#I’m reeling what am I supposed to do with this information now what am I supposed to do with it huh?

[babygirlgiles]

I’m sorry, but was no one going to tell me that Dawn Summers, the physical representation of Buffy’s innocence, of Buffy’s innermost vulnerability, just casually carries a Taser? Were none of you going to tell me that?

[teabringer-fics]

ocean of tears | aegon x f!reader

summary: modern au. alicent hightower calls you in the middle of the night to inform of you two things: viserys targaryen, her husband and the ceo of your company, is dead... and your employment is now contingent upon tracking down her oldest son, aegon, and dragging him back to hq before daybreak. later, a conversation in the dark turns into a possible lifeline for westeros's reluctant heir.

word count: 11k | read on ao3 (honestly recommended bc of the insane word count but you do you boo)

tags: corporate setting, angst, extended treasure hunt, grief, a bit of viserys bashing, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v, a lot of plot, depiction of anxiety, boss/employee relationship, it's very long (i feel like i'm rattling off prescription medication side-effects when i do these)

a/n: i'm back on tumblr bitches! do all that good commenting jazz if you even make it to the end of this whopper pls 🫠🫶

This is gonna be torture/before it’s sublime…

You wake to the sound of a distant and yet insistent melody, distorted at first by the confusion of interrupted sleep. It takes your eyes a few moments to adjust to the pitch-dark, and by the time you’ve successfully fished your phone out from amongst the tangle of sheets the din has died, leaving you in a cold sweat, startled, imagining your parents in a fatal car crash, your sister, studying at Oldtown, gone missing in one of those bizarre, yet commonplace turns that lands her at the center of a true-crime podcast.

You tap the screen just to be blinded—”motherfuck” or something along those lines escaping your mouth—and are still squinting through the glare when it comes alive in your hand.

Alicent Hightower

Mobile

You slide to answer and raise the phone to your ear.

“M-Ms. Hightower?” Shaky and stupid even to your own ears. You glance briefly at the time display on the upper-left corner: 2:56 AM. At the other end, Ms. Hightower’s voice is posing a question which you fail to understand and, still reeling from the relief of knowing that this late-night, early-morning phone call has nothing to do with your family, you plug your other ear and ask, “Sorry, what?”

“Aegon! Where is Aegon?” Ms. Hightower demands. You tamp down the urge to repeat “what?”, although on the inside your thoughts are written in large capitals: WHAT??? The hour is ungodly, she’s scared you half to death, and how in seven hells are you supposed to know where her son is—you hold the phone in front of your face again, as if this will elucidate matters or else trigger your body into waking from its bizarre dream—at 2:58 on a random Tuesday?

Digging deep for whatever scraps of professionalism exist inside you at this time of night, you clear your throat and say, “Aegon? I’m sorry, Ms. Hightower, I have no idea. Has something happened?” The thought of Aegon Targaryen, uncontrollable playboy partier and heir to the largest fortune in Westeros, meeting a tragic end in a nightclub restroom, or wrapped around a traffic pole after five drinks too many, doesn't elicit the same panic response as thoughts of your sister’s hypothetical kidnapping. But you do register a sensation like a stone falling in the pit of your gut. It lingers at Ms. Hightower’s continued silence.

Is she crying? You strain your ears. There are no sniffles, no choked sobs that would indicate a mother’s frantic grief. Only a maddening stillness that makes your skin prickle and your heart beat, pounding, at the center of your throat.

Then it ends.

“Viserys is dead.”

You would think this three-word, straight-forward pronouncement would illuminate the perplexing state of affairs that led to Alicent Hightower calling you almost at the witching hour to ask about her son, but instead the silence widens in your head, an emptiness like a sudden fall replacing the weight of suspense, and it takes all your faculties to say, “Ma’am, I am so, so sorry for your loss. When did it happen?”

You might as well have not spoken at all.

“You are to tell no one, do you understand? Consider yourself bound by the NDA you signed upon your employment. No one is to know about this, not before we have a plan in place and certainly not before the markets open. This could be catastrophic if we don’t manage to get ahead of it.”

“I understand.”

“I am counting on your discretion.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you repeat.

You are buzzing with adrenaline, still sweat-damp and nervous but locked into Work Mode. Viserys is dead. So it finally happened. The man has been threatening to kick the bucket for years now—mostly in private, but of late hiding it had proven nigh on impossible. The papers speculated, blogs ran the gamut of gossip, and now the day has come, under cover of darkness, with his shrewd widow at the helm.

Her voice comes clear, urgent, utterly in command. “I know it’s late, but I need you to track down Aegon. He’s not answering any of our calls. I thought you might have better luck, being his personal assistant. I've sent Aemond and the Cargylls out to look, but so far no luck. This is important—probably the most important thing you have ever been asked to do. Aegon needs to show his face here before Rhaenyra does. His grandfather and I are doing our best to keep things afloat, but once news of this reaches—”

“Rhaenyra doesn’t know that her father has died?” you ask without thinking, your tone openly aghast.

Again, the silence.

“Rhaenyra,” Alicent replies, her accent sharp enough to cut glass, “will be informed in due course but this is about more than just her. The company cannot fall to ruin. I will not let my husband’s legacy be destroyed in a single night. For better or for worse, Aegon must claim his inheritance or we run the risk of hemorrhaging shareholders. Rhaenyra made her choice—she made it the moment she threw her lot in with Daemon. The time to act is now, before they make their return from Dragonstone.”

In the background, you hear the sound of a door being opened and closed, letting in muffled voices from a different room. Whoever the newcomer is, Ms. Hightower orders them to wait. “Listen,” she goes on, “I know it’s ugly, it’s bloody and it feels underhanded. But she’s left us no choice. Tell me now if you don’t have the stomach for it. If you refuse I’ll consider it your resignation effective immediately.”

Well, that’s no choice at all, is it? You like having a roof over your head, food on the table (not that you make it to your own table very often these days). Rent prices in King’s Landing are exorbitant. You need this job. You don't want to fail.

“I’ll find him, ma’am. I promise.”

“Good girl. I knew we could count on you. Bring him here when it’s done.”

The line goes dead, your phone dark.

Shit. Why did you promise? If Aegon’s own bodyguard can't find him, his own brother, there’s no telling where he might be. And to stake your whole livelihood on it? Seven hells…

“Shit, shit, shit,” you say aloud, taking five seconds for self-pity before flinging yourself out of bed and putting on the first thing you can find, probably your discarded work clothes from the day before. You yank your hair into a disheveled knot, propping your phone on the dresser so you can call Aegon on speaker, vibrating with anxiety as the dial tone rings once, twice, six times, before going straight to voicemail. Of course… of course it couldn’t be that simple. You try again, hunting for your car keys—damn the mess—and when he doesn’t answer, you yell at your phone, “Siri, call Aemond Targaryen!”

The call connects. Surely, Alicent’s most responsible, Type-A progeny will have the courtesy to make himself available to you in your hour of need.

“Come on, come on…” you mutter, letting out a triumphant “aha!” as your fingers close behind a keychain fallen between the cushions of your ratty old loveseat.

No dice. Once more, you are met with a canned voicemail prompt.

Beeeeep.

“Aemond, for fuck’s sake, answer my fucking call! I’ve spoken to your mother… Call me back as soon as you get this. Bye.” With that you swipe your purse from the minuscule kitchen counter and race out the door, pushing impatiently at the lift buttons, tapping your foot all the way down to garage level, racing to your car so fast that you knock the wind out of you when the door fails to unlock on the first try. You take a breath—pull it together—, point the fob at the driver’s side door, and wait as patiently as you can until the telltale double-beep of the mechanism letting you in.

The engine starts. You tear out of the underground car park and emerge onto a King’s Landing lit by artificial lights, active and just a little bit seedy. You pass shuttered coffee shops, bougie restaurants, convenience stores, residential buildings with spotless terraces and “For Lease” banners hanging out front, all as you white-knuckle the steering wheel. Viserys is dead… Viserys is dead… shareholders… market opens… Rhaenyra…

What a mess.

Your nerves are already frayed, which is why (understandably, you think) when the center console lights up and a ringtone blares from the too-loud car speakers, your foot slams down so hard on the brakes that it makes your head whip before a yellow light. “Mother save!” you curse—and then, seeing that Aemond has deigned to call you back: “Thank the Seven!”

“I can’t talk for long.” His smooth, chilling voice makes you shudder as it envelops you, and you reach to turn down the dial so that, at a more reasonable volume, he can ask, “Have you found him yet?”

What am I, a magician? You roll your eyes, trying very hard, and perhaps failing, to rein in the sarcasm when you say, “Um, no. I just wanted to touch base with you. Where have you looked?”

“His city flat. All his usual Flea Bottom haunts. The Street of Silk. I even talked to those worthless idiot-goons he calls friends.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay, well… that’s strange.”

“No shit.”

The light changes. You drive forward, headlights pointed towards Flea Bottom anyway, because never in a million years would you think to find Aegon anywhere else.

You sigh. “Never mind, I guess I’ll figure something out. Where are you?”

“On my way back to HQ. If Aegon doesn't wish to be found, then Stranger take him. Someone has to steer the ship and be there for Mother.”

“Right. Well, d’you know if—”

“I have to go. Call me when you’ve found him.”

Call Ended

You blink at the screen. Did Aemond Targaryen just hang up on you? Seriously?

Cold bastard…

In the three years you’ve spent working for the company, your feelings for Aemond have never coalesced. Some days, you prefer his company to that of his elder brother, especially when deadlines are tight and Aegon is, predictably, nowhere to be found. But there’s no denying that he sets you on edge, his brilliance and ambition matched only by his ruthlessness. If anything, he reminds you of a pristine besuited robot you could never hope to understand. For all that he holds you in something like regard, puts up with you because of your usefulness and because Alicent, in her own strange, imperious way, likes you, and you suppose that not up-and-quitting when faced with Aegon’s shenanigans affords you a few points in his esteem, at the end of the day, you’re one of the staff. Ceremony is for family. Hence, the abrupt hangup.

Annoyed, you try calling your errant charge again. “Please leave a message after the…” “Aegon, you little shit, I am not getting fired because you decided to get shit-faced in some seedy hole in the wall as a toxic grief response—answer your fucking phone!” Never mind. Too strong. Wrong tone. You press the command to re-record, putting on your best phone voice, aiming for gentle, kindly, reassuring. “Aegon, it’s me again… It’s fine if you don't want to talk but at least shoot me a text so I know that you’re still, you know, alive. Your mother is worried sick and Aemond—” Basically told you to go to hell and fuck yourself sideways. “—has been trying to get in touch. Please, just… send me a smoke signal… telegram… note-via-carrier-pigeon?” You blow out a breath, press End on the steering wheel, and note the time: 3:37 AM.

The thought that Aegon may have done something irremediably stupid returns. It’s not like you’re friends, exactly—not even remotely. You’re his assistant, a job which, shortly after you acquired it, you realized nobody else wanted. It’s thankless, literally; irregular, at times demeaning, at others boring to the point of tears, chaotic, unpredictable… But you’ve gotten used to the routine. You know Aegon’s moods. You’re used to him, and you’d like to think that, by now, he’s used to you. It’s not an ideal job by any means, but you get by and if, say, he got hit by a taxi cab after stumbling drunkenly into the street, you think you might actually feel kind of awful about it.

You call him again.

Still nothing.

Up ahead a familiar building looms, brick-lined, discreet. You feel ridiculous sidling up to the door and knocking in a pattern of tap - taptap - tap - tap. The door opens a smidge and a voluptuous, curly-haired redhead peeks out, her big green eyes blinking out into the dark. “I need to speak to Sylvi,” you say without preamble. Her face folds into a scowl.

“Well, I need a million quid and a stud with half a brain and a massive cock, luv. Patrons only.”

“I’ve been sent by the Hightowers,” you quickly say, shoving your foot in the door to stop it closing. “Just tell her that I’m looking for Aegon.”

She rolls her eyes, clicks her tongue at your request. Though she shuts the door in your face and you hear her footsteps receding, you hope that the overt name-drop will make her cooperate. Impatiently, you tap your foot in the street, watching a few people pass you by on the footpath. Nothing to see here, folks… I’m standing in front of a brothel but not of my own free will.

The door opens. “He isn’t here,” Ruby declares, crossing her arms in front of her—quite frankly—perfect breasts. Whenever you’ve had to pick up Aegon from his latest bender with the ladies of the night, you’ve moved through the vestibule feeling like an absolute troll. Sylvi must be paying her girls their weight in gold if looks are anything to go by. Perhaps it’s time to consider a change in profession…

“Really? Did she tell you that?” you ask, crossing your arms skeptically in front of your own less endowed chest.

“I’m telling you he isn’t here,” Ruby huffs. Fleetingly, you wonder whether Aegon’s ever slept with her, if he likes them bold and Botticelli-like, or if his tastes run elsewhere.

Nope. You throw the mental image of Aegon fucking anyone out of your mind. You are a modern woman, damn it—you don’t get flustered at the thought of good honest sex work… or sex… or your random, uncontrollable boss having it with Venus-looking women with perfect tits.

You clear your throat. “You wouldn't by any chance be lying to me about that, would you?”

“His brother was already here—tall one… delicious… lot more intimidating than you.”

“Cheers, but also, how dare?” (Upon further reflection, Ruby might be exactly the kind of girl Aegon would favor. They’re both equally annoying.)

“Listen, I’ll tell you the same thing I told ‘im: your guy isn’t here. Maybe he’s at some other cathouse in the neighborhood but I hardly doubt it. The madam doesn’t like being stepped out on, if you know what I mean. She’d have the arse-hair off any establishment that tried poachin’ her clientele.” She leans back, seemingly proud of having strung this rebuttal together.

You sigh. Back to square one.

“Thanks for the help anyway.”

“Nuh-uh!” Ruby holds out her hand, the sash of her elegant robe loosening, revealing an expanse of gleaming rosy-pink skin and the curve of her left breast. You wish you’d bothered to at least run a brush through your hair. “What, d’you I work for charity? I’m paid for my time, luv.”

“Clearly, I’m not having a good one!” you protest.

Ruby just stands there, wagging her palm in your direction until you reach inside your jacket and pull out your purse. This had better count as a business expense, you think, pulling out a fifty- and then a hundred-stag note.

“Is that all?” Ruby asks.

“Gods, are you serious?”

“I get paid twenty-five moons for a basic experience.”

“What experience?” you demand. “Freezing your arse off in the cold for no reason? I don’t recall getting off!”

Her eyes narrow. “Want to make it a full dragon?”

You zip your mouth shut and part with the notes.

“Ta!” Ruby sings, waving at you with a girlish grin and once again shutting the door in your face.

Aegon, when I find you… Grumbling, you reenter your car and call him again, but you know better than to expect a reply. Making a U-turn, you take a side road and drive parallel to the Street of Silk, looking for the favored watering hole of Aegon’s “worthless idiot-goons,” as Aemond so colorfully put it. His cronies may have helped him hide from his brother until the danger of discovery had passed; if that’s the case, you think you might strangle them all on sight.

“Well, if it isn't my Girl Friday!” The Honourable Leon Estermont crows when he sees you coming. “Fancy a line?” Next to him, Martyn Reyne is wiping his nose and throwing back what’s left of a dangerously pink drink. All around you, the club is a flashing hub of darkness interrupted by neon lights, the music thumping.

You knew enough to head straight for the VIP section located on the upper floor, and from this platform—if you even bothered to look—you could see a mass of bodies writhing down below. The air smells of smoke, alcohol… sweat, even sex. The idiot-goons are reclined on a tufted leather sofa, which disturbs you—you don't want to know what kinds of activities have gone on up here. You’ve never been invited. The most you’ve experienced is hauling a stumbling Aegon into a waiting car driven by one of the Cargyll twins.

Once, but only once, he almost threw up on you.

You prefer the brothel, if you're being honest. At least there, transactions are straightforward, the workers plain. You don't know if these two would bother pissing on Aegon if he were on fire. The thought makes you angry. You shoot Leon the fakest of smiles.

“Not for me, thanks, I like my neurons just the way they are. Also, I am not remotely your anything. When was the last time you saw Aegon?”

“Aegs?” Leon pipes up, nearly shouting to be heard over the noise. “What, is he missing or something? Those freaky bearded twins came ‘round earlier, asking the same thing. Bores, the pair of them.”

The song shifts from a techno beat to something raunchy, with a lower bass. It makes your bones vibrate, your head pound. Leon bends over the chrome table to snort more of Father-knows-what, then leans his head back, moaning, eyeing you up and down in a way that makes you want to hose yourself down with disinfectant. “Come on, Friday, take a load off! You’re off the clock.”

“Actually, I’m not.”

He laughs. “Aren’t you? That’s the problem with you lot—you don't know how to loosen up. And instead of figuring it out, you like blaming the rest of us for knowing the right way to live.”

The rest of us. You lot. The haves and have-nots.

Incredulous, you blow out a breath. “There is so much wrong with that sentence, but something tells me it would be pointless to even start. Last—time—you saw—Aegon—when?” You snap your fingers in front of his face, all pretense at civility abandoned. You want to hit him over the head with an ashtray.

“Sheesh! I don’t know! Two days ago, maybe? A day ago? Yesterday?” On his left, Martyn’s legs are splayed, mouth half-open. He’s drooling onto his own chest, probably snoring beneath the sound of obnoxious music. Leon doesn't notice at all.

“Fucking useless…”

“Hey!”

You stomp down the spiral staircase, feeling like you've wasted—you take out your phone: 4:50 AM—more than an hour of your life in a pointless search. Your eyes prickle with frustration. Now is not the time to give in to the panic-driven water works.

Brusquely, you go to your recent calls and tap Aegon Targaryen (14). Fourteen… the number is insanity. The man’s father is dead, what could he possibly be doing?

“Aegon, seriously…” you grouse into the phone, wiping your nose, too tired to hide the edge in your voice, the exhaustion, the anger, the—fine, you’ll admit it—worry. “Now I'm starting to think you might actually be lying in a ditch somewhere. I’ve looked everywhere, no one has heard from you… listen, forget about your mum, forget about everything just… pick up my call, you absolute fucking twat—”

“I could have you fired for that.”

“Aegon!” His name is a gasp. You don’t know whether to laugh or get on your hands and knees, kiss the floor and thank the Seven. “Aegon—where… what’ve you—wait.” Your eyes narrow into resentful slits. “Were you screening my calls the entire time, you blockheaded douchebag! Tell me where you are!”

“Phone died.”

“Well, clearly it’s made a miraculous recovery!” you scoff. “Tell me where you are, I’ll come get you.”

“’m at yours.”

“Come again?”

“Yours.” Either his voice is slurred or the reception in the area is shit. “‘m at your flat.”

“You’re out in the hallway?”

“No, I’m inside your flat,” he responds, and has the audacity to sound impatient at being made to repeat himself. “Fucking tiny, by the way.”

You stop in your tracks, having handed the valet a tip you can’t afford after your stand-off with Ruby. “And how, pray tell, did you manage to get inside my fucking flat?”

Aegon either fails to notice or doesn’t care that your voice is pitched menacingly low. “You keep a spare under the mat. Fucking mental of you, by the way. Is getting potentially kidnapped a secret kink of yours?”

“YOU USED MY KEY?”

“No.” You picture the exact movement of his shoulders, that little uncaring shrug that has, on more than one occasion, made you picture him getting pecked at by an army of ravening birds. “I had a copy made ages ago.”

“You Targaryens have no sense of personal property! Gods!” you exclaim, ignoring the side-eye you got from the valet, reentering your car and buckling your seat belt. You start the engine, feeling like you’re going out of your mind. The phone is pressed between your ear and shoulder as you sputter, “That is so… so incredibly wrong! You do know that, right? You do know that’s what’s fucking mental? You can't just make a copy of my keys and keep them to use whenever you fucking please! Just—ugh! Just stay there, you weirdo, and don’t go anywhere! I’m five minutes away.” Lies. You’re more like twenty, but you don’t want him to think he has a wide enough window to make an escape.

After violating what probably amounts to a half-dozen traffic laws and speeding all the way back to your building, you feel marginally calmer, except for the residual stress and the thought that maybe, just maybe, you’ll enter your flat to find Aegon vanished once more into thin air, your job gone along with him. You retrace your steps, taking the lift to the sixth floor, holding your breath as you try the latch and find it unlocked—so much for the judgments he made about your inadequate sense of safety.

In your absence, he parted the drapes just enough to see by, and in the meager light coming in from public street lamps posted across the way, you make out a shape bent over the dining table, unnaturally hunched, its head almost hanging over the edge.

Though the door shuts with a metallic clang that sounds like a gunshot in the deep quiet, not even this makes him stir, and but for the steady rise and fall of his back you would think him unresponsive, passed out like his feckless friend Martyn back at that infernal club. You round the table. Aegon shifts just enough to look at you and you can tell that his eyes are heavy-lidded, bleary. But alert. Conscious.

You let out a breath and feel your shoulders sag in relief.

“You look like shit,” you say to him. “Are you wasted?”

“Unfortunately, not anymore.” He makes a rolling gesture with his free hand, one of his eyebrows quirking in typical Aegon fashion. “Stone-cold sober me… well, maybe not that first bit.”

“Mhm. I’ll make you a coffee.”

At the machine, you take a moment to close your eyes and listen to the water steam and bubble before it begins to drip into a generic white mug, one you hardly ever use, being rarely at home. You had thought that once you’d seen Aegon in person—made sure he was all right, your job not halfway over a cliff as Alicent had implied—you might feel better, like everything was resolved, or at the very least no longer your problem. But all you do is feel confronted with a wreckage you’re not sure you’re equipped to handle.

You’ve seen Aegon drunk out of his mind before, bloodshot-eyed, raving-mad, slurring his words, stumbling, laughing maniacally, starting brawls that one or both of the Cargylls had to finish. But this… Dejected, broken. How do you deal with this? And then, even though you’re trying to be understanding, you can’t help the surge of anger that makes you turn around and stomp over to his side of the table. How could he be so selfish? To leave his family in the lurch, add to their troubles, add to yours?

You brace your hands on your hips. “What on earth possessed you, by the way? You disappeared! Do you have any idea—? No… Where have you—? Wait. You do know your father is—?”

“Defunct? Departed? Without ghost?”

Had he reacted more violently, you might've been inclined to pick a fight. Instead, Aegon’s droll resignation makes you feel like a world-class prick who just picked on an orphan.

You deflate, arms falling immediately down to your sides. “I’m sorry.”

Aegon snorts. “I’m not. Just wish he'd had the fucking decency to leave a will.”

“There’s no will?”

“Why do you think everyone’s going out of their fucking minds? It’s Mum’s word against Nyra’s. I say let her have it. Whole thing’s cursed anyway.” He sits up with a groan, puts his elbows on the table, rubs his hands from his eyes all the way to the pale tangle of his hair—Viserys’s eyes, Viserys’s hair.

What sort of a billionaire doesn’t leave a written will? The man had two wives, a conniving brother, five adult children, not to mention an international conglomerate with hundreds of employees and scores of attorneys looking out for its wellbeing—he had to know that being ill-prepared would've caused this kind of clusterfuck.

Carefully, you lower yourself into the other chair, watching your boss like a skittish animal you’re afraid of scaring off. “Aegon… where were you tonight? Not even your friends seemed to know about your father or where you had run off to.” He keeps silent. The machine lets out three ill-timed beeps and you rush to the counter to take the mug by its handle and set it down in front of him. “Here, drink this. You need to sober up.”

“What for?”

“Your mum wants you back at HQ.”

He shakes his head, crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Forget it! I’m not fucking going.”

“Fine. Just drink your coffee.” Just drink your coffee, dear, you might have said, sounding, even to your own ears, like a child’s mother. He narrows his eyes.

“She sent you to manage me.”

“I’m your assistant, Aegon! What do you think I’ve been doing the last few years?”

“I don’t know, making copies?”

“Oh, go fuck yourself!” The profusion of air that leaves his nostrils can’t be called a real laugh, but it’s close enough given the circumstances. You smile.

You watch him blow over the rim of his cup before he takes a sip, the motion childlike, almost delicate. You sit down and track the subtle movements of his lips in the shadows, his throat working as he swallows. In that moment, nothing is as important to you as the simple repetition of him lifting the cup and setting it down, over and over, until you’re sure he’s had at least half of what you gave him.

He seems lucid, sits straighter than when you first walked through the door, and you’re thinking now might be a good time to coax him into your car when he breaks the silence.

“He even had to die in the most useless way.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t tell me what I do and don't mean!” His fist pounds the table. One second he is glaring daggers at you, the next, he begins to cry—curled in on himself, shoulders heaving violently, his body wracked by sobs that suck all the air out of the room with a grief so vast you feel you’re drowning in it, flailing as you try to pull him back towards safer shores.

“Aeg…”

He tugs his arm away. Helpless, you try again, closing your hand around the delicate wrist, reaching for something, anything, to make the outpouring stop.

But nothing can make it stop. He cries until the tears peter out and he whimpers, clasping your hand, not so much for comfort but as an anchor. His hold is brutal, unyielding, and then gradually it loosens until the clamor subsides. Embarrassed, he lets you go and wipes his eyes with the heels of his palms.

He picks at his fingernails when he’s anxious. You can't see them in the dark, but it’s a habit of his you know by heart.

You ask the question because you want to take his mind off his father, because you’re curious and you feel like the answer is important somehow—to you, and to him. “What were you doing tonight, before you took my call?”

He freezes. His hands drop and he folds them almost primly on the surface of your faux-wood dining table, avoiding your gaze in such a fashion that you think, if the lights were on, you would find him blushing as well as stammering. He mumbles an unintelligible response.

“What?”

“I was at the Sept!”

“Of Baelor?” You lean forward as if this will help you picture Aegon Targaryen, of all people, resorting to a place of worship during a time of need. “You were in a sept? Willingly? And you didn’t burst into flames?”

“Fuck you,” he laughs, another breathy thing but stronger this time.

“I’m glad I didn’t wager any coin on your whereabouts or I’d be bankrupt right now.” Especially after Ruby. You tuck that story away for a later time, hoping it brings some much needed levity after the funeral or in the near future. There won’t be much humor, you know, in the days to come. “Why the Sept? I know your mother attends services but I didn’t think…”

“For the quiet?” he replies. “And I figured no one would come looking for me there.”

“Well, you thought right.”

“I have my moments… not that he ever thought so.��

“Aegon.”

He waves you away. “I’m not looking for sympathy.”

“Well, I think you're bloody entitled to it—if not now, when?”

He doesn’t reply. He finishes his coffee. The sound the mug makes when it rolls between his hands sounds like a marble, repetitive, ominous. “It was always Rhaenyra… He wanted Rhaenyra—are we all just supposed to forget that? Pretend it never happened? The last twenty years of my life—”

“Like I said, you don't have to go.”

“Is that what my mother told you?”

“No.”

“I thought not.” His bitterness, and the truth lying behind it, that Viserys loved his eldest daughter best and treated her half-siblings like less than a footnote in his life, hits you with a wave of restlessness. He’s right; there’s no use telling him otherwise, and nothing Alicent does now can wipe away the resentments of the past. It was always Rhaenyra.

It was always Rhaenyra.

You get up from your chair and rush to the sink to fill a clean glass with water. “Here,” you say, setting it down in front of him like it should cure all of his ills.

“You’re being fussy,” he complains.

“I’m being assistant-y.”

“You’re treating me like a basket case.”

“Well… you haven’t always been the steadiest bulb in the box, have you?”

You mean it as a joke, but Aegon doesn't take it that way. He slides the glass over and stares into the depths, his expression hangdog, miserable. “You’re right… I’m sorry.”

“That’s not what I—”

“No, I’m a nightmare to work for. I know it, my mother knows it… No one wants me at the helm—let Aemond fight our sister for it, if it’s that important to him.”

“Your mother will say you’re the firstborn son, the natural head of the family.” He scoffs. “There was a time—” A time when he took interest, when he had just graduated from university and sought actual responsibility from his father only to be made redundant at every turn. Let the more experienced men handle it. Keep quiet and watch. Your input isn’t necessary. You’re more of a family representative, anyway. Gradually, he had lost interest, lost confidence. If no one cared, why shouldn't he get blackout drunk during work hours? Show up weary and hungover to important business meetings? Say the wrong thing and blow up tenuous relationships cultivated over decades?

Aegon must be thinking the same thing. “It doesn't matter anymore,” he says. “Nothing—” Nothing matters anymore.

“Aegon…”

“Would you choose me?”

You feel your stomach drop.

“If you were on the board, one of the shareholders… do you think I could do it? Would you choose me over Rhaenyra?”

“I—” Your face heats, your mouth goes dry. You want the floor to open up and drop you in the basement, hide out on the next boat to Pentos. Of all the things he could have said, you would take anything, literally anything, over this. “I—”

“You can't even say it.”

“You’ve stopped trying, Aegon! Maybe if you did… maybe if you applied yourself. You have your mother in your corner, your grandfather, Aemond, people at the company who would take your side. If you wanted it—”

“Bullshit.” He snatches his coat from the back of his chair, stands fast enough that you actually believe him about not being wasted. All you can do is chase after him, grab his arm when he's halfway to the door, just to the side of your cramped, unused kitchen.

“Wait, where are you going?”

“I didn't come here so you could lie to my face! Me or Rhaenyra?” he spits through the gritted teeth.

This is do or die, you know—either you tell the truth and risk hurting him or shatter years’ worth of trust in a second. Even if Alicent pats you on the back and says “job well done,” Aegon will never want you again. He’ll drive you away, make your life miserable if he has to, anything to get you out of his sight.

Your throat is clenched almost to closing when you say, “Rhaenyra… I would… I would choose Rhaenyra. But that doesn’t mean—”

“What? That I’m not useless? That my father didn’t find me a disappointment up to the bitter end?” He turns away, and you can see his jaw clench, the shadow of stubble around his cheeks. “Are you close with your parents?”

You nod.

“Then you don't know. You never will, and there’s no use trying. Tell my mother you couldn't find me.”

No use. You tug on his arm, but he is determined to get to the door and manages to open it a crack before you push it closed, squeeze your body around him to act, irrationally, like a human shield between him and the exit. “Don’t go,” you plead. “I’ll tell her whatever you want, but don't go. Don’t go out there like this.”

You know exactly what he’ll do if he leaves the building: he may have given his vices a mostly wide berth when he first got the news of Viserys’s death, but now, raw with grief and anger and Alicent’s heavy expectations, he’s liable to find the closest bar and drink himself under the table and into oblivion. To call the dealers Aemond threatened six months ago if they ever sold to his brother again. To go off the deep end… for good this time.

Aegon frowns. “Why do you even care what happens to me?”

“Because.”

The word hangs in the air, inadequate. If you tried to explain the feeling, he might call it pity, and perhaps that's what it is: three years' worth of annoyance, resentment, frustration, concern, three years of watching him walk into the office with black eyes or reeking of booze from his latest bender, of watching him and his—admittedly—disgusting friends squandering their fortunes on women, drugs, and self-indulgent purchases. As a man, Aegon has proven himself to be crass, irresponsible, petulant, entitled, completely unreliable. But you have also, on certain rare occasions, seen the set of his face when he thinks no one else is watching.

The fear. The exhaustion. The way his hands shake beneath glass tables. The desire to please, and the ignorance as to how.

The truth is, when he’s not being an absolute tosser, you do see him as something fragile, to be pitied. If you said that out loud, he would hate you and probably fire you on the spot. And it might be for the best, you think. What do I want with this insanity?

