#V-Spool | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

megapteraurelia · 4 days ago

Text

DUSKWATCH. — scroll #3.

𓐩 SUMMARY; — iwaizumi hajime promised himself he'd stop, lay down the sword and keep his head and feelings down, for after all, he was just a stable boy. but when your hand for courtship gets offered as the prize for this yearly's knight tournament — he can't help but pick up the buried helmet again.

𓐩 WARNINGS; — royalty! fem!reader; stable boy!iwaizumi; yearning!!; fighting with swords; mention of starvation; sex and sex work (p in v, oral f!receiving); mention of death and slight hint at dismemberment; medieval time-based objectification;

𓐩 WORD COUNT; — 14,414.

𓐩 AUTHOR'S NOTE; — this took me a long time, i'm sorry for the wait!! i hope you enjoy it regardless and it's not too confusing! (love introducing characters in new context)

— back to masterlist.

matsukawa issei. — spymaster.

Matsukawa Issei liked the finger things nobility offered him.

It was comfortable, it was lush, it was blinding.

Fabrics soft to the touch, quiet hallways away from the bustling, wine that didn't taste like watered down vinegar, and rooms that smelt only of candles. No piss, no smoke, no iron tang of blood seeping into the stone like it belonged there, like it didn't know any other way to exist.

The court allowed him to dress well, speak rarely and be feared for the things he might know rather than what he had done.

The gutters never truly let go, though.

Matsukawa knew the crawl of hunger through bones; the way rot didn't smell until it was already spread through the bread. Knew how to fake sleep when the men outside the den were drunk and swinging fists, knew how they didn't deter from picking children's pockets roughly, how they ripped his clothes in search for anything to sell.

He remembered what it meant to keep copper clenched behind his teeth, the last coin he'd owned for a week. Had swallowed blood more than once, bitten down so hard in his sleep that he woke up choking on iron and spit, but no one ever took that coin. And in the morning, when he could trade it for a crust of bread, it tasted like survival.

The Spymaster had grown used to that taste.

Shifting through the filth like he belonged there, he wore an old coat, worn down boots and a limp that came and went as he needed. A coin fell from his hand, and a much dirtier one picked it up just as fast. The streets didn't speak in word, but rather in the rattle of dice, the thud of boots on boards too thin for their weight, the shift of eyes that tracked movement but never acted on it.

The gutters always knew the truth first; felt it deeply in the bruises that came quicker and stronger when the guards were thinner. The palace might sleep behind stone, on soft beds, but the kingdom's rot always started here, and always would.

His boots moved quiet and sure down alleys that curved like ribs. Behind the butcher's side wall, the one where rats fought hard, harder than drunks, a boy crouched with his hands in his sleeves. His wrists were thin, his nose smudged with soot, his eyes too wide and too sharp.

A coin slipped into the dirt.

He turned down a narrower path, one that twisted through rusted balconies and walls soaked in rain water. Rarely did these buildings have any way to protect their structures against the harshness of the weather out here at the foot of the kingdom, but nobody batted an eye. There were two women on a stairwell leading up to such a house, one of them half-dozing with her yarn spooling around her whilst the other eyed Matsukawa like he was a potential threat.

He was.

When there were no rules, when survival was dictated by the sheer goodwill people had to extend others, when dignity and any shred of one's own belongings — money, clothing, people's spoils — could be taken within a snap of fingers, then everybody who crossed your line of sight would be a predator.

Matsukawa Issei had no interest in these women beyond the covered loose floor tile underneath her boots and the coin that he let fly toward them in a high arc.

A flash of noise travelled through the air, a bit further ahead, in the middle of the market square. Voices were raised, sounding bitter and familiar.

"I've not changed anything, I swear it by my mum's grave," a farmer's voice, cracked dry, raw with desperation, "Paying four silver coins for a bushel, the same as always, same as last week, please."

"Last week's last week," the tinkling of coin in the palm of the vendor's hand rang like announcing bells of the church, carrying out swift punishment, "But the scales don't lie. You think I can eat your good intent? You're short, so either you give me the rest or you scuttle."

"More? Where am I meant to pull that from, my ribs?"

The merchant wasn't moved by the choked out question, by the exhaustion evident in the swing of air, and Matsukawa paused just within the shadows of a leaning archway, his cloak melting with the grey of the walls. In a show of good faith, the vendor dropped the coins back into the dirty scale dish and let the counterweight speak for him — he was right.

The farmer was short, and the vendor wasn't cheating.

There were onlookers, gutrats that watched, not because arguments like these were rare, no, there had always been people trying to lie through gritted teeth for another grain of rice, for another stalk of weed. That was nothing new, but the tension stuck to their flesh, anyway. For if there was nothing to live for, maybe the satisfaction of seeing other people down on their luck would soothe the thirst that could only be stilled through blood.

The farmer, with shaking hands and a growing panic beneath his tunic, stared at his traded silver coins like they might magically grow heavier; he stared and stared, and Matsukawa Issei knew the gaping hole inside that man's chest who had to feed his wife and his children, whose strangling frustration built up with nowhere to go.

A coin skittered across the cobblestone and nudged the farmer's toe.

A blink. A stare. Then, he picked it up slowly and put it on the scale. The vendor looked, noted the correct weight now and took it without protest.

The sale was done.

oikawa tooru. — crown's watch.

There was a low thrum in the air, a bustle of hands that were too excited.

The field beside the palace walls had been cleared and levelled, the uneven stones adorning the floor had been buried now underneath packed clay. The entire perimeter had been closed off with rope in clean lines to section off the official from the unruly. Beyond those, tents bloomed like flowers; the canvas were stitched with sigils and gold threads in a border along the trimmed edges. Some of those tents belonged to the great houses, nobles who were out to scout knights to sponsor them.

A stronger breeze blew and the heavy silk flapped.

Dismounting his horse, Oikawa Tooru handed the reins to a stable boy who had stalks of hay hidden amongst his blonde hair like a wink to any observer who could find them. He didn't know the stable boy, but he also didn't need to. His horse didn't need command by the same face; it had done this a dozen times before. So had Oikawa.

His steps were unhurried and deliberate, his boots clean, his tunic smoothed, sword belted high. Even when it wasn't called for, he liked to dress sharp before a fight. Because if he pressed his tunic, if he polished his shoes, if he oiled his sword, conditioned the leather hilt, then nothing could be blamed on chaos. Then nothing could be out of his hands; any mishap was his fault only and something to work towards. The Knight Commander liked to think he was prepared for anything.

He didn't wear his heavy white cloak that marked him for his status; after all, he wasn't here on duty.

The other knights gathered in loose clusters. Some laughed too loud, their nerves peeking out beneath the boisterous call outs of triumph. Others flexed gloved fingers or slapped each other's shoulders like boys who hadn't seen a battlefield yet. Their armour, donned already, caught the sun rays in between cloud kisses.

He nodded when they recognised him.

The shine wasn't going to last long on that armour, he thought. The first clash with another sword would dull it, the second would chip it, and by the end, it'll have the same smear of dirt and blood.

Oikawa passed beneath the arch where the Crown's sigil had been hung, and stopped in front of the registrar's table. The scribe, glasses perched on his nose, hair ran through, hands ink-stained to the wrists, glanced up, then quickly down again — just long enough to confirm who stood before him. He was young, a furrow in his brow, and a desperation to look competent.

The scribe took a breath, then set his pen down gently. When he looked up again, his expression was composed but there was a stiffness in his posture, in the way he held himself. One that didn't exactly look like fear, but a very careful attentiveness.

"Knight Commander Oikawa," he said, "It's an honour."

"Bit early in the day for honours, isn't it?" Oikawa's voice was light with amusement, his back straight.

A faint, sheepish smile, "Perhaps. You're entering by standing."

"I am."

"No sponsor, I presume?"

The scribe presumed correctly.

Oikawa, Knight Commander, rode under no banner but the Crown's. A sponsor meant strings, meant that amongst the ambition he already carried in every fibre of his being, he had to carry an extra sword with extra purpose. Purpose that was not his.

He had spent too many years earning his command to let another man's name ride his victories.

"No herald, no squire."

He had need for neither. Oikawa spoke well enough on his own, needing no trumpets to announce him, not when he had left impressions on each onlooker — and if a man needed tools to announce him, he probably had nothing worth hearing once the music stopped.

Or so, Oikawa thought.

As for the squire — a good observation. Oikawa had his own hand in training his men, in quartering with them, in bleeding alongside them. No boy with his hands too clean and a dream in the shape of a horse brush was going to be of any more use to him. He carried his own steel, always had.

"You're good," Oikawa lifted his eyebrows, gaze sharpening as they roamed over the scribe, "Should I even be here, or have you already written everything in?"

"I'd prefer to be sure," the scribe dipped the quill, writing with practised precision, fast but neat, clean, "Four campaigns, if I'm not mistaken. Two royal citations?"

"You are not mistaken."

"I read the commendation from the southeast reach engagement. You held the line at the Johsai Pass."

"Bandits still found their way through," Oikawa said, tilting his head.

"Still. It was well written," the registrar said, a shrug in his shoulders, quiet understanding in his nod. He sealed the parchment neatly and set it aside with care, "You're cleared, Commander. The steward will see to your oath. Thank you for—"

He hesitated, searching for the right word, "For taking the time to come in person."

Oikawa Tooru thought to thank him was slightly curious. He was no stranger to being the subject of one's praise, yet that thanks went deeper; it revealed a small token of gratitude that was unfamiliar in the face of the Knight Commander's duty. What he did was merely protocol, standing in line to register, to confirm your own person lest somebody would steal not just the name, but also one's standing, one's honour, one's integrity.

The bar had sunk lower than he thought that he had to be thanked for that.

"There is no need," he said, at last, studying the scribe for a moment longer. "And your name?"

"Akaashi."

"You've got a steady hand," Oikawa nodded to the logbook, "Keep it steady."

The Knight Commander stepped up to the ceremonial basin, the steward of arms standing beside it. Oikawa needed no instruction as he pressed his palm to the Crown's crest, the oath passing his lips with clarity, repeating it word for word by heart without faltering.

He had said it before, versions of it sprinkled throughout the entirety of his life. Before he went on any royal pushes, when he stepped into the Crown's Watch, when he climbed the ranks of it. He spoke it not like a ceremony, but like a last rite, a reminder of what he was risking, a reminder of what he was gaining.

The entry was stamped, a solid thunk of wax squeezed out from underneath the seal. It was done, his name written in flourish next to a myriad of other knights, in pursuit for your favour and regard.

Oikawa Tooru was not in love. He didn't yearn for the Crown's hand, didn't aspire to be your husband nor the king of the court.

But glory? Prestige? A kingdom that would never forget his name?

Fire licked at his fingertips when his hand rested on the knob of his sword's handle.

Let the knights fight for your hand like love-sick fools, let them wear their hearts on their tabards, let them bleed for honour.

Knight Commander of the Crown's Watch, Oikawa Tooru, intended to fight for something far more enduring: legacy.

When he walked past Akaashi, he caught a glimpse of the roster. Stopping, he leaned slightly over the table, his eyes scanning the names written in neat, round letters.

He recognised almost all of these houses; all men he had either trained, worked side by side with, corrected in field exercises. Knew their names and their weaknesses, knew their strengths and their ambitions. Though one name caught his attention, unfamiliar and foreign, a name that belonged not, a name that burned itself in his mind's eye.

Akaashi said nothing as Oikawa's finger hovered above the scroll of general admittance, also didn't when he tapped once near the bottom. Only bowed his head when Oikawa stepped back, turned on his heel and left the tent with a hum under his breath.

you. — crown princess.

The silk scratched at your collarbone. It was supposed to be spun cloud, or so the seamstress claimed, but all you felt was an embroidered noose, one that hung prettily around your neck. It was tighter than it had any right to be, the ribbons threading your spine into a shape that wasn't quite yours.

"You must look radiant, Your Highness!" the woman cinched the bodice tighter, her voice upbeat and tinged with a politeness that grated in your ears, "The opening feast is not just for sport, it will be a spectacle!"

Of course it would be. A tournament was a tournament only so long people were ready to stuff their own thirst for entertainment into the sand and allowed for sovereignty to take over. Otherwise, it resembled more a blood fest, piling one on top of the other for a chance to get their fingers on the Crown's most polished coin. The prize must shine.

You were sure that any of the ladies lounging behind you on the plush cushions would wish to be in your position, their envious glances digging into your neck from behind though quick to hide behind held up hands when you turned, laughing into them politely, their compliments like pretty vipers ready to strike.

You wished them to be in your position, too.

Their voices droned on, laughter tinging the air heavily. Today, your chamber wasn't yours. It belonged to the court, air thick with the scent of perfume and warm from the amount of people helping themselves to fruits and nuts.

"You'll shine like the star that you are," the seamstress mumbled, her fingers pulling the bodice tighter like you didn't need to breathe.

"Stars burn out."

The woman only smiled, "Then all the more reason to make you dazzling whilst you last."

You kept your face smooth at her comment, body still. The midnight blue dress pooled around you like a promise, the threads of silver braided down your sleeves reminding you more and more of leashes.

Polite laughter trickled from behind you, the voices sounding like their own little performance, a soft edge amongst the venom. It wasn't like they spoke loudly, but their words drifted like perfume anyway, sweet and amused and dismissive.

"—and they say Ser Ushijima's already had his fittings done," one woman said, "Honestly, that man looks like he was born with a sword in one hand."

"He's the Lord Regent's favourite, isn't he?" another chimed in from her nest of cushions, tone feather-light, "He's so solemn, I fear I've never seen anyone bow with less personality."

"Well, at least he bows. God help us if one of the younger knight pair get past the qualifiers. The taller one can't hold his drink, and the shorter one tried to race a courier through the royal gardens last week."

A scoff, "And trampled three flowerbeds. Still, their banners are lovely. Shame about the brains underneath."

The seamstress straightened and gestured for you to turn, so you faced the women on the cushions directly. Their faces powdered, the expressions stayed sweet, a little too sweet to be innocent, cheeks flushed, hands resting delicately in their laps. Each curl of hair and jewel was set perfectly in place.

One of them leaned forward conspiratorially, licking sugar from her thumb, "The foreign prince is easy enough on the eyes."

"If you like that sort of thing," another murmured, lifting a single brow, "All charm and gold, barely anything to show up for."

"He smiled at Lady Sayuri and she dropped her goblet."

A cackle escaped one of them, "She would've dropped her gown if he only asked."

"Wouldn't we all?"

That drew a round of hushed laughter. The seamstress worked quietly, a pin in her mouth, eyes averted, whilst you held your posture stiffly.

"Ser Konoha is still in, isn't he?"

"For now," one of the women sniffed, "He fell off his horse in the practice yard and blamed the saddle. But his uncle's pledged three warships, so I suppose he could ride in on a cart and still make it to the second round."

One of them, the quietest, sighed, long and theatrical as she reached for a sugared almond.

"Men and their titles," she said. "Give them enough gold or confidence and they start believing they deserve anything."

"Including a crown. Or a princess."

A dreamy sigh, "Oh, to be fought for."

You shut your eyes. You didn't want to hear this. Not today, not any day, not when the tournament was still days away and you had all the time to close your senses towards it.

You knew Masako would chide you for this, to say it was wise to listen, to feel out the court and let them speak freely. That it was strategy, but every name drop, every jest about a suitor rang hollow. You wanted to put your hands over your ears like a child, wanted to be somewhere else where people didn't talk about anything that made you feel like you were a symbol first, a person second.

So you let the voices dull, let them drift to the corners of your mind where they softened into background noise. Instead, your eyes drilled past the mirror, past the window to the small wooden box tucked behind a shelf of jewellery boxes and dried lavender sachets.

Your fingers itched.

Inside that box were the only things that truly belonged to you, not by law, not by lineage, but by affection. Because these were the only things that captured your heart and you were afraid to part from: the small wooden figures Hajime carved for you; a fox with its head turned slightly sideways, a tree with a split trunk, a horse curled up, your favourite flower.

A folded piece of parchment with no writing but a blotch of ink sat nestled in between the wooden carvings. Hanamaki had wanted to start a drawing to cheer you up when you were children, crying, holding your stinging cheek, but he was dragged out of your room before he could start.

Then, a single feather from a hawk that once landed on the palace balcony, wild and untrained. You watched it fly off, and it left behind a token, roaring into the sky like a blade cutting through silk. It had done nothing on your balcony; it simply came one moment, stared at you, tilted its head and vanished the next. It wasn't even beautiful, several feathers missing from its body from attempts at catching it, but it felt truer than anything in the court ever could, and somehow, the remnant of the wild creature and the stable boy's careful hands belonged together in the same breath.

hanamaki takahiro. — court jester.

The lamp burned low, licking shadows into the corners. Matsukawa hadn't lit another, he liked his rooms dim, and Hanamaki thought he did it because it made people speak slower, made people think they were safe within the wrapping of darkness around them, made them lie less.

Hanamaki didn't knock. He didn't need to. The Spymaster always knew when somebody, anybody, was traipsing around in front of entrances they had no business entering. Though, this time, it wasn't because Hanamaki shouldn't have been here that Matsukawa knew. It was because he was summoned.

He slipped in quietly, muffling the bells on his sleeves with a practised tug. Normally, he liked to let them chime, a bit of theatre, a bit of taunting as he arrived, a bit of a warning, too, but Matsukawa found secrets in stillness, and the air around him tonight was especially heavy, so he smothered their noise with ease.

"Let me guess," the Jester said lightly, voice low, "The Layflower again. Unless we're feeling bold tonight. Could it be the Hamelin's Rest, after all?"

Matsukawa didn't look up from the desk, the ring on his finger winking at Hanamaki with the dim flickering of the candle, barely hanging on.

"You're getting better," Matsukawa murmured, the scratching of the quill accompanying the low bass of his voice.

"Maybe you're just getting predictable."

That earned him nothing — not a glance, not a quirk of his mouth, still just the small scraping of parchment as Matsukawa pushed a folded slip across the table. It had no seal and no mark, doused in a plan that Hanamaki wasn't privy to yet.

He didn't touch it yet. Instead, he dropped into the chair opposite of the Spymaster, his pointed leather boots knocking gently against the leg of the table. He sprawled, his legs spread, completely improper, though to Hanamaki social misconduct was encouraged — how else was he going to see how far he could press into the space of the Spymaster without being told to leave it?

Chances were that it wouldn't bother him, though the habit was hard to break regardless.

"Should I dress like a bishop next time?" his tone was light, playful, "People seem to spill their guts faster for holy men."

Matsukawa's eyes flicked toward the parchment, once, then back to the jester, "If you wore robes, they'd still hear you coming."

Hanamaki laughed, just once, soft and easy, like it didn't touch anything within him, like his heart could not and would not respond to it, "I like them loud. Makes the game more interesting. Why sneak through shadows when you can watch people try to dance a burning leg away?"

The Spymaster kept silent, but Hanamaki relished in his refusal to respond, liked the heavy cloak settling on his shoulders. The words had been half a jest, half a blade, cutting at the man sitting in front of him across the table. But for him, every word was by choice, every laugh he drew a threat pulled loose in the deceptive tapestry. He understood the stakes, understood that Matsukawa Issei sent him through fire willingly.

How fortunate then that he preferred the open flame. There was almost something sacred in watching someone flinch away in real time, in picking up the crack in their facade when they weren't sure whether to be offended or scared. He enjoyed the barbed laughter in his mouth like nothing else.

Noise was his choice, a challenge, a lure, a kind of truth all on its own. And maybe, just maybe, he enjoyed it because he reckoned that it unsettled Matsukawa.

He picked up the parchment at last, turning it over between his fingers without opening it, "Should she know?"

"Not yet."

"That's always your answer."

The words escaped Matsukawa fast and sharp, like they'd been waiting on his tongue, sitting prettily there before Hanamaki ever even asked the question, "And when I stop saying it, it'll be too late."

Hanamaki thought he liked to tell the Crown Princess, but there were lines the Spymaster didn't cross and others that he danced along like wire. Keeping this from you meant something, though he could not discern yet whether it was because of mercy or cruelty. At the end of the day, that wasn't the problem though: keeping it from you to keep you out of harm was a child's game, the lie passing his lips with a smile as natural to him as breathing.

Yet he could not ignore the pause of a heartbeat. Some pieces on the board had weight, not through their fragility, but because tipping them might force a remis or would even count as a blunder, might change the whole outcome of the game.

And he didn't mind the gamble, no, he loved it even, the adrenaline seizing his throat, the tingle in his lower back — he just preferred to know who might pay for the loss.

So he allowed a smile to grace his lips like he had always taught himself, and leaned in, more deliberate this time, elbows on the table, eyes catching the lamplight in a gentle caress. His voice was equally as soft, imitating the curl of smoke Matsukawa seemed to command, "You place me just where you want me, but never say what you're really playing at."

"You don't need to know."

"No," he agreed, "But I'd like to."

That earned him a glance, a brief one, measured and unreadable and Hanamaki held Matsukawa's gaze. It wasn't much, just a flick of attention, but the Spymaster did not waste looks. Didn't give them away freely; every glance was a choice for him too, a weighing, a quiet notation in some ledger that Hanamaki would never be allowed to read.

A lesser man might have flinched under the weight of it, but the jester knew to carry attention, unwanted or not, so he let the smile on his face linger. Let him try to read the glittery provocations and the noise — Hanamaki liked the thrill of being seen, of somebody who had the potential, who knew enough to cut deep.

Eyes settled on his old friend still, he broke the quiet, "If I asked you straight out, would you tell me?"

Still no answer.

His laughter widened, and he pushed again, gentler but deeper, "Should I feel honoured to guard your little secrets? Or feel lucky for when I'm left holding the pieces?"

Still nothing. Not right away, at least. So Hanamaki let himself go one step further, his tone half a joke but with a thread of something real stitched into the centre.

"If I ever burned, Issei," he let the words sink into the silence, "would it be on purpose?"

Matsukawa shifted fully to Hanamaki now, kept his face calm, no flicker of anger or surprise, but behind those eyes, framed with dark lashes and darker brows, something settled.

His moves were slow and deliberate as his hand reached out, fingers dancing along the wooden surface to wrap around the handle of the drawer to his right. All the while, he kept his gaze trained on the jester; it was a deliberate show of recognition, one that called out to him to tell him here you have the attention you deserve, and his blood sang.

For Matsukawa's attention was not one tinged in kindness, it was a challenge veiled as curiosity.

