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tonguetiedraven · 5 months ago

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Yukio cares a lot about perception and keeps a distance because of that

Even while his twin is going on a journey of realizing he sabotaged his own past ability to have friends and is welcoming the new opportunity to make them (he'll fuck that up but figure it out eventually,) Yukio will not allow himself to go on a similar journey until much, much later.

Welcome to part three of my Critically Reading Yukio analysis. Part one here, and part two here. I intended to pause on this series for a moment to focus on my girl Izumo, but I'm actively watching the Yukio analysis and discussions deteriorating before my eyes so he got priority for now, but expect that Izumo analysis soon.

In this part of my analysis we will focus some on Yukio's interaction with his peers and how the way he carries himself relates to that. This, like the other parts, will be a start to a study we will want to keep up through the entirety of his story. I talked last time about Yukio's role of responsibility with Rin and others, and that is directly applicable to this section, because Yukio? Has so much responsibility.

Also, apologies but we're going back to chapter 5. I will get to the double digit chapters, and maybe even triple digit. (Dare we dream?)

I want to point out this moment after the students have taken their exwire certification exam, which they think is a practice exam. Izumo, Paku, and Shiemi have gone to the bath where big dramatics are about to happen and Shima is talking about going to spy on them.

Now aside from the incorrectly translated 'Renzou' there (it's supposed to be Shima as always, sorry), this is one of the first panels where the students acknowledge that their teacher is in fact a student and honestly, younger than most of them. Renzou, Ryuuji, and Izumo are all older by a few months.

Renzou is the only student that will point out Yukio is a student on more than one occasion. Some of you are probably inclined to point out Shiemi, but she very much treats him as a teacher and mentor and someone to put on a pedestal, and I still intend to come back to them in their own post so hold that thought.

Renzou offers a companionship branch (granted on perving but it is Renzou) and Yukio firmly rebuffs it. He does not engage in such things and cannot allow himself to be too familiar with them. One, they are his students and propriety is something Yukio sticks with. Two, he is trying to keep a rather large secret and Rin is not being much help on the secret keeping end.

Yukio has not, as far as we're aware, had real friendships. We know he became popular as a kid/teenager at some point, but his early and formative years were spent being heavily bullied. That he not only could see demons and the terrors that go bump in the night, but that humans treated him cruelly too.

He became popular, but we do not hear that he had friends. How could he when he had a secret full time job at age thirteen and pulled good enough grades to be the top student of his grade in True Cross?

Yukio separates himself from them over and over again and you'll see that all through the chapters in little touches and big moments.

Here's another example from chapter 7 (the chapter where Neuhaus tries to kill Rin and they fight on the roof and Yukio breaks the summoning circle) where the new exwires have been bought a meal for their victory.

Yukio is shown to be standing outside and away from them. He gets called in by one of them and joins the group, or so we think until a few panels later when we see

He only sort of joined them. Now it is possible he's sitting with a few of the students, likely Takara and Yamada if anyone, but however it happens, he's still not sitting with the group in this shot. Even Mephisto is more connected to them. He is facing away and at his own table watching them, but never joining.

He is excluded from his fellow exorcists by necessity, always treated a bit strangely because he is so much younger and he was Shirou's protégé, and eventually he's outed as the other son of Satan and that furthers the gap between him and his coworkers. He excludes himself from the exwires and other students his age because he can't be like them. He has to be their teacher and leader and he has far more going on in his mind and life than thinking about the girls taking baths. He has been given a very lonely and isolating path to walk.

Made worse, I will once again say, by Mephisto.

Moving forward, I want to touch on this moment from chapter 8 before I hit Kuro:

Yukio gets a lot of flack for, well, everything, but this one bugs me in particular. Yukio tells Rin not to fight a certain way because HE KNOWS MORE THAN RIN. If Rin relies more on the demon part of himself without doing anything to try and control/restrain that part of himself he will be controlled by it. He is essentially turning the demon tap all the way on without any idea yet of how the handle works and what the size/strength of the spray will be. He needs to do this slowly or it will lead to problems, and it does. Rin gets taken over by his demon half later on in this story and it almost goes very poorly for the exwires. It is only Mephisto and the Paladin that stop it from happening.

Rin does not know what he's playing with when he's just going ham on the flames and injuries.

But more on that later.

Yukio is seldom not willing to explain something to Rin. The problem is that Rin doesn't want the lengthy explanations from Yukio that Yukio likes to give. He wants a quick and interesting yes or a no that feels more like a yes later, and he doesn't really want any 'no' from Yukio who he doesn't see as an authority because he still sees his brother as smaller and weaker even if he shouldn't. Now Yukio probably could use a less condescending tone, but honestly he's not being that condescending and I think the guy is permitted some annoyance at Rin. Neither of them want to be stuck in this situation and the horrible heat is amplifying everyone's sour mood.

Rin gets mad and growly and tells Yukio to shut up because he saved Yukio and Yukio isn't Father Fujimoto. Rin is referencing the incident with Neuhaus on the roof and grossly simplifying it. While it could be argued that Yukio was aided by Rin, it is not apparent that Yukio was at all saved by Rin. In fact, it was Yukio that got rid of the demon and saved Rin.

However Rin is right, Yukio is not Father Fujimoto.

Rin does not know that Yukio has basically been raised to replace Father Fujimoto. Yukio does know that and it simply adds to his own complicated feelings about their entire situation.

There fight escalates through Shiemi to this:

Yukio getting mocked. Now it's friendly sibling banter at a glance, but we know that Yukio has been bullied and made fun. He is trying very hard to have a serious conversation and Rin will just not have a serious conversation with him and strikes out, sends Yukio's glasses soaring, destroys them, and then laughs at that fact.

Yukio is still on that babysitting duty and it's moments like this that make it seem more like actual baby sitting.

I can feel people getting tense and wanting to interject that I'm being harsh to Rin and mischaracterizing him and he's just goofing or what does it matter when Yukio is so bossy and mean anyway?

Take a breath, hold on, and remember that the vast majority of aoex fandom text is lauding Rin and tearing Yukio apart. This is a Yukio centric study so I'm not going into Rin's emotions and drives as deeply as I'm trying to cover Yukio.

I love Rin and I also find the way the glasses landed hilarious. Kato has a fantastic sense of humor that lines up with my own far more often than not. However, as a sibling who has had her own items destroyed by siblings who just found it funny, I also see this so clearly from Yukio's side. Especially with the fact that he carries himself in a way that makes it seem he doesn't feel safe to express any emotions over this and doesn't get a chance to properly express his mounting frustration before he's being called to the job he shouldn't be stuck with.

He is not permitted to be upset. Rin quite literally just yelled at him, but Yukio yelling back gets him ganged up on. Yukio does not allow himself to express his real emotions and fights them down so that when they do come out, they come out in a snap that's usually intense because they're so far from his usual even demeanor or perfected customer service smile. A "This isn't funny!" from any of the other characters wouldn't be shocking, but with Yukio it is because he never lets himself show that much anger or frustration. Even in chapter two when he was leveling the gun at Rin he did so with an even expression and voice. It was not an emotional thing for him. It was a testing thing.

No one represses an emotion as quickly and efficiently as this 15 year old.

Yukio was bullied from childhood and even his own twin calls him a cry baby, though from what we see, Yukio hasn't cried since he was a child pulled into Exorcism work by Shirou. He has spent more years not crying, but will never lose the conception of wimpy cry baby in Rin's eyes, and it is Yukio's deepest fear that he will always be that. Rin does not realize that is one of Yukio's biggest fears and would certainly not constantly push and poke and deliberately prod that very tender spot if he did. He's an idiot, but he is very rarely a purposefully cruel idiot.

Yukio does not confide himself in anyone because it has never been safe to. He couldn't tell Rin most of what was really going on through the majority of their life because they couldn't risk the seal that was on Rin. Knowing too much and certainly knowing about demons would weaken the seal and an unsealed Rin is a Rin that would be killed by the Vatican. Shirou was someone Yukio couldn't bear to appear weak in front of, and Yukio has no other friends.

There's Shiemi, and he lets himself be more open to her than most people, but he also doesn't quite see her as she really is, and he's slow and tentative about being open with her because he doesn't want her to see the darker parts of him.

But I'll cover them later, I promise.

Focusing on chapter 8 again, I have to say that Rin is a damn menace on this mission. He follows Yukio, shoves himself into the mission while reminding Yukio that he broke his glasses, disregards Yukio's orders in front of others (something that continues to frustrate and upset Yukio visibly and something Rin does a lot, and Shura will as well when she shows up shortly.)

We find out that Shirou had a familiar and it was Kuro who is unquestionably the best boy and deserves cat treats and a warm sun beam to nap in, and who Yukio watched Shirou tame last time he went feral.

Shirou is brought up a lot in this chapter. Over and over by everyone in it. He is haunting this chapter particularly hard. He's been haunting the narrative since he died, but it gets especially cranked up here. The memory of him and the pressure of what he'd do and the way the knowledge of him, of who he really was separates the twin.

Yukio has a super secret package from Shirou, presumably a weapon, specifically for if Kuro loses it. Yukio does not know what this package is and can only assume it is a weapon because he knew Shirou as a warrior. As strong and brave and never afraid. He raised Yukio to fight and defend so of course Shirou would anticipate this and make a weapon to stop Kuro's rampaging.

(Also this is mark two on the tally of Shirou seeming to know he was going to die. Just saying. There's a lot of signs.)

Anyway, Yukio orders everyone away to use his presumed weapon. Rin disagrees with the attack and has been hearing Kuro this entire time but Yukio doesn't know that and Rin doesn't get how he's hearing it, and goes to confront Kuro himself. He literally uses his head and tells Kuro that he gets why Kuro is sad because he misses Shirou too, and Yukio:

Yukio remembers. He remembers Shirou saying almost the same thing to Kuro and sees himself further and further away from being the image of his father he so idolizes while Rin makes it look easy to be like that.

They decide that Kuro will now be Rin's familiar and a lot of people saw Rin take the headbutt from a cat sidhe without any kind of issue, so more stress on Yukio to keep Rin's secret underwraps.

By the way, this is the sort of thing I'm talking about when I say Rin does not work hard to keep his secret. Flame lapses aside, Rin just doesn't pause and think about how something he does will be perceived by anyone. He does not slow down to think. Yukio has to carry that load and Rin will not listen to him. To be fair, no one has taught Rin how to hide a secret. It's not something he's had to do, and Rin has spent most of his life avoiding people and interactions, so it's not something he's good at even without having to keep super strength under wraps.

Rin and Kuro will from here on be inseparable. Rin will have a small buddy at the worse moments and honestly, Kuro is fantastic and I adore the bond they both have. Rin needs and deserves that kind of friend.

Moving on now that Kuro has joined the party!

Chapter 9 starts with everyone getting an assignment to hunt a ghost. Rin embarrasses Yukio because he very obviously stares at Shiemi in all her not-in-a-kimono state. Small spat and everyone goes out and about on their stuff.

It's a dramatic chapter and once again shows that Rin is just not doing well on keeping the whole Satan son thing under wraps and that it is really just the benevolence of those that do know keeping it quiet that is keeping him safe at this moment. His secret will come out and it will almost certainly be a moment of their choosing, because Rin is also easy to manipulate.

Yukio reappears at the end of the chapter. After the roller coaster has been destroyed and Amaimon has returned Rin's sword and they have destroyed a good portion of the amusement park and come horrifyingly close to killing Shiemi.

We get this moment.

We get Yukio running and visibly upset as he should be. This was obviously Rin's doing what with the flame damage and how much strength would be required for this. He doesn't know Amaimon was here at this point.

Yukio comes running up and Yamada, the hoodie wearing team work refusing student that has been hanging out in the background is standing their and holding the bag that Kurikara is in. Yamada is standing there, holding the secret of Rin's flames and his heart, and Yamada speaks.