But standing there between him and the door, his gaze boring into yours, the faint smell of alcohol, cigarettes, and coffee on his breath, you know that you do care what becomes of him. Even if he fired you—even if Alicent fired you—even if you quit—you would still dread the coming of a day when you would pick up your phone and find a news alert: Aegon II Targaryen, Son of Viserys, Dead at 25 or 26 or 30. It’s as if, in this moment, having been forced to look at him—to really look at him, not just as an unwilling charge, a fully grown man-child you’re forced to contend with every day to make your living—you can see his life unfurling, past, present, and future… ignominious, burdened, without purpose.

How can he stand it? A mere glimpse of it leaves you breathless. Exhausted from a night of fraught nerves and virtually no sleep, you feel your heart kick in your chest like a frenzied horse. How can he stand it? How can any of them? Who would want to be a Targaryen?

“Hey, hey, what's wrong? What’s wrong?” Aegon asks more insistently. He puts his hands on your elbows, lowers you to sit—for lack of a better alternative—in front of the door when your knees weaken and your body sags. “Hey, listen to me, you’re alright, you’ve just got to breathe… Breathe…”

Frantically, you shake your head. I can’t.

“Don’t be a fucking idiot. If you couldn't breathe, you’d be passed out right now. In and out… look at me…” He takes a breath. “In… out…”

It takes a few minutes, but the feeling subsides, leaving you trembly and more than a little embarrassed.

“What in gods’ name is wrong with you?” Aegon asks, stroking his hands up and down your arms.

“Long day?”

He rolls his eyes. “Tell me about it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be stupid, I give people panic attacks all the time.”

You let out a watery laugh.

Aegon shakes his head at you. “I won’t let her fire you, if that's what you're so worked up about.”

“That’s not…”

“You’re not my keeper. She should never have called you in the first place. This isn't your mess to clean up, you’re meant to take messages and go on coffee runs and… keep track of paperclips—”

“Stop trying to make me laugh.”

“Why? It’s been your cheap ploy all night. That, and fussing like a mother hen.”

You sigh. This isn't at all how the night was supposed to go. You were meant to be the helpful one, the adult, the one one in control, the one who could be relied upon. But you're not in control. Not of yourself, certainly not of Aegon. If anything, he’s the one sitting next to you on the floor acting sanely, not having a secondhand existential crisis like a world-class fool. (Aegon, to his credit, had the good sense to lose his shit in the privacy of a sept, without any witnesses.)

“Listen,” you begin, “what I said before…”

“Forget it.”

You don't want to forget it. You want to tell him “You tricked me into saying something I didn't want to say”, something you can't take back, something which, while technically not a lie, obscures a more important truth—what that truth is feels too broad and frightening and, worst of all, pointless, for words. And yet you want him to know. Too many people have failed to bother. The last thing you want is to be added to that list.

“I meant what I said… about Rhaenyra. But for the record, and for whatever minuscule thing it might be worth, I wish that I didn't.… I really, really fucking wish that I didn't.” His hand on your face takes you by surprise, his fingers sweeping against your right cheek.

“What are these for?” He blots your tears away, ones you didn't know you had shed. His voice is hushed and disapproving. Without thinking about it, not even once, you pull him towards you by the back of the neck and crash his mouth into yours. Clumsy and graceless, it is less a kiss than a desperate exchange of air.

Stupid, stupid… Something at the back of your head is conscious enough to ring the alarm, but it is Aegon and not warning bells that is most immediate, solid and real and here. The heat of his mouth. The sound of his breathing. The staggering hesitation of his tongue when it brushes against yours.

Immediately, as if barraged by warning bells of his own, he pushes you away. “I don’t want your fucking charity.” His words are snarled, dangerous. He is a wounded animal and you should let him be. But you can’t. The seeing—you wish you didn’t know him so well, not now, on this night and in this moment. You wish you could shove your knowledge into a box of indifference and leave him to his fate, to face his mother, his brother, and his half-sister, his father’s ghost alone, but you can’t. A fierce possessiveness buzzes through your veins alongside the shock and stress and fear.

You feel tied to him somehow.

Perhaps it's naive to want to save him. The Targaryens are a dying breed, a glorious capstone creature just before its inevitable extinction. Rhaenyra will never go quietly—in the end, they will eat each other alive, if not this morning, then some other day, and a different house will rise in their place. They always do.

There will be other billionaires, other jobs, other men.

But at present, the most important thing to you, more important than your job or your reputation or your morals or basic common sense, is to make Aegon Targaryen believe you… to throw him a rope and feel him take it. And you know—because by now you think you’ve learned the major ins-and-outs of him, the dark passageways, narrow roads, the winding alleys no one dares to travail—that the only way to do that is to hurt him. “You are… an idiot,” you hear yourself say.

His face freezes, only his eyes giving the injury away.

“You’re right, maybe no one at the company except for your own mother wants you at the helm. You’re late to everything. You don’t give a fuck about anything of any weight. You’re a fucking embarrassment around waiters, and half the time a complete dick to Aemond… although, granted, he’s a complete dick to you as well and has a stick up his arse that'll probably never come out without surgical intervention. Your friends are clowns—I mean it, fucking nincompoops with shit for brains. You are borderline actually an alcoholic, and sometimes it feels like you haven't bothered yourself to open a book in the whole of your existence. You have everything, stuff people would kill for, and you appreciate none of it. But I get it… You think I can’t ever hope to understand because I love my sister and my parents call me every week and send me nameday cars, but I do. I’d be like that too, maybe, if I had Viserys for a father. Maybe you’re right… maybe the company is cursed and the best thing you could do for yourself right now is take the next flight out to Lys or Dorne or literally anywhere on the fucking planet and forget about it—forget about your name, your family, the company, all of it. I can take you,” you say. “My car is downstairs, I can drive you to the airport, I can make up a story and throw your mother off the scent if you really want me to. But I also think you’re tired of being this person… You’re a shitty liar, Aegon Targaryen. Maybe the top seat isn't for you, but you're looking for an excuse to stop being the guy who lands on trending pages for being an eternal fool. CEO won’t do that for you… your mother can’t do that for you… gods know that getting high off whatever backstreet shite Reyne and Estermont procure definitely won’t do that for you…”

“Let me guess,” he quips, “only you can.”

“Ha! No, that’s—this is—that is not what this is. What, are you crazy? I’m not your shrink, and anyway, it's not like I’m being paid a small fortune every week to exorcize whatever the hell’s wrong with you and your privileged-yet-unbelievably-fucked-up family. All I’m saying is… work your shit out, Targaryen. Fucking communicate! Don’t let your father, of all people, have the last word on who you want to be, especially if you feel like he did fuck-all to deserve it!”

“Are you finished?”

“Done. That’s my two-cents. So you can stop your whingeing about pity and charity and all of that nonsense. Only one of us has their bed in the same room as their dining table, and only one of us was pulled out of sleep by your terrifying mother who whacked me over the head with an NDA before I was even fully conscious.”

“That sounds like her.”

“She hasn’t even told Rhaenyra that your father is dead.”

“…that sounds like my grandfather.”

You sigh. “I didn’t kiss you out of charity, you numpty. I—I just wanted to. I just really wanted to… I still do.”

“I’m no good for you.”

“Probably not.”

“You’ll end up hating me… you’ll quit.”

You let out a mock gasp. “No one to guard your paperclips? How will you cope?”

“I don’t know,” he says, dead serious. “Not anymore.”

There is no humor in the set of his face. He is all grim, all self-despisal, all—could you be imagining it?—thwarted longing. You are beyond the facetiousness he uses as a shield. He wants you. You can see it in his eyes, in the labor of his breathing, in the way he leans ever so slightly towards you and then leans back. I’m no good for you. You’ve decided you don’t care.

“Aegon, kiss me,” you whisper into the dark.

He’s on you before you’ve finished, kissing you desperately, with tongue this time, the slow wet drag pulling a moan from you which you have neither the time nor the presence of mind to regret before he’s kissing down your jaw, your neck. You feel his teeth scrape against the soft hollow behind your ear and you climb into his lap, ungainly, perhaps, but it matters not when you settle to find him hardening beneath you.

He groans into your shoulder, hooks his thumb inside the open collar of your button-up top to part the material and suck at your clavicle, while his other hand, on your hip, guides you to rub against the seam of his trousers. It occurs to you that he must not realize the way he’s writhing beneath you; if anything, he seems only half-aware as he rambles, underneath his breath, “Need you… gods, I need you…”, before ravaging your tongue again.

Impatiently you undo your shirt buttons. Aegon’s hand moves over your breast, first over your bra, then directly over your naked flesh when you fling it aside, along with your top, to land who-know-where. Your nipples pebble underneath his thumbs. You roll your hips. The placket of his trousers catches you directly and you groan, arching your back, bearing down on him so that a breathy, rumbling laugh escapes his throat.

Aegon’s laugh feels better than his tongue in your mouth, than his hands on your breasts, than the ridge of him growing long and hard beneath you. Oh no… you shouldn't like to hear him laugh.

“Should we get off the hallway floor, d’you think?” Only you can hear the nerves behind his humorous inflection, the wobble in his voice that tells you a part of him is expecting this to be the end, the moment you give in to regret or common sense and send him on his way, push him out the door and never speak to him again. He avoids your gaze, trains his eyes somewhere around the vicinity of your collarbones and he looks, in the faint light coming through your half-parted curtains, like a little boy bracing for the worst.

You pull his head up to your level, kiss him slow and deep, rock your hips, relish in the tightening of his hand around your waist. “Yes,” you say into his open mouth. You feel him relax, feel the exhale of relief that moves from his body into yours before he kisses you with renewed vigor.

He anchors his hands on your lower back, then throws you off balance, lowering your body onto the chilly tiles and laving down your neck to the valley between your breasts, slotting his knee against you—by chance, you think at first. Then his movements become deliberate, impossible to deny. His hands are all over you, running up your sides, pressing along the dip and rise of your hipbones. Your heart pounds beneath his lips. “This isn’t how we get off the hallway floor,” you protest.

“But your bed is so far away!”

“Not so long ago, you were calling my flat tiny,” you remind him, with no little store of resentfulness.

He grins—“I guess it’s all a matter of perspective”—and lets you turn away so you can press your palms against the floor and push yourself into a standing position.

Aegon stays on the floor, splayed, smiling up at you until you offer him a hand. He lets you lead him to bed, where your sheets are rumpled, the duvet fallen on the floor. Neither of you cares enough to notice. After laying you down, he takes the time to unbutton your slacks, take off your shoes, slip your trousers down your legs, pausing only to drop a kiss at the curve of your ankle, the side of your knee, the inner portion of your thighs. When the mattress dips beneath you, you know that he is kneeling at the foot of the bed. You feel two of his fingers going down your slit, over the gusset. Your breath comes in shallow pants. You aren’t ready, but there’s enough for it to dampen the tips of his fingers and make them slide through.

Your mouth parts, hungry, expectant. For a moment, your eyes lock, and you have enough wherewithal to freak out about the fact that he—Aegon, your boss, Alicent Hightower’s son—is looking at you with a fuck-me gaze and that you, despite all common sense, are pressing your clothed cunt against his hand and whimpering—actually whimpering—for him to touch you.

Between you the tension stretches, and then breaks. Aegon dips his head and puts his mouth on you, the heat of his tongue following the same path as his fingers. It glides and it flicks and it tastes you hard enough to make you throw your head back against a pillow, but it doesn’t make contact with your heated skin. You buck your hips against his face, pull at his hair, and he lets out a moan which, if you aren’t mistaken, is laced with a deep, buoyant laugh. He’s enjoying this… The thought makes your muscles clench and pulls a long, fluttery gasp from you. And then, only then, does he bare you fully.

The night air and his warm breath hit you in a way that has you squirming, halfway up the finish line before you feel his lips close around your swollen peak, suckling and laving, gathering your considerable moisture on his tongue only to spit it back out onto your naked cunt.

His fingers move through the mess, gently probing, rubbing circles against you one minute before he turns his wrist and enters you. You moan, feeling two of his fingers stretching you out. In truth, you can’t remember the last time you were fucked, probably around the same time you started working for the Targaryens, and now that the floodgates have opened you don’t know what to do, how to behave. As his fingers work you and he nuzzles his face against the top of your mound, his stubbled cheek rubs against your clit in a way that makes your breath catch and your toes curl, and all you can think is more—not just his cock inside you, but more… more of him… You want him to have you any way he wants.

You clamp your eyes shut and try not to think about the implications of that.

His fingers make an audible sound when they move inside you now. Between squelching and moans and the rumbling in his throat, the room beginning to acquire the heady smell of sex, you’re getting close, so close, to coming undone on his mouth. “Just a little more,” he hear him say to himself, “just a little more…” He brushes against something that makes your eyes roll, your neck tense, your legs spasm around his shoulders. You clutch the sheets and feel the silence that overtakes your body as the knot of pleasure breaks and you hang—back arched, tense—suspended over something that snaps and leaves you boneless, powerless, at his mercy when he withdraws to throw off his clothes and kiss his way up your chest, slipping his tongue in your mouth and notching his hips against yours.

You feel him hard against your tender core. He slides against you, deliberate, slow. You whimper and try to squirm away from him, but he nuzzles the side of your face and strokes your hair, makes calming sounds like the ones he would make for a nervy horse. He doesn’t rush things. Only holds you and touches you where you’ll allow, only occasionally bucking his length against your inner thigh. Slowly, the sensitivity subsides and you kiss him in earnest, restless and eager, moving your hand down to hold him, first loosely and then as tightly as he seems to like. His lips part. His breaths are ragged as he moves over you and thrusts his cock into your hand, the head damp, the length of him pulsing hotly in your palm. You think about stopping, pushing him onto his back, swallowing him down as far as he’ll go. But he stops you.

“Tell me this isn’t just because my father died.”

“It’s not,” you say, your hand going still.

“Swear it.”

Your first thought is What a ridiculous thing to say, but it isn’t ridiculous, not to Aegon. So much of his life has been defined by his father, by what Viserys did or failed to do, and if he won’t have the old ghost here, in the bedroom with you, well, it’s not such an unreasonable thing to ask.

“I swear it,” you say, holding one half of his face and staring levelly into his eyes.

He nods. “I think you might be the only person in the world who doesn’t think that I’m a fucking joke.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Aegon, can we stop bloody talking about your father? Fuck him! He didn’t know you.” Not like I do, is what you want to say, but too soon, too soon. You kiss him to stop the words from falling out. “I want you… I want you. Is that really so hard to believe?” You take his hand and let it delve between your slit again, to feel how wet you are, how ready. To feel the needy moan you push into his mouth… the way you angle your hips until his tip is nestled, just so, at your entrance. “Do you want me to swear upon the Seven?” you ask him, tightening your walls so he can feel you squeezing around his leaking cockhead, inviting him in. “I’ll do it if you want me to… Mother, Father, Maiden, Smith—”

Aegon puts his hand over your mouth. “Shut up or you’ll remind me of my mother.”

You begin to laugh, a bubbling, ecstatic thing which he knocks right out of you when he pushes in to the hilt. You gasp, only vaguely aware that you never asked him to wear a condom, but he feels so good, too good to stop now. He hitches one of your legs and snaps his cock into you, increasing the pace. You moan at the length of him, the breadth of him, the way his fingers dig into your flesh, the sound of his stones hitting the back of your thighs, rhythmically, over and over again.

His eyes are shut, his teeth clenched, you feel him trembling above you, torn between taking and delaying his own relief. Always something to prove. Annoyingly, he is dampening the moans in his throat just as you want to hear him—gods forbid you think less of him. “Aegon… it’s okay,” you speak into the curve of his neck. You kiss his shoulders, tighten your thighs around his hips, bear up on his length.

From his lips pours a sound of mingled pleasure and distress. He is trying so hard not to finish, but can no longer keep up with the measured thrusts he first started with. His pace falters, he grinds against you, fucks you deep into the mattress in a way that, had he lasted longer, might have drawn from you another peak. But it doesn't matter. You feel his body start to shudder and you want it, want him to cum, want him to come undone, want him to cum inside you—what are you thinking?—want him to feel good, want him to feel so good… Not even with a gun to your head can you later recall everything you said to him in those crucial seconds before he spilled inside you with a deep, audible groan.

You remain that way for an unmeasured length of time, arms wrapped around each other, sweat cooling, breath coming slowly back to baseline. Then, with a kiss to your cheek that is sweet and almost chaste, he parts from you. You wince at the loss, the mess pooling between your thighs, and for a moment you fear that this is it—Aegon will walk out the door like he’s done to so many others. Goodbye. Thanks for the good time. Instead, he rests his head on your shoulder, tentative, an uneasy dog craving affection but not wanting to get in the way. You kiss the top of his head, let him doze. Even when he shifts away from you to lie on his stomach and bury his face in a pillow, he keeps his arm thrown across your middle.

The gesture is oddly moving. You think about it until you wake, just a little after 7:00 and see that the sun is newly risen in the sky. For a few minutes you match your inhales to Aegon’s, his exhales, the brief pauses in between. You’ve never felt closer to him than now, and with that comes a feeling like he’s yours somehow. Yours…

He wakes on his own, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He turns his head to squint against the daylight, and though you’re trying to be chill and sophisticated about it, you hold your breath and wonder what his reaction to you will be.

“Seven hells,” he curses, burrowing face-first into his pillow. “Did we only sleep for two hours?” We. The little word calms you, even as he drags his body to sit at the edge of the bed.

Without overthinking it, you wrap your arms around his chest and kiss the side of his neck. He sighs, caresses your arms and holds loosely to your wrists. Soft as you can, you ask, “What’ll you do?”, and press your cheek against his thin, pale shoulder.

“I’m going to see my mother. I’ve kept her waiting, and I can’t just hide from her like some pathetic—” You squeeze him and he breaks off. “I need to speak with her. After that…”

“Whatever comes after that comes after that.”

“Wow… you’re a regular portrait of wisdom.”

“Hey! You came here, remember!”

“That, I certainly did.” From the smirk you see spreading across his face, you can tell he isn’t referring to the simple act of having walked to your flat.

Your face heats. “Idiot.” You say it without bite and it comes out fonder than you meant it to. He smiles. “Do you want me to take you?”

“I can manage.”

“I know… but you don't have to.”

“Fine.” The word is vulnerable. Immediately he has to clear his throat, stand, and begin to dress. You do the same.

You should really have considered having a shower, especially after the long night and the hasty sex (the sex… a part of you still can't believe it happened except for the dull ache between your thighs and the way you keep stealing glances at Aegon, remembering his hands on you, clinging, seeking, sorrowful) but there is no time. The markets open at 9:00. Alicent will want to speak with him before then, draft a last-minute press release, calm the shareholders, the board. As it is, you and Aegon are walking a thin line. You settle for picking a clean black dress out of your closet, and are in the process of trying to fix your hair when you feel him coming up behind you, his hands gentle on your back as he zips you up.

The gesture is so simple, so earnest, that it breaks down every pretense and you have to admit to yourself that, even if you’d had the time, you don’t want to wash him off or have this quiet moment you’ve shared come to an end.

In the car, he sits with his head propped against the passenger window, deep in thought, fiddling with his hands, and especially with the signet ring that depicts his family crest.

Try as you might, you can't read his thoughts and you don't want to pressure him by asking what he plans to do. He could very well be on his way to starting a war between his family, or he could end it—walk away, probably earning the resentment of Aemond and his mother. Either way, there isn't a right choice to be made, only one he thinks he can live with.

Once out of the car, he takes your hand and doesn't let it go, not in the lift up to the lobby, not when you swipe your keycard for the executive floor and the doors open to a hushed, semi-lit chaos. He doesn’t speak. He keeps his head bowed, wary, observant, but he is calmer somehow—you can tell that he’s decided.

Together, you walk around a small handful of department heads speaking into phones. Their assistants cross the floor, exchanging fretful looks while clutching file folders, tablets, cups of coffee. Along the far wall, glass-encased offices are mostly empty except for Conference Room 1, where Alicent Hightower stands at the head of a table at which are seated her father and the head legal counsel, the company’s financial officer, a few of their allies on the board. Aemond, too, is there, immaculate even at a distance. He is the first to spot them; his lips purse, even as his one visible eye remains defiant.

“See you on the other side?” Aegon asks, finally letting go of your hand. You tug his fingers before he can pull the conference room door and he turns to you, waiting, watching you rack your brain for the right thing to say. “Don’t worry, it’ll be all right” and its many variations seem like the veriest wrong, platitudes, lies.

“You can handle it,” you tell him at last, “whatever it is.”

Aegon appears doubtful at first, then he exhales. His face settles, his shoulders square. He has a look about him you've never seen before… Perhaps he and Aemond have more in common than either of them think. Perhaps he is more like his mother than he believes.

He strides through the door and everyone turns to look at him, the heir apparent or the prodigal son. You leave him to it, thinking, To war, then, or whatever it may be.

[joshsindigostreak]

I See Hell in Your Eyes

Chapter Six

“Daddy’s little psycho and Mommy’s little soldier.”

Josh Kiszka x Vampire!Reader

Authors Note: I am SO FUCKING SORRY for dragging this out as long as I have. Life has been crazy and work has been nonstop. However, I do hope y'all like this latest chapter, or as I like to call it, the smut before the storm.

Word Count: 8445

Warnings: SMUT, COMPLETELY NSFW, 18+, MINORS DNI, oral m!receiving, thigh riding, unprotected penetrative sex (she's a vampire but wrap it up IRL y'all), swearing, allusions to violence, creepy flashbacks, blood mentions.

Jake was a light sleeper, and his mother would often tell people she could never put him down without him waking up as soon as her hands left his swaddled form, the only solution was to put him directly next to his twin, who slept like a log most of the time. Even as they got older if they sat next to each other too long on the couch they’d be out cold within a few minutes. And in any other scenario, just being in the same apartment as Josh would’ve had him out like a light, but still sleep evaded him. He knew he needed to get some form of shut-eye, but every creak or noise in the room had his eyes flying open, ready to jump up in case that…creature tried anything stupid. 

That was the other thing that had his mind racing, the fact that a Vampire was sleeping soundly next to his brother of all people, and the fact that he saw with his own eyes that same brother cuddle up and spoon the fucking thing. The conversation the twins shared outside ran through his mind…

Jake stomped down the stairs of Josh’s building, not ready to even talk to him, yet having a million things to say at the same time. His mind was reeling over what he had just witnessed, and no amount of rationalization could wrap his head around it. 

“Jake just listen-,” Josh started as they exited the front door of the building and down the steps.

“If this is where you give me the ‘she’s different’ speech, I don’t want to hear it.” 

Josh rolled his eyes, “well she is.” 

Jake spun around to face him, “I just can’t believe you’re the one who got soft over one of them. After all we’ve been through? What we’ve seen? They threatened to kidnap Sammy and turn him when he was four, Josh.” 

Josh crossed his arms and squared his shoulders, “I know that.” 

“And yet here you are, holding hands with one, letting her walk around in your, no my, clothes. This job was supposed to be so simple, that’s why Dad let you go alone for it. All you had to do was come here, figure out which Vampire was being reckless, exterminate it, and come back home. That was it. But instead you get this little apartment, take absolutely way too long on what should’ve been a week-long job tops, and now you’re sleeping with quite literally the fucking enemy and you want me to be more understanding? The last time we spoke she was your lead suspect! I just-,” as Jake argued, he stared at his brother long enough to notice some blood on Josh’s neck. It wasn’t a lot, but it was dry and flaked on his skin, letting him know it had been there for awhile. 

Exhaling sharply through his nose he said in a low tone, “is that blood hers…or yours…” Josh sighed and closed his eyes for a second, which answered Jake's question for him, “Jesus Christ…she fed on you? What the fuck, man?” 

“It’s not what you think.” 

Jake’s eyes went wide and he hung his head forward in disbelief, “the fuck do you mean ‘its not what you think’?! Who even are you anymore?” 

“Listen, it wasn’t a planned thing. And for your information, she’s no longer my lead anymore.”

Jake mockingly breathed a sigh of relief, “oh well that’s good, I’m so glad you’re cracking the case with your-” 

Josh couldn’t take it anymore, and backed Jake across the sidewalk and against the door of his car, “do I have to bring up Cecilia again to point out how hypocritical you’re being right now? 

Jake stared at Josh, and watched his nostrils flare as he huffed in his face. If someone had told him weeks ago that he’d be having this conversation with him, he’d tell them they need to lay off the drugs and to get the fuck out of his face. “I just…I don’t get it,” he said softly. 

Josh adjusted his grip on his shoulders, “it’s not your job to ‘get it’.”

Jake relaxed against the car, not wanting to fight anymore, “but I always get it…with you? We always understand each other, but this…I don’t understand this at all.” 

Josh’s eyes softened at his twin, letting his words wash over him. He was right, that they never questioned each other over anything because they just understood each other automatically. Their parents always wrote it off as being a ‘twin thing’ and would tell them it was a strength of theirs that other people didn’t have. On the outside it was an asset, but to them personally it was just something automatic like breathing. 

“You’re just going to have to trust me. And maybe…maybe try to get to know her at least.”

Jake tilted his head, “you want me to get to know her?”

Josh rolled his eyes again, “or at least stop being a fucking dick. I know you don’t want to hear this, but she is different, Jake. I know it's hard, and it took me a lot longer than you think it did to see it, but she is.”

Jake relented, “if she tries anything…or even looks at you funny, I will not hesitate to put her down, and you’re just going to have to get over that.”

Jake’s arm around CiCi tightened as he blinked and pushed the memory away, not wanting to get pissed all over again. His eyelids were finally growing heavy, and he used what was left of his energy to relax enough so that sleep could creep up on him and take over.

~!~

Hours later, when the sun had stepped aside for the moon, you were growing restless in Josh’s arms. Memories were bleeding into your dreams, letting their foul existence contaminate your slumber. 

You found yourself back in the house you grew up in, sitting next to the Vampire who would become your Maker. On the floor before you, were the bodies of the rest of the occupants of the house. Various servants and the Lady of the house, bleeding out onto the floor. He had saved you for last. Ever since he had entered the door that night he had his eye on you. 

His teeth were buried in your wrist, lapping and slurping up your blood like a starved animal. It was messy, dripping over his hands and onto the expensive couch you sat upon. The pain had you wincing hard, but you dared not make a sound, terrified of what he would do if you did. 

He moaned against your wrist before popping off and staring at you with a mouth full of blood, “You won’t understand this…but your blood tastes like cherries…”

The way he looked at you and talked to you had your stomach in knots, “how,” you squeaked out.

“It's so difficult to describe to humans…but your blood is so sweet, little one. Sweet like cherries…ma chérie…,” he chuckled at his pun, before drawing a bloody finger to your cheek and staining your skin, “ma chérie…ma chérie…ma chér-”

You woke up with a jolt, panicking when you couldn’t immediately sit up due to the arms wrapped around your middle. Blindly you fought to pry the arm away from you, not awake enough to realize just who you were in bed with and where you were. 

Your frantic movements and gasps woke Josh up instantly, and he sat up enough to look at you fully, “Hey…hey it's alright, what's wrong?” 

His voice broke through the fog in your head, and you looked around to get your bearings. You were with Josh, in his little apartment, and it was night time finally. You were with Josh. You were safe. A warm hand reached up to cup your face, turning you towards him. The tears in your eyes that were threatening to fall made his brows knit together in worry. One slowly rolled down your face, his thumb catching it and rubbing it away. 

You sniffed, trying to compose yourself. It was just a stupid dream; your subconscious taking you back to that time after you had talked about it earlier. Nothing more, nothing-

“Bad dream?”

You looked away, for once unable to meet those brown eyes. He continued to hold your face, not letting you physically turn away from him. 

“It's nothing…”

“It’s not nothing if you’re this upset by it.”

“We all have bad dreams, Boy Scout,” you recalled the nightmare he had the other night, and how he also didn’t want to talk about what he saw. 

He understood what you were implying, and nodded, “I get that, but-”

Across the apartment, Jake had also woken up because of your outburst, and he carefully sat up on the air mattress to look at the commotion. He silently watched his brother comfort you, and the way you melted back into his arms had him rolling his eyes. The way Josh spoke to you was a way Jake wasn’t used to hearing. He kept trying to convince himself that this was all part of some 4D chess move of yours, but the fact that Josh was literally unable to be Persuaded by you only added to Jake’s confusion. 

Josh had gotten you to settle back down into bed, laying on your sides and facing each other. His hand was still holding your cheek, keeping you close. The tears had dried, and you had calmed down a little, no longer worried you were still in that house with your Maker. 

Your fingers were wrapped around the wrist of the hand on your face, “safe to say the sun is down…,” you whispered. 

“I guess so…”

Neither one of you wanted to leave the little bubble you had created, but you needed to go home, back to your own place. With a resigned sigh you say, “I should probably get going…

Josh shook his head, “you don’t have to.”

“Your brother would beg to differ,” Josh scoffed softly at the reminder, “plus I miss my own shower.” 

“At least let me drive you home,” he offered.

“You don’t have-,” a thumb slid across your jaw and landed on your lips, silencing you.

“No, I think I do,” he said simply. 

Back on the air mattress, Jake had had enough ‘rest’ and rather obnoxiously got up making as much noise as he could. His Witch rolled over to look at him, throwing him an exasperated look, harshly whispering his name. Jake paid her no mind as he loudly rifled through his bag, appearing to ‘organize’ his belongings, and set a few things on the coffee table. The light clatter of stakes landing on the surface sent an obvious message. 

Josh sat up to see what his twin was doing, and immediately rolled his eyes at the little display Jake was making. He looked over at you, giving you a sympathetic look before slipping out of bed and walking towards Jake.

“What are you doing?”

Jake looked up at Josh and raised his eyebrows, “making myself at home?”

“Well, while you’re doing that, I’m going to take her home,” he said pointing his head towards you over his shoulder. 

At this, Jake shot up to his full height and stepped closer to Josh, “you’re not seriously letting her take you back to her lair are you?”

You came up behind Josh with your things in your hands and nearly burst out laughing at Jake’s word choice, “my lair? Oh god I haven’t heard that one in nearly two decades. Jesus Christ, its a condo, Kiszka. I pay way too much for the HOA and everything.” 

Josh eyed you curiously, “really?”

You sighed, “honestly I need to move but it's such a hassle and it was the only decent place available when I came back.”

He nodded in agreement, “that makes sense-”

Jake rubbed his face with his hand before interrupting, “ENOUGH, you’re not going with her.” 

Your hunter slowly turned his head towards his twin, expression hardening and brows knitting together, “and who are you to make that decision?” The younger twin looked like he had been slapped while trying to form a rebuttal, but Josh seized on his silence, “that's what I thought.” With that, he turned to grab his keys from the spot on the floor they had landed the previous night. 

“What are we supposed to do, in the meantime,” Jake complained. CiCi was standing now, and reached out to touch Jake's arm. 

Josh huffed, “I don’t know…maybe take your girlfriend out on a date or something? She deserves it for putting up with you.” He shifted past Jake, stepping into the same shoes he had on outside, and turning around to check on you. While he and Jake bickered you had slipped on your heels from the night before, and the combination of your heels and his clothes (screw whatever Jake said, it hadn’t been his shirt in years) made his heart stutter for multiple reasons. 

As you maneuvered around Jake, you looked over at CiCi and gave a small smile, “it was nice meeting you,” 

CiCi nodded, “nice meeting you too.” 

Rather pointedly, you ignored Jake and exited through the door as Josh held it open for you. 

“Don’t wait up,” was all Josh said before he firmly shut the door behind him and followed you down the stairs. 

