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jaimeslanisters · 1 year

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the pawn in every lover's game (part nine)

Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!Reader

When you’re ten, your father sends you to King's Landing to befriend a princess and woo a prince. A lioness growing up amongst dragons is a dangerous thing indeed.

crossposted on ao3 masterlist word count: 13.4k notes: i lost complete control of myself while writing so this is a MASSIVE chapter daskjfljdsfl enjoy (: it's melee time

Jocasta Lannister is an undeniably sweet girl, you know this. On the ride from Lannisport, when all of your other cousins were eagerly making their flower wreaths for knights that may or may not ask for their favors, she had sat with you in the wheelhouse, complimenting your choice of wildflowers and the way you had braided the stems together. There is not one calculating bone in her body - she’s all softness and gentle smiles. The Seven had smiled down at her when they had granted her a boon in being born a Lannister but there was nothing lionlike about her. Nothing that would mean she had had any bad intentions when she had given Victor Florent one of the dozens of Lannister-themed handkerchiefs you have made as embroidery practice throughout your life.

Jocasta Lannister is a sweet girl but she’s a dumb girl and that, if you’re feeling uncharitable and you are, is almost worse than being outright malicious. If malice had driven her hand, you could be impressed that she had managed to maneuver you into exactly the position she wanted, that her and Victor’s scheme had gone flawlessly and that you were simply outplayed. That was respectable. Except, instead of a secret plan behind her back, she had given him the handkerchief out of a misguided attempt to help.

That was just annoying.

“I’m not angry, Jocasta,” you reiterate, feeling your head pulse in frustration. Your cousin looks close to tears, her cheeks a bright red as she holds herself back gamely. You didn’t want to have this conversation - you honestly hadn’t even planned on it. Your plan had been to just give her a cold shoulder seeing as, sooner rather than later, she would be shipped right back to Lannisport. There were more important things to worry about. The tea with the Florents was meant to happen in a few minutes and you were supposed to walk over with your father and uncle together. Except now Jason is off who knows where and Tyland had gone out to look for him to drag him along and so, of course, Jocasta had chosen this exact moment to “confess all her sins” to you. You didn’t want to deal with this - not now. Not with the tea looming over your head. Not with Erren thrice-damned Florent and his son waiting for you. Not with Aemond participating in a melee today, something that you know he would have never done if it wasn’t for Victor Florent forcing his hand.

You had bigger things to deal with than Jocasta’s guilt but, instead of snapping at her, you take a deep breath, trying to force your annoyance down. “It’s alright. Honestly. It’s over and it’s done with. It’s fine.”

Jocasta sniffles, her big round green eyes peering up at you with guilt. She really is a sweet girl. “But it’s not! I didn’t know that he wasn’t actually courting you! Just… the way he talked about you and your sweetness-” you snort here but your cousin continues on as if she hasn’t even heard you. “And your kindness and your beauty… I just thought there was no way a man could say all of that if he wasn’t seeing you!”

You sigh, rubbing at your temples and debating the pros and cons of just leaving. “You’re young, Jocasta. Men will say whatever they must to get what they want. It was… an honest mistake. One I hope you will not repeat again soon,” you say, reaching out to pat her on the shoulder. She may have only been three years - if that - younger, but you feel the small age gap between the two of you as if it’s three decades instead.

Lannisport is a safer place than King’s Landing, you reason as you watch Jocasta wipe at her eyes. There’s no need for her to be cautious of the intentions of others there, not when every other person is another Lannister.

Your cousin offers you a wobbly smile even as, behind her, Jason and Tyland enter the apartments, deep in discussion as they speak in lowered tones. “Thank you,” she murmurs pitifully, her voice still shaky. “Ser Victor is wrong about Prince Aemond. He must truly care for you if he’s entering the melee. It’s not at all what he thinks.”

You blink, eyes going sharp as you stare down your guileless relative. Jocasta, after a moment, notices your gaze and she shifts awkwardly in place, looking as if she’s torn between breaking down into tears again or bolting for her room. “What do you mean by that?” You ask, voice soft, feeling ice creep down your spine. “What did Victor Florent say about Aemond?”

She looks hesitant and frightened, and, when you finally reach your limit and reach over to grab her wrist, she bursts into nervous tears. Behind her, Jason and Tyland look baffled but you don’t have time for them, pulling Jocasta close so you can look her directly in the eye.

“Jocasta,” you repeat, feeling your patience grow thinner and thinner until you’re certain it will snap. “What did Victor say?”

“I-I didn’t… I’m sorry!” She wails and you fight the urge to roll your eyes, wishing she would grab control of herself for just a moment. “He said… He said that Prince Aemond took advantage of your friendship with Princess Helaena so he could use you to better his standing in court! And that he frightens the ladies with his eye and you’re also frightened but you’re much too polite to say that so you just tolerate him! Ser Victor told me that Prince Aemond has scared off the other men in court from you and he knew that if you could, you would give Ser Victor your favor but that you’re frightened of the Prince’s reaction an-”

“That’s quite enough,” You cut in, barely containing your rage. They’re not her words but that doesn’t mean the urge to strike her goes away and instead, you pull your hand away from her, gripping it tightly with your other one to hold yourself in check. Your cousin blinks at you, her eyes reddened, and you stiffly nod your head at her, dismissing her without words. She immediately bolts and you stare down at the patch of ground she had once occupied, taking deep breaths and trying to find some calm within yourself so you don’t do something rash like enter the melee yourself just to get the chance to try and stab Victor Florent.

Victor Florent was a fool. Aemond was the One-Eyed Prince yet he could see you more clearly than Victor ever could.

Wishing you could break something just to watch it shatter, you calm your beating heart, swallowing your rage and pushing it down.

Not now. Not now.

But soon.

After a few moments, when calmness finds you, you look up at your watching father and cousin, and you smile at them, the mask coming easy to you. “Shall we go?” You ask and they look back, their perfectly identical faces quizzical.

Jason opens his mouth to say something but Tyland clears his throat, elbowing his brother in the ribs. “Of course, little one,” he says, stepping up to you and offering you his arm. “The Florents are waiting.”

——————————–

Regretfully, the gardens are lovely today and, as you and your family greet the Florents, you wish that the day wasn’t so pleasant as well. Spring is well underway and, around the terrace your father has selected as a meeting place, beautiful red roses bloom, their smell wafting through the air pleasantly. Looking at them, however, reminds you of the crown Victor had given you - a crown that some servant had probably thrown away by now - and you stubbornly look away from them, sliding into your seat as soon as you can.

“I’m thankful you could make the time to host this tea, my lord,” Victor says the moment the men all sit as well, leaning across the table eagerly. His gray eyes are bright in the sun and it makes him look that much younger, more boy than anything resembling a man. “I’ll admit - I have been hoping for quite some time that we could meet like this under these circumstances.”

Erren laughs, patting his son on the back. He’s steady, confident, and you watch him carefully, looking for a reason why. “It’s nearly all he writes to me about! Nothing about his training or his service in the City Watch. Instead, he just writes about your daughter’s beauty and kindness.”

“I’m surprised my lord could fill so many letters with that sort of talk,” you reply, smiling sweetly at the two Florents as their gazes swing away from your father to look at you. “We haven’t had many conversations in the past for you to be so well acquainted with my nature.” At your side, Tyland jabs you in the side with his fingers and, under the table, you swat back at him, maintaining your pleasant expression.

Erren’s eyes darken but Victor only smiles shyly. “I cherish our precious few conversations and, I’ll admit, I have admired you from afar for some time now.”

You admire from afar because that’s the distance I keep you at you think sourly, remembering all the times you’ve had to duck into other rooms or start impromptu conversations with whoever was closest just to avoid his overly lengthy monologues about how he could support and maintain you with only his savings and his love.

“I’ve tried a few times before, actually, to secure a betrothal meeting but your uncle always denied me,” Victor continues, laughing slightly as if it was a grand joke, and you almost feel a flash of pity for his clueless bumbling. He’s a clueless fox in a den of lions and dragons and he doesn’t feel the danger all around. All he sees is you and you wonder, not for the first time, how he could have survived this long.

Tyland gives him a close-lipped smile. “My niece has two older sisters. It’d be inappropriate if she were to get engaged before them so you can understand my hesitancy in entering any such negotiations.”

“Ah, yes, but I’ve met Lord Garth Tarly,” Erren cuts in, smiling that awful empty smile of his. The golden fox brooch on his lapel catches the light, shining and blinding. “Charming young lad. Shame that he had to become the Lord of Horn Hill so young but he seems to have handled his ascension with grace and maturity. From what I’ve heard, he seems to be quite besotted with the Lady Tyshara. He’s refusing all marriage pacts that come his way for her.”

Jason nods even as he reaches for the carafe of wine on the table to pour himself a drink. “My Tyshara visited the Reach on a tour a year or two ago. She met Lord Tarly and they’ve kept up a correspondence since. I had no idea he was so charmed by her.”