(Also, apparently 'Yamada' is the Japanese equivalent of John/Jane Doe. Gotta love how low effort that was on Shura's part xD )

Yamada speaks and Yukio immediately knows who Yamada actually is. Whatever Yukio's history with her, it's enough of a history that Yukio recognizes Shura Kirigakure's voice without seeing her face or signature clothing style.

The chapter ends with her saying who she is. The next chapter Rin is getting dragged to the Tokyo headquarters and Yukio is silent for most of it until they're in the building and Shura is saying she will have to report Rin and wants to interrogate him. Mephisto has shown up as well, and it's when Shura starts to walk away to interrogate Rin that Yukio breaks his cooperative silence.

And now I'm gonna skip to chapter 15 before I explain this, because damn it, there is just not enough analysis on the relationship between Shura and Yukio and how messy it is. Shura is such a complicated character and that complication shines with Yukio in so many ways. They bring out the most interesting and sharpest edges of each other and were both rivals for Shirou's attention and neither one has any of their Shirou baggage at all resolved and they can't work together because they can't take the other seriously and they both care about each other and man, the complexities amplify every time they're in a scene together.

I want to focus on this moment in chapter 15. Chapter 15 is at the start of the Kyoto/Impure King arc and is right after the trial and right before they all leave to Kyoto.

During that moment we see Rin getting his new training to burn candles and try to burn specific ones. Shura tells Yukio she wants to spar while Rin is doing that, and it's made apparent it's something they used to do. She uses her sword and he uses his guns, and they both see who can destroy more of the targets in the time limit.

Yukio says no and Shura orders him to do it, and makes it clear that if he loses she expects him to buy him dinner.

This is yet another example of someone who refuses to see that Yukio has grown and changed from who he was, and there's a tremendous power imbalance in this situation. Shura loves to treat Yukio like a kid brother, but she has authority over him and a lot of years on him, and she uses both to try and manipulate him into doing what she wants.

That's a core piece of who she is and absolutely from how she was raised, but I'll probably expand on that later. It's enough to see that she often pushes and manipulates and ridicules Yukio into doing things her way and makes fun of him when he's trying to be serious.

Chapter 15 goes into a flashback after she orders him to join her in the spar. It shows us a scene from when Yukio was in training to be an exorcist, likely around 10ish though I'm not certain of the exact age, and Shura, who is more than ten years his senior, beats him. Unsurprisingly. Because he's ten.

Shirou sees it and sees Shura laughing and mocking Yukio and calling him names and leaving the room, and we get this moment of reflection from Yukio about why he hates Shura. (And a bit of wisdom from Shirou.)

Yukio, understandably, hates looking stupid. He hates that she's immensely talented and acts like everything is a joke because it makes him and being serious look dumb because if someone who isn't taking it at all seriously can beat him, then what chance does he have when he's giving it his all?

(Also the size of that gun in his tiny hands kills me. Take the gun away from the child. I know why you did this Shirou but it kills me and it's awful. ;-; )

Once again we see the problem of perception on Yukio. Of the way he is seen and mocked and how he continues to hate that. He does not want to be seen as weak and stupid, and two of the most important people in his life at this point both see him as weak and stupid, or at least give him the opinion that they see him that way. Rin would probably say he doesn't think Yukio is weak, and Shura would certainly say she doesn't think he's stupid, but that's the way they make him feel and it is a problem as it pushes him to keep showing that he is not those things.

No one in this manga will be as successful as breaking Yukio of his cool as Shura will be.

We will explore the rest of chapter 15 later because it is a Yukio gold mine.

Back to the moment where Yukio finally speaks up in chapter 10. At this point we see him begging to be taken in Rin's place. He knows much better than Rin what is likely waiting on an official interrogation, and chances are he's been carefully versed by Shirou on what to say.

But also, this is his brother and he wants to protect Rin. Everything he's done up to this point has been in an effort to contain and protect Rin and he will continue to work to protect Rin.

Remember the end of chapter two. Shirou brought Yukio into all this madness by asking him if he wanted to get strong and protect Rin, and Yukio steps fully into whatever game he believes Mephisto is playing, knowing he is stepping into a game and that Mephisto is manipulating everything. He does so willingly to continue to protect Rin. It is undeniably his expressed goal. Say what you want of Yukio, he works hard to keep Rin safe from Rin's own self destructive actions and he works hard to keep the secret and shield Rin from the Vatican and this.

Shura dismisses Yukio and his growth. She takes Rin away and leaves Yukio there with Mephisto.

We do not see him again that chapter.

The next time Yukio pops up is in chapter 11 when he's shown sleeping as Rin slips out to go to the roof with Kuro.

Or Rin thinks he is asleep.

This is a tremendously tiny moment that Kato gives us and is easy to skip over as just a funny little ha ha, but it tells us more about Yukio. He's fully aware of what Rin is doing and like always, he is watching. He is aware of Rin slipping out and hears Rin talking about him. Rin is not pulling something over on him.

He is smart and observant. He is a step ahead of Rin. (Probably several.)

We then skip to the next morning and the exwires having some sort of training camp coming up. Will it be a real one this time since their last training was a fake training and actually a test?

Methinks not, lol.

The exwires gather at the bottom of the stairs near the True Cross Midway Station and we see Yukio with what I call his customer service smile.

This smile is ALWAYS a lie. If Yukio is wearing it he is frustrated and pretending not to be. In this moment Shura is almost certainly the reason for the fake smile.

He leads them into the forest for their mission, and it's like mid July in the middle of the day in Japan in Tokyo and it would be so damn hot and humid out there. This is just the nastiest sort of mission to send the students out on. If you do not live in a humid place then know that there is no relief unless you're in the ac. Shade does not help much because the humidity carries the heat and it is an exhausting kind of heat. You should not be going on a hike like this in high humidity. Especially not with those kind of packs and not in a heavy coat.

Yukio's careful façade cracks a lot on this mission. He is starting to show himself and his breaking cool to the students more and more despite trying not to. While Rin is getting lazier about his secret and struggling with figuring his powers out, Yukio's carefully gathered control of himself is starting to fray.

His response will be to double down in the next arc.

A few notable examples of this fraying are:

(Kato fucking kills me with the exwires all :o at Yukio's outburst in that last scene. I laugh every time.)

Hot, stressed, dealing with a person who irritates him more than anyone else, watching as the one person he really considers something like a friend goes more for his brother, Yukio is fighting a hard battle to remain always composed and smiling. This forest is not only a trial for Rin.

None of this is ever only a trial for Rin.

Yukio forces his façade back in place and continues his explanation of the mission.

The last shot we get of Yukio in that chapter is with the customer service smile firmly back in place. The façade cracked but he shoved it back in place. He's pleasant and in control again, not giving the appearance of being emotional, weak, or a cry baby.

The very next close up we get of Yukio is in chapter 12, and needless to say

That smile died again.

I'm going to end part three here with this strip. Yukio visibly loosing his cool and exhausted with Rin while Shura laughs in the background. Yukio saying audibly "I can't hide his power much longer."

This was never just a trial for Rin.

As always, you can see more of my aoex meta by looking at my tag #raven ramble and I'll post another part to this series and hopefully Izumo's analysis soon (๑•̀ㅂ•́)ง✧

#ao no exorcist #blue exorcist #yukio okumura #raven ramble #okumura yukio #rin okumura #aoex #aoex analysis #i love this series so much #i want to read a shura and yukio anaylsis #every character has such interesting relationships and kato gives us so much to play with

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enhastars · 1 month ago

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THE RED ROOM જ⁀➴ CHAPTER FIVE

Ever since Heeseung was a child, he had been fascinated with learning new things. While his classmates groaned in unison whenever the teacher introduced a new unit, Heeseung would sit up straighter in his seat, eager to jot down every word. It was in his nature to be curious, a trait that helped him maintain excellent grades throughout his school years.

His favorite pastime, however, was cooking—a passion that directly contradicted his parents' expectations. They were proud of his consistent academic performance and his outstanding report cards, but the moment he mentioned pursuing a career in culinary arts, they outright dismissed it. For Heeseung, this was the most frustrating part of his love for learning: his parents always set limits on what he was allowed to explore. They had insisted medicine was the only respectable path, and while he didn’t hate the idea of studying medicine, his heart was drawn to the kitchen.

By the time college application season arrived, Heeseung knew he needed to get as far from home as possible. His parents’ impossibly high standards left him feeling suffocated, trapped between two unbearable options: become a doctor or be labeled a failure. As soon as the leaves started to turn in early autumn, he applied for early admission to his dream school. With his high GPA and perfect attendance record, it didn’t take long for him to be accepted.

High school almost deterred his love of learning. Classes were less about exploration and more about test scores, a system that drained the joy out of education. But despite the pressure, Heeseung graduated with flying colors and secured a spot at a university far from his overbearing family. Even as a broke undergrad living in a foreign country, he was content. He felt freedom for the first time in his life.

It wasn’t until his third year of college that cracks began to form in his confidence. He didn’t mind learning English—something he had to do with his school being in the United States—but the career path he’d once envisioned started to feel blurry, like a curved line instead of the straight road he’d imagined.

Do I really want to cook for the rest of my life?

He pondered this question every day. Academically, he was doing well, and he’d even grown close to his roommate, who was also a culinary arts major. But homesickness began to creep in, and the thought of graduating and facing the real world filled him with dread. Who would hire him? He wasn’t anyone special. These doubts dragged Heeseung into a depressive episode, and for weeks, he felt like he was treading water, unsure of his direction.

It wasn’t until one fateful night that things began to shift.

The night had started unremarkably. It was a party, thrown by the frat seniors to celebrate the end of the semester, and somehow, Heeseung had gotten an invitation. Normally, he wasn’t the type to loosen up and crack open a cheap beer at a rave, but his roommate had received an invite for two, and Heeseung figured he could use the distraction.

Socializing wasn’t exactly his strongest suit. He wasn’t awkward, per se, but growing up with his nose in books rather than attending get-togethers had left him lacking in conversational finesse. He often wondered how he’d managed to make any friends at all.

So, when they arrived, Heeseung gravitated toward the corner of the living room, red solo cup in hand, content to observe. He sipped his drink slowly, watching his peers lose themselves in the blaring music and flashing lights. Some were dancing like their lives depended on it, while others slurred half-coherent conversations over the booming bass.

The chaos didn’t bother him. In fact, it was almost comforting. He’d been cramming for his certification exams for weeks, and the constant pressure had drained every ounce of his energy. Now, amidst the noise and the mindless revelry, he felt his stress start to ebb away.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“I’ve never seen you around here before.”

In a flashback, Heeseung was jolted out of his thoughts by the unfamiliar voice. His head shot up, maroon bangs flopping against his forehead from the quick movement. Standing in front of him was a slightly shorter man wearing a Carhartt beanie that covered most of his hair, his lips curved into a drunk, easygoing smile.

Heeseung froze for a moment, captivated. The man’s bright azure eyes were obviously colored contacts, but they were no less mesmerizing. Heeseung felt his heart skip a beat. He was instantly smitten.

“Yeah, I don’t come here often,” Heeseung replied, setting down his drink as a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.

“Yeah? Where’re you from?” the man asked, his words slightly slurred. He was clearly drunk, but instead of being put off, Heeseung found himself closing the distance between them. His body moved before his brain could catch up—probably the alcohol loosening his inhibitions.

“Johnson & Wales. I’m a culinary arts major.”

The other man’s jaw dropped slightly, his surprise evident even through the haze of intoxication.

“Holy shit, dude, that’s fucking amazing,” the man said, his voice enthusiastic but unsteady. A moment later, he winced and pressed a hand to his forehead, looking like he might throw up.

Heeseung instinctively took a step back, bracing himself. The last thing he wanted was to end the night with puke on his freshly bought clothes.

“Relax, man. I’m not gonna barf on you,” the stranger reassured him with a chuckle, leaning against the wall for support.