Thankfully, none of Josh’s neighbors were out of their respective apartments and the journey down to the ground floor was uneventful. You followed him down to the sidewalk where he turned to the right and went down a few cars before stopping at a white Jeep, hitting the keyfob along the way to unlock it. It definitely screamed something that Josh would drive. Without a word he opened the door for you, and held out his hand for you to take to help you get in, a gesture that made you smile. As you settled in your seat Josh shut the door and nearly sprinted around the back to get to the drivers side. 

It didn’t hit you until after he had silently handed you his phone to put in your address and he secured it to his dash mount how…normal it felt. This inner voice of your brain wanted to complain about how cliche it all was, but you tried not to listen to it. 

It took four blocks for Josh’s hand to slowly migrate from the gear shift to the top of your thigh. The warmth of his hand nearly startled you, and you looked down at the source and the feeling of normalcy struck you again. The silence that filled the Jeep wasn’t awkward or stilted. It was…comfortable. You hadn’t felt this in a long time. Well, you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel this in a long time. There were close calls, trysts from decades ago that still felt fresh at times, all ending in the same tired ways. 

Josh’s thumb was absently rubbing circles into your skin when he spoke, “I have a question…” 

You were snapped out of your thoughts, “yeah?”

“Garlic doesn’t hurt your kin-, you, does it?”

A giggle threatened to escape your mouth as you formed your answer, “no…garlic doesn’t do anything to us. Didn’t they teach you that at ‘Vampire-Hunter-Boy-Scout-Camp?’” 

His hand flexed slightly against your thigh, and he rolled his eyes slightly, “I mean…my parents taught me things but the garlic thing was never mentioned specifically either way…”

You sensed an opportunity and turned towards him slightly as his Jeep rolled to a stop at a redlight, “lets play a game.” 

He eyed you with a deadpan expression, “a game?”

“True or false,” your mouth twisting into its typical grin. 

He sighed as the light turned green and he pressed the gas pedal, “and what am I supposed to be asking about?” 

“You tell me whatever idiotic Vampire rumor you were taught, and I’ll tell you if it's true or false!”

Another sigh left his mouth, and he flipped through the different bits of Vampire information he had stored in his brain, “ok…you can eat human food?”

“True and false.” 

He looked at you slightly exasperated, “what do you mean?” 

“I mean…we could technically eat it…but it has no nutritional value and doesn’t taste like anything to us. It's like chewing on the color gray. When I was freshly turned I tried eating a muffin and nearly spit it out on the floor.”

“Do you miss human food?” 

“False. I mean…the era of when I was turned wasn’t exactly the height of cuisine…but sometimes I miss how good fresh bread smelled…or pies on the window sill. But honestly blood is so much better. There’s just something about it that human food doesn’t have.”

Josh tried to wrap his head around that, but couldn’t, “so you’ve never eaten pizza?”

“...True…it looks like it would be good from a human's point of view but I’m ok with an AB Positive,” you quietly braced yourself, hoping he wouldn’t be grossed out by your preferences.

But the disgust never came, instead Josh asked another question, “Vampires can’t be born…can they?”

You stared at him for a second, “true…no more babies once you’re turned.” The way your voice went soft at your answer was completely unintentional. Kids weren’t something you thought about, or dreamed about. They were a fleeting thought when you were a girl, but kids brought back memories you didn’t want to relive. You didn’t hate them, it wasn’t their fault, but you just hated being reminded of certain events…or certain people. 

Josh’s brows were furrowed as he formed his next question, but your game was interrupted by his phone’s GPS announcing, “you have arrived at your destination.”

You looked up and saw your familiar building, a 10-story high-rise that had fallen victim to the house-flipper crowd. What was once a charming and cozy building now reeked of ‘seller-friendly curb appeal.’

Josh stared up at the structure as he parked the Jeep and you answered his thoughts for him, “don’t worry Boy Scout, we have elevators here.” He turned to give you a look, another question floating through his brain, “yes you can come up…it's only fair I show you my place…” 

He smiled as you flung off your seatbelt and hopped out of the vehicle, practically bouncing in your heels on the pavement. As he joined you on the sidewalk, you slid your hand into his and led him into the front entrance of your building.

“I wish you could’ve seen the building when it was new. It had the sweetest door man and everything,” you mused as the two of you walked into the lobby of your building. The current decor was “nice” if you considered 2011 the peak of interior design. You often considered Persuading the building manager into getting the building restored to its original glory, but you figured you wouldn’t be here long enough to get too involved. 

Bee-lining for the elevator, your hand still gripped his as you hit the button with your free hand to call it down. Within seconds the elevator dinged and slid open its doors, and you thanked whatever beings were out there that it was empty. You hadn’t brought anyone ‘home’ in quite some time and it would be a lie to say you weren’t practically giddy at the idea of bringing Josh up to see it. Once inside you reached for the panel to select ‘8’ for your floor. 

Turning to your hunter you said, “not a penthouse like yours,” and playfully bumped his shoulder. 

Josh however couldn’t take it anymore and took full advantage of the solitude and took your face into his and slowly backed you up against the wall before slamming his lips onto yours. You melted into the kiss, glad to be even closer to him again. As his tongue gained entrance into your mouth,you felt one of his hands reach down to grip your thigh and hook it over his hip, allowing him to grind into you. The clothes from the night before that you clutched in your one hand threatened to fall as you wrapped your arms around him. Josh’s teeth sunk into your bottom lip, and the gap between the front two captured the smallest sliver of skin. You moaned against his mouth, and he broke away with a sigh before tilting his head and nipping at your jawbone and leaving open mouthed kisses down your neck. 

You started to lift your other leg to secure it around Josh’s waist when the elevator dinged and came to a stop. Paying it no mind, you rolled your head to the side to give Josh better access to your neck. It wasn’t until you heard someone clear their throat rather loudly did you open your eyes to find one of your neighbors standing at the open elevator. It was that unbearable woman down the hall, who had a habit of watching everyone on her floor. Josh looked up as well and slowly dropped your leg from around his hip, but he stayed just as close to you. 

“Hi, Nancy…,” you said with an eye roll before taking Josh’s hand and leading him out of the elevator. Josh and Nancy briefly made eye contact as he walked past her and she looked down her nose at him as her upper lip scrunched up as if she was smelling something bad. “Don’t mind her, she’s just a snotty bitch,” you called out behind you as the elevator doors shut. 

Josh whipped his head towards you and said in a deadpan voice, “she seemed nice. Is she always like that?”

“Sometimes she’s worse, unfortunately,” you laughed as he matched your stride. Flashing a smile at him you rounded the corner and went straight for the door at the end of the hall. You stopped to fish your keys out of your tiny clutch from the night before and unlocked your door with ease. Before you twisted the handle to reveal your home, you looked at Josh over your shoulder, intentionally drawing out the moment a little longer for dramatic effect. Finally, you slowly opened the door to your place, giving Josh the nod that he could follow you inside. 

Josh followed you over the threshold, making sure to shut the door behind him before looking around at the apartment. Immediately to his left was a small side table, where you dropped your keys in a glass dish. 

You continued down the small hallway, your heels clicking against the dark hardwood floors before turning around and throwing your hands out and saying, “home sweet home.” 

The small hallway opened up into two different rooms on either side, the one on the right being what appeared to be your living room, complete with an expensive-looking couch and dark blue Tiffany lamps on both end tables on either side. A lone, empty wine glass sat under one of the lamps. What in any other situation would have been some dark red wine dried at the bottom of the glass, he figured it was probably blood. Josh quickly noted the magazines you had strewn on the antique coffee table in front of the couch, along with a few unlit candles. You had a definite stack of different issues, a few National Geographics, some Vogues, a random Cosmo, and what he thought were a couple of Architectural Digests sitting off to the side, with pages clearly dog-earred for later. 

“Sorry about the mess…wasn’t exactly planning on having company over,” you apologized with a smirk. Josh almost called you crazy for thinking your apartment was messy, because it most certainly wasn’t. It looked…lived in…but it wasn’t messy. He had seen his fair share of Nests, and most of them were so bare-bones given the migratory nature of Vampires. As a species they didn’t tend to stick around one place too long. Even the solitary Vamps he had dealt with didn’t have ideal lodging situations. But it was clear you didn’t want to have just a crash pad between feedings…you wanted a cozy place to come home to. 

Opposite the living room was the kitchen. The lighting was very dim as you didn’t bother turning on any lights in that room. The normal appliances sat in there, but looked clean and unused. Josh recalled your earlier conversation on Vampires and human food. You probably didn’t have much use for it at all in the grand scheme of things. Beyond these two rooms were two more doors on either side of the central hallway, and a singular door at the very end. Even without seeing what was behind all three doors, Josh knew your apartment dwarfed his little attic studio significantly. 

You pushed open the door on the left, dramatically gesturing with a smile, “door number one is the guest bathroom…” Crossing the hallway you opened the opposite door, “and door number two is supposed to be a guest room but…I turned it into a library of sorts.” 

Josh stopped in his tracks and peaked his head into the room. You had bookcases lining the walls, full of tomes of various sizes and bindings. A lot of them were antiques in the current year, but he wondered if you had collected most of them when they were new, and had just held onto them all these years. Trinkets dotted all along the shelves in front of the books, and he wondered what the story was behind all of them. The fact that you were 350 this year struck him again, and he got even more curious about your life before now. He noticed a big squishy chair situated by the one window in the room, with another Tiffany floor lamp, this time dark green, behind it. The image of you curled up in that chair, reading whatever you desired made the corners of his mouth rise up into a smile. 

He turned to look at you, and saw you leaning against the doorframe reaching down to take your heels off. Wasting no time, he knelt in front of you and in a slightly clumsy yet endearing way, took your heeled foot out of your hands and slid your shoe off for you. Your hands rested on his shoulders during this to keep your balance, and you gently raised your other foot for him to repeat the process. Josh set both of your shoes behind him, and slowly looked up at you from his kneeling position. He wasn’t sure where the compulsion to never let you take off your own shoes came from, but it felt natural to him. 

You looked down at his big brown eyes, feeling an unfamiliar warmth in your chest at his actions, which were quickly becoming a habit of his. Your hand reached out and cupped his cheek, and he fully leaned into it, nearly nuzzling your palm. He rose up from his feet to his full height and pressed you against the door frame, lightly brushing his lips on yours. 

“I haven’t even shown you the best room…,” you murmured, “come on.” You took his hand again and pulled him down to the end of the hallway where the final door was. This time you pushed open the door with little fanfare and you breathed a sigh of relief as you walked into your room.

Josh didn’t need to be told what room this was, the light purple walls clued him in immediately. In fact, most of the room was decked out in various shades of purple. From the doorway he could see directly out to a pair of French doors that led out to a small balcony, and through the gauzy curtains he could make out a table and a set of chairs outside. The most interesting feature was to the right of the room, where what looked like a giant arched opening in the wall was carved out to house a queen sized bed inside. The bedding was dark purple, and the duvet was pulled back enough that he noticed you had purple satin sheets to match. Thick curtains were fixed on the backside of the arch, only pulled about a quarter of the way across. 

You turned around and saw him staring and remarked, “not exactly a coffin…but with the curtains drawn it's pretty close.” 

“I wasn’t…that's not what-,” he stammered while his cheeks tinged pink.

You walked over to the bed after dropping your clothes in a small hamper and flicked on the two wall sconces that were attached to the wall inside the nook, illuminating the small space so that Josh could get a better look. There were a couple shelves above where your head would be, more trinkets and a few crystals lined the surface. But it was at the foot of the bed, hidden slightly behind the curtains, was the shirt he had given her the day before. You didn’t pay it any mind as your hand landed on the curtains and said, “blackout curtains. Not a shred of light can get through these.” 

Josh smiled and turned to the other half of the room, where he saw a desk littered with various makeup supplies, a couple books, and a journal with a pen resting on top. Also on that wall were two other doors, he assumed one was an ensuite and the other a closet. He took a few steps around the room, taking it all in while you observed him from your bed.

“You have a beautiful place,” he said softly. 

“It works for now,” you shrugged.

He nodded, understanding. His current place wasn’t ideal either, in all actuality it was a far cry from what he grew up with, but it was home for now. Inching his way over to your table, he looked down at the journal resting on the surface. He turned back at you, a cheeky smile slowly forming on his face, “you have a diary…a Vampire…diary…”

You fought every muscle in your face to not smile, you didn’t want to encourage him, but you faced and exhaled a little laugh, “yes…full of all of my Vampire secrets and night-to-night drama.”

He arched an eyebrow at you, “anything about…?”

You swayed your hips as you walked towards him, “about a very annoying hunter who wouldn’t mind his own business and tried to capture me with silver handcuffs?” Your arms looped around his neck and his hands settled on your hips, squeezing slightly.

 

His eyes seemed to sparkle as he looked at you, “...was this annoying hunter handsome at least?”

You playfully rolled your eyes, “for a hunter he was alright…” 

Josh feigned offense, “just alright?” 

“Yes, for a wannabe Boy Scout he was decent,” you leaned forward and nipped at his chin. What he didn’t know was that you talked at length about him in your diary. He didn’t know your thought process flowed from how he annoyed you that first night, how irritating he was, how arrogant, how smart ass, to your reluctant alliance and the first night at the Den, to how worried you were when Dimitri almost went too far, to how maybe “Boy Scout” wasn’t that bad, to where you left off just as you were getting ready for your second night at the Den, before everything changed. He didn’t know about how you spent a few pages describing the worry that was etched on his face the whole time he got you back to his apartment that morning, how his eyes would not leave your disfigured feet, or how you almost passed out from the pain as he ran those final blocks to his building, or how it was his own racing heart that you focused on to stay conscious. Maybe you’d tell him eventually, but right now you just wanted to focus on the present. How you had a beautiful man in your room all to yourself, with zero chances of being interrupted by ignorant twin brothers. 

He pulled you close and secured his lips to yours, and for the first time you two shared a truly slow and lazy kiss, in no rush to do anything or be anywhere else. 

Pulling away slightly, you sighed against his lips, “I don’t want to cut this short…but I really need to shower…” A slight pout started to form on Josh’s face, “but thankfully…I have a real shower and there’s plenty of room for two people…” 

“Lead the way, sweetheart…”

You flashed a grin before skirting around him and bounded for the door behind him on the right. The bathroom was easily eight times the size of his dinky bathroom in the attic, with a gorgeous clawfoot tub at the far end of the room, and a standing shower in the corner next to it. You flung open the glass door to your shower, turning on the water and letting the warm spray and steam fill the room. You felt Josh follow behind you and wrap his arms around your waist, playfully lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. Laughter echoed in the room until it was silenced by his lips crashing into yours. The few pieces of clothing you both had on were shed in a blur, and the next thing you knew you were being backed into the shower, the lips of your hunter attached to yours. The cold tile caught you off guard and you hissed against his mouth at the temperature difference. 

Josh’s hands were everywhere, roaming your body as if he was afraid you’d disappear. Your hands were tangled in his hair, reveling in the fact you had him all to yourself. The way his hands were squeezing and grabbing anything he could reach on you felt incredible, and the evidence that he was feeling just as good was pressed up against your stomach. You felt it twitch as you scraped his scalp with your fingernails and lightly tugged on his hair. 

Smiling against his mouth you pushed him back to the other wall, and looked him in the eyes as you dropped to your knees.  His eyes were so dark, pupils blown as he looked down at you. The hot water sprayed against your back, wetting most of your hair as it spread out over your shoulders. He reached down and tucked some of your hair behind your ear and out of your face. Gently you took his cock in your hand, and he rolled his head back against the wall at your touch. You pumped him a couple times before looking up at his frazzled state and smiling. You were able to see him so much better here in the shower than in his dimly lit apartment, so you got to see details you missed the night before. The way his jaw was slack as you squeezed him, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed rapidly as you quickened your pace, and the soft sounds he was beginning to make because of you. Leaning forward you gave the tip of his cock a playful kiss, before fully taking the tip into your mouth. 

“Ah, fuck…,” escaped his lips and met your ears as you did so, his shoulders visibly relaxing as you moved further down on him. He was practically mewling as your tongue made patterns around and on the underside of his cock, cheeks hollowing out you pulled back giving him the perfect amount of pressure before diving back down. Your hands were settled on his thighs at this point, squeezing his tensing muscles and digging your fingernails into his skin for extra sensation. Josh’s hands had a firm grip on your hair, as if he was holding on for dear life. He tried to keep his head clear so he didn’t embarrass himself with how quickly his high was approaching him, but you were making that difficult as you reached up to cup his balls and roll them softly in your hand. He wanted this to last, and that wasn’t going to happen with the rate you were going and how fast your head was bobbing up and down on him. Gently but firmly he tried to pull you off of him, to get you back on your feet so he could give you some attention but you weren’t having it. Without missing a beat you reached up to take his hands from your hair and planted his hands on the shower wall. Your Vampire strength came in handy as he pushed against you, but he relented as you looked up at him through your eyelashes, mouth full of his cock. Your name echoed in the air as you went back to work on him, along with a string of more curses. He was close, and you practically smiled around him when you could tell he was feeling good from what you were doing to him. You relaxed your throat and went all the way down, letting the tip reach down into your throat while the curls at the base of his cock were simultaneously pressing against your nose. At this point he was thrusting into your mouth on his own, trying to keep up with the rhythm you had set. 

“Shit-, fuck, oh go-,” he sputtered out, opening his eyes to look down at you once more, not wanting to miss a second of this. You looked up at him one last time and his high hit him like a train, with a sound that started out like a loud groan but fizzled out into a high pitched whine filled the shower.. He spilled down your throat, and you gladly swallowed everything he gave you. As the last few drops hit your tongue, you slowly pulled off of him with a pop. The sensitivity was already setting in for him, but you couldn’t help yourself but to give the tip a firm kiss as he softened which caused his hips to jerk and soft squeak to leave his throat. 

Letting go of his hands against the wall you let him help you stand. Before you could get your bearings you found yourself pressed against the shower wall, Josh’s chest heaving against yours as he gave you one of the most possessive and passionate kisses you shared so far. Your mouth instantly fell open granting him access and he wasted no time slipping his tongue into your mouth. He didn’t care if he could taste himself on your tongue, in fact knowing it was him spurred him on even more. Your hands found their home in his hair, tangling your fingers in his curls while your thumbs stroked the shaved sides of his head. The steam was filling up the shower and fogging up the glass. As you made out and moaned into each other's mouths, his hands kneaded the outside of your thighs. His right foot slipped between your feet and he nudged his thigh between your legs. Even with the heat from the shower, you could feel the warmth of the sigil radiating from his skin. 

You let out a gasp when his fingers crept around the back of your thighs and he pulled you up higher on his thigh, planting your core directly on top of the sigil. The combination of his searing kisses and the pressure from his thigh between yours had you biting down on his bottom lip, whimpering. Even with his lip trapped between your teeth you could feel his muscles spread into a smug smile. You began rocking back and forth against his thigh, while his hands helped guide your movements. He peppered kisses all along your face and your neck, working his way down before bending his head to take one of your nipples into his mouth, causing you to nearly hit your head on the wall as you cried out. 

You sped up your movements as his tongue swirled around the sensitive skin, you were so wet you easily slid back and forth on his thigh. With a pop he let go of your nipple, and he moved to the other to give it the same treatment. In the midst of this, you felt his thumb reach over and just barely graze your clit. He held it there, just barely out of reach, causing you to jerk forward even harder to get any pressure from it. 

You were almost starting to get frustrated when you felt him chuckle slightly, and he let go of you to move up and whisper in your ear, “what is it? Need something?” 

The cocky tone in his voice caused you to shoot your eyes open, glaring at him, “you little shit…”

He kissed the hinge of your jaw and grazed his tongue along the shell of your ear, “you and I both know that is the wrong adjective to use, sweetheart.”

Before you could protest or make a sarcastic reply his thumb surged forward and gave you the pressure you needed, expertly rolling figure-8’s around you. Your movements faltered from the sudden burst of pleasure, and you could feel the coil within you begin to tighten. Your arms loosely looped around his neck for balance, and Josh leaned his forehead against yours. His free hand was gripping your ass so tightly as you moved that if you had been human there would’ve been bruises in his wake. 

He asked softly, “is that what you needed? Hmm?” 

All you could do at this point was nod with your high barreling towards you. There was no sense of rhythm now, just sloppy movements and gasps for breath. His thumb moved even faster against you, wanting you to come just as much as you did. He looked down to watch you move, slack jawed at how desperate you were to reach your high; how desperate you were for him. 

“Let go for me, baby…,” was all he whispered before you were shuddering against him. Your fingernails dug into his shoulders as you rode out your high. He kept up his movements even when it became too sensitive, giving you a little payback from earlier before retreating his hand and letting it rest on your hip. 

You began to catch your breath, and you started to disengage from your hunter, figuring the human was spent after your little escapade. You were wrong, so wrong. He sensed you trying to move away and confidently slid his hand up to your jaw, turning your head from the side to face him.

“Do you really think I’m done with you?” 

“I-”

He surged forward, pressing his hard cock against your stomach, showing you he was far from ready for this to be over. 

You smirked at him, “ok, Boy Scout…show me.” 

He grinned at you and spread your legs even farther to slot himself in between yours. With a small jump he had your back up against the wall, legs wrapped around his waist. He captured your lips before rearing back and plunging into you. A horse growl rose up from his throat as he felt your slick walls squeezed around him. You were so tight, so warm, if he hadn’t already come just a few minutes ago he would’ve been dangerously close to coming again. His pace was rough, and a lot faster than your previous time together. He still checked on you though, watching your face for any hint of discomfort, but those hints never came. 

“Harder…,” you huffed out.

Not needing to be told twice, he adjusted the grip on your ass and slammed back into you, bottoming out completely. You cried out his name, loving that he listened and understood exactly what you wanted. His bruising pace never faltered, and once more, you felt his hand reach between the two of you to start rolling your clit between his fingers. You sucked in some air between your teeth, still slightly sensitive from your first orgasm but the feeling only added to your pleasure. 

Josh rested his head against your shoulder, murmuring into your skin, “need you to come again…need to feel it…” 

You turned your face towards him to brush your lips against the shaved side, you darted out your tongue to catch a bead of sweat, feeling the stubble. 

This caused him to whine out, “please…”

Clamping down around him again, you felt every ridge of his drag along your walls. The combination of the swollen head of his cock rutting against your g-spot, and his fingers squeezing and rolling your clit had your second orgasm start to form at the base of your spine. He bit down on your shoulder, and another growl erupted from his throat. The edges of your vision started to blur as you chased your orgasm.

With one final hard pinch to your clit, your orgasm crashed into you, sending waves of pleasure throughout your body like lightning crackling across the sky. You screamed out at the intensity, not giving a shit if your neighbors heard you. 

Josh couldn’t hold on anymore and as you shuddered against him a second time his own high rolled through his body, and with a shout he slammed inside you one last time before completely emptying himself. 

Neither of you spoke for a few minutes, both of you out of breath. The blood finally started to return to his brain and he lifted his head up to look at you, memorizing your blissed out expression. He couldn’t get over how fucking beautiful you looked right now, cheeks flushed, eyes closed, sweaty hair matted against your scalp. 

His Vampire, spent and exhausted. 

Carefully, he pulled out of you and gently lowered your wobbly legs to the ground. You bit your lip at the loss of him, the wave of emotion catching you off guard. 

You tried to walk to the water, but your muscles gave out and you stumbled forward, sending Josh into action and catching you before you fell. The one thing your spacious shower needed was also the one thing you didn’t have in here: a bench. Thankfully, the built-in shelf that held your toiletries wasn’t very far, and he guided you underneath the spray to get your hair fully wet again. You leaned your head back into the water, grateful that Josh was right there in case you got wobbly again. This time it was him taking care of you afterwards, and for the first time since you’d known him you didn’t want to argue. 

Before you could reach for your shampoo, he already had it in his hand, “turn around,” he spoke softly. Your eyes met his before you did so, another unfamiliar emotion became stuck in your chest, and you turned before you thought he could see it. You weren’t used to this, having someone care. The last time you hooked up with an individual it was very much a ‘wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am’ situation, and you were ok with that. It wasn’t meant to be anything deeper, and that was ok. Then. But as Josh lathered up your hair, fingertips massaging your scalp, the mere hypothetical of Josh leaving as soon as he was done with you felt so wrong it threatened to let that emotion caught in your chest to bubble up into your throat. 

The feeling you had, when you were staring at him under that street light in the park, the one where you felt like a silly little girl, returned. At least, that's what you were telling yourself. That you were being irrational, that you were thinking too hard, that you were building expectations that didn’t need to exist. 

You were too lost in your thoughts to notice your hunters hands had left your hair, and had turned you around to rinse out your hair properly. When he saw your bottom lip trapped between your teeth and downcast eyes, he curled a finger under your chin and tilted it up, forcing you to look at him. 

“Still with me?” 

It was such a simple question, a little check in to make sure you were ok, but when your eyes met his, and those irises of molten molasses looked right through your facade, you couldn’t hold back that emotion lodged in your chest anymore. You threw your arms around his neck and clumsily kissed him again, allowing yourself to show him everything you were feeling through it. He hummed against your mouth and kissed you back, his hands gently rubbing circles in your lower back. 

After a few moments, the suds from your hair dripped down your back and onto his hands, reminding you both you still needed to rinse. 

“Sweetheart…,” he mumbled against your mouth.

 

You sniffed and nodded, feeling more grounded and less emotional now, and tilted your head back into the water and worked your fingers into your hair to get the shampoo fully rinsed out. 

The rest of the shower went by quickly, taking turns under the water to get bathed and fresh again. Josh’s hands barely left your body the whole time, as if he was afraid you would somehow float away like a lost balloon. You made a comment that he was trying to make up for him being unable to clean you up himself the night before, and he gave you a kiss on the cheek that said you were right, which made your chest tighten again. 

As you got out of the shower and grabbed towels for each other off the rack, Josh heard his phone buzz in his shorts pocket on the floor. Sighing roughly through his nose, he wrapped his towel around his waist and walked over to retrieve it, immediately seeing the “8 Missed Calls from Jake Kiszka”, and a slew of texts that mainly consisted of, “answer your fucking phone, fucker.” Before he could start to call him back, his phone buzzed again with Jake's name displayed at the top. 

With an eye roll, he answered the call, “this better be fucking good, Jake.” 

“Oh the prodigal son answers his phone! I’m so glad we have phones in case of emergencies!” 

“What the fuck do you want?” 

“I need you to meet me right now, and bring your little girlfriend. I think we might have just had a break in your case.” 

Josh turned around and looked at you, knowing you heard Jake on the phone loud and clear, “what do you mean?”

“I think we may have caught whoever the fuck is killing people in the act…”

To be continued...

Tag List:  @dannyandthekiszkas , @gretasmokerising , @sinners-go-to-drink-the-wine , @wideminded-dreamer , @runwayblues , @wildbluesorbit , @llightmyllovee , @rhythm-of-space , @sacredthefran , @writingcold , @alwaysonthemend , @wetkleenex-gvf , @josh-iamyour-mama , @lightsofthe-living-gvf , @gvfcinema , @sacredthethreadgvf , @losfacedevil , @jakekiszkasbuttsweat , @shutupdevvie , @hearts-hunger , @gretavanfleetposts , @ascendingtostardust , @mackalah , @andromeda-raine-gvf , @jake-kiszkas-smirk , @gracev0609 , @sacredjake , @earthlysorrows , @gvfpal ,

[inthemaelstrom]

ART ISN'T SUPPOSED TO MAKE YOU COMFORTABLE

By Jen Silverman (NY Times)

(Mx. Silverman is a playwright and the author, most recently, of the novel “There’s Going to Be Trouble.”)

When I was in college, I came across “The Sea and Poison,” a 1950s novel by Shusaku Endo. It tells the story of a doctor in postwar Japan who, as an intern years earlier, participated in a vivisection experiment on an American prisoner. Endo’s lens on the story is not the easiest one, ethically speaking; he doesn’t dwell on the suffering of the victim. Instead, he chooses to explore a more unsettling element: the humanity of the perpetrators.

When I say “humanity” I mean their confusion, self-justifications and willingness to lie to themselves. Atrocity doesn’t just come out of evil, Endo was saying, it emerges from self-interest, timidity, apathy and the desire for status. His novel showed me how, in the right crucible of social pressures, I, too, might delude myself into making a choice from which an atrocity results. Perhaps this is why the book has haunted me for nearly two decades, such that I’ve read it multiple times.

I was reminded of that novel at 2 o’clock in the morning recently as I scrolled through a social media account dedicated to collecting angry reader reviews. My attention was caught by someone named Nathan, whose take on “Paradise Lost” was: “Milton was a fascist turd.” But it was another reader, Ryan, who reeled me in with his response to John Updike’s “Rabbit, Run”: “This book made me oppose free speech.” From there, I hit the bank of “Lolita” reviews: Readers were appalled, frustrated, infuriated. What a disgusting man! How could Vladimir Nabokov have been permitted to write this book? Who let authors write such immoral, perverse characters anyway?

I was cackling as I scrolled but soon a realization struck me. Here on my screen was the distillation of a peculiar American illness: namely, that we have a profound and dangerous inclination to confuse art with moral instruction, and vice versa.

As someone who was born in the States but partially raised in a series of other countries, I’ve always found the sheer uncompromising force of American morality to be mesmerizing and terrifying. Despite our plurality of influences and beliefs, our national character seems inescapably informed by an Old Testament relationship to the notions of good and evil. This powerful construct infuses everything from our advertising campaigns to our political ones — and has now filtered into, and shifted, the function of our artistic works.

Maybe it’s because our political discourse swings between deranged and abhorrent on a daily basis and we would like to combat our feelings of powerlessness by insisting on moral simplicity in the stories we tell and receive. Or maybe it’s because many of the transgressions that flew under the radar in previous generations — acts of misogyny, racism and homophobia; abuses of power both macro and micro — are now being called out directly. We’re so intoxicated by openly naming these ills that we have begun operating under the misconception that to acknowledge each other’s complexity, in our communities as well as in our art, is to condone each other’s cruelties.

When I work with younger writers, I am frequently amazed by how quickly peer feedback sessions turn into a process of identifying which characters did or said insensitive things. Sometimes the writers rush to defend the character, but often they apologize shamefacedly for their own blind spot, and the discussion swerves into how to fix the morals of the piece. The suggestion that the values of a character can be neither the values of the writer nor the entire point of the piece seems more and more surprising — and apt to trigger discomfort.

While I typically share the progressive political views of my students, I’m troubled by their concern for righteousness over complexity. They do not want to be seen representing any values they do not personally hold. The result is that, in a moment in which our world has never felt so fast-changing and bewildering, our stories are getting simpler, less nuanced and less able to engage with the realities through which we���re living.

I can’t blame younger writers for believing that it is their job to convey a strenuously correct public morality. This same expectation filters into all the modes in which I work: novels, theater, TV and film. The demands of Internet Nathan and Internet Ryan — and the anxieties of my mentees — are not so different from those of the industry gatekeepers who work in the no-man’s land between art and money and whose job it is to strip stories of anything that could be ethically murky.

I have worked in TV writers’ rooms where “likability notes” came from on high as soon as a complex character was on the page — particularly when the character was female. Concern about her likability was most often a concern about her morals: Could she be perceived as promiscuous? Selfish? Aggressive? Was she a bad girlfriend or a bad wife? How quickly could she be rehabilitated into a model citizen for the viewers?

TV is not alone in this. A director I’m working with recently pitched our screenplay to a studio. When the executives passed, they told our team it was because the characters were too morally ambiguous and they’d been tasked with seeking material wherein the lesson was clear, so as not to unsettle their customer base. What they did not say, but did not need to, is that in the absence of adequate federal arts funding, American art is tied to the marketplace. Money is tight, and many corporations do not want to pay for stories that viewers might object to if they can buy something that plays blandly in the background of our lives.