When his hand emerged back up — and Hanamaki never once doubted for the spymaster to take out anything that could potentially harm him; well, not directly like that, anyway — it carried within the confines of his fingers a new candle.

His eyes almost narrowed.

There was no need for Matsukawa Issei, Spymaster of the Crown, to finish the action, to carry it to fruition, not when it was already clear to Hanamaki where this was going. He watched Issei light up the candle, watched the flame pass from the small flicker of the old to the new, watched as Matsukawa replaced the flame.

Hanamaki stilled, suddenly very aware of where the floor was and how close he was to finding its edge.

Folding the parchment and sliding it into his sleeve without another word, he broke gaze with Matsukawa and headed to the door.

He paused there, as always, "Try to sleep."

Matsukawa didn't look at him anymore.

"Try not to test your luck."

iwaizumi hajime. — stable boy.

Iwaizumi Hajime mucked the stalls without a word.

His rake scraped on the wooden floorboards, and the horses huffed, an occasional snort escaping their warm noses. The stables were still in this grey morning, though warm with the breath and life of the animals; work as honest as it could get.

He moved quietly, liking it this way. Just another piece of the stables, a rhythm and a rightness to it, with the only expectations being the steadiness that the horses wished for.

The kingdom ran on backs like his, but it broke them just as easily. Yet still, he worked.

Because here, within the grit and the smell of the earth and sweat and straw, he could think. Or at least stop thinking, let the weight of the rake in his hands pull the knots from his shoulders, let the soft shifting of hooves drown out the noise that had been building in his head for days now, about the danger looming over his head if he finally grew balls and wore the armour. About what he might become and what might become of you, if he just dared.

He had been turning it over, again and again: a name. Not his own. He had already thought about it — knew that his very own name wouldn't get past the first scribe at the registration tents. He had no title, no bloodline, only calluses to show for.

And to even dare think of impersonating nobility — that might open the gate to not only the tournament but also to treason. Punishable by death.

Strangely enough, that thought didn't come with panic anymore. Just dull weight, like a forgotten stone in his pocket, dragging him until he became slower and slower. Hajime knew there were only so many paths in and most of them ended at a scaffold.

So he welcomed the labour and the ache in his arms, the sting to his spine from bending for too long because it was better, because it was honest, because he needed time to think.

Carrying a stack of hay, he passed the new stable hands muttering by the fence; they were leaned over their chores, more interested in their animated gossip than grain. One of their pitchforks hung idle in their hands, the other one half-buried in straw.

"—they still haven't found him," one whispered, though the words carried to Hajime, the voice low and eager, "Ser Kuroo vanished three months past, but they still haven't removed him from the tournament rolls."

"Oh, he's around. Just in a dozen pieces and a ditch somewhere. That still counts, doesn't it?"

Hajime ignored their laughter, didn't pause and didn't let his steps falter, only adjusted the feed bucket on his shoulder and kept walking, his boots sinking in the soft mud. The name slid into the back of his mind though, quiet and unobtrusive, like another secret to carry.

What a poor sod.

The thought passed without a lot of sentiment. Not because Iwaizumi Hajime didn't care, but because knights went missing all the time these days. Whether they got dragged to border skirmishes, commanded by the Lord Regent, or rotting in some trench after drinking themselves into trouble, it was all the same in the end. Their armour puffed them up like birds, though pluck the feathers and everybody got reduced to a shivering, naked chick.

The kingdom definitely didn't stop turning.

And this Kuroo — they hadn't mentioned a title after his name, so he owned no lands, belonged to no great house. He was just another sword with no crest and no claim. He had seen those types before. Coincidentally, they were those who didn't take it out on the stable boys, who came through, silent and tired, rust spreading beneath the polish of their armour.

Kuroo might have had a good sword-arm. Might have fought well. But he was just one more body in a kingdom pretending it wasn't starving itself.

So Hajime didn't slow, because there were horses to feed and grain to measure, and no one cared how many names vanished unless it was their name that was on the verge of being forgotten.

you — crown princess.

The bodice was off. Thank god.

The room had cleared out, the air lighter when you breathed in, the absence of perfume like a kiss to your nose. By the dressing screen, you had slipped into the weight of simpler fabric rather than the heavy, ornamental shroud that you had to don like your own personal armour. The stewardess had wanted to stay and help you out, but you couldn't stand her presence anymore, shooed her out as soon as it was publicly acceptable to do so.

Now, adorning your body, was a high-collared tunic of dark blue that did not pinch, did not shimmer, did not beg to be looked at.

Your hand reached out, brushing your fingertips along the wooden grain, not to open the hidden box of carvings, not yet, but to feel it there. To remind yourself that it was real, that it hadn't been taken by anybody lingering around in your room. Had not been noticed, or repackaged.

"Ten minutes," you whispered to yourself, "Just want ten quiet minutes."

A knock.

Three short taps.

You closed your eyes, though your mouth moved on its own accord, "Yes?"

The door cracked open and reddish brown hair peeked in alongside the face of Yukie, your second maid, sharp as a pin and twice as fast, twice as hungry too if her eyeing your breakfast every morning told you anything.

"Your Highness," Yukie bowed, and true to what you knew of her, her gaze flicked briefly to the table where still some sugared nuts and fruits lay, unattended, "My deepest apologies. The Lord Regent requests an audience. He brings a guest."

You stiffened slightly, but with a grit of your teeth, forced your shoulders to drop as quick as they rose.

"A guest?"

"A noble knight," she said, "He did not give a name."

Of course he didn't.

Waving your hand towards the remains of the food, you allowed Yukie to steal some of it away. Were you to eat some, you wouldn't be able to stomach the reminder of the cutting politeness, anyway; the sugar crystals surely having none of the sweetness, and all of the bitterness of poison.

iwaizumi hajime. — stable boy.

By midday, the sun still hadn't shown its face, the sky hanging low and dull. Hajime was in the back stables, near the foaling stall, when his foot caught something soft and slick. A frown marred his face as he stepped back, nudging it with the toe of his boot.

It was crinkled paper, mud-slicked and half-buried, its edges torn as if it had been yanked from a post.

Hajime peeled it free, careful not to tear it further, then wiped the worst of the grime off on his trouser leg. The ink had bled in places, and the hoof prints hadn't helped, still. He narrowed his eyes, the cramped shapes crawling across the top of the page like insects. Reading had never been his strong suit.

Not until lately. Not until you.

Hajime remembered how stupid he had felt the first time he realised he couldn't read.

It wasn't even a dramatic moment. There was a dull scrap of parchment pinned to the stable post with your handwriting, clean and sharp, left behind after a visit. He hadn't meant to pry. He had only wanted to keep something of you, something simple, harmless. But when he had stared down at the curves and the slanted lines full of ink, nothing had made sense.

He had stood there for too long, his heart thudding strange as if he had been caught stealing. Not because you had written anything damning, he didn't even know what it said, but there was a weird tightening in his chest, like he had to earn the right to understand it.

It gnawed at him.

You had written a note, and it could have been to the grooms, maybe, or to no one in particular, and he couldn't read it, couldn't hold a sentence of yours in his hands and know it, and it took his breath away, made him choke with desire so strong, he had to pace to get the buzzing out of his limbs.

Later that night, he had turned to Irihata with eyes that were blunt and dry, a man who rarely offered kindness unless it was asked for plainly. He could do plain, knew it well. Too well, he admitted bitterly.

So, with burning ears, Hajime had mumbled something about wanting to learn. He couldn't even say why.

Yet, the senior groom had let out a grunt, torn a corner off a ledger, and shoved a charcoal stub into the stable boy's hands.

They started the same night, and god, it was hard. His fingers were too stiff, his patience worse, and the lines he scrawled were a butchered crooked mess, false starts filling up the scrap of parchment. Irihata never mocked him for it, either, just handed him another piece of paper, a silent command to try again.

So night after night, after the last of the horses were fed and the oil of the lanterns was preserved, under the light of the moon, Hajime traced wonky loops into the dirt. The note you had left was tucked in his satchel, untouched. He wanted to read it, but more than anything, he needed to feel like he deserved to read it.

One day.

One day, he would read your words, because maybe, if he could understand the shape of your thoughts, he wouldn't feel so far behind every lord who had ever spoken to you.

Now, the stable boy squinted, sounded the letters out under his breath, slowly. There were some names he recognised but only because he had the misfortune of saddling the horse for them, but one—

His brows furrowed.

Kuroo.

Even with the ink smudged, he could see the name he had heard that morning, spoken in passing. Only now, it was struck through, the line rough and done with too much force, impatient. His mouth dry when swallowing, he folded the paper once and set it on the beam outside of the mud as if that would give the knight the respect he deserved rather than being left underfoot.

He stood there for a breath longer than he meant to, the soft huffs of the foals behind him.

Then he went back to work. The hay needed turning, the tack needed oiling, the saddles needing to gleam like they belonged to gods for the daily hunt.

Yet again, the name floated in the back of his thoughts like a low itch. He knew what the roster meant, and also what crossing off a name meant: somebody had been cleared out, forgotten. It meant that somebody had fought and lost, and no one had come for their things.

And Hajime, with no name worth striking and no title worth mentioning, felt the weight of the ink line more than he should have.

No one would miss Kuroo. And no one would miss him.

ushijima wakatoshi. — noble knight.

Ushijima Wakatoshi liked the scent of lavender and parchment in your chamber. They were familiar things, measured things he smelt out in the court when training and in his own halls when he wrote down any new regiments to keep to.

He stood at the Lord Regent's left shoulder, hands clasped behind his back, boots lined precisely with the edge of the marble tile. The Regent had insisted on a formal coat, a deep rich purple with a golden trim, very warm for the room, and Ushijima had worn it without protest.

Orders were orders.

It itched at the neck, not very good for movement, but enough for standing still. The Lord Regent must want him to be looked at then if he were to wear the frock, he noted it passively.

"Escort me to the Crown Princess' reception quarters, she'll be there," the Lord Regent had told him, though no reason had been given to him. Ushijima hadn't asked for one.

When they had entered the gallery, the Crown Princess stood near the high window, a shawl across your shoulders, hiding the delicate skin. You didn't turn around right away, only looked out the window as though you were searching for something. He was mildly curious to see what captured your attention so; at least, Ushijima thought you didn't look like what he had expected. Still. Too still, you were.

The Lord Regent Washijo cleared his throat lightly, and only then did you nod towards them.

"Your Royal Highness," there was a calm almost-smile on the Lord Regent's face, "May I introduce Ser Ushijima Wakatoshi, a contender in the tournament and a knight I hold in high regard."

You looked at him when he heard his own name, and his waist bent into a bow, exact and sharp, and when he straightened up, you were still watching him, studying, observing, assessing like an opponent out on the training fields. He noted your look as that for curiosity, and he gave you the same interest back.

"Ser Ushijima," you said, knuckles tightening on the shawl, "you honour us with your service."

He blinked, "I was told to attend."

Ushijima Wakatoshi didn't hear the Lord Regent laugh often, so the sound escaping the regal man right next to him felt foreign to him, almost wrong. But Ushijima didn't laugh a lot either, so he could not fault the Lord Regent for the strangeness. He was sure that to others, he might not sound quite familiar either.

"He's concise, as you see," the heavy eyebrows on the Regent's face relaxed slightly, a glint entering his eyes. Ushijima thought it looked like a soldier's scheme, "and loyal."

But when his eyes wandered over to you, he couldn't figure out the thoughts swirling in your head, the expression that crossed your face at the words of your uncle. It made your face look a little sharper, a little grimmer; much too big than for somebody your stature.

"You are smaller than I expected, Your Royal Highness," he said, voice polite.

Eyebrows that wandered up on your face, "And what do you expect from a Princess, Ser Ushijima?"

He considered it for a moment, if only because a royal question asked for a serious answer; if only because to stop and give this duty the deserved attention that belonged to his responsibilities. It might have been a trap or a sincere question, he did not know. So he treated them as both.

"Competence, clarity and resolve—" he paused, a minuscule moment of assessment. He listed the core traits of what he expected his Crown to require, yet as his eyes settled on your face and he saw the unmoving canvas of your expression, one more thing came to his mind, one most overlooked, "—and enough sense not to fall for flattery."

There was a moment of silence, then your voice sounded out, light, probing and very polite. He approved. "You speak plainly, Ser Ushijima. I can't tell if I've been complimented or merely observed."

He blinked again. Complimented?

The knight replayed his words in his head carefully and precisely, the way he might think back to a single missed strike out on the training field to analyse for its faults.

Competence. Clarity. Resolve. Not falling for flattery.

There were no superlatives, no embellishment, no beauty mentioned, no kindness, or allure, or gesture of personal regard. Just the standards that he thought any would-be ruler should possess. There was no compliment in his words, none that he could hear; he merely had responded with a list the way he was asked to.

Yet, you had spoken as if something had been offered. Did the Crown Princess expect something else from him?

Ushijima looked at you, the way you stood tall and poised, not coy or blushing the way he would have expected a maiden to look, no, you watched him with the same composure you had held since he entered. You didn't seem like you were looking for superficial charm. The way you spoke seemed like you were measuring him instead.

Did you believe there was something personal in it? Did you hope there was?

And then — is this what Tendo meant when he said Ushijima would know romance when he felt it? Though, he didn't quite say it like that. Instead, Tendo had grinned, wide and smug, a little too pleased at sharing knowledge at random that he decided Ushijima needed to know.

And as always, Ushijima had listened.

"It's when your brain goes soft and your sword arm forgets which way is up because someone smiled at you and said your name just right," his friend had brought him a goblet with a drink, the thick juice dense with nutrients, and his eyes had narrowed in mock seriousness, "You'll know it when you start doing something stupid and call it noble."

Ushijima had stared at him, stone-faced, and Tendo had grinned only wider.

Now, upon inspection, he felt none of it. In fact, it was almost…uncertainty. He felt evaluated, instead. Off-balance, and he did not like being off-balance. His shoulders squared instinctively. If you had misunderstood his statement as affection, then the setting might have encouraged it.

The Lord Regent looked intrigued, and so, Ushijima directed his question to his sponsor, "If I had been informed that this was a romantic proposal, I would have prepared accordingly."

Your impassive expression broke for a second to let something through, your lips parting slightly, and the Lord Regent cleared his throat, loud and sudden.

"It's only an introduction," his voice was tight. Ushijima thought of offering him some water, yet thought that keeping to the social etiquette of not interrupting anybody was more proper, "Not a courtship."

He inclined his head; it might have been so, but— "Then why the implication of flirtation?"

A sigh from the Lord Regent, "It's merely a formal courtesy."

Ushijima nodded. "Acknowledged. I will limit myself to what's appropriate and nothing else then."

There's a flicker of something in your expression, and you inclined your head slightly, as though cataloguing his answer more than responding to it. He had rarely met a person whose facial expression were harder for him to read than yours. But Ushijima did not expect to be in your presence any more often than the common noble lord, and if it were to happen that he had to, then he would so.

Easy as that.

"How very knightly of you, Ser Ushijima," you replied, your tone dipping, though he wasn't quite sure in what way. You studied him for a moment longer, then turned back to the window as if to look for whatever you searched for before, hidden and far away. The Lord Regent next to him offered with a thin voice, adjusting his cuff, "He says what he means. And means what he says. Tirelessly."

Ushijima Wakatoshi said nothing else.

There was nothing else to say. He had been told to attend. He had attended. He had assessed the Princess, and you had assessed him. There were no blades drawn, no disapproval voiced.

All in all, it had gone quite well.

Though, the Lord Regent seemed uncomfortable. Perhaps his expectations were different.

iwaizumi hajime. — stable boy.

Evening came slow, vibrant colours hidden behind the grey mist hanging in the air.

The nobles had postponed their evening ride for a wedding, which worked out for Hajime just fine. He had already done his part in preparing for their outing, had cleaned the tacks and laid the bridles out neatly, so to his luck, he didn't have to worry about re-cleaning them when they would have come back.

Instead, he could focus on fixing the cracked girth strap waiting for him in the east paddock's storage shed, where broken things usually went. Sometimes they would be discarded immediately, sometimes nobody bothered to until the door got opened and an onslaught of old things awaited the stable boys. Hajime didn't mind being responsible for the storage sheds; in fact, he liked rummaging for wood blocks that he could clean up and shape into little trinkets for you.

This time, the strap wasn't what was awaiting him alone. Right next to the tack, there were boots thrown in; hard leather and scuffed. They were stiff with red clay glued to the surface, though Hajime had never seen that type of mud around here; the soils were too different here.

Shifting the strap out from underneath the tarp, more tumbled out. A gauntlet fell to the floor with a thump; it looked like a hand caught mid-spasm, bent wrong at the angle, the finger scales all crooked. A dented and dust-dulled breast plate moved like it was about to fall too, but caught like something was holding it back, like something wanted to hide it from all eyes.

Hajime's eyebrows furrowed as his eyes inspected the metal, the faded insignia carved into the steel, and like a lightning bolt, the name shot through his limbs.

Kuroo.

Hajime didn't believe in fate the way poets did, not usually. Did not believe in omens or stars or prophecies. He believed in coincidences that happened at their own will, believed in patterns that could be tracked. Hajime didn't believe in signs, yet this wasn't nothing. He couldn't help but believe in how the same word could echo three times on the same day only when something had shifted just enough to let him finally hear it.

It sat heavily on him, cornered by the weight of noticing, by the weight of the decision crowding him into action.

His jaw tensed, and his fingertips touched the faded rune, the metal cold underneath his touch. This armour seemed discarded, like it was left to rot. He swallowed. He knew what the armour told him, but he didn't want to be Kuroo. Yet, he understood him, understood the forgotten man like nothing else.

And as he sat in silence, you entered his mind like you belonged there — and you did, you always did. It was yours to do as you pleased, and so he was powerless to your image that had his fingertips leave damp residue on the metal.

Hajime wasn't meant to reach for you, not with his name or his blood, but—

Maybe, he could take another man's place.

And if this was madness, if the court would chew him up and spit him out, if he were to be taken to the gallows, he would do so at least with the knowledge that he had tried.

you. — crown princess.

The halls were quiet.

The hour was late enough that the guards had grown bored of vigilance, and you had made sure that no maid had stayed the full watch tonight. It wasn't easy, but you just had to fake being asleep for long enough for the ladies-in-waiting to get tired themselves to excuse themselves without permission.

Not that you would hold it over their heads, not when it was you who profited the most of it.

You had changed quickly, hair tucked into the hood, the wool heavy on your shoulders to conceal your shape. Your bare feet were silent and quick as you moved through the corridors: past the alcove with the broken marble sconce, where the stone had a crack wide enough for your hand to fit through and reach behind.

It was an older servant's alley, hidden in the walls so as to keep the servants from the sights of invited esteemed guests. Nowadays, there was barely anybody being invited to your realm, so these hidden isles were forgotten.

The hinge groaned once and you froze at the sound. Waited, looked around and counted to five, your heartbeat strong in your ears, but nothing happened. So you were quick to flit down the servant stairs, your hand on the wall for balance, the breeze strong against your face.

Slipping out through the gate, you vanished into the dark.

oikawa tooru. — crown's watch.

The abandoned tournament grounds just outside the inner walls of the castle was fuller tonight than on the other nights.

Word had spread around and it wasn't just curious wanderers who tried their luck out against others amongst some knights here and there. This night around, they all came in pairs and clumps, the air tighter and tenser. It was knights that needed to prove more than ever that they belonged on the real Lists, that they were more than names, that they had worth.

Oikawa watched a man tighten the straps on another's gauntlets, friends as he knew them from the training barracks. His teeth bared in a grin that bordered on something too raw when he recognised almost all of the names on the roster list he had seen on the registrar's table. Another guy leaned into the heat of the brazier, his fingers trembling as he reached for a flash of silver, downing his drink.

They were more hungry tonight than usual, less of them drunk, more fired up, more serious.

He stepped forward onto a wide slab of rock, his cloak catching faint wind. He didn't raise his voice, didn't need to, because as soon as his tenor rang out, a hush fell over the crowd, contenders and onlookers alike.

"Knights," he said, his hand swiping over the air in a gesture that encompassed all of them, "Look at you. Most of you never even get to make it to the Crown's feast. Never invited, never recognised, though I must say, those silk napkins aren't worth anything so you haven't missed a lot."

His voice was sweet, "Though to experience that to be able to say it — that's why you're here, isn't it?"

Eyes gliding over the masses, Oikawa noted each and every jump of muscle. Some eyes shifted in a nervous and restless manner and the Knight Commander caught the flickers of doubt in some, hidden behind a hard jaw. They looked down at the reminder, their faces tightening as if trying to hide a flicker of shame.

Oikawa noted those, noted the doubt that clung to them like slow poison eating away at their confidence. If his words were enough to break their spirits, there was not a lot he had to worry about when standing before them on the battlefield in the official tournaments afterwards. Those were the ones who had been broken before, who couldn't handle the weight of disappointment.

If he pressed right, he could find their hesitation easily.

A few others laughed, though the humorous act was tinged in dry bitterness. One was too quick as if to convince himself it didn't matter, that he wasn't hungry for more.

Oikawa's gaze sharpened. Hunger. Fear. Defiance. Some wanted power and coin, others were chasing something far more quieter, something that burned deeply between their ribs in their chests: respect, maybe revenge, definitely proof that their lives meant more than the dirt beneath their boots.

He let his voice drop slightly, let it crawl like mist through their defences, "But here— here, none of that matters."

Oikawa turned, not fast, a circle wide enough to meet a dozen stares and feel the weight of a hundred more of the crowd behind them.

"Six bouts. One blade against two. No sponsors, no banners, no forgiveness."

There were whistles from the audience, but the Knight Commander ignored them, waving a hand lazily, "And tonight, you fight for more than just a few scraps."

He drew out a leather pouch from inside his cloak, hidden between the folds, the material heavy and black. He held it up for show, then let it drop. It landed on the ground with clinking, with the sound that had beggars' eyes light up on the streets, that had whores trip over their gilded sandals to get one of those coins.

The audience reacted more to the sound than the knights did, though he had counted on that. If the audience was engaged, then the contenders would try harder too, and Oikawa would have nothing more than to see the his rivals all try their damnedest.

"Coin, yes, but not just that."

A pause to gather their attention again, then softly, "Steel."

Murmurs rippled outward from the knights before him. He knew that got them as their heads tilted, and one man even stepped forward instinctively only to stop himself with an embarrassed grunt.

"A full set," Oikawa flipped his hand like it was nothing important, even though he knew their eyes followed his hands like it was a prey and they were predators, even though he knew they clung to each of his words, "Mail. Plate. Greaves that won't split open at first strike, a sword that won't shatter if you breathe too hard on it."