Heeseung felt his cheeks heat up but was grateful the dim, colorful party lights hid his blush.

“What about you? What do you major in?” Heeseung asked, genuinely curious.

The man laughed—hard. It wasn’t mean-spirited, but it caught Heeseung off guard. He furrowed his brow, puzzled. The question didn’t seem that strange or personal.

“I don’t go to college, dude,” the man finally said, grinning as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“What? Then why are you here?”

The man shrugged nonchalantly, snatching Heeseung’s mostly forgotten drink and downing the rest without hesitation.

“I just like partying.”

Heeseung scoffed, though a smile spread across his face at the man’s shameless honesty. There was something about his openness that Heeseung couldn’t help but admire. He’d spent his entire life hiding his emotions and true feelings from others, so meeting someone who acted like an open book made him equally envious and intrigued.

“So, you must be good at cooking, right?” the man asked, his tone teasing yet genuine.

Heeseung nodded cautiously. “What about it?”

The man rummaged through his jacket pockets, his movements clumsy but determined, until he pulled out a crumpled business card. He held it out to Heeseung, who blinked in confusion

“Well, I just opened a restaurant with my friends,” the man explained, pointing at the card now in Heeseung’s hands. “And if you’re looking for a job—” he tapped the card again, grinning—“give us a call.”

Heeseung opened his mouth to respond, to tell him that he wasn’t really looking for work or to ask why this whole thing seemed so sketchy, but before he could get a word out, the man had already disappeared into the crowd.

Heeseung stood on his tiptoes, craning his neck to search for him, but the room was a chaotic blur of flashing lights, loud music, and drunken bodies. Giving up with a sigh, he leaned back against the wall, the bass from the speakers thrumming through his chest.

Disappointment was just beginning to creep in when his eyes drifted to the card in his hand. Scrawled messily on the back, alongside the restaurant’s information, was a phone number.

Heeseung’s heart leapt. That had to be the guy’s number. A super hot guy had just handed him his number—granted, under professional pretenses, but still. He couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face.

Thank god he’d decided to come to this party tonight. He definitely owed his roommate a huge thank-you for dragging him along.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Heeseung couldn’t stop thinking about that encounter. The gnawing feeling in his chest had lingered for days, refusing to settle no matter how much he tried to brush it off. Now, a few days later, he was sitting in the corner of a small, unfamiliar café with legs bouncing under the table as his nerves got the better of him.

The man he’d met that night seemed Korean, just like him. He’d picked up on the faint accent when the guy spoke English, a familiarity that tugged at his heartstrings.

He had impulsively called the written number, albeit after thinking about it for a while. Someone answered the phone, and once he told them his name they told him to come to this specific coffee shop. It felt strange. Heeseung had never been to this part of town before, and the person on the phone sounded far more serious than he had been during their first encounter. Heeseung tried to reassure himself that it might’ve just been the phone connection, but the unease didn't go away.

“What the hell am I doing here?” he muttered under his breath. For all he knew, this could be some elaborate human trafficking scheme, and he’d foolishly walked straight into their trap. He even dressed up for this. Great.

Just as he was about to leave and cut his losses, the bell above the door jingled. Heeseung glanced up to see three men walking toward him, all roughly the same height and dressed in black. One wore a T-shirt—crazy, considering the freezing weather outside—while the other two had hoodies pulled up over their heads.

He couldn’t see their faces clearly, as all three wore black masks, but one of them immediately caught his attention. The familiar frame made Heeseung relax slightly.

“Hey! You came!” Yep, it definitely was the same guy. He got up, fixing his teddy coat on the chair behind him. The said male took his hand, shaking it with excitement.

“Surprising, considering I don’t even know your name,” Heeseung teased, smirking as he gestured for the group to take a seat. The latter grinned sheepishly while the other two men sat down silently, one of them swatting him on the back of the head.

“You didn’t even introduce yourself, Jake? It’s a miracle this guy showed up at all,” said the man in the T-shirt, his gruff voice betraying a hint of irritation. Heeseung noted the faint rasp, like he’d been nursing a cold for weeks.

It was in Korean, which Heeseung may have forgotten a bit after being in Rhode Island for so long, but he could still pick up what was said.

“This idiot,” the other man scoffed, pulling off his cap to reveal dark blue hair.

Heeseung chuckled at the exchange, unable to hold back an airy laugh. His reaction caught the three of them off guard, and they turned to him with varying degrees of surprise.

“Wait—you know Korean?” The shorter man–Jake–asked, wide-eyed.

“Of course I do,” Heeseung replied, finding their reactions amusing. It was almost as if they’d been caught talking behind his back (even though they hadn’t really).

Jake groaned, burying his face in his hands. “You should’ve told me that earlier,” he muttered, clearly embarrassed.

“Your English is great. Don’t sell yourself short,” Heeseung reassured him with a kind smile.

Jake’s ears turned red, and Heeseung found the sight inexplicably adorable. Everything about Jake was adorable, he realized. It was probably the only reason he was still seated here, despite how suspicious the whole situation felt.

“Ahem.” The blue-haired man next to Jake cleared his throat, looking unimpressed. Heeseung quickly collected himself, feeling warmth rush to his cheeks. He’d been caught staring.

“What is this, a date?” He asked with a teasing smirk, though his sharp tone made it clear he wasn’t amused.

Jake shot him a glare that went ignored.

“Jay’s right,” the man in the middle interjected. “This is about business.”

Heeseung turned his attention to the one who spoke. The man’s presence was calm but commanding, and Heeseung immediately pegged him as the leader of the group.

“So you guys are legit?” Heeseung asked, raising a skeptical brow. “I’m surprised.”

“Of course we’re legit,” the man said, scoffing lightly. “I’m Sunghoon, by the way. And you are?”

“Heeseung.”

“Nice to meet you, Heeseung.”

The exchange was polite enough, but the silence that followed was stifling. Heeseung shifted uncomfortably in his seat as Jake sipped from his drink, seemingly oblivious to the awkward tension.

Jay elbowed Jake sharply in the ribs, earning a pained groan.

“Ow! Asshole,” He hissed, rubbing his side.

“Can we get to the point already? We’re just sitting here like girls at a tea party,” Jay grumbled.

Heeseung found it hard to believe these three were running a legitimate business. They seemed more like bickering siblings than professionals.

“So, is it like a restaurant?” Heeseung asked, cutting through the chatter.

“Something like that!” Sunghoon grinned, but instead of reassuring Heeseung, it put him on edge. There was something about the overly eager expression that didn’t sit right with him.

“We’re still in the process of building a home base,” Sunghoon continued, “but we’re working with our legal team to get everything sorted.”

Heeseung blinked in disbelief, taken aback. These people don’t even have a settlement yet? Why the hell are they hiring so early?

“Wait—so you guys don’t even have a restaurant yet? Like, at all?”

Sunghoon opened his mouth, but Jay beat him to it. “Uh…” Jay avoided his gaze, suddenly very interested in his empty coffee cup.

Jake laughed nervously, trying to diffuse the tension. “Like hyung said, we’re in the process. It wouldn’t hurt to have extra help early on.”

“Oh yeah? And with what money are you going to pay me?” Heeseung asked, crossing his arms as he leveled a challenging glare at Jake.

Jake shrank back slightly, but Heeseung softened his gaze, not wanting to come off too harsh.

“Relax,” Sunghoon said cautiously, holding up his hands in a calming gesture.

“How do I know you’re not planning to kidnap me and sell my organs?” Heeseung joked, narrowing his eyes playfully.

Their eyes widened, and Jisung’s straw fell from his mouth dramatically. For a split second, fear was instilled in all their eyes as they all glanced at each other, and Minho thought he was spot on and they really were planning on kidnapping him, but they suddenly erupted into laughter. His brows furrowed, a frown growing on his lips.

Their reactions were immediate. All three men froze, their wide eyes darting to one another like they’d been caught. For a brief moment, Heeseung’s stomach dropped as thought he’d hit the nail on the head, but then they suddenly burst into laughter.

“Oh my god, you’re hilarious,” Jay said, doubling over the table.

“We’re not in the black market, don’t worry,” Sunghoon said with a tired grin.

“Oh yeah, very reassuring,” Heeseung muttered sarcastically.

Sunghoon looked to be in thought for a second before leaning over the table, hands nearly brushing Heeseung’s.

“How about a starting salary of 70k?”

Heeseung’s jaw dropped, any grudges and speculations out the window. 70,000 dollars a year, and only the first year was insane. It was too good to be true.

“Deal.” Fuck it, why not? It’s not like he had a set job for him after college, and he would be able to work with people he already (kinda) knew. Still, he was a little unsure.

“You sure? You can’t go back after signing our contract.”

Heeseung rolled his eyes. This guy was unbelievable.

“I said yes, didn’t I?”

There was no turning back now. Jake and Jay’s faces lit up, both of them grinning like kids in a candy store. Even Sunghoon, who tried to maintain an air of professionalism, couldn’t entirely hide the giddiness in his expression. What absolute dorks.

“Thank you! I promise, you won’t regret it!” Jake exclaimed, jumping out of his seat with enough enthusiasm to draw attention from nearby tables. Jay groaned, swatting at him to sit back down and shushing him under his breath.

“Here are my credentials,” Sunghoon said, pulling a small piece of paper from his pocket and sliding it across the table. It looked like a business card—or at least, an attempt at one. It wasn’t the most professional thing Heeseung had ever seen, but it seemed legit enough.

“Wait, but where do I go—”

“Bye, Heeseung! Pleasure meeting you!”

Before Heeseung could finish his question, they were already halfway out the door. Sunghoon waved over his shoulder, and Jake and Jay trailed after him, leaving a few stray bills on the table to cover their drinks.

The whole thing happened so quickly that it left Heeseung momentarily stunned. He glanced at the unfinished drinks they’d left behind, then back at the café’s entrance. Why were they in such a hurry? And why did everything feel so rushed?

Letting out a long sigh, Heeseung slumped back into his chair. His fingers fiddled with the business card as his thoughts spiraled.

“What in the world did I just get myself into?”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The present wasn’t quite what Heeseung had imagined back at that café.

He stood in the kitchen now, the scent of spices and fresh herbs filling the air. The restaurant was bustling as usual, orders flying in and out of the small window where servers grabbed trays. From the outside, it was perfect—a fine dining dream. But Heeseung knew better. Behind the scenes, the restaurant was a smokescreen for something far more dangerous. What it was, he had no clue.

Heeseung wiped his hands on his apron, his eyes darting to the exit where Sunghoon left with Jake and Jay following him. They were huddled together, their voices low as they talked about something that had Heeseung’s stomach twisting in knots. He tried to focus on cleaning his station, but he couldn’t ignore the looks they exchanged—subtle, but unmistakable. Something was going on, and it was something he wasn’t part of. Or maybe he was part of it, but they’d never been honest enough to tell him.

Heeseung thought of the small business card that had been tucked away in his wallet for years. The edges were frayed now, the text faded from overhandling.

When Heeseung first stepped into the restaurant, he froze in disbelief.

This couldn’t be it.

The “restaurant” Sunghoon had hyped up was nothing more than a cramped, dingy one-room building tucked into the back alleys of town. A faded neon sign outside flickered weakly, barely forming the word “Open.” Inside, the smell of grease and mildew hung in the air, mixing with something metallic and faintly sour.

The walls were stained with what he hoped was just grease, and the kitchen—if it could even be called that—was a mess of mismatched appliances and chipped countertops. The stove looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years, and the lone refrigerator hummed so loudly it sounded like it was on its last legs.

Heeseung’s shoulders slumped as he surveyed the scene. This can’t be real.

“This is… certainly not what I expected,” he muttered under his breath, feeling the weight of disappointment settle in his chest.

Jake, who had been watching him nervously from behind, took a step forward. “It’s not much, but—”

“It’s literally nothing,” Heeseung cut him off, his voice flat.