He did have an idea. You all had an idea. If Garth Tarly could have it his way, he and Tyshara would have long been married by now, Cerelle’s marital status be damned. Once, she let you read the letters he always sends and you had been left with the distinct impression that, even if the Maiden herself descended from the Seven Heavens and begged to marry Lord Tarly, he would refuse in hopes that he would one day soon be united with his beloved Golden Beauty.

Of course, none of you were about to let Erren Florent know that, especially since the inappropriateness of being betrothed prior to Cerelle and Tyshara was one of the thin shields you could wield against him. Instead, you tilt your head in surprise, eyes going wide in mock shock.

Erren seemingly does not mind though that no one in your family is confirming or denying the rumor. “Regardless, it seems that young Lord Tarly is charmed by some lady, Lady Tyshara or otherwise. There can be no other explanation for his remaining unmarried. Of course, he is still very young and he has a younger brother to serve as his heir but it’s terribly shocking for him to refuse all betrothal meetings.”

“What other men choose to do with their marriage beds is their business,” Jason firmly says, laughing to soften his edge. “I’m sure Lord Tarly knows what he’s doing.”

“Of course,” Erren immediately concedes even though his eyes flash in victory. “I have no doubt he has a plan in mind. He may have even already chosen a bride.”

You glance at your father, hiding a wince when relief briefly flickers on his face as he nods. He’s showing his cards too soon and too early and Erren Florent, while a bumbling idiot who insults more than he charms, is not so complete a fool that he would miss the way Jason relaxes when you move off Tyshara’s all-but-official betrothal. He knows and that knowledge gives him the confidence to pursue the same with you.

“If your family could accept my suit, then we can hold off any betrothal announcements,” Victor says and you can’t quite help but tense as he lays his intentions bare. You had come to this tea knowing that it would be a discussion, a debate, over your hand but you’re still knocked off kilter by it being laid out so plainly. It makes it all too real and you can almost feel the thorns of the crown he had given you pressing into your head. “We can simply… have an understanding.”

Erren nods in agreement, rapping his knuckles against the wooden table. “My son has much to offer your daughter. He will become Master of Arms at Brightwater Keep when the current one retires and then inherit the traditional apartments for that position for the two of them to live in. The two of them will be able to travel and he will bestow countless crowns upon her. He’s already named her Queen of Love and Beauty here for the joust and I have no doubt he’ll be able to recreate his success with the melee and win her another crown. This is only the beginning of the honors for Lady Lannister.”

Honor, not honors.

For a moment, you can feel your mother’s presence as if she’s physically next to you and you suddenly miss her with such a force that it knocks the breath out of you. Your mother should be here, staring down the Florents with more ferocity than your father ever could. You could only imagine her face at hearing someone promise the daughter of a Westerling honors.

Honor, not honors. You can hear her voice say, as hard and unyielding as the very mountain that Casterly Rock was carved into. My daughter does not need to be crowned by your boy to be worthy of being a Queen of Love and Beauty.

Victor leans across the table, staring at you beseechingly, and you gaze back, eyes colder than they had been before. He doesn’t notice, too blinded by his own yearning, and you marvel at how someone so dense could prove such a skilled fighter. “Aside from that, I offer you my love. I’d cherish you, my lady, from now until the end of our days. If you were to marry me, I would dedicate my life to you and to any children you would bear me. Brightwater Keep is also not far from Horn Hill, my lady. Only a three day ride. You could visit your sister whenever you wished. Raise our children at her side.”

You bite your tongue, wishing you could spit back his offers in his face.

I have a sister here in King’s Landing and you’d have me abandon her to the snakes and rats of this awful city.

In lieu of responding, you blankly nod, your face calm and expressionless, before you look over at your father, deferring the topic.

Jason, to his credit, does not seem thrown by the proposal. He’s frowning slightly, as if deep in thought, before he slowly shakes his head. “Regretfully, my lords, I will have to decline your offer,” he says, sounding genuinely upset to be saying it. “I couldn’t part with my daughter, not yet, and I’m sure my brother will agree with me. Perhaps after Cerelle and Tyshara find their husbands, I could reconsider but for right now, she will remain as she is.”

Victor’s eyes go wide as if he hadn’t been expecting the rejection, but Erren nods slowly, expression calm. “Understandable,” Lord Florent replies smoothly. “All we ask is that you keep my son in mind when considering her future options. She is a treasure amongst women - do not let her be squandered on men who would not appreciate her. Victor can offer her something that other noblemen cannot.”

It’s a testament to your willpower that you don’t snort in response. Instead, you smile. “I thank you for your kind words, my lord, and am regretful that this meeting was not more productive for us all. I trust my father will ensure that whoever I will marry in the future will treat me with the respect I deserve as both a lady and a Lannister.”

Erren watches you sternly, his pale eyes cold as he considers you. On a certain level, you almost respect the tenacity with which he’s approaching his son’s marriage. Victor is his fourth son and his house’s legacy has long since been secured. You’re not sure whether it’s solely for Victor’s benefit or whether or not he cares more about his house’s power but either way, there’s no doubt in your mind that Erren Florent will do what he needs to secure your hand.

You have little hope that you’ve managed to charm Lord Florent - unlike his son, he’s well aware of your disdain for the proposed match - but you doubt you needed charm to make him realize what a boon a marriage with you would be for his house. You’re a Lannister, one of five daughters to be sure, but a Lannister is still a Lannister. Your dowry would be a windfall for even a major house, let alone the Florents who land somewhere solidly in the middle of the social ranking.

You meet his gaze, your own eyes steady and calm, and the annoyance that flickers on Erren’s face when you do not quail under his stare almost brings a smile to your lips.

The tea after is a dreadful affair. You mostly sit quietly the entire time as Jason and Tyland discuss with Erren how the current royal wedding compares with the ones prior. No one is expecting you to participate and a part of you wonders if your father and uncle chose this topic to spare you from having to play nice for longer than necessary. You twiddle with the ends of your sleeves, wishing you could just leave. There is no reason for your presence - the betrothal had been denied and would be denied for the foreseeable future - but etiquette demands you stay and you long to just go, away from this tea and away from the Florents.

You wish you were at the tourney grounds already. At least there, you could breathe again though you doubt you could relax. As much confidence as you have in Aemond’s skills, you’re not oblivious to the danger he’s facing. The melee is always more brutal than the joust, more prone to maimings and deaths. Even at the tourney for Loren’s birth, five knights had been grievously injured and three more had died. Even now, you can still perfectly remember sitting by Cerelle’s side, clinging to her hand as you had watched a knight drive his armored fist into another man’s face, punching over and over until all that remained was a bloody pulp, completely unrecognizable as a person. If you think hard enough, you can remember the way your ears had rang for hours after as the screams of excitement from the crowd echoed in your memories.

Jousting was dangerous but it was impersonal. Knights wore helmets, their faces hidden behind a steel visor. They lifted it at times to speak but when the actual jousting happened, all they could see of their opponents was a faceless helmet. Melees were far from that. Most men wore helmets, yes, but they could hardly wear the visors in one on one combat. In some cases, they took it off completely in order to have the biggest range of vision. In those battles, their opponent had a face. Their bloodlust had a target.

The matches were meant to last until the fifth strike or until one of the opponents yielded but it hardly ever went that way. With the screams of the crowd in their ears, driving them to go further and further, most fighters went until their opponent was incapacitated and most fighters refused to stop until injury forced their hand. It was the bloodiest event by far and of course, it had to be the one that Aemond was entering.

As a prince, he should be safe. It’s hard to imagine any knight risking retaliation from the Hightowers if he harmed the son of the king in a match. But then again, the whole realm knew that Viserys did not care about any of his children from Alicent. He had yet to make an appearance at any of the wedding events and you somehow doubted he would. If someone were to harm Aemond, Viserys would not rise to his defense. He hadn’t in the past and he wouldn’t in the future and that made Aemond vulnerable.

Biting your lip, you tune back into the conversation, willing for it to go faster so you can leave for the tourney grounds to at least try and see Aemond before the event begins. The gods, predictably, scold you for this and, when Victor raises to his feet and looks at you expectantly, you wonder which of the Seven is punishing you for your impatience.

Likely the Mother, you think, wishing you could scowl openly.

“I have to take my leave and head to the grounds to prepare myself for the melee,” Victor declares, eyes never leaving yours. “If possible, I’d like my lady to accompany me.”

Jason nearly chokes on his wine but Tyland is quick to the draw. “My apologies, Ser Victor, but I’m afraid we’ll have to be the ones to take her to the grounds. Lady Lannister, that is, my good sister, has sent her daughter a letter that she wanted a prompt reply on.”

You don’t visibly react but internally, you’re baffled. Yesterday, a letter had arrived from your mother and it had been a normal one - she had filled you in on Loren’s growth and had inquired about how the wedding proceedings were going.

They’re just giving me an out you reason but your stomach still twists at the idea that something has happened that your mother thinks you need to know right away.

Victor nods. “Understandable. Could I then accompany her to the Lannister apartments?”

Jason rises to his feet, already nodding. “If she accepts, I cannot see why not?”

All eyes swing to you then and you feel a flash of annoyance at being put on the spot even as you offer Victor an apologetic smile, standing up to your full height. “I would hardly wish to pull you away from the tourney grounds, Ser. I know how important your preparations must be. I’d hardly want to be in the way. Perhaps it’d be best to speak after?”