One of the men, holding their helmet in their hands like something worth protecting, mouthed something to another, and his nose curled, lip quirking up in something akin to disbelief, maybe. Though, more likely to be hope. Another figure, standing a bit further away near the fire, held a book in his hand that he closed with slow finality at Oikawa's words, standing up straighter, his boots crunching on the gravel as he edged closer to the front.

The flames from the braziers flickered high in the windless dark, catching metal and hunger alike.

They were listening now, good. They'd kill for it, even better. Let them try, let them reveal all that is there to know about them.

Oikawa Tooru's voice cooled down, gathering their attention once again, "It's quite simple. If you win, you walk away ready to face the Court Lists without shame," and then he leaned forward with a glint in his eyes, "If you lose, though, you'll bleed. But at least it'll be honest blood. That's more than half the lords can say."

The silence was taut for a second, humming with the bated breath as some nodded, a few knuckles cracked, metal clinked when they shifted, someone's spit into the dust.

Oikawa bowed, half-mocking, fast, charming, "Mount up, draw names and oh! Try not to die too fast, yes?"

A scribe stepped up from behind him, Kunimi he thought his name was, easy-going and sharp-eyed enough to participate in the illegality of this tournament, having written up numbers on scraps of parchments. Though to truly call it a tournament would be almost false, not when there were barely any rules and more than not, it ended with more than half the participants in the healing room.

Oikawa's eyes glided over the masses, their whispers and cheers as they awaited the first bouts, the first bloody mess, the adrenaline rising in the air like it was pheromones set onto a wild bunch of animals.

His attention, sharp, locked onto somebody.

Controlled movements, cloaked in shadow and steel that seemed to drink the firelight instead of reflecting it. Blackened armour, broad shouldered, silent and calm in the way he came to a stand still in front of Kunimi. Not showy, not aggressive, just still.

For a second, Oikawa thought that lightning was about to strike, the way the air seemed to hold still for a second and in preparation. His eyes widened and a real smile curled on his face, wild. He knew that armour, knew the way it walked, had seen it before, and in all honesty, hadn't expected to see it again.

No name or face to give to this nameless rider, yet the fury simmering underneath the visor stoked Oikawa Tooru's own fire like nothing else.

His long fingers, engulfed in velvet, drifted toward his belt, brushing the hilt of the dagger he didn't expect to need, but just in case. His eyes stayed fixed on the man behind the dented metal. Whether it was caution or curiosity, he wasn't sure, but it made his heart flutter and it licked at his desire to square off with him.

Well, maybe both.

iwaizumi hajime. — stable boy.

The second knight came in low.

Iwaizumi Hajime turned with the swing of his sword, allowed the steel to rasp against steel. He had no shield to catch it, hadn't the kind of luxury to allow him to know that if he went down, somebody was going to haul him up again, that there was going to be a barrier between him and the world.

There wasn't.

The first opponent was a lanky man with sandy brown hair peeking out from beneath the helmet, a brilliant dark teal feather sprouting from where it was lodged inside the metal. He had already bloodied Hajime's lip, rattled his ribs with the flat of his blade, and now the second one circled behind, testing for a slip in his defence.

Hajime was sweating through the underlayer, his hands slick and breath short, but upright, still moving.

The Knight Commander made no secret of the challenge, so Hajime knew it was going to be a two-on-one, had watched Oikawa Tooru call it a spectacle with that rakish grin of his, like it was somewhat of a trap. Everyone had cheered and Hajime had taken it with a press of his molars together, a tightening of his jaw.

But now, as his boots skidded on the dust-slick stone, as blades scraped and crashed and came too close to splitting him down the seam, he thought — not for the first time — how unfair it was.

About how laughably irrelevant fairness was in a tournament held under moonlight, behind quarry walls, with a purse of coin and steel baiting them all like hounds. There were no rules here, just choices that defined what kind of man one was.

Iwaizumi Hajime didn't care about the coin nor about the armour offered; if there was one thing he needed to glean then it were his possible opponents and all the different ways they danced around him and pin-pricked him to find which tendon to cut first so that he would fall.

The second bigger knight blocked everything; every strike that Hajime threw came back with a clang or a shove, the alloyed irons clashing together. The man was fast, his fair hair short-cropped — he was faster than he should have been given his build, and clever, too. He knew how to pivot his weight, how to keep Hajime's sword tied up, how to drive him back without ever lunging recklessly.

It was like trying to cut through an iron wall.

And all the while, the second one circled. Lanky, tall, vulture-eyed as he waited, always out of reach until Hajime thought he had an opening, then the first one stepped in close, fast.

Hajime didn't give him a chance, his muscles screaming as he kept moving, his shoulder protesting with the fast and brutal arcs his sword swung. A feint here, a lunge and twist there, he couldn't afford a single mistake. Not without a shield, not without armour that he didn't know whether it would even uphold a couple more strikes.

He ducked under a wide swing, his boots grinding against the floor, and he slammed the hilt of his blade up into the big knight's wrist. Not enough to disarm, no, the bastard barely flinched, but enough to knock him off rhythm, at least.

Hajime's eyes were sharp; there.

He pivoted, baiting the second knight into a lunge forward, long reach and blade low, trying to gut him while his guard was elsewhere, but one thing that handling horses taught stable boy Iwaizumi Hajime was how to be nimble when a horse was petulant and ready to kick: he spun into the opening, and dropped low, too fast for the taller men to adjust, and slammed his boot sideways into the knight's knee.

The leg buckled underneath his touch, armour clinking together and his opponent let out a sharp gasp, crumpling as his leg folded wrong.

Barely taking a breath in, his arms immediately came up to catch a brutal overhead swing, the impact reverberating through his muscles, tearing at the fibres. Allowing the energy to travel further along the momentum, he ducked underneath the guy's arm, and drove his elbow up, hard, right into the man's jaw.

A sickening crunch sounded out, almost drowned out in the yells of the onlookers, and the bigger knight staggered a step back.

He rammed his blunted sword into the gap just below the pauldron; not a killing blow for they weren't allowed here, but it was hard enough that his opponent folded, and his leg came out to kick away the blades lest any of them came up with the idea to try and attack him from the ground up.

Then silence for a moment, his breath burning in his chest, limbs shaking. His hands were numb from the impact and blood stung his eye when it ran along his eyebrows to coat his lashes, but he was still here. Still standing.

The crowd roared, the sound a thunder in the night, carrying the noise all over to Hajime, but when he lifted his head, it fell onto deaf ears. He looked up, though not at Oikawa, who was probably grinning like a bastard, already crowing about the match to anyone who would listen, not at the healers coming to drag the knights away, but higher, toward the stands of the onlookers.

An array of faces greeted him, but as his gaze swiped over the rows, the one he was searching for didn't meet him.

You're not here, he realised, and something like bitterness, something like disappointment started to settle in his chest, of course.

His eyes wandered over the mass of people again, ignoring the women laughing with their too red mouths, ignored the bawls of drunken men, and his chest tightened, as he searched again and—

His heart stuttered.

A silhouette, the shape of that posture with the hood drawn, hands gripping the railing, the tilt of that chin and he knew. Even at this distance, even with the hood covering almost all of your face, he knew like you were a star and he was the moon that got pulled into you, and his heart jolted. The adrenaline coursing through his veins didn't cool at your sight, no, it spiked, hot and breathless and sharp behind his ribs.

You were looking at him. Like a drawn bowstring, he felt your gaze lock onto him, and his onto you. There were so many people who yelled compliments, who hurled insults, but god, it felt like you were the only one who existed it.

He didn't bow, and didn't raise his hand, and he didn't look away. Not until you did.

hanamaki takahiro. — court jester.

Hanamaki placed an open-mouthed kiss on Akemi's naked shoulder, his tongue tasting her heady perfume clinging to her skin. It was warm there, too warm sometimes; the type of warmth that made you forget things: appointments, names, loyalties. Maybe even the way out.

It wasn't just her body that tried to fog his senses; it was the air itself. Thick with incense, the smell of wine and roses, laughter bleeding through the walls tangled with the faint moaning of people fucking like they knew no tomorrow.

Hanamaki loved visiting the Hamelin's Rest.

Akemi's fingers trailed down his chest, teasing the curve of his ribs, and he let his head drop back onto the cushions with a sigh full of pleasure.

"You've been gone too long, Makki," she purred, her lips brushing against his throat, her thighs slick against his cock, "I wondered which lucky soul had your lies and your lips this week."

"You wound me, love," his head dipped down to mouth at the swell of her tits, leaving his bite mark on her flesh, and her fingers tugged on his damp hair, "'You've always had the better share of both."

A laugh escaped her, low and musical, her voice husky as her soft, pliable curves had his dick at full-mast, "Still talking after, what, your fifth go at me tonight? Your tongue's tireless, Makki, for better or for worse."

Her slick was so hot against him, he didn't bother trying to swallow the sound tumbling out from his mouth and landing right between her full chest. She was a master at her work, and for a long, heady moment, he almost stopped trying to think.

Almost.

But god, it was hard not to — when her thighs squeezed around his hips just so, when her mouth brushed over the shell of his ear and whispered things that would make the court faint with how filthy they were, when her hands aligned his cock with her heat, clever and sure, like she knew his body better than he did.

But he knew her body better than she thought, too.

"What can I, hah, say?" he groaned against her lips, tongue dipping into her mouth, exploring the wetness of her tongue, her spit, breath hitching as his hips rolled, cock deep within her, slick and slow and deliberate, "A fool's greatest weapon is his mouth."

Her moans caught between their mouths as his cock pressed deeper into her, grinding against that perfect place that stole her breath every time. Her nails dug into his skin and it was enough to make him grunt, though not from pain, but from a certain kind of pleasure that was so sharp.

He licked into her again, slower this time, savouring her, "You taste expensive tonight, Akemi."

Akemi's eyes were half-lidded and burning, her mouth swollen and the red smeared across her cheek, and when she rolled her hips against him, she dragged out a low curse from his throat, "I am expensive. A-and, fuck, you haven't paid yet."

"Ah," a faint chuckle escaped Hanamaki as he guided her against him harder, deeper, "but I brought silver."

Mouth brushing her throat, biting gently at the soft skin just below her jaw, he felt her hasty pulse underneath his tongue, and when he spoke, his voice sounded thick with something that was almost close to reverence, "Minted j-just, ah, this week. Straight from the— fuck, love— palace purse."

He felt her breath catch more than he could hear it, the way her cunt squeezed around him when she heard something she wasn't sure she was supposed to hear and the way she pulled him down wildly.

you. — crown princess.

The nameless rider looked like he had already walked this path in some dream, long before tonight.

You couldn't breathe. You told yourself it was the cold, that your heart beat faster only because of the tension, that your gaze was fixed on him only because he fought so well. But it wasn't that. Not only, at least.

He didn't posture, didn't look to the crowd for praise. Whereas the others needed to be seen, this one — oh, he forgot the whole world existed the moment his blade left his side. And you thought, absurdly, that he didn't seem real.

Your hand tightened around the edge of your cloak, and when he struck down his opponents, and his head lifted towards you, you thought he saw you, too. The slit for his eyes was too slim and too dark to make out his eyes, but it felt like his eyes bore down your soul. Bodies surrounded you, shouts and jostling limbs, elbows that dug into your skin, but the space between you and him stretched thin as thread.

He looked at you like he had always known it was you.

hanamaki takahiro. — court jester.

The sheets were a tangle of sweat and silk, damp with spilled juices, and proof of their exhaustion. Hanamaki lay on his side, one arm thrown lazily over Akemi's waist, the other trailing idle shapes along the curve of her thigh.

Her tits looked delicious the way they laid flat, allowing gravity to tug on them and she lifted a hand to turn around the coin that he gave her.

"Feels light," she murmured, frowning faintly as her nails pressed into the metal, "Too light."

He hummed, his eyes half-lidded as a hand came up to caress the soft nipple, and he allowed a smile to cross his features, "Mhm. Everything's lighter lately. Silver, wine…"

Hanamaki pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder, and with a flick of his wrist, took the coin from her. Balancing it between his fingers, he then let it fall, slow and deliberate, to rest in the hollow between her breasts, "…and the weight of some promises."

Akemi watched him as he traced one fingertip along the curve of her sternum, then down, following the coin's path like it meant something more than just the sex he paid for.

"Strange, isn't it?" he said, his voice soft but watchful.

"Are you saying something, fool?"

He didn't answer, just let his head drift lower, mouth brushing against her skin, his breath warm as he kissed his way down the soft rolls of her stomach.

"Only that some things aren't what they used to be," he licked the sweaty skin of her hips, and the coin still glinted faintly where it lay, "Except you, my sweet whore."

His mouth disappeared between her glistening legs; tongue, lips, breath all sinking into her like worship. And she laughed, breath hitching, fingers curling into his hair, guiding him closer, and whispered, half a sigh and half a smile, "You're wicked."

oikawa tooru. — crown's watch.

Oikawa twisted his wrist and caught the swing at the last second, blade sliding with a metallic shriek. The nameless rider in front of him didn't flinch. His weight shifted low, one foot angled wide, his shoulders tight like a bowstring drawn.

The knight commander struck again, feinted, then swept into a downward arc, but the rider turned his blade— not parried, but turned his blade to catch the edge in a way that felt wrong, almost careless.

With locked steel, Oikawa leaned in, the black of the helmet's slit beckoning him closer, and his breath was heavy, "I don't recognise your school of skill. Who taught you that grip?"

There was no reply, just a harsh exhale before he got pushed off. His boots slid on the gravel, and immediately, the rider came after him. Fast. Too fast, the strikes not clean but clever, sharply angled and brutal.

Another turn of his sword.

Oikawa thought he knew hard work when he saw it; the way the man before him, clad in armour that belonged into the trash, fought like he was alive, like every swing had a cost. And that deserved regard, deserved respect, so he didn't ask again when no answer wanted to be given, just nodded once, barely perceptible behind the helm and lifted his blade higher.

"Alright then," a small smile, "Let's see what else you've got."

you. — crown princess.

Matsukawa Issei stood beneath the columned arch at the edge of the training yard as you stepped from the covered corridor out into the open to get to your equestrian lessons. He wasn't blocking your path, just simply stood there, as though he had always meant to be.

Just like you knew of him, he was dressed in a muted dark grey, almost bordering on black, always. A long coat, fitted at the waist, hung neatly from his shoulders, the collar turned up against the slight wind. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he bore rings of muted silver; thin bands engraved with old sigils and decorated with various gemstones.

When you walked up to him and past him, he fell beside you with an effortless sort of inevitability.

"Good morning."

Matsukawa 's tone is as mild as a morning tea gone cold, "Is it?"

There it was; your spymaster usually didn't wait for you. If he was in need of something, then he just appeared wherever you found yourself, lingering behind you, only making himself known when he started talking with a voice like quiet velvet. You assumed that he liked when you were at his mercy, even though he was supposed to be at yours, and once again, you found yourself wondering about his agenda.

This, though — him waiting on you, allowing you to gather your thoughts and allow you to open the conversation — it had you weary.

"I'd ask what brings you out so early," you said, the words light on your tongue, but your spine already tingling with subtle defence, "but I suspect I'm not meant to know just yet."

Matsukawa didn't answer. Dark curls fell onto his forehead when he inclined his head, a tight-lipped smile flickering over his face, brief and polite, yet also unyielding. Your eyes looked over him briefly, the dark circles underneath his eyes only standing out more in the sun. He was pale, sharp-boned and clean-jawed, with a curve on his mouth that rarely wasted words and eyes that never blinked when they didn't have to.

"Maybe some other time, Your Highness," and then, as if to distract you, "but I'd be remiss in my duties if I didn't mention your midnight excursions."

You walked with measured steps down the outer path of the courtyard, your gloves tucked beneath your arm, the hem of your riding coat brushing the ground. Pace not breaking, your eyes narrowed as you tried to swallow the hint of panic trying to rise up within you.

"What excursions?" you hoped your voice sounded smooth, that your tone was feathered with innocence.

"Ah," he murmured, his smile flickering sharp and fast across his lips, "then I must have been mistaken."

The Spymaster's coat swung faintly with each stride towards the stiff pages next to the waiting carriage, head angling slightly, "It must have been some other royal figure, cloaked and hooded, slipping out to the lower wards to watch knights duel for coin and honour. I hear one even wagered on a man's horse."

A beat of silence, "Won, too."

So he had followed you.

You didn't know what that meant for you, not exactly; whether it was a sign of mistrust or merely habit that placed him three steps behind you and five steps ahead. Matsukawa Issei never did anything by accident: if he had seen you slip out once, that meant he had seen you twice. Maybe three times. Maybe every time.

He would never admit that, though he didn't need to. That wasn't how power worked between you, though you weren't sure whether it worked in any other way, either. Not when he pulled the reins whilst handing them to you.

When you had asked him where his allegiance lay, deep in the middle of the night with him standing across your desk, he had looked at you directly, the smallest tilt to his lips like a secret he kept to himself, "I serve the crown, Your Highness, and at the moment, you're all the crown we have."

You knew he was loyal. Maybe towards the weight of the diadem sitting on top of your head rather than the wielder of it, but loyalty was loyalty; one that you couldn't sweeten or command. So that bared the question of whether he thought your actions dangerous or simply foolish.

Because if Matsukawa doubted you, he'd never raise his voice, never threaten you, never let the shift of his mind show. He would just simply adjust for your weakness in the margins of his plans, and if he trusted you, truly and deeply, that didn't mean he would let you fall, but it also didn't mean he would catch you either.

If it were your uncle, then he would have regarded your sneaking out as extremely dangerous and extremely foolish. But your Spymaster was not your uncle and not the Lord Regent.

You exhaled through your nose, "You didn't stop me."

Matsukawa 's voice lowered, "No, Your Highness."

"Why?"

"One day," he started, his tone never rising, but there was weight behind his words, "you'll sit on a throne surrounded by liars, Princess."

It wasn't cold, but your neck tingled with an oncoming shiver.

"And when that day comes, I thought it might be useful for you to remember how desperate men look when the Crown has forgotten them."

You reached the carriage, and one of the pages opened the door without a word. A pale hand entered your field of vision, the silver of the ring glinting, and you took Matsukawa's hand to ascend the carriage, his skin smooth against yours.

He followed as well, finding his place across you like usual.

So, it wasn't that he let you sneak off because he trusted your judgment. You weren't surprised but there was a thorn in your side at the sentiment all the same.

Matsukawa was rarely wrong.

Chances were that he knew you hadn't gone to the abandoned tournament grounds to observe your subjects or to study the state of your realm. You had went because it was the only place no one called you Your Highness, because you could lose yourself in the clang of steel of knights who nobody knew either.

He spoke again, his hands still on his lap, "I daresay, you watched with less judgment than most."

You swallowed the shame rising within you like the tide of an ocean, "Did you enjoy the games, Issei?"

"Only the ones you smiled at, Princess," he said simply. There was slightly more warmth sitting in the folds of his words, like he could only now allow more of his truth to come out.

Your words were not accusing but they were laced with something that you wanted desperately to sound flippant, yet it failed, "You watched me closely, then."

He didn't deny it.

"Closer than most," he allowed with a glance, thumb brushing his ring, "Though not as close as you watched him."

Your heart stuttered once.

"Him?" you asked, tone light, casual, but as soon as the word tumbled out of your mouth, it already felt like ash on your tongue.

The Spymaster's mouth lifted at the attempt, like he could exactly read your thoughts and knew where they had gone before you had spoken. He slightly leaned forward, his dark eyes settled on you, voice barely above a murmur, not threatening, but close enough to make you feel the edge, a quite line offered, "Do you really want to play this game, Your Highness?"

You could order him to stand down. You could, and you knew he would if you said so, and he looked at you like he knew that was what you were thinking, too. So you didn't.

Instead, you answered him with dry lips, "He was…compelling. Confident."

"Is that what you're calling it, Princess?" Matsukawa asked softly with a hum, like he would talk to a scared kitten, trying to coax it out of its hiding place, "The way you looked at him?"

You turned toward him slightly as your body jolted from the carriage, your chin lifted, though not in challenge; you needed the weight of your own spine to hold you together, brace against the wind of Matsukawa 's probing questions. If you looked too soft, he'd see too much. And if you looked too hard, he'd see too much, too. There was no escaping your Spymaster, you knew that, and yet, you tried so, anyway.

Because you weren't ready to think about why that nameless rider lured you in when he never spoke, why he reminded you of the devotion of a certain somebody Masako had told you to cease thinking about.

"I didn't give him a look."

"No," he said, his expression unreadable, save for the feint curl at the corner of his lips; the ghost of a smile too sharp to be fond, too gentle to be mocking, "You gave him a second look. And a third."

His name left your mouth almost immediately, "Issei."

Matsukawa leaned back again, his eyes wandering away from you, like he already gleaned everything he could from you, and you felt heat climb up your throat — whether in anger or embarrassment, you didn't know, but more than ever, you felt close to being seen.

"Careful, Your Highness," he murmured, the syllables drawn soft and clean, "That tone almost sounded guilty."

The carriage rocked gently as it rolled down the inner road, and your words were so quiet, they almost seemed to disappear amongst the muffled cobblestones underneath the wheels.

"Do you know who he is?"

"No, though if you'd like me to find out who he is, I can," he said, his face unreadable, "or I can make sure you never find out. Whichever is more painful for you, Your Highness."

You turned your head, but not toward the window, just away from him, enough to breathe once, slowly, like that could calm the desperate clawing in your chest.

"You're being cruel, Issei," your teeth dug into your lower lip, and it wasn't an accusation. Just the truth, spoken aloud in the space that existed between you and your Spymaster.

Matsukawa was silent for a moment, then he exhaled, though it was neither a sigh or a laugh, "I'm being accurate, Your Highness. And if it stings, perhaps that's worth remembering."

You wished he wasn't right, but Matsukawa Issei, Spymaster of your realm, was rarely wrong.

𓐩 ADDENDUM; — the hamelin's rest gets its name from the fairy tale of the pied piper, and the way he lured people with his flute. — if matsukawa had been an original character, i would have named him alistair. — yukie only got to eat some of the almonds and fruits, because @sodaneko advocated for her girly, and who am i to deny lale anything?