Jake flinched, his usual cheeriness dimming for a moment. Heeseung turned on his heel, already reaching for the door.

“This was a mistake,” he said, shaking his head. “I didn’t sign up to work in a dump.”

“Wait!” Jake’s voice rang out, stopping Heeseung mid-step. He turned back reluctantly, eyebrows raised in a mix of impatience and skepticism. Jake jogged toward him, blocking his path with a desperate expression.

“Just… give us a chance!” Jake said, his words tumbling out quickly. “I know it doesn’t look like much right now, but it’s got potential. We’ve got potential.”

“Potential doesn’t pay the bills,” Heeseung replied, his tone sharp.

“Listen man, I get it.” Jake said, raising his hands in surrender. “But you’re a chef, right? You know what it’s like to take something raw and turn it into something amazing. That’s what we’re doing here, we just need someone like you to help us get started.” It sounded like he was scrambling.

Heeseung stared at him, unmoved. This had to be a prank, and he was not finding it funny.

“Jake.”

Both men turned to see Sunghoon stepping forward, his calm, steady presence immediately commanding attention. Jay followed close behind, his expression unreadable.

“Let me handle this,” Sunghoon said, brushing past Jake and stopping just a few feet from Heeseung.

Oh great. Spare me.

Sunghoon’s gaze was piercing, but his voice was measured and controlled. “Heeseung, I understand your reluctancy. This place doesn’t look like much right now. Hell, it doesn’t look like anything. But you’ve got to trust me—we’re building something bigger than this.”

Heeseung’s eyes narrowed. “And what, exactly, are you building?”

“A legacy,” Sunghoon said, the word rolling off his tongue like it was the easiest answer in the world. “We’re not just opening a restaurant. We’re creating a name for ourselves. Something people will talk about for years to come.”

Heeseung snorted, unimpressed. “That’s a nice dream, but I’m not seeing how it connects to this.” He gestured around the room, his eyes lingering on the flickering light in the corner and the stained walls. “Some legacy..”

“That’s why we need you,” Sunghoon said, taking another step forward. “Once this place takes off—which it will—you would have been a part of it from the beginning. This is more than just a job, Heeseung.”

“That’s a nice speech and all, but how are you supposed to pay me 70k a year?” Heeseung still wasn’t buying it, his stubbornness preceding all else.

“You are a chef, right?”

Sunghoon held his gaze, almost piercing into Heeseung’s eyes.

“Cooking. Making sure the food tastes good—that’s all you need to worry about. We’ll take care of everything else.”

Heeseung spared a glance at Jake, who was fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie, and Jay, who stood with his arms crossed, looking quietly determined. His eyes returned to Sunghoon, who was watching him intently, as though daring him to say no.

There was something about the way Sunghoon spoke—calm, confident, and unwavering—that made Heeseung pause. Against his better judgment, a small part of him wanted to believe in what they were saying.

“You really think this place has a chance?” Heeseung sighed, his voice quieter now.

Sunghoon’s lips curved into a faint smile. “I don’t think. I know.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

author note: omg im so sorry i took so long to update!! this semester has been one of my hardest but i passed orgo 2 woooo!!! 😋 and i'm finally on summer break so i thought why not pick back up on where i left off? i hope you guys enjoy! (alice this is for u twin)

prev | masterlist | next

taglist: @rebeccaaaaaaaa, @strxwbloody, @shuichi-sama, @pshbites

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pokemonshelterstories · 9 months ago

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What sort of treatment would you give a steel type pokemon at the shelter if one was brought in with chronic rusting issues? Purely out of curiosity, don't see too many discussions about steel type care on the blog and I think they're underrated.

great question! we don't see a ton of steel types at the shelter, but i'm currently working towards my steel type handling certification, so i've been reading a lot of recent literature on steel type care haha. the answer is that it really depends on the pokemon and what's causing the rusting issues.

in the vast majority of chronic rusting issues in pokemon with metallic components to their body, the cause lies with husbandry. poor diet is the most common culprit. steel types in the wild eat a much wider variety of metals than initially believed, and in fact- much like a gogoat- many obtain trace metal and mineral content by eating dirt/rocks outside of their main diet! fixing dietary imbalances results in the rusting clearing out over time in most cases.

sometimes chronic rusting can also be caused by failure to provide proper avenues for self-maintenance. for example, aggron are known to "polish" their metal by rolling in sand or coarse-grained dirt and rubbing up against oily plants. in these cases, providing opportunities for those natural maintenance behaviors will typically resolve the problem. some older steel types may need their trainer's assistance with polishing if they've developed mobility issues.

outside of those possibilities, it's a veterinary issue. those are tough to resolve in steel types. if it's because of a mechanical problem (such as a klinklang's gears not turning properly), it can sometimes be fixed, but otherwise the usual response is to treat the symptoms rather than cure the underlying cause. we just don't always have enough knowledge of care for some of the less organic steel types to know how to provide for their medical needs. treatment for chronic rust usually involves regular polishing with medical grade steel wool (which has been properly sanitized) and the application of some type of oil blend to help form a protective coat. custom-made raincoats to help prevent exposure to moisture as well as using a dehumidifier in spaces the pokemon frequents can also lower the risk of new rust forming.

#charlietalks #pkmn irl #pokemon irl #pokemon care

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onsvisaservices · 3 months ago

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year ago

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Napoleonville [Chapter 9: Clarence House]

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

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, smoking, drinking, drugs, Adventures with Aegon (ft. Sunfyre the Ferret), Willis Warning, infidelity, kids, parenthood, and no more hints for you, start reading!!!

Word Count: 8.9k.

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

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

Only 1 chapter left!!! 🥰🧁

He returns in an afternoon of inescapable golden sunlight, hot and muggy, bumble bees and ladybugs wheeling lazily above tall grass, cumulus clouds like tufts of cotton in a sky the color of Aemond’s eye. You hear him talking to Cadi—she’s out in the front yard making mud pies, earth for sugar and sprinkles of stray pelican feathers—and then the weight of his footsteps on the sinking, sloping porch. He opens the door, never locked, and walks through the living room into the kitchen. From behind, his arms circle around your waist; and you’ve missed him so much—dreaming of waves and storms, chains and blood—that you have nothing for him but softness, gentle smiles and a voice hushed with relief.

“How was Norway?” you ask as you roll out dough on the counter. You’re making a buttermilk pie.

“Fine,” Aemond says, resting his chin on your shoulder. But he sounds tired, low.

You turn around to look at him, raising your fingertips to his unscarred right cheek; he won’t tolerate you touching the left. You leave a dusting of flour across his skin like snow, which you have never seen in person and likely never will. The air conditioner is humming. The little pink Panasonic boombox is playing Africa by Toto. “Did something happen?”

“I just missed you.” Then he brightens. “But I was greeted by some very welcome news when I got back to the house this morning.” He’s wearing his neon teal duffle bag. He drops it to the floor and unzips it; inside you glimpse several Nintendo game cartridges, presumably for Cadi. And you think: I’m always here making things, he’s always bringing them from far away. Aemond takes two small dark blue booklets out of a pocket in the inner lining of the duffle bag and gives them to you. On the front of each is embossed in gold lettering, along with an emblem of a bald eagle: Passport, United States of America.

“…Aemond?!”

“There’s one for you and one for Cadi. I submitted the forms a month ago, but even with expedited processing it took this long. Ridiculous. What does the government do all day besides hunt down social programs to defund?”

“But…but…” You open one of the booklets. A photograph of your own face gazes back at you, serious and serene, taken against the white wall of your bedroom before you knew about Aemond being a Targaryen, or Christabel, or Amir’s exodus to San Franscisco, or the profound futility of everything, it seems. “How…?”

“I took the pictures, obviously. The rest was easy enough to find. You store birth certificates and social security cards the same place where you keep the business records that Amir showed me. Typically people have to go to a passport agency in person, but Criston and I have ways around that. Your signature might have been forged on the applications…but I suspect you won’t be filing any police reports.” Aemond grins, pleased with himself. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“It’s definitely surprising.” You stare down at the passports, amazed. “Aemond…this is a lot. But you already know that.”

“The whole time I was gone, I was wishing you could be there too. And now I can take you anywhere.”

Your heart is pounding, helpless childlike exhilaration. “Where are we going?”

“Clarence House in London.”

London: it’s another world, a distant planet, a constellation whose name you don’t know, the lost city of Atlantis.“Clarence House? Is that a hotel?”

“It’s a royal residence,” Aemond says, amused. “It’s officially the home of the Queen Mother, but the whole family goes to Balmoral in Scotland every summer, and while they’re gone they often rent out one wing to guests, not just anyone, trusted people like distant cousins or longtime, aristocratic friends. And the Targaryens…”

“You’re marrying Christabel, and she’s nobility. So you’re basically nobility now too.”

“Yes,” Aemond admits, a little guiltily, perhaps. “But you’re the person I’m inviting.”

“And Cadi.”

Now he’s genuinely puzzled. “Of course. We couldn’t leave her behind.”

Maybe I can handle this. Maybe I can make this work.

And you climb onto your tiptoes to circle your arms around the back of his neck, embracing him, thanking him, thinking: Christabel will have his ring, his last name, his family’s mansion, his acquiescent kiss at the altar of the Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens…but I have what he’s made of, dreams, soul, bones in the abyss of an ocean of blood. Maybe that’s enough.