But what art offers us is crucial precisely because it is not a bland backdrop or a platform for simple directives. Our books, plays, films and TV shows can do the most for us when they don’t serve as moral instruction manuals but allow us to glimpse our own hidden capacities, the slippery social contracts inside which we function, and the contradictions we all contain.

We need more narratives that tell us the truth about how complex our world is. We need stories that help us name and accept paradoxes, not ones that erase or ignore them. After all, our experience of living in communities with one another is often much more fluid and changeable than it is rigidly black and white. We have the audiences that we cultivate, and the more we cultivate audiences who believe that the job of art is to instruct instead of investigate, to judge instead of question, to seek easy clarity instead of holding multiple uncertainties, the more we will find ourselves inside a culture defined by rigidity, knee-jerk judgments and incuriosity. In our hair-trigger world of condemnation, division and isolation, art — not moralizing — has never been more crucial.

[skymaiden32]

His Guardian Angels

Read on AO3 here

Fandom: Thunderbirds

Tagging: @dragonoffantasyandreality @thundergeek59 @janetm74 @katblu42 @liseylou @amistrio @uniwolfcorn (Please ask if you would like to get alerts when I update or post new stories.)

Thundertober Day 2: Espionage

Kayo goes on a mission with Lady P to retrieve something that was stolen from International Rescue...

Continuity: TAG

------

The hallway crawled with guards as Kayo dodged expertly around boxes and complex machinery, keeping to the shadows as she always did. She hoped she could get there before the sale was made to the highest bidder. Penelope was buying her as much time as she could up there, she just hoped it was enough.

While she ran, she thought vaguely about how they had ended up in the first place. Long story short, it had been a long week, with non-stop and difficult rescues back to back. And a long week meant that even John, who was usually quite quick with security leaks and was sharper than a knife, didn’t see the virus slowly but surely attacking their networks until it was too late. Soon enough, EOS was almost taken out and their communications and trackers went offline. 

Brains and John had never resolved a security hazard faster in their lives, even giving EOS more resources to protect herself and IR’s information so that such a savage malware attack could never happen again. When they finally got their systems back online, after several long and agonising hours, Alan wasn’t answering anyone’s calls. 

Scott had been beside himself, Virgil and Gordon both wanted to bash in the heads of the responsible parties, and John still couldn’t let go of his guilt, despite the other’s best efforts. That was where Kayo came in. With her brothers still reeling from Alan’s disappearance, she’d taken the initiative and called in Lady Penelope for help. She was probably going to get an earful from Scott later for adding to the worry, but right now, she didn’t care. All she cared about was getting her little brother back…

Soon, she came to the end of the corridor, eyeing the two burly men with guns guarding a large metallic door. Bingo. The guards didn’t even know what hit them before she knocked them flat on their faces. Once she was sure they both out cold for hours to come, she swung the door open, furious expression turning to relief when her suspicions turned out to be correct.

Kayo saw Alan squint against the light that filtered through the doorway, in all likelihood framing her as his saviour. “K-Kayo…?” He croaked out shakily, as if not believing what he was seeing was real. 

She raced towards him, scooping him up into her arms and carrying him out the dark, dingy room without a word. Her heart broke into a million pieces when he clung onto her for dear life. “It’s me, Alan… And I’m not letting go for a long time…”

------

“And so, Mr Grafton, that is why I believe-” Her long tirade finally ended when her opponent interrupted her, sighing.

“Beg your pardon, Your Ladyship, but I do have another meeting waiting after you.” The crook sighed. “Perhaps we could finish this another time…”

Penelope frowned. “But Mr Grafton, I am simply explaining my concerns about this new monorail project of yours. If I can perhaps get a dear friend of mine to assist with the designs-”

“No! Absolutely not!” Grafton froze like a deer in headlights. Penelope hid her delight behind a well-trained pokerface. Got him. “I mean…” He quickly backtracked. “I have some of the best engineers in the country working on this thing. I assure you, it’s perfectly safe.”

The noblewoman glanced down at her compact, carefully watching as the light on the top flashed twice. Kayo had Alan, and had already left for home in Thunderbird Shadow. It was high time she did the same. She sighed in mock defeat. “Very well then.” She stood up, saving Grafton’s feet from an increasingly irritable Sherbert. “I suppose I had better get going.” She smiled at Grafton, deceptively sweet and cordial. “I do hope you can get the money you require for this project, Mr Grafton.”

“I have several…” he paused, “...assets I can offer my investors, Lady Penelope.”

Penelope smiled. “Oh I’m sure you do, Mr Grafton. I’m sure you do…” She left the room as quickly as she could without raising suspicion, glancing at Parker as she did. That one look between them confirmed all that Parker wanted to know. He didn’t have his so-called ‘assets’ anymore.

------

“Where the hell have you been, Kayo?!” The familiar voice practically screamed into her comms the second she came back online, as predicted. What she incorrectly guessed, however, was just who was doing the screaming. “Do you have any idea how worried we’ve all been? First Alan goes missing, and then you leave without telling anyone where you’re going?! You are in so much trouble when you get back.”

Kayo waited patiently for her brother to end his rant, and quickly cut in before he could say anything else. “Sorry Gordon, I had to maintain radio silence for this mission. This guy had already taken out our security. I just couldn’t risk him having some kind of backdoor and hearing all about it…”

Gordon, for perhaps the first time in his life, appeared to be speechless. “You mean…?”

“Yep.” Kayo confirmed. “I’ve got him, all thanks to Penelope. He’s asleep right now in the back seat of Shadow. Better get Virgil to set up an IV. Looks like those monsters didn’t give him any sort of nourishment.”

“I’m on it!” Gordon nodded on the hologram, and went to turn off the comm. Right before he did however, he said something that made her feel so much better. “I’m glad you did what you did. Both of you.” He grinned. “You guys are like his guardian angels.”

Kayo chuckled. “Thanks, Gordon. I’ll see you guys soon.”

[sociallyanxiouscryptid-writings]

Their Favourite Hobby part 3

This may or may not be very cruel, you decide once you finish reading. If it helps I have part 4 already in the works. Sorry but also not. 

Part 1

Part 2

~

By the time Villain made it out of that tunnel and back to the main building Hero and Superhero were already gone. Urgency surged through Villain’s veins, they had their phone out in seconds, dialling a number.

Two rings.

“I need a track on Hero and Superhero immediately.”

No reply on the other side but the sound of a keyboard and mouse was enough. Villain couldn’t stand waiting, they went to the car, connected the phone and took off at a dangerous speed.

“I can’t find them sir,” a voice said.

“What do you mean you can’t find them, they just left,” Villain yelled.

“They aren’t appearing anywhere. No CCTV, phone signal, mind sweep, nothing. They must have some sort of guard.”

“That is impossible. They can’t have just disappeared I was with them both ten minutes ago.”

“I am sorry sir.”

Villain growled, knuckles white against the steering wheel.

“I want a team sent out to Superhero’s house and the compound.”

“But sir that goes against-”

“I don’t care,” they yelled, “I will deal with Supervillain, send them all now.”

“You’ll deal with me hey?”

Villain just about crashed the car as Supervillain appeared in the passenger seat. They slammed on the breaks, and for a moment the car slid out of their control. Everything did. They couldn’t help Hero, couldn’t protect them from Superhero and now they can’t stop their car going into a ditch.

Well, the side of the road at least.  

Supervillain watched Villain casually, just another day in the job while Villain struggled to catch their breath, pressing their head against the steering wheel.

“Thank you, Nigel, but you can cancel that request. I will manage things from here,” Supervillain said.

“Yes sir.”

Supervillain leant over and hung the phone up before returning to their seat. They shifted themself to better face Villain, leant an elbow up by the head rest.

“So, what’s going on here?”

Villain closed their eyes, where could they even start? Their mind reeled, their mouth was full of words and yet, at the same time, empty of them. They didn’t know, not fully. All they had were snippets and ideas and feelings, and all of that wouldn’t be enough. Villain was supposed to be the one with the hard facts, the one who gets information. How could they admit they had willingly and knowingly omitted to do so with one of Superhero’s top enforcers?

In the Silence Supervillain kept talking.

“I was curious as to who would be going and activating such an old safehouse, I hadn’t even thought of the old mansion in years. I can honestly say thought I didn’t expect it to be you, and not with Hero either. That was a decent surprise.”

Villain opened their eyes and stared.

“How-”

Villain stopped themself, the cameras, of course. They sighed, resumed their original position.

“Quite the predicament you have got yourself in here. Fraternising with the enemy, getting yourself caught up with Superhero, you’ve been busy behind my back.”

“I’m not fraternising with the enemy,” Villain snapped.

“You’re right, fraternising would actually be productive, instead you’re using my resources for quirky little kidnappings that really aren’t that subtle.”

Villain scoffed, “don’t pretend you care about that, sleeping with Hero’s is basically a side hobby of yours.”

Supervillain’s brows knitted, “I haven’t slept with that many have I?”

“Enough that I knew you wouldn’t care about this,” Villain said.

“Fair,” Supervillain nodded. “My question then, is, well, I have many, but my main question is how did Superhero find you?”

Villain frowned, that was a good question.

“That place is before Superhero’s time, and I know for certain they didn’t know about it before now. So, how did they find it? And so quickly too? You and Hero were only there a couple hours at most.”

Villain stared down at their feet, their grip was a little more relaxed, mind a little more clear as Supervillain’s words shooed away the fog.

“They can’t be free…” Villain whispered.

“Pardon?”

Villain sat up.

“Superhero has a tracker on Hero.”

Supervillains brows rose, but their eyes said they were already at that step.

“Huh, that’s weird, I thought Hero was meant to be Superhero’s most trusted enforcer?”

Villain eyed Supervillain.

“What do you know?”

“Enough that you should report to your boss before deciding to go on a suicide mission against one of the most powerful people in existence.”

Villain ignore them.

“What do you know?

Supervillain sighed, “I know that things aren’t as La-de-da over there as we have been led to believe, and that Superhero goes to great measures to keep something a secret. I don’t really know what, but I know it’s bad, and it involves Hero, all the heroes in fact.”

“All of them?” Villain frowned.

Hero feels trapped, they are scared, of Superhero clearly. But if that’s the case for everyone… what does that mean? That level of fear, it has to be some degree of abuse for sure, but then why stay? And if all of them are experiencing it why not speak up about it? They are all powerful people, together they could do it surely.

And then a wild idea entered Villain’s mind, what if none of the heroes are willingly heroes?

But Hero has stood up to Villains of all calibres, the worst of the worst that even Villain couldn’t stand up to. What could Superhero be possibly doing to cause Hero of all people to be so afraid, that would keep them anywhere they didn’t want to be?

“Now that you are a bit calmer,” Supervillain said, “I need you to stay calm, no rushing off into this situation. You aren’t going to find Superhero today.”

A shot of panic went through Villain.

“What do you mean?”

Supervillain held out a hand, “I said remain calm. If Superhero doesn’t want to be found, they won’t be found. They have people whose specific job it is to hide them from all detection.”

“But-”

“I know, I heard, Hero is in trouble, I am willing to help you, but we have to wait. Superhero’s people can only keep complete guard up for a week at the most, after that it begins to falter and if we keep a fine enough net out it will pop up immediately.”

Villain turned in their seat.

“A week? That’s too long. Something is wrong, and I can feel it.”

“Villain, I know. I understand you want to protect Hero, but this is the best we can do. You will get yourself killed if you try anything today and I can’t let that happen.”

Villain shook their head.

“No, I can’t, I won’t.”

“Villain, this is an order.”

“Fuck your orders, I am not leaving Hero there for another second when I know they are in danger.”

Supervillain sighed, “I thought as much.”

In that moment Villain’s door opened and hands reached in, grabbing them. They struggled, but the hands were strong and skilled and once Villain’s arms were out of the way, a needle pierced their neck.

“I’m sorry Villain. We will get them out, I promise.”

The words began drifting away as Villain’s eyes grew heavy. The hands vanished, Villain’s head lolled to the side, seatbelt holding them up as the world faded to black.

~

A week was too long. Far, far too long. Supervillain kept Villain couped up at the compound, restricted to a very small area that remained in Supervillain’s area of awareness. They couldn’t blame Supervillain, they were right, without the appropriate supervision Villain one hundred percent would have cooked up an insane plan and headed out without a second thought. They wanted to very badly.

But they didn’t, and it felt like they were burning from the inside out. It was a unique experience. For the longest time Villain had seen Hero as a game. A fun little game that made them feel good afterwards. But at some point, the game was no longer a game and an excuse to be around Hero, because it wasn’t the game that made them feel good, it was Hero.

And now that Hero was in danger, now that they had seen how afraid Hero was, seen them cry, something else shifted inside of them. The world was a little less black and white, and now Villain saw red too.  

“I’ve never seen you like this,” Supervillain said, watching Villain from across the table.

Villain stared down at their plate of barely touched food.

“You never really get close to people,” they continued, “does anyone here other then me even know your real name?”

Villain shifted food around with their fork.

“I mean it’s perfectly fine if you are the type of person who just likes being alone, but you don’t really strike me as that type of person.

Villain shrugged.

“People just get in the way.”

Supervillain scoffed.

“I don’t believe you actually think that, if that’s the case you wouldn’t have let Hero get close, unless you are going to try and tell me romantic love is the ‘one true love that breaks through anything’,” Supervillain mocked.

Villain glanced up at them, back down at their food. Supervillain’s smile faded.

“Ok, now I am getting the sense this is a trauma thing and you don’t need to talk about it.”

Villain shrugged.

“Have you talked to anyone about it?” Supervillain asked.

An awkward glance.

“Hero,” Villain said.

“Ideally I meant a psychologist, but that’s something I guess.”

Villain shrugged again, “Hero was there with me when it happened, they understand which helps.”

Supervillain’s eyes widened. “It was recent? It wasn’t… oh… Other Villain?”

Villain nodded.

“I’m not a person who has many friends, just had one really good one.”

And Villain let them down, let them be killed painfully and slowly. It was one of the first times Hero went against what Villain thought was their nature, went out of their way to help Villain, tried to save Other Villain. Villain remembers them covered in blood, stitching up their friend, taking them to a safe house. But neither of them knew about the poison, and by the time they did it was too late. Other Villain died in Villain’s arms.

At least they got to say goodbye.

Villain put down their fork.

“I’m going for a walk,” they said, standing.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring anything up,” Supervillain said.

Another shrug.

“It doesn’t matter. I just hope I don’t lose another person,” Villain couldn’t keep the bitterness out of their voice. It wasn’t Supervillain’s fault, they were doing what had to be done in this situation, but it didn’t hurt Villain any less.

Another sleepless night went by, another day. Villain lay in their bed staring up at the ceiling, hating Supervillain, hating Superhero and eventually the world in general. If the world wasn’t such a shitty place, Villain wouldn’t be a villain, Hero wouldn’t be a hero and maybe they would have never met, but at least this wouldn’t be happening. At least they wouldn’t be suffering.

Villain’s bedroom door flew open, Nigel.

“We found them.”

Villain shot up and rushed out of the room.

“Are they ok?”

“Can’t tell, but we think they are at some sort of safehouse, or at least a building Superhero went to great lengths to keep secret.”

“That seems to be a common theme lately,” Villain said.  

“Supervillain has an extraction team already ready and a second suiting up, Supervillain is waiting for you at the car.”

Villain nodded and the two split off. The moment Nigel was gone Villain took off into a run, navigating the halls of the compound until they were at the garage, Supervillain waiting.

“You need to prepare yourself for what might happen next,” Supervillain said.

“Don’t say that, they’re gonna be fine.”

“I don’t mean that, I mean for the chance of this being an ambush,” Supervillain said. “If it turns that way you are to evacuate with me immediately. I am only letting you come in the first place out of curtesy, but you are far too valuable to get captured. The information you have in your head, what they could do with your abilities, I am not going to risk that kind of compromise for anything, understand?”

Villain nodded, but neither were convinced.

“Let’s go then.”

The extraction team got into a car behind them, and the two cars took off down the road, slowly their pace only once they got off of private property.

The address wasn’t where Villain expected it to be, which perhaps worked in their favour. It was on a more remote side of the city, an old, abandoned building four storey’s tall with a basement below.

“This smells very fishy to me,” Supervillain said.

“We aren’t turning around,” Villain said.

“No, but we need to be careful.”

They parked two blocks away, the extraction team interspersing between the buildings as they approached the target. Villain and Supervillain led, Supervillain grabbing Villain’s arms as they approached a door and they both vanished.

They appeared on the other side, Supervillain on high alert but no guards stood there. Supervillain unlocked the door, let the team flood in.

“High alert everyone, the chances of an ambush are high, recognise your nearest teleporter and be ready to get out, if need be,” Supervillain said as the team walked by.

The extraction team split up, each taking a floor, three of them went down. Villain and Supervillain followed those ones.

“Now Villain, don’t go rushing in. Stay by my side, no matter what happens.”

Villain didn’t answer. This entire time, this entire week they had been fighting their own mind to remain logical, to be the calm strategic person they usually are. They hated running on impulse, being purely reactive but the fight was getting hard. When they see Hero, they don’t know what they will do.

The basement was locked, Supervillain grabbed Villain’s arm again and they vanished, appearing on the other side.

The room smelt like blood. Old and dried and rancid. An intense nausea hit Villain and if they had eaten at all today it would have come straight back up. The room was large and dark, Villain took out their phone and turned on the torch.

“Villain wait here while I unlock the door,” Supervillain said.

Villain took a few steps but forced themself to stop walking. It hurt to, but logic, they had to remember logic. The light didn’t reach a single wall around them, just a few metres along the cement floor.

And then the lights turned on.

A bright and blinding flash that seared their eyes. Villain grimaced, eyes watering, covering them in an attempt to adjust. After a moment they regained blurry vision and the blinked at a black blur hanging across the room. They didn’t need to see to know.

“Hero,” Villain breathed and rushed over.

Their vision returned and they stared at Hero’s hanging form, chains around their wrists keeping their toes just on the ground. They were covered in blood, no wounds to see but the bruises on their face and redness around their wrists.

“Hero,” Villain said, gently nudging them.  

Hero startled, jerking aware as their eyes snapped to Villain, grimacing as the chains swayed, pulling against them, rubbing their wrists.

“Hey, it’s ok, it’s me,” Villain said.

Hero started, breath easing, but they said nothing.

“I am so sorry,” Villain said, “I tried but Supervillains wouldn’t,” they stopped, took a breath. “I am going to get you down.”

Villain moved behind them to where the chains were fastened.

They undid it, easing them down as slowly as possible, Hero standing shakily the moment they could. Villain released it faster then, until everything was completely slack and quickly rushed back to Hero’s side, pulling out some lock picks.

“Why are you here,” Hero rasped.

Villain stopped, frowned.

“What do you mean why am I here? I told you I am not leaving you with them.”

Villain watched anger seep into Hero’s features.

“Has my point not already been proven? You can’t help me, and you are only making things worse by trying.”

But something seemed off, Villain didn’t see it reach their eyes.

“We can protect you, fighting superheroes and heroes is what we do.”

Hero’s hand shot out, chains rattling as their fingers wrapped around Villain’s neck so fast and sudden, they choked. Hero snarled.  

“You need to give up on this childish endeavour. I am not a damsel for you to save, and you are not a hero. You are a worthless villain, and I am done with this game of yours.”

“Hero-”

Villain’s words were cut off as Hero squeezed tighter and tighter.

“I was never interested in you,” Hero said, “how could I? You are nothing and I am a hero, we are opposites.”

Villain’s vision was fading, black dots dancing, their face changing colours.

“I hate you,” Hero said.

Villain’s neck snapped and the world vanished.  

~

Let me know if the tags work cos I still can’t tell

@hollowgast1

@leafamaranth

@pigeonwhumps

@laffy-taffy-creations

@paintedpigeon1

@empathyraven

@enigmawritesstuff

@psychiclibrariesquotestoad

@thedeepvoidinmyheart

@painless-and-colourful

[houseofbrat]

Hey HoB - I have a question on the Cambs revamp and whether this represents a victory of style over substance.

Royal Watchers are over the moon with their new social media because it gives them content to consume but I’m not so sold on it appealing to gen z and shoring up support for the monarchy, which is how they’re trying to justify the Hollywood celeb style rebrand. Personally I found their comms over the Coronation weekend in very poor taste, seeming to erase The King and Queen and promote it as it was their event (after they disappeared for a month and only resurfaced the Thurs before when crowds had gathered to act like it was for them).

But does anyone see through it and will the media eventually see through it. Take the big lunch on the Sunday. The Yorks were already posted to Windsor so why didn’t they go to Cornwall or Chester (remember those titles?) to celebrate with local people. Instead they went to the long walk where Royalists were gathering for the concert so the headlines were they were “mobbed” and it looks great on their socials. But to me it misses the point of what their role is supposed to be?

Same for the pic on World Bee Day, something Catherine has never done an engagement for. But she’s suddenly cast as the “Queen Bee” (such a fortuitous headline - almost like it was planned) when The King has advocated for bees & beekeepers for years and the Queen sells honey from her private beehives to raise funds for charity.

This is a long way of asking if you see the current focus on style rather than substance being a winning strategy? Has it changed William’s prospects for when he’s eventually King? I think they’re underestimating the intelligence of gen z that flashy 60 second reels are what will win them over if they’re already ambivalent, especially as both W&C are now middle aged.

Maybe I’m old fashioned but I think engaging people where they are is still the best way to win them over. I think about the King and Queen’s visit to Project Zero early in their reign. QC had met one of the volunteers of the charity at a big lunch, he’d asked her to visit, she said write to me, he did and she followed through and took The King.

They interviewed some of the youth that go to the center and common consensus was they didn’t care about the Monarchy but they could see the genuine efforts to engage and that’s shifted them from ambivalence. I just don’t see Hollywood videos having the same affect or am I just naive?

Sorry for the long post but just wanted to give context for my thoughts and interested to hear your opinion and predictions.

[ask from 21 May 2023]

I always tend to think of social media--in whatever specific app or modality--as a tool. It's a delivery system for information. At this point, I think they are just putting up content even if they can't tie it directly to a patronage or visit. I'm not really sure if that's bad in the long run. Also, neither Will nor Kate make enough visits on the regular to constantly give their chief of social media enough content without doing photos like the beekeeping one, so they have to pull from somewhere.

The only thing that would really change William's prospects as king is if he did more non-Royal Foundation visits on a regular basis. Except he doesn't. And won't. He would have to do things like the Project Zero visit you mentioned above. Except he won't because he prioritizes the causes he wants to champion: mental health, homelessness, and the environment.

William is not as well-practiced in visiting people and places he doesn't have a direct interest in as he should be, at the age of 41. Why--when he and Kate visited Wales earlier this year in March--did they have to include a tie-in to mental health? Shouldn't visiting the people of Wales and seeing all the interesting things they are up to be enough? Apparently not. If a visit cannot be tied to the issues and causes of their Royal Foundation, they aren't interested in doing it.

Which means they are excluding vast swaths of the British public from ever meeting them.

Kate is guilty of it too. Even next week when Kate visits the National Portrait Gallery for their re-opening, there's going to be a portion of the visit devoted to seeing what kids under the age of 5 are up to at the NPG. Yet another visit devoted to the kiddies. When is she ever going to visit a factory? I'm pretty sure the UK still has plenty of those.

You're never going to see Will or Kate do a visit like Charles did at a Kellogg's factory a few months ago. They consider it beneath them because they act like celebrity activists. Because when it comes down to it, they are.

[martianbugsbunny]

The Truth Echoes Darkly (A Pre-CaptainCroc Fic)

*struts into the room like a pigeon with an attitude problem* *removes rainbow sunglasses* HOWDY!! I came up with this when I was thinking “Gee, how could the Echo Caves on Neverland have been more awkward?” And the Muse answered “Probably if it was CaptainCroc instead of CaptainSwan.” It’s technically pre-CaptainCroc, because they don’t get together by the end, but if I get bored someday I could do a Part 2 in which they do. Enjoy!!!

Killian held his breath as Snow White and David spilled their secrets to the cave. She wanted another child—Killian didn’t he think he could want that, if his first child had been torn from his arms in such a cruel manner as Emma was from Snow, but if she was brave enough, then good luck to her.

No, really. She would need a healthy dose of luck to have the second child she wanted. Killian knew it even before David spoke his little bit of truth, as he was already privy to that information. David was permanently tied to Neverland. Leaving was impossible for him. Which, to be fair, Killian was starting to believe it was for all of them; Pan had a stranglehold on not only the island, but the waterways and airspace around it. Not to mention, he could send his shadow into another realm to drag them back one by one and mount their heads on pikes if he liked.

The point was, the royal couple told the cave, and each other, their secrets, and now they were furious at each other.

“You can’t leave Neverland and you didn’t think to tell me?” Snow asked incredulously. Killian rolled his eyes; this really wasn’t the time for them to have their full-on argument. The distance between them and Baelfire, trapped in a cage on that central pillar of rock, was still far too wide for anyone to cross.

David apparently also realized this, as he didn’t even try to explain himself. Snow caught Emma’s eye, and Emma could only shrug, but there was a steely look on her face that silenced Snow rather effectively.

Killian and Emma eyed each other apprehensively. Neither of them wanted to give up their secret. Emma wasn’t the only one who wore stylish, hand-stitched leather armor, and she definitely wasn’t the only one with tough, handcrafted walls around their innermost heart.

He tried to gauge whether it would be more awkward to say it to her, or to Baelfire—Neal, he reminded himself. He changed his name in the Land Without Magic. Emma he had shared a kiss with earlier, and a rather pleasant one if he was honest, regardless of how much meaning it held for either of them. Neal…oh, no two ways about it, it would be more awkward for Killian to spill his guts in front of him.

Killian inhaled, closing his eyes. Then he opened them and stared out into the void of the cavern. “I’m in love,” he said. “I didn’t think after Milah, I ever could be again, but…I am.”

Nothing happened. David stared at him suspiciously. “I was supposed to hate him forever,” Killian said. “But I should’ve known the different ways obsession can evolve.” Realization began to dawn on the faces of the entire Charming family. “I’m in love with Rumplestiltskin,” Killian called into the darkness.

After Neal was rescued and the group ventured back outside of the cave, Killian found himself hanging back. He wasn’t afraid of their judgement; he didn’t care too much what they thought of him. But he had only admitted it to himself two days ago, and his mind was still reeling from the shock.

“That’s your darkest secret?”

A cool voice spoke from just over Killian’s shoulder. “I would’ve expected a pirate to have darker things on his soul.”

“Than loving you, crocodile? You’re as dark as it gets.” Killian turned to face Rumple. As usual, a mask of smug calmness covered any emotion he might’ve been feeling.

“I’ve decided I’m going to survive Neverland, pirate,” Rumple said. His voice was slightly raspy, and very quiet. Killian might dream of sounding so sinister, but he could never quite get on that level. “And if I am, then so are you. I can’t wait to torment you with this knowledge for the rest of your puny mortal life.”

The next instant he was gone, vanished into thin air rather than in a swirl of violet mist, as he usually seemed so fond of doing. It was the same intimidation tactic Peter Pan used, actually. They were smart to both employ it, as it was quite jarring.

Killian smirked. If the Dark One wanted to obsess about holding Killian’s heart over his head, let him. Killian knew exactly where that would lead.

Your move, crocodile, he thought, plunging back into the jungle.

[sheepinwolfcountry]

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

Are you quite all right?

TESSA

Yeah, just… your tape recorder. It’s old.

ARCHIVIST

I get that a lot.

TESSA

I just mean, I’ve been thinking about “analog” and “digital,” what we mean by them?

ARCHIVIST

In terms of information…?

TESSA

Yeah. We use the word “digital” to refer to one specific way of storing information – discrete signal values interpreted at pre-established levels. “Analog” is just a fancy way of saying “everything else.”

ARCHIVIST

I, uh –

TESSA

[speaking over him] Almost everything in the world is analog, but we’re obsessed with digital. We try to surrender everything into it, break the world down and turn it into as much binary as it takes. But it’s not the same.

I used to work on OCR programs, teaching computers to read, to take the messy physicality of the written word and convert it into something that a computer can understand in a digital format.

ARCHIVIST

I’m not sure what this has to do with my tape recorder.

TESSA

Magnetic tape. Everyone thinks it’s analog, but it’s digital. A lower-tech version than what we use now, but people forget that it was used to store computerized data for decades. Maybe it reminds people of a film reel, or, or maybe nostalgia turns everything analog.

Although people always think of digital as not really there, but the thing is, information is always physically present. It doesn’t exist as some formless nothing. Even within the tiniest, most advanced storage systems, physical memory cells change and alter themselves to render that information in a language all of their own.

I suppose it isn’t language, not really, because, because language as we use it is about as far from digital as you can get. We may call them words, but, the units of data that a computer works with are by their nature discrete and definite, while the words we use are clumsy, vague things, always at the whim of interpretation and decay.

It’s the obvious thing to say, that a computer cannot feel, but it’s true. No sequence of distinct ones and zeros can replicate the swirling cocktail of chemicals and, and, you know, nerves that is a human being. Or any other animal for that matter. Nothing about humanity is binary.

ARCHIVIST

…r-right. So, you work in computers, then.

TESSA

Sorry, I, um… it’s been a while since I talked to someone in person? Been spending a lot of time in my own head, you know. Used to just dumping information when I get the chance. I have a blog, actually, but I haven’t posted for almost a year. Almost too embarrassed to, now… Assuming I’m not losing my mind, of course!

ARCHIVIST

Yes, I hear that a lot, too.

TESSA

Well, that’s what’s terrifying, isn’t it? Your mind is all you are, there’s no backup, or you know, reset, If it goes. I’m not just talking about madness as it appears, but what it is from inside. The way people talk about it, it’s like you have to think you’re saying that our mind is everything we perceive, everything we are. That means you can never know when your grasp might be slipping. I’m not convinced that’s it, though.

Or maybe deep down somewhere inside, you understand what’s happening to you and – no. I am, I don’t know which scares me more.

ARCHIVIST

Uh, look, I don’t want to rush you –

TESSA

I’ve got a lot of friends whose retirement plans basically come down to uploading their minds into a computer and living forever in a virtual world. They’re so sure it’s just around the corner. I’ve never had the heart to tell them it’s impossible – that the human brain is a wet mess of analog signal interpretation that is as far removed from the clean logics of digital processing as it’s possible to be.

We’ve tricked ourselves into thinking that computers and people have anything in common? But no matter how good we may program them to be at pretending to think like us, that’s all we’ll ever be. Crossing the line from meat and chemicals into pure digital systems is impossible. And everything else is just sophisticated programming and, and illusion.

ARCHIVIST

I mean, that’s fascinating, Miss Winters, but I must politely ask you to start your statement.

TESSA

What do you think I’ve been doing?

ARCHIVIST

…traditionally, our concerns are with the particulars of the supernatural incident, its origins and manifestations.

TESSA

I’m giving you context.

ARCHIVIST

Right…

In that case, I still need to make the official notations.

Statement of Tessa Winters, regarding a strange computer program she downloaded from the Deep Web three months ago.

Is that accurate?

TESSA

[heh] Well, first off, I didn’t find it on “the Deep Web” – god, it’s like talking to my grandpa! Let me explain something quickly: any time someone tries to give you a line about the “the Deep Web,” or even better, “the darknet,” chances are they wouldn’t know a VPN from their own ass. There’s not some secret, sinister underbelly of the internet where, with the right passwords and double-talk, you can hack your way into a black market of assassins, drug lords, and secret forums.