𓐩 TAGLIST; @sodaneko ; @ottocre ; @mellozhi ; @pomigranit : @brokenbraveakira ; @h-llsp-wn ; @tsukisangel ; @ghostjoohoney ; @dumdogs (i hope it's okie to tag you, eggy!);

81 notes · View notes

kckt88 · 2 months ago

Text

Imzadi VIII

Summary:

Aemond's reign begins with bloodshed and a new council is assembled.

Warning(s): Angst, Drama, Language, Uncle/Niece Incest, Kissing, P in V, Multiple Positions, Interupted Sex, Knotting, Character Death, Blood, Violence & Arguements.

AEMOND x O.C NIECE

ALPHA/BETA/OMEGA DYNAMIC

Word Count: 7040

A.N - 'Imzadi - Beloved'

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

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated, do not copy/post to other sights without my permission.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9 @killua2dot0 @msassenach @xcharlottemikaelsonx @moonnicole @zenka69 @aemondsbabygirl @aphroditesblunt @iamtoriasworld @persephonerinyes

“Lord Otto Hightower-”

Gasps erupted across the Dragonpit. The crowd recoiled, stunned, some even blinking as if they had perhaps misheard.

Otto’s smile shattered. Gone was the polished expression of smug satisfaction.

His lips parted, eyes wide with dawning horror, as if the very ground beneath his feet had cracked open.

Alicent stared at her father, lips parted, eyes wide with disbelief. “F-Father-” she whispered, but the sound was swallowed by the wind and the growing unrest.

Nearby, Aegon clutched Helaena’s arm and tugged her back. Her eyes were distant, as her mouth moved with eerie calm:

“The Hand no longer turns the loom; No spool of black, no spool of green; a traitor’s blood spilled at the seam”

Otto took a staggering half-step forward, his voice cracking:

“Your Grace, surely, this is a mistake—”

But Aemond’s voice rang like thunder “GUARDS—SEIZE HIM!”

For a heartbeat, the Kingsguard looked to one another, uncertain. Then, at a silent nod from Ser Harrold Westerling, they surged forward.

Otto flinched, trying to step back, but gloved hands grabbed him, dragging him forward.

He struggled and protested as he was forced to his knees before his grandson.

Aemond stepped down from the dais slowly, his fury burning. He stood before Otto, looking down at him with cold finality.

He leaned in, voice low and venomous. “Did you truly believe that you could get away with it? That I wouldn’t find out what you were doing?”

Otto’s lips trembled “I—I know not of what—”

“Do not fucking lie to me-”

Otto flinched at the snarl, eyes darting, desperate “Aemond, pleaseI did what—”

Aemond stepped back, turned to the crowd, his voice booming:

“The Hand of the King. My own grandsire. Skulking in the shadows. Hiring assassins and plotting not only my death—but the death of my Queen-the only Omega to exist since Queen Rhaenys-”

The crowd erupted in fury.

“Traitor!” — “Snake!” — “Hang him!”

The air crackled with rage, the voices of the people rising in a storm of hatred.

But Aemond wasn’t finished.

“Yet he did not act alone. Larys Strong. Jasper Wylde. Tyland Lannister. Maester Orwyle—all complicit in his schemes. SEIZE THEM!”

Before the accused could react, more guards closed in, seizing them roughly and dragging them forward to kneel beside Otto.

The boos and hisses grew louder. The air itself seemed to boil with disgust and betrayal.

Alicent rushed forward, grabbing Aemond’s arm.

“Aemond—what are you doing?” she cried. “You cannot execute your entire council!”

Aemond turned on her, voice rising “Can’t I? Tell me, Mother—should I simply smile and say all is well? Shall we all hold hands and dance around in a circle singing rhymes made for children. Or mayhaps I should let the traitorous cunts go free?"

Alicent sighed "Aemond-"

"What message does that send?! That it’s acceptable to plot the death of the King and his Queen?!”

Alicent tried again, voice shaking “I know you’re angry—”

“Angry?!” Aemond’s voice cracked with pain, fury, grief. “They were going to kill her—reduce her to nothing but a broodmare, use her body like a vessel for heirs they’d rip from her arms"

“Your Grace-”

“I can’t—” Aemond’s voice broke. “-Live without her. She is my mate. I love her.”

Tears shimmered in his eye and Alicent's expression softened. Her hand rose, cupping her son’s cheek tenderly, the way she had when he was a child.

“Then do what you must, my son.”

Aemond drew a breath, steadying himself. He turned toward Rhaenyra and Daemon, who both gave firm, solemn nods.

The lords beside them—Cregan, Jeyne, Borros, Corlys, and Rhaenys—all looked on in stunned silence, their expressions hardened with disgust at the traitors.

Aemond turned to Lucaera, cupping the back of her neck gently as he pressed his forehead to hers.

“Go stand with your mother,” he whispered.

“I wish to remain by your side—”

“No,” he breathed. “This is something I must do alone. The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword-”

Lucaera kissed him gently, her lips soft and sure, and moved to stand beside her mother and brothers.

Aemond returned to face the kneeling traitors, his eye narrowed and cold.

“The dogs that kneel before your King,” he declared, “-have conspired against the crown for years, plotting and scheming in the shadows for their own personal gain and today they will pay for their betrayal-”

The crowd booed louder, vengeful and furious.

Jason Lannister pushed through the crowd, kneeling before the dais. “Please, Your Grace—he’s my brother—have mercy—”

“Silence-” Aemond growled, “or Casterly Rock will be turned into another Harrenhal and House Lannister will be buried beneath it's ashes”

Jasper Wylde then began to beg “My king—I only did what I thought was best—”

“Save your breath-” Aemond hissed. “Nothing you can say will save your head from being parted from your fucking neck.”

Larys Strong said nothing. His gaze was fixed on Lucaera, lips curled in a perverse smile.

Aemond noticed and his fury surged. “You dare look at my Queen?” Aemond snarled, stepping forward as he drew Blackfyre. “You filthy toad.”

Maester Orwyle whimpered out a plea, but Aemond didn’t even look at him.

“Otto Hightower. Tyland Lannister. Jasper Wylde. Larys Strong. Maester Orwyle—” His voice rose, echoing through the Dragonpit. “I, Aemond of House Targaryen, the First of My Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm—sentence you all to die.”

And one by one, he swung.

Tyland. Jasper. Larys. Orwyle.

Four heads fell. Four traitorous lives ended.

Then Aemond stood over Otto, the blade of his sword dripping with the blood of his co-conspirators, the tip pointed at his throat.

“Any last words, grandsire?”

Otto’s lip curled. “You’ll never be the King your father was”

Aemond’s eye narrowed. “No. I’ll be greater”

Blackfyre rose in the air and then came down in a graceful arch. The metal easily slicing through skin and bone as Otto’s severed head dropped to the floor with a wet thud, his body slumping forward.

For a moment—silence.

Then—

“LONG LIVE THE KING! LONG LIVE THE QUEEN!”

Aemond cleaned Blackfyre on the hem of his cloak and sheathed it with finality.

He turned, holding out his hand to Lucaera, and she stepped forward, placing her palm in his.

Love and understanding surged through their bond, anchoring him.

“Put their heads on pikes-” Aemond ordered coldly. “Feed the bodies to the dragons.”

Just before turning to leave, Aemond stopped before Ser Criston. He leaned in, voice low and dangerous.

“I pray that you were not involved in any of this. Because if I find out that you were—by the time I’m finished, you’ll beg for death.”

Criston swallowed hard. “I swear it, Your Grace—I was not.”

Aemond narrowed his eye.

“It is by my grace that you remain in the Kingsguard. But your dalliance with my mother ends. NOW-”

Criston opened his mouth to speak, no doubt to deny it—but Aemond growled.

“Do not fucking speak. I know, Cole. I’ve always known-”

Without another glance, Aemond and Lucaera turned, walking from the Dragonpit surrounded by the kingsguard as they made their way to the waiting royal carriage.

The Iron Throne loomed large behind him, the metal jagged and cold, but Aemond sat with ease, his long fingers tapping slowly along one of the steel edges—measured and thoughtful, in the silence of the throne room.

Below, gathered in respectful anticipation, stood the lords and ladies of the realm.

Considering that most of the council had been executed that morning, Aemond now needed to reconstitute it—offering positions to those who would be loyal, honest and faithful, not only to the crown but to the realm itself.

At the base of the throne stood Lucaera. Regal and radiant in her silvery crown—the light danced across the polished metal, casting her in an ethereal glow. Her hands resting gently on her stomach, where their pup grew.

Aemond caught her looking up at him, her violet eyes meeting his.

Through their bond, he felt her warmth—her love—and the subtle flush of embarrassment as she picked up on his growing arousal.

She blushed, her cheeks dusted with rose, and Aemond had to will himself to focus.

The Alpha Prime within him growled low with appreciation, imagining his Queen wearing nothing but her crown as she writhed and moaned beneath him.

Aemond shook his head and took a deep breath, shifting slightly on the Iron Throne, now was not the time to get a cock stand.

Cleared his throat.

“Lord Corlys Velaryon. Step forward-”

Corlys took a stedying breath, and stepped out from the crowd, bowing his silver head. “Your Grace.”

Aemond’s voice rang clear, steady “You served on my father's council for many years as Master of Ships. You proved wise in your counsel and loyal in your service. I would see that continue. I name you again as the Master of Ships”

Corlys gave a solemn nod “I accept the honour, Your Grace. Thank you.”

“And I take this moment to confirm that Lucerys Velaryon is named heir to Driftmark, and the future Lord of the Tides.”

The throne room rippled with shock—murmurs spreading like wildfire, a surprising offer considering the history between Aemond and Lucerys.

But Corlys only bowed again, deeper this time, and returned to stand beside Rhaenys.

“Lord Lyman Beesbury has long served as Master of Coin. However, he now desires time with his family—and I have granted his request- which leaves me without a Master of Coin—Lord Thaddeus Rowan, step forward”

Lord Thaddeus blinked, visibly startled at his name being called, but he took a deep breath and stepped forwaed.

“Your Grace.”

“I have no doubt that your intelligence and shrewdness will benefit not only the crowns coffers, but the realm also. I name you Master of Coin”

“I-I accept. Thank you, Your Grace.”

Aemond pursed his lips “Know that I will be watching you, Lord Rowan, I intend to see our fortunes flourish- not diminish under greed and selfishness”

Thaddeus nodded quickly and returned to the crowd.

“Lady Jeyne Arryn. Step forward-”

Jeyne moved with poise, her features calm, as she bowed respectfully “Your Grace.”

Aemond eyes her curiously “You strike me as a woman of great intelligence and strength.”

Jeyne nodded “I’d like to think so, Your Grace.”

Aemond offered the barest smile “Then I offer you the position of Mistress of Laws-”

Jeyne inclined her head “It would be my honour”. She then returned to her place in the crowd, composed and steady, even though the crowd was whispering curiously at Aemond’s appointment of a woman on his council.

“Prince Daemon Targaryen, step forward”

Daemon who seemed unbothered by his summons, stepped forward with a wry smirk

“I would hope to never need a Master of War-” Aemond said, “but it is wiser to have one than to find oneself lacking and given your victories in battle—particularly the Stepstones—I shall name you Master of War”

The crowd erupted into gasps, many surprised at Aemond’s offer. Daemon cocked his head to the side and rested his hands on the hilt of Dark Sister studying Aemond for a long moment before nodding.

“I accept the offer, Your Grace” replied Daemon before returning to the crowd and resuming his position next to Rhaenyra.

Aemond the cleared his throat “Aegon Targaryen. Step forward-”

Aegon who had been eyeing up one of the noble lords daughters, looked confused and almost dazed—but slowly shuffled forward.

He quickly glanced at Lucaera who shrugged.

Aemond leaned forward slightly “I have no official position to offer you. But you shall sit on my council, nonetheless. You will not spend your days wasting away in wine, you will make yourself useful brother-”

Aegon huffed, rolling his eyes. “Of course, Your Grace.” He then bowed—half-heartedly and slunk back into place next to Helaena, who was smiling brightly.

“Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen. Step forward-”

A hush fell on the crowd. All eyes turned eagerly to witness what was about to unfold.

Rhaenyra moved forward with quiet dignity, bowing slightly. “Your Grace.”

Aemond spoke with full authority “As King, I confirm your possession of Dragonstone. It shall pass to your heir, Jacaerys, upon your death. When your younger sons—Aegon and Viserys—come of age, they shall be given places of high honour at court.”

Rhaenyra nodded. “Thank you, Your Grace I—”

Aemond held up his hand “-I’m not finished”

The entire hall went still, everyone holding their breath in anticipation.

“Tradition demands that I name a Hand of the King. A trusted advisor. A person that can be counted upon to help govern, guide, and safeguard the realm-Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, I name you Hand of the King-”

The room gasped. Murmurs rose—everyone remained rooted to the spot.

Rhaenyra stared at Aemond stunned, clearly not expecting him to make such an offer, and it seems as though she was not alone in her surprise as Lucaera was now staring open mouthed at Aemond, before she quickly regained her composure.

Aemond cocked his head to the side and smirked “Gaomagon ao mazōregon mandia?” (Do you accept, sister?)

Rhaenyra’s breath caught—but then she nodded. “Gaoman, lēkia.” (I do, brother).

Aemond nodded and watched as she returned to Daemon’s side, still visibly taken aback.

“Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.”

Rhaenys stepped forward, expression unreadable. “Your Grace.”

“You are wise, and you are just. And If I may say so, you do not fear speaking truth. I would have you on my council as an advisor—to help keep my rule tempered and sound.”

Rhaenys smiled faintly. “I accept. And I thank you, Your Grace.”

“Lord Cregan Stark-”

The northern lord moved forward, bowing first to Lucaera, then to Aemond.

“Though the North is far-” Aemond said, “-I would like to have your voice here. As an advisor, one I can trust to speak with honour and without ambition.”

Cregan nodded thoughtfully. “It is a wise request, Your Grace. And one I am happy to accept.”

He turned briefly to Lucaera, nodding respectfully, before returning to the crowd.

Aemond rose from the throne. “Now that my council has been named, we shall meet on the morrow, after breaking our fast. Change must come—and swiftly. For the good of the realm. Now, if you will excuse me. I desire a moment alone with my Queen. I shall, of course, see you all at the celebration feast later tonight-”

The crowd bowed, as Aemond descended the Iron Throne’s steps. Reaching Lucaera, he took her hand in his.

Their bond pulsed with shared desire, devotion, and a growing anticipation neither could quite suppress.

Just as Aemond and Lucaera reached the great doors of the throne room, a voice cut through the reverent silence behind them.

“Aemond—” came Alicent’s voice, sharp, urgent. “Please, wait.”

Aemond stopped, his back still turned. He inhaled slowly through his nose, his jaw tightening.

“Not now, mother.”

Aemond didn’t wait for her reply.

With steady steps, he guided Lucaera out of the throne room, the huge wooden doors slowly closing behind them with a low thud.

“Ivestragī issa rȳbagon ao” growls Aemond (Let me hear you).

“A-Aemond. Oh god. Please” moaned Lucaera.

“I know your almost there. Let it happen my sweet. Come for me” whispered Aemond.

Lucaera arched her back and let out a scream as her pleasure erupted.

“Fuck” groaned Aemond, his fingers digging into the flesh of his wife’s hips.

“God. Yes. Aemond” moaned Lucaera, as he began to thrust in and out of her in deep achingly slow thrusts.

Lucaera took one of Aemond’s hands that was on her hip and brought it towards her head.

Knowing what his naughty wife wanted, Aemond placed his large hand on the back of her head and pushed her face into the mattress, her back arching beautifully.

His cock reaching deeper inside her as he moved with such ferocity it could rival an animal, his long silver hair unbound, sticking to his sweaty back, his abdominal muscles flexing taut as he pounded into her.

Aemond then grasped both of Lucaera’ arms and held them behind her back as he thrust into her, the sound of his hips slapping against hers echoing around their chambers.

Her screams of pleasure muffled by the mattress, her silver crown sitting lopsided on her head.

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

He took hold of Lucaera’ hair, twisting his fingers into the messy braid before he pulled her backwards, her sweaty back colliding with his chest.

The crown falling onto the mattress with a thump.

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

One hand grasped her hip, his blunt fingers digging into her flesh. Whilst his other released her hair and moved round to her throat, squeezing gently.

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

She reached behind her and tangled her fingers into his silver hair, turning his head towards hers.

Their mouths meeting in a messy kiss, consisting of teeth and tongue.

Aemond could feel the tension building in his abdomen, his knot swelling as he thrust his cock inside Lucaera.

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

“-Aemond” exclaimed Lucaera breathlessly.

“Ride me” replied Aemond as he pulled Lucaera on top of him. His hand moving to his cock, rubbing it along her folds before she sunk down and completely engulfed him.

“Oh” gasped Lucaera as she rolled her hips against Aemond’s.

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

Then the sound of knocking made both of them pause momentarily.

“Ignore them” urged Aemond as he placed his hands on Lucaera’ hips and encouraged her to keep moving.

“Oooh Aemond” gasped Lucaera as she resumed her movements.

Lucaera dug her nails into Aemond’s chest as she moved her hips against his. Aemond let out a frustrated snarl as the sound of knocking continued.

“FUCK OFF”

“Your Grace-“

“What?” snapped Aemond as he planted his feet on the mattress and began thrusting harder and deeper.

“T-The Dowager Queen- wishes to see you”.

“I don’t give a flying fuck-I’m busy“ snapped Aemond, his fingers digging into Lucaera’ hips.

“W-What sh-shall I tell her?”

“T-tell h-her -that’s it. Fuck-you’re taking me so well-my wife, my Queen-” moaned Aemond, his head lolling backwards against the wooden headboard.

“Y-Your Grace?”

“FUCK SAKE-tell her I’m performing my duty as husband, and I shall be there once my desires have been thoroughly satisfied” replied Aemond.

“B-But Your Grace-“

“I swear the next person to interrupt me whilst I'm making love to my wife will be skinned alive and fed to Vhagar-“ snarled Aemond pausing momentarily.

As no more interruptions came, Aemond resumed his hard thrusts.

“A-Aemond” moaned Lucaera as he sat up, moving his hand to her breast and taking her nipple into his mouth, his teeth gently grazing the sensitive rosy bud.

“That’s it-gods it’s so good” groaned Aemond his face pressed against his wife’s soft breasts.

“Aemond-“ whimpered Lucaera.

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

Lucaera’ thighs began to burn, as she felt her peak approaching.

“AEMOND” screamed Lucaera as she peaked, her eyes rolling into the back of her head.

As her movements slowed Aemond rolled her back onto the bed his cock never leaving her warmth as he pounded into her, her legs wrapped around his waist.

With a low, rumbling growl from deep within his chest, Aemond sank his teeth into the curve of her neck, breaking the skin.

The taste of her blood upon Aemond’s tongue was warm and rich, intoxicating, and it sent the Alpha Prime within him roaring with delight, claiming her once more, not out of dominance but love—deep, protective, and consuming love.

Lucaera gasped, her fingers curling tightly into his back, but not in pain—in pure ecstasy.

Their bond flared, and her own instincts surged forward. With a growl of her own she twisted beneath him, and sank her teeth into his neck in return, her claim just as fierce and unyielding.

“God. Lucy- My Lucy-” groaned Aemond as he forced his knot inside her and exploded. His cock throbbing and twitching as he finally spilled his seed, collapsing on top of his wife, breathing hard, the Alpha Prime elated at the sound of his sweet Omega purring happily in his arms.

Aemond lay beside Lucaera, his long fingers slowly trailing over her belly, where their pup grew within her womb, the sheets stained with their blood, and the mingled scents of Alpha and Omega lingered in the air.

Her scent was rich and comforting, apples and cinnamon—but tinged sweetness of milk.

The Alpha Prime in him swelled with a quiet, primal joy. It was the scent of life, of their legacy. He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her stomach, murmuring—words of protection, devotion, and fierce, undying love.

A soft, steady snore pulled his attention upward.

Aemond looked to find Lucaera sleeping, her dark hair spread across the pillows like spilled ink. A small, peaceful smile curled her lips even in slumber.

Aemond’s heart ached at the sight. She looked every bit the goddess he knew her to be, and in this rare stillness, he allowed himself the privilege of simply gazing and adoring her.

He pressed a kiss to her temple, lingering there for a heartbeat longer than needed, before slipping out of bed. He didn’t bother washing—her scent on him was a mark he bore proudly, almost possessively.

Instead, he pulled on his trousers, cotton shirt, and his dark leather jerkin, tightening the cuffs with precise fingers.

Aemond paused. One last glance.

Lucaera shifted slightly, and the sheet slipped lower down her body. He gently pulled it up, covering her naked form with a care that only she ever saw from him.

Then, with quiet steps, he left the chamber.

“Ser Arryk-” he called, and the knight at his post turned immediately.

“Your Grace.”

Aemond adjusted the cuff of his jerkin, eyes lingering on the seam as he spoke. “How is your brother?”

“Erryk is healing well, Your Grace,”

Aemond allowed himself a faint smile. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Ser Arryk nodded sharply “Gratitude Your Grace”

Aemond straightened, taking on the mantle of King once again. “My presence has been requested by my mother. While I am gone, I need you to stand guard here. Watch over my Queen-”

Ser Arryk bowed deeply. “I will ensure her safety and well-being, Your Grace.”

Aemond gave a curt nod. “I should not be too long.”

He turned and walked the corridor, the familiar sound of Ser Harrold Westerling’s boots falling into step behind him.

As they passed through the Red Keep, courtiers and lords bowed, “Your Grace,” murmured from every corner. Maids curtsied, eyes darting shyly toward him.

But the Alphas, he noticed their glances. They caught the lingering scent on him—his Omega’s claim, her love, their bond.

It clung to his skin like sacred perfume. He didn’t hide it. He welcomed it.

Finally, they reached Alicent’s chambers. Ser Rickard, standing dutifully at the door, knocked twice.

“Come,” came his mother’s voice from within.

“The King, Your Grace,” Rickard announced as he opened the door.

Aemond stepped inside.

The door closed behind him with a soft thud, and he found his mother standing near the window, picking nervously at her fingers.

“You asked to see me,” Aemond said, his voice cool, folding his hands behind his back.

Alicent turned, her eyes roving over him.

Aemond was usually immaculate in his courtly appearance—But now, he was dishevelled.

Blood still dried at his neck. His long silver hair tousled from bed; and the collar of his jerkin was undone.

She took a step forward, lifting her hand to brush the mark on his throat—but he caught her wrist.

Aemond snapped “Don’t-”

She lowered her hand, embarrassed. “Do you think it’s wise for people to see their King in such a state?”