He immediately shakes his head. “No, no, you wouldn’t be in the way at all, my lady. It’d be an honor.”

Erren laughs loudly, patting his son firmly on the shoulder. “It’d be good luck, I imagine. All the good knights in the songs get to be with their lady before winning a great victory.”

This isn’t a song and I am not his lady.

Taking a deep breath, you nod your consent, ignoring the look your father and uncle share. “In that case, I can hardly refuse. I imagine Ser Victor will need all the luck he can get for the melee.”

Victor smiles as he nearly trips over himself to reach your side but Erren Florent watches you, eyes cold and piercing. You give him nothing, however, simply tilting your head in acknowledgment with a smile.

Farewells said, your group begins the walk through the gardens back to the Lannister apartment and, when Victor offers you his arm, you take it without hesitation.

“I’d like to offer my apologies, my lord,” you say after a moment, keeping your eyes on the path ahead. In the more populated areas of the gardens, people watch you and Victor walk with interest, their whispering tones fading into the background.

Victor starts as if he hadn’t realized you would speak, before promptly shaking his head. “What for, my lady? You’ve done nothing of offense.”

“I’m afraid you never did get that dance,” you reply, tearing your eyes away from the path to look up at him. He’s smiling and you feel that familiar, creeping rage wash over you.

“There will be other dances,” he says.

You smile, tilting your head. “Perhaps. You did dance with someone though, that night that you asked me. Lady Jocasta, my cousin.”

Victor nods, a flicker of nervousness flashing on his face. “I did, yes. She’s a very kind lady.”

Your smile grows. “She is, isn’t she? A sweet girl. Nothing at all like a Lannister ought to be. Of course, she’s a Lannister of Lannisport. It’s alright if she’s easily led. She’s afforded that grace. If she was a Lannister of the Rock, things would be very different for her.”

“Easily led?” Victor asks and you turn away from him, facing the gardens once again. Adjusting your grip, you encircle his arm with one of your hands, nails pointed downwards into his flesh.

“Yes, my lord,” you reply. “She’s easily led. Easily frightened. She’s as much a lion as I am but she’s never had a need to use her claws.”

“And you have?” Victor asks, voice rumbling.

You squeeze tight in response, hardly enough to do damage, but Victor stumbles slightly nonetheless. “When I’m provoked,” your voice is light and breezy. If someone heard you, they’d think you were flirting. “Luckily, I’m not easily provoked. Nor am I easily frightened.” You turn your gaze back to Victor and his eyes flash in recognition.

“My lady…” he starts, a hint of desperation entering his voice, but you shake your head, smiling, as you lean in and pat his arm, releasing your tight hold. “I… I only told your cousin what I’ve seen.”

“Oh? What you’ve seen?” You ask, raising a brow. “Shall I tell you what I’ve seen? I was there when they were treating Prince Aemond after the attack. I saw the mark that was left on him, and I watched as the maester attempted to sew it back together. I still remember when I spoke and he tried to follow my voice. I remember seeing a socket without an eye try to find me. Even now, if I close my eyes, I can recall every single detail. You’ve participated in several tourneys, Ser. Doubtless, you’ve seen awful wounds, injuries I couldn’t even imagine, but it’s awfully different seeing it on a child when you’re a child yourself.”

Victor doesn’t answer for a moment, staring down at you. Finally, he speaks. “You must have been scared.”

“You would think that, wouldn’t you? I wasn’t scared, however. I was angry. I’ve never felt that much anger in my life, that much helpless rage with nowhere to direct it. Well… recent events not included,” you say, laughing slightly. The sun feels warm around you. It is a beautiful day.

“You’re a lady. A proper lady,” Victor begins, a note of begging entering his voice. You watch, smiling. “I’ve seen you with Princess Helaena, with the servants and the other ladies in the court. You’re a kind and beautiful and gentle lady. I mean it with no disrespect to Prince Aemond but he frightens the ladies in the court, even with the eyepatch. He’s handsome enough, I will give him that, but he’s fierce and stern and it scares every lady he meets. Y-You’re different from them but… you’re a lady nonetheless. You’re much too polite to warn him away - not when you serve his sister.”

You hum in acknowledgment, gesturing for him to go on, and Victor nods, a glimmer of relief entering his eyes.

“I… I know I’m far from the only man to ever notice you. Every man in the court would have to be blind to not recognize you and your beauty. Any man who notices you, however, is always scared off by Prince Aemond. He abuses his power at court to have any titles they’ve earned for themselves taken away. He approached me at the welcoming feast and said if I bothered any more Lannisters with my dreams, I’d be quickly reminded of my position.”

You can’t help it. You laugh and Victor genuinely flinches, dropping your arm. He stares at you as if he’s never seen you before and you smile wide, baring your teeth in a grin. “And have you been? Reminded?”

He doesn’t reply, simply staring at you, searching for something you’re sure he’ll not find in your eyes, and you shake your head ruefully. “You will be soon, I pray. Either a dragon teaches you or a lion will and I’m not too sure which one you would prefer.” You step close, tilting your head as you look up at him. Victor stares back, pale eyes wide and stunned. “You lied to the court with that handkerchief, Ser.” You murmur softly. “You lied about me. You placed a crown on the head of someone who does not belong to you. There is a price to pay for all of that. I hope you can afford it.”

With that, you bow your head as you drop into a curtsey before stepping away, continuing down the path towards the Lannister apartments. Victor stays, frozen like a statue in the gardens, but your father and uncle pick up their pace to walk by your side.

“You scared him something fierce,” Jason says after a moment, and, when you look up at your father, he’s watching you with a strange look in his eye.

After a moment, you recognize it. Pride.

The last time he looked at you like that was when you had agreed to go to the capitol to find a princely husband and you almost trip in your shock, heart beating fast.

“She’s a Lannister, Jason,” Tyland laughs. “Moreover she’s a lioness raised amongst dragons in a pit filled with liars and frauds. I’d dare say only someone like Prince Aemond could be fierce enough to claim her.”

Jason hums, offering you his arm, and you take it, feeling the glow of accomplishment wash over you. “Speaking of claiming… I did receive a raven this morning though not from your mother. It seems that we’ve lost a lion but gained a wolf. Cerelle has married Cregan Stark.”

You miss a step, stumbling slightly, but your father’s hold keeps you upright and you stare at him in shock.

Cerelle. Cerelle. Cerelle.

If it wasn’t for Aemond and the tourney, Helaena and the wedding, you don’t think there would be a single force on the planet that could stop you from racing towards Winterfell, towards your sister. You had always imagined being there for her wedding and, though you knew what would happen when you had pushed to send her North, you still feel a sense of loss wash over you.

Cerelle isn’t a Lannister anymore you realize with a shock and a knot forms in your throat, the glow of success leaving you and leaving only a cold sense of reality behind. She’s a Stark now.

Pushing it down, you finally nod your head. “So it worked.”

Tyland sighs. “Partially. Her letter only mentioned that they’ve been married and she’s working on amassing a small Lannister force and securing Northern allies. She was free to leave Winterfell as Lord Regent Bennard did not know of the marriage and, as Lady Stark now, she can gather Lord Cregan’s bannerman for him. Within the next few weeks, they will topple Lord Regent Bennard, peacefully or with force, and reclaim Winterfell for its trueborn line.”

“Do you think the marriage will leak?” You ask, mind whirring with possibilities. If it did and Bennard thought to retaliate, Cerelle’s blood ties to the Westerlands would keep her safe. If any harm came to her, your father would call his banners and go to war. Her marriage with Cregan would guarantee that the North did the same.

Tyland hums. “I imagine it already has. Bennard cannot move against Cregan himself. He would become a kinslayer and would forfeit all rights to Winterfell with it. He could have used Cerelle to force Cregan’s hand but she’s already slipped his grasp. I imagine most of the North knows by now that Cregan Stark has taken a Lannister bride. Soon, the rest of the realm will know.”

“Which means you must be careful now, sweetling,” Jason warns and you look back to your father. His green eyes are watching you carefully. “The tea with the Florents would have been a waste if it did not prove to us that tell of Tyshara and Lord Tarly has leaked. Soon, the court will know that Cerelle has married hastily - without us there. That will bring her virtue into question. There’s naught that can be done about it now, not with a marriage already in place, but the gossip will begin.”

“If Cerelle has been married so quickly and Tyshara and her Lord Tarly are already rumored to have a wedding all but planned, people will begin to wonder about you and your prince. If he has taken the same liberties with you that they will think your sisters have taken with their men,” Tyland continues, voice low to not be overheard. “The court has already seen the high regard in which he holds you in.”

Your mouth drops open as you look at the two of them, feeling your cheeks blaze even as you recognize the truth of what they are saying.

“We cannot afford for you to fall under suspicion,” Jason says, voice firm. “One hastily married daughter is a mistake. Two is a tragedy. But three? That is an insult. That is a failure within House Lannister. A marriage would afford you protection but Jeyne and Joy would suffer the brunt of the gossip. Their marriage chances would be shot. I’d be begging a minor lord to give them a household knight at that point. Do you understand? You already have the attention of all of King’s Landing but after this, you will have their scrutiny as well.”