Maybe.

~~~~~~~~~~

First class, cheerful stewardesses, an array of magazines purchased from a gift shop in New Orleans International Airport: the National Enquirer and Food & Wine for you, The Face and Smithsonian for Aemond, and National Geographic Kids and Zoobooks for Cadi. The Zoobooks animal this month is the eagle, how quintessentially American. You are served antipasto Italiano, shrimp cocktail, Perrier, and champagne (Cadi gets a Shirley Temple) over the Atlantic Ocean. Aemond shows you and Cadi how to chew gum to pop your ears as the pressure builds to pain. When there is turbulence and he leans in close to tell you everything is fine, Aemond smells like Wrigley’s Doublemint, cologne, Marlboro cigarettes like the logo on his red and white jacket. You press your palm to the cool window, and clouds float by through the gaps between your fingers. The world is older than anything you could fathom; the world is brand new.

There is a black limousine waiting outside Terminal 3 of Heathrow Airport. The driver gets out to load the sparse luggage: Aemond’s teal duffle bag, a frayed and battered rolling suitcase that you borrowed from your mother, a Super Mario Bros. backpack that you found for Cadi at Kmart. Aemond doesn’t have much time to spare, only 4 days, practically a long weekend; but it feels like an eternity stretches out in front of you as the limousine zooms through the narrow, winding streets of downtown London, Starship’s We Built This City piping from the radio. You have never had more than a few uninterrupted hours with Aemond before. Now you will have a hundred.

The London air is cool, grey, misty; fresh rainwater bleeds into puddles, dark pools of mirrorlike reflections. With the windows rolled down and clean slate-colored air unfurling in your lungs, Aemond points to the landmarks you pass: Gunnersbury Park, Chiswick House and its gardens, cathedrals, museums, shopping districts, centuries-old cemeteries, stations of the London Underground, the River Thames, Hyde Park, the Ritz Hotel, Buckingham Palace, Saint James’ Palace, and at last Clarence House. It is a boxy white four-story townhouse with columns at the entranceway that remind you of the Targaryens’ estate on the shore of Lake Verret, the beautiful yet temporary home they call The Last Desire.

Aemond says that the entire first floor will be yours for the duration of your stay. There is the Lancaster Room, red and gold, and the Morning Room of creams and weak watery blue. There is the Library, the Dining Room, and the vibrantly pink Horse Corridor named for its ample equine paintings and sculptures; Cadi immediately proclaims this to be the best part of the house. She lingers in the hallway examining the art pieces as you and Aemond proceed to the Garden Room, which looks out upon a sea of lavender and shrubs meticulously shaped into a maze no higher than your waist. It has a golden harp and a grand piano, and a vast bed large enough for at least five people, in your estimation. I wonder if Aemond has ever tried that, you think distractedly. I wonder if there are temptations I can’t satisfy for him.

“You and Cadi can have this room,” Aemond says. He keeps wincing and bringing his hand up to the left side of his face; you doubt he’s even aware of it. “I’ll sleep on one of the couches.” Of course he will; Cadi thinks you’re just friends, and she’s aware he’s getting married to someone else. He knew exactly what it would mean when he bought a passport for her. “Queen Elizabeth and her husband Philip lived here before she ascended to the throne. They loved it so much that at first they refused to move to Buckingham Palace, which is the traditional residence of the reigning monarch. But their insolence was worn down. No one gets to break the rules.”

I shouldn’t be in this place, you keep thinking as you gaze around at the portraits on the wall, the stiff unnatural photographs of royals, the vases, the chandeliers, the fireplaces, the plush intricate rugs, the garden on the other side of the windows. People like me don’t belong here. “Aemond, are you alright?”

“It’s my eye,” he confesses with an uneasy, apologetic smirk. “Sometimes flights…the altitude changes…it aggravates the nerve damage. It’s like needles in my skull. But I’ll be okay.”

“You fly a lot for work, don’t you?” You hurt yourself for Viserys, in body and soul.

“I do,” he agrees. He unzips his duffle bag and produces a bottle of Percocet. “Why do you think I carry these around?”

“Take one,” you say. “Lie down, rest. Cadi and I can entertain ourselves for a few hours.”

He’s relieved, he’s grateful. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. You can even borrow the bed.”

“Back between your sheets, huh?” Aemond says, in pain but smiling through it. He draws a semicircle from the part in your hair down to your chin, a weightless sweep of his fingertips like a kind breeze. “You are incurable. You can’t resist me.”

“I have my own scheme in mind.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” You grab the front of his Marlboro jacket, appropriate for the overcast London weather. He belongs here, this house, this city, this way of life. He wasn’t made for the primordial heat of the swamplands. You fold into him, close enough to tease, to quicken his heartbeat and momentarily clear the wounded furrows from his brow. “I want my pillows to smell like you. I want to breathe you in all night. It’s how I sleep best.”

“I’ll try not to disappoint,” Aemond says, a little stunned; but he’s elated too. For a moment, you’ve distracted him from his suffering entirely. “I’ll roll around all over them. I will mar the bedding irrevocably, the Queen Mother will never invite me back.” And he watches as you leave, his gaze transfixed and meditative and—more than anything else—hopeful.

“Hey, honey,” you say when you find Cadi in the Horse Corridor, poking a 100-year-old oil painting that she is definitely not supposed to be touching. “Let’s go explore and grab some dinner. Aemond isn’t feeling great, but we’ll hang out with him later.”

“Is it his face?”

You are startled. She knows so much. “Yeah, actually, it is.”

“He showed me,” Cadi says casually, still peering up at the horse; and you remember the day when he took her out to the front yard after she said she wished you were more like her friends’ mothers. “He even let me touch it. Radical, right? It’s so gross, but super cool too.”

Aemond couldn’t stand for me to see how he was maimed, but he forced himself to endure it for Cadi. “What did he tell you?”

“That I should appreciate having a good mom, because not all parents treat their kids right. He said his dad let his eye get crushed. And he told me he’d bet $1 million that you’d snap someone’s neck if they hurt me like that.”

You reach out to skim your fingers through her dark disheveled hair, smiling faintly, fondly. Cadi doesn’t seem to mind. “He wasn’t wrong.”

“Can we get fish and chips?”

“Totally. I have 50 British pounds in my wallet, I assume that’s enough for dinner.”

“Wow! How much is 50 pounds in dollars?”

“I have no idea,” you say. “Let’s go spend them.”

~~~~~~~~~~

In the evenings, you, Cadi, and Aemond gather around the television in the Lancaster Room and help yourself to the extensive VHS collection stocked for guests. You let Cadi pick: Raiders Of The Lost Ark, The Terminator, Firestarter, the Karate Kid, Aliens. You make popcorn in the extravagant kitchen in the basement of Clarence House and the three of you devour bowlfuls of it as you giggle on the couch, engulfed with throw pillows and playfully kicking at each other beneath the blankets. One night at Cadi’s request you bake Betty Crocker’s Party Rainbow Chip cupcakes with mix purchased at a Tesco down the street; on another you make hot chocolate to sip from antique tea cups. Each day, Aemond has new destinations picked out to tour. You ride the Underground like true Londoners to the Hampton Court Palace, the British Museum, Westminster Abbey, the Natural History Museum, Big Ben, Trafalgar Square, Tower Bridge, the National Gallery, the Kew Gardens, Imperial College where Aemond received the petroleum engineering degree he never wanted.

As he shows you the classrooms where he attended lectures and seminars—you aren’t sure what the difference is, though you can sense that there is one—Aemond doesn’t talk about math or oil drilling. Instead, he tells you and Cadi about the people he learned about in the history classes he managed to slip into his exacting schedule like splinters into flesh: Sir Harold Gillies who pioneered plastic surgery in his treatment of World War I veterans, Phillis Wheatley who was enslaved as a child and became a renowned poet and abolitionist, Boudicca who led a rebellion against the Roman invaders and upon her defeat succumbed to some tragic, enigmatic doom. Aemond loves stories like this, you can see the light that sparks into the crystalline blue of his right eye. There is nothing he deems more heroic than people who took circumstances beyond their control and made something worthwhile out of them.

The night before the flight back to New Orleans, you’re staring at the crown molding of the Garden Room as Cadi snores softly from the other end of the massive bed and silvery moonlight covers the world. You can’t stop your thoughts from roiling like the North Sea; you can’t stop thinking about desks and chairs and books and clever blue-blooded girls jotting down in their notebooks not cake orders but mathematical equations or dates of conquest. When you breathe in the smoke and cologne Aemond left on your pillows, it tastes dark and forbidden. You climb out of the bed, roomy Bob Dylan t-shirt, pink cotton shorts, hair loose and wild, bare feet.

He is outside pacing around the sundial in the center of the garden, puffing on a Marlboro cigarette and pondering the full moon. “Can’t sleep?” Aemond asks, exhaling smoke as he glances over at you.

“You must think I’m stupid.”

“What?” He stops pacing. “Why?”

“Imperial College,” you say. “And the sorts of people who go to places like that. You must have known a lot of women who could recite Shakespear and name all the kings of England, all of Jupiter’s moons. Things I never learned. Things that I have no use for. I don’t write books or design machines or study the secrets of the universe. I bake cupcakes.”

“And they’re brilliant,” Aemond says, smiling. “I don’t think you’re stupid.”

“No?”

“No,” Aemond insists. “I think that if you’d been born where I was, you would have done far more with it.”

“Aemond…” You walk across the wet cobblestones to meet him by the sundial. It’s been raining again. The night air is chilly, foggy, painting you with goosebumps. “You still have time to become who you want to be.”

“No. I don’t.”

It’s coming from somewhere, distant but still audible, a parked car or a nearby building: Kyrie by Mr. Mister. Aemond chuckles, flicks the end of his cigarette into the lavender bushes—surely against the rules—and takes your hands in his.

“I remember this,” he says as he dances with you slowly, clumsily; you don’t know the steps. Still, you don’t want him to stop. “In your kitchen.”

He remembers everything. “Right before we went to Olive Garden for the first time.”

He sighs, pretending to be exasperated. “Of course that’s the part you committed to memory.”

“I’ve held onto a few other details too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Like how small the back seat of your Audi Quattro is.”

“A limousine would be far more comfortable. I should invest in one.”

You laugh as he twirls you and you trip over your own feet; he pulls you upright before you can fall to the slick cobblestones. And you think: This is real. No matter what happens between him and anyone else, what we have is safe and extraordinary and real.

“I’m glad you’re here, Cupcake,” Aemond murmurs through your hair, holding you without seeking more. “You and Cadi.”

You want him again, or you’re so close to wanting him that the line is less of a boundary than a quagmire, indistinct edges and quicksand that can drag you down to drown in it. “I never knew that this was possible. Thank you, Aemond.”

“It can be like this all the time.”

Not all the time, you think, knowing that there will always be Jade Dragon, the Targaryens, the stock market, the world, the past and the future, Christabel. But some of it.

Is that enough?

~~~~~~~~~~

Willis agreed to you and Aemond taking Cadi out of the country on one condition: that you return her to him the second you arrive back in Napoleonville. It’s late Tuesday afternoon when the plane’s wheels hit the runway and squeal to a halt. Aemond has left his red Audi in the Park-and-Ride lot. You collect the car and soar west on Route 10 into the red-gold horizon, chasing the setting sun.

“Daddy!” Cadi bellows when she throws open the front door of the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office, waving his gift bag excitedly. Inside is a refrigerator magnet, several packages of McVitie’s Digestives in different flavors, and a miniature red-coated Queen’s Guard to keep on his desk, perpetually covered with disorganized papers and crumbs from innumerable desserts. From her poster on the wall, Heather Locklear simpers at you. At the center of the dartboard, poor Tommy Lee is impaled in four different places.

“Comment ca va, cherie?!” Willis opens his arms to hug Cadi when she barrels into him. He guffaws, his eyes are shiny; he has missed her. “Ya had a real good time, I reckon?”

“It was totally tubular. But I’m glad I’m home now. Can I get a horse? His name is Patches and I love him.”

“Huh? What the hell ya need a horse for?” He peeks around Cadi to look at you, a curious blue gaze beneath the thick dark bangs of his mullet. “What’s she talkin’ ‘bout, sugar?”

Beside you, Aemond groans irritably. Then you hear a voice from one of the holding cells, almost always empty: “Hey, cake lady.”

“Aegon?!” you and Aemond say at once, and sure enough, when you check the last holding cell there he is: unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, blue shorts, rainbow flip flops, hair like he’s been in a hurricane, a new eyebrow piercing.

Aemond asks Willis: “What did he do?”

Willis picks up a clipboard from his cluttered desk and begins reading. “Possession with intent to distribute cocaine—”

“I told you, I wasn’t distributing anything! It was for me!”

“Aegon, shut up,” Aemond pleads.

“Possession with intent to distribute marijuana, possession of drug paraphernalia, possession of methamphetamine less than 28 grams, operatin’ a vehicle while intoxicated, possession of MDMA, possession of alcoholic beverages in a motor vehicle, operatin’ a vehicle with a suspended license, resistin’ an officer…” Willis flips the page. “Speedin’, reckless drivin’, disturbin’ the peace while in an intoxicated condition, possession with intent to distribute Xanax, theft—”

“What the hell did you steal?!” Aemond demands.

“Burritos. I forgot my wallet at home.” Now Aegon is indignant. “But I saidI’d get them back! They didn’t need to call anybody about it!”

“Aegon, Taco Bell does not offer payment plans!”

“I can release him to ya, I guess,” Willis tells Aemond in a slow drawl.

“I really appreciate that. I’m so sorry about him, I’m absolutely mortified, I’ll pay whatever fines you want—”

“Wait, no,” Aegon says, panicked. His hands are gripped around the iron bars. “I don’t want to leave.”

Aemond stares at him. “You’re asking to stay in jail…?”

“I can’t go home. Stephanie’s there.”

“Of course she’s there. You knew she was flying in for the wedding.”

“Please let me stay here until she goes back to Monaco.”

“Definitely not. How’s everything else?”

“There’s something wrong with one of the Lake Verret rigs. Viserys mentioned a…a…I don’t remember, a dirt dump or something.”

“A mud pump?!”

“Yeah! That’s it. That’s what he said. It exploded.”

“Fuck,” Aemond hisses, then remembers that Cadi’s still there. She gives him a sly grin. You messed up, she means. Aemond looks to you, apologetic, disappointed. “I’m going to have to drop you off and then head straight home. There are messes to be mopped up.”

“No,” Aegon moans as Willis unlocks the holding cell and then wrestles him out of it when Aegon resists. “No, I’m a felon! I’m a danger to the public!”

“Don’t,” Aemond snaps, and this time his brother listens.

You say goodbye to Cadi—she barely notices—but as you go to follow Aemond and Aegon out of the Sheriff’s Office, she has a question. “Aemond?”

He stops. “Yeah, Cadi?”

“Can I go to the wedding?”

“Weddin’?!” Willis exclaims. “Already?!”

“Not mine,” you say.

“You really want to go?” Aemond asks Cadi with some reticence. But he seems to be considering it.

“Well, yeah. Mom said she and Amir are going. You’ll be there. Lots of cake will be there. And I’ve never been to a wedding before. I want to see what it’s like.”

Aemond turns to you, then to Willis, searching for permission. “It’s alright with me,” Willis says. “As long as someone there is keepin’ an eye on her.”

“It’s your choice,” you tell Cadi. “If you’re interested, I have no objections. But you have to be nice to Christabel.”

“Christabel?!” Willis says.

“That’s Aemond’s fiancée.” And there is a collective uncomfortable silence: Willis nodding slowly as he squints at you, Cadi chewing on her thumbnail, Aemond looking down at his Adidas sneakers, Aegon staring vacuously at the Heather Locklear poster on the wall.

With Aegon squeezed into the back seat, Aemond drops you off at the home Cadi calls the Fall-Down House. The new house hasn’t closed yet, but probably will in the next week. The adolescent gator is sunbathing in the last of the daylight in one corner of the yard; you can hear the pink Panasonic boombox inside playing Another One Bites The Dust.

“Ho, you’re back!” Amir cries, jubilant. He hugs you energetically, staining you with the flour on his hands; he’s been watching the bakery while you’ve been gone and keeping every cent of the profits in recognition of his labor, as agreed upon. “How was London?”

You give him his souvenir: a purple t-shirt with Princess Diana’s face on it. “Rainy. Wonderful.”

“Did you have any kinky sex in the royal grandma’s bed?”

“No,” you say, laughing. “But it was…I don’t know how to describe it. Calm. Normal. Easy. Like we could live that way forever.”

“So you’ve decided to be his Camilla.”

“Some moments I have. Other times I haven’t. But more and more, I just…” You try to decide what you mean. “The thought of giving him up feels impossible. And Christabel…they’re so distant with each other, so disconnected, so platonic. Their relationship doesn’t feel real. Maybe I can ignore it. Maybe this is the best I can hope for.”

Amir pushes his tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of his nose and raises an eyebrow. “It might feel more real in three days.”

The rehearsal dinner is on Friday; the wedding is only 24 hours later.