It’s just that some websites, well, we need to be a bit more security-minded, and need you to use the right, you know, software, so you’re not monitored. – I mean, yes, there’s drug stuff on there, but it’s mostly just paranoid geeks who don’t want to be caught pirating Photoshop.

ARCHIVIST

Noted.

Statement recorded direct from subject 7th January, 2017. Statement begins.

TESSA (STATEMENT)

Have you ever heard of Sergey Ushanka? I’d guess not. He’s one of the less well-known online spook stories, and you don’t look like you’re a regular presence in the chatbot or neural net communities.

The story goes back to about 1983, during the first home computer boom. There was this programmer by the name of Sergey Ushanka – I don’t know if that’s his real name, probably not… but, since a “ushanka” is a type of furry Russian hat, and he probably never actually existed… but, he was supposed to have been a real digital guru.

Well, according to the story, he, he got sick. In most versions it’s, uh, it’s brain cancer, but some say early-onset Alzheimer’s, or some sort of undiagnosed brain infection. Point is, it was killing him, and it affected his brain.

Now, Sergey didn’t want to die, the idea of death terrified him, and whatever was eating his mind gave him the idea to try and save his consciousness, to, um, to upload his brain.

Well, the next bit, it, um, depends on how ghoulish a version of the story you’re told.

In some, he spends a fortune and every last hour of his last months trying desperately to code his own mind into his system, and he ends up lying dead at the keyboard, decomposing fingers still tapping away the last slivers of himself.

Other versions get a bit more grotesque. Handwritten code in his own blood feeding into the machine. I even heard one where he took the direct approach, removed the casing of his computer, carved off the top of his skull, and used the last ounces of his strength to impossibly shove his own deceased brain right into the circuitry.

Whatever version you’re told, the story goes that it actually worked, and the police found a pile of floppy disks full of impossible code next to the mutilated body of Sergey Ushanka.

I’m sure you can guess the next bit. First on floppy disks, then later on CD, and eventually downloaded directly. Sergei Ushanka has been a running prank for people who like to code text parsers and chatbots. They’re not unlike screamer videos, just a lot slower and, ideally, subtler.

You create a program which appears to be a chat window with a stranger who identifies themselves as Sergey. The responses should be as naturalistic as possible to begin with, and in the best ones it’s hard to tell if you’re talking to a bot for the first minute or two.

But then the responses start to break down, become more sinister, and keep referring to how much pain Sergey is in. Eventually, the only response the bot gives you is screaming and pleas to be released. The idea is that the chat bot is Sergey Ushanka’s mind, and he doesn’t like being in a computer nearly as much as he’d hoped. If it’s well-executed, it can be genuinely quite unsettling.

But the only two consistent details across all of them are a particular image of a heavily-pixelated screaming face, and the phrase “the angles cut me when I try to think,” which marks the start of the bot’s descent into madness. Well, as far as I know these two things have been consistent right back to the earliest versions of Sergey Ushanka.

Like I say, it’s quite a niche legend, but within certain communities, everyone’s tried their hand at making a Sergey Ushanka at least once. Well, even I looked into it once or twice, and I’m on the fringes. I’ve done a few projects with basic neural nets, but I’ve never really tried my hand at a chatbot, and gave up after a couple of hours. I used to love them. The whole thing really hit my sweet spot between creepy and nerdy, and if I found myself up at 4:00 in the morning after watching too many YouTube ghost videos, I’d often go on the hunt for a new one.

So, when I got a notification from the bot group I’m part of, and it was just a link to a file named your “Ushanka’s Despair.exe”, I didn’t hesitate. I downloaded it almost immediately. It was a bit disappointing to see it was a tiny file, barely over a megabyte. That didn’t bode well for the experience, but I was still keen to give it a go later that night, when the ambience was better.

I looked back at the post, and saw that underneath it was comment after comment telling the OP that they’d posted a broken link. I shrugged it off at the time, but looking back I think I was probably the first person to click it, and the only one it worked for. Just unlucky, I guess.

I forgot about it for a while, but I didn’t have anything scheduled for the next day, so I spent most of the evening drinking and messing about online. It was about two in the morning when I remembered what I had waiting in my downloads. I looked out the dark, empty street below, and a pleasing shiver run up my spine. I decided I was in the perfect mood to have a chat with Sergey Ushanka.

Opening the program brought up a chat window. It wasn’t like most of the others I’d seen; it looked closer to an old-school text adventure, with just a flashing line to indicate where to type your text, white on back. Aside from that, the window was empty.

I wasn’t exactly sure what to do, as usually, the bot would make the first move, so I decided to go with a generic hello. There was no way the bots didn’t have a response programmed for that.

I waited, but there didn’t seem to be any response. That was fine. Often these things were programmed with waiting times to give the impression of thinking or composing a response. After about 15 seconds, I’m about to give it up as non-functional and close it, when the answer comes.

It’s gibberish – just a mess of symbols and letters, like it was using the wrong characters. Some of them weren’t even ASCII. I didn’t have time to really process it, though, as they were generating quickly, and soon filled the whole screen.

They weren’t static, either, but changing and scrolling, and um, and it’s gonna sound weird and it was only for a moment, but I could have sworn I saw some of the symbols twitch? Like they were in pain?

It was making my eyes hurt to watch, and I started to feel dizzy… but I couldn’t bring myself to look away.

Even then, I thought I was just looking at a very well-done horror set piece, especially when I started to notice a handful of English words popping into the wall of shifting text, for a second or two at a time. One of them read “helphelphelp”, all run together, and another, “it peels my mind like knives.”

My mouth was dry, and my hands were shaking, but even then all I could think was [laugh] how good this was. I was genuinely impressed by how unsettled it was making me.

It was the laptop’s fan that finally got me. I gradually realized that it wasn’t making its normal whirring sounds anymore. It had changed to something harsher, less healthy-sounding, like it was desperately trying to expel air? It sounded like someone breathing out diseased lungs, pushing and straining and, and never stopping to take anything back in.

It was only at that point that the possibility of malware really occurred to me. I didn’t know how it would make my laptop fans sound like that, but my computer wasn’t acting right. I tried to exit the program, and predictably enough, it wouldn’t close. So I crashed it, planning to have a look through in safe mode.

Sure enough, the lights went dark, and the groaning sounds of the fan died, but the white text on the screen wasn’t going anywhere.

Now, that, I knew was impossible. Or maybe there might have been some way to keep it frozen on the screen when the computer turned off, but to have it keep changing and morphing, when there was clearly no power running through it? Well, if it’s possible I don’t know how you do it.

More words popped in and out of existence: “you wanted to talk” and “hihihihihi” over and over again.

Then all at once, the screen was filled with an image. It was grainy, like a very early webcam, and the camera appeared to be lying on a table looking up at a balding man. He appeared to be in his late 30s, I thought, and was shirtless, with a face frozen in pain or distress. Then he moved, and I realized that I must be watching a video file.

The man was crying. There was no sound, but I could see great heaving sobs that sent his whole body shuddering. He stared into a computer monitor, the edge of which I could just about see. He seemed to be sat in the dark, and his face was solely illuminated by the screen in front of him. I watched with mounting dread as the video continued. He reached down, to what I assumed would have been the keyboard, but he didn’t seem to be typing.

Instead, there was a sudden jerking motion, and he raised his hand to reveal one of the keys, that he had apparently torn off. He brought it to his mouth, and began to eat it. I could just about make out the snap of his jaw, as the hard plastic shattered between his teeth. And as he reached for the next one, I could see a trickle of blood from his lips.

Well, that was more than enough for me. I slammed the laptop shut, and pushed it away. I decided that whatever was ha-happening could wait until daylight. I turned on all the lights in my room and sat in an armchair drinking until I passed out, trying not to think about Sergey Ushanka.

I don’t know how long I slept for, but it can’t have been more than an hour or two, since it was still fully dark when I was woken by a snapping, crunching noise. I opened my eyes to see my TV screen on. It was showing that same video, the washed-out grainy blue making details almost impossible to distinguish, but there was noise now, coming through my speakers. I heard him crunching and eating the keys as he snapped them off, one by one.

I tried to figure out how the program could have jumped from my laptop to my TV, which wasn’t plugged in or networked to it. The only thing they had in common was the router and, and that didn’t make any sense, not unless someone was playing a really elaborate, really horrible prank on me, specifically. And I’m not the nicest person, but… I’ve never pissed anyone off that much.

All the time I was trying to figure this out, the video kept playing. The man’s breathing was labored and painful, and he was talking, muttering to himself, or maybe to me. There was no way to tell.

I couldn’t make out much through the mess he’d made of his mouth, and what I could hear, I didn’t understand. He was talking about how “it feels like thinking through cheese wire,” and “there’s no feeling, but the no feeling hurts,” and that “it’s cold without blood.”

He said that a lot. “It’s cold” and “it hurts.”

He spoke with a Russian accent. At one point, he stopped pulling at the keyboard, and reached out in front of him to where the monitor would be. There was a sound of breaking, and he pulled back a shard of glass. I don’t need to tell you what he did with it. The worst thing was, even though this meant the screen must have been shattered, somehow it was still illuminating his face.

I unplugged everything – the TV, the router, the speakers, everything. Well, that seemed to stop it, at least, at least for a while. I was in a bad way by this point, and I just left and wandered the streets until the sun came up. I didn’t take my phone, just… well, just in case.

That video was 17 hours long. I know this because it followed me until I watched all of it.

Any time I used a computer, watched TV, or looked too long at a screen, there it was. Didn’t matter if it was my own or someone else’s. After a few minutes, whatever I was looking at would melt away, and he’d be back, continuing to slowly, painfully eat his computer.

I tried to show it to a friend once, but he just looked at me like I was playing some weird joke. Only I could see it, apparently. I don’t want to be mad. I don’t think I am. But there’s no way really to know, is there?

After a month of this, I finally sat down and watched it through to the end. It was the longest day of my life, and by the end, I felt so very sick, I almost threw up when he smiled. Finally, he laid down in front of the camera and said:

“The maze is sharp on my mind.”

“The angles cut me when I try to think.”

Then he stopped moving. I could see the top of his head then, and the back of it seemed to be missing.

The picture stayed like that for about half an hour, and then the video ended. I haven’t seen it since.

I keep thinking about the idea of uploading your mind into a computer. I said it was impossible. I still think it’s impossible, in the way we want it to be. But I can’t stop wondering what it must be like to try and have thoughts, messy human thoughts, trapped in the rigid digital processes of a computer.

It must hurt. Though not a sort of pain that we can understand.

Is that enough? Do you have what you need?

ARCHIVIST

I think… uh, yes. I think we do.

TESSA

The way you’re looking at me, I’m going to assume you don’t know anything more about this than I do.

ARCHIVIST

Not really, I’m afraid. I can talk you through some other encounters we’ve recorded with supposedly haunted computers, and I think one of our post-grad students is working on something about supernatural manifestations in technology, but I don’t think we have anything else like this.

TESSA

Yeah, I figured. I just saw your post and thought, why not? And it does feel good to talk about it. You know?

ARCHIVIST

Yes, I very much understand.

Oh! While I have you –

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

Supplemental.

It looks like my posting on a few of the more tech-savvy boards appealing for statements has worked.

While the incident itself seems ultimately inconsequential, I was able to convince Tessa to have a look at Gertrude’s laptop, claiming to have locked myself out. I don’t know what she did – something about “command lines” and “administrative privileges” – but I now. Have. Access.

[slow exhale] I’m almost afraid –

[DOOR CREAKS]

TIM

Hey, where did you put the –

Oh. Sorry. Didn’t mean to disturb you while you were being suspicious –

ARCHIVIST

It’s fine.

TIM

No, no, I’ll – catch you when you’re not scheming.

[FOOTSTEPS WALKING AWAY]

ARCHIVIST

[quietly] No need to take that tone –

TIM

What?

ARCHIVIST

Nothing. I’ll see you later –

TIM

No.

[SMALL CLUNK LIKE A CHAIR MOVING]

What did you say?

ARCHIVIST

I said there’s no need for the attitude, I know things have been difficult, but –

TIM

Oh, they have, have they? “Things have been difficult?” You’ve spent a month staring at that footage – double-checking every moment, timing every tea break, looking at me like I somehow staged it – but no! You’re right: “Things have been difficult.”

ARCHIVIST

It just seems a little too convenient!

TIM

Excuse me!?

ARCHIVIST

I mean, the CCTV is so corrupted that the police can’t just use it immediately, and then they happen to finish restoring it just when I start really digging into the murder!? And if it was an option, why not clean it up when she first disappeared!?

And don’t get me started on the lack of cameras in the Archives – I know, I know Elias’s whole spiel about “signal degradation” and “installation issues,” but I don’t buy it. I mean, he got the CO2 system put in easily enough –

TIM

Shut. Up.

ARCHIVIST

What –

TIM

Shut up. Just stop talking. I’m sick of this. I’m sick of you! We didn’t kill Gertrude, and no one wants to kill you, you pompous idiot!

ARCHIVIST

Now, listen here –

TIM

No. No. You listen, for once. I was fine in research. Happy. Then you asked me to be transferred here and suddenly it’s all monsters and killers and secret passages, oh my!

And the worst thing – the actual worst thing – is that no one here has my back. With any of it! Elias doesn’t care, Martin just wants a tea party, and Sasha – ugh – and you! – you’re treating me like I’m somehow to blame for it all, like I didn’t suffer the worst right alongside you!

ARCHIVIST

Well, excuse me if my experiences have made me –

TIM

Your experiences? Fuck you, I got eaten by worms because of you!

ARCHIVIST

Well, what do you want? You want sympathy?

TIM

You know what, yeah! Little bit of basic sympathy would have been nice!

ARCHIVIST

Jane Prentiss was not my fault, I did not bring her to the Archives –

TIM

Oh, but you went off the deep end afterwards, didn’t you!? Everything went to hell – and when you actually needed to be in charge, you just hid down here and played with your tape recorder –

ARCHIVIST

Well, what would you have me do!?

TIM

Anything! Anything that wasn’t turning into a paranoid lunatic would have been fine! Anything that showed you could actually do your job!

ARCHIVIST

Well, [nervous faux-laugh] Elias clearly thinks –

TIM

Elias should’ve fired you weeks ago!

ARCHIVIST

What!?

TIM

After everything you’ve pulled, you should be gone. But no! Instead, we all get to talk about how you’re feeling, because we’re worried about our stalker boss. I, I can’t do this anymore!

ARCHIVIST

Then quit.

If you hate it so much, leave your post in the Archives. Permanently.

TIM

Are you firing me?

ARCHIVIST

…I’m offering you a chance to quit. No notice period, I’ll even make sure you get the rest of the month’s paycheck.

Just say the words.

[PAUSE]

TIM

I want to…

ARCHIVIST

So do it.

TIM

I…

Can’t.

ARCHIVIST

Why not?

TIM

I, I can’t! I don’t know – why can’t I quit!?

ARCHIVIST

I-I don’t know. But I don’t think I can fire you either…

TIM

What?

ARCHIVIST

It’s this place.

TIM

…I don’t understand.

ARCHIVIST

Neither do I. I’m trying to figure it out, I-I’ve got the shape of it, but…

I’m sorry, Tim. Truly I am. But I cannot and will not trust you. This place isn’t right – you see that now. I don’t know how or why, but there is something very wrong with the Archives. And I don’t know who here is a victim of it – and who is an agent.

TIM

So… What do we do?

ARCHIVIST

For now…? I suppose we just… do our jobs.

TIM

I don’t want to.

ARCHIVIST

No.

TIM

…I, um, suppose I’ll see you later.

ARCHIVIST

I suppose so.

[DOOR CREAKS]

End supplemental.

[CLICK]

theo is this you .

[grotto-esque]

Art Isn’t Supposed to Make You Comfortable

By Jen Silverman

When I was in college, I came across “The Sea and Poison,” a 1950s novel by Shusaku Endo. It tells the story of a doctor in postwar Japan who, as an intern years earlier, participated in a vivisection experiment on an American prisoner. Endo’s lens on the story is not the easiest one, ethically speaking; he doesn’t dwell on the suffering of the victim. Instead, he chooses to explore a more unsettling element: the humanity of the perpetrators.

When I say “humanity” I mean their confusion, self-justifications and willingness to lie to themselves. Atrocity doesn’t just come out of evil, Endo was saying, it emerges from self-interest, timidity, apathy and the desire for status. His novel showed me how, in the right crucible of social pressures, I, too, might delude myself into making a choice from which an atrocity results. Perhaps this is why the book has haunted me for nearly two decades, such that I’ve read it multiple times.

I was reminded of that novel at 2 o’clock in the morning recently as I scrolled through a social media account dedicated to collecting angry reader reviews. My attention was caught by someone named Nathan, whose take on “Paradise Lost” was: “Milton was a fascist turd.” But it was another reader, Ryan, who reeled me in with his response to John Updike’s “Rabbit, Run”: “This book made me oppose free speech.” From there, I hit the bank of “Lolita” reviews: Readers were appalled, frustrated, infuriated. What a disgusting man! How could Vladimir Nabokov have been permitted to write this book? Who let authors write such immoral, perverse characters anyway?

I was cackling as I scrolled but soon a realization struck me. Here on my screen was the distillation of a peculiar American illness: namely, that we have a profound and dangerous inclination to confuse art with moral instruction, and vice versa.

As someone who was born in the States but partially raised in a series of other countries, I’ve always found the sheer uncompromising force of American morality to be mesmerizing and terrifying. Despite our plurality of influences and beliefs, our national character seems inescapably informed by an Old Testament relationship to the notions of good and evil. This powerful construct infuses everything from our advertising campaigns to our political ones — and has now filtered into, and shifted, the function of our artistic works.

Maybe it’s because our political discourse swings between deranged and abhorrent on a daily basis and we would like to combat our feelings of powerlessness by insisting on moral simplicity in the stories we tell and receive. Or maybe it’s because many of the transgressions that flew under the radar in previous generations — acts of misogyny, racism and homophobia; abuses of power both macro and micro — are now being called out directly. We’re so intoxicated by openly naming these ills that we have begun operating under the misconception that to acknowledge each other’s complexity, in our communities as well as in our art, is to condone each other’s cruelties.

When I work with younger writers, I am frequently amazed by how quickly peer feedback sessions turn into a process of identifying which characters did or said insensitive things. Sometimes the writers rush to defend the character, but often they apologize shamefacedly for their own blind spot, and the discussion swerves into how to fix the morals of the piece. The suggestion that the values of a character can be neither the values of the writer nor the entire point of the piece seems more and more surprising — and apt to trigger discomfort.

While I typically share the progressive political views of my students, I’m troubled by their concern for righteousness over complexity. They do not want to be seen representing any values they do not personally hold. The result is that, in a moment in which our world has never felt so fast-changing and bewildering, our stories are getting simpler, less nuanced and less able to engage with the realities through which we’re living.

I can’t blame younger writers for believing that it is their job to convey a strenuously correct public morality. This same expectation filters into all the modes in which I work: novels, theater, TV and film. The demands of Internet Nathan and Internet Ryan — and the anxieties of my mentees — are not so different from those of the industry gatekeepers who work in the no-man’s land between art and money and whose job it is to strip stories of anything that could be ethically murky.

I have worked in TV writers’ rooms where “likability notes” came from on high as soon as a complex character was on the page — particularly when the character was female. Concern about her likability was most often a concern about her morals: Could she be perceived as promiscuous? Selfish? Aggressive? Was she a bad girlfriend or a bad wife? How quickly could she be rehabilitated into a model citizen for the viewers?

TV is not alone in this. A director I’m working with recently pitched our screenplay to a studio. When the executives passed, they told our team it was because the characters were too morally ambiguous and they’d been tasked with seeking material wherein the lesson was clear, so as not to unsettle their customer base. What they did not say, but did not need to, is that in the absence of adequate federal arts funding, American art is tied to the marketplace. Money is tight, and many corporations do not want to pay for stories that viewers might object to if they can buy something that plays blandly in the background of our lives.

But what art offers us is crucial precisely because it is not a bland backdrop or a platform for simple directives. Our books, plays, films and TV shows can do the most for us when they don’t serve as moral instruction manuals but allow us to glimpse our own hidden capacities, the slippery social contracts inside which we function, and the contradictions we all contain.

We need more narratives that tell us the truth about how complex our world is. We need stories that help us name and accept paradoxes, not ones that erase or ignore them. After all, our experience of living in communities with one another is often much more fluid and changeable than it is rigidly black and white. We have the audiences that we cultivate, and the more we cultivate audiences who believe that the job of art is to instruct instead of investigate, to judge instead of question, to seek easy clarity instead of holding multiple uncertainties, the more we will find ourselves inside a culture defined by rigidity, knee-jerk judgments and incuriosity. In our hair-trigger world of condemnation, division and isolation, art — not moralizing — has never been more crucial.

source

[messers-moony]

Hope 2 | R.L

Paring: Remus Lupin X Wife!Potter!Reader

Summary: Life is unfair in numerous ways but it seems like it’s out to get the Potters in every way shape and form.

The huge eight-foot man who introduced himself as Hagrid was bringing Harry around London. It was amusing to see Hagrid turn his cousin - Dudley - butt into a pigtail after trying to eat his birthday cake. It was the first birthday Y/n, and Remus hadn’t shown up. Harry didn’t blame them. Of course, to be fair, they didn’t know where Harry was. 

“Um, excuse me, Hagrid?” 

“Yes, ‘Arry?”

“Where- Where are we going?” Harry questioned hesitantly, and Hagrids lips curled into a smile, “‘Er gon’ meet with som’ of yer folks.” Hagrid answered. 

Harry wanted to jump with joy, “Moony and Y/n?”

Hagrid nodded, and Harry smiled brightly. It took a couple of minutes and walking of a couple more blocks. But eventually, they were coming up on an old-looking building made of black stone bricks. In front of the door was a familiar sandy-haired male with green eyes. He was accompanied by his wife with h/c hair and gleaming e/c eyes. 

“Y/n! Remus!” 

Y/n turned to see her little nephew running up to hug her tightly, “Hey Harry.” 

Remus ruffled his hair while Harry hugged his aunt, “Hey there, mini Prongs.”

“I missed you.”

“Awe, I missed you too, Harry.” Y/n replied, pulling apart from Harry, “I’m sorry we didn’t show up right away. But we’re here now. I hope that’s okay. We wouldn’t miss your birthday for the world, okay?”

He nodded, “I know. I can always count on you.” 

“Good.” Remus stated, “Now c’mon mini prongs. Gotta get your school supplies.”

Walking into the Leaky Cauldron with Hagrid, they were greeted by multiple people. Many people were flabbergasted by meeting the famous Harry Potter and were welcoming to see Y/n Potter. In the back of the Leaky Cauldron, Hagrid tapped his wand against the brick wall, causing it to open into Diagon Alley. Harry’s mouth was agape at this new form of Magic. 

It was astonishing. The narrow alleyway was packed with people. Clusters of them walking in groups. Some were carrying animals, or brown-wrapped items Harry could suppose were books. Y/n smiled and intertwined her hand with Remus’. She could remember the first time she stepped into Diagon Alley. James was acting like such a prat. 

“Woah!” James gasped, “Look at all the cool stuff!” 

Fleamont chuckled, “Yeah. Isn’t it cool, sweetheart?”

Y/n nodded, completely entranced in the stonework in the alleyway. It was littered with different shops, and the roads were an uneven stone. Euphemia and Fleamont shared a look of pure glee. Their children were magical born, and they were finally experiencing it first hand. Of course, they had their incidents where Y/n would make lights flicker or James blowing plates. 

As they began walking, James began to run off, bumping into people left and right, “James! Get back here!” Fleamont scolded, but he was out of sight. 

Euphemia sighed, “He’s gonna be a handful.”

“Definitely.” Fleamont agreed, running a hand through his dark brunet hair, “Perhaps he’ll be even worse than me.”

His wife glared at him. Despite James disappearing, they took Y/n into Flourish and Blotts to get their books. They needed books such as The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1), A History of Magic, Magical Theory, A Beginners’ Guide to Transfiguration, One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, Magical Drafts and Potions, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, and finally, The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection. 

They didn’t find James until they reached Quality Quidditch Supplies. He was already eyeing the new broom on display. His mouth seemed to be salivating at it. Y/n rolled her eyes at James, drooling over a piece of wood. Euphemia chuckled and motioned Fleamont to reel him back in. It seemed that Euphemia would never get a break, and her heart would be in a constant attack of worry. They had a mischief Quidditch player on their hands. 

“C’mon Harry,” Y/n beckoned, “Lots of stuff to get.”

His smile faltered just a tad, “But I don’t- I don’t have any money.”

Harry’s embarrassment made the tips of his ears red, “That ain’t true. ‘Course ye got money.” Hagrid replied bluntly, making Y/n nudge him harshly, “Hagrid!”

“What?” Hagrid queried, confused, “‘S not like ‘m lyin’.” 

“Yes, but you don’t just say that.” Y/n scolded, laughing lightly. 

“Oops?”

Harry looked up at his flustered aunt, “Come on, Harry. We’re going to Gringotts.”  

They began walking to the bank of wizardry. The goblin at the front allowed them to the vault, where Harry was able to pocket a couple of handfuls of galleons, sickles, and knuts. Hagrid made a separate trip for Dumbledore as the other three waited patiently. When they exited Gringotts, Harry began to buy all his supplies. 

Their first stop was getting him a wand at Ollivander’s. Harry pushed the door open, and it sounded a bell off, but no one appeared the be in the shop. Remus and Y/n stood behind him as he let out a hesitant, “Hello.”

It took a minute, but then an older male appeared with hair as white as snow and wispy as whiskers. Ollivander smiled brightly at the familiar people in his shop and at the little boy who resembled the older female greatly. 

“Ah, Y/n Potter.” Ollivander said, “James broken his wand again?”

Y/n released a shaky breath, “No, not this time.” 

“We’re here actually for Harry here.” Remus motioned to Harry, “He’s getting his first wand. He starts at Hogwarts this year.”

Ollivander's lips quirked, “He yours?”

“No, sir.” Y/n shook her head, “He’s James and Lily’s son.”

“Where are they? I’d love to see them, you know.”

Remus shifted awkwardly, “You haven’t heard?”

Ollivander shook his head, “My parents are dead.” Harry informed, “Someone killed them.”

Everything clicked into place in Ollivanders mind. How stupid could old age make him? He had just sounded terribly insensitive, “‘M so sorry. Pardon me and my old age. I didn’t mean-“

“It’s perfectly fine, Ollivander.” Y/n smiled reassuringly.

The older man smiled and began giving Harry wands. The first one was horrid. It made wands on the shelf fall onto the ground, making a vast clatter noise. The boy smiled sheepishly and placed it back in the box. The next wand caused a shatter of a vase which Harry cringed at. It took a couple of minutes until Ollivander came out with the following wand. It was 11 inches long, made of holly, and possessed a phoenix feather core. 

Harry waved the wand, and nothing disastrous happened. Remus and Y/n smiled with joy. Ollivander charged him seven galleons for it, and Harry placed down the golden coins with glee. Ollivander could remember the way James had done the same while Y/n beside him. Their identical toothy grins as Fleamont paid the man.

“My wands cooler than yours!”

“No way!” 

James nodded in triumph, “You’re just lame.”

“And you’re boring!”

“No way!” James gasped, “I am far from boring!”

Y/n crossed her arms, “And I’m not lame.”

Euphemia chuckled, redirecting her children to look at the counter while the two parents stood behind them, “Ignore them. They like to try and be better than the other.”

Ollivander grinned, “Ah, siblings. What amazing pairs they make.”

Fleamont scoffed, “Yeah, try having two at the same time. Felt like the crucio curse.” 

“What do you say?” Euphemia beckoned, and both twins turned to Ollivander, smiling gleefully, “Thank you!” 

“They’ll be a handful.” Ollivander informed Euphemia and Fleamont, “But they’ll change the world, and they’ll do it together.” 

The older man smiled at Remus and Y/n as Harry went outside to see Hagrid carrying a giant golden cage with a beautiful snowy owl inside, “That boy is something else.”

Remus chuckled, “We know. Little mischief-maker, just like James.”

“Perhaps he is,” Ollivander replied, “But he’ll change the world.”

The rest of the day went by blissfully. After getting all his school supplies, they retreated into the Leaky Cauldron to eat dinner. The tavern was practically empty as they sat at a long narrow table. Hagrid at the head, Harry to his left, Remus across, and Y/n beside Remus on the other side. They were eating in silence before Harry spoke up. 

“What happened to my parents?” Harry questioned, and before anyone could answer, he continued, “Truthfully. No lies.”

Hagrid and Remus turned to the female at the table who swallowed thickly, “Something horrid, Harry.”

“How horrid?”

“Harry-“ Remus began. 

“A death I wouldn’t wish upon anyone, even my worse enemy.” Y/n answered, staring at the soup in front of her, “The way they died doesn’t matter.”

Harry crossed his arms, “I believe it does.”

“In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t.” Y/n replied, taking deep breaths in and out, trying to stay calm, “It doesn’t matter how they died. They’re dead, and they aren’t coming back.”

Tears collected in her eyes when she muttered, “No matter how badly I want them to.”

Hastily Y/n wiped her face and placed her napkin on the table. She sniffled before standing and pushing her chair in. Y/n leaned down to kiss Harry on the forehead before retreating to the room they got upstairs. Harry sighed and stared at his bowl of soup that remained steaming hot. Remus rubbed his face with his palms. 

“Harry,” Remus called, and Harry’s green eyes met similar ones, “Your parents died at the hands of a very evil Wizard. He went as dark as one could go.”

Harry looked intrigued, and Remus continued despite his throat beginning to constrict, “His name was Voldemort, but most people call him ‘You-Know-Who.”

Hagrid flinched at the actual name being said, “James risked everything to try and save you and your mother. When he died, Lily tried to save you. In the end, it all worked out because you were saved. You didn’t die like you were supposed to.”

“Why did aunt Y/n leave the table?”

“Talking about this is still hard for her.” Remus replied, and Harry could see the tears in his eyes too, “It’s hard for me too, but- but you need to know.”

“What were they to you?” 

“James and Lily were everything to me, Harry. Everything and so much more. Your mother saw the good in people when they didn’t see it themselves. Your father? Well-“ He chuckled, “He was a trip and a prat. But he cared for those around him. Treated me like family and took care of me like a brother.”

Harry fiddled with the sleeve of his sweater, “James was a mischief-maker that one.” Hagrid said, “Always up to no good.”

“Him and that Sirius boy.” Hagrid chuckled, “Dynamic duo those two.”

Remus let out a tearful chuckle, “Yeah, that was Padfoot and Prongs.”

“Always up to no good.” Remus whispered. 

The following day Remus had waken up to what he swore was the most perfect sight. Y/n was still sleeping beside him. Her head was nestled under his chin, drinking in his body heat. Her hair was laid against the fluffy white pillow. Their legs were intertwined together. Gently Remus kissed her forehead before seeing the clock read about nine o’clock. 

Remus took five more minutes to admire her before waking her up. He began to kiss all over her face, and Y/n scrunched her nose, waking up as his lips kept attaching to a new place on her face. He smiled as she opened her eyes to meet his green ones. 

“Mornin’ love.” 

His Welsh accent was to die for, “Morning, Rem.”

“You ready to take Harry to Platform Nine and Three Quarters?”

Y/n shook her head, “No. Not really.”

“Hey,” Remus said softly, stroking her hair, “You’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.”

“There are so many memories there, Rem.” Y/n replied, “Like- Like meeting Sirius for the first time.”