Aemond let out a dry scoff. “I was enjoying time with my wife. Time which you saw fit to interrupt.”

“I needed to see you. To explain. To make you understand—”

“What is there to explain?” he snapped, not angry, but exhausted. “You condemned Rhaenyra for years for her affairs and yet here you are. Guilty of the same thing-”

Alicent’s cheeks burned red. “It’s not the same- ”

“Oh, I think it is,” Aemond said sharply, stepping closer. “You have bedded the same man she has.”

Alicent froze. “How do you know about that?”

He smirked. “Lucy told me. Seems Rhaenyra is an honest mother with her children. Can you say the same?”

Alicent flinched. “This isn’t about Rhaenyra-” she tried again, but Aemond cut her off once more.

“-Isn’t it? You reside in her old chambers. Now you’ve taken her old paramour. Don’t think me a fool, Mother. I see how you look at her. You've always looked at her-”

A flicker of something raw passed through Alicent’s eyes—guilt? Pain? Longing?

“I know not what you’re implying,” she whispered.

“Oh-I think you do,” Aemond said quietly. “You can’t have the one you truly wanted, so you took the next best thing”

Alicent raised her hand to slap him, but he caught her wrist once more and gently shoved her away.

Not in violence—in disappointment. For a long, heavy moment, silence hung between them.

Then, Alicent whispered, “I did my duty. I married Viserys. Bore his children. But I’ve been lonely. For so many years.”

Aemond’s face softened, just slightly. “You think I don’t know what that feels like?” he said. “I was different. I was alone. They all laughed at me-”

Alicent looked up at him—and in that instant, she saw the little boy who once clung to her, his eyes red from crying over a pig with wings, and ashamed of having no dragon.

Now he was a man grown, the rider of the largest dragon in the world and the King.

Alicent stepped closer. He tensed—but didn’t move. She reached up, her fingers brushing the scar on his cheek.

“I’m sorry for what I did with Criston,” she whispered. “I just needed to know what it felt like”

Aemond frowned. “What do you mean?”

“To choose-” she whispered. “I was but a girl when your grandsire placed me before Viserys. He was grieving his beloved Aemma and Otto used that for his own personal gain and in no time at all I was wedded to a man twice my age and the father of my dearest friend. I just wanted to be seen. Desired. Wanted for who I am. Not as obligation. Not as duty.”

Aemond took her hand and squeezed it gently. “I understand. I spent years in Rhaenyra’s shadow. Even in the end, Father didn’t choose me. He chose Lucaera-”

Alicent blinked. “He did?”

Aemond nodded. “He called her to his deathbed. Spoke to her of a dream. Something only a King would share with his heir, if he couldn’t have Rhaenyra on the Iron Throne, he would have Lucaera in her stead”

Alicent’s face softened. “Oh, Aemond-”

“But do not mourn me mother. I may not have been his choice. But I will be a worthy King-this I swear”

“And Lucaera?” Alicent asked softly.

Aemond offered a small smile. “She will be a fine Queen”

Alicent’s brow furrowed. “Is she really who you want?”

“More than anything,” Aemond said, without hesitation. “I choose her and she chooses me. We complete one another.”

Alicent nodded, voice barely a whisper. “That’s all I ever wanted for you.”

Aemond looked at her, firm and certain now. “I want you to serve on my council. As an advisor.”

Alicent stared, stunned. “Oh Aemond. I—I don’t know-”

“You served the realm faithfully while Father was ill,” Aemond said. “I need you. Please-”

Then suddenly he was that boy again—lost and longing. And Alicent saw it, for in that moment he was not a King—but her son.

Alicent nodded “I accept-”

Aemond exhaled, relieved. And before he could speak again, Alicent embraced him.

He stiffened at first, startled by the gesture, before slowly melting into her arms, his head lowered toward her shoulder.

Aemond sighed, closing his eye. Letting her hold him. Letting her be his mother once more.

The music echoed through the great hall of the Red Keep, triumphant and jubilant, a lively tune fit for celebration.

The scent of roasted meats and spiced wine filled the air, mingling with perfumes and the heady aroma of court.

It was a night of joy, a night to honour the newly crowned King and Queen, and the nobles of Westeros drank deep of the moment.

But Aemond, King and Alpha Prime, was not celebrating.

He sat rigidly on the dais, his fingers curling around the carved wooden armrest of his chair, his jaw clenched so tight it ached.

His single violet eye was fixed across the room, unwavering, sharp as a blade as he tracked every movement of Lucaera as she danced across the floor.

Her red and black silk gown flowing like fire and shadow as she danced. Her hair was braided in the style of Old Valyria, half-up and simple, the rest cascading in ink-dark waves down her back. The silver of her crown gleamed beneath the torchlight.

As she laughed—a sweet, melodic sound that curled into his chest and simultaneously soothed and maddened him as she danced with Cregan Stark.

Aemond’s nostrils flared as his inner Alpha Prime snarled, primal and possessive. He could feel the throb of his bond with her, pulsing at the back of his mind, and yet the sight of another man touching her—even with the innocence of a dance—was enough to make his blood simmer.

Aemond’s fingers flexed against the armrest of his chair.

“If you clench your jaw any harder,” came Aegon’s drawling voice beside him, “you’ll shatter your bloody teeth.”

Aemond didn’t even glance at him. He growled low in his throat, his gaze still locked on his Queen.

Aegon followed his brother’s eye line and smirked. “Daughter of the Realm’s Delight indeed-”

Aemond finally turned, sharp and biting. “Is there something you want, brother, or are you just deliberately being a twat?”

Aegon snorted, swirling his wine. “Your ridiculous appointment of me on your council—”

“I offered you no position,” Aemond snapped. “But you will attend meetings. I won’t have you drinking and whoring your days away-you will learn valuable skills”

“Ahh yes-” Aegon said dramatically, raising his cup. “-Sitting around a table full of boring cunts droning on about taxes and grain.”

“The governance of the realm’s matters are important-” Aemond said coolly, “being King is not about barking orders. It’s about listening to the people, understanding their struggles, and guiding the realm toward prosperity.”

Aegon blinked at him. “You’re really determined to be a worthy King, aren’t you?”

“More than determined,” Aemond said softly. “It is unfortunate however that my reign began in blood. But it—”

“-Was necessary,” Aegon cut in. “Traitorous dogs deserved their heads. Speaking of which dragon got the honour of roasting our grandsire’s corpse?”

“Caraxes,” Aemond said, lip curling in faint amusement. “Daemon insisted, after his dragon mysteriously showed up the day prior.”

Aegon snorted. “Let me guess. He said it was merely coincidence.”

“Something like that.”

The brothers shared a brief smirk, their rare moment of camaraderie settling between them. Aegon looked toward Daemon and Rhaenyra, who were seated closely, their hands entwined and their expressions soft.

“You know what’s funny?” Aegon said.

“What?” replied Aemond curiously.

“The fearsome Rogue Prince, reduced to nothing but a cuntstruck fool”

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with loving one’s wife,” Aemond murmured. “Advice you might consider heeding brother-”

Aegon sighed. “Regardless of what anyone thinks I do love Helaena. But only as a sister. I’ve tried to feel more for her as a wife. I-I just can’t.”

Aemond turned to him, nudging his shoulder. “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said.”

Aegon muttered “Don’t get used to it.”

Aemond sighed “I wish things could be different for you-”

Aegon shrugged, taking another sip. “Hellie and I have an understanding. She has the children and her bugs. I have wine and women.”

Aemond exhaled. “So long as she is happy, that’s all that matters. She’s the best of us, she deserves happiness”

“She does-” Aegon agreed. “Helaena is a diamond in the rough of this family-”

They both exchanged a curious look before laughing, the two of them clinking their cups together and sipping wine.

Until someone cleared their throat.

Aemond looked up to see Floris Baratheon standing before him, cheeks dusted pink, her dress clinging a little too tightly to her form.

Aegon whispered, “That’s my cue to leave.”

“Don’t you dare,” Aemond snarled lowly.

“Oh, I dare,” Aegon giggled as he stood up and disappeared into the crowd.

“Twat,” Aemond muttered before rising slightly in his chair.

“Your Grace,” said Floris with a curtsy.

“My lady,” Aemond replied with polite detachment.

“I was wondering if you fancied a dance Your Grace?” asked Floris

Aemond furrowed his brow. “In truth. I’m not much of a dancer, my lady.”

“Then perhaps a drink?” she offered, already sitting beside him.

Aemond hesitated but then nodded. “Very well.”

Floris poured them both a cup of wine, her fingers brushing his as she handed him the goblet, her cheeks flushed pink. He took it without comment, then turned his attention back to Lucaera.

She now danced with Jacaerys, her laughter still echoing. Her joy. Her light.

Floris leaned in. “The celebration is quite grand, Your Grace.”

Aemond gave a tight smile. “Fit for a King, some would say.”

Floris leaned even closer. “To think I could’ve been your Queen.”

Aemond blinked. “You what?”

Floris smiled, coy and confident. “Didn’t you know? When you first presented as Alpha Prime, your grandsire was in talks with my father. A betrothal between us was nearly settled.”

Aemond’s voice turned cold. “My grandsire was a treasonous cur. Nothing he arranged holds weight.”

Floris’s smile curdled. “Not now that that Strong bastard presented as an Omega and opened her legs for you.”

The rage was instant.

Aemond’s eye snapped to her. His lips curled back in a snarl. The Alpha Prime inside him roared, snarling with fury at the insult to his Queen.

“What,” he growled, voice dark and deadly, “did you just say?”

Floris paled but pressed on, foolishly. “That should be me carrying your pup.”

Aemond surged to his feet.

“You have seconds to remove yourself from my sight,” he snarled. “Or I will slit your throat. And if you ever insult my Queen again, I will slaughter your entire fucking family.”

Floris gathered her skirts gathered and bolted. The fury in Aemond’s scent was so potent now that other Alphas were lowering their heads instinctively, stepping away.

The music faltered. The silence spreading throughout the throne room.

Aemond stood shaking, his body tight with rage, his fists clenched—Until a soft, warm hand wrapped around his arm.

Lucaera.

Her scent—apples, cinnamon, milk—wrapped around him, rich and grounding. The Alpha Prime in him quieted.

She stepped forward, wrapping her arms around his waist, and he buried his face in her neck, pressing his nose against the mating mark he’d renewed earlier that day.

Aemond’s rage melted into a low hum of possessive protectiveness and bitter annoyance.

The entire hall watched in silence—the bond between Alpha Prime and Omega laid bare for all to see.

“Guards,” Aemond said, voice clear and sharp.

Ser Harrold Westerling stepped forward. “Your Grace?”

“I want the Baratheon’s gone from court. All of them.”

Harrold bowed. “At once, Your Grace.”

As the guards moved to carry out his order, Lucaera cupped his face in both hands, her eyes searching.

“What happened?”

Aemond shook his head. “I’ll tell you later. For now-just remain at my side. Please.”

Lucaera nodded.

And Aemond held her close, in the flickering torchlight, surrounded by music, wine, and whispers—but none of it mattered.

Only her. Only this.

Aemond hadn’t let go of Lucaera's hand once since the moment she calmed him with her scent, wrapped her arms around him, and pulled him back from the edge of wrath.

She had become his anchor amidst the storm—the only thing tethering the Alpha Prime inside him to reason.

The coronation celebration continued around them in all its grandeur. Lords and ladies laughed and feasted, music floated on the air, and gold gleamed from gifts offered by the great houses.

But Aemond felt none of it. The insult from Floris Baratheon had fouled the air. Her words still hissed in his ears like a viper hiding in the court’s finery.

His Queen moved gracefully by his side, regal and radiant in every step, but she never left him—because he wouldn't allow it.

Not even for a moment.

Every time someone came close, every time a lord looked at her for too long, or a noble's words lingered with honeyed intent, the Alpha Prime in Aemond flared.

His hand on the small of her back was firm, possessive. His eye swept the crowd with a warrior’s caution, and more than once, his gaze caught a glance that made his blood simmer.

Floris’ words, her presumption and—her insult—had cut through the joy like a blade, poisoning every congratulation that followed.

And worse still, it resurrected ghosts he’d thought buried. His grandsire may be dead, his head severed from his traitorous body and devoured by Caraxes, but Otto Hightower’s legacy still lingered like a curse.

Schemes. Promises and alliances made in shadows. Even in death, his grip stretched on like creeping ivy through the cracks of the realm.

Aemond’s eye swept the crowd. Lords and ladies, all raising goblets with smiles stretched too thin.

How many of them had once been whispered to by Otto? How many of them had plotted to place a Baratheon Queen beside him and cast Rhaenyra’s line into the void?

How many still dreamed of it?

The Alpha Prime inside him stirred, restless and snarling, pacing against his ribs like a caged beast.

Don’t trust them. Don’t turn your back. They're waiting, all of them. Waiting for you to falter.

Lucaera’s fingers squeezed his.

Aemond blinked, torn from the spiralling darkness in his mind, and turned to look at her.

Her violet eyes were soft, steady.

Through their bond, she could feel it all—the turmoil, the mistrust, the anger, the rot festering deep inside him.

“My love,” she whispered, her lips close to his ear, “I can feel your ire through the bond and it’s quite unsettling.”

Aemond exhaled slowly, as if the breath alone could cool the fire inside him. “Apologies my love.”

Lucaera leaned in closer, her temple brushing against his cheek. “Tell me what troubles you,” she urged softly, “before it eats away at you completely.”

Aemond hesitated for a brief moment before he spoke “When I first presented as Alpha Prime, Otto opened negotiations with Lord Borros. A betrothal was arranged. Had you not presented as Omega, I would have been wed to Floris and she would now sit where you are.”

Lucaera stilled, her lip curling faintly at the thought. Her gaze swept the room once, then returned to him.

Then she said, quiet but resolute, “If that had come to pass, then half the people in this hall would not be here tonight. Myself included. No doubt, we’d have been cast aside. Until Vhagar’s shadow swallowed us whole.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, and his fingers reflexively gripped hers more firmly.

The meaning behind her words struck hard. He could see it—Otto, whispering poison into his ear, convincing him to rid himself of every threat: Daemon. Rhaenyra. Jace. Luke. Lucaera.

All of them. Slain for the sake of ambition. A kingdom built on ash.

The very thought of never knowing Lucaera, never feeling her warmth beside him in bed, never tasting her lips or hearing the way she moaned his name when overcome with need—never seeing her swell with their pup—It made the Alpha Prime inside him writhe with revulsion.

Aemond’s hands shook with restrained rage, at the past that had nearly stolen everything from him.

“Otto would’ve succeeded, Lucy-” said Aemond bitterly. “He would’ve poisoned my mind until I tore my family apart. Until I lost you. Before I’d even had the chance-”

Lucaera’s hand rose to his cheek, her palm warm and grounding.

“Then it’s a mercy that you’re no one’s puppet,” she said. “You saw through him in the end. You chose your path—not his. And this is your reign, my King. Not Otto’s. His legacy will fade into memory. And that memory will be stained with treason.”

Her words worked their way past his armour like sunlight breaking through the clouds. She was his clarity. His reason. His strength.

“Perhaps I’m right to be cautious,” Aemond murmured, “But I cannot let it consume me.”

She nodded. “Be wary, yes. But don’t let Otto’s shade rule your reign”

Aemond looked at her with something soft flickering behind the steel in his eye.

She was right. As always. He would not become a man haunted by the ghosts of another’s ambition.

Not while he had her. Not while she stood beside him.

He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles, and let his lips linger on her soft skin.

“Avy jorrāelan ābrazȳrys,” he whispered against her skin (I love you wife).

Lucaera smiled, the tension easing from her shoulders as she whispered in return:

“Se avy jorrāelan valzȳrys.” (And I love you husband).

The music played on, the nobles cheered and danced and drank—but the King and Queen stood together, hand in hand, their bond unshakable.

TBC

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #aemond fanfiction #hotd fanfic #aemond fic #hotd fic #aemond one eye #aemond x oc #aemond #aemond smut #prince aemond #aemond targaryen smut #prince aemond targaryen

62 notes · View notes

the-s1lly-corner · 2 months ago

Text

Dandy's World Masterlist Vol. 2

the first volume is just about full so you know what that means! time for list number 2! you all know the drill- and of course any new toons added will be added over time----- so long as i am still actively writing for dandys world! you can check my pinned for my rules and volume 1 of the list! i do not write for coal or pebble, and i only write platonic for toodles (and any future kid toons that may be added)

DANDY

X mango reader

x autistic reader

reader gets their legs broken by rats :(

x closed off reader who is clingy to him

x reader w/ paws

ASTRO

x sleepy reader

e n p (fluff alphabet)

X O (fluff alphabet)

Looking at the stars together

x rabid twisted reader

x blackhole toon reader

VEE

SPROUT

X autistic reader

twisted sprout still trying to protect the reader

V K L (fluff alphabet)

protecting reader from a weird visitor

O N J (fluff)

x reader who loves strawberry food

x reader w/ OCD

SHELLY

11 21 45 (prompts)

c m p (angst alphabet)

BLOT

general x reader hcs

BOXTEN

general dating hcs

POPPY

BRIGHTNEY

COSMO

twisted cosmo x reader

CONNIE

x reader who gets easily scared

FINN

28 46 58 (tropes)

FLUTTER

GIGI

GLISTEN

GOOB

LOOEY

A C F (fluff alphabet)

x distractor!reader

L V (fluff alphabet)

RAZZLE N DAZZLE

M W Z (angst)

C K Q (fluff)

U V Z (fluff)

L O N (fluff)

C A D (platonic)

RODGER

SCRAPS

SHRIMPO

X bully reader

TEAGAN

TISHA

TOODLES (PLATONIC ONLY)

RUDIE

GINGER

H J O (angst)

BOBETTE

x abused reader

YATTA

Random thing #38/Favorite candy

EGGSON

Random thing #34/lover

COCOA

FLYTE

D O T (platonic fluff)

BASSIE

x fem picnic basket reader

General x reader hcs

x reckless reader

MULTI

Calling eggson and flyte pretty boy

rodger toodles and sprout being protected by twisted!reader

pocky game w/ the easter toons

pocky game w/ male toons

pocky game w/ female toons

Pocky game w/ mains

Pocky game w/ christmas toons

Petnames w/ Easter toons

Petnames w/ Male toons

Petnames w/ Female toons

Petnames w/ Mains

Petnames w/ Christmas toons

Kissing the Easter toons

Kissing the Male toons

Kissing the Female toons

Kissing the Main toons

Kissing the Christmas toons

Downtime w/ Male toons

Circus troupe x magician reader

Downtime w/ Female toons

Downtime w/ Main toons

Downtime w/ Christmas toons

Downtime w/ Easter toons

Cuddling Male toons

Cuddling Female toons

Cuddling Main toons

Cuddling Christmas toons

Cuddling Easter toons

7MIH SERIES

Veemote (Ending 4)

Opener (Easter Edition)

Egg Radar (Easter Ending 1)

Participation Award (Ending 5)

Clown Horn (Ending 6)

Scrapbook (Easter Ending 2)

Whispering Flower (Easter Ending 3)

Ribbon Spool (Ending 7)

Glazed Fondant Bag (Easter Ending 4)

Brick (Ending 8)

Fishing Rod (Ending 9)

54 notes · View notes

scary-grace · 6 months ago

Text

(secret) santa, baby - part 8 of a shigaraki x f!reader fic

Shigaraki doesn't want to participate in the office's Secret Santa exchange, but when Toga promises to make it easy on him, he gives in. But making it easy for him makes it a lot harder for you -- you're the one who got his list. Office AU, no quirks. A fic in 12 parts. Divider by @ wcnderlnds

part i part ii part iii part iv part v part vi part vii part viii part ix

part viii (gift-wrapping)

You don’t know what the last-minute staff meeting is for, but the email looked important, so you show up outside the building’s biggest conference room on the hour, as ordered. As soon as you set foot inside, though, you know this was one you could have skipped. There are piles of gift bags and rolls of wrapping paper on every table, as well as packets of tissue paper and spools of ribbon and actual jars of confetti with scoops in them. On the whiteboard at the front of the room, someone’s written REMEDIAL GIFT-WRAPPING.

You didn’t think your gifts were wrapped that badly. Tomura hasn’t complained. Then again, Tomura doesn’t know you’re the one leaving his gifts, so he wouldn’t know who to complain to if he had a problem. In spite of showing up on time, everybody else somehow got here before you, so you hesitate just inside the doorway, looking for an empty seat. Before you can find one, something moves in your peripheral vision, and you glance over to find Twice beckoning to you. He’s sitting with Spinner, Dabi, and Tomura, and they’ve got an empty seat nearby.

A few weeks ago, you’d have found somewhere else, but you’re much more comfortable with Tomura and his friends than you were before. Seeing them outside of work at Toga’s party probably helped. Seeing them the next morning, waking up with bedhead and low-grade hangovers that could only be cured with diner food, moved them firmly from the category of scary coworkers to people you could call friends. And waking up at one end of Toga’s couch to realize that you’d spent the entire night sharing it and a blanket with Tomura moved him from Secret Santa recipient to something else.

You’re not sure what else, exactly. You’ve been keeping a close eye on him since the Secret Santa thing started, just so you could figure out good times to sneak down to the basement and leave things on his desk, but for the past few days you’ve felt different about seeing him out and about. Instead of being relieved, and using your next free second to race downstairs and plant a gift, you’ve gone to talk to him. Or you’ve stayed put wherever you were and hoped he’d come talk to you. He’s different at work than he is out of it, but now that you’ve seen him the other way, you can’t fail to see that the person who slept on the couch with you is there when he’s here, too.

Work doesn’t bring out the best in him, and work-related holiday festivities are even worse. You can hear him complaining as you make your way over. “I don’t need to learn gift-wrapping. The stuff I leave is fine.”

“No. Spinner’s gifts are fine. Yours look like you’re dropping off a sperm sample,” Dabi says. He’s organizing the pile of gift-wrapping supplies and ignoring the way Tomura swears at him. “It’s not going to kill you.”

“With everybody else here, Toga’s probably not just picking on us,” Spinner says. He spots you coming over and waves. “Hey. You got an invite, too?”

“My gift-wrapping must be worse than I thought,” you say. You drop down into the chair between Twice and Tomura. “Hi.”

“Hey.” Tomura glances quickly at you, then goes back to screwing around with a mostly-empty roll of ribbon. “You have a gift in your mailbox. I saw it when I checked mine.”

