#Cold Room Exporter | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jackrrabbot · 4 days ago

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effleurage of fealty

michael "robby" robinavitch x reader

word count ~3.2k

content warnings/description: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, AFAB reader, age gap, mentions of babies/baby making, oral sex (m!receiving), deep throating, reluctant sub!robby, soft-dom reader

author's note: i think we can all agree that robby just needs a good pampering <3

masterlist

you want to give michael a massage and he lets you.

─────────────

“Love, what are you doing? Wha-what are you wearing?”

Your husband barely hooks his backpack on the wall rack and kicks off his shoes as you corner him in the entryway of the house, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the living room.

He stares at your ass, just visible beneath the tight, short masseuse tunic—with nothing underneath.

It took some effort, but you managed to rearrange enough of the furniture to make space.

The massage table sits in the middle of the room—prepped and waiting for its client.

In your hand, you now hold a bottle of grapeseed oil, exported from a fine winery in Spain. In the other, you hold the remote that controls the lights, dimming them to create a soft, cozy atmosphere.

You really went all out for this experience. Michael deserves it.

“I want to give you a massage. You’ve been so stressed and tense lately. I can help you feel better,” you plead, pouting your lips.

Michael chuckles, rubbing his neck. “Baby, really, I’m fine. In fact, I’d love to give you one if you’ll let me,” he says in a seductive tone, wrapping you in his arms and groping your ass, giving it a harsh smack.

You yelp, but don’t give in.

As much as you’d love to feel his strong, gorgeous, warm, oil-slicked hands and thick, diligent fingers gripping your entire body…

You shake your head. Stay focused. This is for him.

“Sorry, no can do. You have to let me do this. After what happened at Pittfest—”

Michael cuts you off—not to be rude, but he’s not ready to talk about that yet. He’s only just started to break the ice with the therapist Jack referred him to. He needs more time.

“—Can’t I use the bathroom first, at least?” He sees how excited you are to do this for him. Your eyes are begging him to say yes. Who is he to say no?

“Oh… yeah. I guess I got a little too excited. Go ahead, but don’t take too long. And don’t come back with any clothing!” You wink and shoo him away.

Michael returns, a towel draped over his lower half. He’s half-hard and blushing, and you can’t help but want to both suck him off and pinch his cheeks. There’ll be time for that in a little bit.

“I’ll let you keep the towel on… for now. C’mon.” You pat the black faux leather of the table, signaling for him to hop on. “Lie face down.”

He rubs his hands over his face as he trudges to the table and climbs on, carefully placing his head into the cradle. He widens his legs just a smidge to relieve the pressure between his cock and the surface of the leather.

“Michael, I know this isn’t what you’re used to, but I want you to let me take the reins, okay? I want your head empty. Just… feel.” He nods into the cradle, reaching for your hand to acknowledge you, silently giving you permission.

You bring your lips to his hand, giving it a soft kiss, then let go.

Time for the oil.

The nutty, sweet scent of the grapeseed oil wafts around the intimate walls of the living room, and you almost stop to taste it. You flip the cap, and the bottle squelches as you squeeze the oil onto his back. He flinches at the cold feel of it.

“Shit, sorry. I should’ve warmed it up a bit first,” you apologize, whispering.

As you warm the bottle between your palms, you grow nervous. Most times, you’re the one falling apart under Michael’s touch, not the other way around.

Hopefully this doesn’t end up being a total disaster.

When the bottle seems warm enough, you squeeze a bit more oil onto his back, set it on the side table, and dive right in, your touch relaxing Michael’s slightly tensed body.

His shoulders are stiff—probably due to both stress and the unease he feels as he yields to you.

That’s where you start.

You press your digits firmly into his shoulders, applying pressure—not so much that it’s unbearable, but just enough to work out the kinks that tend to form there. He groans into the cradle, the noise muffled, but you can still hear it and feel the slight vibration of it against the table.

“Press a little harder, honey—yeah, that’s it. I can take it. My sweet girl. That feels so good.” His wet panting suffocates him within the cradle and he tilts his head toward you to breathe.

He really needed this, huh? you think to yourself.

You fight the urge to smile, somewhat guilty at the rush of power you feel as he melts under your touch. Your confidence grows exponentially with his praise—fingers digging harder into his muscles—as he continues to make the most lewd noises you’ve heard spill from the man yet.

And he’s been inside you.

You shift closer up the table toward his turned head and give him an eye-level view of your dripping cunt, thanks to the tunic having lifted during the massage.

“B-baby.” He groans. “That’s not fair. C’mon, let me off this table and I’ll fuck your pussy like she deserves. She’s damn near asking me to.”

He pushes his palms against the table to rise, but you force him back down with your full body weight.

“M-Michael, no.” Your voice wavers as you muster the strength you have to keep him pinned to the table, but it’s no use. He’s much stronger than you. But if you don’t stop him, he’ll ruin the experience for himself.

You won’t let that happen.

“Michael. Please? Stay still. You can fuck me after—I promise. Or I’ll have to bring out the cuffs. I know how much you liked using them on me before… maybe it’s your turn to try?”

He stills at that. “... Fine. I’m sorry—let’s finish this up, okay, honey? You really are doing a great job.” You chuckle. Michael trying to stay on your good side is adorable.

You take a quick breath, glad that you’ve regained control of the situation—for now.

Michael is back to lying still, face down, and your hands work their way down his back and up again, repeating the motion several times.

You weren’t initially in any rush, but Michael’s impatience has forced you to speed things up a little. On the bright side, at least there’ll still be time to order takeout after this.

His body is now fully relaxed again under your touch. You squirt more oil into your hands, ready to move on from his back and shoulders.

“I’m going to unwrap your towel now, okay? Just say the word and I’ll stop if anything makes you uncomfortable,” you whisper into his ear.

He nods and lifts himself slightly from the table to help you move the towel away from his body.

His entire backside is bare to you now, and you bend down to kiss him right at the tailbone. He shifts on the table, unused to the close attention, but otherwise lets you continue showering him with your silent affection.

You rub your hands over the backs of his thick thighs and calves, squeezing the taut muscle there. Michael liquefies into your hands, sighing in contentment.

You can see the outline of his cock peeking through as you inch toward his inner thighs—cock angled against it. He’s fully erect now, and your body heats and thighs clench.

This is about him, you have to keep reminding yourself.

The curve of his ass gives as you press into the glute and Michael stiffens when your fingers slip into the cleft. You’ve never explored that tight ring of muscle with him in the bedroom and you don’t intend to—not unless he’s comfortable or willing to do so. So you keep a respectable distance, focusing solely on the globes of his ass and inner thighs.

Your fingers accidentally brush against his cock and he groans. It’s an instinctual, primal sound—and you wonder how your simple touch can unravel a man like him who’s known to keep a cool head under pressure.

Most of the time.

You’ve gotten texts over the past few weeks from Dana and Jack about his short temper on shift and snappiness at the newcomers who joined the day of Pittfest. You’re glad that they’re willing to clue you in about his mood behind his back—he would deny any sign of his deteriorating mental state to appear strong in front of you.

The sole exception was when he came home that night. You recall the faint humming of the bathroom light and the splatter of the toilet leaking onto the hardwood floor as you both sobbed into each other's arms, loss heavy in your hearts.

Guilt eats at you—though you know the events of that day aren’t your fault. There’s nothing more you could do than just hold him after one of the worst days of his life.

You’ve kept in touch with Jake and his mom since—but he’s been distant, with both you and Michael.

But time will close the wound and the wound will scab over—only leaving a faded scar as a memory.

At least Michael’s made an effort to see someone, talk to someone, even if that person isn’t you.

You’ll greet him with open arms when he’s ready.

“Okay, turn around for me?” you ask gently.

Michael turns his head toward you and catches your eye. “I don’t think you want me to do that, love.”

“I do.” You give him an understanding smile. “Show me what I do to you.”

He stares at you for a few seconds before flipping over. He looks up toward the ceiling, fiddling with his thumbs—his cock is ruddy and erect, pre-come leaking from the tip.

You carefully straddle his thighs atop the table to get closer. He raises an eyebrow at you, eyes glinting with something dangerous.

Fingers wrap around your wrist as you reach for his cock. “What are you doing?” he asks with an edge to his voice, perplexed.

“I’m giving you a massage. With a happy ending,” you say, winking at him.

He lets your wrist go and runs his fingers through his hair instead. “Okay, baby. Do what you want. It’s your cock, after all.” He’s blushing, but from the look in his eyes, you can tell that he’s trying to shift the dynamic back to one where he’s more comfortable.

At this point, he can say whatever he wants. He’s not getting out of this.

You undo the first few buttons on your tunic, exposing your breasts to give him a distraction as you push past his soft boundaries. You cup the soft flesh, grabbing the oil bottle from the side table to squirt it onto your chest.

Your tits are shiny, glistening, and Michael’s eyes chase the movement of your fingers as you tweak your nipples. You moan softly, nipples stiff and sensitive, and catch Michael’s cock twitch, bobbing toward the bit of pudge hanging from his lower belly.

Saliva gathers in your mouth. You’re attracted to him beyond words—and you love a dad bod. Too bad he isn’t a daddy… yet.

After a few more seconds of pinching your nipples, you wrap your oil-slicked fingers around the base of him, and he nearly chokes at the soft touch. Gentle strokes spread the oil over his length with one hand, while the other cups his full, heavy balls.

Michael’s breathing picks up, and his palm reaches for the scruff of your neck to ground him.

“Do you like it when I touch you like this?” you ask, a teasing lilt in your voice.

Michael pins you with an intense stare, grunting your name through clenched teeth. He warns, “Don’t play games, love. I’m being good—but remember what you promised me. I’ll bend you over this table right now if you tempt me too much.”

You shiver at the command in his voice, your hole clenching around nothing. You know he can easily flip you over the table if he so chooses to, but riling him up is so fun.

“Okay, okay. I’ll be nice. Just lay back and relax.”

His cock is well lubricated now and you speed up your pace, tightening your fingers around him. You spit into your hand before fondling his balls again, the oil drying quickly as it soaks into his skin—giving him a radiant glow.

He likes it a bit wet. Sloppy.

You make eye contact with him as he stares down the length of his body at you, your lips wrapping around his tip, tongue dipping into the slit. You whimper softly at the taste of his pre-come.

The scent is musky, heady, and so, so him. Combined with the scent of the oil and the filthy praises escaping his mouth—you’re blissed and soaking wet. Your behind shakes as it’s in the air, like you’re a little puppy excited to please and pamper her owner.

You take him as deep into your throat as you can, stroking what’s left of the length you can’t quite reach. His chest rumbles as he groans, and his hand moves from the back of your neck to the top of your head, slightly pushing you down farther. You work your throat to try to take the rest of him, eyes tearing and burning from the sensation.

“F-Fuck, baby, you’re doing s-so good. I love you so much.”

“This—this is where you belong, honey… right—” He grunts. “—here.”

“You just like having my cock in your mouth, hm?”

You only nod in response to his foul language, the curls at the base of his dick prickling your skin, but you welcome the distraction as you struggle to breathe.

Once he hits the roof of your mouth and you gag, he presses his palms against the sides of your head, shuffling your swollen lips up to his tip and down to the hilt in one smooth glide.

He repeats the motion and you welcome his indulgence.

He’s owed this.

And he holds himself back from rutting into your mouth at a breakneck speed—just a little—and you silently thank him for it. Still, you ball your hands into fists at your sides, trying not to suffocate on his cock.

The wet, guzzling noises embarrass you, making you hot—but it's muted by the soft blues playing on the record player in the background.

Michael’s breaths are labored, and his chest is flushed, seemingly enjoying the sloppy, stringy mess and the filthy noises as he massages your throat. You admire his hairy chest and the way the Star of David bounces around the column of his neck as his corded arms hold your head tight and he drives his hips upward.

He chokes on your name as his balls are drawn tight, flooding your mouth. Come oozes from the corners of your lips but you try to swallow all of him down anyway. He pulls his cock from your messy lips, jerking what come he has left into your pretty, ruined face.

He smears the tip over and around your face, and you chase it, trying to give it one last kiss. You quickly give up, instead lapping at his balls, sucking one into your mouth and pulling off with a pop to give attention to the other. He pulls you off of him, sensitive.

His cock lies soft against his stomach, the length of him covered in saliva and come, leaking down into the thatch of dark curls. Your pussy throbs and your folds glide as you clench your thighs to relieve the ache.

He looks absolutely wrecked. Loose-limbed—like he just dove into a pool of honey.

Just what you wanted.

After a few deep breaths shared by the two of you, he speaks.

“Thank you so much for that, baby. I… I have been pretty stressed out lately. I’m so sorry to have worried you. Come here.” Michael beckons you with his pointer finger as he sits up on his elbows.

He watches, waits, and you know what he wants. You crawl toward him, and you feel the slick running down your inner thighs as you do. The table squeaks as the legs shift along the floor with your movement, but it holds.

You’re straddling his lap, and he kisses you, playing with the edge of your tunic. The kiss is soft, reverent—juxtaposing the way he forced you to kiss the base of him not mere minutes ago. His tongue slips between your lips, tasting himself, and he grabs a fistful of your ass, spreading it as it sits between his thighs.

You pull at the nape of his neck as you come up for air. Smiles escape both of your lips as you stare at each other, both sets of eyes reflecting the love you have for one another.

“You’re such a good girl. You’re my good girl—and I don’t deserve you,” Michael says, sighing longingly as he wipes the come from your face.

“You do. I’m the one who doesn’t deserve you. And I know you’ve been trying. That’s all I care about.” You return the gesture, rubbing his cheek with the pad of your thumb, gently.

He holds your hand over his face, giving you a look—sad, maybe a little hopeful, too—and your heart nearly bursts.

“We’ll talk about it soon, okay? I don’t mean to keep things from you. You matter most to me in the world, and I want to be ready to have that discussion.”

You nod. He doesn’t need to be so strong for you. But you know him. And you won’t force him to do anything if he’s not convinced he’s strong enough yet to do it with you.

“... I have one other thing I want to do for you. Well—it’s for us. But you’ll be really happy.” You smile wide at him, bouncing on his lap in excitement.

Michael gives you the world—a warm bed. A gorgeous home. An obnoxiously huge ring you’ve learned to be proud of. Money you couldn’t spend in multiple lifetimes. You name it. But most importantly, his undying devotion to you.

The least you could do is give him a baby.

His eyes widen ever so slightly and he grips your hips, holding you steady. “H-Honey. Are you sure about this? This is completely your decision—not mine.”

“I made you a promise, didn’t I?” You throw your arms around his neck and whisper into his ear, “Please, Michael. I want to make you a daddy. Will you give me a baby?”

You hide your face in his neck, going shy at the request while he’s frozen, lungs unable to fill with enough air to breathe.

You mumble against his neck, “Hurry, because I want to order takeout and our place closes in another hour. If my stomach growls while you’re fucking me… no it didn’t.”

He throws his head back in a laugh. “That’s more than enough time for a head start, baby.” Michael wraps your legs around his waist as he hops off the massage table.

“I’ll feed you in between stuffing your cunt full if I have to, okay? We’re gonna make this happen.”

He stumbles a bit as he carries you to the bedroom, the two of you kissing and laughing all the while, but you know he’s got you.

Time for you to get some proper loving.

#the pitt #smut #the pitt fanfiction #michael robby robinavitch #michael robinavitch #dr robby #dr robinavitch #robby robinavitch #doctor robby #the pitt x reader #dr robby x reader #dr robby smut #dr robby x you #robby x reader

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n1ceguyen · 23 days ago

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2AM Mistakes (Huh Yunjin x M!Reader)

Chapter 2: Something Between the Silence

(Yunjin POV)

The silence in the hotel room wasn’t peaceful.

It was the kind that buzzed under your skin—the kind that came after too much noise. Too many lights. Too many people telling you how to feel, who to be.

Yunjin lay sprawled across the bed, hoodie pulled over her head, fingers curled around her phone. The screen was black, but the song still echoed in her head.

2AM Mistakes.

She hadn’t been looking for it. She wasn’t even looking for music, really. Just… something. She needed a walk, needed air, needed space. Rehearsals were done, her face was scrubbed clean, the makeup wiped away, the smile with it.