You feel a shiver run down your spine. I came here for Jeyne and Joy, to get the power to give them the marriages they deserve. If not me, who?

After a moment, you nod, thinking of your little sisters as you agree.

——————————–

The instant you step into the tent, you feel yourself relax if only a little bit. Here in the tent, you’re safe, away from the Florents and the court. It’s only people you trust and who trust you in return. No one is watching you to see if you falter, to see if you fail, and for that alone, you allow yourself a moment’s respite.

At first, no one notices your entrance, too caught up with one another. Aemond is in the corner of the tent, clearly fighting the urge to roll his eyes, as Alicent and Criston crowd him, both of them spouting off advice that you’re not entirely sure is helpful. Daeron is next to them, ignoring them all completely as he bows his head over his brother’s breastplate, polishing it with such a fervor that you’re sure that as soon as he’s done, the black steel will gleam as a mirror. Aegon, predictably, is drinking, looking vaguely amused as he watches his family run around like chickens with their heads cut off.

Helaena spots you first, playing with her bug toy as normal, and, when she calls out your name, everyone stops and swivels to stare at you standing at the entrance.

More out of instinct than anything else, you drop into a curtsey, bending low in an apology. When you rise, however, everyone is still staring at you and, suddenly feeling shy and awkward, you shift awkwardly.

Perhaps I should have just headed to the royal box instead.

You don’t get the chance to linger on that thought, however, since Helaena promptly approaches you, stopping right before you, a hair’s length away.

“A dragon’s treasure,” she announces, loud and clear in the quiet of the tent, and, though her eyes are blank and empty, it doesn’t feel like a prophecy. Your cheeks burn and you duck your head, feeling oddly embarrassed and called out.

After a moment, you look back up, finding your control. “I-uh… Is everything going well, Helaena? Or should I find a way to sabotage the melee?”

Helaena smiles hesitantly, coming back into herself, and blinking fast as if to speed up the process. “I think everything is going fine,” she says after a moment. “Though I think Mother would be comforted if you could somehow secure, without a doubt, that Aemond will emerge from this unhurt.”

“If I could, I would have done so already,” you reply wryly, laughing slightly. She nods, somewhat solemnly. She knows you well enough to know that if you could somehow fix this without harming Aemond’s pride, you would have done it by now and granted yourself and the rest of his family some peace of mind. As it is, you halfway wish you could have poisoned Victor and all the other opponents Aemond will have to face if just to end the matches before they could ever begin.

He’s a mighty warrior, you remind yourself, digging your nails into your palms. Ser Criston Cole trained him and there’s no living knight stronger than him. Aemond will be fine. He has to be.

As much as you repeat that fact to yourself, you still can’t find it in yourself to fully relax. Your brain is constantly catastrophizing, filling your mind with terrible images of Aemond lying on the ground, bloody and broken. For a moment, you almost wish you could beg him to back out, to leave things as they are. A crown from the wrong man is a momentary embarrassment. A dead man is something you can’t fix.

“Things will be fine,” Aegon insists as if he can read your mind. On his chaise, with his chalice in hand, he looks like the carefree noble the smallfolk love to scorn and you feel a flash of resentment. Even in your annoyance, however, you can tell that it’s a wholly unfair assessment since even you can see the tightness around his eyes, the way his grip is strong on his wine. “Everyone is worrying more than Aemond is. He’ll come out of this a better man or whatever it is the singers say.”

Alicent makes a small noise, torn between scolding her eldest or fussing over her middle son. “We’re free to worry, Aegon. This is the first time any of us have participated in a tourney.”

Daeron clears his throat, peering up from the armor with big purple eyes. “Uncle Gwayne is always participating in tourneys,” he unhelpfully reminds, shrinking back slightly as his mother shoots him a look. “B-but he’s always fine and even he would admit Aemond is the better swordsman.”

“That’s different,” Alicent replies, somewhat mutinous. Even from your spot, you can see her grip tighten on Aemond’s arm, her voice growing thick with worry. “I did not think I would have to worry about tourneys for quite some time. Before now, you were my only son interested in competitions.”

Aemond huffs, finally reaching his limits with his family’s antics. “If everyone could find some peace, I would much appreciate it. Your worry will hardly help me.”

“It might remind you to be cautious,” you say, your words forcing themselves out of your mouth. Aemond’s eye swings to you, narrowed, but you refuse to back down, determined to say your piece. “I’ve heard tell of what happens in the arena. Bloodlust takes over. The crowd’s urging becomes demands. Perhaps… Perhaps if we worry enough, you’ll remember that yielding can be just honorable as winning. Ser Harrold Westerling has yielded in melees before and he’s Lord Commander.”

Bringing up your uncle may not be the best move, not with another member of Kingsguard here to serve more readily as an example, but you barrel forward. There is honor in knowing when you’re down for the count.

Of course, judging by the look in Aemond’s eye, he knows you’re not as honest as you’re putting yourself forth to be. You don’t know when to quit and Aemond certainly does not know either. If someone were to corner him into surrendering, he knew as well as you did that you would rise up in revenge.

Not now and not soon.

“She’s not wrong, my prince,” Criston says, voice steady. Aemond swings to stare down the Kingsguard but the knight does not show even a hint of wavering. If anything, he looks exasperated. “For your mother’s sake, I implore you to be aware of the consequences of not yielding.”

“And perhaps,” Aemond grumbles, his eye flashing in warning. “I’m also aware of the consequences of not winning. If I am forced to yield, I am forced to yield. But I will not enter the grounds already believing I must.”

Alicent nods. “Of course,” she agrees, more out of placating her son than truly believing in what she’s saying. “Of course, Aemond, I just… I worry. You know I do.”

Something in Aemond’s face flickers and he softens slightly, hand coming up to grip his mother’s arm in a show of comfort. “I know, mother. I would not do anything that would bring you undue harm.”

The Queen looks up at her son and, though you can’t see her face from here, you can only imagine the look on her face. You wonder if it is anything like it had been on Driftmark, when she had first realized she was helpless to protect her children.

He was a boy then, you want to tell her. And even then it took four others to beat him down. He’ll be safe. He’ll be fine.

Instead, you keep quiet and, after a moment, she nods her head, slow and shaky. “May the Warrior grant you strength and guide your arm.” She lingers for a moment, holding onto her son for a second longer, before she finally lets go, sweeping out of the tent with Criston right behind.

There’s a moment of silence, where all of you wonder what to say next, when Aegon lets out a loud sigh, throwing his head against the back of the chaise. “I never thought Aemond would cause mother’s next nervous breakdown. I really would have put money down on me or even Daeron.”

Daeron looks back up from his work, quick to rise to his brother’s defense. “She’s just worried but she has faith in him. She’s always bragging in her letters about how well he can fight.”

Aegon frowns, sipping from his chalice as he rises to his feet. He’s never been good at hiding his emotions and you would have to be blind not to see the jealousy flash across his face. It disappears fast enough as he forces a grin. “Sure, sure. Never meant to imply otherwise.”

He walks over to Aemond, slapping his brother hard on the shoulder. Aemond doesn’t even shift, simply looking down at his older brother with annoyance and disdain. “Make sure to win, little brother. I’ve got a good bit of coin riding on these results.”

“I thank you for your confidence,” Aemond responds, his voice coldly courteous.

Aegon’s grin turns real, more teasing. “Of course. You’ll win this tourney, crown our shining lady of Lannister Queen of Love and Beauty once more, and then, at the end of this, I’ll have a nice pot of gold to use to bet on the next time some other Victor Florent makes the ill-thought-out decision of chasing after Lady Lannister.”

You roll your eyes. “Save your coins and buy yourself more wine instead. I doubt there’ll be many, if any, others after this. It’s hardly worth all this scandal.”

Helaena giggles, soft and sweet. “Perhaps there will be others. You could be the face that launches a thousand tourneys.”

You scoff, even as Aegon expresses his confusion at the name. He turns to Aemond but his brother merely nods his head over you, clearly passing the buck, and Aegon looks at you, plainly expecting an answer. Even Daeron looks up from his work and you sigh.

“There’s a story in the Westerlands of an Ironborn king who stole away a Lannister queen because she was so beautiful.” You explain, fighting to keep your face stern even as Helaena laughs cheerfully, plainly delighted by your reluctance to clarify her joke. “It led to a gruesome war that lasted ten long years. At the end of it, she was returned to her husband though her return was paid for by countless lives. Her name is lost now, if she ever did exist, but she’s known as the face that launched a thousand ships.”

“I’d ask you not to start a thousand tourneys,” Aemond says, his lip curling in amusement when you shoot him a look. “Mother is already having a hard enough time with just one.”

“That would pad my coffers nicely,” Aegon muses, squeezing his brother’s shoulder before he lets go. “Get that stamina up, would you? Seems you might have quite a few fights ahead of you and I aim to make a killing.”

