement.”

“Water from the fountain of youth.”

“I have some on meat the moment”

“Wait really?” Enid raised her eyebrows in disbelief. Wednesday ignored her, continuing to pack. Enid shook her head. Of course Wednesday did.

“What aboutttttttttttttt.” Enid racked her brain, trying to think of every myth and legend she had heard of that could stump the unstumpable Wednesday Addams. Maybe not an object, then.

“What about a kiss.” The words crawled out of her mouth unexpectedly, without an coherent thought or reason. Wednesday stayed silent, and Enid laughed nervously. Yeah no. She wasn’t sure what she’d been thinking. It’s not like she wanted Wednesday to kiss her. Though… hypothetically would she hate it? Like maybe a friendly peck on the cheek… but then an all too vivid image Wednesday and her kissing on the lips imprinted itself into Enid’s mind, and she could feel her cheeks turn redder than tomato.

“Well,” she laughed nervously again.

“Guess I stumped you.” She straightend on her bed as Wednesday shouldered her backpack onto her left shoulder, and turned to face Enid. Enid looked to the ground, trying not to show how much red had bloomed on her cheeks, or worse, have Wednesday somehow peer into her mind with her penatrating gaze and see every thought that had sneaked its way through the cracks into Enid’s mind. A shadow cast over her, and Enid glanced up to see Wednesday… eye to eye with her, so close Enid could see the brown specks in her seemingly void black eyes. Wednesday’s eyelids narrowed, her eyebrows furrowing together like rabbits cuddling for warmth. Like she was thinking, considering.

“Wha-”

Without warning, suddenly and unexpectedly, Wednesday leaned in and kissed her. It was like the first snowflake, cold to the touch but then melting on her skin as Wednesday pulled away before Enid could even consider kissing her back. Shock spread through Enid, pushing her back onto her bed and tripping her words.

“I… uh. Um. Uh.”

“We’re even.” Wednesday’s words were a careful knife cutting through Enids careless own, as she pushed herself to her feet and walked out of the room. Enid watched her leave, hand covering her mouth.

Holy shit

Wednesday Addams had kissed her. And the real stumper? Enid had enjoyed it.

#wenclair #esme writes #wednesday #wednesday x enid #eniday #wenclair fic

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wordsinhaled · 1 year ago

Note

☔

☔ Is there a fic concept you have that you’d like to just explain and share because you’re not sure you’ll ever write it? If so, what is it?

Ah, yes!!! And I'll tag @sb-essebi here since you also asked this question!

I'll talk about the always angels AU! (Who wants to help me find a better name for it? lmao, but that's what I'm calling it in my head.) I don't know if I'll ever actually write it properly because it feels very Involved and my vision for it would involve it being a bit of an epic length, meanwhile I've never written a thing past like 2k words? But I do really love the idea of it.

So this is an AU where Crowley never fell: he's still an angel in Heaven. Of course, he still asks questions, but maybe he’s at a power level at which his interference can be deniable, or brushed under the rug if needed. Or, if he is higher up, he's considered to be a bit of an odd duck, too enthusiastic, too absorbed in his work, such that his capacity for influence isn't really taken seriously. Besides, he’s so genuine and well-meaning about things that he naturally gets underestimated a lot, which is how he has avoided getting cast out this whole time.

So he’s basically just prancing about being cheerful in Heaven’s offices in the outfit we saw him wear in the show, in all his tan tracksuited, gold nail polished peppiness. (Yes, I love that outfit; no, I will not take arguments. Heaven infiltrator!Crowley is a fashion icon <3) And also, of course, in lovely long flowing robes sometimes because why not, it's Heaven!

He gets to keep up his stars as his main role, and it’s been his favorite thing to do since always, which he tells to anyone in earshot. He’s forever asking if the other angels want to go on little field trips with him to see different star systems or nebulas whenever they need a tuneup, and the other angels are all, “Oh, you know, Crowley and his stars,” like his personal interest in them is weird, or quaint. They humored him at first, and have long since stopped going with him, and the ones of his own rank gossip about how odd it is, a bit, well. Crowley's enthusiasm is undimmed.

Maybe in this AU, Aziraphale has become an archangel by regular promotion - by toeing the line, mostly, but he harbors, secretly (very secretly) his own ideas about how the Supreme Archangel is running things, how Heaven could be made better. A large part of him still believes in the system, though. He figures, if he follows all the norms, goes through the proper channels he’ll make a true change one day. Especially in his new position, which he treats with great sanctity.

But he does have his foibles.