You didn’t put a gift in his mailbox today – it’s on his desk again, waiting for him whenever he gets back. You dropped it off after you saw him walk back on the way to the conference room. “I’ll look after we’re done with this. Does this happen every year?”

“No. It’s new.” Tomura scowls. “It sucks.”

“Hi everybody!” Toga’s standing on a chair at the front of the room, waving to catch the room’s attention. “Thanks for stopping by. It’s come to my attention that some of you guys don’t know how to wrap a gift to save your lives, and even though it’s the gift that counts, the way it’s presented matters, too! So for the sake of your Secret Santa recipients, we’re going to go over the basics of gift-wrapping –”

“And we’re going to practice on these,” Midoriya announces, holding up a clear plastic bin that’s full to the brim. “The gifts from the toy drive. Which we need to wrap anyway.”

“I told you we weren’t in trouble,” Spinner says to the group at large.

“No, we’re just free labor.” Tomura’s scowling worse than before. “I can’t wait to count my papercuts afterwards.”

“To help with this,” Toga continues loudly, “every table has at least one person who knows what they’re doing. Compress and Yaoyorozu will go over the basics, and then your group’s expert will help you get going.”

Where’s your table’s expert? You glance around, only to find everyone else looking at you. “We need to work quickly,” Iida announces, even louder than Toga. “It’s imperative that we get these gifts mailed this afternoon. If they’re delayed by the storm, they won’t reach their recipients in time. Do you want to be the reason why needy children go without presents this year?”

“Hey! Iida! That’s kind of harsh,” Midoriya says hastily. Dabi is snickering. “Just do your best, everybody!”

There’s a bin of toys under the table. Compress and Yaoyorozu order everybody to start with something in a box, since they’re easier to work with, but you have a bad feeling you’re the expert, and the things that are weirdly shaped are going to take longer. You take out a plastic dinosaur toy and get to work, listening with half an ear to the instructions. You don’t want to contradict anything they’re saying. It’ll slow things down, and based on the size of the toy bin, you can’t afford that.

You overhear the other supposed experts at the other table, and they seem pretty comfortable giving instructions, but you decide to keep quiet unless somebody asks you something. And somebody does. “Are girls born knowing how to gift-wrap or something?” Spinner asks, staring at the dinosaur toy you’ve successfully mummified in candy-cane wrapping paper. “How did you do that?”

“Practice, I guess?” You don’t really remember somebody teaching you. “It was probably just watching my mom.”

“Maybe you should handle all the weird-shaped shit,” Dabi says. He abandons the box he’s wrapping and starts sorting the toys in the bin. “I want to get out of here sometime this year and that’s not going to happen if you put me in charge of that.”

You nod and pick up the grotesque-looking nutcracker at the top of the pile. To your surprise, everybody else settles down to work quickly – even Tomura, who’s still scowling, and handling the wrapping paper like it might take a bite out of him. The other tables are chattering, but everybody at yours is quiet. Focused. When Midoriya swings by to pick up any wrapped gifts, he has to make two trips to collect all of them from you.

It’s not until you’re starting on the second round of presents that Tomura speaks up. “This isn’t so bad,” he says, and you almost amputate your finger in shock. “I thought it was going to be like that movie.”

“Which –” Dabi interrupts himself, then makes a weird noise. “The one where the guy’s cheating on his wife?”

“And he’s trying to get the clerk to gift-wrap that ugly necklace he bought for his mistress before his wife gets back?” That scene made you cringe. There are lots of scenes in Love Actually that make you cringe, but that one stands out. “Did he actually cheat on his wife or was he just trying to cheat?”

“He’s cheating.” Dabi measures out a huge scoop of glitter and drops it on top of the present he’s wrapping before he tapes the wrapping paper down. “My dad pulls shit exactly like that. Except he was fucking my boyfriend, not his secretary.”

You almost choke on thin air. “He – what?”

“That was ages ago,” Twice says. “They didn’t talk for like – five years. Then Dabi’s sister made them go to family therapy and now Enji makes up for it by giving Dabi money whenever he asks.”

“And when he doesn’t,” Spinner says. Dabi is making a face. “You’re better off, dude.”

“You know how Shigaraki hates Christmas? That’s how Dabi feels about Valentine’s Day,” Twice says. You probably would, too, if your dad had hooked up with your boyfriend. “If you’re still around by then, you can hang out with us. We always celebrate by maxing Enji’s credit card.”

If you’re still around by then. What does that mean? “Sounds fun,” you say, watching as Dabi adds two scoops of glitter to his next present. “Uh, what are you doing?”

“It’s there. We’re supposed to use it,” Dabi says. “The kids will get a kick out of this shit.”

“Yeah, but their parents will hate it.”

Tomura takes a scoop of glitter and pours it in the gift bag he’s been screwing around with. “It’s not about them.”

You remember who the gifts are for all at once. Kids in foster care, whose parents probably suck as a rule. They deserve to have some fun, and you’ve never met a kid who wouldn’t go crazy over a glitter bomb. When you start wrapping your next present, you add some glitter to it, too.

At some point the department heads come looking for all their employees, which is how you find out that Toga didn’t clear the meeting with anybody before she called it. Most of your table takes the opportunity to flee – Dabi first, then Twice, and Spinner after a second’s hesitation. Tomura stops halfway out of his chair when he realizes you’re not getting up. “Aren’t you leaving?”

“My supervisor hasn’t come looking for me yet,” you say. “And there’s still a lot to do.”

You know there’s work waiting for you back at your desk, but it shouldn’t take too long, and Iida’s guilt-trip about the presents definitely got to you. You empty the rest of the toy bin onto the table and grab a box with a model train printed on the front. A chair scrapes next to you as Tomura sits back down, and he lifts the train box out of your hands. “Give me that. I can’t wrap the weird ones.”

You stare at him. You can’t help it. “What are you doing?”

“My supervisor hasn’t come looking for me, either.” Tomura shrugs. “It’ll be faster if I help.”

“You hate this stuff,” you say.

“I’m not going to be the reason needy kids don’t get presents this year.” Tomura’s Iida impersonation is pretty on point, especially when he adds in Iida’s trademark hand gestures. You laugh. “And I haven’t gotten a paper cut yet. Nobody will put up with my bitching next year if I don’t get at least one.”

He says that, and it sounds like him – but somehow you don’t buy it. He’s not making eye contact, and his ears are turning sort of red, and your heart kicks up a weird, fluttery jolt. “If you want to hang out, you can just say that,” you say. “You don’t have to do – I know you hate doing this.”

“This is what you’re doing,” Tomura interrupts you. “That’s the important part.”

That one’s hard for you to parse, so hard that Tomura manages to wrap the train and start on the next gift before you can get even sort of a handle on it. And once you do, you’re not sure you want one. Tomura hates Christmas. Every Christmas thing you’ve seen him do has been done under pressure or threat, and he just got a golden opportunity to escape. Why would he give it up to hang out with you?

There’s one answer. An obvious answer. One you’d believe if it was coming from anybody but him. “I can use the help,” you admit. “Thanks for keeping me company.”

“Yeah.” Tomura reaches for the wrapping paper at the same time as you do, and your hands collide. You thought he’d flinch. You thought you’d flinch. But your hands stay still, poised against one another, for a long moment before Tomura draws away, his fingertips skimming the back of your hand as he goes. “Any time.”

<- part vii part ix ->

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x you #tomura shigaraki x reader #tomura shigaraki x you #shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki tomura x you #x reader #reader insert #man door hand hook car door #secret santa au

120 notes · View notes

simonh · 3 months ago

Video

flickr

Univex No. 00 Ultrachrome Film Made by Gevaert (Belgium) for Universal Camera Corp, N.Y., 1933 - 1942 by Kirk Thorsteinson Via Flickr: Univex No. 00 Ultrachrome Film Made by Gevaert (Belgium) for Universal Camera Corp, N.Y. circa 1933 - 1942, having unique 32mm wide format and and V-Spool Design (TPHC Item No. 20020427_1348097845_07) Universal Camera Corporation made still cameras, cine cameras, projectors and films of unique designs during the 1930s and 1940s. Their first film camera was the Univex model A and Univex #00 film. Otto Wolff Githens and Jacob J. Shapiro began developing their business venture likely circa 1932. Their plan was to manufacture a camera and make prints so inexpensively that anyone could buy it – even at the height of the Great Depression. Their plan was to make and also process the film into images for the customer by having their cameras use a non-standard proprietary roll film that only they would make and process in labs set-up by them across the country, thus insuring control of the entire supply chain. Their main revenue source would be from the customer’s purchase and processing of the film, rather than the purchase of the camera itself [4]. Githens and Shapiro incorporated Universal Camera Corporation on January 26, 1933 in New York [1, 4]. Then, three months later O. W. Githens filed a detailed Patent (No. 2,029,474) on March 7 1933 covering a camera body design, film spool design, film advance mechanism and the shutter mechanisms for a camera that would become their first camera, the Univex Model A. In early 1933 Universal Camera also established a contract with Gevaert (Belgium) to produce their proprietary roll film – the Univex #00 film - which they were able make at such a low cost that they could sell it for 10 cents/roll. Each roll would provide six exposures and it could only be used in their line of Univex still cameras. They released the film and their Univex Model A in mid 1933. The camera sold for 39 cents [1, 4]. The simple meniscus lens of the Univex Model A was only capable of taking pictures in bright sun light, but it produced a 28.6 x 38.1 mm image which is was about 26% larger than a standard image (24 x 36mm) size recoded on a 35mm wide perforated film. For very little money, a person could buy the camera and a roll of Universal's film along with a kit to develop and print the pictures. This was a bargain and the Univex Model A was an instant success as many people were finding it too expensive to use cameras to record family memories during difficult times of the Depression [3]. Within just a few months, Universal was manufacturing twenty thousand Univex A cameras a day [3]. Sales for 1934 alone reached almost three million cameras (1, 3, 4]. Universal Camera Corp’s initial financial success was not solely from the sale of inexpensive cameras, but more so from the sale of the low-cost roll film. By 1938, twenty-two million rolls were sold [1] with Universal Camera able to control the processing that film due to its unique size, either through their labs or though the sale of their amateur film developing kits which contained all the chemicals necessary to process film at home [3]. Their success with their Univex Model A camera was not due entirely to the US market. There is evidence that in the mid - late 1930s Universal Camera was exporting this camera, its film and presumably their film processing kits internationally to the UK and Europe, A multi-language version of their instruction manual is known to exist and its design inspired similar cameras to be made in both the UK and France. The Univex Model A camera appears to have even made it way as far as Shanghai China, with an example being found there dated with an owner’s name from that period. Additionally, a local company in Shanghai actually made and sold an exact copy of the camera as well a copy of the Univex #00 film for a short time prior to the invasion of Shanghai (see a separate discussion paper prepared by this author on this subject). Universal Camera had a lucrative government contract during the war; however after the war Universal again met with financial difficulties during the 1948 - 1949 recession and ultimately declared bankruptcy on April 16, 1952. One of the main contributing factors was film availability. Universal Camera Corp’s Univex Model A appeared in three (3) slightly different variations [3]. Univex Model A (Initial Version) The initial version of the Univex Model A was as molded resin camera with an imported glass meniscus lens and a single speed metal shutter [4]. The front of the camera bore a sunburst design, the lens opening was plain and unadorned, and the wind knob was plastic [4]. This version was made only in 1933, and is very rare [4]. The instruction sheet for this camera appears to have been prepared at the time the camera was launched as it used images of the initial version of the camera. However, this instruction sheet was supplied with the camera during its entire manufacturing period and was never updated to incorporate later design changes made to the camera. It was printed in English (as shown), or on a much larger page having the same layout of text and graphics repeated in different languages (i.e. French / German). The camera that appears in the graphics is most likely the Version I camera having the black plastic film advance knob on the upper left of the camera body (but the image lacks the star-burst pattern on the front of the camera). Univex Model A (Version II) The second 1933 model also bore the sunburst design, but the following design changes are evident; first, the lens opening is stepped, to reduce stray light reflections; second, the wind knob is made of die-cast zinc rather than plastic [4]. It has a wire-frame attached to front side of camera that then collapses on to the front of the camera. This model was called the Univex Model A “Patent Pending Model” McKeown's Price Guide (2004) [1]. Univex Model A (Version III) In the spring of 1934 a third version was release that can be easily identified by the “geometric” design, bearing stripes along the axis of the lens barrel housing. This model replaced the previous version. Additionally, the design of the molded-plastic rear sight to frame the subject has changed. Further, there was also a significant change to the film transport mechanism. The film advance knob in the Version II camera is located on the upper left of the camera when held in its picture taking position. The film is pulled from the bottom roll to the top roll when the film is advanced. However in Version III, this is rotated 180 degrees, such that the film advance knob is now located in the bottom right of the camera, presumably making it easier for a person to use the camera. This is the most common version of the design. It should be noted that this change was not reflected in an update of the instruction sheet; however this was common practice for manufactures of the inexpensive Bakelite instant cameras at the time in order to keep the costs down. Univex No. 00 Roll Film Univex #00 roll film was marketed only through the Universal Camera Corporation [3]. Their proprietary non-standard Univex #00 film was specially made under contract from 1933 to when the USA entered WW2. Gevaert’s Ultrachrome film was loaded onto Universal Camera’s special patented V-spool, packaged in Belgium and then shipped to the USA where it sold for 10 cents. When used in a Univex camera, it would hold six (6) 1 1/8 x 1 ½ inch (2.86cm x 3.81 cm) images. The Univex #00 film has a very unique film size and no other manufacturers used this spool design or this film width. It has a width of 32mm. The smallest format film offered by Kodak at the time was the VP 127 film format (having a 47mm width). Kodak’s 135 format film cassette (launched in 1934) and Kodak’s 828 format paper-backed roll film (launched in 1935), had a 35mm film width. Additionally, the V-shaped spool which fit into a V-shaped socket in the camera, was unique to Universal Camera Corp’s still cameras which all used their Univex #00 film [2]. This collection has an example of an exposed Univex #00 film as well as a number of film spools (THPC Item No. 20020427_1348097845_07 and _09). They are thought to be pre-war (circa 1933 – 1941) examples of the film. Interestingly the film spools are cast using a rather heavy metal (possibly lead or zinc), rather than being fabricated from steel sheet metal like most spools of the period. Presumably this was done to reduce costs as the complex design of the V-shaped spool would have been too difficult to fabricate using sheet metal. Choosing a casting method, they likely selected a low cost metal; however the resulting weight of the spool could have added to shipping costs. When the USA entered WWII, film shipments were suspended from Gevaert and Universal switched to packaging its film in the United States. However, after two years Universal Camera’s film production was unable to keep pace with demand [1]. Around this time Universal Camera added their Univex #00 Ultrapan Panchromatic film which sold for fifteen cents [2]. Universal Camera controlled the production as well as the distribution of the film. Although the film was inexpensive, they were unable to keep their films widely available enough to meet the needs of their consumers, which ultimately contributed to the demise of the company. References; [1] McKeown's Price Guide to Antique and Classic Cameras (3 Volume Set), Twelfth Edition 2005-2006, Edited by James M. McKeown and Joan C. McKeown, Published September 1, 2004. Note: The information presented in the McKeown's Price Guide on these cameras was drawn from the book “The Univex Story: Universal Camera Corporation”, Cynthia Repinski, Edition First Edition, October 1, 1991, Centennial Photo Service (Publisher) [2] "Univex / Norton / Duovex and Rower" Article, Jerry Friedman, Camera Shopper Issue 142, Jan. 2004 Note: This article also draws its information from Cynthia A. Repinski's The Univex Story (Grantsburg, WI; Centennial Photo Serv., 1991) [3] SUBMIN.Com, www.submin.com/large/manuals/univex/ [4] A Jewel of a Camera: the Shady Origins of UniveX, October 27, 2009 oldcameras.wordpress.com/2009/10/27/a-jewel-of-a-camera-t... See also; camera-wiki.org/wiki/universal camera-wiki.org/wiki/Univex_Model_A #UniversalCamera, #UniversalCameraCorporation, #O.W.Githens, #J.J.Shapiro, #Univex, #UnivexModelA, #Univexfilm, #UnivexNo.00, #Univex#00, #V-Spool, #UnivexV-Spool, #Gevaert, #Ultrachromefilm, #GevaertUltrachrome, #UnivexUltrachrome, #UnivexUltrapanPanchromatic, #UltrapanPanchromatic, #subminiaturecamera, #Bakelitecamera,

0 notes

nicnak20 · 2 months ago

Text

V-card:

*Yn is tired of being the good girl and decides to do something about it. She finds her crush, Nicholas and decides that it's the night she finally becomes awoken.*

The campus buzzed with the usual afternoon energy, students rushing between classes, laughter echoing in the quadrangles, and the scent of freshly brewed coffee wafting from the student union. Among the throng, Yn moved with quiet grace, a sketchbook tucked under her arm, her dark hair swaying gently with each step. To anyone who knew her – and most people did, in a friendly, nodding sort of way – Yn was the epitome of the good girl. Diligent student, volunteer at the local animal shelter, always ready with a smile and a helping hand. She was the kind of person who remembered everyone’s name, who baked cookies for study groups, and whose laughter was as soft as the rustle of autumn leaves. No scandalous rumours, no late-night parties, no rebellious streak in sight. Yn was, in all senses of the word, good.

But beneath the surface of her gentle demeanor, a secret bloomed, vibrant and insistent, like a hidden garden in her heart. It was Nicholas.

Nicholas was… well, Nicholas was everything Yn was not, in the perception of their peers, at least. Or perhaps, everything she secretly longed to be – effortless charm, a confident swagger, and a popularity that shimmered around him like golden dust. He was known as the ‘Varsity Jacket Guy’ because he designed and even personally embroidered the coveted jackets for every sports team on campus. His hands, calloused but gentle, were magic with needle and thread, transforming plain fabric into symbols of pride and achievement. He wasn't just popular; he was genuinely well-liked. His smile could melt ice, his eyes held a warmth that could chase away any gloom, and his kindness was as genuine as the meticulously crafted jackets he created.

Yn had observed him from afar for months. In the library, where he’d always find a table bathed in sunlight. At the campus cafe, where he’d always offer to hold the door for anyone behind him. Even across the crowded quad, his cheerful laugh would reach her ears, a melody that resonated deep within her. She admired his easy camaraderie, his genuine care for others, the way his dark brown hair fell across his forehead when he concentrated on his work. She saw the kindness in his warm brown eyes, the patience in his interactions, the devotion he poured into his craft.

Her crush had started subtly, a gentle admiration that grew steadily into something deeper, more insistent. It was a feeling that both thrilled and terrified her. She, the ‘good girl,’ harboring such intense feelings for someone who seemed so out of her league, so…experienced.

And then came the thought, audacious and bold, a stark contrast to her usual cautious nature. She wanted him. Not just his smile, not just his kindness, but him. Completely. And in a way that felt both daring and intensely personal. The realization hit her like a wave – she wanted to lose her virginity to Nicholas.

The idea was both exhilarating and stomach-churning. It challenged everything she knew about herself, about the image she projected. It felt reckless, impulsive, yet utterly right. He was the one. She felt it in her bones, in the flutter of her heart every time he was near.

The next few days were a whirlwind of internal debate and nervous planning. She replayed conversations in her head, imagining different scenarios, her cheeks flushing with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. Finally, she decided. She would be direct.

She found him in his workshop, a small room tucked away in the art building, filled with the comforting hum of sewing machines and the vibrant colours of thread spools. He was bent over a jacket, his brow furrowed in concentration, the afternoon sun highlighting the dark strands of his hair.

Taking a deep breath, Yn spoke, her voice a little breathless. “Nicholas?”

He looked up, his face breaking into that warm, radiant smile that always made her heart skip a beat. “Yn! Hey. What’s up?”

“Could… could we talk?” she asked, her palms starting to sweat.

He gestured to a stool beside him. “Sure, absolutely. Come in.”

She stepped inside, the scent of fabric and thread filling her senses. “Actually,” she stammered, “it’s… it’s kind of private. Could we maybe… talk later? Tonight?”

Nicholas’s eyebrows rose slightly, but his smile remained gentle. “Tonight? Yeah, sure. What time?”

“Could you… could you pick me up?” The words were out before she could second-guess them.

He paused for a moment, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. Then, he nodded, his smile softening even further. “Yeah, Yn, I can do that. Where to?”

“Just… my house. Around ten?”

“Ten it is,” he said, his voice warm and reassuring. “See you then.”

The rest of the day passed in a blur of nervous energy and anticipation. Yn chose her outfit carefully – a simple dress that flattered her figure, comfortable yet subtly suggestive, she hoped. She spent an unnecessary amount of time getting ready, her heart pounding in her chest with each passing minute.

Ten o’clock came, and with it, the soft rumble of an engine pulling up outside her house. Looking out the window, she saw Nicholas’s car, bathed in the soft glow of the streetlights. She took one last deep breath, grabbed her purse, and walked out into the cool night air.

Nicholas was already out of the car, leaning against the door, his smile as warm as she remembered. He was wearing a simple dark sweater, and he looked… breathtaking.

“Hey,” he said softly, his eyes meeting hers. There was a question in his gaze, but also a hint of something else, something that made her breath catch in her throat.

“Hi,” she replied, her voice barely a whisper.

He opened the car door for her, and she slipped inside, the interior smelling faintly of leather and something uniquely Nicholas. He got in, and the silence stretched between them, charged with unspoken anticipation.

“So,” Nicholas started, his voice low and gentle, “where are we headed?”

“There’s a lake,” Yn said, her voice a little stronger now. “Just outside of town. It’s… quiet there.”

“A lake,” he repeated, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Sounds perfect.”

The drive was filled with a comfortable silence, punctuated by the soft music playing on the radio. As they drove further away from the town lights, the stars began to emerge, painting the dark sky with shimmering brilliance. Yn glanced at Nicholas, his profile illuminated by the dashboard lights, and a wave of warmth flooded through her.

They arrived at the lake, the water shimmering silver under the moonlight. Nicholas parked the car, and they got out, the cool night air wrapping around them like a soft blanket. They walked towards the edge of the lake, the only sounds the gentle lapping of water against the shore and the distant chirping of crickets.

Nicholas turned to face her, his eyes searching hers in the soft moonlight. “Yn,” he began, his voice hesitant, “I have to be honest, I was a little surprised when you asked me to pick you up tonight.”

Yn’s heart pounded in her chest. “Surprised?”

He nodded. “Yeah. But… in a good way. Because, Yn,” he took a step closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time.”

