#Window Display Design Services

[visionboardstudio01]

[ruins-of-gods]

Something that I think Warhammer 40,000 storytellers miss sometimes is the sheer scale of their setting. I mean, don't get me wrong - I love the big, dramatic clashes, the characters you can buy in mini form and their convoluted, interwoven lore, the dramatic combats against unstoppable foes across a thousand ruined worlds. But that's the top of the setting, as it were - the most powerful beings in the universe, all fighting for supremacy. And at ground level, the level of the ordinary person, are so many other stories.

Did you know that a Lunar-class void cruiser has a crew of 95,000? Nearly a hundred thousand people, aboard a spaceship five kilometers long. A city, flying through outer space to wage war. Many of those people are proper trained soldiers, fresh from some academy or veterans of long, grueling campaigns, and many more are pressed into service, begrudgingly laying their lives at their Emperor's feet. But, unless the ship is currently actively involved in a really bloody campaign, most of those people were born aboard that ship. Most of their parents were born aboard it. And their grandparents. And their great-grandparents. Lineages stretching back centuries, so far that the original soldier who came aboard has been forgotten. A lot of those people probably know, on some level, that they're aboard a ship flying through space - but a lot of them probably don't, and I guarantee you almost none of them understand what that means. This ship is their world. To look out the window means madness so often that they avoid it - not that windows are readily available anyway. Most of them probably barely even understand that they're fighting. All they know is that when the readouts on their analog instruments display like so, when they hurry to obey the blared orders through the klaxon, the Emperor is pleased with them. They were born into that world. When they were children they did smaller tasks the adults couldn't. Their entire existence was winding metal corridors, laid out according to some archaic design, any logic that might dictate their layout long since degraded after millennia of ignorant maintenance, lit only by emergency lights that have long since become the default. They learned how to read an angle readout or how to relay an order perfectly the way another child might learn history or math. When they grew up, their service was flawless, born of pride and ignorance, and when they grew old and died, their legacy was remembered until it was forgotten. Many were killed in battle, but who cares? They gave their lives to the Emperor - a name whose meaning they don't understand, but whose importance they believe in wholeheartedly, all but synonymous with the commanding officers up above.

Sometimes, the klaxons sound a specific command, and every person on board who understands what it means feels a deep, awful dread as they run to their battle stations. They don't know what a warp jump is. They don't understand they're going from one place to another by the fastest way available. All they know is that, for a time, the ship dips into hell. The corridors go wrong. Things and people might not be where or what they were before. Daemons stalk the halls, and must be killed by any who can hold a lasgun. The overcrowded berths, the little nooks that families find for themselves - they are not private anymore. They are not safe. Things drift through the shift that do not care about the laws of physics, but that delight in killing and torturing human beings. Vast energies shake the ship and tear parts of it away - their home, their world, their existence, the biggest thing they can imagine, assaulted by something bigger. Is it the Emperor's punishment for failure? Is this what battle is? What's going on? They don't know, and no one who does can be bothered to tell them. The dread of those who have seen this before is even worse, because they don't know how long it will be. It might be just a few hours. It might be days, or weeks, or months, or years, or decades. It might be centuries, as the captain of the ship goes hunting daemons deep in the warp - the officers live that long, after all, and have little care for those who don't. There will be people born in hell, who spend their entire lives fighting from the day they can stand, and who die in hell, as old age and need catch up to them and they curl up in a corner to perish. To them, it isn't even hell. It's just the world. The world is death and pain and cruelty, an infinite metal box through which monsters stalk, and sometimes you must run to a battle station and do as you're ordered to do. And sometimes, as they reach forty or fifty or even a ripe old sixty, the ship drops out of the Warp, and, for the final years of their life, they are granted a life of relatively safe service better than anything they ever hoped to dream of.

Those are the kinds of stories I want to see more of. Super-soldiers fighting each other is cool, yes, but I want to see this universe explored. I want stories from the perspective of those that keep the Imperium going, or the aeldar, or the tyranids, or anyone, really. There's just so much potential in this setting. It deserves it.

[inkytoru]

⚠︎ ˒ ៸៸ cw: f!reader, pet play, yandere behavior, mild omorashi

being the bonten trio’s housepet and being presented with a different custom designer collar from each of the three men. ran’s was a deep purple with a diamond encrusted finish, rindou’s was a classic black with 24 karat gold chains encircling the band, and sanzu’s was a cute pastel pink with sterling silver spikes protruding from its sides. all of course, had their initials engraved somewhere within the premium leather, and of course, all three tried their best to convince you theirs was better.

being the bonten trio’s housepet and you’re subjected to their whims on the kind of pet you are for each of them; sanzu prefers it when you’re pliant and scared like a bunny. rindou prefers you mewling like a kitten. and ran prefers you panting like a puppy.

being the bonten trio’s housepet and it’s no surprise it falls to you to be their personal stress reliever, especially when mikey cracked down on their laziness. they use you without so much as a please and thank you; because pets don’t understand manners, do they? (not when you’re trained to service them whenever, wherever.)

being the bonten trio’s housepet and having a designated cage for you in each of their offices; they finally came to a compromise and decide to allocate days of the week to each of them. (on fridays and the weekends, the three of them share you, but not without some competition or an exchanging of insults about whose the better owner.)

being the bonten trio’s housepet and being brought into business meetings to sit quietly and patiently between their feet. all three like to play around with you in different ways— sanzu is the most hands-on of the three and will secretly play with your puffy clit and let his slender digits disappear inside of your aching hole one by one . . . ran has your lips wrapped around his veiny, throbbing cock underneath the table, and rindou shoves a vibrator up your needy cunt while idly pushing buttons on its controller.

being the bonten trio’s housepet and going into a blazing heat that needed their touch—whoever’s, you didn’t particularly care—to satiate it. rindou and ran go feral when you’re like this, using your holes any opportunity they get. sanzu, however, likes to torture you by withholding his hands on you, instead opting to send you a wry smirk every time you looked up at him with those pleading, big eyes. (but he can’t help but not be exempt to the way you present your ass to him, wriggling it in such a cutely desperate manner.)

being the bonten trio’s housepet and never enjoying the outdoors again. you’re too precious to lose, and they didn’t like others leering at their plaything unless it’s when they’re lording you around meetings as a prized possession that put their higher rank in the organization on clear display.

being the bonten trio’s housepet and being leashed for walks around the headquarters’ affluent and pristine floors. (sanzu forces you to hold your pee so you could feel the humiliation later of soiling yourself at another executive’s office.)

being the bonten trio’s housepet and making your first attempt at escape when mikey declares your presence not welcome at a highly-sensitive conference. they grumble, dissatisfied without you there to nullify their boredom, but ultimately acquiesce to their superior’s demands. you wait for the perfect moment before fleeing outside the revolving, pristine doors with the taste of freedom on your tongue. but it’s short-lived when they hunt you down by the tracker chip they had implanted into your neck without your knowledge.

being the bonten trio’s housepet and being punished for your folly. you’re downgraded from the luxurious meals to literal pet food. you’re kept on a tighter leash, and every time you so much as glance towards your old life outside the glass of the doors and windows, you’re given a spanking and a stern chastising.

being the bonten trio’s housepet and promised that another escape attempt will result in a broken or lost limb or worse, and that you belonged to them, forever and always.

© INKYTORU — do not repost, translate, feed AI, or plagiarize any of my content. please refrain from sharing or recommending my work on other platforms outside of tumblr such as tiktok. MINORS DNI.

[charleslee-valentine]

I’ve spent a long time now sorting through screenshots, behind the scenes footage, designers portfolios, and I think I’ve deciphered the map of Ambrose.

Starting on the left side of the street, there’s a hardware/outdoor store, noted by the wheelbarrow outside and assorted parts on the shelves.

Connected to that is a small plaza with a Dentist’s office (the window stickers mention denture prices), a diner with outside seating, and what appears to be a bar judging from the bar stools in the window. It may be connected to the diner.

Finally for the end section of the strip, this shop is less clear, but based on the sign that ends in “-ium” and the button tufted display, I’m guessing this is a premium/high end store or some kind of emporium.

Directly across the street from that is a club. The window faces the street, and around back is the entrance. Also in this plaza is the pet store Carly walks to, a drug store, the grocery store (Flannery’s) that Nick goes to, and a barber shop.

Crossing the street again, there’s a large bowling alley.

Surrounding the bowling alley are residential homes as it transitions into neighborhood territory. You can tell from the fences around these homes that they aren’t public property. The one directly next to bowling lanes is the green house that the wax woman looks through the window of.

Crossing the street again, this part was already labeled by the lighting plot, but that’s the garden (really just some dead shrubs and a gazebo,) the cemetery, and the church. There’s also a second building on the church property that shares the same sidewalk. Although it looks completely nondescript, buildings like this connected to church property would usually be used for non-worship activities like Sunday school, community events like meetings, or funeral services (though Trudy’s viewing is right in the main church, so that’s less likely.)

With the church as a reference point, going back down the opposite side of the street, there’s what looks to be some kind of fashion or accessories store. In the window, I see wig heads wearing hats, and maybe some shoes. I found a sketch of a storefront that also reminds me of perfume bottles and shoes, so the idea was at least considered.

Obviously as the two buildings have back to back doors, next to this is the Guns & Ammo store that Nick and Carly break into. This also connects directly to the movie theater.

The theater is also connected to a small electronics store on the other side.

Directly across from that would be Bo’s gas station. There’s a huge advertisement right next to the station for financing loans, but the front of the building it’s painted on shows its a media video/music store. (ps the yellow truck Vincent drives is the “company” tow truck for the station.)

Connected in a plaza with the video store is a dry cleaner and, based on context clues, a furniture store. In the possibly furniture store window, there appears to be rolled up rugs or carpets, and a large wooden shelf. The strange point of view of the shot where these shops are visible seems to imply that the businesses once had apartments over top, or at least that things are being hoarded in the upper floors.

Across the alley street from that is a fire station, connected with city hall. This is where the Miss Ambrose posters were displayed. On each side, there are blue garage doors, possibly with more emergency vehicles for the town.

The House of Wax and the Sinclair house are placed at higher reliefs than the other businesses and homes, symbolizing their importance and once, their wealth and celebrity status.

[apomaro-mellow]

Built for Loving 1/? Read on AO3

Another one from the steddie fic adopt community:

Eddie lands his dream job at a robotics facility that's best known for its pleasure bots. He doesn't mean to make a bot of his old high school crush but the design gets approved all the same. Problems begin to arise when the customer lodges complaints about the android.

Eddie had always messed with whatever he could get his hands on. When he lived with his parents, it caused trouble and he quickly learned that whatever he took apart, he should know how to put back together. It wasn't until he started living his his uncle as he reached adolescence that this particular quirk was encouraged. The first couple of weeks were awkward.

They loved each other and Eddie trusted his uncle. But a weekend visit was different from "both of my parents went to prison and I have nowhere else to go". But all it took was his Uncle Wayne walking in on him disassembling an amp and then everything fell into place.

Eddie knew his uncle worked with his hands too, but not the specifics. It turned out he was an actual robotics engineer. Wayne downplayed it, saying he just did repairs on defective bots, that he wasn't anyone special, but that sounded like Eddie's dream job. And it was for a while. Eddie was on his best behavior, he went to school and got good grades because he knew these places only hired people with degrees.

College was no picnic, both the classes and paying for it was a test of endurance for Eddie. But he struck gold when he graduated. He never thought he'd be the kind of guy to say he had connections, but Wayne was able to get him an interview. And thanks to the awards from the robotics competitions and glowing recommendation letters from some of his professors, Eddie got the job.

He was about to start living his dream. Although his dream had changed since he was a kid. Eddie had forged a new passion during his late nights, drawing up blueprints and designs. He no longer wanted to simply repair robots. He wanted to design and build his own.

And there was no more prestigious position than that of Android Art Director. Especially for the company at the top of the android business, Brenner Ventures. Everybody wanted a Brenner Bot. They made all kinds, med-droids, nannybots, and tutor trons, but the most popular and most expensive were the entertainment automatons. That was their official moniker from the company. Most people called them pleasure bots.

A plethora of skills could be programmed into them but no one was using their human-like throats for singing. Eddie had never owned one. He'd only seen them from behind the glass of window displays. Even in college, he'd only gotten to see them a handful of times in the lab. Pleasure bots busted beyond repair but broken down to be used as a teaching model. Unlike other kinds of robots, people didn't readily parade them around. They'd be ordered discretely and then kept in the home of the buyer to be used however the customer pleased.

Eddie was no prude, he didn't care what people used to get their rocks off. It was the idea of creating something almost human. As close as they could possibly get. And after about a year on the bottom rung (customer service, repair, automaton editing) he had finally arrived. He got the email inviting him to a Research and Development meeting. He attended, noting how he was the youngest in the room. And then at the end of it, he was given his first real job as an art director.

He was going to design and build his first pleasure bot.

The client had filled out the request form and it was quite simple. White, male, 20s, no taller than 5'10 but no shorter than 5', brown eyes and hair. Eddie could see why he'd been given this task. On paper, it looked rather plain. Fleischer was giddily drawing a bot with an impossible waist while Bird had to figure out how to give one Rapunzel length hair that didn't tangle or mat.