“At some point,” Daeron cuts in, rising to his feet, finally finished with his work. “It would be easier to have Vhagar fight your battles. I’m sure she’d enjoy the exercise.”

Helaena hums. “I don’t think the singers would like that - not nearly as romantic.”

“Sounds like a miserable song,” you grumble, finally breaking into a grin when Helaena bumps you with her shoulder, beaming at you. Aegon meanders back to the chaise, grabbing slices of bread from a table as he does so, and you watch with interest as Daeron then descends on Aemond, scurrying around him as he fits his older brother with a suit of armor.

It’s relatively plain armor - not at all like some other ostentatious suits of armor you have seen at tourneys past. Thanks to Daeron’s efforts, it’s a nearly impossibly shiny black, so polished that it reflects the light perfectly. On the chest, the three-headed dragon of the Targaryen sigil is embossed into the steel, an unnecessary reminder that the wearer of the armor was of royal blood.

It’s simple armor.

Yet you can’t drag your eyes away from him.

You’ve never seen Aemond in armor before - last night had been the first time you had ever even seen him fight as a grown man - and the sight of it does something to you. Low in your belly, you feel a hot ache, and the heat, for the first time in your life, causes you to shift awkwardly, searching for a moment’s relief. It doesn’t come, however - it won’t come, not if you’re just standing here staring.

For half a breath, you indulge yourself in a fantasy of ordering everyone out, of convincing Aemond to leave the melee and giving yourself to him completely in return. You don’t even know what that means, what it entails, but you want him to show you.

The fantasy leaves you quickly enough and you burn with shame at your own indecency even if the heat only gets worse.

Pointedly, you look away from Aemond, turning towards Helaena and pulling her into a conversation about beetles, trying to pull away as far as you can from the sight of Aemond in his armor. The princess eagerly complies and soon your mind is whirring with her long-winded speech about the Braavosi beetles her grandfather had imported in as a wedding gift to her and how she’s trying to adjust them to the much more humid environment of King’s Landing.

It works. For a time.

Then Daeron announces he’s finished and has to run to help Lord Ormund like he’s supposed to be doing and Aegon trails behind him and you’re left alone with Helaena and Aemond.

And then Helaena, beautiful, blessed, mischievous Helaena grins at you and ducks towards the entrance of the tent, staying inside to save you from the public consequences of knowingly being alone in a tent with a man who is entering a melee in response to another man’s suit for you but giving you enough space that you’re functionally alone with Aemond. You look over at him in time to watch him buckle his sheath around his slim waist, his silky hair falling like a curtain around his bowed head.

The heat flares back to life and you could swear if it wasn’t so embarrassing.

You sigh, playing with your sleeves to give you something to do to try and expel your energy. “How worried was your family last night?”

“I tried my best not to find out,” he replies, his uncovered eye gleaming with mirth as he watches you squirm in place. “I made sure to stay out late training to avoid any confrontation.”

“You got rest though, right?” You ask, stepping closer, your earlier embarrassment leaving you in favor of scolding him. “Training is helpful and all but if you didn’t get any rest, you’ll suffer for it on the field.”

He smirks at you, his amusement clear, and you bristle slightly, approaching him to stand in front of him with a scowl. “If it brings you any comfort, it wasn’t that late since everyone was still up so they could… offer me advice.”

“Dare I ask what the advice was?”

“Daeron was the only one with actual helpful things to contribute,” he says, leaning against a table. “My mother and Helaena, less so, and Aegon? His advice had nothing to do with the tourney.”

You cock your head in question. “And what was his advice for?”

“I’m afraid I can’t repeat his words to an unmarried maiden who isn’t, at the current moment, betrothed to me without breaking several rules of etiquette. Your father would want my head and my mother would be inclined to give it to him,” he replies, voice low and rumbling, and your cheeks flare in embarrassment.

“She wouldn’t,” you manage out after a moment. “At least, not right now. Right now, she’s rather concerned with keeping your head on your shoulders.”

Aemond watches you before letting out a small laugh, shaking his head. He reaches out for you, his armored hand catching on the sleeves of your dress as they wrap around your own hand. The cold metal is a relief against your warm skin and you step closer, squeezing his hand in return. “How was the tea?” He asks eventually, teasing gone from his voice.

You sigh, glancing down at your feet. “Tedious. They made a serious offer for my hand but my father rejected it on the grounds that my older sisters aren’t married yet. I doubt the Florents will ask again unless Victor decides against his better judgment - though I’m not sure he has any - to crown me again today. We… We have just found out, however, that Cerelle has married Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell. She’s Lady Stark now.”

“Trade negotiations went that well, did they?” He asks and you look up to meet his knowing gaze. He knows full well that it wasn’t trade that sent Cerelle Lannister (Stark you harshly remind yourself) up into the frigid North and he knows that you regret not being able to be there for her wedding, even if he does not know that it was your plan and your scheme that sent her there to begin with.

“Exceedingly,” you respond eventually, forcing yourself to sound more enthusiastic. You know by the downturn of his lips that you fail but you move forward past the hurt, forcing a smile. “I don’t have any advice to offer you for your matches except, perhaps, an observation. I can’t see that Victor Florent will be at his best today. He might be easy to rile if you’re lucky enough to face him today. If you wish to rattle him, mention finding his place or maybe even how Lord Tarly was able to claim a Lannister daughter while he can’t.”

He tilts his head, a slow sly smile coming to his face as he takes in your words. “And I imagine you had something to do with him being that sensitive?”

You shrug, your own smile becoming genuine. “Your battle with him will be on the grounds. Mine was this morning. I tried to help as best as I could.”

“I could almost pity the man if he weren’t such a craven liar,” Aemond responds, humor evident in his tone. “Your own bite is probably worse than most injuries he could face on the field today.”

“Most?” You ask.

“Most,” he echoes. “As fierce as you can be with your tongue, there are still quite a few things that could happen to him on the field that may prove to be worse.”

You throw your head back, laughing gleefully. Your amusement, however, is short-lived since even inside the canvas walls of the tent, you can hear a horn blow, announcing that the melee is set to start soon. It brings you crashing back into reality, back into the truth that Aemond will be risking his life today in order to answer an insult done to you. It’s sobering and you take a deep breath as you pull back slightly.

Before you can say anything, however, Aemond brings your hand up to his lips, pressing a kiss onto the knuckles, and you realize with a start that this must have been what all the songs were talking about when they mentioned a lady sending her knight off into battle.

You wonder if the ladies in all those stories found it as bittersweet as you did.

“May the Warrior guide and protect you,” you murmur and he only nods in response.

——————————–

You enter the royal box arm in arm with Helaena, an astonishingly sober Aegon leading the way. The court all turns to stare openly at you and, in the crowd, you can see Tyland nodding at you, seated next to Lords Beesbury and Wylde. You don’t nod back, however, keeping your head held high as you and the Targaryen siblings walk towards the seats you had sat in only the day before.

Like yesterday, a head of white hair awaits you. This time, however, it belongs to Baela Targaryen who watches your approach with interest. You glance over at Helaena but she merely shrugs in response.

When you reach your seats, Aegon drops in his without so much as a hello, eyes trained onto the grounds ahead, leaving you and Helaena to greet her. At first, you wonder if Princess Rhaenys has ordered her to sit up front in order to forge a relationship with her kin but, when you sit and she leans towards you, you realize that this seating could only have been her idea.

“You’re all they’ve been talking about, you know,” Baela says in lieu of a true greeting, jerking her head backward to indicate the rest of the court. Your eyes flicker over to glance back and even now, you can see some Velaryon ladies whispering to each other as they watch you speaking to their cousin. “The dragon’s treasure from the Rock and the fox foolish enough to try and steal it.”

“Are they? I haven’t noticed,” you reply dryly and she laughs. “Did you sit here to see if the rumors were true?”

She shakes her head, still looking amused even as the knights begin to march out onto the field for the presentation. You look away from her, eyes immediately finding Aemond in the procession. He’s not in the first listing, thank the gods, but a weight begins to sit heavy on your shoulders.

Please, you pray, wishing you had made a stop at the sept to light a candle for the Warrior before you had come to the tourney grounds. Please keep him safe.

“I decided to sit here because I was curious. It’s been quite some time since a Targaryen has participated in a tourney - not since my father has it happened,” Baela finally answers and you tear your eyes away from Aemond to look over at her. Otto Hightower stands to do his customary speech but you keep your gaze on her. “I decided I wanted a better view. However this goes, I imagine there will be quite a few songs written about it. I figured I should get to see the action so I can describe it well to Rhaena when I write to her about it.”

“Did you now?” You drawl, curiosity driving you to poke at her and try to find her real reason for sitting by you. “Did the Princess Rhaenys ask you to get a better view as well?”

She tilts her head. “My grandmother wishes for me to know my kin. The Targaryen side at least. She was… pleased by my choice.”

You nod and not one second later, the horn blows for the first match to begin. You watch it with disinterest. It’s a Mullendore knight against a Connington and, even to your untrained eye, it’s clear neither of them has the skill necessary to last long in the tournament. Still, the Connington is, at least, faster on his feet, and soon enough, he has the Mullendore knight knocked on his back with a sword to his throat. The crowd jeers, bored by the bloodless match.