“Or seeing you come back after fourth year with an entirely new style.” Remus chuckled, “Or- Or seeing James almost fall out of the train. 

Remus caressed her cheek with his thumb, “We’ll make it through, love. Harry needs us today.”

“Yeah.” She replied breathily, “He does.”

They both ventured out of bed into the cool air of London. Remus, Y/n, and Hagrid walked Harry to Kings Cross. When they arrived, Hagrid had departed from them to do something for Dumbledore. Harry was bluntly confused when his ticket read Platform Nine and Three Quarters. Last he checked, that wasn’t a platform. 

As they reached the main floor of the train station, Remus and Y/n recognized the Weasleys almost instantly. Molly had embraced them tightly as they all went through the platform. Harry gave his trunks to the man at the end of the train and turned to the only family he had left. His eyes glistened with tears, and he tried to hold them back but failed. 

“Harry,” Y/n knelt to his level, “You’re gonna be okay. I promise. James and I made lots of friends at Hogwarts.”

He smiled at the mention of his father, “Do you think… Do you think he’d be proud of me?”

“They’d be beyond proud, Harry.” Remus replied, smiling, “You’re everything they wanted you to be.”

Harry turned back to Y/n and hugged her tightly, “Please make sure you write to us.” 

“‘Course, Auntie.” Harry replied as they pulled apart, “Love you guys.” 

Y/n stood beside Remus, “We love you too, sweetheart.” 

Harry smiled and wiped his cheeks before hopping on the train. He found a compartment alone and watched out the window as the train began moving. Y/n and Remus watched as the train hauled by. Kids who started waving their last goodbyes to their parents. 

“Mum, dad!” James exclaimed from inside the compartment, “We love you!”

Euphemia and Fleamont chuckled tearfully, “We love you guys too!” 

Truthfully James never wanted to leave his parents. They were his entire world. When Kings Cross was no longer in sight, he plopped down in the seat beside Y/n, who put her head on his shoulder. His left arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her tightly to his side. 

“We got this, sis.” James assured, “We always have each other.”

It didn’t take long for Harry to get in trouble. As a matter of fact, it made Y/n laugh that within the first month, he had already managed a detention. She had settled for a letter rather than a Howler. Remus had made sure to tell him his fair of scolding words (“Say hi to Minnie for me!”). Harry smiled when the letter arrived in the morning. 

Harry definitely made sure to say hi to “Minnie,” which made McGonagall smile like an idiot despite her usual strict nature. She could see and hear James saying the name when she gave them detention or Sirius’ pouty face begging her to have some form of mercy on them, for they had just turned the Slytherin robes red. Ever the dramatics that Black. 

When he arrived back at the Platform, he nuzzled into Y/n and Remus’ arms before departing to the Dursleys. But all was good because in just a month he’d see them again for his birthday, which he did. They took him to Diagon Alley to get his second-year stuff along with some ice cream to celebrate his twelfth birthday. 

He spent a week of his summer with them in their little house in London. It was far better than Privet Drive, and he felt a lot safer. But after the week was up, he was forced to return to the Dursleys. Within a week of being back, he’d managed to screw everything up. A thing named Dobby had quite literally dumped puddling all over one of the Dursley’s guests, and that got him trapped in his room. 

Thankfully, Ronald Weasley, who had become his close friend, had saved him. Harry went to the Burrow for the first time and met everyone else. Molly had notified Remus and Y/n of his entrance. Sadly, they couldn’t make it to the Platform for reasons. Molly wouldn’t tell Harry, but he was okay with it. 

Until Ron and he smashed into the brick wall, making them late for the train. It was then Ron had a brilliant thought of taking the flying car to Hogwarts. It did work until they got stuck in the Whomping Willow and then got caught by Severus Snape. A letter was sent home to Y/n and Molly. Both of which made two very different Howlers to their children. 

Molly’s howler was scolding them, and it made Ron’s ears turn pink. Y/n and Remus’ howler was a different story. The moment it opened, laughter rang through the Great Hall. Familiar laughter of Remus and Y/n. It made McGonagall furious and happy at the same time. 

“Merlin Harry!” Remus’ voice rang out, “You’re brilliant, aren’t you!” 

“Remus, we’re supposed to be scolding him!” Y/n retorted jokingly, “I’m scolding myself for never thinking of it!” Remus replied. 

Y/n chuckled, “Obviously, you shouldn't have done that, Harry; however, as long as you’re not harmed, we aren’t mad. Just be more careful next time.”

Remus was still dying of laughter, “Remus is still dying of laughter. We love you, Harry. Stay safe.”

Ron looked appalled with the coolness of the howler, “Bloody hell, you have a cool family.”

“They’re pretty cool.” Harry shrugged, smiling. 

Y/n and Remus would be lying if the whole petrifying thing didn’t scare them. They were worried for Harry’s safety but weren’t surprised when Harry ended up saving them all like last year. When they were on the Platform, Remus began getting on the train with him after kissing Y/n goodbye. 

He was grunting and groaning at every movement. The bags beneath his eyes looked more prominent than usual. Remus moved sluggishly, which was very unlike him. But Harry didn’t question it until he began to get on the train at Harry’s side. 

“Uncle Moony?”

“Yes, Harry?” Remus replied after sitting in a compartment, his cloak covering most of his body. 

“Why’re you on the train?”

He chuckled, “I’m your new Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor.”

Harry smiled, and Remus fell into a dreamless sleep after a rough full moon the night prior. Hermione and Ron joined them not too long after as Harry began telling them about Sirius Black. The year went by as eventful as usual. Harry found out the accurate way his parents died along with Remus and Y/n. Peter Pettigrew being the culprit and then leaving before someone could catch him. 

Afterward, Sirius had been staying in the guest bedroom at Y/n and Remus’. He didn’t want to go back to Grimmauld Place. That was the last place he wanted to go. So despite not wanting to be a burden, he took the position that Y/n offered him. Ever so kind, just like James. When he walked through those doors, Y/n had hugged him tightly and kissed his cheek.��

“It’s good to have you back, older brother.”

Sirius could’ve cried on the spot, “It’s nice to see you again, little sis.”

The next couple of years were a trip. Fourth-year Harry had managed to get his name pulled out of the Goblet of Fire, leading to a new adventure of challenges. After finishing his fourth year, Cedric Diggory had died, marking the return of Voldemort, which had traumatized Harry in more than one way. That summer, he decided to stay with Y/n, Remus, and Sirius. They were all fantastic help throughout the entire thing. Through his nightmares, Y/n would make him hot chocolate and sit on the couch with him as he talked. 

Fifth-year was dreadful. Delores Umbridge had come into the office as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, and the Order of the Phoenix reformed. Her detentions were terrible and horrid, especially for the first years. They were just kids, for Merlin’s sake. It made Y/n fume when she saw the back of Harry’s hand. The night they ventured to the Department of Mysteries was almost the worst night Harry could have dreamed of. 

Sirius had almost died if Y/n wasn’t as quick as she was. Bellatrix was stunned to see her spell deflected but kept firing nonetheless. When they got home, it was silent. Remus had made tea for himself and Sirius while making hot chocolate for the other two. Harry had laid his head on Y/n’s shoulder and fallen asleep. 

Truth be told, sixth year wasn’t any better. Dumbledore had died, and Harry was left to find the rest of the Horcruxes. It was then Sirius learned the actual death of his brother, making him mourn him all over again. Seventh year Harry, Ron, and Hermione ventured out to find the rest of them. 

When Harry returned to Hogwarts through the passageway to the Room of Requirement with Snape as headmaster, the war had officially started. In the end, everything had fallen into place. When Harry used the resurrection stone, he saw them. He saw James, Lily, Remus, and Sirius. Harry almost wanted to laugh at seeing them all together. They looked so happy. 

“Where- Where’s Y/n?”

Remus gave a solemn smile, “She made it. She’s still out there. Waiting for you.”

“Does that mean…”

“Turns out my sister is a tougher cookie than I thought.” James stated, and Harry turned to him, “She misses you.”

James chuckled, “As I do her.”

Harry turned back to Remus, “Does she know?”

“She was there when it happened.” Remus replied, “I had to give her one last ‘I love you’ and kiss goodbye, right?”

A noise rumbled from a distance, “It’s time, sweetie.” Lily stated. 

Harry released a shaky breath before dropping the stone on the ground. He had to do this for Y/n, for Ron, for Hermione, for everyone. He was ready. When he stepped in front of Voldemort to die, all he could think about was his Aunt's eyes. The way they glittered with tears when she let him go for the first time. The way they creased when she smiled at his first Christmas. The way they gleamed with mischief when she gave the Weasley twins new prank material. 

His last words would be ones he’d never regret, “Thank you, aunt Y/n, for everything.”

Because through everything, she was the only constant. She was the only one to hold him through anything. Through every nightmare, every battle, every tear, every smile. She was there with her radiant smile and caring nature. 

When Harry defeated Voldemort, the world stopped. It was done. It was over. But the pain wasn’t gone. The trauma wasn’t bypassed. This was more than a war. Harry walked into the Great Hall to see crying parents, kids, and siblings mourning their dead loved ones. His eyes zoomed on Y/n sitting crisscross beside her husband, holding his hand tightly. 

Wordlessly Harry sat beside her and leaned his head against her shoulder. Y/n tilted her head onto his. No tears fell from her eyes despite everything she had gone through, two wars, friends dead, parents dead, brother dead, and now husband dead. 

“His last words were- they were,” She choked, and Harry rubbed her shoulder, “I love you more than Moony loves the moon.”

Harry smiled, “Dad said you were a tough cookie.”

Y/n chuckled, and Harry relished in the sound, “He said that if anyone could get through this, it’s you.”

“Damn it, James.” She said to no one, still holding Remus’ hand. 

“We’ll get through this.” Harry said, “And we’ll do it together.”

“Together.”

[you-are-my-joy]

The Return of an Empress | 07

Title: The Return of an Empress

Pairing: OT7 x Reader

Genre: Isekai, Angst, Romance, Fluff, Smut (Later on), Slow burn

Characters: Empress!Reader, Advisor!Jin, Advisor!Yoongi, General!Hoseok, Advisor!Namjoon, Assassin!Jimin, Knight!Taehyung, Knight!Jungkook

Word count: ~9k

Summary: After one fateful night, you find yourself transmigrated into your favorite novel as the Empress that shares the same name as you. As a bookworm, most would think you’d be happy, but how could you be happy when the Empress you’ve become is expected to be killed in three months. The only thing on your mind now is to learn how to survive.

Warning: May contain depictions of violence and mentions of abuse throughout the story.

Masterlist 

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In the 380th imperial year, on June 9th, two days after the nobles were caught red-handed and thus apprehended, was the day of the largest massacre of high nobility in the history of the empire. 

At 8 am in the morning, a total of 18 of some of the most well-known and influential nobles of the empire were executed by the city plaza.

With tired steps, you trudge inside your bedroom, immediately falling onto the comfort of your bed. You let out an exasperated sigh, tossing your head back until it rests on a nearby pillow. Despite getting rid of the duke and the rest of the nobles, you can’t help but still feel a sense of unease and tension. Would the original empress make the same decision? You don’t know the answer, but what you do know, is that you’ll most likely be haunted by the cries and screams of those who lost their lives today for the rest of your life.

It’s one thing to actually read of the graphic murders and deaths that occurred in the novel, it’s a whole different story when you actually experience and see first hand how gruesome the public executions truly were. Back in your world, you’ve never witnessed anyone’s death before, as it was the 21st century, public executions were prohibited decades ago. But suddenly you had to endure an entire morning witnessing the horrifying deaths of 18 people as their heads detached from their body, a large pool of blood staining the once clean pavement. 

You weren’t keen on torturing people, so you were merciful in the sense that you chose to execute them through a beheading, with a fresh and sharpened axe to be exact. In this world, beheadings, although gruesome and bloody, were seen as the most ‘humane’ form of execution as the deed would be done in one swift motion, a painless execution to some extent. 

You remember hearing many of the nobles and commoners who attended the public executions express their disappointment at your choice, thinking you were being much too kind considering the heinous crime they committed. Despite their disappointment, they were slightly relieved over your choice, many were still skeptical over the empress’s supposed changed behavior, but seeing you wince and grimace at each beheading finally convinced them otherwise. 

News spread like wildfire around the empire about what had occurred at the party, news articles being published nearly a day later. The most popular topic of course being the Grand Duke himself drugging the empress, and so countless of nobles all around the empire scurried to watch the spectacle. Thus, the grand finale of the execution came when former Grand Duke, Lee Joong-Gu finally stepped forward. 

Many people had looked at him in disgust, throwing rotten fruits and vegetables his way and cursed out his name. The entire time, he wore a solemn expression as he kneels down without complaint unlike the rest of the criminals who wailed pathetically until their last breath. 

You remember that in the midst of it all, he had looked up at you, your eyes instantly locking with one another, and you swear from where you stood, you saw a hint of remorse and guilt in his face. Your mind reeling as he tearfully mouths ‘I’m sorry’ to you, but before you could even react any further, the axe gets raised in the air and in the next second is swung down with much force. His head rolling down the pavement as the cheers of the crowd rang out excitedly at the gruesome sight. 

However, the cheers seem to fade from your ears as all you can focus on is the dukes rolling head. And somehow it stops, facing in your direction, empty eyes that were once so full of life, ingraining themselves in your memory forever. You blink away the tears forming in your eyes, confused as to why your body was reacting like this. You flinch as you stare at his body slumped over, but your view gets blocked when Jungkook steps in front of you.

The entire morning, Jungkook and Taehyung have been right beside you, acting as your escorts as you had requested. Always attempting to block your view when they noticed your grim and disgusted expressions at each beheading. Jin and Namjoon were also present, but they stood a few meters away from you, ensuring that the executions ran as quickly and smoothly as possible. Hoseok was present as well, but as the general, he was in charge of security and surveying the city plaza, prioritizing your safety over everything else.

The only ones who hadn’t shown up were Yoongi and Jimin. Yoongi, you had expected, though you had a glimmer of hope that he would make an appearance, but Jimin? You thought he would come to greet you after the party, but you haven’t seen him since he left you by the ballroom doors. You were extremely worried, thinking something bad had happened to him, but Namjoon reassured you that he was fine as he had ran into him the other day. He further informs you that Jimin wasn’t feeling good, which explains his sudden absence. Though you remained unconvinced, you choose to give Jimin his needed space, thinking it would be better for him to come to you when he was ready.

When the executions were over you stood up from your seat, ready to leave the area in a hurry as the overwhelming stench of blood nearly made you puke on the spot. But suddenly you heard loud cheers as everyone directed their attention to you, “All Hail Empress Y/n!” many of them yelled out, grinning at you as they praised your actions. 

You hadn’t expected to be well received so quickly, since less than a week ago, some of these same people trembled in fear over your presence. You send them a charming smile to express your gratitude, but this only seemed to ignite something in them as they seemingly cheered your name even more.

Despite the cheering, all you wanted to do was go back to the palace and rest. So here you are, groaning as you lay flat on the spacious bed. You feel the bed dip slightly to your left, prompting you to open your eyes to see Jungkook looking down at you with a small smile. “How are you feeling?” he reaches his hand out to gently brush a strand of hair in front of your face. 

“Absolutely exhausted,” you let out a groan, closing your eyes once more. And you weren’t only talking about the past few days. It seemed that you were never truly able to catch a break the moment you arrived in this world. You can’t even imagine the amount of work the past empress had to endure. 

Taehyung, having found comfort in your couch situated in the middle of your grand bedroom, hums at that, “Mentally or physically exhausted?”

You scoff before letting out a yawn, “Both.” 

Jungkook nods as he moves his hand away from your face to lazily trace shapes on the palm of your hand, “I'm sorry to hear that your majesty,” he replies, sending you a pitiful look, as he notices traces of stress and exhaustion written on your face.

Still with your eyes closed, you rest for a moment, “It’s fine. This is my duty as the empress.”

Jungkook nods, “I understand, but before you’re an empress, you’re a human. You need to rest, your majesty,” he says, concern laced in his voice as he continues tracing odd shapes on your palm. 

Though after a while, you’ve come to the realization that rather than shapes, he was actually tracing your name on your skin.

You open your eyes to stare at Jungkook who was too distracted writing your name to pay attention to your gaze. You just stare when a sudden thought crosses your mind, “Hey Jungkook, can you try calling me by my name?”

Jungkook seems to freeze in his spot, his hand stopping right above yours as he stares at you with wide eyes, “Pardon?” this seems to gain Taehyung's attention as well when you see him from the corner of your eye snap his head instantly in your direction.

You shrug, sitting straight up now facing him. Both your faces nearly inches apart that Jungkook instantly blushes and shifts a bit further away from you to calm his racing heart, though you take that gesture as discomfort instead, “What’s wrong? You don’t want to?”

Jungkook stutters as he waves his arms in front of his face in an ‘X’ shape motion, “N-No, It’s not that I don't want to… but why are you suddenly asking that of me?” Both Jungkook and Taehyung stare at you in a mixture of confusion and interest since they haven’t addressed the empress by her name in nearly 3 years. Not after she had scolded the both of them until they complied to her wishes. 

“I figured we might as well go back to our old ways you know?” you suggest, but after taking in their shocked reactions you quickly add, “Of course if you’re uncomfortable with my request then I don’t want to force you to do anything. But I do give you permission to call me by my name when it’s just us.”

Jungkook turns his head to Taehyung as they look at each other wearily, as if doubting your words and thinking this was all just one big test. He hesitantly turns back to you, “Is that truly alright?” he asks while fidgeting nervously with his hand. 

“Of course it is,” you smile reassuringly, your eyes staring at him in anticipation, “will you?” You ask, you try to hide your excitement in order to not pressure him, but who were you kidding, it’s practically written on your face.

Jungkook’s lips curve upward slightly as he couldn’t deny your request, especially when your golden eyes shined brightly at him, “Yes…. Y/n…” though he had said it in a shy whisper, you still heard him loud and clear. You didn’t think hearing your name come out of his mouth would affect you so much but you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling widely. It’s times like these that you’re extremely grateful for sharing the same name as the old empress. 

“Woah that’s not fair,” you turn your head to find Taehyung with his arms crossed, playfully glaring at you both, “why does he get special treatment and I don't?” 

You chuckle as Taehyung's pout reminds you of a child who got their toy taken away and wants it back. Your amusement grows even more as you sit back and watch Jungkook be equally as childish when he sticks his tongue out at the older knight. And Taehyung, the ever mature knight, mimics his actions in return. 

You grin at the older knight, wanting nothing more than to ruffle his hair, “this applies to you as well Taehyung.” 

Taehyung finally turns to you after seemingly having a contest with Jungkook on who can contort their face in a mocking way better, “thank you… Y/n,” he replies softly with a gentle smile now on his face. 

They’ll admit, addressing you by your name sounded strange coming out their mouth, but they couldn’t deny the nostalgic and warm feeling in their chest when they finally did. And your smile definitely brightened their day even more.

“Y/n.” you hear Jungkook call out softly, though he flinches when he gains your attention. 

You furrow your eyes in confusion at his odd reaction, “Yes?”

You notice his cheeks glow with a tint of red, “Sorry, it’s nothing. I just wanted to say your name in front of you,” the ending of his sentence becoming a soft whisper as he was embarrassed to have been caught by you. But he should’ve known better than to believe your ears wouldn’t catch him. 

You have to mentally slap yourself to stay calm and composed as to not squeal in delight to embarrass him further. So to spare him, you fight back a giggle as you beam back at him, “you’re more than welcome to call me by my name anytime you want Jungkook.” Gaining a wide smile from him in return.

“Y/n?” Taehyung suddenly calls out, causing you to face him now. Though he chuckles at your raised brow, “I’m not just calling out your name, I genuinely have a question.” You chuckle right back, nodding your head, gesturing to him to ask his question. “Are you still feeling sick?” You understand he wasn’t referring to earlier, rather he was talking about your symptoms from withdrawal. 

Thankfully after properly taking medication daily or as suggested by the royal physician, you’ve been experiencing a lot less symptoms as the days go by. Joy reminding and ensuring that you actually took them definitely helped with the process. 

You nod sending him a soft smile, “no, I’ve been feeling a lot better nowadays. Though, I’ll admit I kind of want to throw up. But I’m pretty sure the main perpetrator to that is the blood.” Despite having left the plaza awhile ago, you seemingly couldn’t get rid of the stench of blood in your nose. Even just the thought of it makes you involuntarily gag. 

Jungkook softly chuckles, “from being in countless battles, you’d think you’d get used to the sight of blood,” he jokes with a teasing glint in his eyes as he grew bold enough to hold your hand after tracing on it for so long.

You stare down at your joined hands, his large ones nearly covering yours completely. You feel him squeeze your hand lightly prompting you to look up at his mischievous grin as he caught you staring. You playfully roll your eyes, “it’s been awhile, alright, I forgot,” you grumble.

Though Taehyung hums at that as leans his head back on the soft cushions of the couch, “you seem to be using that excuse quite often,” he mutters, not looking you in the eye, but instead choosing to stare out your window.

At his statement, you gulp nervously. You immediately take note from the corner of your eyes the prying look of Jungkook as his hold on your hand seems to tighten. 

But before you could come up with yet another excuse, you hear a knock at your door. Someone was definitely looking out for you as you had no idea how to respond without you being even more suspicious than before. 

You sit up straight, briefly glancing at your knights who refuse to look you in the eye before calling out, “come in.” You quickly let go of Jungkook’s hand causing the boy to snap his head in your direction before his shoulders seemingly drop. Though he doesn’t say anything more as the doors to your bedroom open wide.

Soon enough, the double doors reveal Hoseok, Namjoon and Jin. They bow out of respect before briefly making eye contact with Jungkook and Taehyung, to which they send a curt nod, acknowledging each other’s presence.  

For some reason, you felt a shift in the air as the three men stepped into the room. As if they were... hostile? But that doesn’t make sense, you question. Shouldn't they be on good terms with each other? You thought, but you were so wrong when you could feel the tension around you. Something unspoken between the five males. 

You understand that you haven’t known these men for long, but even you could tell that there was a sudden shift in their relationship. You saw it in the ballroom and now your suspicions are confirmed when you observe their body language in front of you.

After many moments of silence, Namjoon finally turns his attention to you, “more of those journalists keep requesting for your time your majesty,” he reports, only now do you notice his tired eyes. He must’ve been dealing with those journalists since he got back, and from what you know, they’re almost as ruthless as those in high society. 

But before you could respond, you hear Taehyung let out an annoyed groan from where he sat, “They bombarded her all throughout the morning, can’t they give her a break?” he scowls when turning his head out the window as he caught a glimpse of those pesky reporters from the border of the palace walls. Their cameras steadily aimed at the palace, hoping to capture a lucky shot of the empress. 

“It’s alright, I can handle them,” you reply, having already mentally and physically prepared yourself for this since you knew this would be a hot topic in the empire. A topic that the reporters wouldn’t let go of until they were satisfied. But just as you were about to stand from the comfort of your bed, you feel a hand gently rest on your shoulder, prompting you to turn and find Jungkook staring at you in concern. 

“Y/n, you need to rest,” Jungkook says softly, “you truly did look sick early, maybe it's from withdrawals or maybe it's from the blood, who knows, but I think it’s best you rest for the day.” You knew it would be hard to go against Jungkook, especially when he had that determined look in his eyes. Though that wasn’t what everyone else was thinking as his statement piqued their interest. 

“Y/n?” Jin questions loudly. He had thought he was hearing things, but by the looks on Namjoons and Hoseok's faces, he indeed did hear correctly. Jungkook had addressed you by your name. 

The boy blushes, not having realized he had blurted out your name in front of them. But before he could explain himself, Taehyung beat him to it.

“Y/n gave us permission to call her by her name,” he boasts with his head held high as if he was bragging about some great achievement he got. Which in a way, it kind of was. 

Hoseok raises his brow as he turns to look at you now, “may I know why?”

You clear your throat, “well, when I got rid of the alcohol and drugs in my system, I wanted to make things right and go back to how they were before. So I gave them permission to address me by my name like old times,” you reply confidently, having already prepared an answer for this question long ago. 

Though after some time, Hoseok’s blank face shifts, “I see,” he replies with a smile, but you knew better than to trust that, you knew hidden in that expression was a man that still had doubts despite witnessing the downfall of the nobles before his own eyes. You had thought Namjoon would be the one you needed to be careful of, but it seems you were wrong in that sense as you become anxious at Hoseok’s judging stare. 

Jin clears his throat, an attempt to get rid of the growing tension in the room, “we also came to discuss plans regarding the property of the nobles as well as what's to come with their families and who would be the ones to take their positions,” he pauses before nodding his head in Hoseok’s direction, “we brought along Hoseok in case military services were needed.”

You nod, though you couldn’t help but wonder, “Where’s Yoongi?” 

Jin stills for a moment before tilting his head, visibly confused from your question, “why are you suddenly asking for him?”

Now it’s your turn to be confused as you furrow your eyebrows, “Because he’s also one of my advisors,” you answer as if it was obvious. 

As if sensing your confusion, Namjoon responds, “pardon our rudeness, your majesty. You just don’t normally call on him for these types of things.”

Now you’re even more confused than before, “I don’t?”

Namjoon nods his head in confirmation, “I believe it’s because he’s not from nobility, that it may hinder and influence his judgment on these types of cases,” he explains in the nicest way possible. 

Dumbfounded, you remain seated on your bed, “I see,” is all you could utter. You knew that out of the 8 of you, the only ones who came from nobility were Namjoon, Jin, and Hoseok. Their families were one of the few nobles who secretly opposed the former emperor, which made it easy for the main character to gain their support in the rebellion. There’s no doubt that Hoseok’s military family, Namjoon’s intelligence, and Jin’s abundant wealth, had an immense influence on the success of the rebellion. 

Of course that’s not to say that the others are any less important. Jungkook and Taehyung were among the best of the best in terms of strength and fighting, not to mention Jimin being an ace when it came to agility and swiftness. They had the skills to go against opponents 10 times their size, and yet somehow win. The three were known to be the best fighters in the empire, after the empress herself of course. Afterall, they learned everything they knew from her. 

Yoongi on the other hand, proved himself to be worthy to stand by the empress’s side as an advisor due to the fact that when it came to forming tactics, he always had the perfect plan to go along with every scenario. Much of the rebellion's success was derived from the various attack plans that Yoongi came up with.

He also knows how to handle her the best out of them all. He knows how to approach her when she gets mad or upset. And he is one of the few people who isn’t afraid to go against her if he needs to, only with her and the empire’s best intentions in his mind. 

But when it came to politics, Yoongi had a harder time due to the fact that he was just a village boy who didn’t receive the same amount of education as Namjoon or Jin. Granted neither did Y/n, having been born from the same village, but she was so determined to become the empress that she worked strenuously day in and day out in order to fit the role. Having Namjoon as her teacher definitely helped the process run smoothly. 

Sure Yoongi isn’t as book smart as Namjoon, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t smart at all. You know that despite things being said about him, his words and inputs at national council meetings have proven to be of great help to the empress and the empire in the past. 

And so without another word, you stand up from your bed with a newfound determination. 

Jungkook and Taehyung eye you in concern. “Y/n?” Jungkook asks, reaching out to hold your hand, causing you to stop in your tracks. 

“I’m going to go and personally find Yoongi. Regardless of our differences, he’s still my advisor, and his presence is just as important as every single one of you.” You feel Jungkook loosen his grip on you, allowing you to slip away from his grasp. 

“Shall we escort you there?” Jungkook asks tentatively, while Taehyung had already stood up, prepared to follow you on your command. 

But instead, you shake your head, “Considering what transpired last time, I don’t think it’d be wise to bring either one of you two along,” Jungkook rubs the back of his neck while Taehyung turns away as they’re both suddenly reminded of the way they had behaved towards Yoongi. Although they were opposed to the idea of you going alone, they couldn’t argue with your statement, since even they don’t know how they would react if they were in each other's presence again. 

“I’ll accompany her majesty,” Hoseok suddenly speaks up with a raised hand, resulting in everyone turning their heads in his direction, “I think it should only be fair after all,” he pouts, lowering his hand to cross both his arms across his chest. 

Namjoon raises a brow at his claim, “Fair?”

Hoseok nods as he accusingly points at every man in the room other than himself, “Every single one of you have spent more time with her than me, that's why I think it’s only fair if I escort her,” he declares with a puff of his chest. 

Taehyung scoffs at him, “Can you blame us? We’re her escorts, of course we’re going to spend more time with her,” he fights back a roll of his eyes due to Hoseok being of a higher rank than him. 

“Exactly, so I hope you don’t mind me stealing your ‘Y/n’ for the time being,” and before you could even utter a word, Hoseok strides towards you, reaching for your arm and practically begins dragging you out the room, “see you boys later!” 

Jin shakes his head disapprovingly as he watches Hoseok roughly pull you, “would you be more careful with her majesty!” 

Hoseok scoffs, “She’s not weak,” he responds as he turns around abruptly, your chest nearly colliding with his if it weren’t for his arms steadying you. 

“I agree, but she’s also not a ragdoll that you could just push around as you please,” Jin snaps back at him, eyes narrowing at the grip on your arm.

Namjoon nods his head at this, “Indeed. Be more gentle Hoseok,” he warns sternly as he shifts his body towards the both of you intimidatingly. 

And you don’t even need to turn around to know Jungkook and Taehyung were both shooting daggers at the general. 

Hoseok sighs and finally lets go of you with his arms raised above his head in defeat, “alright alright I get it. I’ll keep my hands to myself.” Though the men in the room only stare at him with unconvinced expressions as he smiles innocently right back.

You stifle a laugh at their reactions and begin to turn to leave, “we’ll be leaving then,” at this you turn to stare at each one of them, “while I’m gone. Behave.”

Taehyung scoffs, crossing his arms as he plops back down on your couch, “We’re not children Y/n.” But his pout tells you otherwise.

The corners of your lips quirk upward in amusement, “could’ve fooled me.”

He turns to you with an offended expression, mouth wide open and before he could give you a piece of his mind, you scurry out the door with Hoseok tailing right behind you. 

“Y/n!” You hear Taehyung’s voice yells out as he appears by the doorway in a matter of seconds. 

You turn around and almost laugh at his dumbfounded expression. Though, you nearly trip over your own two feet if it weren’t for Hoseok skillfully reaching out and steadying you. You quickly thank him before looking back towards your door to now find the rest of the men staring back at you. 

“We’ll set up a proper meeting tomorrow! See you boys then!” You call out before you’re reaching for Hoseok’s hand. He widens his eyes for a moment staring down at your joined hands before he feels you pull on him in the direction you were running to. 

You could still hear their protests coming from your bedroom as both you and Hoseok run away. But Hoseok can’t help but be more focused on your angelic laughter over everything else. 

“So what did the general want to talk to me about so badly that he wanted us to be alone?” you say finally after creating a fair enough distance from your bedroom.

From the corner of your eye, you see him smirk, “What makes her majesty think I had ulterior motives?” he asks innocently, his pace matching with yours as you both walk down the quiet halls.

You shake your head with a smile, “because you’re Hoseok,” you reply with a teasing glint in your eye. 

Hoseok lets out an offended noise as he dramatically brings his hand to his chest, “That hurts your majesty,” he pouts, “couldn’t I have just wanted to spend some time with you?”

You laugh at this, “Sure, but you and I both know that that’s not the case,” your mouth forming a smile, an attempt to show him you meant no harm. 

Hoseok finally lets the innocent facade fall as a smirk begins to form on his face, “Our empress sure has a sharp mind,” you hum in reply, prompting him to continue speaking,  “you’re right, I did want to talk to you.”