Senior Art Directors got the first pick of client requests and they always went for the challenges. Eddie, as the new meat, got what they considered boring. But Eddie knew it wasn't all about what was on the form. It was what you made of it. He sat at his desk, monitor on and started with the basic build. The face was the most important part to these people, so that's what he started with.

No notes had been given on personality besides "agreeable, submissive" which wasn't much to work on, so Eddie got to imagining. He thought about the type of guy he'd want, which felt like an easy place to start. It took a couple of hours into drawing the face, erasing what didn't feel right just to draw a very similar line anyway, to realize he was drawing Steve Harrington.

Steve hadn't said two words to Eddie in high school and yet he'd been obsessed. A guy who ran through girls like toilet paper and so everyone pegged him as the playboy. But Eddie had spent long enough watching him from afar to read the yearning on his face. Imagine that, someone so beautiful who longed for love and yet never found it? Eddie hadn't seen him in years, made he'd found love by now. Found a nice girl to settle down with perhaps. But who was to know?

Once the thought was in his mind, Eddie couldn't let it go. If he did nothing else in this world, he had to let Steve be loved. Which meant he had to build this bot right. He did what he could at the office but ended up bringing his work home with him. Because it was only there that he had the material he needed.

He had to rifle through some boxes to find it, but there it was - an old notebook from his senior year. The year when his obsession with Steve reached its peak. Inside of it were dozens of sketches of Steve. Not just his face too. Eddie had drawn his profile, his hands holding objects, his legs in those stupid basketball shorts, his torso when they played shirts vs skins.

"God, someone should lock me away for this", he said before getting up from the box and taking the notebook to his computer.

He spent the better part of the night, finishing his design, using his sketches as references. One thing about the usual clientele for pleasure bots was that they were loyal. Once they bought one they liked, they held onto it, insuring it, getting regular repairs, sometimes even traveling with them if they were to be gone for a while.

Eddie would never get to tell the real Steve how he felt. But in his own strange way, he'd be making sure Steve felt that love somehow. Obviously overtime didn't exist in the Brenner Bot employee manual, but Eddie didn't care. This is what his whole life had been leading up to.

"You look like shit Munson. The bland bot givin' you that much trouble?", Fleischer said when he came in the next morning.

"I finished his design last night, actually", Eddie beamed, reveling in how his co-worker's face dropped.

Fleischer quickly picked it up. "Still gotta have it approved. And then the build. You sure you're up for it?"

Eddie shrugged. "If I can't handle a bland bot, then I wasn't meant for this job."

His design was anything but bland. Steve was anything but bland. He was beautiful, gorgeous even. The feelings that had cooled thanks to the separation had burned as bright as ever last night. Eddie sent his design to be checked. He'd played it off in front of others but he didn't know what he'd do if any part of it was critiqued or turned down.

It was checked in house first to make sure it met company standards, then sent off to the client to make sure it was what they wanted. Eddie waited for an excruciating 48 hours before the email came in.

Company Approved: Yes

Client Approved: Yes

Part 2

[laika290]

ever wonder why spotify/discord/teams desktop apps kind of suck?

i don't do a lot of long form posts but. I realized that so many people aren't aware that a lot of the enshittification of using computers in the past decade or so has a lot to do with embedded webapps becoming so frequently used instead of creating native programs. and boy do i have some thoughts about this.

for those who are not blessed/cursed with computers knowledge Basically most (graphical) programs used to be native programs (ever since we started widely using a graphical interface instead of just a text-based terminal). these are apps that feel like when you open up the settings on your computer, and one of the factors that make windows and mac programs look different (bc they use a different design language!) this was the standard for a long long time - your emails were served to you in a special email application like thunderbird or outlook, your documents were processed in something like microsoft word (again. On your own computer!). same goes for calendars, calculators, spreadsheets, and a whole bunch more - crucially, your computer didn't depend on the internet to do basic things, but being connected to the web was very much an appreciated luxury!

that leads us to the eventual rise of webapps that we are all so painfully familiar with today - gmail dot com/outlook, google docs, google/microsoft calendar, and so on. as html/css/js technology grew beyond just displaying text images and such, it became clear that it could be a lot more convenient to just run programs on some server somewhere, and serve the front end on a web interface for anyone to use. this is really very convenient!!!! it Also means a huge concentration of power (notice how suddenly google is one company providing you the SERVICE) - you're renting instead of owning. which means google is your landlord - the services you use every day are first and foremost means of hitting the year over year profit quota. its a pretty sweet deal to have a free email account in exchange for ads! email accounts used to be paid (simply because the provider had to store your emails somewhere. which takes up storage space which is physical hard drives), but now the standard as of hotmail/yahoo/gmail is to just provide a free service and shove ads in as much as you need to.

webapps can do a lot of things, but they didn't immediately replace software like skype or code editors or music players - software that requires more heavy system interaction or snappy audio/visual responses. in 2013, the electron framework came out - a way of packaging up a bundle of html/css/js into a neat little crossplatform application that could be downloaded and run like any other native application. there were significant upsides to this - web developers could suddenly use their webapp skills to build desktop applications that ran on any computer as long as it could support chrome*! the first applications to be built on electron were the late code editor atom (rest in peace), but soon a whole lot of companies took note! some notable contemporary applications that use electron, or a similar webapp-embedded-in-a-little-chrome as a base are:

microsoft teams

notion

vscode

discord

spotify

anyone! who has paid even a little bit of attention to their computer - especially when using older/budget computers - know just how much having chrome open can slow down your computer (firefox as well to a lesser extent. because its just built better <3)

whenever you have one of these programs open on your computer, it's running in a one-tab chrome browser. there is a whole extra chrome open just to run your discord. if you have discord, spotify, and notion open all at once, along with chrome itself, that's four chromes. needless to say, this uses a LOT of resources to deliver applications that are often much less polished and less integrated with the rest of the operating system. it also means that if you have no internet connection, sometimes the apps straight up do not work, since much of them rely heavily on being connected to their servers, where the heavy lifting is done.

taking this idea to the very furthest is the concept of chromebooks - dinky little laptops that were created to only run a web browser and webapps - simply a vessel to access the google dot com mothership. they have gotten better at running offline android/linux applications, but often the $200 chromebooks that are bought in bulk have almost no processing power of their own - why would you even need it? you have everything you could possibly need in the warm embrace of google!

all in all the average person in the modern age, using computers in the mainstream way, owns very little of their means of computing.

i started this post as a rant about the electron/webapp framework because i think that it sucks and it displaces proper programs. and now ive swiveled into getting pissed off at software services which is in honestly the core issue. and i think things can be better!!!!!!!!!!! but to think about better computing culture one has to imagine living outside of capitalism.

i'm not the one to try to explain permacomputing specifically because there's already wonderful literature ^ but if anything here interested you, read this!!!!!!!!!! there is a beautiful world where computers live for decades and do less but do it well. and you just own it. come frolic with me Okay ? :]

*when i say chrome i technically mean chromium. but functionally it's same thing

[where-dreamers-go]

I love your Dbh Connor writing 😍 can you please write something (if you'd like) in his pov of him realizing he *feels* for the reader, though he'd likely not know what that entails and what to call it. Just something introspective exploring his inner logic when it comes to his newfound deviancy? Thanks so much ❤️ I hope life treats you well!

“Feelings And Deviancy” Rk800 Connor x Reader

(A/N: Awh! I’m glad you’re enjoying them. Here’s a little something where Connor finds himself in a new routine with feelings he can’t pinpoint just yet. Warnings: Use of (Y/N) for your name. Word Count: 1,072 words)

Detroit held much to be discovered, especially when living was a new concept.

No more demonstrations or frantic humans in the streets.

It was almost quieter.

Connor took up walking to explore the city upon his deviancy. To rediscover the world.

Androids and humans were coexisting again. Nothing was perfect. Never was.

On one of his walking routes he had noticed a change. More life in a small bookstore beside an always popular coffee shop. The display window no longer appeared as a physical advertisement or thumbnail. No longer the attention-seeking images. Lined, stacked, and decorated with air plants were books. Physical books. Yes, there were always tablets for sale, but the display was not leveled. Nothing about it was symmetrical.

He was compelled to enter.

That was two months and two days ago.

Blinking, Connor found himself there again. The colorful bookshop in the shadow of quick service caffeine. He stood in front of the display. New books had been added, angled to show their spines, designed in detail to allude to the story’s tone.

Spying movement from inside, Connor moved to open the door and entered.

Familiar bookcases remained in their usual placements. Each shelf neatly arranged with books categorized by genre, author, and title. The usual.

I wouldn’t expect anything less.

Connor urged himself to search by sight and not scan. To take his time was a skill in need of practicing.

Light display flickering to yellow, he stepped further into the shop. He wasn’t alone inside. Towards the back, a couple of older individuals could be heard in hushed tones. They were regulars, almost every Friday.

He’s probably holding a stack of books for her again.

Connor found himself doing the same; visiting every Wednesday and Friday. Creating another routine.

What interest could a deviated android have in a bookshop?

Connor pondered on that question each day. Every time he would picture you instead of a simple answer. A connection to books, stories, and knowledge. The person responsible for decorating the shop’s window.

He found a particular interest in you, one of the shop’s employees. It started the first day you greeted him with your friendly smile and had yet to be stored away.

“Connor, hi.” Stepping around a table display, you waved to him while balancing three volumes in your other hand.

“Hello (Y/N).” He smiled, feeling something akin to happiness.

“How are you?”

Opening his mouth, ready to respond, Connor said nothing.

What was a truthful answer?

Connor sure wanted to know.

I am functioning properly, Connor thought. I’m not feeling any negative emotions. But they don’t want to hear that.

“I’m well.” He answered. “Thank you for asking.”

“No problem. I’m glad you’re well.”

At your smile, Connor took notice of his thirium pump increasing its speed. Something he was trying to look into over the past few weeks.

“How are you? Do you need help with anything?”

You laughed lightly and shook your head. “I’m pretty good.” Stepping over to the main counter, you added, “I can handle a few books. Just double checking these are in shelves too. Someone’s doing a pickup later. But thank you for asking. Again.” You sent him a teasing smile.

“Oh.” Connor stood still beside the counter, eyes downcast.

Embarrassment, he knew that emotion. Connor knew how it felt and it wasn’t his favorite. Feeling it while around you made him want to reset his system.

Do I ask to help them every time I’m here? Connor thought back to previous encounters and his embarrassment grew. I’m being polite. He urged himself to be more neutral with the fact of him wanting to help you.

Why wouldn’t he want to help you?

You were kind, had a good work ethic, and you made time to talk with him.

Connor appreciated you.

He appreciated other too, but he didn’t find himself trying to consistently learn their interests. That happened when he was with you, asking you handfuls of questions.

The more Connor learned about you, the more he could talk to you. Information one could not find online or in databases. Time one could not simulate.

“So what brings you here today, mister questions?” You inquired as you walked around the counter. Pulling out a tote bag, you placed the books inside one by one.

The corners of Connor’s lips lifted. A jolt of something registered through him. Not physical. An emotion that made him want to remain standing in your presence and perhaps hear you give him another nickname.

“I was wondering…”

You hummed shortly, letting him know you were listening.

“If there was a book you think I should read.”

Your eyes lit up in joyous surprise. “A million times yes.” You rushed out from around the counter and headed between a row of bookshelves.

Connor followed after you without hesitation.

“I don’t think I can just pick one,” you stated with two books in hand already. “So you have some options.”

“That’s great. Thank you.”

You sent him a smile over your shoulder. Then you resumed scanning the shelves, not wanting to miss a book you had in mind for him.

Knowing you already had options for him made Connor smile endlessly.

You thought of him.

They’re thorough. Connor thought as he got lost in watching you search.

Connor had never been around someone who he felt such a variety of emotions for. Deviancy hadn’t lasted long enough for him to name them all.

How could he?

The situation and environments he found himself in was calm and new. Full of books, unique displays, and people going about their business. Seeing you had become a constant. Something he could count on even if each time would be different, lively.

Connor did not have anything in his past to compare his present to.

If I had more context, he thought, I could figure out what I should be doing. I like their company. I know that, but big deal. That doesn’t tell me what to do about besides visiting them twice a week. But…I do like being with them.

Slightly frustrated with himself, he made sure to keep it to himself.

So, Connor remained standing, keeping you company during your shift, and making you laugh. Soon three books purchased and all his own.

What would come from him having feelings for you?

Connor hoped he would find out in his new way in life.

~~~

(If you love my writings and want to support me, I have a Ko-Fi where you can buy me a coffee. I would be eternally grateful. coffee

Best wishes and happy reading.)

~~~~~

DreamerDragon Tags: @cubedtriangle

Detroit Become Human Tags: @shewhobreathesfire @

**Let me know if you would like to be tagged in insert readers, either through replies, ask, or message.**

[buryhny]

One Night Stand ; 15

➥ rundown ; as if the unexpected twist of a one-night stand turning out to be your CEO boss wasn't surreal enough, the situation takes a more challenging turn when both of you discover that you're expecting his child.