He reached out, his hand gently cupping her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin softly. “Yn, I think you’re incredible. You’re kind, and smart, and beautiful, and… just being around you makes me happy. I’ve had a crush on you for months.”

Yn’s breath hitched in her throat. “You… you have?”

Nicholas’s smile widened, a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached his eyes. “More than a crush, Yn. I think… I think I’m falling for you.”

Tears welled up in Yn’s eyes, tears of relief, of joy, of pure, unadulterated happiness. “Nicholas,” she breathed, “I… I’m falling for you too.”

She leaned into his touch, her hand reaching up to cup his face. Their eyes locked, and in that moment, the world around them seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them, bathed in moonlight, surrounded by the quiet magic of the lake.

Nicholas leaned in slowly, his gaze never leaving hers, and gently, softly, his lips met hers. It was a sweet, tender kiss, filled with unspoken emotions, with longing, with a promise of something more. Yn closed her eyes, melting into the kiss, her heart soaring.

The kiss deepened, becoming more passionate, more insistent. Nicholas’s arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer, and Yn’s arms instinctively went around his neck, holding him tight. They kissed for a long time, lost in each other, the cool night air forgotten.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and flushed, Nicholas rested his forehead against hers, his voice husky as he spoke. “Yn, I… I want you. More than anything.”

Yn looked up at him, her eyes shining with emotion. “I want you too, Nicholas.” The words were whispered, but they carried a weight of sincerity, a weight of decision.

He cupped her face again, his eyes filled with tenderness. “Are you sure, Yn? Really sure?”

She nodded, her gaze unwavering. “Yes, Nicholas. I’m sure.”

He smiled, a slow, sweet smile that filled her with warmth and trust. He took her hand, leading her to a secluded spot near the lake, where the grass was soft and the moonlight filtered through the trees. He spread his jacket on the ground, creating a makeshift blanket.

They lay down together, side by side, the stars twinkling above them like diamonds scattered across velvet. They talked softly, their words intertwined with gentle touches and soft kisses, their confessions echoing in the stillness of the night. Nicholas was patient, understanding, and incredibly tender. He made her feel safe, cherished, and loved.

And then, slowly, gently, they made love. It was a beautiful, intimate experience, filled with emotion and connection. For Yn, it was more than just losing her virginity; it was losing it to someone she deeply cared for, someone who cherished her, someone who saw beyond the ‘good girl’ facade and loved the woman beneath.

In the soft glow of the morning light, Yn woke up nestled in Nicholas’s arms, a feeling of contentment washing over her. She was no longer just the ‘good girl’ anymore. She was Yn, and she was with Nicholas, and something new and beautiful had begun. Looking at his sleeping face, peaceful and serene, she smiled.

She had taken a leap of faith, a bold step into the unknown, and it had led her to this – to love, to intimacy, and to a future she couldn't wait to explore, hand in hand with Nicholas. The lake, silent witness to their confessions and their first time together, shimmered in the dawn light, a beautiful beginning to their story. Their college romance had just begun, and for Yn, it was perfect.

#nicholas alexander chavez one shots #nicholas alexander chavez #nicholas chavez #nicholas chavez fanfiction #nicholas chavez imagine #nicholas chavez imagines #nicholas chavez fics #nicholas chavez x reader #nicholas chavez x y/n #lavender baby #nicholas x reader #nicholas chavez fic #nicholas chaves blurbs #nicholas chavez x female reader #nicholas chavez x reader smut #nicholas chavez smut

23 notes · View notes

comatosebunny09 · 3 months ago

Text

hurts so good | sylus

— summary: “be honest,” he husks, drawing you from the inner mechanisms of your mind. he takes some of your hair between his slender fingers, tender as he tugs it in a way that feels good, luring a barely-there sound from your throat, eyes hooded. “it’s not him you wanted to be with tonight, is it?” — cw: reader is not mc, female reader, p-in-v, bodily fluids, other woman vibes, toxic relationship, praise kink, angst, jealousy, possessive behavior, oocness, language, mentions of blood, minor character death, alcohol, mdni — wc: 2.4k — notes: hey, man. if this isn’t your jam, don’t interact with it. i’m here for a fun time, not a long time. — tracklist: the killa - tomorrow x together loco - 3ye jade - monsune

You just wanted to dance. Have some fun. Let your hair down. Forget.

—which is why the three of you find yourselves at a swanky little outdoor tiki bar, laughter, music, and the clink of glasses staining the inky night.

You finished your mission earlier that day. Retrieved a rare artifact intercepted on its way into Onychinus’ possession. You survived—you all did. Not like you doubted you wouldn’t. Not with the big baddie himself accompanying you, ensuring his two diamonds left without a hair out of place.

You aren’t leaving until tomorrow afternoon. So, you want to take full advantage of your surroundings. Celebrate another successful mission. Enjoy this pretty, balmy, hidden island before returning to the cold embrace of the N109.

The music’s good. You’re a little tipsy. Smiling and laughing like your knuckles weren’t stained red hours ago. Gyrating your hips, throwing your hands skyward, your hair falling into your face just right, and your outfit baring enough skin to tease. You turn a few heads, earn a few whispers of how sexy you are. You’re used to this. You’re good at this.

Sylus and Emcee sit catercorner to the dance floor in rattan chairs, nursing their cocktails. Talk like two friends—or two lovers—leaning in every so often to murmur things into each other’s ears. You don’t miss her hand on his thigh, or his lips brushing the outskirts of her ear.

You don’t want to impede, which is why you’re on the dance floor, warm bodies crowding around you, desperate to feel something. You wanted to shake off the nerves—those green-eyed thoughts threatening to bear themselves, seeing your boss and partner so close.

You barely register when someone grabs your waist until you’re lured back into a rigid pane of muscle. A glance over your shoulder reveals a fine, tall thing with ink spread over his skin. Nice smile. Handsome face. Fuck it.

You want to enjoy yourself. Maybe have a little fun when the party’s over, sate the desire spooling in your gut. So, you let him guide you into a slow, sultry wind against him, driven by the music and less-than-pure thoughts spilling like ink into the folds of your mind.

He smells good. Feels even better. Expensive, like cured leather and oud. Your fingers clasp around the back of his neck, drawing him close until he slots his chin in the hollow of your shoulder.

Maybe you’re playing too much, swiveling your hips against his girth like you’re trying to fuck. But the song calls for it. The soft croon of afrobeats, something to salt the air with lust. The kind of music that calls for you to dance close, to tangle your limbs together, your bodies moving as one unit.

Your dance partner releases a soft grunt into your ear of how beautiful you are, how good you feel, hands molding to your waist to keep you fastened to him.

Maybe you’re laying it on a little too thick because maybe you’re trying to get a rise out of someone you’re pretending not to notice eyeing you. Someone who’s gripping his glass a little too tight, jaw set in a rigid line. Red eyes gleaming with murder, nose slightly scrunched up. Good.

You want him to watch. Want him to burn much like you’ve suffered throughout your stay in this quiet paradise, watching him and Emcee cozy up like you didn’t exist.

The song ends much too soon. Slides into something with a slightly faster tempo, and your dance partner slips away, leaving you remiss of his body heat. He reluctantly releases your hand, gracing you with a flirtatious, dimpled smile. You catalog his face into your mind—a potential lay for later on to sate the dull throb awakening between your legs.

You’ve barely time to catch your breath, a bewitching laugh in your throat, a demure hand held to your chest before another set of hands slip around your waist. This time, they draw you forward into a more petite body. Her familiar, delicate scent floods your senses. Her smile is wide. Tipsy like yours as she pulls you close until your bodies smoosh together, guiding your hips into a wind to match hers.

“Goofball,” you chuckle at Emcee, snaking your arms about her small shoulders.

“You love it,” she says, so close, you smell the cocktails on her breath.

She takes your hand and spins you. You laugh, the world shifting on its axis when she tugs you back in to dip you. The string lights overhead blur against the night sky, the Earth rotating in slow motion like one of those scenes of clarity in a film. You forget that she’s your competition. That you’re living in her shadow where she once struggled to stand in yours.

And for a moment, you forget about the scarlet eyes drilling into your soul, and the vexation rolling off him in currents from behind the rim of his glass.

—

You’re past the point of caring, past the point of regrets.

Your dance partner from earlier—Mr. Tats and Dimples—trails behind you from a safe distance. You coyly peer at him from your shoulder, drunkenly leading him over the winding boardwalk, far from the rock of the music and the scent of roasted meat.

You duck behind thick pillars, playing a childish game of hide-and-seek. He entertains you. Thinks you’re his prey. Little does he know, he’s yours.

You dip into the shadows, shrouded beneath a shoddy awning, the moonlight casting long stripes along the ground and walls. The corner you’re in is hidden away from prying eyes, from drunk partygoers stumbling about. It’ll do for now, you think, propping yourself against the concrete wall, your cheeks sore from smiling so much.

Boats rock in the calm waters of the pier, framing you on either side. You lost him on the way. Strain your ears for his footsteps and his chuckling echoing off the walls. For a moment, silence embraces you, giving you too much time to think.

It’s short-lived, however, when footfalls near you. Your body forms a salacious line against the wall. The straps of your top fall down your shoulders just right. Honey thigh shines something tempting, peering through the devastating slit of your wrap skirt.

A silhouette stalks through the shadows, soundless as a panther lurking through the jungle. Hulking. Recognizable. You squint, figuring you’re more drunk than you thought. Seeing things, until the darkness slowly recedes from a warm ivory face. Scarlet eyes shine like gems held to the moonlight, followed by a thatch of white.

“Sylus?” you caution, your throat scratchy from the drinks.

It is him, pacing towards you like a calm beast cornering a wounded animal. He doesn’t take his eyes off you, bleeding smugness and sin. There’s a streak of red dappling his cheek—blood—the moonlight lighting up the sharp edges of his features.

You straighten when he stops, so close, heat radiates off his skin, and you strain your neck to scrutinize him. That familiar scent and unbearable pressure swaddle you like a blanket, scattering your wits until gravity seeps in.

“What the fuck did you do to him?” you interrogate with a scowl, crossing your arms like you’re scolding a child.

You know very well what he could’ve done. A part of you selfishly hopes he didn’t snuff out your potential lay like a candle’s flame. But he’s a jealous man beneath those layers of bravado, and you have no one to blame but yourself for stoking the flames of his ire.

Sylus is wordless for a moment. Considerate, dragging the backs of two fingers down your arm like you’re made of glass. You shiver, hating how goosebumps flare in their aftermath. How warmth puddles between your legs, and how your mind threatens to disconnect itself from your body.

“He won’t be joining you tonight,” he says. His voice is thick with something unmistakable. Lips pull upwards in one corner. “He got a little…hung up on the way here.”

You scoff, shrugging away from his touch. “What is your problem? Do you really have to kill everyone who gets close to me?” Your voice peters at the end of your sentence, dipping into something forlorn and exasperated as you cast your gaze to the side.

You don’t understand how he can be so selfish. So possessive of you when you’re not allowed to feel the same.

He isn’t yours, and maybe he never can be. And every attempt you make to cope with that fact, to carry on with your life as if your heart doesn’t fracture every time you’re forced to watch him fall into the arms of another woman, he squashes them. Flexes his power over you, reminding you that you are very much his no matter how hard you try to fight it.

It’ll always be like this—you’ll always fall prey to him. Always limp back to him like something wounded for him to kiss the pain away. It isn’t right. And you hate yourself more and more each day for sneaking around like this. Holding his hand in the shadows, surrendering his name to the darkness like a sweet supplication offered to a god.

“Be honest,” he husks, drawing you from the inner mechanisms of your mind. He takes some of your hair between his fingers, tender as he tugs it in a way that feels good, luring a barely-there sound from your throat, eyes hooded. “It’s not him you wanted to be with tonight, is it?”

You turn a haughty look at him. He ingests you with deceptively soft eyes, though you don’t miss the arrogance swimming below the surface. He coyly cocks his head to one side, lips twitching up. You despise him—how he reads you like a book.

He crowds you against the wall, so infuriatingly rigid and hot and too far away despite only a sliver of space keeping your bodies apart. You hate the hold he has on you. Hate how he makes you dizzy, how everything in you screams for you to push him away, yet that little voice inside beseeches you. Begs you to draw him closer, to pour all your frustrations into him via your mouth.

So, you snatch him to you with a snarl, and he stumbles forward, catching himself on his hands splayed on either side of your head. You kiss the surprised sound from his throat, and your fingers are greedy. So greedy as they gather his cheeks in your palms, tear through his hair, pull at his shirt, scramble for anything to hold onto.

He twines your tongues together, pressing up all hot and needy and possessive against you as if to selfishly shield your body from the moonlight. His hands are equally as fervent, raking up and down your sides, your hips, bunching up the soft silk of your skirt to your waist. He groans something anguished as his fingers curl around the backs of your thighs, and he pries them apart, rucking you up without any effort, your heels digging into the divots at the small of his back, arms snaking about his shoulders.

Your teeth knock, a sigh tearing past your lips between the fusion of your mouths as he tugs your panties to one side, stroking the seam of your cunt with his fingers. You’re so incredibly wet and swollen. So pliable and good for him as he unzips his slacks, relieved when his intimidating girth springs free to knock against your swollen cunt.

Your mouths part with a gasp when he eases into you, and you throw your head back until it collides painfully with the wall behind. But you don’t care about the pain, too focused on the delicious pressure pushing into you. Splitting you in two, the slick sounds of your union, of your bodies sliding together, coloring the atmosphere.

He takes you hard and deep and slow, pushing you further up the wall with each snap of his hips. Sinks his teeth into your neck, breathing hot and ragged things of filth into your skin. He’s lost in the feel of you—how the gummy webbing of your cunt swallows him up, how your lips part with his name, and how you mewl so beautifully for him, taking him so well.

He’s spilling a litany of praise into your shoulder. Thrusts growing choppy, breaths shaky.

“Pretty girl. Feel so good. So sweet for me. Take me so deep. Taking me like a big girl.”

His voice is your undoing, his praise, his tenderness. And you hate how easily he robs you of an orgasm, how your voice corks in your throat, eyes rolling back, thighs quaking, a crazed smile twisting up your lips. Your walls hiccup around him, dragging his own release from him, a strained, guttural sound growled into the hollow of your shoulder.

You hate how full he makes you feel. How molten spurts of cum paint the warm channel of your sex a sticky white. How it scorches down the inner cut of your thigh, intermingled with your own slick, to stain the ground below in a steady drip.

He doesn’t pull out of you right away. Content with holding you in his hands like this, kissing you with teeth and tongue and passion as if he’ll never see you again. Only when he stops twitching inside you—when he’s fully satisfied he’s stuffed you full of cum—does he let your feet fall back to the ground, and he draws out of you with a sharp hiss.

You’re a love-drunk fool as he fixes your dress, smooths over your hair, your cheeks. There’s a softness to his eyes, a reverence that makes your stomach twist as he peppers your lips with kisses, ensuring you’re good to stand on your own before drawing away.

He bends to replace your sandal on your foot, so fucking gentle, it hurts. Makes you feel sick. He takes your hand once you’ve both smoothed your clothes into some semblance of neat, tugging you away from the wall to lead you back to the bar.

And when you confront Emcee with a wide, knowing smile, throwing your arms around her to draw her into a hug, you try to ignore how you clench down, selfishly trying to keep as much of Sylus’ cum inside you as possible.

#sylus x non mc reader #sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus smut #love and deepspace sylus #lnds sylus #lads sylus #sylus #l&ds sylus #sylus qin #lads x reader #lads x you #lads x non mc reader #lads smut #tw: cheating #tw: toxic relationships

728 notes · View notes

ojamajoprincess · 11 months ago

Text

The real question is: did Tuuli and Effa outsource the making of the crocheted/ lacework flowers for Rozemyne’s academy dress, or did they make them all themselves?

And doubly so for her Renaissance dress. Those flowers are very large roses, and would have taken that much more work, even if they’re working with larger spools of thread than I have embroidery floss skeins (8 meters/ 8.7 yd).

I’ve made many test versions trying to nail down type of thread, ratio of the types of threads, number of threads, and experimenting with the pattern. I’m currently up to 8 of the final flowers. The individual flowers are being doubled to form larger flowers for better scale. So I have enough to make 4 roses so far, after about two or three weeks of off-on crocheting. (Of note, today I learned how to join skeins, so I may well get larger roses from here on out…)

Though I have noticed I can now make two in a day if I stretch myself, it begs the question of how many hours of work went into these roses in universe, considering thread costs, the cost of lamp oil (if the family is now taking their income and using it on oil for better lighting and not continuing to just rely on the hearth light). Did they outsource any of them to others in the Gilberta company? Was it winter handiwork over a whole season? Multiple seasons? Does Tuuli have forearms of steel and tendinitis from all the crocheting she does? The world may never know…

(Also, see Myne making a five petal flower using the same base technique as the roses use. I can tell because the thread curls up like that with the chain/ v stitches/ double crochets pattern.)

#ascendance of a bookworm #im cosplaying just by crocheting all the flowers #cosplayer mimi

41 notes · View notes

verdemoun · 1 year ago

Note

Do any of the gang members find out that they have any disorders/mental illnesses/etc. once they get timewarped and if so what are their reactions? Ranging from “oh, I though that was normal” to “NUH UH!”

timewarp was founded on the gang realising they have ptsd and kieran's autism being more obvious and worse in timewarp. but in detail

kieran is autistic

sean might have adhd but he doesn't actually have hyperactivity as a symptom. plot twist he just has that erratic trauma avoiding energy. it is a lot more masking severe c-ptsd and imposter syndrome that is his behind his exaggerated happy personality. see reform school lore

arthur is one of the few diagnosed he definitely had an acquired brain injury which while a physical injury manifests with mostly neurological symptoms. sometimes he gets confused or irritated for seemingly no reason, and this has been a thing since long before timewarp. the gang move on from joking about how dumb he is he does have an intellectual disability as part of his ABI. his response was very "oh I thought that was normal" and "bah i ain't need help".

the gang have subconsciously been aware of this long before they had the medical knowledge to understand it and are all pretty used to quickly explaining things or reminding arthur of stuff he forgets. lowkey consider this canon ever notice how the gang talk to arthur sometimes not entirely condescending but explaining things on his level eg sean being the one to point out the grays will definitely recognise him and he should hide in the wagon, grimshaw almost playfully reminding a grown man to wash because he straight up forgets, gentle reminders of what they're doing through heists even beyond game mechanics a lot of heist cut scenes are super repetitive like charles very much breaking down we're blowing a hole in the bank. take the spool and connect it to the detonator. the detonator is over there. it just feels like they know arthur isn't always entirely there and are v supportive. arthur is so curious and asks so many questions and the gang just roll with it and answer most of the time it feels so kind and positive.

arthur also definitely has adhd. hyper-fixates on new interesting thing for a month and then completely forgets everything he ever learned about it

almost the entire gang acknowledge they have ptsd/c-ptsd and varying levels of trauma as a response their lives/childhoods/relationships with parents/being a VDL. acknowledging it doesn't mean they do anything to move towards recovery because they are still mostly men raised with 19th century values who hang shit on each other for flinching at loud noises or being 'is someone shooting at us' alert

lenny and isaac as the most aware begging their friends/family to take their mental health seriously and are constantly met with 'lmao no' 'that's?? normal?? what do you mean' and 'NUH'. lenny cries 'please this is re-traumatising you are actively upsetting yourselves' while the gang go 'boo grow a pair' despite experiencing varying levels of anxiety attack in response to triggers.

john will only bring up 'hey stop making wolf jokes about me it is Actually a Trigger' to stop the gang bullying him. very genuine trigger and phobia of wolves and wolf-like dogs but still doesn't take it seriously himself

bill has recognized anger management issues and is in therapy. alcoholism is a definite concern. he's also just got a lot of internalised homophobia and complex feelings about the gang and his own childhood to unpack and learn how to articulate and express his feelings in a healthier way. only one of the adult gang who is actively trying to improve his mental health through therapy go king

the d in dsm-5 stands for dutch and he is thriving in in-patient care. not even the doctors know entirely what to diagnose him because he seems to have symptoms of everything but is responding best to medications traditionally used to support bi-polar

special acknowledgement to karen who is very very depressed but is a thriving with anti-depressants because trying to get the gang to go to actual psychologists and therapy is Hell. her and sean send each zoloft memes constantly

#rdr2 timewarp au

31 notes · View notes

minix-official · 2 months ago

Text

This was a v good video on Ed that I watched earlier today. It made me think about how we do UI design in the modern day

youtube

Imagine if you will a hypothetical alternate history where video terminals never caught on and all computer interfaces were teleprinter based

Imagine modern ed-like text editors with full unicode support, text markup and formatting in multiple fonts

The web would be dominated by RSS readers that print out content like a stock ticker, full color pictures included

Portable computers would still be possible, screens replaced by printers and spools of paper, making them a little bigger, but not by much. Maybe looking a bit like this teletype used by deaf people to communicate over the phone

We would still have wireless technologies too, no reason our laptop teletypes couldn't connect to wireless cell service or wifi

And if you don't want to lug around your teleprinter, just print out a few pages of news to read

There still would be ads of course. Fewer, since people would get mad about wasting paper they paid for, Paper waste would go up as literally everyone would print out every bit of information they could possibly want or need.

Since CRTs existed in the era of teletype computing, stuff like TVs and the occasional video interface would exist in a few fields, but I don't know if LCD technology would be quite where it is today. We'd still be watching TV and movies, just not as universally as we do now.

Weird alt history for sure,

#teletype #unix #alternate history #Youtube

5 notes · View notes

controlledchaosetc · 1 year ago

Text

Weakness - Cyberpunk 2077 Fanfic

After making herself permanently a traitor of the NUSA, V needs to protect the person she loves while grappling with that fact that she can't explain why she just gave up the best chance at a future.

Fic picks up right at the end of Phantom Liberty with "Betray Reed" and "Free Songbird" ending.

5000 words, Fem V POV, V/Judy, hurt/comfort

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

All V could feel was numb. She was alone; Johnny was done with the fireworks. No more cocky persona. No more quips, or jokes, or verbal jabs at the ghost of the rockerboy that could help her divert from growing, gnawing ache inside. Tears threatened to roll down her face that she hadn’t registered.

It wasn’t until the distant roar of the rocket boosters were replaced with the whirring of helicopter rotors that V returned back to herself. Quickly, she wiped the tears away. Songbird might be safe up there in the stars, but she still wasn’t, and she sure as shit couldn’t stop now.