The streets outside had been cold but quiet, a relief after constant motion. That’s when the track showed up on her feed—bare title, no artwork, just vibes.

She clicked.

And everything slowed down.

No overproduction. No agenda. Just a guitar, a mood, and that low-end beat that felt like a heartbeat trying not to break rhythm.

She’d left a comment without thinking. Just typed what it felt like: a song for walking home when it’s too cold to care how lonely you are.

She didn’t expect a reply.

But he responded.

Y/N.

No bio. No face. Just a few tracks, all lowkey and raw in the way only someone who wasn’t trying to go viral could pull off.

And for whatever reason… she kept talking.

He wasn’t trying to impress her. He didn’t even know who she was. She wasn’t Yunjin from LE SSERAFIM in that chat. She was just a girl who hummed a melody into her phone, late at night, hoping someone would understand what it meant without asking too many questions.

And he did.

He built on it. Turned it into something fuller. Played it back like it already belonged to both of them.

Now she was lying on her bed, alone, replaying that version again through her earbuds.

Not idol-perfect. Just real.

She scrolled to the last message she’d sent him. A new voice memo. Lighter than the first—less heavy, less sad. Still her.

She typed:

hj_426: this came out of nowhere. but maybe it’s the next part. tell me what you hear in it.

Her thumb hovered over the screen, then hit send.

A knock came from the shared suite door.

“Unnie,” Eunchae’s voice came muffled through the door. “You alive?”

Yunjin blinked, sat up halfway. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“We’re ordering food,” Sakura added. “Want anything?”

“Whatever you get is fine.”

“No complaining if it’s spicy again!” Chaewon warned.

Yunjin smiled faintly. “Noted.”

The footsteps faded.

She loved the girls. They were her second home. But lately, she’d been feeling like her body was in rooms her mind wasn’t. Like she was performing even when the music stopped.

The silence returned.

She opened the voice memo app again. Hit record. Hummed something softer, airy, like light cracking through thick clouds. Just a sketch.

She sent it.

Whatever this thing was with Y/N—it wasn’t normal. But it felt necessary.

Still no names.

Still no faces.

But something was starting to sound like it mattered.

(Y/N POV)

Y/N stared at the waveform looping on his screen.

The new melody she sent floated like fog. Delicate, but not weak. The kind of tune that made you stop what you were doing without realizing it.

He layered in some ambient textures—soft pads, slow reverb trails. Nothing flashy. Just enough to let her voice breathe.

He sat back. Exported the new draft.

Her message from earlier was still up:

hj_426: this came out of nowhere. but maybe it’s the next part. tell me what you hear in it.

He cracked his knuckles, then replied:

Y/N: there’s something in it that feels like… letting go. like the moment after crying where you’re just tired, but okay. i added a bit of ambient stuff. want me to send it?

She replied almost instantly:

hj_426: yes pls i’ve been refreshing like a psycho lol

He laughed quietly, sent the audio, then waited.

A minute passed.

Then:

hj_426: oh wow okay this might be my favorite one it sounds like… if a memory could sing

Y/N read that more than once.

Something about the way she worded things—it was like she was writing feelings without decoration. Just saying them straight.

He let the track loop in the background and typed again:

Y/N: random question but have u ever had a song that made u feel like… you didn’t write it like it was already there, just waiting for you to hear it?

hj_426: yes those are the best ones they come out like secrets you didn’t know you were hiding

He nodded at the screen.

Then paused.

He wasn’t usually this open. Not even with friends. But the more they talked, the less it felt like he was performing for someone. The less he needed to.

He rubbed his jaw, then added:

Y/N: hey speaking of music kinda random but i’m actually going to a concert this week

hj_426: oooh who?

He hesitated for half a beat, then typed:

Y/N: don’t judge lol friend had an extra ticket it’s for this kpop group le sserafim

He watched the typing bubble appear… then disappear… then come back again.

hj_426: lol why would i judge?? they’re good u into them?

Y/N: kinda? heard a few songs but my friend’s obsessed figured i’d tag along haven’t been to a concert in forever

hj_426: nice they put on solid shows should be fun

Y/N raised an eyebrow.

Y/N: you sound like you’ve seen them live or something

hj_426: yeah you could say that

He didn’t think much of it.

Just figured she must’ve seen them on tour or something.

Y/N: not really a “concert guy” but who knows maybe this one changes that

hj_426: maybe keep an open mind could surprise you

Y/N: i’ll let u know how it goes unless u ghost me before then lol

hj_426: not a chance we still got a whole album to write 2am mistakes is just the beginning

Y/N leaned back, staring at the city skyline just barely visible through his window.

Still no name.

Still no face.

But whatever this was—it was real enough to keep him awake.

#le sserafim yunjin #le sserafim fluff #le sserafim #huh yunjin #huh yunjin x reader #kpop #kpop fanfic #kpop gg #kpop imagines #fluff #male reader

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dr3amfyr-e · 10 months ago

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brat. - j.v. ( w. 4.5k )

꒰ in which the boy you see every summer enrolls in the same university as you. ꒱ — modern!jacaerys velayron x reader

୨ ⎯ i cannot stress enough, football means ⚽️ not 🏈. childhood-friends-to-lovers, but you have to get through my 2000 word psychoanalysis and backstory first. light angst. mention of the death of a parent. lots and lots of talk about the velaryon-targaryen-hightower family dynamic. light make out action. reader's family is implied to be wealthy enough to have a summer home. almost everyone lives au. set in the uk, not westeros. omitted daemon rhaenyra marriage because there’s no way to to make it even semi-normal. realizing now i omitted daemon entirely erm sorry. pushing the laenor agenda bc he’s my favorite character. this is abhorently long. extreme overuse of the em-dash. uhh the perspective is wonky in a few places. part two. ⎯ ୧

i had to write this twice. i'm offering this to you with shaking hands, like a peasent child begging for coins. i may write a part two because i have more to say, but i don't want to figure it out rn.

On the cold January morning that Jacaerys Velaryon-Targaryen was born, the media went into a frenzy.

The Targaryens were old money, their fortune rooted a century back in good investments. Historically adept at finding their way into things, the empire had a string to pull in every industry. From art and law to technology and shipping, if business prospects looked good there would be a Targaryen investment.

And then there were the dogs — regal greyhounds, with long, thin bodies and sleek coats. The Targaryens bred them as far back as bloodline records went. The pups were never for sale; sometimes they were used as show dogs, and successful show dogs they were, but more often they were pets. It was a status symbol, to nonchalantly own such a coveted creature.

The Targaryens were idolized in the public eye. They were all stunning, with sharp features and silver hair, and each member of the family seemed to possess a Midas touch. But, where Valyrian blood ran hot, so did the press. It was no surprise when magazines started to turn a profit from silver heads plastered across their glossy covers. It was the price that came with God-like aristocracy.

From editorials to gossip columns, people devoured the insider life of the untouchables. When Aemma Targaryen died, there was a four-page spread in nearly every magazine; complete with pictures and quotes. Business papers filled with opinion pieces about Rhaenyra’s inheritance claim to her family’s empire; magazines exploded with the announcement of her engagement to Laenor Velaryon, and subsequently Viserys’ marriage to Alicent Hightower, the daughter of his lawyer.

When Jacaerys was born, reporters lined up outside of the hospital doors. There were cameras and microphones and crew trucks, and Rhaenyra hated it. It wasn’t the way she wished to welcome her child into the world — swarmed by people who didn’t know nor care for him.

Laenor had always been good at navigating the attention, and Rhaenyra was constantly grateful. So, when he pulled his gaze from the babe and steeled himself to deal with the onslaught of reporters outside, tears pricked at her eyes. Appreciation, exhaustion, adoration? She couldn’t be sure.

Looking down at her son, she thought, he’s perfect. He had a smattering of dark hair, and he was quiet but not concerningly so. Wispy lashes fell upon his cherub cheeks, and when he eventually blinked up at her his eyes were dark. He looked nothing like her — she didn’t care.

She refused to talk to anyone outside of her family, and had the curtains in her private room drawn. To expose her son, her heart, to the prying eyes of the bored masses with nary a care for his well-being was a nightmare. She wouldn’t have him exploited.

At the time of Jacaerys’ birth, she and Laenor had been married for a little over a year. Laenor’s father, Corlys, managed the bulk of the import and export for Viserys’ company. Corlys was a good man, he hadn’t dreamed of marrying his son off. But Laenor and Rhaenyra were both in the same impossible situation: the wiles of youth mixed with the ever critical public.

They had both fallen into scandalous relationships, both preyed on by paparazzi. If they married one another, it would save face for both of their families. Plus — both being the eldest and heir, this would clear the expectation of a dignified marriage. They agreed to leave each other to whatever youthful fun they wanted to have, as long as everything was discreet.

Both the Velaryons and the Targaryens kept a summer home in Dragonstone, a private community in coastal Wales. It was the perfect place for Rhaenyra and Laenor to begin their life — far from her father, close to his parents, and out of the line of sight for any nosy journalist.

The public eye had looked to other things by the time Lucerys was born, two years later. Again, Laenor dealt with the small gathering of reporters with the utmost grace, and Rhaenyra submitted a written statement.

Alicent divorced Viserys that same year.

As she watched her boys grow up, full of energy and life, Rhaenyra thought, there was no one better to parent with than her best friend — a title Laenor had rightfully earned. They hadn’t had much choice in knowing each other, and they certainly would never have chosen to be married, but he made a bearable roommate. They had things in common; they liked the same music, and the same men. They drank the same wine and frequented the same restaurants. And, they both loved their boys.

As Jace and Luke grew up, they found the best company in each other — the school in Dragonstone was so small, though, that there were very few other options. They both played on the school’s small football team, and Jace took piano lessons while Luke learned to fence. Where Jace was driven by emotion, Luke was level-headed; where Luke was cautiously quiet, Jace spoke his mind. It was an ideal childhood, the Welsh coast was an idyllic backdrop to grow up upon, with the sea in their backyard.

They were ten and eight when Joffrey was born, both excited for their new brother. Their mother brought him home, bundled in a soft red blanket. The boys sat on the couch beside Rhaenys and stared at him for upwards of an hour.

Hardly a week had passed when Harwin Strong died. He was a family friend, a frequent presence in their home and life — Jace and Luke had been upset by this, of course.

In time they came to understand the situation fully. Jacaerys first, fitting the pieces together with the evidence he found in the mirror. Neither Rhaenyra nor Laenor had dark hair, like he and his brothers.

His matriline was uncontestable though, as he grew into himself. He possessed the same nose, jaw, brow, and high cheekbones that Rhaenyra wore. The comparisons between the two became more frequent as he grew older, and he found himself to be quite proud to look like her.

Her attitude lived in him as well, the temperament she had been so notorious for as a girl festered in her eldest son. She had once been christened ‘The Princess of Dragonstone’ after flipping off a reporter at their summer home. Jacearys earned it for himself when he was fifteen, after loudly berating a reporter. He had been defending Luke, but no one seemed to care when they deigned him ‘The Prince of Dragonstone’. He took it with grace, claiming that he couldn’t help but be his mother’s child.

It instilled a sense of public propriety he strove to uphold.

Rhaenyra remarried the same year — to Alicent Hightower — and moved her children from Wales to London. It took a while to adjust to the new life — Jace liked his new school, but he detested his step-brothers. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t come around to the idea of living with Aemond and Aegon, who took so much pleasure in making he and his brothers miserable.

After the first month, Jacaerys fell in brilliantly. He performed well in school, quickly being enrolled in the advanced literature and history courses. He got on well with his peers, and made a number of friends. He joined the football team and spent his Sunday afternoons learning piano concertos.

Living in London made him a more publicly prominent figure in his family's legacy. He knew how to play his role as heir; he carried himself perfectly — confident and charming and elegant. He didn’t particularly like being in the public eye, but there was a certain sense of satisfaction when he did something to receive positive public attention.

King’s Landing, much like where he had grown up, was a community reserved for the upper echelon. Situated in Northwest London, and surrounded by wrought iron gates, it was regal and dignified. The house had high, vaulted ceilings, large stained glass windows, and more than enough bedrooms. It rained more, Jacaerys noticed in the first month. When it had rained in Dragonstone he would watch the droplets bounce off the sea, where it lapped at the sandy bay. Here the rain splattered unceremoniously upon the pavement.

For as wonderful as life in London had turned out, Jacaerys found himself longing for what was left behind in Dragonstone. Laenor lived there still, and while he called often and visited as much as he could, it wasn’t the same. Jace’s childhood bedroom remained, along with all of the memories in the house he grew up in. And his friends. There was an assortment of people he only saw between late May and early September; the children of the other seasonal residents. The number had dwindled in years past, with fewer of them returning for break — favouring more interesting places, like Ibiza or Rome, as they got older.

Far too few of his childhood friends he kept in contact with, especially after the move to London. You were the exception.

He was grateful, on days when it stormed in London, to receive a silly text or too-long voice note. It made things feel less dull — you had a way of doing that.

He took to reading theory around the time he turned seventeen. It’s queer theory, at the suggestion of his cousin Baela, who lent him his first Judith Butler book. He finished it that weekend.

His aunt Laena and her two daughters lived in London, and Jace found a close comrade in Baela. She played competitive tennis and listened to riot grrrl, she was much cooler than him and he knew it. Her bedroom held two massive bookshelves, and she let him pillage her collection for De Bouvier and Didion and Gay. Hours were spent lying across the floor in Laena’s house, studying, or reading, or talking. He enjoyed Baela’s company more than any of his school friends, favouring anything with her over anything with the boys from his football team.

His youngest sister, Visenya, turned one around the same time. Baela, staying with Jacaerys while he babysat one night, inducted him into the eldest daughter club.

“You’re so keen on driving your siblings around, and taking care of them. Plus, aren’t you your mother’s closest confidant?” She asked.

True, Jace supposed. He was the oldest of Rhaenyra’s children, and the most responsible of his brothers and step-siblings. His mums both worked full time, they were busy but as involved as possible. Jace just did the menial things. He made Joffrey breakfast, picked Luke up after school, and watched Visenya when necessary. He didn’t mind.

Baela argued that he should mind.

He had been a sensitive child, more so than his brothers, but it made him incredibly emotionally adept as he aged. So many boys his age prided themselves on stoicism, but that was never something Jace felt connected to. He always felt things too deeply to bottle them up — it accounted for the occasional temper that flared up when he was upset, but also how empathetic and kind he was.

Jacearys was set to graduate with honours in the first week of May. It was three months before when college acceptance letters began to appear in the mail. He had applied to a number of places, and been accepted everywhere. The University of the Vale was where his hopes hinged though.

Just after Valentine's Day, it showed up. The envelope was wide and stuffed full, and sealed with a wax stamp. His acceptance letter was on the very top of the stack of papers — the thick paper heavy in his hands, as he admired the blue printed border and silver flocking.

Rhaenrya sorted through the informational packets while Jace reread the letter. Part of him couldn’t believe it was real.

He sends you a picture of the letter, and you respond in kind with one of an identical nature.

You hadn’t planned to go to the same university, but it certainly was a happy coincidence.

After graduation, he was beyond excited for the reprieve that Dragonstone granted. The promise of early morning hikes, and evenings spent on the beach — the once empty house, full of life and bustling with bodies.

You were the first thing Jacaerys thought to look for when he set his bags down in the summer home.

It was late May, and you were guaranteed to be out of school. I’ll text after I unpack, he thought, pulling clothes and books from his suitcase.

His room in Dragonstone had once been his childhood bedroom. The walls were a warm tone of white, and the small bed was still covered with his blue and white checkered duvet. Piano scales and pictures of his brothers and friends adorn the walls. There was a soccer trophy on the back edge of his desk, something he had won when he was eleven. It was stuffy from nine months of stagnance, but familiar all the same.

He pushed the curtains back from the window to let sunlight filter into the dusty room, gazing down at the beach, when he spotted your figure. He was quick to rush downstairs, out the backdoor, and across the stone path that leads from the patio to the beach. He greets you with a call of your name and a tight hug, sunglasses perched atop his head and linen shirt half buttoned.

It had been a year since he’d last seen you. You had kept in touch during the school year; Jace favoured Snapchat and FaceTime, delighted with the pleasure of seeing the mundane things you were up to. There was a nearly constant text thread, and voice memos passed back and forth. But, it all paled in comparison to physical company.