→ genre ; enemies to lovers | CEO au | pregnancy trope | slowburn

→ Jungkook x y/n → contains smut, fluff and angst → Chapter fifteen ; wc | 6.6 k

primarily on Wattpad

index ⇢ next chapter

Did he sleep? Not so well, but did you sleep? Not at all. The hunger kept you up all night, and you were determined not to have anything. No room service, nothing. When you're adamant, then you don't second guess your decisions even though they seem stupid. Like, you not only starved yourself but your baby was in hunger too, how could the kid get nutrients when you don't ingest a thing.

Curled up on your bed, you looked out the window, watching the Eiffel Tower and how the sun was slowly seeping through the metal holes of the iconic landmark. Jungkook, on the other hand, was buttoning up his inner waistcoat.

What woke him up at 6 was the phone call by his secretary, who had just landed in France. He grabbed his phone and was about to head out when he was met with the hotel staff.

"Good morning sir, your breakfast will be sent to your room in a few minutes-" "That's great, I'll be heading out now. So if it's possible to place the breakfast on the table inside?" "of course, sir, will do." Jungkook thanked the man before he left to get the elevator.

He's never late for meetings. He was glad that the hotel was just a few minutes away from Mr Lim's residence, so there was nothing to worry much about.

"Mr Jeon?" Sana, the newly replaced secretary, stood at the entrance of the hotel, walked up to Jungkook. "Ms Min, hope the journey went smoothly?" "yes, it was Mr. Jeon, thank you for asking." The woman battered her eyes, talking to Jungkook in a more honeyed voice than she usually uses,

attempting to get his attention, but in fact, his eyes remained on his phone. Sana rolled her eyes and heaved a sigh, but she was definitely not gonna stop her attempts especially since she's got the benefit of doubt at the female restroom when she passed by Mr Jeon who walked out of the room.

"The driver is here." She mutters, and Jungkook lets her take a seat first, following her later. Mr Lim was best known for his latest designer fashion brand, Thriveworks that launches tonight, Mr Jeon was invited for the grand opening of the fashion show for the summer campaign pieces that Jeon Industries had created for the kick off of the collection.

Lim Seong wan shares his greeting with Celeste Montpellier, the Co-Ceo of Thriveworks, originally born and raised in France, sharing the joint Ceo position with the half korean-half french 56 year old man Seong an jun. "Greetings, Mr Jeon, it's a pleasure to meet you. I trust you had a safe journey." Mr Montpellier spoke, sharing a smile with the man beside him.

He had a fair stubble and a french crop haircut that slightly outgrown its style, combed and gelled up well, his ebony suit, accentuating his broad shoulders. the accessories that rest on his fingers and ears, though, leave him looking questionable to Jungkook as his fingers were wrapped around by a couple of rings in each finger of silver that glint in the rising sunlight.

The man beside him had a simple suit on with no presence of accesories. He definitely looked older than his age. "of course I did." Jungkook accepted the offer of a hand shake and followed the men inside the building, as Mr Jeon took his time to look around the interior of the room, it made him feel confident about his decision on allowing the two ceos to invest in his business as the two of them hold a highly reputed name in the fashion industry. "Please make yourself comfortable, Mr. Jeon."

Lim speaks as he takes a seat in front of the man. the room served its best creativity in sophisticated as the designer pieces of past and current fashion were displayed ever so thoughtfully, showcasing how this business has grown through each art of seamless garments beautifully resting in each of their own mannequins, waiting to be arranged at the main gala at the show this night,

for which ceo Jeon Jungkook has its special appearance to not only promote his agency but to also add a layer of excitement to it, bringing more fame, fans and charisma like the aura of ceo Jeon. "And the lovely lady, please take a seat."

"Thank you, Mr Celeste, it's a pleasure to meet you. You can call me Sana, Mr Jeon's personal assistant." the woman blabbered when she was not asked to. Jungkook glances over at her, rethinking his decision because he does not get the best vibes. she was not exactly Jungkook's type of secretary. He looked forward to a quiet, soft-spoken woman who would focus on her job, speak when she's asked to, and behave like she had to. he didn't even mind a bubbly natured personality.

However, Sana was the opposite of everything he sought. Jungkook notices how she batters her eyes, too, and he's fully convinced that he needs a new PA as soon as he steps at korea. "we may have emailed the invitation to you, but as a personal gesture of gratitude, we offer this invitation card which was specifically designed to invite ceo jeon to our show to express our sincere admiration to your work."

Celeste spoke in his fluent English with a hint of his French accent that added cherry to his words.

Jungkook felt grateful to have worked with amazing people like them who really acknowledged him, his company, and his artwork of the team. Even though he sits there with a cold look on his face, expressionless and no smile, he feels it within him and he's proud of his team that he got this opportunity and is being appreciated well. The server walks into the room after she's excused, leaving a large tray with a variety of appetisers and desserts that are followed by more items being placed by the next two servers.

The food stares at Jungkook like he does. It's almost telling him something that he really doesn't seem to understand. He does feel that, in fact, he's missing out on something. continuing to look at the food being placed on the table, it hits him. it totally slipped out of his mind that you probably haven't eaten anything since last night. his eyes widened at the thought of leaving you in hunger,

yet he turned away and heard Mr Seong Wan speak, allowing his thoughts to fly away. It's her adamant nature that has put her into that position, giving her a good opportunity to think through her mistakes and reform herself.

In about 15 minutes in from his thoughts he somehow feels guilty that you're probably still asleep, starving cause he knows that you're slowly growing your cravings so he decides to take you for a brunch once this meeting is over.

-

you watch the few tiktoks that pop up in your fyp. It's food, and you can't even express how empty your stomach is. you're aware that Jungkook is out for his work, you're mad at him of course you are, he's putting rights on you for no damn reason. it's not fair to you when you just wanted to explore the city and have food. Is it a crime for a pregnant woman to want to try new food?

The frustration you have on him is at level 05 that if you see him, you're unsure how you would behave, might throw that expensive flower pot at his face. there when you just swipe up your phone, you hear the doorbell ring. taking a look at the time on your phone, you're sure that it can't be Jungkook, it's just 9.45 he wouldn't be back until 10;30 the least. so you walk to the door, wearing that little short and the long white shirt you chose to stay in as it satisfied your comfort zone.

Opening the door slightly you've met with a man dressed in a tailor fitted suit, his hands stayed cosy inside the pockets of his pants, his loafers had been polished well and when you look up to see the man's face, you've met with a stern, cold expression frowning. Jungkook. you rolled your eyes and were about to close the door to his face when he stopped the door with his arm. "Dress up, we're going out." He mumbles and squints your eyes, wondering if you heard him, right? 'wanting to go out now? did he pity me?' "no thanks, i'm good."

you responded as you tried to close the door with force, but his strength was multiplied by yours, so you gave up and walked inside. Jungkook didn't use this opportunity that allowed him to walk inside. He maintained his distance and stood at the doorstep, trying to be patient when he could definitely feel his temper lose. "I'm making use of the free time we have. Don't be a prick. let's go." "sorry that you're wasting your free time on me, Jungkook, you don't have to.

I didn't ask for it." yelling to him, you sit on the couch with your arms crossed and towards your chest. He leans against the door, his shoulders slouching as he lacks a good conversation with you. He's clearly tired of your behaviour, he doesn't enjoy this, for one bit. There's only a limit everyone has, and you've surely crossed it months ago. He can't blame the pregnancy that's allowing you to conduct these actions. You've always been arrogant, picky, and stubborn with what you want.

it's just the way you are, and he feels sorry for the one who falls in love with you. it's a black hole that no one would manage to climb out of. The silence between the two of you gets heavy. A good 15 minutes vanished in this polluted air of tension, annoyance. Jungkook gets tired of watching the ground and walls, he's been staring at it for long that he'd managed to get a count of the geometric circles of the traditional patterned carpet that lays on the files. He'd had enough of this, so he walked inside.

There, he sees you seated on the couch with your legs crossed and folded arms, watching out the window, with a deep frown that sat on your face. Before he says a word, he licks his lips to prepare for another army of words just in case you had yours ready, too. before either of you could spill out anything,

your stomach rumbled loud, not only leaving Jungkook shocked but surprised you too. you meet his face, and he sees yours, holding his head high as he bites into his inner cheek to prevent himself from unintentionally letting out a laugh to gas up our embarrassment.

"that-" he points at your belly with his index finger while you look at him with red cheeks of shame. "Says enough." gulping down the blob of saliva down your throat, there's no point to win you, you admit it that you are famished so you must lose to eat. Although this argument could go on for days, you give up to satisfy your bottomless pit. With slow nods, Jungkook finally deeply exhales as you agreed to him. He didn't want you to be hungry.

Heck, he wouldn't do this to any human. He walks out of the room after he mumbles, "I'll be waiting out." you watched him step out and then stomp on your feet. you hate losing! but since the result of it is food, at this point, you don't care. it's immature, these arguments. He knows it, so do you, yet it happens? because that's at least allowing you two to talk, if not. if it were peaceful, it would be worse without any words exchanged. with two introverts, especially. or at least to each other.

-

"you're sure you wouldn't feel tired?" you kept whining that you wanted to walk around, to look at the streets and feel the city. Jungkook was not very happy about it, yet he decided to let it sink. do what you want so he doesn't get himself trapped in one of your webs. you are very prone to irritation, and that affects him. you stroll down the streets with Jungkook beside you.

He left his coat back in his room. It's much lighter to be with his shirt and inner waistcoat. you didn't bother to pack lengthy outfits as the sun shines bright even to leave you pouring in sweat. Instead you roam around the lanes dressed up in a relaxed fit cream shorts that had the cotton shirt comfortably tucked in, showing the littlest of the bump and a linen white shirt added a slight touch of polished vibes.

you're comfortable, that's enough, that's all you need. looking over at Jungkook, you really wonder how he looks effortlessly with that suit on, no stain of sweat and even the slightest of it, does not eliminate any odour. It's such a blessing to him. his hands stay inside the pocket of his linen pants while your fingers keep pointing at all the random stuff that comes in front of your eyes. "No way, I see the Eiffel Tower, a mile away."

"No, it's not just a mile away! It just looks closer because it's the tallest building here." you gape at him, stopping your tracks as you face him with a wide mouth. He turns back and looks at you, confused so his eyebrows raise. "what?" "oh my god, Jungkook. Thank you for enlightening me. I totally did not know that it's the tallest building here."

"you're welcome." He responds with a smirk and continues to walk forward, trying his best to stop himself from smiling as the look of your screwed face proves to him that you expected a different reaction from him.

"Jerk." "stupid." you both whispered under your breaths as you walked faster to match up to his pace. The streets are so empty here that it just made you realise how happening Korea is. The city roads of Seoul were always filled with a diverse crowd, various languages filling the air even at 3 am in the night. The neon lights and signs gave colour to the sidewalks whereas in France, it's all hues of beige and cream. quite boring for a young adult as you.

that isn't the same case for Jungkook. However, he didn't mind it. Of course, he prefers Seoul. After all, it's where his heart lives. but he isn't fascinated by anything like you are. He's boring, he admits it. The two of you walk down the streets in silence, a gap in between each other as you admire the surroundings while he just wants you to be done with it so he can go back to the hotel and relax.

"oh my god, do you smell that?" you stop abruptly, and your face suddenly lights up when the aroma of cheesy garlic pizza dough brushes under your nose, calling you to meet it. Jungkook looks at you, taking a deep breath, trying to smell what you're talking about, but he doesn't get it.

he just gets a deep inhale of the smoke the brunette man puffed past Jungkook. "wha-" "pizza!! can i have pizza?" 'Oh not again,' he thinks, rolling his eyes at the mention of pizza. you've been eating way too much of that, and he's not happy about it. 'She's gonna birth a damn cholesterol child if she continues to eat these.' "y/n, let's get you some salad-" "i did not come to freaking Paris to have some leaves?! i need to try some french pizza?" 'Is French pizza a thing? I've heard of Italian pizza but french?' "Let's try a healthier option-" "no, I want pizza!!"

You cross your arms and pull it towards your chest. He knows that look of your face, the deep crease of your forehead, and that pout on your lips while you stare at the ground, not getting what you want. Jungkook knows this is only a move to trap him. He doesn't want you to eat it. Heck, he wouldn't want anyone to eat such oily, nasty, junk food.

but he's nothing next to you. He must think quickly. if not pizza, then you're just directly going back to the hotel, empty stomach. He stands in front of you, looking at your face. you're not whiny because that's a part of you.

You're whiny because pregnancy has made you so. Pregnancy brings great changes to women. Some women undergo less to no changes in their moods or behaviour, some of them are always depressed, some are way too happy and some just have attitude problems. with you, you've had an attitude all your life. Things got worse with pregnancy hormones.

"Look, let's get healthy pizza. satisfy you and me." "I'm the pregnant one here, and I'm craving for pizza from this-" you point at the restaurant in front of you.