She groaned as she stood. Boosters helped mask the pain, but everything hurt. Aftershocks from the Blackwell echoed in her head, pinging into the Relic and shooting spikes of pain across her eyes. Her body was riddled with bruises from where bullets had bounced from her subdermal armor and holes where she hadn’t been so lucky. Her body begged for rest, doubly so as a Relic malfunction sent a wave of weakness across it. V stumbled, grabbing onto the back of the chair.

She couldn’t have an attack here. She needed a way out.

Her escape route wasn’t obvious. The launchpads were small islands connected to the Space Port complex by monorail, but the train would be easily intercepted. The observer tower she was in was too obvious; she’d be found easily. There was only one thing she could do when left with no other option: improvise.

Glass that could withstand the concussive force of a spaceship from the outside was shattered by well-placed grenades from within. Looping her monowire around a beam, she jumped down. As the spool ran out, the force of the leap sliced through the steel, cushioning her fall slightly. Her reinforced tendons performed the rest of the work, but her foot had landed awkwardly. Fire radiated from her ankle. For as chromed up as she was, the few wholly biological parts of her remaining still managed to make their appearance.

She welcomed it, however. A reminder there was still part of her in there. That this city hadn’t taken that part of her yet. Maybe So Mi thought the same after the stadium.

She frantically scanned the area for options. The only way back to Night City was through the water, but she wasn't in any state for swimming. However, it didn’t mean she couldn’t trick the FIA into thinking so. A service hatch sat closed in the wall, near where the concrete pad ended and the Pacific Ocean began. A place to hide.

“Maybe- no, it HAS to work.”

She limped towards the edge of the launchpad. Another malfunction caused her legs to lock up, sending her tumbling to the ground.

“No. No no no no no no.”

She steadied herself and her breathing, crawling back onto her feet and reaching the ledge. The hatch was about 10 feet away. The howl of AV engines approached while V hastily threw off her shoes beside her. She only had about 30 seconds before they’d spot her. She tore off her jacket, and let it drop into the water below. As she hacked open the hatch with ease, she reviewed the plan in the head. She knew if she simply walked over to it, her footprints would most likely be seen, and her misdirection would be for naught. And so, she faced towards the ledge, squatted down, and tightened her chest, steeling herself for the pain to come.

She lept, not forward into the ocean, but sideways towards the service hatch. Spinning in the air, she faced the vent, and with the last of her strength, kicked in the air once more to rocket her body inside. Her shoulder slammed into the metal paneling hard, and, with a small pop, dislocated as she slid deeper in. Fighting the urge to cry out, she quickly closed the hatch and activated her optical camo as she heard the AVs touch down.

With her one good arm, she pulled herself around a corner and fully out of sight. She could hear the muffled shouting of orders from soldiers just over the squealing engines.

Her attention turned towards her shoulder. It couldn’t stay like this for long. She peeled off a bloodstained sock, balled it up, and bit down. Grabbing her bicep, she shoved her arm back into place and immediately injected yet another booster, her groan muffled by the sock. V was about to spit it out when she heard footsteps outside.

“OVER HERE,” the voice of a soldier called out.

Immediately, she froze. She wished that she could stop the beating of her heart so everything could be still. More footfalls followed. Flashlight beams bounced erratically on the walls of the vent.

“She’s in the water!”

Just as V began to relax, a familiar feminine voice spoke.

“Goddammit,” President Myers said. “If she’s in the water, we’ll scan for her when we delta. In the meantime, fan out and search for her. She’s tricked us before, I won’t let her do it again.”

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck” is all V could think. She began pushing herself further down the vent when another malfunction hit. Her whole body spasmed; the only thing stopping her from involuntarily shouting out was the makeshift gag in her mouth. She couldn’t move. Her entire body was frozen as all muscles tried to contract at once. The wires within her executing a faulty program threatened to tear her apart. She was utterly helpless.

Another voice spoke up, “Madam President, Orbital Air reinforcements are inbound. We don’t have much time.”

Myers sighed. A pause hung in the air.

“Fine. We’ll find her eventually. She can’t hide forever. Everyone, move-”

The Relic malfunctioned a final time, and darkness fell.

V’s head pounded when she awoke. What was more important, however, was that she was awake, and she was still in the vent. She laid there, collecting herself and simply recovering. Finally, she pushed herself up and crawled towards the exit. Sunlight flowed through the bars; it was nearly 11am. She waited briefly if anyone was walking around but detected nothing. She climbed out, nearly forgetting her ankle until pain radiated from it. It was horribly swollen and hurt like a bitch, but diagnostic scans showed it wasn’t broken: a small consolation.

She still couldn’t take the monorail. It’d lead her right to the arms of Orbital Air, and she wasn’t that much of a gonk. The water it was then.

The repetitive movement of swimming helped her focus on something, anything outside of the shitstorm that followed her and only ever increased in size. Swimming meant she wasn’t putting pressure on her ankle, which was nice. The water itself was tinged with a slight oily rainbow finish. Couldn’t damage herself more, she supposed. Water probably wasn't toxic enough to need watersuits like the tunnels, or the lake where her and Judy had their first date.

“Oh god, Judy.”

The last time she talked to Judy was before the Hanson operation. Before everything went to shit, when she dared to imagine what their life could be like once Reed had his contacts develop the cure. Lying in bed together, they had spoken of future plans and adventures, the places they’d travel to with the Aldecaldos. Hubris. It’d ended with the promise that Judy would see her in a couple days max. It’d now been six.

She had laid low after the stadium, waiting for Songbird’s call. She hadn’t risked contact with anyone, not Rogue, not Panam, not even Judy. Judy was the only one who she’d told anything about what happened in Dogtown, but all she knew was that she was backing Reed in the plot against Hanson. She knew nothing else: not where V was, not where Songbird was, not even why V betrayed Reed. Judy was of no use to the NUSA, FIA, or Myers. Or so she hoped. That’s all that she could hope for in those days that lasted an eternity.

But now, with Reed dead, So Mi gone, and Myers empty handed, the game was changed. V wasn’t good at playing it, but she knew it all the same. In Myers’ eyes, Judy had changed from a person with knowledge to a pawn to be captured.

How could she be such a gonk? She had the perfect solution, and she threw it away. She had the cure in her hands and gave it up. Now, she’s an enemy of the NUSA, and a personal enemy of the president. Everyone around her, everyone she’s come to care about and love, was in danger. And it’s all her fault. Judy might have already been taken, even before killing Reed.

Tears began to well up in her eyes, but she immediately pushed it down. She couldn’t break down. Not when Judy was in danger. She couldn’t show weakness.

V swam even faster.

After cleaning up in a bar bathroom, a change of clothes, and klepping a car, she sat in front of Lizzie’s bar. Judy was most likely at work, so it was a solid place to start. She’d wrapped her ankle as best she could, and boosted for a countless time. She could walk again, but it still ached. Scanning the crowd, she checked everyone who came and went. She didn’t find anything, although she didn’t know what she expected. FIA agents were able to cover their identities even better than she coulda. If someone was in the bar watching for her arrival, she wouldn’t be able to tell through her tech. Whether an obsession or a crutch, she’d always used tech or netrunning skills to get the upper hand. Having to rely on just her intuition uneased her.

Although, she did have something she could use. She reached up to feel her face. The FIA might be able to identify their technology through Space Port security, but an ordinary agent might not. It was worth a shot.

She looked in the mirror as her face and body morphed to Aurore Cassel. There was a slight bit of excitement when she had used the faceplate the first time that briefly overruled the sickness she felt from their murders. All she could think now was of Aurore’s real ruined face, shot by Alex, lifeless on the ground. Maybe that’s where things changed. No matter now, there were more important matters to focus on. She exited the car and walked with the strut Aurore carried as she entered the bar.

Sitting at the bar after ordering a bourbon, she turned to speak to the bartender.

“Excuse me, monsieur, is Judy Alveraz working today by chance?” she spoke in a thick French accent.

He regarded her wearily. “Who’s askin’?”

She chuckled musically. “Well let’s just say I have something that may pique her interest. I am a developer of virtu technology, and a little birdy has told me that this one has been experimenting with BD’s herself. She may have an interest in a small business collaboration.” V smiled as she swirled the caramel liquid.

“I can check and see if she’s interested. Dunno she’s even in though,” he said, and began to leave.

“Wait!”

The man stopped, a look of annoyance pastered on his face.

“A small message for her. To convince her that this is the real deal.”

She grabbed a napkin, gestured for a pen, and began to write: “It’s V. Won’t look like me but it is. Just trust me. Be ready to leave.” She folded the message, and before the bartender could take it, she pulled it away.

“Ah ah ah! No peeking! Business between ladies must be respected,” she said with a wink. Only then did she hand him the napkin, and he walked away towards the back in a huff.

V downed the remaining bourbon. She didn’t even know if she was here. She just had to wait and hope.

Johnny appeared in her vision and sat beside her.

“So Aurore,” speaking the name in an exaggerated French accent, “what’s the plan if she’s even here?”

“I don’t know, maybe leave? Delta the fuck out to the Aldecaldos?”

“And who’s to say the NUSA isn’t watching them too?”

“Militech hasn't found them yet, and they’re basically NUSA. They’re safe.”

“For now.”

“Thanks a lot, Johnny.”

“No problem.”

He disappeared once more with a mime of a drink. Alone again, she began slightly rocking on the stool. She could use another drink. Or several. No one was watching her, at least from what she could tell.

In what felt like an hour but was only 5 minutes, the bartender returned with Judy in tow. A wave of relief crashed through V’s body.

“Myers didn’t have her yet.”

She could tell that Judy was heavily guarded, inspecting every part of her. She hesitantly sat down beside her and asked, “So, what’s this deal you have for me?”

V couldn’t know if anyone was listening, so it was safest to keep up the act.

“I was thinking we could talk about this on a little drive around town. I know a cute little tea shop we could chat at, mon cheri.”

“I’d much prefer to stay here, thank you very much,” Judy replied as she nudged herself further away. V could see the distrust in her eyes, and anger too that V wasn’t being straight with her. She needed to convince her.

“I see. Well, I came here, see, because I heard you are the first to successfully scroll two BD actors simultaneously, no?”

Judy’s expression softened.

“And it wasn’t even for that erotic thrill either, no no, but a swim through Laguna Bend. A shame if I am to be frank.” Even as V said the last line, her own eyes begged for Judy to trust her.

Judy sat for a second, and hardened once more. “Someone could have told you that. How am I supposed to trust that you’re-”. Judy stopped herself. “That you’re here with… new virtu tech and not the same old junk.”

V paused, thinking hard about what she could say.

“I have something that even your abuela would love.”

Judy’s disposition changed entirely. “You know, a drive does sound good.”

They both stood up, slightly hurriedly, and walked towards the exit. V could tell Judy was staring at her, now out of fascination. V jumped into the car, starting it as Judy closed her door.

“What the fuck V? It’s been almost a week, I thought you were dead!”

“I’m sorry, ok?” the voice shifting between Aurore and V as she turned off the mask.

“You’re sorry? What… what even is this? Who was that… person? You? How the fuck… what the fuck happened?”

V began to drive. “I don’t know where to start, really.”

“Well start somewhere? I thought this was all figured out, you said it would be a couple days.”

“I know that’s what I said, I was wrong. Things… changed.”

“Yeah, sure as shit things changed.”

“I betrayed Reed.”

Judy looked shocked. “You… what?”

“I betrayed him. I just… I couldn’t.” V was driving even faster now.

“Couldn’t? Couldn’t what? Listen, I know I had a problem with you working for the NUSA, they’re like any other corpo, chew you up and spit you out when you’re not useful. You said it yourself though, V. Songbird betrayed Reed, Hanson, even Myers. She couldn’t be trusted. And yet you… what, sided with her?”

“I- I don’t… I killed Reed.” V gripped the wheel hard enough that she could feel it mold and crack under her fingers. She made a hard turn to start driving them out of town.

“V… qué has hecho…” Judy lamented as she slumped into her seat.

“What have you done,” her deck translated.

V could feel the tears beginning to return. She couldn’t explain why she did it, it didn’t make sense to her either. Why did it feel so terrible? She couldn’t show weakness though. No weakness. The world would eat her if she did.

“What happened, V?”

She looked up at the rearview mirror, and recognized the car behind her as the same one from several turns ago, its metallic gray finish catching her eye. She blinked the tears away, stating, “Hold on, we have a tail.”

V slammed the gas pedal, the car responding instantaneously and exploding through a red light. The car behind replied in kind, speeding forward and nearly avoided T-boning a truck. She watched as the passenger took a gun out while the car itself revealed installed turrets when the front bumper cover retracted.

“GET DOWN!” she ordered, as she yanked the steering wheel to the right and hurtled down an alleyway, narrowly avoiding the barrage of bullets as the turrets began to fire. The game of cat and mouse continued down several more roads, with V occasionally firing back. However, V turned onto a new road and realized they were pinned. A straightaway with no turns off of it and concrete barriers on either side.

“Fuck!”

The gray car began to line up behind them, ready to send another barrage of bullets through the car and into both of them.

Time to improvise.

She swerved and slammed on the brakes, causing the trailing car to race ahead. Its brakes squealed as it tried to change course as well, but V wasn’t focused on continuing the chase. She began to netrun, attacking the car’s internal systems. The ICE on the car was thick, confirming that this was indeed FIA. She’d broken through thicker though. The car was beginning to turn around to face them once more. She could vaguely hear the turrets begin to wind up and Judy begin to shout as she punched through the remaining layer and flipped the engine into a bomb. Before another shot was fired, the gray car exploded into an inferno.

“Ha HA, see you in hell chooms!” V whooped as she hit the gas and drove as quickly as she could out of town.

The remaining car ride was relatively silent. They stopped briefly to klep another car in case the previous one had been tagged, making sure to stay out of camera sight as they did so. They reached the Aldecaldo camp, and while V unbuckled and readied to leave, Judy grabbed her arm.

“Did you get the cure, V?”

She froze. She couldn’t even look at Judy as she muttered, “...No. I didn’t.”

“V, tell me, what happened?” she said firmly.

Her mouth felt dry.

“Songbird… So Mi… she played us all. The neural matrix… it was a one-time use…” “Shit… V-,” Judy whispered.

“She passed out on the train after telling me this. I was angry and upset, I wanted to scream at her, but I… I picked her up and took her to the shuttle.”

She still wasn’t looking at Judy, but she could already tell the look of confusion Judy had. She couldn’t bear to see her face.

“Reed somehow got on before us and demanded I hand over Songbird. He even said I could have the matrix if I did. But I… I couldn’t… I couldn’t let them have her… he gave me no choice and I shot him, and I put Songbird on the shuttle… She has it.”

Judy had let go of her arm.

“V… What the fuck, V? She betrayed you, she told that to your face, and you… you still helped her? After all that, after she jerked you around, spit on your face, and took you for a gonk. You had it V, you had the cure, and now you’re- what, an enemy of the state? Wanted for high treason? Why… why the fuck didn’t you take it?”

She could tell Judy was trying to understand, to argue on her behalf somehow, but a gonk move is a gonk move, and Judy couldn’t sugarcoat that.

It was too much. It was all too much. She was right. She’s ruined her life, or what little of her life remained. She was wanted until Myers had her head. She’d given up the best chance she’d have to live so far just for someone that betrayed her. All the heartache, all the struggle, all of the times she’d put her life on the line just for a chance at a little longer, all for nothing. In all likelihood, she was going to die, whether because there was no cure, or the only way to get it was a suicide mission, or she’d have to sell her soul to Arasaka. She would never be able to enjoy freedom with Judy.

When V was a young boy, she learned an important lesson. On the streets of Heywood, she watched as a teenager wept after taking a beating. She saw as those around him jeered, calling him a pussy, a coward, a weakling bitch. From doing small errands, she saw those who got respect where those that never weakened when shit hit the fan. The hard motherfuckers who never let their tough demeanor drop. Only a few times did she witness frailty in thought-to-be private moments, but never when shit needed to be done. Your peers, and more importantly, fixers, could never think you’d go soft in the most dire moments. So she didn’t. For decades, V refused to cry. Not when her hope that Atlanta would finally be the place she’d hit it big failed spectacularly and she came crawling back to Night City. Not when she discovered the Relic would kill her and she was slowly losing herself. Not even when Jackie died. There was always more shit that needed to be dealt with, so she could never stop. She could never show weakness. Even after so much growth, even after abandoning her lifelong dream to become a legend of Night City, she hadn’t abandoned that.

But now, for the first time in 20 years, V cried. She did more than cry. She started to wail as the dam she had built crumbled. She couldn’t do it anymore. She’d lost so much, she’d lost so many, she stood to lose so much more.

Judy had climbed over the center console and was holding her. Gently. So gently.

Was this what it meant to be weak?

It felt so nice.

She vaguely registered Panem who had jogged over with Mitch but had slowed and reversed course after looking through the windshield.

The tears continued to stream down her cheeks, and she was struggling to breathe through the shuddering sobs. She reached up to hold Judy’s arm as well. She tried to catch her breath to speak, and after several failed attempts, choked out:

“They took my face, Judy. I let them take my face.”

She continued to sob.

She was finally beginning to calm down. Her breathing was slowing, and the tears weren’t flowing as hard.

“How about we move to the back, ok?” Judy suggested, running a hand through V’s hair.

V could only nod as they both exited and re-entered the car.

“Sorry, my leg was falling asleep,” she tried to joke, letting out a half-hearted laugh.

V wiped her nose. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you don’t need to be sorry, I, uh…” she trailed off. “How… how are you feeling?”

V stared at the patterns of the pleather seat. “...Not good.”

They sat in silence a while longer.

Judy spoke up again. “What… what do you mean they took your face?”

V was slow to answer, but she could see how patient Judy was, the kindness in her eyes. “It’s how I was that French woman you were speaking to at Lizzie’s. It’s a faceplate- disguises you, makes you look, sound, and act like them. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but now… I’ve let them take so much of me. I don’t know how much you’re touching is me and how much isn’t.”

Judy’s reply was instant: “Does it matter? It’s all you.”

“Yeah… yeah I guess,” V paused briefly. “I always wanted implants, ever since I was a little kid. I was fascinated with them and was so excited to get chipped. It’s less that I ever got implants and more… When things started to get more dangerous, I thought I needed to return the favor, I guess. Put in more and more chrome to turn into a weapon no one can hurt, even as I stopped wanting to be that. Part of me wonders if I’ll always be that now. That I’ve ridden the edge and gone over.”

“V, listen to me,” Judy said as she grabbed her hand. “You are whatever you want to be. Just because you have weapons doesn’t mean you have to use them. After this is all over, you never have to take another life.

Judy raised her other hand to her face, and gently wiped away the tears with her thumb.

“Even with all that chrome, you will always be soft to me.”

Judy calling her soft so lovingly struck a chord in her. She began to cry again, softly and sheepishly. This is the most vulnerable she’d been with anyone in years, other than the encounter at Clouds.

“You will always be you, I’ll make sure of that,” she said gently. “We’ll figure that out together.”

They sat there in silence again, with Judy’s thumb continuing to stroke her face.

“I think I know why I helped So Mi.”

Judy shifted, taking her hand away from her face. “Go ahead.”

“It was before things had even started, really. We had planned to kidnap the Cassels to make the deal with Hanson. It’s gonk now to think, but I really thought we were letting them live. But when I left the trunk, Alex and Reed had zeroed them immediately. When I demanded why, he said that they were career criminals, and that nothing of value was really lost, and I… I felt sick. That could’ve been me. And that- I’ve done that to so many others. And I was about to be the person they killed. He did it so methodically. It’s like… if we weren’t having to work together here, I saw what he would think of me. I saw what he would think of Songbird. I saw that he was too loyal to the NUSA, a soldier through and through. Songbird would never be free, and I might not be either.”

V continued, “I hated her. I still hate her for what she did. She could’ve just told me before all this. She gave me so much hope and… crushed it. But something I didn’t realize then that I do now is that… she didn’t have to tell me. She could’ve let me believe that I was saving myself by saving her, and I would’ve killed Reed without question. She would’ve won. I think in that moment, when she told me, she wanted to just… just die. She couldn’t live with herself anymore. I think I recognized that, subconsciously, and I pitied her. In front of me was a woman who had backstabbed everyone she could so that she could finally crawl out from under Myers’ boot… for the chance to break out of her cage. I could see myself in her, if I was left with no other option, and I had everything and everyone I ever valued stripped from me. I think… I think I was that. Or almost was. After Konpeki. I… I still had… have options. Worse ones, probably, but other chances. She didn’t. I don’t… I… I couldn’t take that from her.”

V began to tear up again. “I had the killing blow. She was helpless. Reed was offering me back my life on a silver platter. And for the first time, I couldn’t take someone’s future for my own…” she ended with a half smile. “I was weak.”

Judy looked at her for a few seconds, hesitantly starting, “I… I don’t know if you did the right thing. But… what I do know is what you did certainly wasn’t weak. That takes a level of grace I think only you have. I don’t think I woulda been able to do that.”

“I think you’re sellin’ yourself short.”

“I dunno, I am a pretty stone cold bitch.”

They both giggled, and V reached out to hold her other hand.

“After I left your room, but before the mission, I met with Alex at her bar. We drank and talked about what we’d be doing if things were normal.”

Judy raised an eyebrow. “What’d you say?”

“I thought about it for a while, and I said… I think I’d be dead. If it wasn’t Konpeki, it would’ve been something else. The pace I was going at… I would’ve burned up. Or been shot on the side of the road. I don’t think I would’ve changed. The Relic, Johnny, all of this… this second chance is what I needed, in a weird way. A wake-up call. I wouldn’t have met you, or have… any of this. Even if, in the end, this is borrowed time… I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Judy leaned forward and kissed her. It was a slow, deep kiss, and just as gentle as before. V leaned in, ready to return her tenderness.

They separated briefly.

“I love you, Judy.”

“I love you too, mi calabacita.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

I finished Phantom Liberty a few days ago, and the ending of letting Songbird live ate my brain. The ending was WAY too nonchalant for literally making yourself a traitor of a country and personally pissing off the fucking president, which is why I took it upon myself to get what I wanted. Literally wrote this over the span of two days like a woman possessed.

#cyberpunk 2077 #cyberpunk 2077 phantom liberty #phantom liberty #cyberpunk #fanfic #cyberpunk v #cyberpunk judy #judy alvarez #cyberpunk fanfic #phantom liberty spoilers #cyberpunk 2077 spoilers

20 notes · View notes