The next match, however, quickly proves satisfactory to them. Both knights are from houses so below your radar that even you, after years and years of studying all the noble houses in Westeros, struggle to identify them. For one of them, it turns out that you shouldn’t have even bothered. The taller and bulkier knight (Five black starfish - it’s House Ruthermont of the Vale) swings his mace and catches the other man by the jaw, sending him crashing to the ground in a spray of blood and teeth. The other man, lost in his own pain, scrambles upwards, clambering for his sword, having lost it in his fall, but the Ruthermont knight doesn’t give him the chance. With one final swing, he brings the mace down heavy on his opponent’s back and, with a sickening crack that you can hear even over the screaming and cheering, breaks the man nearly in two. The nameless knight doesn’t even get to scream before he dies; not with the way the mace is buried in his back, straight through his lungs and pinning him to the ground. Blood pours out of the wound, drowning the dirt around him, and the crowd roars its approval.

Next to you, Helaena lets out a whimper, recoiling backward in her seat, and, when you turn to face her, her eyes are screwed close. Gently, you grab her hand and she squeezes it so hard that you swear you won’t have one after.

“It’s alright, Helaena, it’s alright. It’s over now” you comfort and her eyes snap open to bore into yours.

She leans in close, her nose nearly brushing yours. This close, you can see how her pupils are blown out, the amethyst color so dark it’s almost cobalt even in the sunlight. “Shadows in the wall,” she insists, sounding near hysterical. “Shadows in the flame. There will be no choice. No choice at all.”

You stare back, stunned, but she blinks hard and it’s Helaena again. Scared and worried Helaena and she leans back in her seat, shaking her head as if to clear her mind. Next to her, even Aegon looks alarmed as he looks at his sister, and, with deft fingers, he pulls out her familiar bug toy from her pockets, offering it to her.

“To save Lady Lannister’s hand,” he says and Helaena barely manages a grateful smile as she drops your hand to grasp the toy, shaking slightly as she does so. You meet Aegon’s eyes and, after a moment of mutual understanding, he looks away, snapping his fingers for a servant to bring him wine.

You relax back in your chair, watching her for a moment as she loses herself in the toy, murmuring under her breath as she twists it in her hands over and over and over, the repetition soothing her.

The horn blows again and you look over at the grounds in time to see servants dragging the body away from the field just as Aemond steps out.

You freeze, heart in your throat, as you watch him ready himself, bouncing slightly in place as if to warm himself up. He’s chosen to fight without a helmet and, though you understand why he wouldn’t want to limit his field of vision any more than it already is, you find yourself praying he had worn one if only to calm your nerves.

You immediately recognize his opponent as Ser Raymond of House Marbrand and your mind races to remember everything you know about him. The nephew of the current Lord Marbrand. He used to visit Casterly Rock when his uncle had wanted him to get closer to Cerelle in hopes of securing a marriage. He has a bastard son living in the Crag. Your own father had knighted him for his service in suppressing Ironborn raids along the coast.

You try to remember if he’s skilled but your mind comes up horrifying blank.

The horn blows again and you squeeze your hands tight, nails digging into your flesh. Raymond does not waste any time, rushing Aemond immediately, but the Targaryen is quicker, spinning out of the way, his hair streaming through the air. He jabs out with his sword and lands a hit. The herald barely has time to announce it before he swings again, landing two more in quick succession.

Raymond lets out a grunt, more out of anger than any real pain, and feints toward Aemond’s blind spot before swinging his sword toward the prince’s knees. Aemond dodges but, in the moment right after, Raymond slices upwards, catching Aemond on the sleeve.

You bite your lip hard to prevent yourself from gasping or cursing, but behind you, you can hear the Queen murmur a prayer.

The gods must hear her since, angered by the hit, Aemond moves even faster and lands the additional three hits he needs to win. The herald announces the prince’s victory and you clap hard, your palms stinging, as you rise to your feet. Aegon whoops, screaming something about his money being safe, and even the Queen is cheering in her relief.

Aemond looks up at the box and nods his head and you can tell, even from here, that he’s pleased with the results. The crowd cheers him, satisfied by a match where the men actually landed blows unlike the first one, and you grin wide.

When you sit back down, the horn announcing the next competitors coming out onto the field, you look over at Baela. Her eyes are glued to the field watching Aemond’s retreat, analyzing.

“Has he met your standards?” You ask and she looks over at you, frowning slightly.

“He’s… Improved since we last met,” she says, reluctant to praise him.

You smile. “Prince Aemond has always been skilled. Even in his childhood, it took more than one assailant to ever do him much harm.”

Baela’s eyes narrow at the remark and she opens her mouth to shoot back a retort when the horn announces the beginning of the match, calling both of your attention. It’s Victor Florent vs a Blackwood knight and you roll your eyes when you spot the handkerchief still tied around his bicep.

During the actual fight, however, Victor seems almost vengeful in his maneuvers, moving fast and hitting hard. He slices the Blackwood knight behind the knees, sending the man toppling to the ground where he hastily yields. Victor looks up at the box and his expression is dark as he meets your gaze.

He wears no helmet - as if he wants you to see his face.

He’s angry, his expression twisted with wrath, and there’s no longer that glazed look in his eyes when he sees you. It’s sharp and fierce and angry and it’s all at you. It’s more than you not wearing a crown or your father turning down his suit. He’s angry because you rejected him, harshly and without even a hint of regret. He wears the handkerchief still, not to proclaim that he loves you but to proclaim that you will be his since it is his right to claim you.

You don’t frown down at him or scowl or even furrow your brow. You simply meet his gaze steadily, no emotion slipping onto your face because he’s not even worth that much.

Victor’s face twists again and he stalks off the grounds, clearing the way for the herald to announce the next match.

He’ll die today, you promise yourself. By my hand or Aemond’s, he will not live to see the morrow.

The matches go in a flash and you watch with mounting anticipation as Aemond readily defeats his opponents. He even beats Tygett and your cousin claps him on the shoulder afterward, laughing loudly, as friendly and pleasant as he always is.

Next to you, Baela seems wholly invested in the fights, nearly leaning out of her seat, and, when it becomes clear that the current match will end in a death that you’re not eager to watch, you turn towards her.

She doesn’t hear you when you first say her name and it’s only on the third time that she rips her eyes away from the battle, just as Edwyn Sand drives his lance through his opponent’s torso. “What?” She asks, irritable and snappish at being distracted, and, despite yourself, you smile.

“Do you wish you were on the field as well, my lady?” You ask, leaning slightly closer so she can hear you over the roar of the crowd.

Baela eyes you, her amethyst eyes scanning your face for any sign that you might be using this to poke at her. “I do,” she finally says, having evidently weighed the dangers of telling you this and finding them lacking. “I imagine I could do a mite better than most of these men.”

“I have no doubt you could,” you readily agree, finding that you mean it. For better and for worse, she is Daemon Targaryen’s daughter through and through. She’s more cautious than the Rogue Prince ever was, more aware of her surroundings, but you can easily see her with a sword in her hand. “Have you trained with weaponry?”

“I did,” she says after a moment, her eyes slightly hazy as she frowns. “Back in Pentos. I… My father taught me. He said a dragonrider should know how to wield a sword.”

You nod, ignoring the crowd’s jeers behind you as a match ends bloodlessly. “Did you learn much under his tutelage? I imagine the Rogue Prince has much to teach his daughters.”

“Daughter,” Baela corrects, almost as if on instinct. “Daughter. I, uh… He only taught me. I’m the only dragonrider daughter he has. Rhaena has always been too sweet to wield a sword anyways. She’s always preferred dancing to anything else.”

Despite her immediate excuse for her father’s actions, you can see how her frown twists with anger and how she clenches her fists on her lap. She’s furious, you realize. Daemon Targaryen ignores her sister and she hates him for that insult more than she does for anything else.

Baela Targaryen is loyal, fiercely so, and her sister is the way to gain that loyalty for yourself.

“I see,” you say after a moment. “I think I would rather enjoy meeting your sister then. She seems like a kind lady and I’m afraid I’m not as skilled at dancing as I’d like to be. I’m sure she has much she can teach me.”

She looks you over, openly appraising you, and you simply bow your head before turning back to face the melee.

The battles drag on and on, knocking men out of the competition faster than you can even register, until you’re only three matches away from the finale and you realize, with a dull sense of surprise, that the finale will almost certainly be Aemond and Victor. You can’t see it going any other way and you start to pray to the Warrior and the Stranger, pleading with them to protect Aemond and take Victor in his place.

You don’t know if they hear you but you beg that they have.

The final matches go exactly as you had expected and when the herald announces the final matchup, the crowd grows nearly rapturous in their excitement. At your back, you can hear the court gossiping, swearing up and down that the singers of King’s Landing had to have had a hand in the matches for it to go this way in a manner that would most serve their purposes.

“Seems you won’t be able to stop those songs now,” Aegon drawls but you’re too caught up in staring down at the grounds in nervous anticipation to even register his words.