"is exactly what i'm craving for. I'm not having anything else!" Jungkook knows nothing is in his favour or control and arguing with a woman like you? no chance. He's not taking the risk. He's literally in the middle of the street. You might cry and scream out for help saying he's molesting you or forcing on you.

That's the type you are. "are you sure, maybe there are better places down the-" "a one thousand and two per cent!" "fine." He walks inside the little pizza shop, the doorbell dings letting the staff inside know that they've got new customers.

"Bonjour, what would sir and madame like you have?" the man in the white apron questioned with his strong french accent. you looked around the cosy little space. It definitely looked old, and the walls were all crusty and black, but the look of the freshly baked pizzas was something else. "y/n, come here. What would you like?" you looked at the menu, which showed a wide range of options to choose from,

from a class margherita to a variety of other flavours that looked absolutely mouth-watering. "one margherita and hawaiian pizza, please." Jungkook scrunched his face in disgust. Pineapple on pizza is hideous. "Is that all?" "yes." "dining or takeaway."

"take-" "dining!' you interrupted the man who stood beside you, giving you a glare as he looked around the congested area and sighed. "let's sit out." He nods and does his payment in cash while you walk out and sit on one of the chairs. Jungkook joins in a minute, takes his house out of his pocket, and checks his emails and text messages for clients. "Can I say something?"

his eyes flicker over to you with a nod and then back to his phone. "you're the most boring person I've ever met in my life. My dogs, at their old age, are much more fun than you."

Jungkook puts his phone down and gives you a sarcastic fake smile and then looks at his phone again. "such a nice compliment." "of course, Mr. Jeon." you lean back on the chair, rubbing your belly. That's just a few days away from being 5 months now. you read articles on Google that interest you.

"Y/n?" Jungkook taps on the table, but you don't respond. "Y/n?" Still no answer. "Ms. Lee?" Nothing. "Oh, come on, will you just—" "Huh? What did you just say?" "Finally!" he sighs and rolls his eyes. "Food?" You glance at the table and see the pizza, warm, cheesy, and fresh. Instantly, you set down your phone and grab a slice.

"careful, it's hot!" "ouch-" "see? I told you." Jungkook gestures to you to wait, uses a fork and knife to slowly pull out a triangle, it's hot, and you both could clearly see the smoke gushing out. This only makes you super excited and anticipated. "here." he gives you the paper plate with a slice of a Hawaiian pizza on it, then gets back to his phone. "Hey, grab a piece for yourself, too." "Appreciate your concern, but no thanks." He muttered with a fake smile.

"Try it, Jungkook! I promise it's good!" "I don't think pineapple on my pizza is a good idea. It's a joke. I'm not having it." the both of you were adamant. you cut out a piece and poked your fork into it, bringing it closer to his face, but your arm is only so short. "try it!" "no y/n, do you not understand english?" you've let him go. Clearly, you don't care about him, but you want him to try one of your favourite pizzas.

You want the reaction. simple. standing from your chair, you pull it over to sit beside him. "I will not eat it!" "you must try it!" "no!" "please Jungkook! just one bite, just one!!!" you put the fork to his face, see your face with that pout. "oh, come on, it won't kill you." "fine." He sighs and takes the fork from your hand.

He doesn't want you to feed him, and neither were you planning to. "how. is. it?" you eagerly wait for his reaction as you look at him with wide ears, sparkling in excitement. Jungkook's face scrunches up at first, and then it becomes blank, expressionless. "Tell me!!!" "good."

"what?" "it's good, deaf!" "see, i told you!!! have this piece now." 'oh hell no-' "come on, eat with me, we will obviously not come to Paris again together, so eat up." He looks at your face, like, 'obviously, I'm not taking you anywhere again.' you gobble down the pizza, big bites that he didn't know that your mouth could open this wide. A little pineapple sticks up your nostril that makes him chuckle, which he soon bites back.

"I know it's stuck up there. don't laugh." "so take it off!" "shut up!!" the both of you giggle while he has his share of the pizza, too.

;

"Wait, is that Mr. Jeon? Who's with him? huh? is that? is Mr. Jeon in a fucking relationship? oh, my fucking- let me snap this."

next chapter ⇢

[fromchaostocosmos]

In the war between Israel and Hamas, there have been far too many casualties­—thousands of innocent civilians have died, primarily in Gaza. But this war has another less visible casualty: the hundreds of thousands of Jewish immigrants to Israel from the Middle East and North Africa known as Mizrahi, whose history is being erased from the popular narrative about Israel. My community is among them.

When angry protesters hurl charges of apartheid and colonialism at Israel, they are, knowingly or not, repudiating the truth about Israel's origin and the vast racial and ethnic diversity of its nation.

I was born and raised in Iran in a family of Jewish educators. I came of age during the tumultuous years of the Iranian revolution, just as Ayatollah Khomeini rose to power in 1979, and soon thereafter, annihilated his opposition­—feminists, leftists, even the Islamic Marxists who had long revered him as their spiritual leader. Until 1979, if anyone had told my observant Jewish family that we would someday leave Iran, we would have laughed. In fact, at our Passover seders, the words "next year in Jerusalem," were always followed by chuckles and quips, "oh, yeah, sure, Watch me pack!" all underlining our collective belief that we were exactly where we intended to remain. We loved Israel, but Israel was a Nirvana­—a place we revered but never expected to reach.

The 30 years preceding the Islamic revolution had led the Jewish community to believe that the dark days of bigotry were behind them. And for good reason! When my father was a schoolboy in the late 1930s, he was not allowed to attend school on rainy days. In the highly conservative town where he grew up, in Khonsar, his Shiite neighbors considered Jews "unclean," or Najes. They barred them, among other things, from leaving their homes on rainy days, lest the rainwater splashed off the bodies of the Jews and onto the Muslim passersby, thus making them "unclean," too. Yet, that same boy grew up, left the insular town, attended college in Tehran, earned a master's degree, and served in the royal army as a second lieutenant. (To his last day, my father's photo in military uniform was among his most prized possessions.) After service, he became the principal of a school, purchased a home in what was then a relatively upscale neighborhood of Tehran. The distance between my father's childhood and adulthood far surpassed two decades. It was the distance between two eras­—between incivility and civility, bigotry and tolerance.

Yet, as if on cue, the demon of antisemitism was unleashed again. The 1979 Islamic revolution summoned all the prejudices my father thought had been irretrievably buried. One day, on the wall across our home, graffiti appeared, "Jews gets lost!" Soon thereafter, the residence and fabric store my aunt and her extended family owned in my father's childhood town were set on fire after a mob of protesters looted it. Within days, she and her family, whose entire life's savings had burned in that fire, left for Israel. As young as I was, I could see that the regime was indiscriminately brutal to all those it deemed a threat to its reign, especially secular Muslims. But the new laws were specifically designed so that non-Muslims, and women, all but became second-class citizens. Members of religious minorities, especially the Baha'i, could no longer eye top jobs in academia, government, the military, etc. Restaurateurs had to display signs in their windows making clear that "the establishment was operated by a non-Muslim." In a court of law, members of religious minorities could offer testimony in criminal trials, but theirs would only count as half that of a Muslim witness. Jews were once again reduced to Dhimmis­—tax-paying citizens who were allowed to live, but not thrive. Then came a handful of executions of prominent Jewish leaders in the early months after the revolution, which sent shockwaves through the community. Jewish schools were allowed to operate, but under the headmastership of Muslims who were officially appointed.

Within a few years after the rise of Ayatollah Khomeini to power, the Jewish population of Iran, which once stood at 100,000, shrank to a fraction of its size. Today, of the ancient community whose presence in Iran predates that of Muslims, only 8,000 remain. For centuries, Iran has been home to the most sacred Jewish sites in the Middle East outside of Israel. But those monuments have either fallen into disrepair or are targets of regular attacks by antisemitic mobs. Only last week, the tomb of Esther and Mordecai­—the memorial to the heroine and hero from the Book of Esther who saved the Jews from being massacred in ancient Persia, was set on fire.

How is it that the 90,000-plus who left Iran, many for Israel, are now deemed as occupiers? How do Iranian refugees fleeing persecution become "colonizers" upon arrival in Israel? These families, my aunt among them, were not emissaries of any standing empire, nor were they returning to a place where they had no history. For them, Israel was not a home away from their real homeland. It was their only homeland. The vitriolic slogan that appeared across my home in 1979 demanded that we "get lost!" In 2024, once again, the same Jews are being called upon to leave, this time Israel. Where, then, are Jews allowed to live?

Iranian Jews were not alone. Jews from Iraq, especially in the aftermath of the 1941 pogrom called Farhood, similarly fled their homeland. So did the Jews of Yemen, Tunisia, Egypt, Turkey, Syria, Morocco, Algeria, Ethiopia, Afghanistan, etc. All, destitute and dejected, they took refuge in Israel. Today, they make up nearly 50 percent of Israel's population. To call such a nation colonial GRAVELY misrepresents the facts about Jews and Israel.

In his timeless essay, Looking Back on the Spanish Civil War, George Orwell said that in the Spain of 1937, he "saw history being written not in terms of what happened but of what ought to have happened according to various 'party lines.'" With the alarming rise of antisemitism around the world, and in light of the bloody attacks on Israel by Hamas on Oct. 7, the greatest massacre of Jews since World War II, 2024 bears an uncanny resemblance to Orwell's 1937. But perhaps in no way more ominously than the way truth has been upended to serve an ideological narrative­—one in which Jews, who have lived uninterruptedly in that land for more than two millennia, are cast as white non-indigenous interlopers, with no roots in what has always been their ancient homeland.

A public scholar at the Moynihan Center (CCNY), Roya Hakakian is the author of several books including, Journey from the Land of No: A Girlhood Caught in Revolutionary Iran (Crown, 2005).

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

A special sort of craving 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen

Summary: A stranger appears at your cafe and leaves you unsettled.

Part of the Backwood AU

Note: I found this in my docs and then I was like this could be an AU and people will hate me but here we are. I am heavily considering adding at least one other character to the AU bc I have an idea I don't think i'll ever get to full length with.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

He doesn’t belong. Not in this sleepy village. You can tell by the ring on his pinky, a golden signet that boasts of wealth not known to the farmers and lumberers of the desolate locale. His cheeks are red as if he didn’t expect the crisp autumn bite, though his jacket is unzipped to his chest, revealing a golf shirt with some designer logo sewn into the collar.

He tilts his head as he considers the glass display with shelves of bite-sized tarts and fragrant pies. You approach the other side, standing on tiptoes to see over it. His eyes slowly rise with your movement, a dimple in his cheek of amusement. You skirt around to the side of the display and lean over the lower counter so he can see you.

“Hello, you looking for something in particular?” you ask.

“Something sweet,” he answers, his crooked grin lingers as he lets his gaze wander back to the pies, “cherry… it’s been a while since I had a nice, juicy cherry pie.”

He licks his lips with the last word, reaching up to brush his fingertips over his bristly mustache. Your smile threatens to falter but you keep it on. He definitely isn’t from around here. Not with his accent or the hair slicked back so neatly.

“You want a slice?” you ask brightly. “Two bucks for a slice, twelve for the whole thing.”

“Hmm?” he raises a brow and sidles over to stand across from you.

“The pie,” you say as he puts a hand on the counter, leaning in as his other rests on his hip, “did you want some?”

His eyes fall down to the top of your apron, the red and white checker distracting him as you mindlessly flick the frill around the skirt. His smirk blooms fully and he stands straight.

“Wouldn’t mind a slice… of the pie,” he says as if it’s some joke. You don’t get it.

“Sure,” you say as you go behind the display and take out the cherry pie. You take it to the metal table behind you as you hear him, sense him looming along the counter. “You want anything to drink, sir? Some milk? Tea? Coffee? We do a combo for three-fifty.”

“Mm-mm-mm, a nice glass of milk would go nice with the pie,” he purrs, “they usually got you working all alone, sweetness?”

You look over your shoulder as you shovel a slice onto a plate, little flowers painted around the waffled trim.

“It’s my shop,” you say as you take the dish and grab a fork from the tray. You place it beside the till and type in the total, “cash or card, sir?”

“You own all this?” he leans his elbows on the counter, bent at the waist as he looks up at you.

“Sir,” you nod. 

“Card,” he stands and stretches his arms over him before he drops his hands, poking his fingers in his back pocket.

“I’ll get that milk,” you say as he swipes his card, “and I’ll bring this over to you if you wanna sit.”

“Ah, table service, I like it,” he says as the machine chirps and accepts his payment, “you country folk are all so… nice, aren’t you?”

“Suppose,” you say as you open the fridge and take out a small carton.

You glance over as he tucks away his wallet. He winks and walks away. He drapes his jacket over the chair by the window as you grab a glass and hurry over to the counter. You place the glass and carton on his table as he sits. You go back to the counter and bring him the pie.

“You visiting someone?” you ask curiously.

He looks at you pointedly. You hesitate. You forget that the city slickers don’t like questions, but everyone in the village knows each other, so your habit has you careless.

“Bought some house called ‘The Grove’,” he answers as he pushes the fork through the braided crust, “apparently it’s a big deal.”

“The Grove?” you can’t help your surprise, “wow.”