~~~~~~~~~~

“You really should consider writing a cookbook, dear,” Alicent says from where she sits across from you. The dining room table is covered with flickering pink candles, bouquets of wildflowers, drinks garnished with cotton candy and Pop Rocks. Balloons bump against the ceilings, their long ribbons streaming down like the tentacles of a jellyfish. The stereo is thumping out Caught Up In You by 38 Special. Everything is pink and red: the colors of love. Yet just like at the engagement party, no one is talking about the couple getting married tomorrow. You could almost forget that there’s going to be a wedding. That makes it easier; and if denial is the terrain you live on now, so be it. That is far less agonizing than the alternative.

“Oh, no,” you demur, taking a sip of a cotton candy cocktail. You exchange a glance with Aemond, sitting several seats down from his mother. He is in a suit—black and white, fitted, faultless—and smiling, proud of you. “A book?! I couldn’t. Not in a million years.” I never even finished high school English.

“But all of my friends from home are captivated by your recipes, darling, and it would be so much easier if I could simply send them a copy of a cookbook rather than trying to describe every dish to them! Please consider it. Do you promise?”

“That I’ll think about it? Not too taxing a commitment. I suppose so.”

“Good,” Alicent chirps, then turns to whisper something to Criston, who drapes an arm briefly across her shoulders and gives her a reassuring little embrace. Amir is chatting with Aemond about San Franscisco. Christabel is talking to Helaena, who has been forced into a voluminous, magenta taffeta dress that she clearly despises; her chameleon Dreamfyre lurches around the table, occasionally stealing tastes of people’s food. Daeron, with Tessarion perched on the back of his chair, is trying to discuss something called seismic testing results with Viserys but getting ignored. Viserys is deep in conversation with Christabel’s father, the marquess, a large loud man whose booming voice drowns out everyone else. The two of them seem delighted, celebratory, very much in their own world. Their schemes have come at last to fruition. Christabel has several younger sisters in attendance—her bridesmaids—but no mother. You gather from pieces of dialogue you’ve overheard that her mother died when she was a child, a terrible and irreparable loss. Otto is so bored he’s flipping through a picture book about Kiribati. Aegon’s wife, Princess Stephanie of Monaco, is a headstrong, charismatic, and rather critical woman with short dark hair. She notifies Aegon each and every time he fails her, which happens frequently: You’re using the wrong fork. You missed a button on your shirt. You haven’t fucked me properly in over two years. You didn’t send flowers to my grandma’s funeral. This is evidently Aegon’s worst nightmare; he has disappeared upstairs in an effort to escape her.

Dinner is finished, and dessert has been brought by the servants. It turned out more like a crepe cake than a Napoleon cake—the layers of puff pastry didn’t want to fluff up as much as they should have—but no one seems to notice. This time, you and Amir knew the dress code expectations. You are both wearing black to fade into the backdrop like shadows, like distant memories. You are invited guests, but you are also locals, inferiors, recipients of charity.

“Where’s Aegon?” Helaena says. “He has to try this cake, it’s delicious! The cherry jam cuts the heaviness of the cream and pastry dough and makes it a perfect dessert for summer! And the color is delightful! It looks just like blood!”

“Where the hell is he?” Viserys demands, looking around, twisting in his chair. “It’s his brother’s rehearsal dinner, for Christ’s sake. One night of this importance and he can’t handle it? I swear to God, if he’s snorting or smoking anything up there I’ll have him committed to an institution—”

“I’ll find him,” you offer as you stand from the table. You have to visit the bathroom anyway, too many glitzy pink cocktails; two birds, one stone. You depart from the table and Aemond’s gaze follows you, a low heat that is building towards incineration, a baiting promise of dark euphoria that you can no longer pretend you don’t want desperately, defenselessly. Christabel gives you a sweet little wave. She is dripping in gold—dress, heels, jewelry—and seems happier tonight, more self-assured. Perhaps with the wedding so close, her trepidation concerning Aemond’s commitment has evaporated. Surely it is too late to call off the ceremony now. Tonight they feast, tomorrow they recite their vows, and then…

But no, you don’t think about the honeymoon. You will not allow yourself to. It can’t exist to you, and that is how you’ll survive this. Christabel will be in one universe, you in another, two timelines that never cross like something out of Star Trek. And the way she and Aemond interact is so impersonal, so untactile, that it is not so difficult to treat anything beyond chaste pecks on cheeks as an impossibility.

At the top of the staircase, Vhagar is lurking. She wags her long twiglike tail when she sees you and licks the knuckles of your left hand. You give her a pat on the head—and then several more when she whines as you try to leave—then at last she lopes off down the hallway.

Aegon is exactly where you’d assumed he’d be. He’s in his bedroom hunched over his computer and hammering furiously at the keyboard. There’s white powder on his fingers and in his thin mustache. On the screen, bizarrely, is what appears to be neon green grass and an ox-drawn wagon like the ones from the pioneer days. Sunfyre the ferret is stretched out across the bed napping, his angular face resting on his paws.

Aegon whirls around to face you. He is wearing a lime green satin suit but has forgotten to put on a shirt under it. “What? What? What do you want? I’m playing Oregon Trail. I have dysentery.”

“You have what…? Never mind, it’s not important. You need to come downstairs and eat some dessert. People are wondering where you are.”

“I’m busy.”

“If you don’t make an appearance on your own, Viserys will come looking for you. Also there are some Cap’n Crunch treats I left on the kitchen counter that you might be interested in.”

“Consider me tempted. I’ll be down momentarily.”

“You better be,” you tell Aegon, then retrace your steps back to the kitchen. Amir and Christabel are both there getting cans of Pepsi from the fridge and making very cumbersome small talk…or perhaps only Amir thinks it is that much of a burden. Christabel is chattering blithely away about different types of wildflowers. He gives you a look like Oh thank God, an excuse to escape and wastes no time heading back to the dining room.

“Did you notice what’s playing now?” he asks you just before he vanishes, then points towards the stereo in the grand foyer. You listen; it’s Money For Nothing by Dire Straits. “You think they know this song is about class warfare?”

“You should tell them,” you joke.

“Yeah, if I want to end up on Unsolved Mysteries.” Then Amir is gone.

“How are you doing?” you ask Christabel to be polite. You open the refrigerator and start hunting for your own can of Pepsi. “Excited? Nervous? You seem a little more relaxed than the last time I saw you. Are the wedding jitters finally dissipating?”

“They are,” she says, and when you glance back at her she is wearing a bashful sort of smile. It’s not an expression you can read. You resume digging through the refrigerator for a can of Pepsi; Amir and Christabel might have taken the last ones.

“That’s good,” you say noncommittally, hoping she’ll leave. But Christabel doesn’t leave. She seems to have something she needs to say. Just as you spy a lone can of Pepsi at the very back of the refrigerator and lean in to grab it, she proceeds to unburden herself.

“Well, you know, I was so concerned about me and Aemond before. I had no conviction that he especially liked me, and we never had anything to talk about, and he was so dreadfully undemonstrative…I was just beside myself, truly. I didn’t know what to do. But I feel much better about everything now. Norway was so good for us.”

Norway?

You close the refrigerator, your ice-cold Pepsi can clutched in your hand. You’re going cold all over. Slowly, you turn towards Christabel, glittering in her gold dress.

Norway???

“He took you on the North Sea trip.” You hear the words, but it doesn’t feel like you’ve said them. They sound flat and dazed.

“It’s a bit of a secret,” Christabel says; and again, her smile has no cruelty or sharp awareness in it, but her cheeks are pink. She’s blushing. What does she have to be embarrassed about? “My father doesn’t know. He wouldn’t approve. But I just felt…I felt ready, you know? I’m sure you understand what I mean. You aren’t so clinical and aloof about everything. I had to know if Aemond and I really had something between us before we got married.”

“You felt…ready?” Ready for what? Ready for WHAT, Christabel?

“I asked Aemond to take me with him. I begged, actually.” She giggles. “I won’t try to be proud about it! And finally he said yes. We stayed at a lovely hotel in Bergen, and during the day he would have to fly by helicopter out to the rigs, but at night…”

You’re staring blankly at her. You can’t believe what you think she’s going to say. Surely it must be something else, anything else—

“It wasn’t my plan to ever be intimate with a man before marriage, but sometimes…things change. Minds change, circumstances change. And I knew I wanted it. And it went so well! Now what do I have to be nervous about? All the uncertainties are resolved. Now we just sign the paperwork and start our lives together.”

He took her to Norway.

He slept with her in Norway.

“I hope it was just as good for him,” Christabel muses, a compulsive sort of oversharing. But she has had a few cocktails and she thinks you’re nonjudgemental and there’s probably not a single other soul she feels she can be truthful with…so why not the girl who got knocked up at prom and had a baby at seventeen? Surely she’s in no position to judge. “It’ll be even better once we can…you know. When we’re officially trying for a baby and there’s no need to worry about any precautions. I want Aemond to enjoy himself as much as possible. I want to be a good wife to him.”