He abandoned his housekeeping duties, keen to sit on the beach and talk. And you did so for hours, about everything and nothing. He tells you about his last year of school and listens as you do the same. When the sun dipped past the treeline, he leaned back on his elbows, watching the water crest on the sand. He felt more at ease than he had in a while, enraptured by the ease of your presence. The conversation flowed, there were no awkward lulls and no pressure to talk about something dignified. It was comforting to be so close to someone who didn’t see much of his life in London — you knew the best version of him.

Your friendship had always felt like that, from a young age. On days that smelled of sunscreen and sea salt in his mind, you would meet in the mornings and depart past dark and then do it again the next day, never tiring of each other. Your parents knew his, so you had always been welcome in his home — invited or not. You had shared a bed during sleepovers, drunk from the same cup, and fallen asleep on the couch during movie nights countless times. Quick glances and imperceptible expressions were a language you communicated in, reading each other without words. In your presence, Jace was the most comfortable.

The summer slipped away as it always did, taking long nights and leaving memories of sand and sunshine. The days were ambled away in the water, on rocky hiking paths, or in the meadow that sat a mile away from all of the homes.

Jace had started The Hobbit before school ended — most days he found himself sprawled out in the park or on the beach, reading. He had also taken to running with his dog, Vermax, in the mornings. He relied on the serotonin boost to start the day, and with no football to play a jog was a decent alternative.

When the summer drew to a close, the typical melancholy that befell the return to the real world wasn’t present in Jace’s mind. He presumed it had everything to do with the fact that he would see you every day now

You have one college class together — a nine a.m. medieval literature discussion.

Clinging to familiarity in the new environment, he glued himself to your side for the first week of classes. He memorized the way to your dorm, meeting you outside every morning to walk together to your first lessons. The meandering conversation was a good start to the day, and he silently relished in your tired eyes and quiet voice, not yet used to the early schedule.

On Friday he all but begged you to come back to his dorm after the discussion; it was your only class that day so you had given in. You hadn’t seen his living quarters yet, and he wanted to spend time with you, worried for when your schedules would fill up and you would lose room for each other.

The discussion had been mind-numbing. You reviewed the same syllabus as the lecture, and went over the same rules and policies as every other class. With the thirty-five minutes remaining, the teaching assistant made everyone watch an incredibly monotone video about the history of medieval England.

Jace linked his arm into yours in the hallway after class, pulling you to the doors. The cool morning air was refreshing, waking you up more as you walked across campus. His dorm building was new and modern, seventeen floors with grey siding and big windows. It was private housing, clearly expensive.

He had a single room with an adjoining bathroom and a small common space. The walls were typical dorm white, with laminate wood flooring. Joffrey’s school photo is hung on one wall, the frame clearly decorated by the child with glitter and string. Scattered across the other walls were photographs in thin silver frames, a large world map, a clock, and a cross-stitch of a rainbow stag beetle.

Sitting on the couch, you observed the unframed photos that lay across the coffee table, inspecting a leggy grey dog as you plucked it from the pile, “Who is this?”

Jace leaned into your side, gazing at the photo, “My mum’s dog, Syrax,” He reached over you to tap the picture, “Syrax is my dog’s mum.”

He slipped his hand into yours as you walked with him to his second class of the day.

In the third week of school, Jace asks you to attend a mixer for a pre-law society with him. He doesn't know anyone, and doesn't want to be alone at the party. You meet at his dorm at a quarter-to-six so you can walk to the event together.

The dress-code is emi-formal, and when he opens the door to you his hair is slicked back with water and he smells like his cologne — musk, sandalwood, and amber.

“Are your clothes pressed?” You ask, grinning at his freshly ironed slacks and the three buttons undone on his shirt.

He rolls his eyes, locking the door behind him as he escorts you down the hallway. The walls of the elevator in his dorm are mirrored, and you laugh at him when you catch him taking pictures of himself. He makes you take one with him, and sets it as his lock screen.

The mixer was in the dean of law’s massive house, buzzing with young people in smart outfits. Jace abandons you about fifteen minutes in, spotting a group of poli sci majors from his social psychology class.

From his childhood spent between galas and his mother’s business meetings, Jace was good at navigating these situations. He was charming, leveling the professors with charismatic smiles and confident posture. He was good at holding an intelligent conversation, discussing theory and strategy.

You were on the patio, watching the stars, when he found you an hour later.

His arms brushed yours as he leaned against the railing, “Sorry for leaving you,” His voice was quiet, and he stared at your profile, watching the way the moonlight illuminated your skin.

You wave his apology off and make him buy you coffee in recompense on the way home.

You’re stood talking together on the quadrangle a few weeks later, a cup of hot chocolate warming your mitten-less hands, when you realise just how cold it’s gotten. It's just too cold for the thin jacket that you try to sink further into, hiding from the wind that bites at your delicate skin.

Jace watches you shiver, observing your lack of appropriate attire.

“Are you cold?” He asks, reaching out to run his hands up and down your arms, half to warm you, half to gauge how thick your jacket is. Not very.

You nod, “I didn’t check the weather this morning.”

He sighs with exaggerated exasperation and slides his arms around you, careful of the paper cup you held. Of course, he’s worn the right coat, and you feel the downy material of his hood against your cheek as he rubs your back to generate some warmth. You smell the cologne on his collar and the expensive shampoo he uses; he grumbled something about taking better care of yourself.

Then, one particularly cold Friday morning he has forgotten his coat. Dressed in a hoodie, he mirrors your excuse from the week prior, smiling sheepishly — face flushed from the chilly air, dark curls blowing around his head like a halo. You take pity on him, slipping your scarf off. You loop it around his neck, tucking the ends down into the collar of his sweater, and leave him with a fond peck on the cheek; his skin is cold.

He's appreciative, though the scarf does little against the cold wind cutting through his sweater. Still, he doesn't give the scarf back.

With the cold, comes midterms. You’re the first person Jace asks to study.

Your dorm room is closer to the central part of campus, and thus a shorter walk in the bitter cold. Jace brushes snow out of his hair as you unlock your door, ushering him inside. It's small. Two twin-sized beds, one on each wall, with nary enough room for two bodies between them; a desk is crammed into the small space between your bed and the window. You let him take the desk, spreading your books and notes out across your bed.

Your dorm is old, and the room has very little ventilation. Despite the frigidity outside, the room is stuffy and almost hot with both of your bodies inside. An hour into studying Jace shrugs off his heavy, knit sweater and pushes his glasses up into his hair.

“What are you working on?” You ask, leaning forward. You’re bored, working on the same power point you started yesterday. You want to talk to him, though he doesn’t seem keen on the idea

He doesn’t look up from typing as he speaks, “Analysing The Art of War.”

You shut your laptop, bent on distracting him, “The book?”

He nods but doesn’t give a verbal response.

“Who's that by?” You ask, fighting to suppress a grin

This time he does look up, glaring at you over his glasses, “Sun Tzu.”

His tone is short, but it's amusing to annoy him so you grin, suppressing a giggle, “Sounds very interesting.”

“What do you want?” He asks after a beat, still holding your gaze.

You shrug, “Nothing. I’m bored,”

The next time you study is even less productive, school work discarded on his floor in a matter of minutes.

“We can’t be trusted to work together,” He tells you, watching as you calculate his astrological chart, geometry homework forgotten.

You attend your first college party together in November. When you arrive at his dorm, he’s dressed much more casually than normal.

You reach out to tug at the thin silver chain peeking out from his shirt collar, “This is fun,” You tease, giggling, “Aiming to impress tonight?”

He rolls his eyes in mock-offence, turning you around by the shoulders to shove you out of the doorframe.

The lights in the house are dim, and they strobe slowly through different colours. It’s too dark and too bright all at once. The music is almost unbearably loud and people are packed in like sardines, it’s all incredibly overstimulating.

When he senses your unease, Jace takes your hand, pulling you tight against your side to lead you through the throng of bodies. He’s looking for someone, but you’re unsure who, and he canvases the whole space before giving up on finding them.

The backyard of the house is quieter, but the ground still vibrates from the bass of the music. People are scattered about, smoking cigarettes and sipping from bottles of cheap beer.

You both learn what Jell-O shots are, and make out in the bathroom back at his dorm. It’s not the first time you’d kissed each other, trying it a few times in your adolescence just to see what it was like. But this is different, tipsy and sloppy, as you giggle into his mouth.

It's forgotten in the morning, when you wake up in his bed still dressed in your going-out clothes, head pounding.

But then it happens again, the week before finals.

You had stayed at the library far too late studying, leaving the pair of you to walk back to his dorm in the dark. It's positively frigid, cold December air whipping snow into your face.

There are still snowflakes in your hair as you shed the thick coat you’re wearing, pulling off your gloves and hat.

There's a bottle of wine in Jace’s freezer, left by Aegon the weekend before. It's expensive and rich and red, and Aegon would likely skin you if he found out you were drinking it — but, that's part of the fun. There's a baking show on the small television, and you’re curled into Jace’s side to steal some of the warmth from his body.

When the program lulls he brings his hand to your hair, combing through the tangled strands. You pay it little mind, leaning into his touch as you watch a contestant on-screen whip macaron batter. His fingers slide down to your jaw, turning your head so your eyes meet his. He’s studying your face, cheeks flushed from the wine or the cold.

The attention is odd, and you giggle nervously under his gaze. His hands come to cradle your jaw as he leans towards you, nose brushing yours. The air is charged with an unusual tension, his mouth a breath away from yours.

When he kisses you, he’s slow and gentle, his whole body angled into yours. Everything feels warm, a welcome contrast to the weather outside, and you chalk it up to the glasses of wine coursing through your bloodstream.

It's pleasant, different from times past; this certainly doesn’t feel like an innocent, experimental kiss. It's heated, tinged with passion. He uses the placement of his hand to ease your jaw open, tongue sliding slowly into your mouth.

There's a vibe, something you hadn’t felt before with him. It's communicated through the gentle touch of his hands, and how his breath hitches when you kiss him back with the same sort of force.

The moment is broken by the announcement of a winner on the television. His hands slide down, resting on your shoulders, pulling your frame into his.

You don’t talk about it afterwards.

#guys be honest can you tell that i work for a newspaper #column ☝️🤓 editorial ☝️🤓#i wrote a whole 4000 word draft and fucked the perspective so badly i had to rewrite the entire thing #this actually kind of cooked me tbh #pls dont base my merit as a writer on this fanfic that i wrote in the car and also in a public bathroom in the suburbs of chicago #HONESTLY i'm not really a modern au enjoyer but this is eating my brain so it needs to get out into the universe #i got locked into a public bathroom while writing this btw #𖦹｡⋆ jace #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys x reader #hotd jacaerys #prince jacaerys

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alltimecharlo · 20 days ago

Note

First I just want to say how obsessed I am with your writing and how amazing it is. Having said that I know you already write mic’d up Mack but could you write about mic’d up Will?

thank you so much!!! 🥹 yes, i certainly can! this is a follow-up to the mack mic'd up fic! under the cut :)🩵

Mack swears he’s only ducking into the media office because Maggie texted urgent in all caps. Otherwise he’d be shower‑napping like any sane person thirty minutes after practice.

But Maggie’s the in‑arena video wizard who controls how the internet sees him, so he figures he’d better answer the bat signal.

He finds her and Max hunched over the big editing monitor. A waveform snakes across the timeline, Will’s voice chattering bright and fast in the speakers.

“—I’m just saying, if Mack had been born in like, Arthurian times? Knight. No question. Probably Lancelot.”

Mack stops in the doorway. “What did I just walk in on?”

Maggie jumps. “Perfect. You’re here.”

Max swivels, grinning. “Congrats, Mack, you’re the secret protagonist of Mic’d Up: Will Smith Edition.”

Mack pinches the bridge of his nose. “He talked about me the whole time, didn’t he?”

Maggie gestures helplessly at the screen. “There are chirps. Good ones. But also… this.”

She rewinds a few seconds and hits play.

Will (recorded): “Look at Mack’s edgework on that last turn. Guy’s poetry in motion. Hate him.”

Someone off‑camera laughs.

Will: “Seriously, watch him cut back on the next rep—boom, gone. It’s illegal to be that smooth.”

Mack’s ears go hot. “Oh my god.”

Max scrubs forward.

Will: “Hey, Toff, you ever notice Mack smells like cookies and good decisions? No? Just me? Cool.”

Mack buries his face in his hands. “Delete it.”

“Can’t,” Maggie says, eyes gleaming. “League content team wants sixty seconds by tomorrow. The fans will riot if we leave this on the cutting‑room floor.”

Max thumbs the space‑bar again.

Will (whisper‑level): “There he is—look at him. Number 71, love of my life, destroyer of worlds, holder of the best backhand in the Pacific Division—”

“MAX,” Mack snaps. Max cackles and pauses the clip.

Maggie props her chin on her fist. “We can trim out the Shakespearean sonnet bits. But… it’s kind of adorable. And fair is fair—you soft‑launched him last week.”

Mack groans into the sleeve of his hoodie. “He’s never living this down.”

“Pretty sure he doesn’t want to,” Max says. “Listen to this last tag.”

Play.

Will: “—anyway that’s Mack. Best part of my day. Don’t tell him I said that, he’ll get all grumpy and pretend he’s not blushing.”

The feed clicks off.

Silence.

Mack’s heartbeat is in his ears. He risks a look at the screen freeze‑frame: Will on the bench, cheeks flushed, grin wide as the bay while he tugs at a water‑bottle lid. Happy. Talking about him.

Maggie’s voice drops. “We’ll blur whatever you want, but… honestly? People love you two. Feels good, letting a little of it show.”

Mack exhales slowly. “Fine. Keep thirty seconds. Lose the cookies line.”

Max mock‑salutes. “Aye‑aye, First Overall.”

Mack turns to leave, then hesitates. “Can you export that raw file to my phone?”

Maggie smiles. “Already AirDropped.”

—

He sends the clip to Will with no caption. Three dots bubble, disappear, bubble again.

Will: soooooo you saw the advanced scouting report huh

Mack: i smell like cookies??

Will: thought YOU said that once in the room?? i’m just agreeing 😌

Mack: i’m going to dunk you in the cold tub tomorrow

Will: promise?

Will: (also you look stupid handsome in that b‑roll, just saying)

Mack pockets his phone, cheeks still on fire, and heads for the showers. He’s got practice in the morning, chirps to endure, and one over‑eager boyfriend to toss in seventy gallons of frigid water.

For some reason, the day suddenly feels perfect.

♡

#hehehe i love these type of fics #they're so fun #willmack #macklin celebrini #san jose sharks #will smith hockey #i love them #mackwill #wacklin #hrpf #hrpf fic #hockey fic #hockey rpf #willmack prompts

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olenvasynyt · 7 months ago

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A little list of my Prythian worldbuilding headcanons:

The smokehounds in Autumn have the best sense of smell and many are trained to track different things. Some of hunting dogs, some are trained to smell out the black blood of monsters, while others are trained to look for fungi. Yep, fungi. Mushrooms and truffles are very valuable and are one of Autumn’s prized exports. Some are magical, some just taste really really good.

During the War, Tamlin’s father cut down all of the trees in the north part of Spring to spot any enemies. After the War, he planted an entire forest north of the Wall and forbade his people to go in it.

The High Fae with both Spring and Autumn heritage have the power to control the air temperature (so a mix of fire and wind powers)

Spring fae are hired in Autumn to tend rich High Fae’s lawn and blow leaves into the compost

There is a hot / cold sauna on the border of Summer and Winter. The Summer side has a refreshing pool and cold plunge room, while Winter has a hot tub and sauna.

Winter and Dawn have the highest population of lesser fae

Most of the Winter Court towns are on the border of Autumn and Summer, or along the two coasts. Winter fae will often vacation in Autumn to appreciate the colors and warmer weather (Summer gets too hot).

Winter has a lot of volcanos on the border of the Middle (picture Iceland). Many farms have built greenhouses out of the volcano heat so they can grow produce. There are wild fruits that grow naturally in Winter too, like frost pears, white rime radishes, and snow turnips. Pine cones, nettles, reindeer meat, and wild berries are also Winter delicacies.