Though after some time walking in silence, he speaks up again, “But I had nothing in particular to talk to you about, I just wanted to see for myself whether you had truly changed or not,” he responds bluntly. 

“Your verdict?” you question with your arms behind your back, a carefree aura surrounding you. 

“Hard to tell for now,” he teases with a wink in your direction, “however, something tells me it won’t be long before I give you my answer your majesty.”

“Well let’s hope it’s an answer we both will like,” a wide optimistic grin now on your face.

Hoseok stares down at you, giving you a small smile in return, “Yes, let’s hope.” 

You two don’t speak for a while, though you can’t say it was awkward. There was a comfortable air between the two of you that you actually didn’t mind walking together in silence. You took this moment to look around the scenery, admiring the window view as you don’t really have much time to do that since Taehyung, Jungkook and even Jimin would often preoccupy your attention, not that you were complaining about their company, you rather enjoyed talking to them. But you can’t help but be grateful for this moment to yourself. So for the time being, you just look out the window, little did you know, Hoseok was staring right at you. 

Hoseok couldn’t help but admire the way the sunlight glows on your skin as if you were an ethereal being. Even the slight quirk of your lips mesmerizes him as he watches you bask in the sunlight. A picture perfect moment that he desperately tries to ingrain in his mind. 

“You know, you’re more than welcome to address me by my name as well Hoseok,” you suddenly speak out, turning your head causing the male to widen his eyes momentarily at your abrupt attention. 

But Hoseok’s eyes soften, giving you a small smile before turning his head straight in front of him yet again, “I’ll keep that in mind... thank you.” 

Neither of you speak again after that, just enjoying each other's company in silence. And after everything that you’ve been through, you didn’t realize that this was exactly what you needed. 

“Hey Yoongs”

The man hums, his eyes closed as he lays comfortably against the grass right beside Y/n.

“You’ll be with me forever right?” the young girl speaks up after some time.

At this, Yoongi opens his eyes as he stares at the far away look in her eyes, “Of course Y/n, where else would I go?” he furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, “why do you ask?”

She shrugs looking straight up at the passing clouds, “just making sure,” the wind softly breezing against her hair.

Yoongi nervously laughs as he turns away from her, “Sorry, but it’s gonna take a lot more for you to get rid of me,” Y/n chuckles at this causing the corners of his lips to curve upward at the sound. “Unless I got it all wrong. You’re not trying to run away from me once you become empress are you?” he questions with a teasing tone. Though he had a smile on his face, he couldn’t deny the feeling of anxiety at the possibility of her leaving him.

She scoffs before turning away, “Of course not, what would I do without you nagging me all the time, you’re practically my brother at this point.”

Yoongi feels a pang go across his heart as he faces away from her, “... right… you just see me as a brother huh,” he mumbles, more so to himself but she could still slightly hear him.

She tilts her head in his direction, “hm?”

Though he just shakes his head, “Nevermind,” now sporting a more cheerful expression as he nudges her shoulder playfully, “so suddenly I’m your brother huh?”

She nods her head, turning away from him, focusing her attention back to the sky, “Of course you are, what else would you be?” she genuinely asks.

Yoongi stills for a moment before responding with a long sigh, “Nothing,” he pauses, watching the clouds pass by both him and her as they lay on the grass in peace, “absolutely nothing.”

“Her majesty told me about it and left the job to me,” Jin responds in a tired voice as he lets out a sigh. If he had known accepting the empress’s orders would lead to this, he would’ve never done so in the first place. Because not only does he need to deal with a pile of work, but also a very pissed off Yoongi. 

“Why would she give you all the work and not me?” Yoongi asks, tone slightly offended and irritated. 

“I don’t know Yoongi, why don’t you just ask her yourself,” Jin replies tiredly as he massages his temple at his growing headache. It’s not that he wanted to get rid of Yoongi, but because he himself couldn’t provide him an answer to his question. He too couldn't understand why Y/n would give him all the work instead of him, frankly he wishes she would divide up the work evenly but alas, that doesn’t seem to be the case as every inch of his desk is nearly covered in piles of documents. 

Yoongi lets out a huff of air before standing abruptly. Jin stares at him and widens his eyes when he notices that he’s about to leave. Nervously he stands from his seat as well, “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to ask her myself,” Yoongi replies as if it was the most obvious answer, his hand reaching for the door handle.

Jin gasps, “I wasn’t being serious!” he moves around his desk to grab hold of the advisor.

But Yoongi shakes his head, stepping back from his reach, “I know you weren’t, but you’re right. If I want change to happen, I need to go to her myself,” he watches concern wash over the older male before placing a hand on his shoulder, “don’t worry, I won’t lose my cool,” he says in an attempt to reassure him.

Though both Yoongi and Jin knew he was lying. He was just telling him what he wanted to hear. Jin wanted to stop him, but in the end, he lets it go since he knows that once Yoongi’s got his mind set on something, it was nearly impossible to get him out of it, ”fine, but I don’t want to hear about you getting sent to the dungeons again Yoongi.”

Though Yoongi only chuckles, “I won’t get angry, don’t stress about.”

And boy was he wrong, because it hasn’t even been 10 minutes that he walked into her office until hell broke loose. 

“Just let them handle it Yoongi, why are you so upset, I’ve given you plenty of work before,” she barks angrily.

“I’m upset, because you never give me the same amount of work as them!” He snaps back at her, tone equally as harsh. 

She nearly growls at his attitude, “Would you relax Yoongi, it’s just pieces of paper! If I had known you’d get so fucking irritated over it I would’ve sent the entire pile to you if that’s what you really wanted!”

That’s not what he wanted. He wanted her attention, her trust, he wanted to be the first person she sought out when she needed help.

He wanted her. 

“Y/n-” he gets interrupted when Y/n grabs a pile of documents and throws it in the air in front of him. He watches as the pieces of paper float down everywhere in the room, making it look as if a tornado wrecked havoc in the area. 

“Here! Just do it all for all I care, they’re just damn pieces of papers anyway,” Y/n growls tiredly. Yoongi could not have come at the worst time. Not only did she have to deal with a raging headache, but now her own advisor was yelling in her face far too early in the morning for it to be tolerable. 

She could feel her head ringing at the volume of his voice, but when she told him to leave as she wasn’t in the best mood to argue, he kept refusing stubbornly, insisting she listen to his complaints because apparently what he needed to say was so important to go against her orders. And so when she realized his important reasoning was because he was upset over his workload, her anger only rose from there. 

With her already sour mood, him snapping back at her surely didn’t help his case either.

“I have way too much shit to deal with right now, don’t add onto it Yoongi,” she spats loudly, the piles of paper covering nearly the entirety of the floor around them. 

His shoulder drops, finally coming to terms with everything as he stared into the once cheerful eyes narrow dangerously into tiny slits.

The girl before him, was never and will never be his. 

For the past few days, Yoongi had been actively avoiding not only you, but everyone else. No matter how hard they tried, neither Namjoon or Jin could reach out to him. It was almost as if Yoongi somehow knew just when and where everyone would be to successfully avoid them. 

In the beginning of the empresses reign, no one took him seriously because he wasn’t from noble descent like Namjoon and Jin. when they would attend national council meetings, no one spoke directly to him as if his previous status of a commoner was still intact. And so he had to put on this whole ruthless persona for people to show an ounce of respect for him. He had to exert more effort to prove to everyone that he was equally as worthy as the other two advisors. That he was capable of doing the same amount of work, even if he didn't receive the same strenuous education as them.

And because of the comparison between him and the other two advisors, insecurities were born and shattered his mind. 

So seeing you put your trust in Jin and Namjoon hurt him a lot more than he would like to admit. The fact that they both knew and yet you hadn’t brought it up with him once was like a shot to his heart. 

And yet throughout his time spent alone, Taehyung's voice echoes in his mind.

“When was the last time you ever treated her as one of her advisors? When have you ever truly cared for her majesty?”

He groans out of frustration at the entire situation. Because as much as he hated to admit it, he was right. When was the last time he treated her with respect. Even though the rest of the boys joined the rebellion with him, never once did they blatantly disrespect the empress the way he did. 

And with the current situation, he doesn’t even think he deserves his position of advisor anymore. Never in his life did he imagine that someone was drugging the empress. All this time, he’s been bitterly blaming the empress about the current condition of the empire when in reality, it wasn’t even her fault. He pushed her away when she needed him the most. When she was suffering he unknowingly made things worse. And because of that, he doesn’t even know if he has the courage to face the empress ever again. 

Yoongi freezes when he hears a tentative knock at his door. Slowly, he raises his head from his hands before responding in a loud tired voice, “who is it?” ready to curse out the person on the other side of the door.

“It’s me hyung.” 

Yoongi widens his eyes at the familiar voice that he can’t help but rise from his seat. He carefully walks over and finally opens the door to reveal Jimin’s figure standing before him. For a moment, the two men stand opposite of each other in silence. 

“I need to talk to you,” Jimin finally says. Yoongi nods and steps aside for him to enter, still in complete disbelief that he wanted to speak to him after everything that’s been said between the two in the past month.

As if reading his mind, Jimin turns to him with an uncertain smile, “You’re probably wondering why I'm here,” Yoongi only nods, unable to produce words at this point. Jimin stops at the center of his office before continuing, “I know we’re going through a rough patch right now, but at the end of the day, you’re still someone that I deeply care about. You’re my brother and I’m just worried about how you’re taking the situation,” he explains with a nervous expression. 

Yoongi’s eyes soften, of course they weren’t on good terms at the moment, but Jimin was right, at the end of the day, they’re brothers. He could never truly hate or get mad at him, or any of them for that matter unless they truly betrayed him. 

Jimin wasn’t certain this would be a good idea, unsure how the older male would react to his presence. And so when he hears Yoongi let out a chuckle, although not so enthusiastically, that alone causes Jimin to visibly relax.

Just then, Yoongi lets out a long sigh, “I’ll be honest, I feel like shit. But I know she’s probably going through it way harder than I am,” he finally replies as he rolls his neck.

Jimin nods, “I’m sure she is,” he mutters looking away.

Though Yoongi raises a brow, Jimim’s tone almost hinting at the fact that he doesn’t know about your feelings which was surprising to Yoongi since he knows how close he is to you. At that realization he furrowed his brows, “you haven’t spoken to her, have you?”

Jimin seems to stiffen at his claim, he contemplated lying but knew the older male would see right through him anyway, and so he just shakes his head, “no I haven’t.”

“Why not?”

Jimin lets out a low chuckle, “I wasn’t able to keep a promise with her,” he answers softly, running his fingers through his hair.

Now Yoongi was even more confused than before, he wanted to ask more questions but felt like now wouldn’t be the right time based on the downcasted look on the younger man's face. And so he only nods in return. Though Jimin’s lips quirk up, grateful that he doesn’t push the topic further.

Jimin leans against the back of his couch, crossing his arms, “I saw you that day,” he added, wanting to change the subject. “The day at the ball,” he clarifies when he saw the puzzled look on Yoongi’s face. 

“You attended the ball?”

Jimin shakes his head, “no I was watching from above, her majesty wanted me to be her ‘eyes in the sky’, or something like that,” he pauses before chuckling, “she’s been saying some strange things recently.”

Rather than laughing along with him, Yoongi can’t help but feel annoyed, “Of course you fucking knew about it, too,” he mutters furiously under his breath.

Jimin widens his eyes at his sudden harsh tone, “Pardon?” 

Yoongi scoffs, now stomping his way to his desk, “The empress told you of her plans,” Yoongi uttered with resentment, “everyone but me.” 

And as if the world wanted to continue mocking him, here you appear through the open door, with Hoseok right beside you. You freeze in your spot, when you realize Jimin, who was now staring at you like a deer in headlights, was also present in the room. Despite his surprise, he bows out of respect. Though you can’t say the same about Yoongi.

“What are you doing here,” Yoongi curses at himself, he didn’t mean to take his anger out on you. You just happened to arrive at a bad time. 

Though his cold icy tone doesn’t deter you in the slightest, “I came to inform you that we’ll be holding a meeting tomorrow,” you explain hesitantly, careful not to say the wrong thing to aggravate him even more.

He raises a brow in doubt, “you came here to personally tell me?”

You nod, “the rest of the men wanted to have a meeting regarding the situation, but I didn’t want to attend if you weren’t present.”

Yoongi scoffs, “I'm not some charity case.” Although, Yoongi can’t deny the warm feeling in his chest from what you said.

You stop, taken aback from his words, “Is that what you think you are?” you pause before continuing, “Why do you think you became one of the empress’s advisors?”

Yoongi rolls his eyes at this, “Because you think of me as a brother,” he spats bitterly. 

“No, it’s because you’re one of the few people I trust most in this world, I know we had a bumpy road getting here, but you have to believe me when I say that I trust you,” you insist as you take a step closer into the room.

Though your statement seemed to have ignited a fire in him as he snaps his head to you with narrowed eyes, “If you trust me so much then why didn’t you let me know about this entire situation?!” You jump back at his tone, surprised by how angry he got.

Hoseok steps forward in an instant, “Hyung I had no idea about the drugs either,” he blurts out, trying to dissipate the tension in the room as he moves to stand in between you and Yoongi. 

Jimin nods in confirmation, shifting his body to stand protectively in front of you as well, “he’s right hyung, Hoseok also had no idea what was going on.”

“That may be true, but she still sought your help, no? She needed military strength, she needed someone to hide in the shadows and she went to you two,” he snaps at them. Hoseok shuts his mouth, unable to form words to counter his claim. 

Though it’s not like Yoongi was going to let anyone else speak, not until he was finished, “Where do I come into play? Jin hyung and Namjoon helped with the plan, Jimin looked out for you from above, Hoseok provided the military strength, Jungkook and Taehyung came as your escorts. But what about me?” At this point, Yoongi paces around the room frantically, you try to reach out to him but he jumps back as if your touch would burn him. 

“Why am I always in last place!” He yells at the top of his lungs, “Is it because I wasn’t born into high nobility like Jin hyung? Is it cause I’m not some fucking genius like Namjoon? Or as handsome as Jungkook and Taehyung. Or as confident as Jimin. Or as reliable as Hoseok?” He continues his rant when everyone is too stunned to react.

“Yoon-”

“Why am I never good enough for you!” He shouts, slamming his fist hard on his desk. The room becomes silenced in an instant. The only sounds coming from the broken advisor standing before you. 

“Am I not enough?” He sniffles, his voice cracking as he stumbles, grabbing hold of the corner of the table to stabilize himself. He bows his head low, an attempt to hide the tears forming in his eyes.

You turn to look at Jimin and Hoseok, giving them a solemn look as you nod your head in the direction of the door, wanting to speak to him privately. 

They seem to understand your gesture as they begin to silently make their way out of the room. Although Jimin hesitates for a moment standing by the doorway. He takes one last look at Yoongi and back to you, his expression unreadable before finally closing the door behind him. 

At the click of the door, you turn your head back to Yoongi, your eyes focused solely on him. Carefully, you take slow steps towards him, you don't know if he notices but if he did he didn’t take any further steps away from you. “Yoongi, you are more than enough for me, you have to believe me,” you urge as you stop a few feet away from him. Careful to not overwhelm and crowd around his space. 

His silence urges you to continue, “I just felt like you didn’t want anything to do with me so I gave you your space,” you explain softly, “But you’re still one of my advisors, I should’ve communicated with you better on the situation. I'm sorry.” 

You take a few experimental steps towards him, assessing his reaction carefully because if you saw any indication that he was uncomfortable by the distance, you would step away immediately. But he gave you none. Even when you were now standing in front of him, he didn’t make an effort to move away. Instead, he finally lifts his head, holding your stare as his tears now running down his face. 

You don’t know what got over you, but at the sight of his tears, you find yourself reaching your hand out until they cup his face gingerly. His breath hitches when your hand caresses his cheek, your fingers wiping away the seemingly never-ending tears.

“Yoongi, you’re more than enough for me,” you repeat softly as you stare into his eyes. Almost mesmerized as his glossy eyes shined back at you making it look as though you were staring at the night sky.

You lean your body forward until your arms wrap around his shoulders, bringing him into a tight hug, “I’ll always need you,” you say in a soft whisper. But no matter how quiet you were, he heard you loud and clear.

He sucks in a breath as a sob escapes his mouth. He doesn’t try to fight you, instead, he wraps his arms around your waist instantly, tightening his grip around your body.

But instead of calming down, his sobs grow louder at the feel of your body against his.

Concerned, you try to pull away but Yoongi only tightens his grip around you as he shakes his head. 

“Don’t,” he whimpers softly, clutching onto you tighter as if you would slip away forever, “please don’t leave me. Not yet,” he cries out. Your heart nearly shattering at the sound of his voice cracking. 

Your eyes soften as you once again relax in his arm, your hands rubbing his back reassuringly as he continues to cry, his tears falling onto the nape of your neck. “I won’t,” you soothe gently, “I won’t leave you Yoongi.”

He sniffles once more, “You’re really back?”

You don’t have it in you to respond with a straight answer. You just couldn’t bring yourself to lie to him like that, especially in his current state. Lying to his face knowing that the empress he knew was no longer the owner of this body. That you were a completely different person, but who in their right mind would believe you. 

So instead, you nod softly, reaching a hand to run through his hair. His tears stream down his face as he chokes back a cry at the feel of your nod. 

You smile bitterly, as you have to keep reminding yourself, the girl he loves isn’t you, it’s the empress. He’s not crying for you, he’s crying for her. 

You had seen this coming, but it still hurt a lot more than you had expected. The world for some reason just wouldn’t stop being cruel to you. 

A young man approaches the darkly lit room slowly, the only source of light being the fireplace that’s barely holding onto life as it seems as though it’s about to die out at any moment.

“Master, I’ve come with urgent news,” the boy announced, news so important he fidgets in his spot nervously as he anticipates his reaction. It’s silent in the room, the only sound coming from the crackling of the fire as the wood burns. 

There, sat in front of a large window was the boy’s master, he had not turned around to face him, instead, opting to stare up at the moon as it shines brightly down on him, “Speak,” he commands in a dominating voice.

The boy nods his head, “We received a report confirming the death of Grand Duke Lee Joong-gu as well as Sir Taehyung, Sir Jungkook, and Sir Jimin stepping down from the rebellion.”

The man hums, immensely intrigued by the sudden news, “and the others?”

The boy shakes his head, “there have been no reports being made of the others stepping down as of this moment master, though many speculate it’s just a matter of time at this point.”

The man bellows loudly at that, as he leans back comfortably in his chair, his eyes shining with mirth, “I told that damn duke not to get too greedy and look what happened. He got caught,” he scoffs as he turns fully around, hands crossed on his desk as he traces the letter he had received from the late grand duke a mere few weeks ago in a bored manner, “Seems what that fool said was of concern after all, her majesty has truly changed.”

The boy nods, “What do you suggest we do now?”

He turns back around, admiring the night sky, “tell my men to continue keeping an eye on her majesty. And report everything to me.”

The boy bows, “yes master,” he responds before turning away, ready to inform those of the new orders. 

“Well I’ll be damned,” the man whistles as he leans back on his chair, “so you truly did succeed in changing the story,” he chuckles and with a dangerous glint he stares up at the moon, “I can’t wait to meet you, new empress.”

A/N: Hey guys!! I’m so sorry for taking so long to upload this chapter, I had to focus on my final exams and all the assignments my professors piled on me at the end of the semester. So I tried to finish this chapter as fast as I could!

I hope you’re all happy with how things went in this chapter. Also sorry for all the drama, I just felt like it would be better for the reader and Yoongi to make up instead of making more chapters of them avoiding each other when they could just communicate about their feelings. 

Thank you everyone for supporting and reading my story! I also love receiving all your kind messages so thank you so much for that!

And as always, I hope you have a wonderful day!!

Tagslist: (those in bold, I’m not sure if it worked for you, I’m really sorry, I’m not sure how to fix it) (I also apologize if I forgot to add someone, just comment again and I promise to add you in the next one!!)

@reallysparklychaos, @unknownsageking, @casspirit0705, @fangirl125reader, @silscintilla, @serefara29, @chimtaesty-main, @xxqueenwxtchxx, @diamonddia-mond, @vishakhas-world, @purelyecstacy, @resticou, @woopetals, @magicsweetener, @splaterparty0-0, @daydreambrliever, @strangeobjectmaker, @luna-xial, @m0chilattae, @celaenaelentiyavox, @lindsayjoy444, @layzfeelit, @kimsaerom, @songtiddies, @untamedgrape, @sonnymii, @moonssuga​, @kassandravictoria, @galaxyflab, @blank-et-noir, @nynhope , @midnight1199, @yessii-i, @protontippens, @gguktings, @borahebangtan, @katkrusade, @handsupanddropthepotato, @missseoulite, @cellula-staminale, @red-bow-tie3, @whateveritis616, @ggukkieland, @sbroces, @nnessworls, @yoonieebear

[maraudersftw]

Prompt inspiration ⚡️😘

“I always realized the charm/elegance of your left dimple”

Liz!! Thank you for such a beautiful prompt. It's been a while since I've written one of these, and I tweaked the phrasing a bit. Hope you enjoy ❤❤

Dimple

“Merlin, fuck, Prongs, can you at least try to hold yourself up?”

Lily frowned at the sound of that voice, eyes snapping up from the book she was reading as she craned her neck to look towards the portrait hole. The fire in the hearth had all but died out by now, only a few embers flickering at such an ungodly hour, but she didn’t need brightness to inform her exactly who had spoken, nor who he’d spoke to.

“What’re you talkin’ about?” Slurred another voice, and she rolled her eyes, fully placing down her book as she got up. “I’m perrrfectly—oh bloody—hello, Evans!”

“Evans!” Sirius cried, brows climbing high as he looked over at her with more relief than she could’ve expected, given the circumstances. “Thank Merlin, it’s you! Here, take Prongs for a bit.”

She positively reeled at the request. “What? What do you mean by—I’m not about to help you lot when you’ve clearly been out getting drunk after curfew!” She planted both hands on her hips, eyes shifting to glare at James. “And especially you, Head Boy. What were you thinking?”

“Yes, yes, very good. Go ahead and chew him out to your heart’s content,” Sirius grunted, feet dragging as he moved closer, unceremoniously shoving James down onto the empty couch. With a quick tug, he had the invisibility cloak unslung from around his free arm. “Bloody idiot dropped the map somewhere on the way up, and now I have to go back looking for it.”

“You can’t—” She took a step forward. “Not now.”

“Have to,” James mumbled from his spot, eyes half-hooded. “Can’t let Filch take it—no, no, can’t.”

Sirius looked quite like he had a few choice words to offer him at that, but simply scoffed and unfurled the cloak. “Please, Evans. Just wait until I’m back. I won’t even mind if you let him tumble to the floor and crack his head open.”

It was evident that he was awaiting her confirmation, so Lily pursed her lips, considering her options. But she had none, and there was no pretending otherwise. “Oh, fine,” she huffed. “But be back soon, or I’m leaving him here to rot.”

She wouldn’t. And they both knew it.

“If Prongs doesn’t ask you out soon, I’ll push him into the Black Lake.” Sirius winked. And with that, he disappeared from view, the portrait hole silently closing behind him as he left Lily flushing up to her hairline in the wake of his words.

“Evans,” James suddenly called, pulling her attention to him. She looked down to find that he was staring at her, glassy-eyed and sad. “Are you mad at me?”

“A bit,” Lily admitted, dropping next to him on the sofa with a long-suffering sigh. “Not as much as I should be.”

“Thaz good. I couldn’t poss—possibly live with myself if you started hating me again.”

She blinked, unsure if he was kidding. Before she could ask him, however, a heavy weight fell onto her shoulder, and she turned her face slightly to feel the brush of pleasant-smelling strands tickling her cheek. “I… I don’t hate you, James,” Lily said on a whisper, heart suddenly pounding on her tongue. “I never did.”

He nuzzled closer, nose sliding against her collarbone. “Liar.”

“I’m not.” Her fingers had curled into fists on her lap, the restraint necessary to stop her from irrationally reaching up and stroking his face. “You were annoying, sure, but you’ve… always had your positives, I suppose.”

“Is that right? Tell me, then.”

“What?”

She could feel his lazy smile against her skin, wondered how he could fluster her so, even while drunk six sheets to the wind. “What are these positives? I’m dying to know.”

“Your head is heavy enough already, Potter.”

“Come on.” He nuzzled some more, almost drawing out a breathy sigh from her in the process. “I probably won’t even—won’t even remember this tomorrow.”

It was such a lie that Lily was tempted to laugh, but he seemed to beat her to it, chuckling softly against her neck. Feeling a strange sort of boldness glowing inside her chest at his warmth, at the intoxication that seemed to be rubbing off on her from his breath so close to her ear, she let the whispered words flow out.

“You’re a brilliant mate, James. I’ve known that even when I didn’t want to. You go out of your way to help those you think need it the most. You’re infuriatingly intelligent, a damn good Quidditch player. And now, perhaps an even better Head Boy.” She could barely hear anything over the pound of her pulse in her ears, but it seemed like he’d stopped breathing next to her. She cleared her throat, decided she might as well come clean now. “And I—um, I’ve always liked your hair.”

“My hair?” he choked.

Lily laughed, hysterical even as she blushed furiously. “Oh yes. And I’ve always admired the charm of your left dimple.”

“Lily,” James groaned, sending her toes curling. “What have you done? How am I supposed to function now?”

“Thought you weren’t going to remember this tomorrow?”

A beat passed, and then he lifted off her shoulder, molten-gold gaze turning to pin her breath inside her chest. It rattled there noisily when his eyes fell to her mouth. “Even the strongest fucking Obliviate in the world couldn’t make me forget this.”

And when his fingers curled over her jaw, pulled her face to him, allowed her to slide her lips over his, gentle, soft, slow, Lily found that she agreed whole-heartedly.

[onecanonlife]

Tommy’s getting tired of people thinking he’s not real. Tubbo, meanwhile, hopes that this hallucination of his best friend will stay a while longer.

They work it out.

(word count: 1,563)

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

It only takes about another fifteen minutes for him to snap.

“What the fuck are you doing that for?” he demands, planting his feet and wheeling around and staring Tubbo dead in the face, because Tubbo’s been trailing along behind him like a fucking lost puppy or some shit since he got out, and he’s tired of it, tired of his best friend looking at him like that, with equal amounts of wonder and dread in his eyes, like he’s not fucking real at all.

Or should that be former best friend? He doesn’t fucking know. Apparently, it didn’t take all that long for Tubbo to replace him with Ranboo of all people. And get married. Apparently.

Tubbo blinks at him.

“I don’t think you’re real,” he says, and if Tommy’s anger hadn’t been boiling over before, it is now. He didn’t go to hell and back for people to tell him he’s not real. He didn’t stay in the same cell as Dream for a month for people to tell him he’s not real. He is so, so very real. The shock that shoots through his system, the bolt of all-consuming terror that overtakes his mind whenever anyone so much as bumps into him is proof enough of that. He is real, and who the fuck is anyone else to say that he’s not?

“Well guess what,” he says, “I fucking am, so deal with it or go away.”

He spent so long wishing to be by Tubbo’s side again. He didn’t think he’d get out to find this. Didn’t think he’d come out to be replaced. Didn’t think Tubbo would crouch along after him without saying anything at all, like he’s the one who died.

“You don’t need to be angry about it,” Tubbo replies, as if he’s the one being wronged here. “I’ve got it all figured out. See, I didn’t think you were dead at first, either. Sam told us and my brain went all weird and flat and in denial, because I knew it couldn’t be true, because you couldn’t be dead. But then it was a few days later and you still hadn’t come out, and it was true after all. So I can’t trust my brain, really, so this is probably my brain going into denial again. Wishful thinking.”

“You—” He cuts himself off, rage warring with confusion warring with he-doesn’t-fucking-know-what, because he’s been dead and locked in prison and he’s not even used to the sunlight yet, much less his own emotions. “I literally pinched you. I pinched you, and then you ran away and stood staring at me from that new—that new McDonald’s!”

“Tactile hallucinations aren’t impossible,” Tubbo informs him. “It’s probably because I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”

That draws him up short, just a little bit. “You have?” he asks. “I thought you got married.”

“I did,” Tubbo agrees. “It was a spur-of-the-moment sort of thing, really, so nobody got invited, but I was thinking about maybe having a bigger ceremony once you got out so you could be my best man, or something. I don’t really know how that works. ‘Cause it’s a platonic marriage, right, so I don’t know if you’re supposed to do it differently. But I wanted you to be there, and then it turned out that you wouldn’t ever, ever be.”

Well. Alright, so he wasn’t disregarded entirely, then. But still—

“And then,” Tubbo continues, “and then we adopted Michael, and I wanted you to be his godfather. You were supposed to be his godfather. Michael was going to love you. I thought you were gonna come back out and you were gonna meet Michael and everything was going to be alright. But then you didn’t.”

“Who the fuck is Michael,” he says flatly, even though his head is reeling because adopted—?

“He’s our son!” Tubbo says. “Mine and Ranboo’s! And you were gonna be the godfather. And it was going to be great, and we were gonna be a family, but then you died, and now Michael’s not even going to get to meet you. And you’re just, you’re just dead and I’m following you around because I don’t have anything better to do.”

There is—there is so much to unpack there, he doesn’t even know where to begin. Ranboo is—is the spouse, then, and he supposes he should have guessed that. The Michael issue isn’t too much clearer, since he doesn’t have a frame of reference for this—for this child? That Tubbo has adopted? What the hell? But it’s the last sentence that sends the anger flooding back, because what the fuck does he mean, he doesn’t have anything better to do?

“If that’s how you feel, then why don’t you—” he starts, but Tubbo cuts him off.

“I’m sort of pathetic, I guess,” he says. “‘Cause I’m following around a hallucination. I guess it’s because I know it’s the best I’m ever going to get. And you know, I’d rather have a you that’s not real than not have you at all, because this way, I get to see you and hear you. Even if you’re not here. So I need to enjoy it while I can, because I don’t know how long hallucinations last for, so I don’t know when you’ll go away again. And I don’t want you to go away. I don’t want you to be dead.”

All through this speech, Tubbo’s face remains distant, a little open, a little blank. But his eyes are welling up with tears, and as Tommy watches, they start spilling over his cheeks, uncommented upon.

And Tommy feels the rage drain out of him.

It was hell, where he was, in that terrible darkness, that void, being torn apart and shoved back together again. It was hell, coming back, everything too bright and too loud and too much, his body flinching and his heart racing at any movement, and a single touch is still enough to send him back there, to that moment, his vision fading and pain bursting like fireworks and Dream’s mask leaning over him, grinning.

It’s been hell, seeing how everything’s changed.

But Tubbo missed him. Really, really missed him. And maybe he’s replaced him a bit, and Tommy no longer has any idea how to feel about that, because it seems like Tubbo wasn’t trying to? That Tubbo still wanted him to be there, still intended him to be there? So he’s still a little pissed, maybe, and he still really, really wants people to stop being so weird, to stop reminding him at every juncture that he died, died and came back, but—

But Tubbo is crying.

“Tubbo,” he says, “I’m not a hallucination.”

“You are, though,” Tubbo says. “My mind’s playing tricks. You’re not—you’re not really—” He hiccups, and Tommy comes to a decision.

He extends a hand. It should be fine. It’s just Tubbo, and he’s choosing to do this. It should be fine. It’s going to be fine.

“C’mon, then,” he says. “Hold my hand, I’ll prove it. Maybe you could make up a pinch in your brain, but I bet you couldn’t make up this.”