You feel dizzy; you feel violently ill. And now you see everything: Aemond kissing her with his mouth open and ravenous, his hands between her legs, his hips pressed to hers, peeling off her clothes and learning how to make her moan, make her wet, make her come, and you think of how careful he must have been with her, a girl with no past, no ex-husband, no childbirth that nearly killed her, no stretchmarks and no baggage, just a smooth pristine rivulet of flesh that was so pure and uncontaminated it was weightless, and you can hear—though you don’t want to, though it feels like it will kill you—how tender he was, how encouraging, not a dominant who drinks down fantasies like a vampire sustained by blood but just a man, and a man who has at last found a woman he doesn’t need to grab, bite, bruise, handcuff to a bedpost to feel satisfied with.

He took her to Norway and he never told me.

You are saying something, and Christabel is nodding appreciatively, accepting the sage wisdom of a tarnished life. Your words don’t matter. They are folktales and charms, the croaks of bullfrogs, the whispers of the wind through Spanish moss, the Morse code of ripples in the water of the bayou. You are a novelty and your counsel is a souvenir; one day when she is living in California or Argentina or Australia or Alaska or her ancestral castle back in the U.K., Christabel will tell Aemond’s children: Once I met a nice single mom from Napoleonville Louisiana, and she told me to follow my heart and not let anyone shame me for wanting to be close with my soon-to-be husband.

Vhagar trots into the kitchen and begins nudging her massive head against Christabel’s bare knees. “Hi, big girl!” Christabel coos as she pets the blue merle Great Dane, clearly accustomed to this. “Who’s a giant gorgeous girl? You are!”

What did I expect? I knew they were getting married. I knew they were going to sleep together.

Yes, you knew it, but you hadn’t felt it, and now you have.

I can’t do this, you realize. I thought I could but I can’t.

“Christabel?” Alicent is calling like a windchime. “Darling, there are just a few more things we have to discuss before tomorrow, will you come back to the table please?”

“On my way!” Christabel replies obediently, and she gives you a quick, impulsive hug before vanishing.

I’m going to be sick. I’m going to have a heart attack. I’m going to drop dead right in the middle of this fucking kitchen.

Leaving your can of Pepsi forgotten on the countertop, you escape to the living room and then out the French doors into the garden. You run past the pool all the way to the pond full of multicolored fish you once hadn’t known were koi. You drop to your knees, then lie down on the cold cobblestones, and when it hits you again—Aemond touching her, Aemond loving her—you rupture into sobs that are breathless and shuddering. You try to stifle the noise with your palms; you clasp them over your mouth and smother your wails. It feels like you’re being ripped apart; it feels like you’re in labor, but there is no end, no consolation of a new life, no point at which your body chooses whether you live or die. It is only a razored wheel that turns in you again and again and again, shredding muscle and splitting bones.

There is a hand on your shoulder; someone is patting it awkwardly. You look up to see Aegon standing there. “Sorry,” he says. “You look…not good.”

“I’m really not good. I’m fucking terrible.” Your face is soaked and stinging with tears, your voice is strangled.

“Do you want some coke?”

“No, Aegon.”

“Do you want a ride home?”

“From you? Yeah, for sure, getting impaled by a stop sign would be a great next move for me.”

“I’m totally fine to drive.”

“Can you just pull Amir aside without anyone else noticing and tell him to say his goodbyes and then meet me in the driveway, please? He drove me here. I need him to take me home.”

“Okay,” Aegon says, and then: “Thanks for the Cap’n Crunch Treats. Thanks for remembering something I like and caring enough to bring more. No one really does that around here.” And he’s gone before you can think of a reply.

To get to the driveway without going though the house, you climb over a 5-foot wrought iron fence swarmed with rosebushes and ivy, no easy feat in a black Kmart dress and matching ballet flats. You acquire a dozen shallow gashes on your hands and forearms, but make it to the Ford Escort just in time for Amir to meet you under the full, cloudless moon, tossing his car keys from one hand to the other.

“What did—?” Then he sees your face. He gasps, knowing how bad it is. He’s never seen you like this. He didn’t know it was possible for you to look like this. He unlocks the Ford Escort and joins you inside, turning the key in the ignition. “What the fuck did Aemond do to you?!”

“I have to go home. It’s over, it’s over, I can’t do this.”

Amir is spinning out of the driveway. “Did he hurt you, did he—?!”

“He fucked Christabel in Norway,” you say, sobbing uncontrollably. “And I know I have no right to be jealous, I know we don’t have a conventional relationship, I thought I could handle this but I can’t. I can’t stop picturing him with her, and hearing it, and I…I…I don’t understand why this hurts so goddamn bad.”

“Babe,” Amir says gently, a palm on your trembling thigh. “You’re in love with him. That’s why.”

“This is killing me,” you whisper. You’re shaking all over. You feel like you’re battling for every breath.

Your best friend—your only friend—is quiet for a long time. “Don’t go tomorrow,” Amir finally says. “You don’t need to see the wedding. You shouldn’t put yourself through that. I’ll go, I can handle the cake alone, especially if Cadi’s with me to help with carrying plates and stuff.”

You don’t say anything. You stare out the nightscape window and mop tears from your face with McDonald’s napkins you find in Amir’s glovebox.

“Did you hear me? I don’t think you should go to the wedding tomorrow.”

“I won’t,” you agree hoarsely. “I can’t watch them have my wedding.”

“Willis is dropping Cadi off in the morning, right? I’ll pick her and the cake up from your house and bring her back when it’s over. You can tell her whatever you want…you have another cake order to work on, you’re sick, you’re injured, your mom needs a ride to the doctor, whatever.”

“Okay,” you whimper.

“Hey, look at me.”

You do, sniffling, shivering, in agony.

“You don’t deserve this. You deserve better than this.”

I don’t think I do. I think if I did, it would have happened by now. But you know Amir will not accept this answer. “Okay,” you say again, trying to make yourself believe it.

In the gravel driveway of your sinking house, Amir asks if you want him to say. You tell him no, you want to be alone, you have to think, you have to plan. Really, you just don’t want anyone to see you this shattered. It’s humiliating, it’s like you’re an animal, like something less than human needing to licks its wounds in a dark place. You walk into the Fall-Down House and flip on the kitchen light, artificial yellow luminance. You don’t start the air conditioner. You don’t touch the Panasonic boombox. You stand there mindlessly in the sounds of the bayou: cicada screams, owl hoots, the far-away hissing of gators. The wedding cake is in the refrigerator, banana bread, cream cheese frosting, a kaleidoscope of wildflowers painted by Amir’s expert hand. He’s leaving. Aemond’s leaving. Everyone is leaving.

There are tires crunching on gravel in the driveway, there are footsteps on the sloping porch. He is able to yank the door open because you never lock it. He blows in like a storm that kills.

“What the hell happened?!” Aemond shouts. “Why did you leave?! You didn’t even have the decency to say goodbye to me—”

“You took her to Norway.”

Aemond’s face goes from furious to lost. “Why would she tell you that?”

Not That’s not true, not Let me explain, not It didn’t mean anything. Your stomach sinks, a basket full of stones. “Because she thinks I’m her friend.”

“It wasn’t…” Aemond sighs. “It was a last-minute thing, and it was her idea. She really, really wanted to go to Norway, and I figured…you know…what’s the difference between the wedding night and a few weeks before it? So yeah, it happened—”

“Oh God,” you whisper, starting to sob again.

“And then I came home to your house, to your doorstep, because I missed you the entire time. The entire time, every hour, every minute, and there are no exceptions, okay, are you listening to me? I took her to Norway because I had to. I took you and Cadi to Clarence House because I wanted to. What I do with her is a reflex, an obligation, I’m on autopilot, I’m thinking of you to get myself hard, I don’t know how else to express to you how completely different these situation are in every single goddamn way.”

“She said it was good,” you say huskily, tears snaking down your cheeks that are raw from trying to dab them dry.

“Of course it was good for her!” Aemond flings back. “I’ve had a lot of casual sex, I know how to make women come, it’s a math equation, it doesn’t mean we’re soulmates!”

“I know I have no claim to you, but I…” You gaze out the kitchen window, dark and still, nothing to see but stars and lighting bugs. “I can’t do this.”

Aemond asks, kindly now: “What do you want?”

I want to not have to beg you to choose me. “I want this to be over.”

“No,” he says, panicking. “No you don’t.”

“I do.”

“You’re going to give this up as soon as it gets painful? I’m not worth fighting for, what I can do for you and Cadi isn’t worth a little pain? Because I’m no stranger to it either. You think I’m not hurting, you think nothing ever keeps me awake at night?”

“You could leave your prison any time you want to. But instead you built a brand new one around me.”

“You don’t understand what the kind of responsibility I’m beholden to feels like.”

“Yeah, a town named after Napoleon is the right place for you,” you seethe, enraged. “You’ve felt so fucking small your whole life that now you’re starving for what it tastes like to be in control. But I can’t let you destroy me. I can’t let my daughter grow up watching me settle for less than I need from a man. She’ll learn to live the same way.”

“I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

“Aemond,” you say, and you wait until he looks at you. “Do you really want children?”

When he answers, his voice frayed and his right eye misty. “I love Cadi.”

“That’s not what I asked. Do you want children of your own with Christabel?”

“I have to,” he says, miserable.

“No,” you plead. “You cannot have a baby with that girl. You can’t, Aemond. You are going to ruin so many lives, not just your own.”

“I have to,” he says again.

“Then get out. Viserys owns you, and Viserys wouldn’t want you here. He would want you back at the mansion impregnating your child bride.”

“She’s a legal adult, she’s 19, and she wants me, she begs for me, I’m not twisting her arm—”

“Then go!” you roar, striking him hard, both palms to his chest. Aemond doesn’t budge. “Get out, go home, go have kids you won’t give a fuck about just like Viserys never cared about you. Go repeat the cycle all over again. I’m done. I can’t be a part of it.”

“I won’t be like him,” Aemond swears.

“You will be. You already are.” You shove him again, but still, Aemond doesn’t move. You know what he’s waiting for, you know the right word to say. But you can’t get it to launch from your lips; it catches in your throat like a blade through the windpipe. “Get out!”

Your fingers hook into the lapels of his black suit jacket and stay there; you can’t let go. You’re both breathing heavily; you can hear it, you can feel the heat in the air. You keep his jacket gripped in your hands, he can move no closer, no farther away. When he leans into you, you breathe in his smoke and cologne; when his hands cradle your face, you feel the benevolent power that once gave you peace.

I want him. I need him. Not forever, no, I understand that’s not possible. But just for right now.

You look up at him and Aemond kisses you, his lips and tongue claiming you like untouched land; he puts down roots, he slits the jugulars of trespassers.

Here. Now.

You drag him down with you. When you drop to the floor, you strike the back of your skull against the scuffed, sloping wood and bite back a yelp.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Aemond says, though it isn’t his fault; he reaches for your head and cushions it with his right hand. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay.” You’re tearing open his white shirt; tiny translucent buttons go flying in every direction. Your palms glide over his chest, up to his throat, to his jaw, to knot in his hair. He reaches beneath your dress to slide off your panties, then buries his fingers between your legs. You moan helplessly, needfully, spreading your thighs wider for him. No man has ever been able to do this to you before: to make you forget everything, to make you feel—if only for a moment—beloved, worthy, chosen. He’s kissing you like he knows this is the last time. You’re touching the left side of his face and he doesn’t even notice, he won’t realize until later that there was a time when he was cured.

Aemond pulls his wallet out of the pocket of his suit pants, flips it open, and roots through it until he finds a condom. He starts to rip it open, moving with desperate speed, dire impatience.

“No, don’t,” you say. “Please don’t. I want all of you.” And I won’t get another chance.

He exhales in deep, ecstatic relief; he wants it too. You’re soaked, you’re ready, you’re aching for him like mending bones. He eases himself into you, gasping, and you are stunned by how good it feels already, how close you are, every rope of nerves and muscle glimmering with an opening heat that builds higher and higher, the reverse of a tornado finally touching down on earth. His hands are linked with yours and pinned to the floor above your head; he’s kissing you, he’s moaning into you, he thrusts deeper and harder when you beg him to do it.