Summer and Day have the highest production of coffee.

Day and Dawn have the highest production of tea

Night and Winter are the least populated Courts

Summer’s and Winter’s biggest export in fish. Autumn also produces fish but not as frequently. Winter has ice fishing, Autumn has river fishing, and Summer’s are ocean

The north of Winter and south of Dawn are mountainous and often have monsters from the Middle sneaking over the border

Most citizens of Dawn will wake up early in the morning to experience the Court’s beautiful sunrises. 6-8 is the average bedtime and 2-4 is the average waking time

Night rarely trades with the outside, but they occasionally trade with Day. Most of their trade is of metals / weapon production.

#acotar headcanons #spring court #autumn court #winter court #summer court #dawn court #day court #night court #acotar #dana pinterest / headcanons

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xichilie · 6 months ago

Text

Two sides of a Gem

Aventurine x (stoneheart)reader

Preview [ Part1 ]

Reader will be known as ruby, will appear as a male stoic and monotone. But it's actually just a puppet. No one knows where the real ruby is and what she's up to, she just let's her puppet do her work, and most people only know the puppet as ruby and not her true self, Aventurine will meet the real ruby known as Y/N:

A.N: it's not proofread, and English is not my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes

Aventurine sat in the chair his office, playing around with a poker chip between his fingers while he let out a sigh seeing the stack of paperwork a colleague just dropped on his desk, he'd rather do anything else than that, he will have to take care of it eventually. After a few minutes of glaring at the stack of documents he reluctantly picked the first paper reading its contents as a knock on the door disrupted him, he looked up as the door opened and his secretary walked in "I'm sorry to disturb you Mr.Aventurine, but opal has called all stonerhearts to a meeting in 20 minutes"

Aventurine let's out a sigh, before showing his usual smile

"Alright, finally an excuse to not do this paperwork, thank you for informing me, your dismissed"

His secretary nodded and turned to leave the office closing the door behind her.

Aventurine got up and stretched, he checked his phone for any messages, before making his way out the office.

"AVENTURINE!" an angry voice came from behind

As he turned around he was met with an very angry topaz,

"You made me invest in this failed project on purpose didn't you!"

Aventurine held up his hand in mock surrender smirking "what makes you say that, I would never"

"Don't act all suprised you did this on purpose!" She pointed her finger at him

"I swear when I told you about the investment the project was doing well" he chuckled which made topaz even angrier, she opened her mouth but was stopped by jade " now now are you two fighting again?"

"Madam jade" topaz greeted her

"You two fight like little kids" a monotone voice chimed in.

Next to jade stood ruby, a tall man with red hair and redish eyes in his usual stoic demeanor, he just shook his head and walked past them towards the meeting room.

Topaz frowned "sometimes I'm asking myself if he's even human he's so ...cold..."

Aventurine chuckled "makes him kinda terrifying"

Jade chuckled, "well, good looking, strong, smart and terrifying, a good combination if you ask me, makes the job easier"

Everyone took their seats as opal entered the room.

"Good morning everyone, I'm glad you all made it" opal glanced at ruby then walked up to his seat and sat down.

"Let's begin, diamond and I looked over your recent projects, most of them have been very successful, aventurine and ruby, both of you managed high risk projects and completed them successfully". Aventurine smirked, playing with his poker chip. "Well, seems like I have quite the competition, completing high risk, and dangerous projects" he smirked at ruby who just stared back at him.

Opal cleared his throat and began assigning the new projects to each stoneheart

" Signal transmissions from Jarilo-VI have been detected by the IPC, Due to it's isolated and dangerous natural environment, Jarilo-VI lost contact with other worlds after the appearance of the Cancer of All Worlds."

He pointed to the documents he had distributed to each Stoneheart.

"We need someone to go down there and collect the overdue dept, and secure some properties for the IPC".

While the other stonehearts began to discuss the case topaz read the documents in silence, something about Jarilo-VI situation reminded her about her own home, That planet was extreme resource-poor. Therefore people need to worked laboriously, manufacturing product to created an export products to other civilizations in the universe. Most insisted on chemical and heavy industries. Which slowly turn planet to become a toxic environment. People with enough money buy tickets to leave a planet while the rest were waited for their death.

Until one day The IPC came to her home planet and use their technology to heal damaged environment. As an payment, all of the planet inhabitants become IPC employees. In only a few years after the contract, the planet biosphere is healed completely. She made up her mind "I'll take this case"

The other stonehearts turned to her in suprise. "That planet seems like a waste of time" Sugilite looked at topaz and closed the documents uninterested. "But it wouldn't be fair to simply ignore Jarilo-VI situation" pearl chimed in.

Aventurine leaned back in his chair "Jarilo-VI is is a high-risk, low-reward case, why bother to take it on. Your kind heart can be more of a liability than an asset in cases like this, dont you agree ruby?" Avebturni adjusted his glasses and smirked at ruby who's been quiet till now. The attention of the room shifte all gazes fell on ruby waiting for an answer "Jarilo-VI is indeed a high risk project, but, if topaz is confident in her abilities I don't see why she shouldn't try it"

Jade chuckled "I agree with ruby, if topaz wishes to take over the Jarilo-VI project, let her do it"

"Alright that settles it then, topaz will take over the Jarilo-VI project " opal declared "as for aventurine, we have an opertunity to reclaim what once belonged to the ipc, we received an invitation for the upcoming charmony festival in penacony, that seem like the right job for you don't you think?"

Aventurine tossed his poker chip in the air "quiet the risky gamble, high risk high rewards" he chuckled as he caught the chip.

Opal ended the meeting and everyone gathered to leave.

"Ruby, wait" called out to him as he stopped in his tracks and turned around. She walked up to him "thank you ...if you haven't spoke in my favor I probably wouldn't have gotten the chance to take the Jarilo-VI project"

Ruby stared at her for a moment "no need to thank me, if your confident in your abilities to handle this project there's no reason to deny you the opertunity, though, if you fail the consequences are on you" Tooaz smiled up at him "Don't worry I'm aware of the risks and consequences".

"Very well, good luck then" ruby nodded before turning around and walking off.

"I really advise against taking this project" Aventurines voice cut through the silence" topaz looked at him sharply "like you advised me to invest in this failed project" Aventurine chuckled "Oh come on your still mad about this".

............................

Later that night:

Ruby leaned against the wall of his living room gazing out the window as he recounted today's events to the other person on the call.

"Penacony huh?" A feminine voice mused on the other side of the line "so what are you planning to do?" Ruby asked "it's indeed very risky but I could ..."

He heared a chuckled from the other side of the line "no no, I'm sure they won't just let two stonerhearts check into the hotel, so leave this one to me, I'll be there anyways"

"Understood"

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #jiaoqiu x reader #childe x reader #genshin x reader #aventurine x reader #aventurine fluff #honkai blade x reader #honkai star rail x you

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sevenish-spheres · 26 days ago

Text

Making it Hurt

TW gore (both mech and human), mutilation, lot of corpses, child death (implied), capitalist wanker. (Who dies painfully)

Cere exhaled a cloud of mist as she ducked through the narrow hatch of the hangar bay, narrowly avoiding a bundle of wires which ran directly in front of her towards the hangar doors. Calling it a hangar was generous, of course. In actuality, it was little more than a hole in the mountainside which her predecessor’s employer had outfitted with a room for sleeping and the bare minimum required to keep a mech functioning.

That suited Cere fine. Vacuous Hand wasn’t fussy, and neither was she. It stood on a rack at the far end of the hangar, chained in place by the ankles. She hadn’t had any issues lately, but paranoia was a close friend these days. After all, if her predecessor had had a bit more of it, his frame wouldn’t be a smoking wreck on the other side of the mountain. Cere pulled out a watch. Nine forty. Time to move.

She dragged over the rusted ladder and folded it open, bending down to undo her frame’s manacles. She could swear she felt the cold metal shiver in anticipation as she did so. It was a fairly standard frame, standing about four and a half metres tall, and half shrouded in a ragged cape. Its legs were digitigrade, and covered in riveted metal plates that reminded Cere of an armadillo she’d seen once, on a rare occasion where she was working somewhere hot. It was a nice change. The rest of the mech was pretty standard for a cavalier, with several segments around the abdomen and pauldrons which swept high near the head, which appeared something like a grill-covered shark’s maw. The mech’s jaws were lined with teeth too big to be human, and the head ended in an almost axe-like point. At this point, the head was all that was left of the original frame Cere had started work with, and even then she’d inherited it. Not many people gave their suits teeth, strangely enough. The chest was covered in tally marks, a small reminder of what it, and she, were capable of. The most recent one, signifying the hangar’s previous owner, still shone silver, and made for her twentieth kill in this particular frame. In the past, she kept separate tallies for engine and pilot kills. These days, they were mostly one in the same. Stubborn fools.

Climbing up the ladder, she ran through the mission in her head. Move to the peak, check. Eliminate the usual watchman. Check. Wait an entire fucking week for the target to show up on a bloody gilded landship. At last, check. Finally, Cere and Vacuous could do what they were really here for. Namely, killing the Guild-Magnate who’d been supplying the Stallions. Tisea said to make it hurt. That was unusual for her. Ordinarily, the boss was pretty calculating with her targets. Not Varis DeVarney, apparently. Renowned for his departure from the traditional DeVarney export of greypowder firearms, Varis had cornered the local market for urelium-fuelled laser weaponry. He was currently in negotiations with the Green Stallions local nobility for rights to open a mining outpost in the mountains, which meant the fucker had been supplying them with weaponry. Right now he was transporting miners and equipment to establish one near this pass, with the landship being laden with supplies and weaponry.

Not that it mattered much. Greypowder or urelium, he’d die quickly enough. Or, more accurately, slowly. Cere still wasn’t entirely sure what Tisea had against him specifically, but it was hardly her job to decide. Tisea said Varis had to die, and die he would.

The ladder was a bit too short to reach Vacuous Hand’s hatch, and so Cere grunted as she gripped its pauldron and hauled herself onto its back. For how freezing the mountains were, the metal was already remarkably warm. The implants along her spine itched slightly, as they often did as she was preparing to pilot the frame. She reached below the heady chainmail hood which ran from the back of the head-helmet and flipped it over, revealing a metal plate which, after she removed a deadbolt, flipped over to reveal the entry hatch. Cere hauled herself in, avoiding scraping herself on the jagged tear in the hatch rim where a lucky pilot had managed to jam a halberd before she tore its arm off. She landed on the pilot’s seat and brought herself down to a sitting posture. The cockpit was cramped, with wires hanging like entrails across its tiny diameter. A few screens and dials sat, their glass fronts stained with dried blood and ichor. Still, they were legible enough for Cere to only have to squint slightly to make out what they said. Pressure in the limbs was normal, ichor levels about acceptable, and hull integrity largely fine. She hauled the hatch shut, checked the emergency kit under the seat, and then made an ass of herself taking her jacket off in the cramped cockpit. Ordinarily, she wouldn'tve bothered to bring it, but as she said, these mountains were fucking freezing.

She made one final check, and then shifted into a more comfortable position before settling her hands into the trigger gauntlets that let her use the auxiliary weapons, in this case a wristblade and arm-mounted machine gun, and doing up the leather straps that kept her hands safely bound to the chair. Finally, she pulled on the goggles and gas mask that were suspended just above her, and felt the slight prick of the needles in their lenses injecting ichor into her eyes. Immediately, the world went black, and she arched her back slightly as the neural cables rammed themselves into the jacks down her spine. She might have screamed, but by that point her mouth was already hanging slack in its mask.

She opened her eyes and breathed out, but where once she gazed out of her own tired sockets, now she was looking out of the six grilled eyes of Vacuous Hand. She tried to focus, the fiery pain in the back of her head abating to a familiar pins and needles. Bloody hell, out of the suit for a week and she felt like a line soldier doing ichor on a dare. Still, she checked her fingers were all attached and working, and then took her first step forward. It was practically smoother than walking normally, the pistons and mechanical tendons beneath the dented armour compensating perfectly for the hangar floor. Vacuous Hand turned, her eyes falling towards the rack bolted to the wall that served as the armoury. Reaching out in an adamantine-taloned hand, she tore a shotgun from the wall and slung it on her belt, next to the round machine gun ammunition and rondel dagger. Finally, she grabbed the massive zweihander from its place on the wall and slung its huge scabbard across her back, where it nestled next to the exhaust vents, which already glowed with an anticipatory frame.

With everything ready, Vacuous Hand ducked between the stone ridges in the hangar ceiling. Below her, she felt the rumble of massive treads as the landship entered the pass below.

Time to hunt.

She dragged the hangar door aside and lept from from the cave down to the slopes below.

The mountain was steep, and Vacuous Hand half sprinted, half slid down the mountainside, the smoke of its exhaust mixing with a trail of greyish snow and grit.

Below her, the landship crawled across the pass, flattening the few trees that fought to grow this high up. It was a massive thing, covered in golden battlements and possessing four treads modelled to look like lion’s paws. It bore several huge cannons that, thankfully for Vacuous, were proudly trained on the valley below. Around it, several smaller tanks and frames maintained a perimeter, but none of them yet noticed the mech skidding down the mountainside towards them. Vacuous took it all in, noting the closest frames, mostly smaller Cuirassiers, and readying her machine gun to fire. The rattle of the gun tore through the mountain air, and more importantly, through the thin armour of the smaller mechs. Immediately, the guns of the smaller tanks swivelled to face her, but by the time they fired she had a dozen metres to her right, and the plume of snow that erupted where the shell fell was well off its mark. By now, several of the larger frames were moving in to intercept, and Vacuous Hand would have grinned, had it had the ability, as it drew the massive broadsword, which now glowed red hot and leapt from the mountainside. She selected her target, a decent sized cavalier wielding a shotgun-shield and falchion. It fired and she swerved slightly middair, the mechshot barely clipping a taloned toe.

My turn.

She smashed into the cavalier as it charged towards her, taloned feet gripping its limbs as her broadsword punched through its abdomen. Vacuous barely had time to smell the burning flesh and ichor before another cavalier moved to avenge its comrade. This one wielded a broadsword similar to her own, and had a pair of ornate wings sprouting from its gilded back. As it charged, the wings emitted a flurry of missiles that arced towards her. She kicked hard to the left, dodging most, but a few found their mark. Two ricocheted off her pauldron, but a third slammed into her knee as she braced to cut down the cavalier. She stumbled, and her opponent capitalised, sweeping her zweihander aside as its own blade cut deep into her arm. Vacuous Hand howled as ichor welled from the wounded limb, and she dived forward, extending her wristblade and slamming it hard into the enemy mech’s chest. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted one of the tanks firing, and turned to face it, the shell impacting hard into the back of the struggling frame she had impaled. It went limp, and she tossed it aside as she dashed for the tank. It readied to fire again, but she slid below the path of the shell and sprung up, her sword biting into the turret as her foot crushed the gun barrel below. She turned in time to see another shell as it slammed hard into her shoulder, rending pistons and mechanical arteries. She snarled, and leapt towards it, her machine gun howling a staccato burst as she impacted the tank. This time, there was no clean sword-strike as she tore open the turret and painted the insides of the tank with gore.

She ducked behind the wreck, considering her options. Thankfully, she was too close to the landship for its guns to be a threat, but already she felt the rumble as the other tanks moved around to finish her off. With one arm shattered but slowly pulling itself together, and a leg that threatened to buckle if it took another hit, killing them wouldn’t be worth it, and moreover, would open her up to strikes from the mechs which were now likely disembarking the battlements on the landship above. But if she didn’t move, the tanks would blow apart the mechanical carcass she was hiding behind. As the first shell dragged up a plume of smoke and snow behind her, Vacuous made her choice.

She dashed for the Landship, her talons biting into the massive treads, and the glowing blade of her zweihander easily finding purchase in the ornate plating above them. She reached out with her other arm and-

Shit.

The arm, slick with ichor and half-broken from the tank shell, slipped. The mech screamed as she plummeted, barely catching itself on the sword again. The Cuirassiers on the battlements were thundering towards where she was hanging, and only the fear of damaging the landship was keeping the tanks from eviscerating her. One of the Cuirassiers leaned over the battlements to shoot at her with a broad-barreled gun, and she snapped.