Aemond and Victor make their way onto the field and, if you had thought Victor was angry staring you down earlier, he’s absolutely incandescent now, glowering at Aemond as if he could light him on fire with only his eyes. For his part, Aemond only stares coldly back, his eye focused solely on Victor, ignoring the screams around him. His silver hair is dyed red in parts from the blood of earlier matches, some of it having streaked onto his face, and that, combined with his eyepatch and scar, makes Aemond’s indifference look almost as frightening as Victor’s rage.

The horn blows and, for a moment, both men stand still as they stare each other down.

Then they move.

The clash of their sword is swallowed by the crowd’s instant screams and you pitch forward, hands flying to grab the edge of your chair. You’re deaf to everything around you, solely focused on the fight in front of you.

The men are equally matched but Victor is stronger, bulkier. Each swing of his sword sends Aemond rocking back on his heels, teeth gritted as he fights to stay grounded. Victor is relentless, however, moving forward and forward, each move intent on driving Aemond back until he can have him pinned in a corner.

But as strong as Victor is, Aemond is as fast and, twisting his sword so he can knock Victor to the side, he frees himself from the path the knight had been intent on driving him on. He thrusts and catches Victor on the torso but no one can even hear the herald over the frenzy of the crowd.

What you can hear, however, is Victor’s roar of absolute rage. More beast than man, he advances on Aemond relentlessly, his swings growing impossibly stronger and stronger. Before you can even register what’s happening, a swipe from Victor drives Aemond to his knees and the Florent swings his sword heavily, aiming directly for Aemond’s neck.

You gasp, rising to your feet in an instant, distantly aware of the Queen’s scream behind you and Aegon and Helaena standing up as well, but Aemond is faster than all of you, reacting before any of you can finish what you’re doing. He ducks, saving his neck but earning a cut across the ear for it.

His blood drips onto the ground, joining all the rest that has been shed through the melee, and you find yourself wishing that Vhagar would rise from wherever she is and descend upon the grounds to cook Victor alive for daring to harm him. But she won’t come - not when her rider is doing well enough for his own.

Aemond rolls across the ground, dodging another desperate thrust, and stands up in one fluid motion. He keeps low to the ground, crouched with his sword up by his chest. His own blood covers the side of his face, staining his pale skin and dripping down onto his own armor. He only stays like that for a breath, before Victor dives forward with a roar.

But Victor Florent is sloppy in his rage, too caught up in his anger to think ahead.

Aemond, however, does not suffer the same problem.

Just as Victor reaches him, Aemond crouches even lower, leaving Victor’s sword sailing right above him. With a twist of his feet, he plants himself behind his opponent and, without a moment’s hesitation, drives his sword toward Victor’s neck.

There’s a moment when you think that Victor will avoid it. He twists his body around, arm flying out as if to stop the blade right in its track, but Aemond’s strength, while weaker than Victor’s, is nothing to scoff at. He impales the sword straight through Victor’s exposed wrist, between the gap between his gauntlet and the rest of his armor, driving it straight through all the way to Victor’s throat.

The two men stare each other down, Aemond breathing heavily as Victor struggles to even breathe. But then the knight stumbles down to his knees and, from your vantage point, you can see him struggle to say something, to gurgle out one final remark, but he can’t, not with Aemond’s sword keeping the words trapped behind it. In the next second, Victor falls flat to the ground, slipping off the sword and landing heavily on his side, twitching as he does so but soon enough, he stops, his eyes going cold and empty.

There’s quiet on the grounds as Victor Florent breathes his last.

But soon it erupts.

The roar of the crowd shakes the very ground beneath you and you yourself cheer, screaming out your relief, your delight, your joy. Next to you, even Baela is clapping and Helaena is smiling even as she covers her ears with her hands. Aegon is absolutely frothing at the mouth, spilling his wine all over himself as he raises his fist in the air in victory

Aemond looks dazed by it, moving away from Victor’s body while staring up at the stands as if he can’t quite believe that the cheers around are all for him, and you laugh, delighted.

Yes! You want to scream down at him. It’s you, it’s all for you!

You dimly register Otto Hightower approaching the railing, raising his hands as if to try to silence the crowd and you manage to reel yourself in, still clapping to the point that you’re sure your hands will hurt tomorrow. Out on the field, Daeron runs out to his brother, carrying a pillow with a crown of golden roses on it and you laugh out loud, imagining all the other squires Daeron must have fought for the honor of being the one to hand out the prize.

“My deepest congratulations to Prince Aemond Targaryen for defeating all of his opponents and winning the melee event,” Otto proclaims, barely audible over the stare exuberant crowd. “Alongside the pot of gold, you have won a crown to give out. Who shall you crown your Queen of Love and Beauty?

Even in a crowd of thousands, even with the sun in his eyes, Aemond looks up into the royal box and you know he sees you, you as you truly are, and your heart could nearly burst with it all.

“I crowd my Lady Lannister, the Lioness of the Red Keep,” he announces, voice clear even over the impossibly loud cheers.

The crowd screams out its approval and you almost don’t hear them, too preoccupied with staring down at Aemond, your heart beating loud in your chest.

He’s claimed you, in front of the royal court and all of King’s Landing. He’s claimed you.

You didn’t know it was possible to feel this much love toward one person.

With a none-too-gentle push from Baela, you finally move, dimly aware of Helaena reaching out to brush her hand against yours and Aegon laughing with more glee than you’ve seen him have in years. When you look over at the crowd, even the Queen is standing on her feet, clapping for you with a small smile on her face, her eyes guarded even as she congratulates you.

Her son has proved that he is a dragon once, that his way is one of fire and blood, and Alicent’s worries about dragon blood have all come true.

All thoughts of Alicent, however, leave your mind as you look past her to your Uncle Tyland and he’s grinning so wide and clapping so hard that, for a moment, you want to break away from walking down to the grounds just to hug your uncle. He’s happy for you, so genuinely happy, and your heart swells.

But you need to reach Aemond and, moving quickly, you reach the tourney grounds, walking out onto the field to the screams of the crowd.

His hands are bloody, you realize, as you walk towards him. His face is smeared with blood, some of it his but most of it not, but his hands are absolutely covered in it and it stains the golden flowers in his hands.

Red and gold, you realize with a shock. The Lannister colors as they’re meant to be seen.

You break out into a grin, so wide it almost hurts, and as you stop right in front of him, you drop into the lowest curtsey of your life. You sweep the ground, head bowed low, and, just like in the songs, Aemond places the crown on your head and the cheers of the crowd reach a crescendo. As you rise to your feet, Aemond grabs your chin, forcing your head up so you can meet his eye.

His gaze is hot and, as he stares down at you, you realize that’d be wrong to describe him as satisfied. He’s far from it. His blood is up and, high on the battles he has won, he wants to continue his rush. He wants you and not in any way that remotely resembles chastity. He wants you and, if he could get away with it, he’d claim you here in front of the whole of King’s Landing. He wants the world to know that you’re his and his only. Any man that would attempt to pull you away from him would meet the same fate as Victor Florent and choke on his own blood as the realm cheered around them.

He’s close to it - even you with all your inexperience can tell. His grip is firm on your chin and, from the look in his eye, you can tell he’s not far from kissing you hard in front of the world. For a moment, you entertain letting him do it. For a moment, you entertain pushing yourself up onto your tiptoes and doing it yourself.

But your father’s voice is loud in your head.

You already have the attention of all of King’s Landing but after this, you will have their scrutiny as well.

So instead, you bow your head, closing your eyes as you reach up to grip Aemond’s wrist. There’s time yet for all you want to do.

Still - the kiss he presses onto your forehead feels like a triumph nonetheless.

#reader and aemond are a match made in hell tell me otherwise <3 #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond x you

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ridingtorohan · 6 months

Text

𓇻 ft. aela the huntress x werewolf gn reader 𓇻 content. graphic murder and werewolf transformation, gore. 𓇻 summary. after being inducted into the Inner Circle and blessed with the werewolf curse, Aela comes forward to request your help with hunting some members of the Silver Hand. 𓇻 extra. crossposted to dA + ao3. this one was written in 2015 and unedited. descriptors like e/c were used so feel free to use the custom reader insert tool. 𓇻 enjoy! feel free to like, share, reblog or send in asks!

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‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ───※ ·❆· ※───‎‏‏‎

You jostle yourself awake when you hear the door creak open. Your muscles twitch tightly in alarm, before a familiar scent calms you. Pine needles, sweat, and feathers from arrows seem to be Aela's trademark scent, only all the more prominent the day you tasted her blood on your lips - a fierce stab of bitterness that you'd never have guessed. She stands in the doorway, staring into the room, scowl prominent on her face. Ria and Njada were sleeping already, Torvan was snoring away, whereas Athis watched from the safety from his bed.

"(y/n)," Aela says, voice scratchy from trying to be so quiet. Usually she was loud and rambunctious, ever throwing taunts and offering to brawl with you, not caring if one of you got hurt. She had only started acting this way when she gave you the werewolf blood, because she knew you could handle it.