Aemond untangles one hand from yours and reaches low to stroke you. Your fingers find his again and catch him, capture him, bring his hand back to the floor where it can be entwined with yours and his weight can hold it to the scraped wood. “I don’t need it, I’m close. Stay here. Stay with me.”

“I’m here,” he whispers, panting; and the friction of his body against yours overtakes you, and when you come it is blinding, bone-breaking, a whirlpool that traps you for what feels like over a minute, soaring highs punctuated by the illusion of fading over and over again until you think you can’t stand it, and only then does it end, Aemond collapsing on the floor beside you covered in your sweat and your wetness, you feeling the remnants of him bleeding down your bare thighs.

You drag yourself upright—muscles sore in your belly and back and thighs—and roll onto your knees so you can stagger to your feet. You tug on your panties so he doesn’t drip out of you onto the floor. Then you straighten the skirt of your black dress, turn on the little pink Panasonic boombox—it’s a U2 song, Where The Streets Have No Name—and begin washing a muffin tin that was left in the sink.

Aemond stands up and runs a hand through his hair, getting his bearings. He looks down at his pants and fixes his zipper and belt. He tries to close his shirt and then remembers you tore off the buttons. They lie scattered across the floor, useless.

As you scrub the muffin tin, you hear Aemond’s footsteps behind you. His palms begin at the small of your back and then skate around your waist to encircle you.

“Stop,” you tell him; and immediately his hands fall away. Aemond waits for you to say more, but you don’t. You don’t even look at him.

He walks to where the kitchen becomes the living room—you can tell by the creaks in the floor—and again, he waits. After a while he says: “I’ll call you when the new house is ready.”

“No. Have Criston handle it. I don’t ever want to talk to you again.”

“You get that I’m in love with you, right?” Aemond forces out, and when at last you turn to him there is the metallic glistening of tears on his right cheek. “I never feel this way about anyone. I don’t know how to handle it, I didn’t even know it was possible. But it’s true.”

“It’s not enough,” you say simply, and resume scrubbing the muffin tin.

He waits in silence, thirty seconds, a minute, two minutes. Then the door opens and shuts—like the jaws of a beast—and he’s gone.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond

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onlytiktoks · 2 months ago

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kanakkupillai2007 · 2 years ago

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mariacallous · 2 months ago

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When I first changed the gender marker on all my documents in the spring of 2022, it was during a brief, shimmering moment of legal recognition for trans people across the United States. A year earlier, the Biden Administration had announced that people would finally be allowed to self-select their gender on their passports. Now there would also be an option for nonbinary people to mark their sex as “X.” The move was a fascinating display of liberal tolerance, even if it did not go so far as to enshrine the right to trans health care. The option to self-identify on federal paperwork stood in stark contrast to the numerous states around the country that were starting to crack down on the ability of trans people to change their sex on driver’s licenses and birth certificates. As someone born in Indiana, a red state home to former Vice-President Mike Pence, I was worried about being able to update my birth certificate. I was ultimately able to do so, but only after getting a court order. Other states, like Arkansas and North Carolina, are more draconian, requiring proof of a so-called sex change. Of course, what qualifies as this kind of operation is a moving target. Now it’s a moot point. Donald Trump has issued an executive order, “Defending Women from Gender Ideology Extremism and Restoring Biological Truth to the Federal Government,” declaring, among other things, that government-issued I.D.s must reflect one’s sex assigned at conception.

Some have snarkily noted that everyone is female at conception. It is not until later in the fertilization process that male chromosomes may reveal themselves. But such jokes, which take aim at Trump’s misunderstanding of biology, ignore the fact that he simply does not care about biology, aside from using it as a signifier for his various “anti-woke” positions. The executive order banning trans and gender-neutral passports is only one of the anti-trans pronouncements that Trump has made during his first few months in office. This evisceration of long-fought-for civil rights marks a ruthless changing of the guard. For years, the U.S. government has used “sex” and “gender” interchangeably. Today, gender is considered a dangerous ideology that seeks to eradicate the immutability of sex. As Secretary of State Marco Rubio recently stated in an e-mail to department staff, “The policy of the United States is that an individual’s sex is not changeable.”

The executive order’s text is even more damning: “The erasure of sex in language and policy has a corrosive impact not just on women but on the validity of the entire American system.” Validity, of course, is not a political measurement. It’s a social one. The war that Trump is waging is cultural, based not on complex legal jargon but on feelings. Transphobia is generally a form of extreme discomfort weaponized as systematic dehumanization. “They don’t want any trans person to feel validated,” a twenty-two-year-old named Zaya Perysian recently told NBC. “They want it to go back to how it used to be where we were seen as like these creatures . . . like night stalkers.”

Identity documents are essential to public movement and travel. There are currently fourteen countries that allow applicants to self-attest their gender on passports and sixteen that allow “X” gender markers. When trans people don’t have any I.D. that matches their visual presentation, they are often held under heightened scrutiny by T.S.A. agents, police officers, and other representatives of the state who may think that these individuals are committing identity fraud. (The U.S. State Department first established gender markers on passports in 1977, when androgyny was all the rage, citing the rise of unisex fashion and hair styles as the justification for the shift.) For trans people who pass, it’s a logistical nightmare to have to explain why they appear to be one gender while their documents tell a different story. These are intentional Kafkaesque problems that the Trump Administration is creating.

The executive order currently just applies to new passports, affecting people who are either getting their passports for the first time or who are attempting to renew their outdated documents. Many trans Americans rushed to change or extend their old passports before the executive order was officially signed—only to find that passport office workers weren’t so eager to accommodate their pleas. Some had their applications suspended indefinitely. Those who have tried to amend their documents after the executive order have had their documents returned with their biological sex reinstated on their passports as a “correction.” This is what happened to Hunter Schafer, the trans actress best known for her role in the HBO series “Euphoria”: she applied for a new passport after her original one had been stolen, and received a new document stamped with a male gender marker. “I had a bit of a harsh reality check,” she said in an eight-minute TikTok. Schafer explained that she thought the executive order was a lot of “talk” until she received her updated passport. She went on to recite her laundry list of privileges: not only is she famous but she is a white trans person who passes—allowing her greater leeway under more liberal administrations. What’s to come of trans people if even the most upwardly mobile, beautiful movie stars aren’t safe?

The case of Mary Fox has also sparked immense fear and debate among members of the trans community. Fox went to a passport office in Los Angeles in order to apply for a passport. Given that her visit was after Trump had issued his executive order, Fox had come to terms with the fact that she would likely have to accept a male gender marker. As she told Vox, “being able to travel is more important than the letter on a piece of paper.” Yet receiving a male-designated passport quickly emerged as the best-case scenario: after submitting an application, Fox was told that the agency couldn’t issue her a passport at all. “We don’t have authorization right now to issue a passport,” the official told her, according to a recording of the conversation. All of Fox’s documents—her birth certificate, her driver’s license—were taken away. “So I can’t leave the country?” Fox asked. “I can’t answer that,” the official responded. After her experience, Fox took to the internet to share her story. Pain begets visibility. Soon, many were outraged over what they took to be a blatant case of discrimination. Public pressure may have swayed the eventual outcome: Fox’s documents were issued and returned but with a male gender marker.

Understandably, many trans people are hesitant to discuss these issues publicly, in part because they’d rather not give the Trump Administration new ideas about how to close legal loopholes. A nonbinary TikToker in Florida recently went viral, for instance, after posting a video explaining how to get your state I.D. gender marker changed by pretending to have lost your previous I.D., only for Libs of TikTok, a popular right-wing account, to pick up the story and report the trans vlogger to the government. Florida Governor Ron DeSantis’s former press secretary even mocked the nonbinary TikToker by saying that they should “thank” the D.M.V. for its “dedicated service.” Meanwhile, Texas state representatives are attempting to pass a bill that could charge trans people with identity fraud. These issues are not limited to American citizens, either: Bells Larsen, a trans Canadian musician who was set to tour in the United States, was forced to cancel his concerts after he was told that he would be unable to secure a visa since U.S. Immigration only recognizes identification that corresponds with one’s assigned sex at birth. The legal and economic consequences of these policies are just beginning to make themselves known.

In the months since the executive order went into effect, the American Civil Liberties Union has been contacted by more than seventeen hundred trans people and their family members looking for legal advice. The A.C.L.U. has also filed a lawsuit—Orr v. Trump—challenging the order. On “At Liberty,” an A.C.L.U.’s podcast, Chase Strangio, a trans lawyer at the A.C.L.U., discussed how the order, which essentially renders certain documents useless, may infringe on the right to travel. The A.C.L.U. has also asserted that anti-trans laws are a form of sex discrimination—although it’s unclear how the courts will respond to this argument. (Judges have blocked Trump’s executive order banning trans people from serving in the military, as well as the order banning trans passports.)

Based on the scale of Trump’s anti-trans policies, the goal is not just to limit trans people’s ability to move through the world safely, or to keep them out of the military; it’s to codify a moral judgment: that trans people are deplorable. By predicating his executive orders on issues of morality, Trump has created an uneven playing field. Throughout the years, many pro-trans protests have used slogans such as “Trans Rights Are Human Rights” and “Trans Kids Deserve Better,” which, of course, are true. But the problem is that these types of statements are utterly banal. They are tautologies that fail to contend with the vicious rhetoric of the right.

Similar counter-statements by queer and trans activists did not save Sam Nordquist, a twenty-four-year-old Black trans man from Minnesota who was brutally tortured and assaulted for more than a month until he died, allegedly by seven adults who had lured him to a motel in upstate New York under the false pretense of a romantic weekend. While state police did not link the case to the broader anti-trans panic occurring on a national scale, it is impossible for trans people to ignore the connection. Some trans people are more vulnerable than others—this has always been the case, but even more so now—whether because of their race, their class, or their incarceration status. Melissa Gira Grant, of The New Republic, has written about how trans women in prison may be among the first to suffer under Trump’s anti-trans policies, given his executive order calling for them to be held in men’s prisons. Children, too, are at risk, having in some cases lost access to gender-affirming medical care—which is to say, life-saving care. Since the 2024 election, crisis hotlines for trans kids have been flooded with calls. Additionally, a new study by the Trevor Project found that suicide attempts went up by more than seventy per cent in states where anti-trans bills were passed. For Democratic state senator Karen Berg, of Kentucky, these statistics are personal. In 2023, during a floor debate over a bill that banned health care for trans children, Berg, whose trans son had recently died by suicide, emotionally addressed her fellow-lawmakers: “You know my child is dead.” The bill passed anyway.

None of this occurs in a vacuum. Violence echoes. The attacks on transgender people are intimately tied to the current waves of deportations and the fall of Roe v. Wade, which are part of a larger crackdown on bodily autonomy. Rights are won, and then they are stripped away. For many trans people, this ambivalent dependence on the state is both a privilege and a weakness. We are tied to a political machine that ultimately does not want us. For years, we have been forced to work out creative solutions to bureaucratic snafus; we have celebrated hard-fought victories that often turn out to be short-lived. The state will not save us, we joke, even as we fear that it may very well try to extinguish us.

The last time I travelled abroad was shortly before I underwent major surgery. At the airport, I walked through the body scanner at security and, as always, an alarm went off. When T.S.A. workers believe someone to be a certain gender, based on the individual’s appearance, they press a corresponding button somewhere behind a curtain. If any anatomical anomalies are detected, an invasive body check ensues. This means that trans people are far more likely to undergo additional security measures. I was pulled aside and a T.S.A. agent asked me if I preferred a woman or a man to pat me down. My body froze up and I tried to act as if I were already at my vacation destination, somewhere far away from the container of my anatomy. The indignity of being singled out flooded my mind, and I blacked out until I was allowed to cross over to the other side of the line. Safe, but perhaps not entirely sound. When I flew back to the United States, the airport security agents in Tokyo merely waved me through, perhaps less preoccupied with the imagined spectre of gender ideology.

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