With her good arm she flung herself forward, jaws grinding open and snapping shut like a beartrap as she tore the head off the Cuirassier, and kicked herself onto the top of the tank as it plummeted to the snowy ground below. She breathed heavily, steam hissing from her ichor-slick jaws. In front of her, the two Cuirassiers were frozen, but as she looked up they regained their composure and opened fire. The impact of their guns felt like rainfall on her hull, but Vacuous knew she’d feel it later. She grabbed one of them, wristblade extending in and out of its gut as she punched its torso in. Then, she flung it forward, smashing it into the other frame. A part of her thought dully, these ones are just soldiers. Varis is the real target. Maybe, but they’re hardly conscripts either. Still, she left the second Cuirassier pinned under its compatriot. She didn’t have the time. Behind her she saw the form of a demi-lancer emerge from the rear of the tank. She certainly didn’t have the time for that. She slung her sword onto her back, and, catching sight of an entrance into the rest of the tank, dashed for it. She felt the impact of the demi-lancer kanding behind her as she ran through the bulkhead. She slammed the door behind her, and took a brief look at her surroundings. This was clearly a hangar bay, its ceiling high and vaulted, and criss-crossed by gantries and cranes. Below, a few technicians drew sidearms and opened fire. She ignored them, only sending a quick burst of machine gun fire to send them scurrying behind the empty racks where mechs could dock.

Suddenly, the door’s hissed open, and Vacuous Hand came face to face with her Demi-Lancer pursuer. It was tall, heavily armoured and, like many Green Stallion frames, modelled vaguely after an armoured human. Its face was sculpted like a death mask, and it carried a shimmering Rail-falconet.

You missed your chance. You can’t fire that in-

She barely had time to duck as a bolt of hyperaccelerated adamantine spiralled past her head and impacted into the ceiling behind.

Shit. This wasn’t one of Varis’ hirelings. This was an honest to god Green Stallion, with overwhelming hubris to boot. It fired again, slicing through a gantry as Vacuous leapt for its jugular. She tore its railgun aside with her foot, and readied her wristblade to slice throu-

Cere felt a coldness in her chest as she looked down witnessing the huge dagger that had pierced her mech’s hull and was now slicing into the side of her stomach, barely missing spilling her guts onto the cockpit floor. She felt faint, but even as her body gave way, she felt a familiar heat in the back of her head as her suit pumped more ichor into her spine.

Cere and Vacuous Hand screamed in unison, wrenching the blade from their chest and biting down on the throat of the demi-lancer below her. Blinded by fury, they grasped its plated neck and pulled, ripping it clean off in a shower of black gore. Then, pulling out her yet-unused shotgun, she placed its barrel over the centre of the now-paralysed mech’s chest, and pulled the trigger. Cere almost smiled as the rounds tore through armour and pilot alike, rending metal mingling with a gurgling scream. She faded into darkness, and instinct took over.

Vacuous Hand turned, the sudden influx of ichor sharpening its vision as it spied the way further into the landship. The gilded walls were lined with pipes and cables, their gold fading to almost black and white as she focused on navigating the massive war-engine. She could feel the ichor knitting together the wound in her and her pilot’s chest, pulling her arm back into place, but it would be a while before she could function fully. The halls were quiet, with presumably most of the crew manning weapon emplacements or monitoring the treads. But even in her bloodlust-blackened mind, Vacuous thought something was off. This landship was transporting supplies for establishing a mine. There should be foremen, quarters for miners, at the very least some mud on the floors. But there was nothing.

As she stalked the corridors, she saw a large door labelled ‘Hold’, beside which sat several piles of flowers, and what appeared to be bottles of incense or perfume. She tore the door open, and was confronted with the answer to her question. The hold contained various crates of equipment, picks, sledgehammers, all sorts. To one side, several grubber frames sat, their forklift-like arms ready for hauling mined urelium. But still, she wondered where the miners themselves were. Then she caught sight of the strange galvanic chambers at one end, their iron caskets shaped eerily like coffins. Beside them, several staves topped with black crystal stood, quietly radiating an aura of cold death. She glanced to the centre of the hold, and found the reason the door had been decked in flowers. In the middle of the floor, a large grate had been placed and, just below it, was a huge pit, filled almost to the brim with corpses in varying states of decay. Each shared a gunshot wound to the back of the head, and while the grate was still as sparkling steel, the floor around it was splattered with blood. The corpses were varied in species, mostly being humans or orcs, and maybe a few dwarves-

No. Those were not dwarven corpses.

Instead of the bile that might have risen in an organic throat, Vacuous Hand felt only a thick black rage.

Varis would die, and like Tisea wished, it would be slow.

She left that hold silently, pausing only to locate a barrel of oil, which she doused the corpses in before igniting them with a spark from her talons against the blood-splattered floor. The smoke rose thickly from the pit, choking the corridors of the landship as she crept up the staircases into the upper decks.

She passed into an armoury, gazing at the ornate shelves that put her own meagre supply to shame. As she did so, a cavalier entered the armoury, and in panic she swerved to face it. It was around the same size as herself, and painted a dark green, and carried a simple sword and shield, although both were still overgrown with vine-like gold trim. It seemed as surprised as she was, but overcame this as it charged. Vacuous made to draw her zweihander but-

Shit. The armoury was too cramped to draw it easily, much less wield it. The cavalier’s sword, however, had no such problems, she narrowly managed to step backwards to avoid its thrust. The mech’s eyes gleamed a cold blue through the smoke, and it advanced. She drew her shotgun to fire, but it dashed forward and slammed its shield into the barrel, knocking it from her grip. It punched forward with the shield, sending her to the ground as her already-damaged leg gave way. She rolled heavily as the two-metre long blade clanged into the deck where she had just been, and looked around desperately for an advantage.

There! A falchion had clattered to the ground when she fell backwards. It was a one-hander, but it would do. She darted forward, grabbing the broad blade and bringing it up to parry another blow from the green cavalier. She punched out with her wristblade, but the Cavalier raised its shield, and the blade stuck fast. It twisted the shield and Vacuous felt metallic tendons snap as she tried to wrench the wristblade free. It didn’t budge, and she barely deflected another blow from the cavalier as it struggled to break free from the grapple. Finally, it was forced to drop the shield, with it clattering to the floor suddenly and leaving Vacuous unguarded. It jabbed its sword clean through her other wrist, causing her to drop the falchion, but as it did so she kicked out at its leg and it tumbled onto her. They grappled, the metal of their frames shrieking and sending bright sparks into the smoke around them. She pinned it down, her knee slamming into its arm as it tried to draw a dagger, whilst with her other arm she drew her own rondel. It was a wicked thing, reinforced adamantine terminating in a vicious point, which she drove into its shoulders, its neck, its chest. Over and over again she plunged the dagger into it, tearing through pistons, tendons and armour until finally, the writhing cavalier stopped moving.

Heavily, Vacuous Hand got to her feet. Ichor dripped from all over her armour-plated body, and the entire world had devolved into black and white, punctuated only by the fading glow of the cavalier’s eyes and the sparks from the fire below. During the grapple she had gained more wounds than she realised, and opened up a few old ones as well. Now, she limped up the stairs before finally coming face to face with a huge set of doors leading to the ‘bridge’ of the landship, where Tisea had said Varis would be sealed. Before it stood his apparent last line of defence, a row of shield-and-spear-bearing infantrymen supported by a few cuirassiers. She made to fire her machine gun

Click.

Wonderful. Even better, her spare ammunition had presumably been dislodged by the cavalier downstairs. Seeing this, the poor infantrymen must have thought they stood a chance.

They didn’t.

…

Vacuous Hand tore into the doors with hands now stained a deep maroon by blood and ichor. Around her, the remains of the infantrymen were scattered across the landing. A few had almost pricked her with their spears, but it meant little. The door, an ornate thing of wood and bronze, fell away, revealing the bridge within.

It was as gold-trimmed as the rest of the ship, full to the brim with terrified navigators and deck officers, and in the centre, a throne. Within it sat a small man in an ornate uniform, his gold epaulettes camouflaging him with the gaudy chair he sat upon. His balding head was crowned by a laurel wreath, and he carried a rapier at his side.

Varis.

He might have been an impressive display of nobility, were it not for the fact that as soon as the door gave way he scrambled from the chair and half stumbled, half ran for a door off to the side. Vacuous tore towards him, but he reached it in time, leaving the mech to tear through the wall into the next room. The jagged metal sliced at her arms, but at this point Vacuous Hand felt nothing. There was only her and her quarry, and it was getting away.

She dragged herself into the next room, a strange cylindrical space with walls lined with banded copper quite unlike the gold of the rest of the landship. One end extended out past the copper walls, and there stood Varis, grasping at a small control panel.

Suddenly it hit her. Varis wasn’t running away, he was leading her here. A triumphant grin on his small face, the man pulled a switch and lightning arced between the copper wires, tearing into the mech within the coil. Vacuous Hand screamed, and within it, Cere awoke.

She gasped, coughing ichor into her gas mask. She fumbled for the straps that bound her wrists to the chair, undoing them as she watched through her mech’s eyes as Varis approached, carrying a large spear that featured a large grenade just below its tip.

“Can you hear me, dog? You’ve ruined everything I’ve been working for, so I think I’ll take this slow. I used to be a soldier myself, you know. I can make this hurt.”

The words caused something to snap within Cere, and she tore her goggles and mask off as she leapt for the catch above her. She twisted it open and dragged herself out just in time, as Varis plunged the spear deep into Vacuous Hand’s chest, a small explosion following as the grenade attached to it went off. Surprised, Varis looked up as Cere struggled free from the chainmail hood of the suit. Ichor bled freely from her eyes, nose and mouth, but right now she couldn’t care less. He had killed hundreds. He was Tisea’s quarry. But more than that, He had destroyed her mech. In a couple of seconds he had done what so many of his forces had tried and failed to do, and he did it with some copper wire and a spear.

He. Was going. To die.

She fell on him as he drew his rapier, and it pierced clean through her shoulder. She didn’t notice, twisting herself just as the cavalier had done to her wristblade and dragging the sword from his grasp. He was stronger than he looked, and managed to push her off him as she pulled the rapier from her shoulder. Now she felt it. He stumbled back even as she shot forward, adrenaline and ichor keeping her faster than she had any right to be. She jammed the rapier into his gut, and he fell backwards.

“How many?” She choked, spewing ichor onto his jacket.

“What?”

“In-in the hold. How many people?”

“How the hell would I know, hound. They’re just meat.”

“Pity. So are you.”

She stood up, and stomped on his leg. Something snapped. Varis screamed.

“Who are you?”

“A hound. Remember? Now. You tell me what twisted fucking justification you have what what I saw downstairs.”

“As if I need to tell a lowborn bitch like you any-”

Cere broke his other leg.

“I’m sorry- I- Workers or slaves were too expensive to feed. This was the most economica-”

Cere’s boot slammed into his jaw. He fainted.

Cere sighed.

“Pathetic.”

She pulled the rapier from his gut and drove it through his heart. More than he deserved. She made to walk away, but as she did so she felt the ichor’s influence beginning to wane. The pain in her shoulder flared up, and she stumbled. She glanced at the wound. It was bleeding more than she expected. She crawled to Varis’ jacket, tearing off its sleeve to improvise a binding. It wasn’t much, and she did the same to her gut wound. Thankfully, it wasn’t as deep as she feared, and the ichor had already gone some ways to patching it up. Still, now the ichor was gone she doubted she could walk. She slumped against the wall. She hadn’t really considered her exit strategy. She glanced at Vacuous Hand, and its black eyes stared back from within its head. At least they would die knowing they succeeded. That Varis was dead. That Tisea had got what she wanted. Cere thought she might have liked to see her, at least. To give her Varis’ head, or something. She passed out.

She awoke to the sound of armoured boots approaching. She cursed, but she wasn’t surprised. The fact it had taken this long for guards to even come check was testament to Varis’ confidence in his victory. They were dressed relatively simple, carrying bolt-action rifles and bearing a dagger at their belts. One went to check on the little turd, while another pressed a rifle to her head. She spat a last globule of ichor and blood onto their boot. As she did so, an explosion rocked the landship. The guard glanced up, before a bullet lanced clean through their skull. The second guard rose, and met an identical fate. Cere slumped backwards as she watched through half-shut eyes a figure pick their way across her mech’s fallen frame, flanked by two heavily-armoured soldiers. It dashed towards her, dropping to a crouch in front of her. She had dark skin and hair, and her usually neat jacket had been thrown off, leaving a shirt flecked with a few drops of the guard’s blood. Her eyes bored into Cere as she cupped her cheek in her hand.

“Tisea?..”

“Yes?” Tisea looked almost scared.

“Did I do good?”

“Yes, yes you did.”

“Then you owe me a new mech.”

That got a bit of a smile.

“Can you wa-” Tisea broke off as she studied Cere’s wounds. “No. No you can’t.”

Before Cere could protest, she dragged her up and slung an arm across her shoulders. For someone who, as far as Cere could tell, had never so much as thrown a punch, Tisea was remarkably strong.

“Varis fainted before I could do much. Sorry.”

Cere wasn’t sure Tisea heard her. Instead, she was looking up at the sky above them. The explosion she had felt had torn apart the roof of the bridge, and above them a skyship hovered, waiting expectantly.

“When’d you decide to bring in a ship?”

“Around the same time you set the landship on fire. I thought extraction might be an issue.”

“I would have been fi-” Cere broke into a fit of coughing, and clutched Tisea’s shoulder like she was drowning and her boss was a piece of driftwood. If Tisea noticed, she didn’t show it.

“I’m sure. You two-” she said, gesturing to the two armoured figures. “Get that mech hoisted onto the ship.” She looked down at Cere. “You're going to be fine.” She seemed to be reassuring herself more than anything else.

The skyship descended and extended down several ropes. Cere weakly protested as she was harnessed into one of them and hoisted aboard. She stumbled over to a bench as what remained of her suit was dragged onto the deck of the ship. She tipped forward as Tisea ran to catch her.

“What the hell did you do to yourself?”

“Killed everyone. Got stabbed by that shitstain with a spear. Had to kill him with his own rapier. He fainted too quickly.”

“Don’t worry about that now. You did so good for me. How deep are your wounds?”

“Not sure. I’ll probably be fin-”

Cere pitched forward, catching the gaze of Vacuous Hand as Tisea struggled to catch her. She looked at her mech for a moment.

We did good.

Cere smiled as she black out, and dimly thought that perhaps, Vacuous Hand opened its jaw into something like a grin as they passed out.

We did good.