Tubbo stares at his hand for a very, very long time.

“Don’t make this weird,” he says. “Tubbo, please, for the love of god, don’t make this weird. I really will go away, and you can just stay here and cry.”

Tubbo blinks, hard. And then, slowly, reaches out and takes his hand.

Tommy flinches, every nerve in his body lighting up, screaming at him to get away, and he can’t stop himself from gasping, from letting out a little whimper. But in the next moment, he’s fine, his heart rate already calming, and it’s just Tubbo’s hand in his, his grip loose and warm.

Tubbo’s eyebrows furrow. A minute passes before he speaks.

“This is a long time for a tactile hallucination to last,” he says.

Tommy rolls his eyes as hard as he possibly can, in order to express all of his exasperation.

“I’m not a fucking hallucination, alright?” he says. “Has married life made you an idiot or something?”

Tubbo looks up at him, then. He looks back, and tries to convey with his eyeballs his sheer displeasure at literally all of this.

“I’m holding your hand,” Tubbo says slowly. “You’re not disappearing, and I’m holding your hand.”

He tries to convey with his eyeballs that Tubbo should consider arriving at the point sometime soon.

“Oh my god,” Tubbo says. “You’re real. Tommy, you’re real.”

“Damn fucking right I’m real,” he says. And something like relief washes over him. It’s nice to hear those words, from someone else. And Tubbo just stands there and holds his hand and keeps crying, harder, if that’s even possible, and Tommy thinks that this is a scene that he should possibly put a stop to.

But he doesn’t. He stands there and holds Tubbo’s hand and lets Tubbo cry. Because nothing is alright. Nothing at all is alright. Everything sucks and everything’s different and he needs to kill Dream and the world kept on turning without him. But Tubbo is glad to have him back. Tubbo missed him. Tubbo still wants him.

If his eyes are wet, it’s just the rain. He glances up, and blinks against the sun.

Just the rain.

[dollslayer]

The Stand-In

CEO!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Stood up by your date and stranded in one of the nicest restaurants in town, Bucky Barnes just can't let that stand.

Warnings: slight angst, smut, oral (m & f receiving), deepthroating, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it !), if I missed anything let me know!

W/C: 3,807

A/N: I wrote this for @simsadventures 6k mixed adventure challenge (Congrats!) w/ a restaurant setting and the line "If you could just hold my hand and be quiet, that would be nice". If you like it please reblog and comment and tell me what you think! Cheers!

p.s. - Come check out my other fics or find me on AO3 (same name)!

Main Masterlist

7 PM

Your best Jimmy Choos click gingerly as you walk up to the hostess stand at one of the most popular restaurants in Manhattan. He had made the reservation in your name, which you gave to the hostess. She takes a minute to consider you, cocking a brow as she silently clocks your ASOS cocktail dress. You looked chic enough that she could forgive you. Her moment wasn’t lost on you, this part of the Upper West Side was so stuffy so you put on your best.

Feeling slightly self-conscious about your attire you brushed the feeling off quickly. He would be here soon and he’d reassure you how beautiful you look. When you’d met for coffee he’d make you feel so sexy and confident with how sure of himself he was. So when he asked you to dinner at one of the most renowned places in the city and said he wanted to talk tonight you accepted immediately.

“Right this way” the hostess said and broke you out of your self-doubting stupor and guided you towards a some-what secluded table towards the back of the restaurant.

“Here are some menus for you two, if you’d like anything to drink while you wait, your waiter should be here soon”, she sent you an artificial smile and turned on her heel back to the stand.

You picked up a menu and it left you reeling at the prices. You had half a mind to text him and see if he wanted to go somewhere else. Based off of the way he dresses and how he had tipped the barista on your first outing you thought better of it. He’d said he wanted to treat you, so you’ll let him.

7:15 PM

You decided to wait to order anything to drink until he got here, too afraid of the price tag attached to any bottle of wine on the menu.

You took a sip of your water and checked your texts for the second time since sitting down. Still nothing, you didn’t want to text him just yet, you knew he was busy and you didn’t want to seem overbearing. You knew he was a CFO and he’d be coming from the financial district when traffic was insane. You could forgive him. You take another sip of your water hoping it’ll wash all of your doubts away. Besides, it’s not like he’s late-late, he’s like, fashionably late, he’s working-man late.

7:30 PM

Okay, so he’s late-late, don’t panic. Sometimes things happen, he’s only human and this is only your second date.

Your waiter approaches the table again, eyebrows raised expectantly at you. The smug look on his face says he’s thinking what you’re too afraid to.

You order yourself a $25 martini. Your waiter promises to return and you finish off your water.

Time to craft the perfect text that says ‘Hey I’m here, where tf are you?’ without actually asking where the fuck he’s at. You tap away nervously on your phone.

‘Hey, I’ve got a table towards the back, closer to the end of the bar’ Perfect.

7:45 PM

You’re still sitting solo at the table, you feel the beginnings of humiliation creep into your features. You feel warm, your brows form a seemingly permanent crease of worry, and you are trying everything in your power to suppress the tears you felt building up.

You don’t make eye contact with your waiter when he stops by again, playing it off like you were sending a text. But you tell him you’ll be right back so that he doesn’t give up your table.

You walk quickly to the bathroom hoping no one will notice your trembling face. You feel just like a middle schooler that got dumped at the dance. You make it to a bathroom stool and dial your best friend, Wanda.

“Is everything okay? You’re supposed to be out with your mystery date aren’t you?” She had answered almost immediately.

You sniffled a bit and took a shaky inhale. “Y-yes, our reservation was for 7 and he put it in my name, I texted him once already but I don’t wanna seem too overbearing for a second date, y’know? But something feels off. I don’t know, maybe I’m being crazy.”

“You’re definitely not being crazy, it sounds fishy to me. If he doesn’t answer in five minutes I want you to leave and come straight over. I’ll have white Russians and Drag Race waiting for you” Wanda always knew just what to say, just how to make you feel. You were grateful for her.

You sighed into the receiver. “Thanks, babe, I’ll let you know what happens either way”. You hung up and grabbed some toilet paper to dab at the corners of your eyes. You knew you’d need an extra minute to compose yourself as you faced the truth.

He’s not coming, he’s not texting me back, he probably regretted setting the date which is why he put the reservation in my name, I won’t be hearing from him again. Just pay your tab, smile, and leave. You got this.

7:52 PM

Checking your appearance in the mirror one last time you let out a final sigh and push open the door back to the dining room. Your walk to your table begins to slow when you notice someone is sitting at your table. A rather tall, unfamiliar someone.

Did the waiter really give away the table? I’ve been gone all of 7 minutes! What do I even say to this stranger? Should I just grab my bag and go? Hopefully it’s still there.

Your final steps towards your seat are nervous and uneven. The man in the chair opposite yours must’ve heard you and he faces you. You’re struck with an unfamiliar but extremely handsome face. The look of surprise must be tangible because he laughs and slight wrinkles form at the edges of his eyes. Who the fuck is this guy? Well he hasn’t stolen my purse so there’s that.

“I-” You lean over to grab your purse when you’re cut off mid-apology.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart, you know how it is at work. Sit down, I ordered a bottle of wine for the table”. The man said.

You sat down slowly and felt so stiff and uncomfortable in the chair. Were you being pranked? Was this part of some very elaborate joke? Before you could ask any of those questions the man reached across the table and grabbed your hand.

“If you could just hold my hand and be quiet, that would be nice” He said as his thumb grazed your knuckles. You were slightly stunned by his boldness. You complied, if only out of shock and hoped he’d explain himself a little better or let you go in time for you to make an exit.

He leaned in closer to you, to anyone else it would’ve looked like an intimate moment during any normal date. He looked you in the eyes while he kept hold of your hand and you realized how warm he was, how clear his eyes were. You took a deep breath through your nose and tried to play it cool.

“I’ve been at the bar for a while now, it seems like whichever idiot decided to stand you up made a grave mistake.” Your brows pinched together and he continued, “I was with a friend talking business but he left and you look like you needed to be saved from the incident so here I am. James Barnes, but you can call me Bucky.”

You were unsure what to do with the information just given to you. Yes, it would’ve been embarrassing to pay your tab and leave alone after sitting there for almost an entire hour by yourself, but it was also embarrassing that this man had noticed and you certainly didn’t need anyone looking at you like some damsel in distress.

You caught yourself from scoffing completely and schooled your features. “I… appreciate that you’d do that for me but I don’t want anyone’s sympathy, especially not a date.” You tried to pull away when his hand gently squeezed yours.

“Please- I- I didn’t mean to make it sound like I’m doing this out of pity. Whatever happened here is unfortunate, yes. But you’re also very beautiful and you’re here by yourself so why not ‘shoot my shot’ as I believe the kids are saying these days? Think of me like a stand-in for the other guy, but y’know, better” he replied playfully.

A very brief moment of contemplation was solidified by your lack of notifications on your phone. Why not? He’s good looking and he’s doing you a favor.

You had to at least afford a small chuckle at that. “So ‘Bucky’, huh? Well I don’t have any cool nicknames but you can call me by my first name.” You gave it to him and he repeated it back to you, a wry smile on his face.

8:05 PM

Still no texts from him but you did text Wanda to tell her everything worked out and there’d be details to come. She’d go into full on mama bear mode if you hadn’t updated her.

“So, Bucky, what do you do? Do you live here in Manhattan?” You asked before taking a sip of your wine (which you didn’t dare check the price of per bottle).

“Brooklyn, actually, but a lot of my business is here. Have you heard of Buchannan hospitality?” He asked.

Your brain snagged itself on that name. That sounds familiar? Where have I seen that? Oh wait! Didn’t you see him in the Forbes ‘30 under 30’ list last year?

You’d meant to answer him but unfortunately all that came out was a confused “Forbes?” at which he laughed a little bit and nodded.

“Yeah you might’ve seen me there. I own some hotels and lounges around Manhattan and Brooklyn. What do you do?” He had brushed off his accolades so quickly, wanting instead to know about you, this random girl that had been stood up.

Shit, your mid-level marketing job doesn’t stand up to this in the least. You took a sip of the wine and answered him, explaining you were second in command of your small company’s marketing department.

He seemed genuinely intrigued and you two ended up talking business and swapping office and university disaster stories until the main course arrived. You dug into your meal, savoring the taste and relishing in the unusual turn of events.

8:47 PM

The plates have been cleared away and the wine glasses refilled. Bucky was proving to be great company and as oddly as it started you were grateful to be sitting here with him. You’d nearly forgotten about your would-be date and decided to check your phone one last time.

You had 11 unread texts, 10 of them from Wanda wanting a play-by-play and one of them from the man that had stood you up. You opened it and sighed. ‘Can’t make it tonight, baby, promise to make it up to you soon’.

You scoffed to yourself. He’s not gonna say where he’s been? Or even say sorry? Douche.

You put your phone away and looked back up to Bucky who was eyeing you with playful curiosity.

“Lemme guess, that was the guy who was supposed to be seeing you’s sorry ass excuse followed by a flimsy apology” He said as he drank from his water glass.

“You’re 1 for 3. It was him but he didn’t apologize or try to explain himself. Should’ve known when he put the reservation under my name and not his that something might be up and when he wasn’t there on time.” You said more to yourself than to Bucky.

“What’s his name?” Bucky asked.

“His name’s Brock Rumlow,” Bucky’s expression changed just slightly at this. “I think he works at some firm in the financial district. We only ever went out the once before this so I don’t really remember.” You explained. “What? What’s that look for? Please don’t tell me you know him”.

“Sorry to say that I do. Sorry to say I know his wife too” He said a little more quietly.

You felt humiliated all over again, the same feelings that you experienced in this very seat not an hour ago still had you by the gills it would seem.

Bucky reached for your hand again, running the pads of his thumb across the ridges of your knuckles in an attempt to calm you.

“I’m sorry sweetheart, I didn’t mean to make you upset, but you definitely ought to know that Rumlow is no one that deserves your time” Bucky said in earnest.

His words were nice but you’d need some time to get over this embarrassment on your own. In the meantime, you really were enjoying Bucky’s company so you decided to let it distract you.

Bucky flagged down a waiter, signaling him to bring the check. He took one glance at it and set his card inside. As you reached for the bill with your own card in hand he gave it to the waiter before you could even get a peek. He was so nonchalant when he looked at you.

“Don’t even think about it. So tell me, is the night over or are you game to spend a little more time on me?” He asked. This is the second time he’d been dominant but kind in one breath. You weren’t entirely sure how you felt but you didn’t dislike it.

If you went home you’d just be wallowing in your own self pity, or you’d go to Wanda’s and do it but if you go with Bucky you could delay that feeling for a bit longer. Out with a stranger it is.

“Where to?” You asked him.

9:59 PM

A private booth on the top floor of what he said was one of his favorite lounges turned out to be where to. You were relieved to find there was no dancing, as you had two left feet and half a bottle of wine by now. When you got to the booth you stuck with water, knowing you’d need to get yourself home.

Bucky had insisted on one glass of champagne ‘to chance encounters’ he’d said. You agreed but just one. You found yourself closer to him while you talked, your knees touched and his hand found its way to your leg. It didn’t dare to move higher up, just staying there like a comforting weight almost while you conversed.

You were rambling on about the time you and your cousin took your dad’s car for a joyride when you were 14. You were laughing the whole thing off when you realized he wasn’t laughing with you. You had worried for a moment that you’d bored him when you saw the soft yet intense look in his eye and tilted your head with curiosity.

“You’re very beautiful, you know that right?” He didn’t let you answer as he shifted closer. “I’d like to kiss you, is that alright with you?”

Oh. You were caught off guard by the abruptness of his question. Suddenly shy, all you could do was give a small nod and bite your lip in anticipation. His full lips were soft and almost as warm as his hands, which were holding you in an embrace. One of your hands had made their way to his hair and one on the outside of his lower thigh. You sighed as you kissed him back.

It was soft but insistent, things became a little more passionate as you swiped your tongue into his mouth and you both let out a small moan. You didn’t want to stop kissing Bucky, it just felt right.

He finally broke the kiss as one of his hands still rested at the nape of your neck. You were breathless, this man had kissed the daylights out of you. If he could do that with his tongue imagine what else he could do with it. You were both panting softly, sorting through what to make of things and where to go from here.

“I don’t know about you, but I wanna keep doing that, but this might not be the best place for it. You can say no if you want to, and you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, but I’d love to take you home and treat you right” He said with unwavering eye contact.

Well how on Earth could I say no to that even if I wanted to? Wait doesn’t he live in Brooklyn?

“Let’s go back to mine, probably closer” You said. He nodded in agreement and sent a text to his driver to come pick you both up.

10:40 PM

You did indeed find out what else that tongue of his could do, you were finding out right now. He had made you cum once from his tongue alone already but he added to thick fingers and started pumping them into you, making a scissoring motion that hit you just right. You arched your back and pushed his face in deeper as you cried out, signaling your second orgasm.

Completely drunk in the afterglow of it, you wanted to keep this feeling forever. You wanted to show him what you could do too. You got up albeit with a little shakiness and hovered over him. You kissed his neck and slid your hand down to meet his groin. He was still in his briefs and you pulled the elastic band down with ease.

His cock sprang free and you had to hide the slight surprise you felt looking at the sheer size of him. You were always told you were good in bed so time to really put yourself to the test. You kissed your way down to his pelvis and your hand started working him. Staring back up at him you maintained eye contact while you kissed the dab of pre-cum that pooled at the head of his dick.

He shuddered but you kept staring at him, and in what you have to say was a pretty proud moment for you, you held his gaze while you took him slowly and in one go. You closed your eyes and moaned, feeling him in the back of your throat.

“Shit, oh my god. Are you gonna…?” He was lost for words so you decided to answer him by getting to work. You started slowly, up and down, letting yourself get used to his size and reminding yourself to breathe through your nose and stay relaxed.

His moans were growing louder and his breathing heavier, you knew he was close and you were wondering if he was going to let you finish him. You got your answer when he pulled you off of him by the hair.

“As bad as I want you to finish what you started, I wanna feel you first.” He panted.

“So what’s stopping you?” You asked playfully. A small shriek escaped you as he flipped you under him. He lined himself up with your entrance and thrust in slowly. You could tell he was using a lot of restraint but that was quickly forgotten as you remembered how big he was. You suddenly appreciated the slow pace.

As he became fully sheathed inside of you you let out a loud moan that was quickly silenced by his lips on yours. A few more small thrusts and he was nearly fucking your cervix. You felt unbelievably full.

“Had no idea how talented that mouth was of yours, doll. Trying to make me cum without getting to fuck you though? Now that’s just cruel. I think you need to pay for that, don’t you?” He asked playfully as his thrusts became a little harder and forceful.

You could only nod and moan as he picked up his pace. Your hands clung to his shoulders for dear life and you whimpered and keened while he railed you into your mattress. Finally getting used to the feeling you reached down to play with your clit.

“Did I say you could touch yourself?” He asked in between grunts.

Your eyes rounded and you shook your head.

“I wanna be the one to touch you. Make you cum. Only me.” He forced out as he replaced your fingers with his. He made tight, quick circles around your clit but didn’t let up on his pace as he fucked you closer and closer to a third orgasm.

“Your pussy’s making it fuckin’ impossible for me to hold out any longer, need you to cum, sweetheart. Cum all over my fuckin’ dick.” His words sent you right over the edge and you did as you were asked.

Not two seconds later he cried out and emptied himself inside of you, sending a few final pushes into you before taking himself out and dropping down on his side.

You leaned over and kissed him with what little breath you two had left. Your sweat mixed together but you didn’t mind.

His hands provided that comforting weight as he brought one to your shoulder and the other to your hip. He kissed the tip of your nose and watched you begin to drift off to sleep. He could probably use the rest himself and decided to close his eyes for a bit.

9:30 AM

You woke up in a half empty bed, but before you could let yourself be too disappointed you heard the sound of your shower turning off. You padded down to the bathroom and opened the door to find Bucky toweling off. He gave you a lopsided grin.

“Good mornin’, I would’ve asked you to join me but you looked so peaceful I didn’t wanna wake you.” He explained. “If you’re not sick of me, do you maybe wanna grab some breakfast?”

You shook your head and reached past him to turn the shower back on.

“No way. I make the best pancakes and as a thank you for everything last night, I insist on making some for you.” You smiled up at him, hopeful he’d agree.

“Well I hope you know what you’re up against, I’m a very insatiable man.” He joked back.

You hit him with a washcloth and laughed. “Oh believe me I know. Gimme 15 and I’ll be right out.”

He nodded and closed the door behind him. You let your mind wander back to last night as you washed off the sweat that lingered from the night before.

10:15 AM

You set down two plates stacked mile-high with pancakes and bacon. You held your coffee mug up to his and clinked against it.

“To chance encounters” You said with a smile.

[jaceyneedsabetterusername]

Aliit Be Cuur

Pairings: Mando x Reader

Summary: While waiting in the hospital in Mos Pelgo after you were inured in the attack on the Krayt Dragon, Mando accidentally learns some life changing information for the both of you. You’re pregnant. 

Warnings: Description of injuries, Pregnancy, Talk about miscarriage, Mando sees a sonogram-like image of reader’s uterus while she’s unconscious, general discussion of pregnancy while reader is unconscious and unaware, made up Star Wars level medical equipment

Word Count: 2800

Read Part 2 Here!

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Watching you lay unconscious, body littered in cuts and burns, had to be the most terrifying thing Mando had ever experienced, and that was coming from a man that had seen some horrific things in his life. It was his fault you were hurt. If only his plan to kill the Krayt Dragon had gone as it was supposed to, you wouldn’t be in this position. This was supposed to be what he was good at. Killing. Sure, he killed the dragon, but at what cost? 

When the initial plan of luring out the dragon and detonating the explosive just at his weak spot under his belly had gone south, he knew he had to think of something else. He could not leave the Mandalorian armor with Cobb Vanth. He needed it back. 

The plan to use the bantha as bait had come to him quickly but he should have known better than to not tell you what he was doing. There was just no time. Everything had happened so fast. After months of travelling together, he’d hoped that maybe by some miracle, you could read his mind and know that everything was going to be okay when he allowed the dragon to swallow him with the bantha. 

You were with the villagers and Tusken Raiders, struggling to fix the devices you’d built to throw the harpoons so you’d have a fighting chance. Being so caught up in your own tasks, sweat beading on your forehead from the heat and pressure, you hadn’t known Mando had strapped explosives to the bantha and was using it as bait. A loud screeching roar from the dragon ripped your attention away from the trying to kick a piece of wood back into place just in time to see the dragon’s mouth open, massive teeth bared, as it plunged down, straight on top of Mando and the bantha. 

You screamed in horror, running towards the beast, “MANDO!” About halfway there from your post, you whipped out your blaster and shot at the beast as it dove back into the sand. The lasers were useless and you knew that but it was the only thing you could think of to do. Your legs fumbled to a halt, the realization that Mando was really gone actually hitting you. 

But then something else hit you. 

There was a loud explosion and a wave of fire, rocks, sand, and dragon flesh hit you, throwing your body back. The last thing you saw was the wave of orange and red coming at you before everything went black. 

Just as planned, Mando had managed to escape the beast’s clutches before the explosion but suddenly regretted every decision he’d ever made when he saw the little figure of your body running towards where you assumed Mando to be. Even from dozens of feet in the air, he knew it was you. He couldn’t imagine anyone else there willing to run straight at the monster to try and save him. The bombs were sure to detonate any second but by the time he’d noticed you, it was too late. The bomb detonated with a massive wave of heat and debris. 

He watched in horror as your body flew back at least twenty feet before sliding another fifteen across the sand after the impact. Time seemed to stop around him as he jetted to you in less than a few seconds. He couldn’t breathe, fear that he had caused your death choking his airways. “Y/N!” He yelled, landing harshly on his feet right beside you before falling to his knees. You were lying face down, eyes closed. “Y/N, talk to me.” Mando looked over your body and, by some miracle, there didn’t appear to be any broken bones, at least not any that looked immediately disfiguring. With a nearly effortless nudge, he rolled your body over. Your clothes had been ripped and/ or singed in many places. Multiple large holes in your pants revealed reddening burns and blood dripping from sand scraped skin. Your shirt was torn in multiple places, the left strap of your shirt torn so severely it could barely count as a sleeve. The side of your face that was on the sand was also scraped up, thankfully not too deep, but enough to cause bleeding. 

Now the two of you were in the little hospital in Mos Pelga, along with the rest of those who'd been injured in the attack. You slept now, bandages covering large portions of you body that was now largely exposed. They had had to strip you down to your underwear to reach all the wounds but had wrapped your chest in wrappings in place of a bra for the sake of your privacy. Mando had pulled his cape over the majority of your body, knowing you'd be upset if you were to wake up practically naked in front of everyone. 

He hadn't left your side since the explosion. He carried you to the infirmary. He laid you down on the cot. He watched as both human nurses and medic droids worked to patch you up and take blood for tests. They had told Mando that they wouldn’t know anything for sure until the tests came back. Even with the bacta that they’d lathered on you, it would take time for it to work and there was a possibility for further damage that they couldn’t see on the outside. 

The child had been sleeping in his little cot, sealed up safely inside the levitating metal object. Mando had just been sitting beside you on a crate, leaning forward on his knees. This was his fault. He should have known you’d run in. He should have known that something like this could happen. 

“Mandalorian.” A robotic voice gently called for Mando’s attention. 

He looked up at the awkwardly proportioned grey medic droid who stood on the opposite side of the bed. “Is she going to be okay?” 

The droid spoke again, its body shifting unnecessarily to emphasize some of its words, “Patient 728, also known as Y/N. Female. Age: (Y/A). 2nd degree burns on the abdomen, arms, and legs. Superficial graze abrasions on the face, neck, arms, hands, abdomen, and legs. Bruising on face, back, hips, and legs. Probability of death: 7%. No damage to the fetus. Probability of miscarriage: 19%.” 

Mando found a hard time finding any solace in the words of a droid. When a young male nurse walked up beside the droid, Mando immediately turned his attention to him.

“It’s a miracle the baby survived unharmed. I’ve seen much less cause a miscarriage.” The nurse mused, flipping through the clipboard in his hands. 

Mando stood up, brows furrowed beneath the helmet, “That must be someone else’s chart.” 

The nurse flipped back to the front page, “Patient 728? Y/N L/N?” The young man confirmed.

“Yes.” 

He shook his head, “Nope, this is hers.” 

Mando gestured to you, “There must have been a mistake. She’s not pregnant.” 

The young nurse looked at the beskar helmet that he was actually slightly taller than and swallowed hard, “I’m sorry. I assumed that you were the father. If not, this is confidential information that I can’t share with you.” It was obvious that the man was afraid to stand up to a Mandalorian, surely hundreds of stories of their superior killing ability running through his head. Nonetheless, he held fast to what was right. 

Mando’s head was reeling and all he wanted was to run and take off the helmet and take actual, non-filtered breaths. Instead, he was wide eyed and silent as thoughts ran through his head a million lightyears an hour. The beskar betrayed none of his emotions. To the rest of the world, he appeared frozen, standing strong and staring right at the nurse when in reality Mando had zoned out somewhere off to the side. 

If you were pregnant, the baby had to be his. For the last few months, the two of you had had an unofficial relationship of sorts. Nothing was ever said, no official labels, but the two of you behaved like any other couple, or at least a much less touchy-feely version of one. After a night of confessions brought on by an unrelated argument, it had become an unspoken truth that you were only taken by each other. You were his riduur, no doubt, and, as far as he knew, he was yours. You would never lay with another man as long as you and Mando were together, that much he was sure of.

“If she’s pregnant, I am the father.” His voice was calm as always but he thanked the modulator for the slight distortion. If it hadn’t been there, he would have sounded shaky. 

The nurse sighed, choosing to believe him because he really didn’t see much use in lying over something like this. He flipped to the next page on his chart and walked over to stand beside Mando, pointing at some numbers that meant nothing to him. “hCG is a hormone that’s created in the placenta and is only present in pregnant women. According to her levels, I’d say she’s about eight weeks.” He paused for a moment, allowing time for the new information to sink in. “You really didn’t know?” 

“If I’d have known, I wouldn’t have let her fight the Krayt Dragon.” Mando snapped, almost angry at the mere suggestion that he would put his own child in that sort of danger. 

The nurse put his hand up in defense before continuing, “Do you think she knows?” 

Mando shook his head. He believed that you still would have jumped into battle even if you had known, at least from a distance. It was just who you were. But he really didn’t think you had any idea that you were pregnant. Mando had been trained to read people his entire life and surely such news would have brought about some change in your demeanor. Mando hadn’t noticed any change in your behavior. Besides, he would like to believe that you would have told him if you knew.

He couldn’t believe this. How were you pregnant? Okay, well he knew how you could have possibly gotten pregnant but the two of you had always tried to be as safe as you could to avoid this exact scenario. Neither of you were in a position for children, the Child being a special circumstance. Your life was full of danger and violence. How could Mando protect you for an entire nine months while pregnant and then for the rest of forever, while also protecting the Child against what felt like an entire galaxy that wanted him at any cost? 

“Do you want to see?” The nurse’s voice brought Mando back to the present and his helmet tilted in curiosity. 

“See what?” 

“The baby. I need to do a scan to ensure that it's still doing alright. You can see the fetus on the screen while you scan.” He set the clipboard at the foot of your bed and procured a moderately sized glass panel with a metal border that he’d had pinned between his arm and side while he spoke to Mando. 

With a few taps on the glass, bright blue words and images appeared. He tapped on one selection and the middle of the screen cleared, aside from a thin column on the right hand side that had stats and vitals. “See, if you put anything under this, it will show you an interior view of the body. This mode shows organs and blood vessels and stuff like that. See?” The nurse put his hand under the glass panel. The screen showed a light blue version of his hand but instead of skin and nails, it clearly showed the lines of his muscles and the veins that overlapped them clearly. 

Politely as he could, he pulled the cape that had been draped over you down just enough to expose your lower belly, stopping just above the hemline of your underwear. The only thing indicating that you were even alive at this point was the deep inhale you took, drawing both Mando’s and the nurse’s attention. It was the only time Mando hoped that you weren’t waking up. He had no idea how to explain this new situation to you. Hell, he was still having a hard time understanding it for himself. Thankfully, a deep breath was all it was though. You were still asleep. 

The nurse moved the glass panel over your lower stomach, just about where your belly button was, and the image began to form on the screen as he adjusted a few things. Mando’s helmet tilted forward as he leaned over to see the image. 

A nearly perfect view of your reproductive system appeared as a blue digital image. Mando felt uncomfortable looking at the image, feeling like he was violating you in some way. He knew he shouldn’t be looking at this without your permission but then the nurse zoomed in on your uterus to the point where the only thing that could really be seen was a little being. 

Mando’s first thought was that it looked like a little alien. There was an identifiable head that appeared to be looking down and the cord that was attached to you through its belly. The rest of the body was curled into a fetal position. 

The nurse tapped something on the screen and there was a rapid thudding sound that emanated from the device. 

“Is that the heartbeat?” Mando asked, knowing that the answer was probably obvious. For someone who was used to working under pressure, he felt like his brain was only receiving radio static. 

“Mhm, nice and strong.” The nurse said with a warm smile. He tapped a few notes onto the board and then turned it off, the blue image disappearing and the amplified heartbeat ceasing. 

Mando couldn't believe this was happening. How could you not know you were pregnant? He was no expert on the female body, aside from the basics, but weren't you supposed to be throwing up or missing periods or something? He couldn't wrap his head around how you were eight weeks along with seemingly no clue of your condition. 

"Look, I can see that clearly this was something unexpected. I don't know if this is something you want to tell her or want me to, but either way, there are some conversations you two need to have." The nurse told Mando matter-of-factly while gathering the few things he’d brought over before leaving. 

Mando shifted on his feet and reached down to pull his cape back up over your torso so you wouldn’t be cold and exposed, though it was mostly for the second reason. It was next to impossible to be cold on Tatooine, at least during the day. That was when he noticed the small, barely there bump on your lower stomach. It was such a slight variation from its normal size that he never would have noticed it had he not just learned about the life now growing inside you. It was so slight that he imagined you probably would have just attributed it to bloating perhaps, since you were unaware as well, considering all the less-than-pleasant food you both came across in your work. 

Part of him wanted to place his hands over the ever-so-slight swell of your belly, just to see if by some chance he could feel anything. Mando decided against it, shaking his helmet at himself with a heavy sigh. He would wait until you woke up and the two of you had a chance to discuss everything before he did anything relating to the baby. 

Gently, he pulled the cape back up over your body and sat down on the crate again, leaning his elbows on his knees where he sat with his thoughts for several minutes in a zoned out daze. His attention was only broken by the cooing from the Child’s metal pram. Mando tapped on the controls on his arm, opening the pram, and removing the little green baby who was now wide awake. 

“Hey, buddy.” Mando breathed out, watching as the baby stretched his arms out to you, “I know, I know. She’ll wake up soon.” 

The Child looked up at Mando sadly before snuggling down onto his lap, sitting there comfortably. The weight of such a small being had become comfortable and normal for Mando now after all this time with him. He was, by Creed, his son now. Mando was already a father. You had stepped up as a mother for the young child. So why did this feel different? 

Mando imagined the new future, assuming you had decided to stay with him and care for the baby together. He had every intention of raising the baby with you and would do whatever it took to keep the two of you safe. He loved you more than he knew was possible to love another person and the last thing he wanted was to leave. Mando hoped that, one day, you would be officially bound by riduurok. Once the Alor approved it, Mando’s clan of two would become an aliit be cuur. Clan of four.