He scoffs, hardly amused, and slides the fork into his mouth, sucking off the pie as he watches you. He chews and swallows slowly as he hovers the silver over the oozing pie.

“You know it?”

“It’s pretty far out,” you say, “but yeah, everyone knows The Grove.”

“Sure,” he pokes a cherry so the juice leaks out, “this is good pie. You make all these?”

“It’s my recipe, but I think Melinda did that one.”

“Don’t get good home cooking like this in the city,” he plops the cherry in his mouth and his jaw tenses with the tartness, he hums in satisfaction. He looks you up and down once more, “don’t get that personal touch.”

“I’m glad you like it, I’ll let Melinda know,” you push your hands into the large pockets of your apron, a movement that further catches his attention.

“Sounds good, cupcake,” he opens the carton and pours the milk into the glass, “you do delivery?”

“Sundays,” you answer, “not that we get many requests but…”

“Personal deliveries,” he insists, “like you said, house is far away, and I’m new in town. Wouldn’t mind a familiar face and a nice pie.”

You rub your neck, “well I don’t usually do the deliveries.”

“Melinda?” he prompts.

“No, Terry takes them with the lumber.”

“Mm,” he frowns, “right… guess I’ll just make the trip in.”

“Okay,” you nod, “let me know if ya need anything else.”

“Oh, I definitely will,” he slithers as you slowly turn away.

You feel him watching you as you try to hide behind the counter. You take a cloth and the cleaner and start wiping down the back of the display. You hear the clink of his fork against the plate.

City people are always a bit odd, but he gives you a bad feeling.

[dokjak]

This blog will be much less active soon ✌️ orv is special to me but it’s been like 5 years since I finished it.

List of other novels I recommend:

Longer reviews after this TLDR;

Return of the Mount Hua Sect — Martial arts novel. 100 years after he died to stop the end of the world, Chung Myung reincarnates to find his sect in ruins. This novel is hilarious, thrilling, and heartbreaking all at once. I also like it because Chung Myung is insane and his personality sucks.

Debut or Die — The OG idol novel. Ryu Gunwoo wakes up in the body of Park Moondae and must debut as an idol, else his System will kill him. I like it because Moondae is an intelligent but unreliable narrator who doesn’t realize people care about him.

Assistant Manager Kim Hates Idols — Kim Iwol, an exploited office worker, wakes up as the next member of his manager’s daughter’s favorite idol group. I love it because the more you learn about Iwol, the more you realize he’s a Freakk. His pre-transmigration life is so horrible it’s funny, and his System is mean to him too 😭

The Trashy PD Has to Survive as an Idol — Seo Hoyun, an unethical TV producer who “evil edits” idol shows for drama and ratings, transmigrates to a parallel world and needs to debut to return home. I like it because Hoyun is a petty bitch and straight up a bad person <3

normal reviews:

1. Return of the Mount Hua Sect

Summary (Shortened):

The 13th disciple of the Mount Hua Sect, one of the greatest third generation swordsmen, the Plum Blossom Sword Saint: Chung Myung. After defeating the Heavenly Demon and ending his reign of chaos, Chung Myung breathed his last on the summit of the Heavenly Demon Sect's mountain.

Hundreds of years passed, and he was revived as a child.

But... What was that? Mount Hua Sect has fallen? What kind of bullshit is that!?

Why you should read it:

it's my goat 🐐

Chung Myung is a real freak. He's got a bad personality. He's been compared to a rabid shih tzu.

It’s not a power fantasy, and it doesn’t just follow an OP protagonist around. The biggest regret of Chung Myung’s first life was focusing on his own strength instead of ensuring his sect’s survival, so there’s a lot emphasis on the supporting characters’ growth.

It's SO funny. Again, Chung Myung has a personality that makes everyone want to throttle him at all times.

It's touching. This is what I love most about RotMHS, apart from Chung Myung's personality. Given how funny and batshit insane he is, you tend to forget that he watched everyone he loved die in front of him. His grief hits when you've let your guard down and is all the more effective because of it.

It has great prose and some of the best action sequences l've read in a translated novel.

It respects women. Whenever men look down on her, Yu Iseol viciously crushes them. Tang Soso also has a massive girl crush on her because of it. They’re very sweet.

The webtoon is INCREDIBLE. Incredible character design - no two characters look similar, down to the silhouettes. Not everyone is deathly pale, and monolids exist!! The composition, especially for fight scenes, is striking. It also stays very true to the novel. You can tell the artists love it.

my rotmhs blog is @tangsoso :3c

The remaining recommendations are for idol novels. I don't even like kpop, they're just really good.

2. Debut or Die

Summary (Shortened):

A student who had been preparing for the Civil Service examination for 4 years suddenly found himself in an unfamiliar body, 3 years in the past. Along with it came a status window displaying a threat right before his eyes!

[Outbreak!]

[Status Abnormality: 'Debut or Die' occurs!]

A diary about the transformation of the main character, who was suddenly challenged to be an idol even though he had never been in the industry before, due to the sudden threat of death.

Why you should read it:

This is the OG idol novel. If you want a story about idols, people will always point you towards DoD first, and for good reason.

Park Moondae is a fascinating character and unreliable narrator. He cares a lot about others even if he thinks he doesn't, and doesn't realize that people care about him too.

Later on, there's an interesting mystery surrounding how and why he's in Park Moondae's body, what happened to the original Moondae, and what happened to his past identity, Ryu Gunwoo.

It has a good webtoon adaptation too!

3. Assistant Manager Kim Hates Idols

Summary:

Not only does he have to fangirl on behalf of the manager's daughter, but now he has to debut as an idol himself?

Assistant Manager Kim really hates idols.

Why you should read it:

The more you learn about Kim Iwol, the more insane he seems. He's not normal.

He lived such a HORRIBLE life ong.... His job was hilariously, cartoonishly abusive and the more you learn about Iwol's past the more you go. oh honey... this explains so much about you. He thinks working 22 hours a day, 7 days a week, is normal, and he's GOOD at it.

He's one of the most unreliable narrators I know of.

His System is so mean to him. please give him a break 😭

4. The Trashy PD Has to Survive as an Idol

Summary (Shortened):

[Congratulations Seo Hoyun! You have been selected as a player in the Unknown Idol Tycoon.]

The good-for-nothing PD, who is criticized by everyone, becomes an unknown idol in a parallel world. Only his younger sibling remembers him. To return to the original world, he must become a top idol and clear the game!

His specialty is blackmailing, his hobby is persuasion. The survival story of the unscrupulous PD-turned-idol who will stop at nothing!

Why you should read it:

Seo Hoyun is, above all else, a petty bitch. He's a straight up bad person. I love him.

I see people comparing him to Cale from TCF because they're both schemers, but l disagree. Hoyun is actually a bad person. If being a gaslighting male manipulator was an Olympic sport, he would be the gold medalist. Is he irredeemable though? Probably not...

The fact that his brother remembers him from pre-transmigration is intriguing and unique for this genre.

He's very protective of people he considers his own, which at first was just his brother. It's sweet to see his group members slowly be added to that list.

A webtoon adaptation is coming out on March 8th!!!

anyways @tangsoso has become my non-orv webnovel blog so come hang out with me there :)

[visionboardstudio01]

[voidcrystalline]

Loossemble Profiles

Subject Name: Olivia Hye (formerly “Hyeju” while in Loossemble and, formerly to that, again Olivia Hye while in Loona)

Acquisition: CTDENM disbanded Loossemble due to lack of popularity in all markets, citing competition with ARTMS and other former-Loona solo acts. Subject offered for sale to compensate for losses incurred during promotional periods. Forceful capture required after subject attempted escape and mildly injured two personnel.

Containment: Subject retains violent tendencies. Restraints still highly recommended during all interaction, though may be removed while alone, as subject avoids harm to self. Subject's attacks are only physical in nature, with seemingly no interest in verbalizing, so no hearing protection is recommended. Oral penetration inadvisable due to necessary oral restraints obscuring unique features.

Features: “Triangle mouth,” uncommonly large breasts, uncommonly wide hips, quiet demeanor (please continue to note containment recommendations despite), dark skin tone, and some small tattoos.

Modifications: Standard preservative modifications made post-acquisition, no cosmetic, and no designer.

Specialties: Titjob and other similar non-penetrative activities, pet play [dangerous]

Designer Comments: Minimal modifications made as multiple highly unique features make the subject a fascinating conversation piece, as might natural, exotic wood furniture. Perhaps unsuitable as a decorative centerpiece for safety reasons, however. Easily provoked by some uncommon means (ex. using the name “Olivia”), but does not respond much to standard forms of humiliation or pain, so will likely not be especially entertaining for such activities. Subject is, however, particularly well-suited for activities involving rough physical contact thanks to a higher than average volume of fatty tissue to act as natural cushioning.

☆☆☆

Subject Name: Yeojin

Acquisition: CTDENM disbanded Loossemble due to lack of popularity in all markets, citing competition with ARTMS and other former-Loona solo acts. Subject offered for sale to compensate for losses incurred during promotional periods. No notable resistance from subject.

Containment: Subject is mostly passive and does not possess necessary strength or mass to pose any physical threat, but has been known to occasionally verbally assault personnel, even unprovoked. Gags recommended but not required. These outbursts and the intelligence displayed in them may indicate a desire and ability to escape, however. Locks recommended until and if outbursts become extremely infrequent. Windows should be extra small and/or have lower sills no fewer than sixty-six inches to surfaces.

Features: Uncommonly small height, disproportionally large breasts for height and mass, demonstrated preference for nudity, occasionally sharp wit, and some small tattoos.

Modifications: Standard preservative modifications made post-acquisition, mild bulking, and elasticity increase.

Specialties: Oral, exhibition, dirty talk

Designer Comments: Subject serves as an excellent travel-friendly option for sexual relief. Furthermore, she makes for excellent conversation with those of lower stations, who often find her brand of humor and crude language to be especially entertaining. She has surprisingly few reservations regarding sexual activity with any sort as well, making the aforementioned interactions even more productive if they are so inclined as to request her service. It may be tempting to keep such a pretty, petite slave to yourself, and it is in fact quite possible, but don't forget that she will be quite useful for greasing social wheels.

☆☆☆

Subject Name: Gowon

Acquisition: CTDENM disbanded Loossemble due to lack of popularity in all markets, citing competition with ARTMS and other former-Loona solo acts. Subject offered for sale to compensate for losses incurred during promotional periods. Subject seemed unusually eager to submit to slavery.

Containment: No notable requirements for containment. Subject has been presented with extremely simple and complex escape options on many occasions, but has expressed no interest in escape.

Features: Enthusiasm, mildly exotic appearance, easily earned loyalty, unusual vocal timbre.

Modifications: Standard preservative modifications made post-acquisition, very mild breast augmentation for size, and no designer.

Specialties: Worship, non-contact performance, general submission

Designer Comments: Subject has presented no indicators of rebellion, from acquisition to current containment, and has in fact regularly expressed desire for direction. It is only with great personal disappointment that I acknowledge that she is prepared for sale, as she has frankly been a delight to work with. Rest assured that not only will your instructions be followed to the best of the subjects abilities (which are admittedly not always perfect but are certainly enthused), but she will be proactive in attempts to please you. I sincerely hope that you enjoy your purchase.

☆☆☆

Subject Name: Hyunjin

Acquisition: CTDENM disbanded Loossemble due to lack of popularity in all markets, citing competition with ARTMS and other former-Loona solo acts. Other members of Loossemble offered for sale to compensate for losses incurred during promotional periods. Subject was offered separately once debts had been settled for unknown reasons. Subject did not object at the time and did not resist.

Containment: Since initial acquisition, subject has expressed some mild displeasure in response to containment and has displayed some interest in escape options presented, but has not acted upon these. No special containment methods recommended. Simple locks should suffice.

Features: Dulled expressiveness, uncommonly large glutes, and sluggish demeanor.

Modifications: Standard preservative modifications made post-acquisition, medication for pre-existing condition (requires yearly renewal, free of charge in-office), no cosmetic, no designer (see comments for designer suggestion).

Specialties: Silent company, pet play (feline), quickies

Designer Comments: Subject has strange behavioral patterns that could be cause for some mild concern, so it is recommended to get a containment procedure reevaluation whenever returning for medication renewal. These same behaviors, however, do lend themselves well to pet play. Subject makes for an excellent, and amusingly realistic cat to a degree that she may be more appropriate as an actual family pet than merely playing a role for sexual gratification. If that's not your style, she is still of course capable of standard sexual performance. Most notably, the subject has displayed exceptional and diversified skill while taking the “male” role in sexual encounters, when provided with appropriate devices. This, combined with her proclivity to surrendering to sexual pleasure, lead me to suggesting the addition of a biologically attached phallus, whether for your own pleasure or to expand your options with other slaves or partners. Even if you are aesthetically inclined to entirely replace her gynecological organs with it rather than use our futanari treatment, the subject's anus is naturally quite elastic, so there should never be a time when you find yourself without a hole to penetrate.