He's been to earth for several stints, and during those stints, however brief each one, he discovered things he likes. His Heavenly office is not blank and white and bare like the others; it has actual—gasp!—material objects in it that he's brought back from his travels on Earth. A plush Persian rug. A heavy oaken desk, complete with Tiffany reading lamp and writing inks and pens. An overstuffed armchair with a cream tartan blanket draped across the back (Heaven does get quite cold, after all). A dancing lady orchid in a hand-turned, hand-painted ceramic planter. A little rack of select Earth wines and aperitifs. An earthenware bowl of fruit. And... books. Books he tries to but occasionally fails to keep contained to one corner, and often rotates out for new ones, and categorically refuses to give up.

(The other archangels try not to go in there much. It gives them the creeps.)

Anyway, long story short, this archangel Aziraphale is... well, Aziraphale, more or less the one we know and love, but maybe with more of a ramrod-straight back, if you will. (And maybe some facial hair. He can have a beard for a bit, maybe, as a treat. But I'm still not sure on that bit.)

The other thing about the archangel Aziraphale is he actually talks to the other angels who are of lower rank than he is. He doesn't treat them the way the rest of the archangels do, at a remove. He wants to know about their goings-on, because he was one of them, once, and he remembers what it was like, and looks on them with a great deal of empathy.

So naturally this puts him into contact with Crowley! Who has absolutely no compunction about inviting Aziraphale (his superior! Crowley, you daredevil!) on a jaunt to visit another little corner of the stars that needs maintenance.

"Oh! A... field trip, you say? To the... the Cosmic Cliffs, you called them? Well! That does sound exciting! I don't suppose I've ever considered it."

"You don't want to," says Crowley, visibly deflating.

"No, no, no! That's not it at all! They sound positively lovely, I'm sure. It's only that I have ever so much work, you see, and so little time in which to do it all."

"The Carina Nebula's worth taking a break for," Crowley says, a little bit of pride edging into his voice. He puts on his best encouraging grin. "C'monnn, Archangel. No one has to know. I certainly won't tell anyone you skived off a day's work to see some stars - oh, they all laugh at me as it is. It'll be our little secret." (If an angel had spoken to, say, Gabriel this way - with such a level of presumption, such a level of intimacy! - they would have been demoted instantly.)

Instead, Aziraphale agrees.

"I say," he breathes, hovering side by side with Crowley and looking at the glittering, twinkling splendor of blue-gold-amber scattered across the vastness of space before them. "I say, this is really quite something you've got here. You've outdone yourself with this one, I imagine."

"Oh, thank you," Crowley says, positively beaming, feathers all aflutter, brown eyes bright with feeling.

"It's beautiful," Aziraphale says.

"It is, isn't it," Crowley agrees. But here's an important little detail: he's not looking at his own creation as he speaks. He's watching Aziraphale watch the stars. It's totally untoward. Totally not befitting their difference in status, or their relative lack of acquaintance. And he totally doesn't care. "Gorgeous," Crowley adds. It just slips out, almost an afterthought, almost under his breath.

And Aziraphale turns to him then, and catches him staring openly.

And there's the start of that.

Also would feature in this AU:

Archangel Aziraphale is the one to introduce Crowley to Earthly things! I think that is so, so fun, and I want to see angel Crowley discover his first bite of dark chocolate truffles or his first sip of Turkish coffee or his first time feeling silk, for example, yes

Enough tension to cut with a knife, we love to see it

Open-secret rendezvous in various corners of space to talk about philosophy!

Crowley dedicating specific stars to Aziraphale (Alpha Centauri!)

The other angels looking on in tacit disapproval but not quite being able to do much about it (...yet)

Archangel Aziraphale and angel Crowley take a vacation business trip to Earth! Includes Aziraphale showing Crowley some of his favorite places; them figuring out what sort of clothes they want to wear on Earth (and pining after each other in them, obviously); Crowley's first time riding in a car and subsequently falling in love with high-speed driving; charming B&Bs with only one bed (!); romantic stargazing from Earth; entirely too much faffing about and not enough Heavenly work getting done at all whatsoever because they're too busy realizing they're in love

A faction of angels try to depose Aziraphale because they think he's gone soft (and, well, he has... soft for a certain starmaking angel) and Aziraphale has to go on the lam on Earth to save himself. Cue romantic scene in which he asks Crowley to come with him and of course Crowley agrees

They go to Earth together and perform a combined miracle to hide themselves from Heaven. Maybe Aziraphale still operates his bookshop, but angel Crowley acquires a plant shop and works part time at a planetarium!

I could go on but this has gotten pretty long!

Thanks for letting me ramble about this AU which I love so much <333

#long post #good omens #good omens 2 #sort of #ineffable husbands

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