21 notes · View notes

ilyabutlike-j · 3 months ago

Text

my take on theories involving s2ep10 (also pertaining markhelly)

also might contain S2EP10 spoilers (if true)

so i’ve been seeing some theories about mark’s decision of choosing helly or gemma at the end of s2 and some more theories, which i’d like to address.

before this, i think we’re off with the atmosphere that mark s. is aware, because of harmony cobel, of the implications of completing cold harbor (whether he does so or not, i’m not sure) and goes down to save gemma (which can also be an outcome of his meeting with devon and cobel). there are speculations saying that helly doesn’t go to the exports hallway elevator, but if cold harbor is complete, and helly leaves for the day, that will be the last of helly seeing the severed floor, or being alive again. the reason being, that mark s.’s importance to the board is not till the completion of cold harbor, and after that, he most likely will be fired. if he is fired, there will be no need to sending helena down to the severed floor again. the helly’s trip to the elevator would be the last, ideally, according to Lumon’s planning.

or in other words, i believe,

completion of cold harbor will be the death of the former MDR team. This includes irving (fired and left Kier), dylan (quit and his resignation request will probably be accepted), mark, as his only importance is completing Cold Harbor and helly, as her only importance is that mark wouldn’t work without her.

cold harbor is what makes the MDR team important. it’s what makes the last room, on the testing floor to experiment on gemma. other than that, i feel that Lumon is highly inclined to get rid of MDR, after their stunt in season 1 finale.

now, coming to the theories.

i’ll start this off by saying that i don’t believe mark choosing gemma over helly or helly over gemma will be his final decision. it will be significant, each ending with their own different set of implications that will lead the course in s3, but it won’t be mark’s final decision

why do i say that?

i feel many people are missing the point of reintegration, which hasn’t been given too much of an emphasis in s2 (probably in s3, although i was very eager to see it with mark in s2). mark scout is yet to feel the love, pureness and innocence of mark s, and mark s is yet to feel the grief, anger, sadness, maturity with a side of realism of mark scout. this is all pertaining that s2 is also all about adolescence. all the innies are now in the adolescent phase, meanwhile the outies are fully grown adults. the immaturity and maturity clash is yet to take place. innie mark is not aware for his outie’s love for gemma; he’s always seen ms casey as, at most, a colleague and an innie like him, and outie mark is not aware of his love for helly; he is intrigued by helena, from what i can infer from s2ep6, i think he does see her as a familiar face, but then again a lot of it is unknown.

so until the full reintegration process is set in, which i highly doubt will happen in this season finale alone, mark’s decision will not be with finality.

so, that all boils down to the fact that if mark chooses helly over gemma, it will probably be before him as an innie, sending gemma out and opting to stay because after his meeting with harmony cobel in the birthing cabin, i think, he will get the idea that helly’s existence is dependent on the completion of cold harbor along with gemma’s. however, gemma can be saved, but in the other hand helly can’t. her only basis of survival is staying on the severed floor.

but im hoping to see outie mark choose to go inside to save helly after getting gemma out from the stairwell door. now, i don’t know till what extent this will be true, but outie mark choosing to stick with helly will be so much more impactful. if this is how the storyline goes, we’ll get to see outie mark finally having some respect for innie mark i.e he realises how important helly must be to his innie (although he might not know how intense his feelings are towards helly), finally recognising his innie as a person of his own.

mark choosing gemma over helly will not mean helly’s necessary death. the completion of cold harbor in itself, may NOT mean helly’s necessary demise.

why do i theorise that?

well, before s2ep9, i was sure that helly’s death would be certain if mark chooses gemma.

however, i don’t think that would exactly be the case.

because helly meets jame eagan and many speculate that helly may kill jame.

although i feel their meeting won’t be far from violent in some way, jame won’t die.

solely because, he’s one of the most important part of helena’s life. coming from inferring from the storyline, he will also play a great role in helena’s character and background. killing him off, as in thrusting the responsibility of a global company like Lumon on helena, would be just idiotic coming from the writer’s perspective. i also believe helena will go through a redemption arc. throughout season 2, we see how little power helena actually has. how Lumon has been exploiting her again, and again, even against her will. how they have been sending her down, against her will, with the perspective, that she had been hung and drowned, two attempts into getting killed and yet was loyal to them. her father blaming her, calling her “fettid moppet” for something she wasn’t responsible of. when her father finally saying something in favour of approval, it’s to helly, (when she wakes up during the OTC), which frankly, was something helena deserved. we do not get much of helena’s backstory, but we have an idea of an implied abusive childhood. for helena, this is her only identity: Lumon. she has never been allowed to explore an identity outside of Lumon. many say that this is the breaking point for helena, being sent down again, despite being drowned, and going through all the trauma, but i really believe that she is only just being pushed to the edge.

the only reason why she might go anywhere against her father is because of her obsession towards mark (likely coming from a place of isolation and loneliness) and helly, who shows her an idea of an identity outside Lumon, an idea she thoroughly craves. (“i didn’t like who i was on the outside, i was ashamed.”).

besides that, helena’s entire life has been seeking Lumon’s approval, but most of all, her father’s approval. i think in s3, we will get to see a redemption arc and for that, I don’t think the writer will kill off jame.

but how is this important to helly’s survival?

i highly believe that helly’s encounter with jame will be torturous. he will try to do something to her. and when he does, helena will be aware. it doesn’t matter if helena is aware, down at the testing floor or when she checks the footage from work, she will know what happens between her father and helly. she will know what nastiness her father will be trying to attempt on helly.

in doing so, i think she will finally get to see the real side of Jame Eagan.

and i think that will be the true breaking point for Helena Eagan.

because helly r, is helena’s most innocent form, purest form, (considering burt references an innie being the most innocent form of the outie). if jame would try to do the things he would try to do to helly, her most purest form, what would stop him from trying to do the same against helena?

i don’t think this means there will be some reconciliation between helly r and helena eagan, but i think this might be a common line that is something helena and helly would both agree upon. jame crossing some moral code of conduct, will trigger something helena, that she’s buried for years.

she’ll finally see how her father, who she sacrificed her own fucking life for, for whom she let her entire identity by ransacked, sees her as truly. and it will affect how she views Lumon. that will be helena’s breaking point, knowing how much she’s always tried to give to this company and her father, and all they’ve ever done was take and never give back.

in doing so, i think helena, just like harmony cobel realising how much had Lumon been using her, will finally start to tip against Lumon. and doing so she will try to contact helly, either in the birthing cabin or trying to do reverse Glasgow Block. so, essentially bringing Helly back to life.

also not to forget, i don’t think her obsession with mark would be ending up any soon, and mark’s reintegrations will eventually remind him of helly. both of them would probably meet in s3 and the topic of helly will eventually prevail. that means helly will reenter the scenes, regardless of the completion of cold harbor.

also to add, as i said in the beginning, mark’s choice of helly or gemma will NOT be his final choice, until his reintegration is complete. so both gemma and Helly will play important roles throughout the seasons as they go.

and if we won’t get to see much of helena in s2ep10, i think we will at least see a kick off of Helena’s redemption arc in this season finale or by the start of s3.

all of this is IF mark chooses gemma over helly.

anyways, this is all my theories, and my response to other theories. it’s 100% possible i could be completely thrown off. lmk any opinions though.

#severance #severance spoilers #mark scout #mark s #helly r #helena eagan #gemma scout #harmony cobel #markhelly #markhellyna #markhelena

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osworld9 · 1 year ago

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Walk-in Cold Room

#Walk-in Cold Room #Walk-in Cold Room manufacturers #Walk-in Cold Room manufacturers in Mumbai #Walk-in Cold Room manufacturers in India #walk in cold rooms Walk-in Cold Room #walk in cold room manufacturers #walk in cold room manufacturers in Mumbai #walk in cold room manufacturers in india #Walk-in Cold Room exporters #Walk-in Cold Room exporters in Mumbai #Walk-in Cold Room exporters in India #Walk-in Cold Room suppliers #Walk-in Cold Room suppliers in Mumbai #Walk-in Cold Room suppliers India

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silversainz · 2 years ago

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8 “oh you have no ideal how much i wanna fuck you right now” for Oscar please?

# warnings — dirty talk, kinda dom!Oscar, jealousy, degradation, been sitting in my drafts for a bit.

He was just trying to enjoy the party lando had invited him to, but somehow in the crowd of people that surrounded him his eyes caught sight of you. Dancing and laughing with somebody who he didn’t know the name of, more-so a guy who he didn’t know the name of.

He shouldn’t care tho, you weren’t his and he wasn’t yours, simple. But he couldn’t stop the burning ache and tension that grew in his chest once he saw the man lay his hand on your ass, so casually rubbing his dirty hand over what he had his hand on the previous night.

He scoffed, slamming his drink down on the bar counter and made his way towards you, shoving people out the way until he made it to you.

“Y/n” he saw your eyes go wide from seeing him standing there dark gaze giving dirty looks towards the man who still had his damn hand on your ass. “Lando needs us with something” he simply said, hoping it was an good enough lie to make you follow him somewhere private.

You looked between Oscar and the man who stood behind you, eventually you shook your head no, “very busy, can’t” you went to turn around with the man on your arm, but Oscar caught your arm in a strong hold making you whine as you felt his fingertips dig into your skin.

“Man look she said-

“Shut up,” the man froze clearly not expected to be talked to like that, “I’m not talking to you” you suddenly grew very nervous, knowing that tone of voice very well.

“Lando needs us” and he had you, you let go of the mans hand and walked away with Oscar to where lando was supposed to at.

“Oscar-“ You started making him scoff at you as he turned around to face you once you made it somewhere private.

“Shut up” instantly he had you backed up against the kitchen counter hand’s cupping your face as he crashed his lips on yours. “God you’re so fucking pathetic” he muttered out against your lips as he picked you up placing you down on the counter.

“Always needing me to remind you do you belong to, and it’s not that asshole right?” You whined as his hand left your cheek to grip onto your hair tightly, “fucking right”

You nodded, “belong to you” he hummed hands tugging up your dress to export the exposed skin. You whined feeling the weight of his hand mess with the hem of your panties.

“Can’t even leave you alone for five minutes without you wandering off to try and fuck somebody else” your head fell back as he tore your panties off, throwing them somewhere in the room.

“Didn’t think you’d care” the smart remark came out with a sly smile on your face but it was soon replaced with an moan as you felt his hand slap your inner thigh hardly, the ring he had on his finger surely leaving a mark inbranded on your skin.

“Oh dear you have no ideal how much i wanna fuck you right now”

He pushed you back to lay flat on the cold kitchen counter, the feeling alone made goosebumps appear from their awake. You nervously gulped as you heard the sound of his belt hitting the floor and his tip sliding up and down your wet folds.

“Fuck, Oscar please” he let out a dry laugh at your immediate begging.

“Haven’t even begun to fuck you and you’re already begging” moaning in unison, your hands gripped onto the counter for support as his cock thrusted into your wet cunt.

“But just goes to remind me how much you belong to me”

#oscar piastri #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri smut #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri Drabble #f1 drabbles

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n1ceguyen · 1 month ago

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2AM Mistakes (Huh Yunjin x M!Reader)

Chapter 1:

Toronto always felt heavier at night. Not loud, not suffocating—just thick with a kind of stillness that settled into the bones. Streetlights casting long shadows over cracked sidewalks. The hum of streetcars in the distance, fading into nothing.

Y/N sat at their desk, leaning back in a chair that creaked just enough to remind them it wasn’t built for this much sitting. Headphones half-on, the soft loop of a half-finished track playing on repeat. The room was small—desk squeezed between a sagging bookshelf and a window streaked with condensation—but it was enough.

It was always enough at this hour.

The track was rough. Guitar chords layered under a slow, muffled beat. It had this worn-out quality to it, like it wasn’t trying too hard to be anything except there. The kind of sound that made you feel like you were walking home from somewhere you didn’t want to leave yet.

Y/N stared at the screen. The waveform glowed faintly against the dark background. It wasn’t done. Probably wouldn’t ever be done. But that didn’t stop them.

The title hovered in the corner of the screen.

“2AM Mistakes”

It wasn’t deep. Just felt right. The song had that feeling—the kind that only came out when it was too late to undo anything you’d already said or thought. When the world was too quiet, and the thoughts got too loud.

With a sigh, Y/N exported the track and uploaded it to SoundCloud. No tags. No cover art. No promo. Just tossed into the void like the last few had been.

They leaned back, let the song play one more time through their cheap headphones. The coffee in the mug nearby had gone cold, but they took a sip anyway. It tasted burnt.

The clock read 2:14 AM.

Of course it did.

Y/N closed their laptop and stared out the window. The city outside didn’t look like much. A flickering streetlight, a faint red glow from the convenience store across the street. But there was something comforting about the way it never fully stopped.

Their phone buzzed on the desk.

Probably spam.

They almost ignored it.

But curiosity won.

[SoundCloud Notification: New like on “2AM Mistakes” by hj_426]

Y/N frowned a little. That was fast.

They clicked into the notification. The profile was bare. hj_426. No real bio. One follower. A blurry profile picture—just a soft outline of someone’s face, half in shadow. Real, maybe. Or just trying not to be seen.

But there was a comment.

“this feels like walking home when you’re too tired to care about the cold. i liked it.”

Y/N stared at the words for a long moment. It wasn’t just a “nice track” or a flame emoji. It felt… real.

Their fingers hovered over the reply box.

Why not.

Y/N: thanks for listening. walking home cold is exactly the vibe haha.

They sent it before they could talk themselves out of it. Tossed their phone onto the bed, stood up, stretched. The chair groaned like it was grateful to be left alone.

But before Y/N could even step away, the phone buzzed again.

hj_426: u nailed it. found it by accident while walking tonight. sometimes the algorithm knows what i need better than i do lol. u make music often?

Y/N smiled a little.

There was something about the way she typed—casual, like it wasn’t a big deal.

Y/N: started a couple months ago. been messing around with it at night mostly. still figuring out where i’m going with it tbh.

hj_426: nah it’s got a vibe. feels honest. not too polished, just… real. i sing a little too. nothing crazy.

Honest.

The word sat in Y/N’s chest a little heavier than they expected. Most people talked about production or mixing. No one called it honest.

Y/N: appreciate that. honestly just trying to make something that feels like how the city sounds at night, u know?

hj_426: i get that. toronto at night hits different. quiet but too alive to really sleep.

Y/N: exactly.

There was a pause.

The kind of pause that didn’t feel like the end, just space to breathe.

hj_426: u got insta? i wanna send u a rough melody idea. kinda dumb but i can’t get it outta my head.

Y/N hesitated.

It wasn’t weird, exactly. Just… surprising. Most online convos never made it past a couple replies. But this felt easy. Natural.

They dropped their handle.

Seconds later, the DM popped in.

A voice memo.

Y/N hit play.

It was rough—just a soft, humming melody, like she’d recorded it under her breath walking down a quiet street. A little rushed. A little off-key in places. But there was something in the way it moved—rising, falling, catching on a note like it almost didn’t want to let go.

It clung to the back of Y/N’s mind even after the recording ended.

They played it again.

And again.

Y/N: yo this is rlly good. not dumb at all. mind if i mess around with it? build something under it?

The reply came quick.

hj_426: pls do. u bring the calm, i’ll bring the sad. perfect combo.

Y/N: dangerous combo. might have to start a band.

hj_426: lol only if we call it 2AM Mistakes.

Y/N laughed out loud.

It felt too perfect.

Y/N: deal. one album. no interviews. break up dramatically.

hj_426: no explanations. no apologies. indie legends.

The clock slipped past 3AM without either of them noticing.

The city outside stayed quiet, but the space between them felt like it was filling with something.

Still no names.

Still no faces.

Just music.

And the feeling that maybe, for once, Y/N wasn’t just making songs for no one.

End of Chapter 1.

#le sserafim yunjin #le sserafim fluff #le sserafim #huh yunjin #huh yunjin x reader #kpop #kpop fanfic #kpop gg #kpop imagines #fluff #male reader

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snowbunnywatching · 1 year ago

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How would the new structures in 'Blacked Denmark' look for someone like you? And other indigenous Danes. It seems as though you predict a gender split there, how would that play out? Would young progressive women be leading the change. Would you be one of them? Nobody really wants to pay more tax, but the benefits of this Blacked culture and making up for past injustice is seen as 'worth it'? Would there be a place in the dominant Black political party for you? I assume positions of power are reserved for Black men there. But having happy, eager, attractive Danish women championing the cause is good propaganda. We all know the power of modern 'influencers'. We also know the power of social media to shame people who don't agree with modern, progressive politics. This could be used to lessen the complaints of some Danish men, and maybe even others would outwardly support the changes. Recognizing the women in their lives are happier and Black men are more deserving of power. Would you campaign, maybe with a new Black boyfriend? Donate some of your salary? Even after a political victory and changes in law keeping people happy with the new structures requires effort. Maybe even looking to export these new ideas to nearby countries.

(Follow-up to this post.)

Yes, there's going to be a gender split. And with good reason: The narrative of the Blackening or Africanization of Denmark gives a bigger role to white girls than to white guys. We get to be the ones that greet our new visitors with open arms and legs, while the guys get assigned the dull role of "standing aside".

I like imagining myself in front, campaigning for progress.

As the busses with visitors start arriving, I am one of the young Danish girls greeting them, offering hand-knotted dandelion necklaces as welcome gifts.

I volunteer at the center where the visitors are briefly staying before a permanent living situation is established. A lot of Danes are being relocated from their homes to make room for the influx of Black men.

I fall for a Black man a couple of years my senior, a gentle soul hidden by a tough exterior. My white boyfriend handles the breakup well. A lot of Danish girls are leaving their boyfriends in those days.

When we make love I feel like the great racial scars left by history may one day finally heal.