☆☆☆

Name: Vivi (Note that Hong Kong legal standards require legal names to be used in official slavery documentation for the time frame before sale to final owner is concluded. Use of the term “subject” is unallowed. Apologies for any confusion this may cause within your localized documentation.)

Acquisition: CTDENM disbanded Loossemble due to lack of popularity in all markets, citing competition with ARTMS and other former-Loona solo acts. Vivi, as a former member of Loossemble, was offered for sale to compensate for losses incurred during promotional periods. Per court investigation, Vivi fled South Korea in an attempt to evade capture, but was found in her homeland two months later. Vivi offered no meaningful resistance once found.

Containment: Since initial acquisition, Vivi has expressed some mild displeasure in response to containment and has displayed some interest in escape options presented, but has not acted upon these. No special containment methods recommended. Simple locks should suffice. Additional external security may be advisable, as there are a few former contacts of Vivi's who may still have some interest in aiding an escape, though any attempting can be prosecuted in Hong Kong under Code 514 v3, Subsection 1317 CH.

Features: Mildly exotic appearance, potentially politically relevant, quiet demeanor, noted lack of concern for modesty 

Modifications: Due to legal standards of Hong Kong, modifications may not be made to any slave without direct approval from final owner. Therefore, standard preservative modifications have NOT been made to Vivi, nor have cosmetic/designer modifications.

Specialties: Conversation, accompaniment

Designer Comments: I am prevented by law from providing any direct suggestion or discussing lascivious matters in official documentation which will be stored in Hong Kong about their citizens, current or former. I do recommend, however, our standard preservative modifications for any slave you may purchase. On an unrelated note, I have made some observations. Vivi puts forth great effort to provide comfort to her same-gendered colleagues, which is commendable. Vivi spends more than eight hours sleeping every night, a habit which is highly unlikely to be a problem. And Vivi has more tongues than expected (apologies if that is an imperfect translation of Vivi's linguistic abilities). I'm afraid my skill in conveying meaning appropriately has failed here. If you have any questions about further observations, please feel free to visit my office with a translator of Vivi's exact caliber.

[lonestarflight]

Apollo 4 Command and Service Module (CSM-017) being prepared for its A-type mission at the Manned Spacecraft Operations Building in Kennedy Space Center, Florida.

"The Apollo spacecraft for this mission was CSM-017. With a fully fueled launch mass of 30.4 metric tons, this would be the most massive manned spacecraft prototype ever flown. Although it was a Block I type Apollo which would not be employed in subsequent manned flights (a decision which predated the Apollo 1 accident), CSM-017 carried a number of modifications to flight test upgrades for the Block II series spacecraft proposed in the wake of the Apollo 1 accident. These included the umbilical running along the rim of the heat shield from the CM to SM and an outer panel which simulated the new quick-release, outward-opening CM hatch to test its flexible thermal seal in flight. The hatch window was replaced with an instrumented test panel carrying simulations of the seals and gaps between the hatch and the surrounding heat shield. The arrangement of antennas emulated that of the Block II design and the CM used the same type of protective thermal coating that would be employed by the Block II spacecraft.

Diagram showing the interior of CM-017 for the Apollo 4 mission with the electromechanical command controller.

Since there would be no crew, the interior of CM-017 did not carry astronaut couches as well as some flight controls and instrumentation displays just like the earlier unmanned Apollo test flights. Fitted inside of the cabin was a 163-kilogram electromechanical command controller unit that would execute a preprogrammed sequence of commands or respond to ground commands to put the Apollo spacecraft through its paces during independent flight. This design had been successfully used in the earlier AS-202 unmanned test flight."

Date: January 5, 1967

Photo and information from drewexmachina.com: link

[kirkwall-tourism-department]

Dirty Chai Latte

Modern AU where Emmrich is an anthropology professor and Rook is a barista at his favorite coffee shop.

Thank you so much to @ziskandra for beta reading!

also shoutout to @emmg for solving the "what subject would Emmrich teach" question

An oppressive mist hung over the parking lot, waiting to be dispelled by the sun that was preparing to creep over the horizon. The only thing illuminating  the area were the flickering streetlights  hovering in the air, dim bulbs fighting a losing battle against the early morning haze. A thick blanket of leaves rested over the pavement, wet from rain the night before. Silence hung in the air thick as fog, making Rook feel like she was the only person in the world. The plaza was always empty this early in the morning, save for Rook and her prehistoric  CR-V. 

Locking the car door, she passed by the collection of shops that comprised the Crossroads Business Park: a calzone shop she was convinced was a money-laundering front; a computer repair shop so chock-full of spare parts you could barely see the floor; and her favorite, the liquor store. Reaching her own storefront, she grabbed the keys to the door from her carabiner. The door's advanced age made it maddeningly stubborn to unlock. She pulled the wooden slab towards her, pushing it up and then away, all while slowly turning the key in the lock. Once she satisfied its demands, the door groaned open, revealing the still sleeping shop. Shelves lined the walls, housing hundreds of pre-loved books.  Mismatched wooden chairs sat upside down on tables, arranged haphazardly before the serving counter at the far side of the room, which was plastered with posters for avant-garde art exhibitions and shows of local bands. 

She flicked on the neon light that hung in the window- The Lighthouse Cafe. It was the first step of her decade-long morning routine. Despite her nocturnal tendencies, Varric, the owner, had told her she was the only staff member he trusted to be able to handle the morning rush. Especially this time of year- school had started just a month before, the rapidly increasing difficulty curve of the classes now demanding students stay up later to handle the workload. Which meant hordes of demanding, caffeine-deprived college students who usually neglected to tip. She continued through the rote motions of her mornings, clicking on all the different lamps that dotted the floor and tables of the cafe. They filled the small shop with a warm glow, turning it into a refuge from the persistent gloom that haunted the town this time of year. 

Making her way to the back room, she turned on the roaster and threw in a fresh batch of coffee beans. Waking up the ovens, she began to warm up the various pastries  Davrin had made the night before, preparing them for the display case. If she could only smell one thing for the rest of her life, this would be it. The sweet smell of croissants in the oven, punctuated by the pleasant acidity of roasting beans was the perfect thing to start the morning. Walking back to the service counter, she began to pull a triple shot of espresso and foam some milk, an extra-strong latte being the only way she survived mornings this early. Pouring the fresh coffee into her favorite mug, she layered the milk overtop, forming a perfect heart design with a practiced hand. She leaned on the counter, nursing her drink, wishing she could be back in bed.

The bell over the door rang out, reminding her of the one upside to the morning shift. Professor Emmrich Volkarin, an anthropology professor at Northern Thedas University, was always her earliest customer. Emmrich had been a regular at the cafe for several years, and was by far her favorite. As they opened before dawn, it was rare for someone besides him to come into the shop before sunrise, meaning they usually spent at least an hour in the mornings alone together. 

“Good morning, Rook,” the professor greeted her, unspooling the scarf that had been wrapped around his neck. He was always sharply dressed, radiating an aura of refined dignity, and never had a single silver hair out of place, meaning he stuck out like a sore thumb in this dive of a cafe. She never totally understood why he came here, besides how early they opened. When she had asked him a few years ago, he’d simply said that he liked to support local businesses, especially ones that made such good coffee. That had never felt like the full story to her, though.

“No such thing,” she laughed, starting to make his order before he could ask for it. It was always the same thing- a dirty chai latte, served in a mug she had reserved solely for him. She had found it at Target a year or two ago, decorated with little cartoon skulls and gravestones. Fitting, given that his area of academic expertise was funerary traditions from around the world. It was surprising, given his warm demeanor, that he would spend his life focusing on such a depressing topic. She finished her work, handing him the drink. 

“Thank you, Rook.” He took the mug, giving her a warm smile. He handed her his card and, as always, deposited a significant tip in the jar next to the cash register. His generosity was one of the many things that made him number one in her customer ranking. Taking his drink, he walked to his usual spot in the corner closest to the cash register, moving the chair from on top of the table to the floor. He sat on it, bringing out a laptop from his bag and beginning his work in earnest. This was always how he spent his mornings- carefully sipping his drink, poring over a book or working on something for his classes. He wasn’t bothered when Rook hadn’t finished completely  preparing the store by the time their doors opened, and she didn’t mind the extra company as she concluded her routine.

She finished her final opening duties, flipping over the rest of the chairs to the ground, organizing food in the display case, and grinding the freshly roasted beans into a usable medium. As she worked, she allowed herself to steal the occasional glance at the professor. In the best way possible, he looked like he belonged in a black-and-white horror movie. By far, the most anachronistic part of his appearance was the neatly trimmed mustache that she had never seen on another living human being. Somehow, he made it work.

“What are you working on?” she asked, peering over his shoulder as she walked behind him towards the cash register.

“Grading papers- the first of the semester.” 

“What about?”

“My students simply had to choose a funerary practice not used within their own culture. Honestly, the true purpose of the assignment was to allow me to gauge their writing and research skills more than for their own edification. I hate to assign busy work, but it’s a necessary evil to learn where all my students are on their academic journey,” he sighed, staring at his computer screen with dread.

“You’re usually excited about new students. What’s going on?”

“Frustratingly, the administrators of the College of Humanities decided to add my global funeral traditions class to the list of courses that satisfy a general education requirement. Which means I have significantly more students, and very few who seem to actually care for the subject matter.” He rubbed his temples, clearly trying to hide the extent of his annoyance. It was obvious that he made a concerted effort to maintain his composed appearance. His eloquent manner of speech, his refined sense of style, his unwavering kindness all contributed to the image of a perfect gentleman.

“I’m sure once you show them how interesting it is, they’ll get more into it. I mean, I know I have,” she reassured him. Over their many years of friendship, she had learned a lot about funerals- arguably, a concerning amount. It had gotten her many weird looks at parties when someone said something that reminded her of some obscure, morbid trivia fact Emmrich had taught her.

“Rook, what I would give to have more students with your enthusiasm for learning, " he said, giving her a grateful look. Rook felt blush start to prick at her cheeks, wishing she reacted to praise from him in a normal way. As much as she hated it, she couldn’t stop herself from getting butterflies when he smiled at her, complimented her, or generally gave her any positive attention. She had never had a more out of her league crush in her entire life- but as hard as she tried, she hadn't been able to stamp out the flame she carried for him. Obviously, she knew nothing would ever come from it, but that didn’t stop her from trying to impress him. One morning, she had figured out how to make a skull design in the milk foam of his latte.  Davrin had been working that shift with her, and had mercilessly roasted her for pitiful attempts to flirt with a man who was thirty years her senior. It had begun a constant deluge of daddy issues jokes. Her response, that it was impossible for her to have daddy issues since she never even knew her dad, only made the teasing worse. Thankfully, it was rare that their shifts overlapped.

“I see you made a new addition to your gallery.” He pointed to her wrist, seemingly oblivious to the reaction his complement got from her. 

“Yeah!” Rook rolled up her sleeve, revealing the remainder of the tattoo that had been peeking out from underneath it. A griffon was perched on her forearm, its wings wrapping around the sides, the tips of the feathers reaching the sides of her wrist. It was nestled in a sea of other designs, ranging from a small blue dagger she had gotten as a Friday the 13th flash to the waterfall of coffee from a mug on her shoulder that spilled all the way to her elbow. “Left arm is officially finished.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what compelled you to get that design?” he questioned, regarding her arm with academic curiosity. 

“There was a storybook I loved as a kid about a griffon learning to leave the nest and fly. My mom read it to me all the time. I thought it would be cute and it was the perfect shape to fill in the last gap,” she explained, flattered by the genuine interest he showed in something as small as a tattoo she’d gotten. Admittedly, this was not the first time it had happened. He always pointed out when she got a new tattoo or haircut. She always assumed it was a side effect from the analytical eye he’d had to develop for his work as an anthropologist making him overly observant.

“Such an ancient practice. Comparing historical motivations to modern American attitudes towards them is quite fascinating. I recently had a colleague publish a paper on the tradition of Buddhist Sak Yant tattooing in Thailand- I’m sure you’d find it intriguing.”

“I feel like you overestimate my ability to understand stuff like that,” she joked, thinking back to how much she’d struggled to make it through the books she had been assigned back in high school English. As interesting as the topic was, she doubted she would be able to get anything from it.

“Quite the opposite, Rook. I think you underestimate yourself,” he responded, his tone serious. This happened every now and then- she would make an off-handed self-deprecating comment, and he would immediately refute her point, no matter how light-hearted it was intended to be. “I feel like  you would excel, given the proper support in an academic setting.”

The blush returned to her cheeks as she imagined what exactly “proper support” could mean. Going to office hours, somehow ending up laying on his desk, him on top of her, whispering things in her ear that would make her do more than blush, pressing his mouth against her neck, traveling down to…

The doorbell rang out again, snapping her out of her daydream. Neve stood in the entrance, calm appearance belying the tangle of anxiety and stress that always lay just beneath her icy exterior. Neve had been coming to the Lighthouse since she was a freshman, and Rook had watched her caffeine addiction get worse and worse every year. 

“Rook, I need a trainwreck.”

“Neve, you are a trainwreck.” 

When Neve had started her master’s program for journalism, Davrin had added a modified red eye- swapping normal coffee for cold brew- to the menu just for her. Neve walked to the closest table, and slammed her shockingly heavy backpack onto it. She unzipped it, and a waterfall of textbooks that absolutely could be used as murder weapons flooded out.

“My god, Neve, what are you working on?”

“What am I not working on?” she sighed, exasperation weighing heavy on her voice, slumping in the chair and putting her head in her hands. Neve was more than a student- she volunteered all over the city, ran the journalism club, and worked as a TA. She lifted her head up to look at Rook, and raised an eyebrow in question when she saw who Rook was sitting with. “Dr. Volkarin?”

“You know him?” Rook questioned, surprised at Neve’s recognition.

“I know of him. I just wrote an article about him winning the J.I. Staley award for the school paper,” Neve explained slowly, still processing her surprise at seeing two wildly different people sitting at the same table.

“When did you win an award? Why didn’t you tell me?” Rook whipped her head around, Emmrich meeting her surprise with an embarrassed smile. 

“About a month ago, and I can find much more interesting topics to discuss with you than my own achievements," Emmrich explained, before turning his attention to Neve.  “And I read your article- you’re a very skilled writer.”

“I… Thank you, Professor.”

“You’re not my student- you’re welcome to just call me Emmrich,” he said, before his attention was drawn away by a small ding from his laptop. “Ah, I’ve lost track of time. If you’ll excuse me, I must take my leave. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Rook.” He packed up his things and stood, waving goodbye to her as he ventured into the fresh dawn air. As soon as the door closed behind him, Neve snapped her head to Rook, her brows furrowed in confusion.

“Rook. Why do you have a vibe with one of the most successful professors at the school.”

“What?!” Rook gave a laugh of disbelief, staring at Neve like she just told Rook aliens were about to invade the city. She had never fallen under the scrutiny of Neve’s investigative eye before, and she was not a skilled enough liar to obscure the truth that she deeply, desperately wanted Neve’s accusation to be true. “What vibe?”

“Oh my god, the ‘see you tomorrow morning’ thing?”

“He’s just a friendly guy.”

“Rook, someone like him would not come to a coffee shop like this without a special reason to.”

“Have you considered that I’m good at my job and make great coffee?”

“He could get great coffee a million different places in the city- but this is the only place he can get you.”

“Neve, if I get you your coffee, will you drop this?”

“Maybe. No promises.”

Sliding Neve’s trainwreck to her and leaving her to her work, Rook walked back behind the cash register, making herself look busy cleaning espresso machines to avoid any further conversation with Neve. Her comments stayed at the forefront of her mind, making it impossible to actually get anything done. What if Neve was right? Had Emmrich been flirting with her this whole time, and she had misunderstood it as a kindness he extended towards everybody?  What if he was interested in her? What would a relationship between the two of them even look like?

As her thoughts started to get away from her, she dragged them kicking and screaming back into reality. Why would someone like him have any interest in someone like her? Emmrich was successful, handsome, and painfully kind. He wouldn’t have any interest in a broke barista with no direction in life.

Right?

[huramuna]

banshee's lament - chapter 6.

aemond targaryen x stark ofc minor jacaerys velaryon x stark ofc masterlist prev | next

wordcount: 4.6k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, ofc has a service direwolf, i'm taking canon rules and putting them in a blender and taking a shot, arranged marriage, graphic depictions of violence, my terrible, terrible combat writing, descriptions of injuries, allusions to suicide

story playlist

Instead of sleeping that night, Shera read over Aemond’s notes, unable to start once she started. She lit a few candles, shoving Moongeist over in bed. “Taking up too much room, bubby,” she huffed, sitting cross legged and stacking some blankets and pillows into a makeshift book stand. Finally, after adjusting the candles position a few times, she could finally see. She began to read.

‘Ser Symeon was known to wield a long staff with blades at both ends and would spin it in his hands to chop down two men at once.’ the text said. Aemond had written, very crudely and sloppily; ‘Ask Criston about double ended staves. What about double ended morningstars? Is there such a thing?’

Between notes and annotations, he would have pieces of plain parchment shoved between the pages. Upon it were no words, but drawings. They started simply, a shaky depiction of a box, an etching of a vase in charcoal. As the years progressed through the book, his drawings improved. He never strayed from the medium of simple charcoal on parchment, but they were still very good. 

Shera tilted her head, inspecting the folded papers. She wouldn’t have expected Aemond to be the artistic one, she always thought Helaena to take up that mantle with her intricate embroidery of various insects and beyond. But these were on par with etchings pressed into a maester’s journal, or something displayed in a posh palace in Essos. She realized that besides a creative outlet, these served another purpose— it hit her quickly, he used drawing as a way to train his lone eye back into a sense of depth perception and attention to detail. Those two things were what Shera suffered with immensely, still. As adept as she’d become with sewing, she still pricked her finger or accidentally sewed into her skin because she couldn’t see the correct position of the needle. Her designs for her clothes were intricate but hardly ever symmetrical and never able to be duplicated. 

It was so… smart. It was so smart of Aemond to pick up the skill of drawing, something so inherently reliant on sight, to train himself back to some sense of regularity. It was so… Aemond. 

Shera clenched her hand, her nails sinking into her palm. Why didn’t she think of that? Why didn’t she do anything— her sewing was hobbyistic at best and not nearly enough to train her eyesight. She’d spent all that time wallowing in self-pity instead of doing something. 

She felt an acute feeling of despair, then. I should have written to him more. I should’ve bombarded him with letters and given him no choice but to reply. I should’ve pried to Helaena to see what he was doing beyond niceties. 

Letting out a sigh, she pushed those thoughts away. 

Out of curiosity, she flipped to the end of the tome and looked for the latest drawing. Three pieces of paper fell from the back, onto her lap. 

Opening the first one, it was a depiction of Helaena holding Maelor near the window. There were streams of light coming through the window and the sun was shining, not a cloud in the sky. Maelor was smiling, his chubby fist held out to the curtain, the small indent of his dimpled cheeks even visible. The detail was… exquisite, it was like looking at a mirror of such a situation.

Opening the second one, it was smeared with charcoal dust. Unlike the first drawing, this one took up the entirety of the page. It was hard to discern for Shera what she was looking at, at first. Leaning more to the light, it became clear. It was a portrait of Vhagar, evident in the pallor of her scales and lack of horns. Each scale was detailed impeccably, some wrought with scars and marks from her old age. The sag of her throat was held up in regard, her teeth jagged and crooked, opening in a sneer or even a laugh. 

Shera imagined what Vhagar’s laugh would sound like— something out of children’s stories, like a cackling witch, smoke billowing from her nostrils as she swirled a cauldron of bubbling green ichor. It made her giggle, the thought of Vhagar hobbling from a hut in the woods with a cane made of gnarled oak, waving away the children who dared to set foot on her property. She would need to tell Aem— someone about her depiction some day. 

She never did have the chance to see Vhagar up close, as much as she had wanted to. Aemond had promised to take her for a ride when it was daytime, so she could see the expanse of the ocean from the sky. But he never did. He wasn’t able to. Something in her heart clenched as she thought of the fact that Aemond only got one ride upon Vhagar with his full sight, one ride upon his destiny while he was still whole. Before it was taken from him— from… both of them. 

She unfolded the third paper. It was a drawing of a woman, someone Shera didn’t recognize. But they… felt familiar. The woman had billowing curls and a snarky smile on her face, eyes lit up with fire and fervor. The positioning of the piece made it feel like she was looking back to someone— her arm outstretched in an offering, as if to beckon the person looking towards them. 

Shera wasn’t sure what to make of it— the other two drawings had been something she knew and could understand. But she didn’t understand this one. She wondered who the woman was, even after she’d drifted to sleep.

—

“Shera, are you warm?” Helaena asked softly as she observed Shera fanning herself with her hand, while Moongeist was panting furiously. 

“She ‘ought to be,” Aegon grumbled, arms folded over his chest as he looked out the slats of the wheelhouse window. “She’s still dressed like she’s in the North. Winter isn’t coming down here, Shera. You can take off the fur.” 

“… a bit warm, yes,” Shera muttered, narrowing her gaze at Aegon. It wasn’t simply just the climate temperature, but the fact that there were so many people in this wheelhouse at present, all warm bodies exuding heat.

Helaena had Maelor on her lap with Aegon to her right, and the twins to her left, who were constantly swapping seats. Aemond was sitting across from Helaena and next to Shera. He tried to give her as much room as possible, but their thighs were still touching. Moongeist was sitting on the floor, riding out the bumps. 

“Who’s bloody idea was it to stuff all of us into one wheelhouse?” Aegon continued, a bit crabby due to his lack of wine. 

“We’re almost there, Aegon. You can stop your whining at any time.” Aemond finally uttered. He had been quiet the whole ride up to the Kingswood, focusing solely on looking out the window. 

“I will stop whining when there is a breeze, a bottle in my hand and that dog is about ten feet away from me,” the oldest prince huffed. “He smells.” 

“Aegon, you smell bad on the best of days. Moongeist just needs a bath— do you even know what those are?” Shera interjected, coming to her wolf’s defense in a heartbeat. 

Helaena, Maelor and the twins giggled heartily. Aemond cracked a grin at the joke. 

“Uncle Aemond should dunk you in the river again, kepa,” Jaehaerys tittered, still laughing away. “You might catch a fish in your mouth again!” 

Aegon rolled his eyes and sighed— his lips perking up into a soft smile. “Maybe Uncle Aemond and the dog can fish in the river instead. Isn’t that what wolves do? Catch fish?” 

“… that’s bears,” Shera said with an unamused tone. 

The wheelhouse came to a creaking stop and Aegon was the first outside. Moongeist was next, followed by Maelor, then the twins. 

Helaena helped Shera down the steps, Aemond behind her. 

In a turn of events, Shera unclasped the fur stole from her shoulders, as well as the outer layer of her dress, tossing it back into the wheelhouse. She instantly felt lighter, the breeze cooling her shoulders. She had on a gray silk dress with cutout shoulders and a high throat clasp. It was flowy, almost weightless material. She adjusted her hat, which was a gift from Helaena. It was a sun hat with a veil sewed around it, coming down just below Shera’s jawline. 

“Ah, finally, you look somewhat like Shera and not a furred beast,” Aegon whistled, walking backwards towards the clearing. 

“I don’t wish to be encumbered any more than I already am in the wilderness. If I am chased by a boar, I don’t need ten pounds of fabric weighing me down.” 

“If you’re chased by a boar, then we will be eating roasted boar that very night, won’t we, Moongeist?” Hela cooed to the wolf, who was letting Maelor climb on his back.

“It feels strange,” Aemond murmured behind Shera, his hand ghosting over the small of her back to help guide her, as Moongeist was playing nanny to Maelor– which she didn’t entirely mind. “To be back here after all of this time– all of us.”

“Except Daeron,” Shera reminded him gently, her hand going down to pat Moongeist on pure instinct, but upon realizing he wasn’t there, she let out a noise of discontentment, her hand going to her chest to rest upon her furs, which weren’t there either. “Ugh, I don’t know what to do with my hands when I’m walking alone.”

“Moongeist is the new Daeron,” Aegon called back, now having Jaehaera upon his shoulders, while Jaehaerys was on Helaena’s shoulders. “I’m sure your dog can squire just as good as Daeron, anyhow.”

“You could always hold Aemond’s hand, Shera, like you used to,” Hela giggled, Aegon howling in turn.

“Oh, please, you didn’t get me anything for my nameday, brother– count this as my gift if you and Shera skip through the flowers hand in hand!” 

Aemond scowled. “If my niece weren’t upon your shoulders, brother, you’d be on the ground, preferably with a black eye.” 

Aegon stuck his tongue out mockingly and Jaehaera imitated him.

Soon enough, the troupe was sitting down in a grassy clearing, blanket over the dirt. The twins were stained blue already from the amount of blueberries they consumed, laying on their backs in the sun like two turtles. 

Aegon had managed to open a bottle of wine, sipping on it frequently while snacking on cheese and crackers.

 Helaena had a leaf insect crawling on her fingers, murmuring to herself as she observed it carefully. “They do not bleed… the mulberry leaves, they walk, animated upon mine hand… when crushed, they do not bleed, no blood… the leaves have no blood,” she hummed, the foliage-like creature.

“Do they change color with the seasons, Hela?” Shera asked as she, too, watched the bug. 

“Yes, they do,” the princess replied, violet eyes not moved from the insect. “In Winter, they die and crumble like the leaves, becoming gray and desiccated under the earth… but they’re just sleeping.”

“Mumma, mumma, tadboles,” Maelor squealed as Moongeist padded into the clearing with the toddler upon his back. “There’s… tadboles!”

Helaena was snapped from her reverie by his squeak. She extended her hand to offer the bug to Shera for a moment before an expression akin to recognition came over her face. “I’ll… put him back on the plant.” she murmured low.

Shera thought about her�� disassociation spell from the previous day while staring up at the sky. They were in an enclosed clearing with tall trees all around them, the scent of pine sap wafting through the air. She watched birds pass overhead in the sky— they looked like robins, always in a flock. 