The Racial Justice Party appears, and together with my new Black lover I help canvas for the signatures required for the new party to appear on the ballot. Seeing a smiling white girl extending a clipboard with signatures puts a lot of Danish voters at ease regarding the intentions of the Black Power-supporting party.

In the run-up to the election I help campaign for the party, donating part of my heavily-Reparations-taxed salary to the campain coffers.

I take time off from walk to help cold-call potential voters, canvas progressive neigborhoods, and help make lunch in the campaign office. All us white girls on the campaign are performing menial duties while the Black men are the ones giving speeches about change and justice.

On election night, I barely hear the results. My heels are pointed at the ceiling while my Black lover is on top of me, conquering Denmark all over again.

#racial justice #cultural africanization #white guilt

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fayet · 4 months ago

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The Kpop Experiment: Musings on Ateez in Cologne

Okay. I think most of you won't care for this, so keep on scrolling for your regularly scheduled posting. This is a very, very, very long wall of text. You've been warned.

Anyway, if you're still here - hi! I decided to write up my musings on my Cologne concert experience, mostly because I was asked to and also to keep a few notes for myself. Here's the disclaimer: I'm a little bit into kpop as part of a sort of sociological research thing. I'm fascinated by Kpop, the structure of the industry, the status of it in the west as a cultural export and part of Korea's soft power, the crossover of fancultures and international ties, the performance aspect of it as a very visual art while at the same time being kind of, well, music, and the status of Kpop artists as a product in a capitalistic society.

I started listening to kpop as a means to connect with a family member who is really into it, and then travelled across South Korea and realised how present kpop is in korean everyday culture, even from what I could see as a stupid tourist. So the spiral began... and here we are. I'm not going to touch on any of that here, but, yk, as a little disclaimer it might not go wrong. I also might have some controversial opinions, so read at your own risk.

TL:DR: I'm not a "real" fan, but I wanted to see a kpop concert and I like Ateez' music. Also they are good looking. And I could get tickets, which is also no mean feat.

As a general side note: the organisation in Cologne was kinda meh. We stood outside the arena for quite a long time, and I felt very sorry for the fans who'd gotten dressed up. A lot of young women wore costumes with skirts or other short clothing items, and a lot of them were very cold. I had seats, so I arrived two hours before the show, but I think others were waiting for a long time and I have no idea how the standing room people fared. It just generally seemed like the organisation could have been better.

I went to the concert for the atmosphere almost as much as I did for the music. And boy was it interesting! Fandom is an interesting thing, and I was very impressed by how creative people were. A lot of people were dressed up to the nines, dressed to fit in with some sort of theme/concept (usually either pirate/bouncy area/IOMT style outfits), but there was so much creativity - a lot of people had clothing styled to show their bias, reconstructed garments, patches and names embroidered onto jean jackets, lots of extravagant cowboy hats, it was really impressive to see. Plus the complicated make-up, hair in all colours of the rainbow, funky shoes and bags, glow-in-the-dark accessoires, people were going all out. There was also a generally friendly atmosphere at least where I was hanging around, people talking to each other, chatting, swapping information that could be useful later on. (Side note: there seems to be a rather large overlap of Ateez-fans and Stray Kids-fans, because a lot of people mentioned they'd be going to the Stray Kids concert to be held this summer).

I've never been to an arena concert, and boy was Lanxess big (and it's not the biggest one around), and packed. I'd always wanted to see the sea of lights from the lightsticks, and it did deliver - it looked fantastic, with the colour patterns and the movement and everything. Do I still think lightsticks are a cash crab? Yeah, I do. Does it look amazing? Absolutely.

Speaking of cash: kpop is a business, and groups tour to make money. I would murder someone to have the numbers behind the recent Ateez tour, how much everything cost, how much stays with the company, how much the members actually get. Seriously, that breakdown would make me weep with joy, I'm so damn curious.

I wager most money comes in via the ticket pricing, but I'd guess the merch sales also bring in a ton of moeny, because people had MERCH. in capital letters. So much merch. The average person I saw had a lightstick, maybe some accessory for it, maybe a t-shirt or a hoodie, some keyrings to their bags, maybe a fan with their fav printed on it, one of these plushies and so on and so on. I checked the prices, and d'uh. I have no idea about the quality of the stuff, but fashion has incredible margins and makes money easily, so they do have that going on for them.

I also nearly had a heart attack when I saw the price of the lightsticks. I'd say the average fan i saw dropped around 150 Euros on Merch - e.g. if you bought one lightstick and a t-shirt you'd be roughly in that price area, and a lot of people bought a lot more. There were long lines with people waiting to buy stuff, and I got told by various people where I could find items that were sold out at one stand (without asking them specifically, everybody just randomly told me where I could buy merch). Besides the stalls at the arena there was also the pop-up store, but I didn't go there. I saw people with Ateez merch all over Cologne the day before, so, ka-ching! Those fur coats are purring, baby.

(This is not a dig towards Ateez, obvs - all bands make money via merch, and I think all big name artists are riding this wave. Munich was flodded with people carrying Adele totes last summer! Apparently Taylor Swift sells light sticks shaped lke stars? I just noticed that there seemed to be a lot of merch sales here, unlike e.g. the concerts I usually go to, where there seems to be a lot less merch.)

So we had no merch and weren't dressed up, which was a little dumb later on because it turned out I had accidentally booked seats very close to the stage (disclaimer: i knew we had good seats and they were very expensive, I just hadn't realised they were this close.), and with very close I mean three rows up, basically on eye height with whoever happened to wander over to this corner of the stage. Which was basically almost everyone (besides Mingi, whom I had specifically wanted to see up close - he passed by a few times and jumped around close to us, but he didn't look at my section. Bro. Why. I came to stare at your incredible face.)

It kind of was nice to be this close, but it also meant we saw the show from the side and not form the front, and everything that happened on the part of the stage jutting out into the arena was basically not in our line of sight. The big screen was directly above us so we could watch there, but it also meant it was hard to keep an eye on the stage and watch the screen. I basically ignored the screen after a while in favor of watching what was happening on the other side of the walkway stage, so I saw most of the formations, well, from behind. And that was super interesting because it showed a lot about the spacing and the synchronisation, but also, d'uh. I'd been looking forward to see the "Say My Name" choreo (because, well, Mingi, you catch my drift), but like this I kinda saw it from behind (and Mingi tends to wear longer costume pieces that cover his backside all the way down to mid thighs, so no staring at that, either. Oh, well.).

Yeah, anyway, the seats were still good because up this close I got to see some interesting choreo things closer up (I have a lot of thoughts on Yunho vs Mingi's dance styles now), but also experience the magic of a kpop group working their crowd. And boy are they good at this, it's incredible. I'm fascinated by the whole parasocial relationships kpop as an industry fosters, but the way the concerts deepen this already existing relationship is incredible.

The concert was clearly seperated into the strictly choreographed parts (songs/dances/interludes) where everybody as focused on getting everything right down to the second, and then the "freeform" parts where they were just walking around, working the crowd. But these are of course also choreographed, and I think rather tightly so. There was the obvious mandate of everyone having to work every side of the stage at some point and they were really good with it. I kept count of who came to my side of the stage to wave at my block, and besides Mingi (who for some reason didn't really drop by, but then I also think he wasn't having a great day at the Cologne concert - incidentally I also watched him to track when exactly they were doing tightly choreographed parts and where they were moving into the more "freeform" moments because it was very obvious when he went from 'I gotta be there do this move look at the camera' to 'okay, chill, hit your mark but otherwise it's fine' mode just by the way his eyeline would change when his focus shifted).

Okay, so since this is getting very long, here's my favorite example of why working the crowd is such a brilliant move, beause it works even on someone who isn't a fan: my poor partner, whom I had more or less forced to come with me despite his dislike for popular culture in general.

He had no former experience with kpop, he didn't know Ateez (I gave him the task to pick a bias during the concert, which lended some fun results). So we were generally not blending into the crowd very well because we did not have merch, no lightstick and we were the only ones in our block who did not have phones out. I took three pictures in total, but then I just put my phone away. But we were also very much in sight of whoever came to the side of our stage, and I could tell we were getting noticed for not performing fandom properly, to the point where clearly at least one member - Seonghwa - apparently started to wonder what the hell we were doing at the show (though we were both vibing, whopping and generally showing obvious signs of having a very good time - at some point I was grooving to the beat and Hongjoong came up and laughed at me, grooving along).

So one time Seonghwa came to our side of the stage, and simply stood there waving - and he didn't stop until my utterly confused partner realised that he was the target of the whole thing and waved back. Then Seonghwa pointed at my partner and made a heart, my partner made a heart back, then Seonghwa gave him a thumbs up and raised an eyebrow, and my partner did some combination of a thumbs-up and a heart to convery that he liked the show, and Seonghwa actually laughed, waved once more and wandered away.

It worked fantastically, on both of us: my confused partner spent the rest of the show manically giggeling (because Seonghwa kind of came over to ask him if he liked the show??), and I was so stunned having witnessed Seonghwa beaming at my dude (like, wtf, how did my man not faint) that I missed half of the next song. My partner was stupidly proud of himself for the remaining evening, and nearly bought a t-shirt on the way out. (He still didn't pick Songhwa as his bias, which will never stop confusing me. After all of that?! I'd also like to add that Seonghwa is really and seriously drop-dead gorgeous.).

Okay, this is getting way out of hand. Let me sum up the remaining thoughts with bullet points: the sound quality was the best I've ever experienced in a concert; please wear hearing protection if you're ever going to a concert of this type; they were indeed singing live, Hongjoong asked us to sing "Lemon Tree" bcs it's from a german band and then was confused when the whole arena started to belt the entire song out forming an impromptu 20.000-ppl-strong choir; I felt like Mingi had an off day and needed some time to get his mojo on; Yeosang is a fantastic performer and while I never been interested in him he really caught my eye on stage because he was so good; San really looks like that (what the hell); I felt there was an interesting dichotomy of those members who were playing to the audience around them and those who were more focussed on the camera (Wooyoung being the latter one, for example); BBTripping were amazing, holy shit; Ateez' english was difficult to understand but I guess they tried.

And everybody kept talking about the energy in the room and I've read reviews of people being amazed, but I thought the crowd was a bit lame (please note that I am old, I have experienced boyband concerts in the late 1990s and I thought I'd once more witness an entire arena loose their fucking shit over some hot guys - but they didn't! Girls and Boys and Queers, what's wrong with you?! Everybody was dressed so amazingly and showed so much creativity, and then? Sure, there was some screaming, but I'd expected more hysterics, more hype, more party? Everybody just stood around waving their lightstick a bit or maybe some jumping, but they couldn't dance because they would have dropped their damn phones and missed out on the twentieth picture of San smiling. Today's youth, I don't get it.)

I also have thoughts on the performance (concert vs musical style) and because I spent an insane amount staring at Yunho's feet and Mingi's arms on those two and their very different dance styles. But this is too long. Let me know if you want a second part, and also, why did you read all of this? You're insane. G'night!

#fayet and the kpop experiment #fayet rambles #walls of text #ateez in cologne #a lot of stupid opinions

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spacelatinoluvr · 8 months ago

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blood runs thicker than water (2/?) - aemond targaryen

series masterlist, chapter 1, chapter 3, chapter 4, chapter 5, chapter 6

summary: To dance with dragons is to play with wolves. After surviving her own assassination attempt, Alarra Stark endured a large scar across her face, slicing her face in half. For years after Alarra was now known as "Alarra The Fierce" due to her ferocity at the young age, defending herself valiantly at merely thirteen-years-old. After then, she spent years training with her older brother, Cregan Stark, so that one day she could avoid the pain and suffering of anyone in her family; including herself. But, after those years spent training with men much larger than her, she is sent away and betrothed to Joffrey Velaryon for alliance towards the rightful heir to the Iron Throne: Rhaenyra Targaryen. Accompanying the family to Kingslanding, Alarra realized maybe marrying the young Velaryon boy wasn't so awful. But that was until she met a peculiar "one-eyed" prince. pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Stark!OC word count: 4.1k tags: slow burn, forbidden love, canon Aemond, enemies to lovers, long fic, original characters, war, arranged marriage warnings: violence, angst rating: 18+, !MDNI!

A LADY KNIGHT

Alarra was always fascinated with fireflies. She remembers leaving her room, late at night, when the air was cold, just to hold the fireflies in the courtyard. To watch them glow in the grass, and trapping them within her fingers. Cregan caught her one day, out at night not a guard in sight. He had yelled at her telling her it was not safe. She was only six, and did not know any better for she only wanted to see the glowing bugs. She cried as Cregan scolded her and after that night, he had made a secret promise to never make her cry again. But now, Cregan had feared he had hurt his sister in the worst way possible.

“You are to wed Joffrey Velaryon when he is of age and that is final!” Cregan shouted, slamming his hands upon the table, standing abruptly. “I am your Lord, and you will do as I say.”

“A hypocrite! You are a hypocrite! You say you want my safety- you prioritize me but now you're sending me away?”

“You will be safe with them. Daemon Targaryen is the most skilled knight-”

“I am to be locked in a castle for the rest of my life now? Waiting for the day, a child is of age to marry me?” Alarra paced the hall, her hand running through her hair.

“Alarra-”

“Am I just a hand to you? Something to give away? An export? A breeding-hole?”

“Alarra!” Alarra flinched at the tone her brother was using. He never yelled at her, never raised his voice. She must have struck a nerve. “Why would I ever send you somewhere that is not within your best interest?” He said, softening his voice, his eyes pleading with her.

“Because I am a woman.”

“No, because you will be a true princess. Not a princess of the North, but a princess of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“‘And I will tie our two houses together’- yes dear brother I get the picture.” Alarra tilted her head to the side, condescendingly, eyes shaped into crescent moons.

“Alarra you're not listening,” Cregan, still standing, walked around the table to stand next to her. Alarra knew that the responsibility of being the Lord of Winterfell from the ripe age of one and six was weighing on his shoulders. Their uncle had reigned as the Lord of Winterfell until Cregan was of age and Alarra didn’t have much memory of him besides the disdain he had for her brother. Alarra didn’t understand why because their uncle took the responsibility as if he had always been the King of the North. He was a Stark after all. And Cregan was strong; stronger than any boy she ever knew. “This is about our duty; our house; our legacy to lead.”

“And what of my legacy? What life do I want to lead? Don't I get a choice-?”

“You have every choice, Alarra. But this one is not yours to make.”

“This is my life, Cregan!” Alarra screamed, her lip quivering lightly as she pointed at his chest. “And you- you can’t just take my freedom away from me. If father were still here-” Cregan sucked in a breath, stepping towards her.

“If father were still here you wouldn't even be having this conversation with him.”

It was deathly silent before Cregan looked away from Alarra, gnawing on his mouth. There was so much Cregan wanted to say to her. But, what he chose to say remained with his duty as the Lord of Winterfell and not Alarra’s brother. His honor remained with his house, not his blood.

“My decision remains. You will wed Joffrey Velaryon. You will do as I say.” Alarra stepped backwards, in shock of her brother. She shook her head letting out a sarcastic snicker as she stomped out of the hall, the door slamming loudly on her way out.

Alarra was furious. She knew she'd end up in an arranged marriage with someone- someone kind and her age. Someone she knew and someone Cregan knew. She would be married when she was older, when she had seen all of Westeros. When she had fulfilled her wishes. She would have a say in who she married, who she grew to love. And Alarra accepted that; she was okay with it. But, a betrothal to a child? Alarra was certain she'd marry some Cerwyn boy, someone that her family trusted. A house that they knew would secure their allyship. She’d be close to her family, remaining in the North. But, a Targaryen? To be eventually sent with them, at the Red Keep. A rumored bastard of princess Rhaenyra. An unknown son of Harwin Strong.

When Alarra had first bled, she feared that she'd be sent away. She feared Cregan would abandon her, giving her away to the first man to want her. But, that day never came. And Alarra knew how much Cregan wanted her with him; wanted her around forever and to be by his side. Now he was giving her away. And she had no choice. She had no say.

And that was the worst betrayal.

During the day, Alarra refused to see her brother. He had requested that she train with him, like any day before, but she never showed and Cregan was left standing alone in the training hall staring at his shadow. After so many years of training with his sister, Cregan didn’t know how to train without her. They were never separated when it came down to a sword.