There was a large, dead tree near the edge of the forest. Its bark was stripped from its trunk, laden with woodpecker holes, cracked and splintered. It had a larger opening in it, showing that it was hollow inside. She wondered if a family of raccoons lived there. 

Turning her head to another part of the Kingswood, she felt that waft of breeze over her face again, just like yesterday. The same cream colored blur whizzed past her without any noise, merely the sensation of movement. She tried to follow its path, jolting up suddenly with alarming speed. 

She lost track of it. 

Putting a hand to her head, she groaned. She sat up way too fast, sending her brain into a tizzy. Glancing around, everyone else was gone— save for Aemond, who was staring at Shera. 

“Where did they go?” she asked, her mind suddenly off of the creature evading her vision and moreso focused on the fact that everyone was gone. 

“They left half an hour ago, Shera,” Aemond said, a brow raised. “They went to the creek.” 

“Oh.” Half an hour ago? 

“Helaena said you do this,” he continued. “Disassociating?” 

“It’s… new. I think.” she muttered, pulling her legs up to her chest. 

“You should go to a maester about that.” 

“Mm. And why are you still here?” she tried to ask politely, but it ended up coming out a bit harshly. 

“Well, I couldn’t very well leave you alone here while you were… occupied. That’d be depraved indifference.” he huffed.

“Depraved indifference? Like leaving a dog tied up outside in a storm?” she grumbled, digging a finger into the dirt. “Is it so hard for you to say you care about me?” she uttered suddenly, slightly mortified that it came out of her mouth without thinking. Well, I suppose the cat is out of the bag now. 

Aemond stared at her, the pupil of his eye waned to a slit. His jaw clenched and the corner of his mouth twitched. “I don’t need to say it for it to be true,” he said. “Words mean nothing, they’re empty and meaningless. Actions are everything— keep that in mind.” 

“You write a lot for someone who says words are empty and meaningless,” she pressed, the flare of indignation broiling in her— something that only surfaced when talking to Aemond. 

“You misunderstand me, Shera,” he said her name like a blessing and a curse, his lip twitching again. “Someone can say all they like. That they care, that they will do something, that they will fix something— but their words are empty unless they actually do it.” 

Her eye drifted once more, seeing the cream blur dive into the forest. She didn’t know what came over her, her limbs spurring into action as she got up with a start, bolting after it. She heard Aemond’s garbled voice behind her as she ran through the forest, eye unable to focus on it, but she could see it. Glimpses of it, calling to her as it bobbed and weaved through the branches.

Shera, Shera. She heard the whispers of some unfamiliar being in the back of her mind like an itch, a buzz at the base of her skull. It was calling to her, pulling her to it. She lost her shoes somewhere along the way, bare feet traipsing on the ground, cutting into jagged rock and sharp branches.

Aemond’s voice was more urgent now, but she still couldn’t understand what he was saying. And she… she was outrunning him. She felt like a doe, agile and free and the pain of her feet, bleeding and punctured, didn’t even bother her. 

Come, come, little wolf! Come.

The dark of the forest let up into a wide expanse of blue sky, blue sky and the scent of the ocean… the blur was gone and all she felt was open air as she skidded off of the cliff. It was freeing, those splinters of wings bursting through her elytra, cracking and flitting. She treaded nothingness…

Then her wrist snapped, pulled right out of its socket as she was yanked back, her ears ringing as the adrenaline died down. The breeze of the sea stopped as she was enveloped in warmth, in fire. She glanced up– Aemond was staring down at her with a wide eye, hair sticking to his forehead with the sheen of sweat.

“What the… fuck, Shera?” he breathed, his chest heaving. “Are you trying to kill yourself?” 

“No– n… no,” she croaked in turn, her uninjured hand grasping into the leather of his doublet with such force that her knuckles were white, veins bulging against her skin. “The… it…” her tongue felt tied, throat dry as the pain of everything caught up to her at once. Her bleeding feet, her ballooning lungs that couldn’t catch enough oxygen, her dislocated wrist, hand aloft at an odd angle. 

Moongeist barked somewhere in the distance, howl echoing through the forest.

She did not remember much after that.

—

The next moon was quiet for Shera as she recovered from her outing. The maesters set her wrist back into place and set it taut with a sling. Her feet were bandaged and she was prescribed bed rest for at least a week. They tried to give her milk of the poppy, but she refused– she couldn’t stand how it made her head swim, swim more than it already did.

Cregan blamed Aemond, threatening to take Shera back to Winterfell until the wedding. Rhaenyra calmed him, citing that Shera wouldn’t go out of the keep without a more attentive chaperone.

Once she was mostly recovered, lunched with Helaena every day and watched Aemond spar with Criston every other morning– but she usually hid behind the ramparts to where he wouldn’t see her– she felt oddly shy about watching him. She hadn’t had any disassociation spells, nor saw anything of the mystery blur. However, she did have Ser Erryk Cargyll as her sworn sword, issued by Rhaenyra herself. 

She hated being followed, being observed under a lens like she was a child. Indignation broiled in her chest– but one eve, while passing Aemond in the hall, he didn’t say anything to her. They hadn’t spoken since the incident, where Shera was fairly sure that Aemond was convinced she tried to kill herself by jumping off the cliff– she wanted to explain that wasn’t the case, to explain everything she’d been experiencing. But he would think her mad. Surely.

She pulled herself out of the corset after, slipping into a more comfortable, loose fitting garment. Shera had sent away her maids and told them not to return until the morn. She didn’t wish to be fretted and pulled at like a sickly hen, feathers plucked before the slaughter.

Slowly, she untangled the veil from her hair and set it aside. Fingers gliding through her braids, she let her hair fall in curled tresses down her back, resting well past her bottom once it was all out. 

The last thing to come off was her leather choker— she placed it on her boudoir, the tips of her nails ghosting over the still prominent scar there. She abhorred looking in the mirror, seeing nothing but a banshee looking back. 

Even though she had retired to her chambers, she didn’t sleep. She found it hard to sleep most nights and ended up pacing. It was late in the night and most of the Keep were asleep, save for the occasional guard. She found it the perfect time to sneak out to the tunnels that crisscrossed throughout Maegor’s Holdfast. 

She wished to test and see if she truly remembered the path that led to the water gardens— which she hoped still sparkled just as wondrously under moonlight as they did before. 

Moongeist was curled up atop her bed, snoozing away. He worked so hard to guide Shera that she loathed to wake him, so she didn’t. She wasn’t completely hopeless without her wolf guide, but it could be teetering on the edge of stupidity, to wander the dimly lit secret corridors without her safety net. Stupidity that masked itself in bravery in her mind. 

Glancing back at her veil and choker, she left them behind as she descended into the tunnel— she would be out of sight, and wished to let herself breathe for once, uninhibited and unveiled. She pressed to the wall for balance, her nightgown fisted in one hand, the other committing the curve of the stone to her mind, for later. If her memory served her correctly, she should be passing the royal apartments and the other guest rooms.

The sound of hushed voices caught Shera’s attention. In hindsight, it is rude to eavesdrop upon conversations– but she couldn’t help herself. 

The somewhat familiar gruff sound of Daemon’s voice met her ears as they perked up, pressed against the wooden backing of a bookshelf that led to the tunnel from, what she could assume, was Rhaenyra and Daemon’s chamber.

“She won’t be beholden to us, Nyra,” Daemon’s voice whispered in an urgent, hushed tone. “She was raised under them, she has no reason to like us.”

“The North is a powerful ally we need on our side once the time comes, Daemon. Cregan is already beholden to us by the oath of his father,” she breathed, “This is merely another way to bring the Starks into the fold. I’d rather them be ready to defend us, Shera, at a moment’s notice.” 

“Beyond the allegiances, the betrothals, the treaties; she is hardly a worthy vessel of Valyrian seed. A baby with dragon’s blood would tear that soft bellied wolf apart. Even then, are we so sure she isn’t still… in favor of Alicent’s brood? You saw her with the two at the dinner.”

“You’re thinking too far ahead, Daemon. I suppose I do love your… farsightedness, but we must focus on nearsightedness. We will deal with the issues of the girl’s mettle after I’m on my throne,” Rhaenyra turned, a finger pressed to Daemon’s jaw, which was clenched in agitation. “You needn’t worry. If her constitution proves weak, she shan’t survive the court— and any trace of allegiance she might have to my half siblings shall be snuffed out swiftly when the time comes.”

Shera felt her sudden burst of confidence fester into bile rising from the back of her throat. Once the time comes? Her stomach churned– she knew that there had been tension between the two sides of the King’s family but she hadn’t expected such planning and cunning already, before the gauntlet had even been thrown down, before the King had even passed– 

And she was a part of that plan, apparently. Moreso a link to her brother’s allegiances and by extension, the North. 

The tunnel she was in suddenly felt very small, like the walls were closing in on her. Panic bubbled in her chest like frothing sea water, the undercurrent threatening to drag her out to the endless expanse, water filling her lungs until they burst.

Her bare feet stumbled as she continued forward, trying to recognize any of the exits from the labyrinth, but it seemed fruitless. Tears welled, stinging and blinding her even further. She wasn’t quite sure how long she had been lost for– but it felt like the better part of an hour before she finally pushed one opening forward, falling out onto the stone ground of another room in the holdfast.

Shera sniffed, her hair falling in front of her face like inky tendrils, clinging to her tear streaked face. Her knee was skinned from how hard she’d fallen, blood trickling down her skin and staining her nightgown. Glancing around, her vision was beyond fuzzy, her head spinning. 

Idiot, idiot. She chastised herself further, fists supplanted into the ground, her nail beds scraping against the unforgiving stone as she attempted to pull herself up. 

She hoped to every God, the old and the new, that the room wasn’t occupied.

“Alicent? Alicent… is that you?” 

Fuck.

Shera froze, the croaking voice directed at… her? It was like hearing the Stranger speak, whispering in her ear. Surely it was a figment of her imagination. 

“Ali-cent,” it spoke again, followed by a hacking cough and a drawn out moan. “My… my medicine— have… you brought it?”

Shaking her head, she ventured closer to the bed where the voice was coming from, a lone beeswax candle lit on the bedside. Some incense was also burning, an intense smell of concentrated herbs that was almost too much for even Shera— what was this? Finally reaching the bedside, she was in horror at what she saw. 

Was this… the King? 

He looked more corpse than human, cheeks sunken and teeth missing and blackened. His body mass was half of what it used to be— he… he was so small now, his labored breathing, moreso wheezing, wracking his body. His eye was missing. 

She held back the urge to vomit as she got closer, now knowing what the incense mask was for. He smelled terrible— complete of death and rot, as if his body was already withering and decaying. It was on par with the scent of a dead elk she and Moongeist had found a few years before while exploring just outside of Winterfell. Its body was bloated and stinking, maggots writhing from the orifices of its body. It was one of the most disgusting sights she’d ever seen— ‘twas tainted meat, as the ravens and foxes wouldn’t even touch it. 

The King— Viserys the Peaceful. He was no more a king presently, akin more to fodder for vultures. No, she didn’t think that vultures would taint themselves with his rotten flesh. 

She peered on. Viserys wasn’t much older than Daemon, was he? And… as much as she hated to admit it, Daemon was only just past his prime, mayhaps still even in it. But Viserys… looked aged to about eighty or ninety, his skin liver spotted and plagued with… some disease she couldn’t identify. His hair was all but gone, sticking to the skin of his skull in small patches, like a child’s doll that’d been mutilated.

“… y-your grace?” Shera whispered, unsure of what to do.

“A-ah, forgive… me… dearest, there is a glint upon… your eye.”

Yes, and you lack one, decrepit corpse. Shera resisted the urge to huff. 

“The… the vial—,”

“This one, your grace?” she murmured, seeing a small phial of liquid. She sniffed it, the overwhelming scent of milk of the poppy hitting her nostrils.

“Mm.”

She handed the medicine to him, watching him struggle to even lift his bony, gaunt hand. She brought the lip of it to his mouth, listening to him greedily drink it as if it were the most delicious of wines.

“Much… better, thank you,” he breathed, putting his hand back over his forehead. “Have… you thought much more upon… Rhaenyra’s proposal?”

“Her proposal, your grace?” Shera responded meekly. She still wasn’t sure what to do in this situation, where the king thought she was Queen Alicent. Her hands shook as she put the empty vial back on the nightstand.

“Helaena… and Jacaerys… ‘tis a fine match… it would… reunite our… the… the house of the dragon.” 

Gods, what year did he think it was?

“... I am still mulling it over, my king,” she responded, glancing around the room for any way out.

“And… have Otto… send a raven to Lord Stark…” he wheezed. “Propose a union… between your ward… and Aemond. The North… has stayed out of the… realm for far too long…”

Aemond? There were talks of a betrothal to Aemond? Her heart began to race, even though she knew that the king’s mind was at least twelve years in the past or more– the mere thought of… it could’ve been true, it could’ve happened– 

She bit her lip until blood welled to the surface. Everything could have been different.

Did Alicent refuse? Was there… even a raven sent? 

“Yes, your grace,” she sniffed, holding back tears. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Alicent.”