Alarra was brushing her hair, sitting at her mirror. The length was now at her stomach. Alarra loved her hair, it was one of her favorite things about herself. After the incident and scarring left on her face, Alarra took great care of her hair. She always styled it away from her face, always in the way of her duties but when she was not training with her brother or Ser Wildrow: she was a dainty flower for people to pick. She loved to be a woman. To brush her hair, wear dresses and bathe in lavender.

The moon was full that night, and it shone through her open window. Candles were scattered around her room, dimly lit.

Even in the moon's rise, Alarra was still thinking of her brother. After locking herself in her room all day, she had become more furious. Alarra the Fierce? That name now felt like nothing to her. Like words instead of encouragement. Her strokes on her hair slowly became more violent the more she let her thoughts race.

“My lady, I believe you've brushed enough.” Eyla proposed from behind Alarra, who was sitting upright in a chair. Alarra blinked, letting out a breath before dropping the brush on the table. Eyla ran her hair through Alarra’s hair, petting it lightly. Her hands were always delicate and soft, soothing the girl's sorrows away.

“Your hair has grown so much, my lady.” Eyla stopped, turning back to the girls closet, and grabbing a night gown, setting it on her bed. A knock on her door sounded and Alarra stiffened.

“Do not allow Cregan to enter.” Eyla nodded before walking towards the door, beginning to open it.

“You cannot ignore your brother forever.” Eyla stated, before she fully opened the door.

A male figure was standing at the door and Alarra refused to look. But out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ser Wildrow approach her, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Alarra stood quickly, curtseying.

“My lady.” He bowed his head, walking towards her.

“Oh- I- Ser Wildrow.” Alarra rose from her curtsey, meeting his line of sight. “What brings you here at this hour?” Alarra smiled, her face glowing in the candlelight.

“Your brother has sent me,” Alarra’s inviting smile fell, and her arms stiffened like sticks.

“He wants to take you to Castle Black.” Alarra let out a laugh, quick and sharp, crossing her arms over her chest.

“That's a days trip!”

“Yes, my lady but your brother…insists.” There was a glimmer in Ser Wildrows eyes, and Alarra noticed it. “We've sent a raven for the Lord Commander to await our arrival.”

“I haven't even accepted.” Ser Wildrow smiled, a sly smirk. He knew she'd accept. He knew she couldn't refuse. “Besides, I have already gone to the wall and one visit will suffice.” Alarra was lying through her teeth.

“Cregan doesn't know that.”

When Ser Wildrow had taken Alarra to the wall it was a quiet affair, only the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch had known and he swore to secrecy. Thankfully, Cregan was good allies with the Night’s Watch, and easily traveled there with her companion. Ser Wildrow knew how much Alarra wanted to leave and explore so he gave that to her. Alarra had a suspicion that is why he took her in the first place. He knew she'd be trapped away in a castle for the rest of her days, producing heirs for a stranger when all she really wanted was to be close to her brother. She wasn't ready to leave just yet. But, Cregan had pulled her from the flock and now she was ready to fly. But wolves don't fly, they heard.

“Tell him I am feeling unwell-”

“My lady…” Ser Wildrow gave her a sad look, his hands at his side now. Alarra hugged herself with her arms looking at the ground. She nodded to herself before she looked back up at Ser Wildrow.

“Tell my brother I'll go,” Ser Wildrow let out a sigh of relief.

“Of course, my lady-”

“Tell my brother I will go to Castle Black with him. But tell him I wish to never speak to him after that.”

Ser Wildrow was silent.

“He said I have choices? Well I am making my choice. With what freedom I have left.”

Ser Wildrow bowed his head, a sorrowful look on his face.

“I am feeling quite tiresome.” Alarra declared and Ser Wildrow took that as his sign to leave, before he bowed and announced his farewell for the night.

The carriage ride to Castle Black was not joyous in the slightest. Alarra and Cregan had made small talk, but Alarra still refused to speak at him fully, speaking towards Ser Wildrow instead.

“Aren't you overjoyed, Alarra?” Cregan asked, his hands folded neatly, resting on his lap. It was sarcastic, meant to be a jab but Alarra didn't feel like arguing.

“Ser Wildrow, please tell Cregan that I am pissing myself at the thought of seeing unbathed criminals.” Alarra announced, looking solely at the knight across from her. Cregan grumbled, a warning.

“The lady is… um,” Ser Wildrow started but looked at Cregan unsure.

“Please, mind your manners-” Cregan spoke slowly, rolling his eyes.

“Manners? Ser Wildrow please tell-”

“Enough!” Cregan yelled, putting his hand up. “You are a child! One and six and acting like a babe begging for her mother’s tit.”

“Yes, I am one and six. I am merely one and six. I am a child.” Cregan always seemed to forget that Alarra was still technically a child.

“You said you wanted to leave Winterfell. I am giving you what you wanted, what you asked for-”

“I didn't ask to be sent off to a stranger though, did I?”

“Either way you would end up marrying a stranger at some point, Alarra.”

“This is different.” It was different. At least to Alarra it was. She didn’t think Cregan would spring upon her betrothal. She thought she’d have a little opinion on the matter. She thought her brother was different but Cregan was like every other man.

“Please. Enlighten me.”

“Well, if I may, you randomly leave Winterfell to Dragonstone without giving me any input on why you’re going-“

“It is none of your concern. Besides, you have no interest in political affairs-“

“So, my marriage is political? My marriage is none of my concern-” Alarra scoffed before finishing. “It’s my marriage!” Cregan’s mouth shut, forming a tight line. He was stunned for a moment before he spoke up again.

“Yes. It is political,” Cregan started, and Alarra scoffed sitting back further in her seat. Ser Wildrow was sitting there, still as a statue, staring ahead.

“But you have to understand I did it for you, Alarra-“

“You say you did it for me, but I do not believe you.”

“Everything I do is for you, for our house.”

Alarra stared out the window, her arms now crossed against her chest. She remained quiet, as the carriage shook. See Wildrow cleared his throat.

“It appears we have arrived, my lord.” Alarra turned her head to the opposite window, watching as a large black fortress appeared before her.

“Welcome to Castle Black.”

Alarra was bad at keeping secrets from Cregan. No matter how hard she tried or managed to think she got one past him, he found out somehow. She always thought the Gods were whispering in his ear, telling him all of her prayers, but she was just a bad liar. She got that trait from him, he was awful at keeping things from her as well. He always had a certain look on his face, as if he were going to explode at any moment.

When she was ten, Alarra had accidentally broken a vase, from running through the halls. Her face was beet red the whole day, and Cregan asked her why she broke it. She never even told him, and he somehow just knew.

Alarra and Cregan entered the Black Castle together, side by side and were instructed by Ser Wildrow to not be separated. Ser Wildrow had left them to speak privately with the Lord Commander, and Alarra and Cregan stood in silence inside the large common hall, filled with tables and seats. It was cold, freezing, even inside a barrier that was meant to keep them warm. Alarra was sitting at a table, her hands folded in front of her and she could hear the faint clashing of swords and grunts from the Night’s Watch outside. Cregan was peeking outside through a gap, most likely watching the criminals and unwanted.

“You should come watch them…not nearly as skilled as us.” Cregan muttered, turning away from the gap to face Alarra who was staring at the table.

“I can't imagine they would be…they are scoundrels.” Alarra muttered, distastefully. Cregan huffed, shaking his head.

“Not all of them. Some orphaned, some abandoned, some banished, some just boys.” Cregan glanced at the door again before he opened it leaving the hall without a word. Alarra gasped, standing from her seat quickly.

“Cregan-!” Alarra ran after him, slowly following as he stood outside, the wind blowing in his hair. Alarra let out a loud breath, standing next to Cregan now. “You can't just-”

“I can. And I will.” He said before he stalked off towards the group of men training. His feet crunched loudly beneath the dirt as he approached them and the clashing of their swords halted quickly, all of them huddled together speaking in low whispers.

“Well don't stop because you have an audience… go on now!” Cregan scanned all of them, walking in circles around them. They stood there for a moment, before they resumed their training and the wind picked up speed. Alarra’s hair whipped past her face as she stood by the door of the hall, watching her brother circle them like a hawk. Cregan’s face was growing darker as he watched them, the frustration clear as day.

“Stop!” He yelled before he approached one of the men adjusting his arms, holding the sword in an unsafe angle. They all stopped, turning to look at Cregan again. “Who’s taught you to fight? The horses?” Cregan turned from the man he was helping, to glance at every single one of the men. Then he turned around, his eyes meeting Alarra’s. He nodded his head, gesturing for Alarra to approach him. Alarra shook her head, puffing out a breath of air, her disdain clear. She grumbled curses under her breath, calling her brother names; names a lady should not be saying. The men watched her approach, smirks slowly making a way across all of their faces. They watched her, their eyes never leaving her figure, most likely never seen a woman inside or out of Castle Black.

“Unsheath your sword.” Alarra did as Cregan demanded, slowly pulling her sword out of its scabbard, the slick sound of it slicing through the air. The men’s smiles dropped, now gazing at Alarra with wonder. “A volunteer?” Cregan had a small smile on his face as he looked around the camp. None of the men moved, until one had a snarl on his face and he stepped forward.

“A woman? Showing me how to yield a sword?” A man spat as the rest of the males around him laughed, their deep cackles fueling Alarra’s anger.

“That woman is Alarra the Fierce. And you dare question the judgment of your Lord?” Cregan walked closer to the man, his face nearing his. The man backed down, lowering his head lightly.

“M’lord, I did not mean-” Cregan threw his sword on the ground, in front of the man's feet.

“Pick it up.”

“What?” The man’s head snapped upwards, his eyes wide.

“Pick up the sword.”

“M’lord I- this is Valyrian steel I cannot-” The man stuttered, obvious fear in his voice. He was meek, like a mouse, under Cregan.

“I command you. Pick. It. Up.” The man swallowed, his throat bobbing as he bent down to pick up the sword. But before he could touch it, a voice broke out against the crowd's murmurs.

“You dare command one of the Night’s Watch like some whore?” A man from the back of the crowd spoke up, pushing between the various groups. “You're not me lord.” He spat on the ground before Cregan’s feet, finally reaching him and before Cregan could speak up, Alarra stepped forward.

“I think we’ve found our volunteer, brother.”

“I’m not fightin’ a girl.” The man turned to Alarra, sneering as he spoke.

“Why? Scared?” Alarra tilted her head, gripping her sword harder now.

“I am a Ranger. You dare say I’m scared-“

“Not scared. Terrified.” Alarra whispered the last part, before the man growled under his breath, unsheathing his own sword.

“Now let’s make this even.” Alarra kicked Cregan's sword towards the man.

“Steel makes no difference to skill.” The man got into stance, a poorly strong stance, and bared his teeth. Alarra shrugged, getting into her own stance.

“Alarra the Fierce… I’ve heard stories ’bout you, girl.” The man was circling her, as was she, as he spoke in a deep baritone. Alarra grumbled from deep within her chest, glaring at the man.

“You’ll find them to be true.” Alarra gloated, before she shouted lunging at the man, her sword aiming for his shoulder. The man, unready, moved out of the way, his sword loosely catching hers. They danced back and forth, steel hitting steel, and Alarra realized she had the upper hand. She pushed him down hard, so that he was laying on his back on the ground with the sword falling out of his grip. Alarra pointed her sword at his neck, and he was breathing heavily, arms covering his face. The fight lasted ten seconds.

“And now a girl has you on your back, begging for forgiveness.” Alarra sneered, sheathing her sword and outstretching her hand to the man. The man’s hands lowered to reveal his surprised features, eyes wide and mouth agape. He stood up quickly, gathering his sword and ignoring Alarra’s open palm. His reputation had been ruined by a cub. Cregan had his arms crossed over his chest, scanning Alarra and the Ranger.

“I'll speak to the Lord Commander about enriching your skills in swordsmanship,” Cregan bellowed before he turned away from the group, heading back towards the hall. But, before he could leave, the Lord Commander and Ser Wildrow were standing at the ends of the crowds, watching. The Lord Commander's gaze was fixed solely on Alarra.

“Alarra the Fierce…good to see you, my lady.” The Lord Commander spouted, walking towards her and Cregan. Cregan’s head whipped, fast and hard, to look at Alarra. His eyes aggressively inspected her face, for signs of confusion. But he found none.

“Lord Commander.” She bowed her head, as a sign of respect. Cregan would figure it out soon. Secrets were not an unknown thing between the two siblings.

“I don't mean to intrude but I wish to speak to Cregan…alone.” The Lord Commander looked at Cregan and Cregan nodded before he turned to face Alarra.

“Don't get into too much trouble, little flame.” The two of them left Alarra alone with Ser Wildrow, to speak inside the hall. Alarra was about to turn around when she stumbled, almost tripping on a foot. She caught herself and turned around to face a ghostly faced boy, skinny and tall, his skin a dark caramel.

“Are you a knight?” The boy, not much younger than Alarra, approached her, his hands full of armor.

“I’m no knight. Just a lady.” The boy's eyes widened.

“Well you sure fight like a knight. Better than any man here.” Alarra laughed, her head tilted back towards the sky.

“I doubt that.”

“I’m no liar.”

“Thank you…” Alarra paused, giving the boy room to give her his name.

“Liram.” He said, before she threw all the armor on the ground. “Women aren’t allowed in here. How’d you manage to get in?” Alarra smiled, her head tilted to the side.

“I am certain I’m the only woman to enter here, Liram.” Liram’s eyebrows scrunched together.

“What? But how-?”

“Lady Alarra! You must not speak to the men-“ Ser Wildrow approached her, standing by her side to somehow protect her from the linky boy in front of her.

“It is alright. Liram here was just about to give me a tour.” Alarra smiled at Liram, before gesturing for Ser Wildrow to leave her. Ser Wildrow looked Liram up and down, warning him. Liram shrunk beneath his gaze and that was enough convincing for Ser Wildrow. Ser Wildrow bent down to whisper into Alarra’s ear.

“I will be your shadow, my lady.”

And then Ser Wildrow walked away, back towards his stationary spot at the door of the hall. Alarra turned back towards Liram, scanning him. He was a tiny boy, maybe sixteen, the youngest shed seen at Castle Black.

“Where are you from?”

“The Iron Islands, m’lady.”

“Hm, House Greyjoy.” Liram slightly snarled, scoffing and Alarra noticed the distastefulness upon his face. But she ignored it, opting to not push.

“Let me give you a tour, m’lady.”

Liram gave Alarra a wonderful tour, Ser Wildrow closely behind them. He showed her every part of Castle Black that he could, including the various towers and buildings. The three of them stood under Hardin’s Tower, gazing at its size. Alarra glanced at the Wall, made of ice towering over Castle Black.

“Have you been outside the Wall, Liram?” Alarra questioned, still staring at the Wall.

“No, never. I am merely a steward.” He said, watching the Wall as well. “I've heard whispers. About what's beyond. Men made of snow and ice live just outside it. Waiting.” Alarra was entranced by the Wall, she wanted to be the one to go outside of it. She wanted to slay these things outside the Wall. She wanted to be a Ranger. She wanted to defend the Wall. Go into the Haunted Forest. Be a Knight. But, she couldn't.

“My lady, I believe your brother is ready to depart.” Ser Wildrow was now standing next to Alarra, a hand on her shoulder. Alarra looked at Liram, bidding her goodbyes and thanks before Ser Wildrow whisked her away.

The carriage ride back to Winterfell was more palpable than the previous. Tensions had fallen, but Alarra still had a promise to uphold.

‘But tell him I wish to never speak to him after that.’

But, promises can be broken.

“Do you truly wish to never speak to me again?” Cregan muttered sadly, as the carriage rolled to a halt at Winterfell.

“No,” Alarra replied and Ser Wildrow exited the carriage, holding out a hand for Alarra.

She stood, taking Ser Wildrow’s hand, turning her head behind her shoulder to look at Cregan.

“But, promise me you'll write.”

A/N: Thanks for reading! I promise next chapter will be better, I feel this isn't my best work. Please give feedback, it’s greatly appreciated!

#aemond targaryen x oc #aemond smut #aemond x you #prince aemond #hotd aemond #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond fanfiction #aemond fic #aemond x oc #house of the dragon #hotd #game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire

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