You say nothing to the Dark Elf as you get up from your bed, knowing he is watching and may or may not tell Kodlak later, depending on if it suited him. You dress quietly into your armour, only looking up after you tie your boots, only to notice she is gone. It makes no difference; you can always follow her scent trail - fresh and enticing, always setting your blood roaring when you were near her. You would have been able to locate her blindfolded.

The cool night air presses against you, cooling your warm body. Ever since you were given the wolfblood, your body heat was remarkably high - which wasn't so great when you had to wear heavy armour and thick clothes to persuade the other companions not of the Circle that you were very much affected by the cold.

You pass through the streets of Whiterun, nodding at the night guards patrolling, who seem to recognize you and utter a simple and curt, "Companion," as a way of a greeting.

You spot Aela beside the well, arms crossed and looking almost like an indistinguishable shadow, although you would never have doubted it is her.

The guards let you two pass through the gates; the walls are too high for you to climb over them, even when transformed, and with these guards around, you do not risk it. You aren't particularly fond of accidentally killing innocents either, when your bloodlust controlled you - or at least, not anyone that you knew.

Aela is quiet as you both trek down the pathway and beneath the archways that guard the entrance to Whiterun; it is only after you two pass the stables that she rounds on you, eyes remarkably bright in the starlight. "Can you feel it calling, [sibling]?" she smirks, fingers noticeably twitching.

"I have followed you, haven't I?" you respond, cocking your head in an arrogant way. She bares you her teeth, but you recognize it as a more primitive smile. She turns away from you and breaths in the air, her breath puffing out in front of her when she exhales. You blatantly stare at her, waiting for her to respond.

“The wolfblood cannot be controlled,” she says, finally, voice rising despite the fact that this requires high levels of secrecy. But a quick sniff of the air lets you know that you are alone with her, even though you are both standing beside the road, just upwind of Whiterun Stables. “Some nights, Hircine calls us to hunt for him. Vilkas and Farkas ignore this,” she continues, sounding remarkably upset with them. “Skjor and I are the only ones who accept this.” She eyes you out of the corner of her eye, her expression unreadable. “Then you came along. You take to the wolfblood remarkably well.” There is praise in her voice, and it takes you a moment to realize that you are leaning in towards her. “Will you run with me tonight, (y/n)?”

“Of course.”

She flashes you a triumphant look, arrogance and pride flashing through her emerald eyes. “Good,” she says, mouth twitching into a slight smirk. “Come with me; the road is far too open a place,” she frowns then, eyes darkening. Without so much as another word, she saunters off, feet stepping silently across the stones with practiced ease, starlight glinting off of her auburn hair. There is no moon tonight - not that either of you need it to see.

“Why didn’t we transform in the Underforge?” you dare ask.

She doesn’t spare you a glance over her shoulder when she responds, “It would have drawn too much attention.” She doesn’t elaborate, and you suppose that is alright.

It takes far too much time to get to a shielded area, with trees lining the sky and shadowing your steps. You only have so much time left, you know. Something inside of you feels more at ease, beneath the shelter of the tree tops, an insatiable hunger gnawing at you. “Aela,” you try, but she has already stopped, face pointed towards the tree tops, shoulders hunched. She knows.

“You can hear him call to us,” is all she says. She strips herself of her armour, underclothes doing little to stop your mind from wandering. The pieces of cloth are dumped unceremoniously onto the ground with a soft whump. “We will bring him glory, [sibling].”

She looks over her tanned shoulder at you, her eyes glinting an inhumane yellow. She does not cry out in pain; she only folds herself backwards with an echo of bones snapping, vertabrae making themselves visible along her spine. She falls forward, russet hair draped along her front this time.

All you see is her backside; her body visibly breaks out into a sweat, shivers overtaking her form. The crackling of bones that once sounded sickening are deafening loud on your heightened ears. Gore is what meets your eyes next as she sheds her human skin; it is enchanting to watch, no matter how sickening it is to see. You turn away when she looks like some form of twisted monster.

You have to shed your own clothes; you are stark naked, the air of Skyrim breezing through your hair and over your shoulders and in other nameless places. You pull on that instinct that is roaring fiercely in you; when nothing happens, you think of asking Aela -- even though she is underway of her own transformation and isn’t likely to understand you at the moment -- when your knees snap backwards and you fall forward, ankles twisting before reverting back then twisting again.

You let out a shrill noise of anguish, because nothing could ever describe the pain that is transforming. You muscles are constantly contracting and relaxing, knuckles popping and moving in a jarring sensation. Your stomach empties itself, contractions fiercely stabbing through your body. You’ve only had a few transformations that you could count on one hand, and it never gets any easier for you, no matter how smooth Aela or Skjor tell you it is.

Whatever noise you are making is cut off when your vocal cords shred themselves, blood convulsing past lips that are no longer your own. The pain almost blacks you out, the darkness would have been comforting.

Hircine is not a merciful Daedric lord, however; you are aware of every sensation that tears through you, although it all blurs together in blacks and reds. You are not aware of what happens for the rest of the duration, but the next moment you are aware and conscious of what is happening, you are still hunched over, long limbs in your vision.

Aela has never been one for comforting, but a soft growl still meets your keen ears, (y/n)? You shift your weight backwards onto your haunches and hindlegs, strong muscles rippling beneath your skin.

Blood and human skin litters the ground - your sharp nose detects it both easily. Your long fingers grapple at the ground, digging through the soil that once felt hard underfoot that so easily tore now. You pivot unsurely, awkward and gangly as you peer over at her.

Aela? you ask. Her green-yellow eyes glint at you, even through the darkness. Recognition floods through you. Aela.

The wolfblood was always hard to control at first; but recognition had flooded through you faster than when you had transformed with Skjor. Your muscles twitch, remaining in your hunched position as your trot over, snout poking at her shoulder.

Aela, Aela, Aela, Aela, you repeat, sounds vibrating through your throat with each jab of your snout at her shoulder. She does not retaliate; she only watches you with keen eyes. If you had ever thought she was beautiful as a human - which you have thought many times before, admittedly - you thought she was stunning now. She was in her element, tall and lanky, reeking of power and bloodlust. She was more confident in this body than she ever was as a mortal. Your wolfblood keeps thinking alpha, alpha, and your conscious self felt inclined to agree.

[Sibling], is her response, and she tips her muzzle briefly to your own, ears flickering. You do not speak to each other in the sense that you would as mortals - you growled out sounds at each other, words and meanings heard beneath each grunt and whine. It was a language just between you two. An intimacy that you loved to share with her.

We honor Hircine tonight, she reminds you, when she catches your eyes wandering. We will tear a group of Silver Hands asunder, her lips peel back in a feral grin. You return the gesture. In a fortnight, I will help you attack another; Skjor will go ahead of us. Do you understand? She has spoken to you of this mission a couple times before, but now was not the time to worry about it.

Hunt, hunt, kill, kill, comes the simplist mind of the wolfblood, demanding sacrifice. You would never deny Aela though, so you give a jagged nod of your head. Let us taste their blood on our tongues, and smell the fear from their bodies, then, comes a jagged noise that would have amounted to a wolfish laugh.

She turns tail and lopes off, picking up speed as she went along. You chase after her, easily catching up to her, the unfamiliarity of running on four limbs almost causes you to stumble, but you catch yourself numerous times. The wind whips across your [h/c] fur, the chitters of the flying owls and clacks of nearby mudcrabs whistling in your ears. Freedom tastes sweet on your tongue, face turned toward the sky as you run with her, both of you free.

* * *

There they are, cowering like cravens, Aela sneers, hunching over the encampment of the Silver Hands. There are only five of them; young blood by the smell of it, with one older. It is likely that they are new recruits with the older man teaching them the warning signs of the lycanthrope. Hah! Do they not know of us here? Are they really so ignorant? [Sibling], shall we go and give them a greeting? She turns to you, eyes not wavering from your face.

Yes, you grunt, blinking slowly at the few mortals; only a few of them were awake. They would be easy prey. Yes; let us hunt them, Aela. You tense your muscles along your haunches, coiling your muscles and leaning forward. Your steps are light as you tear down the slope, giving out a warning howl.

The Nords jostle themselves, raising cries of alarm and surprise. You jaws are parted; their fear tastes like victory in your mouth, and it is easy to tear through their flesh, blood tasting like copper running through your jaws and past your teeth. It is satisfying, seeing the young Nord’s eyes go bright with feverish fear and an instinct for survival, a pleasing crunch of bones meeting your ears as you grip his forearm tighter and wrench backwards. His muscles spread apart like sinew, and the shrieks that wrench from his lips are delicious. If the three others were slumbering before, they were surely awake now as your victim screamed.

It is easy for the wolfblood to grow tired, though. You tear through his jugular and take sick pleasure in seeing his blood pulse outwards, matting your fur and blood spraying across your muzzle.

Aela is already on her next victim, gnawing on his ear in a teasing way before she sprints away, leaving a raspy survivor in her wake. She pivots on her sharp-toed feet and slashes her persuer across the face, claws marking his face like a grave. He instinctively drops his weapon and raises his hands to his face, a guttural cry of surprise rising. She lunges forward and wrenches his ribcage open, gore spreading across the ground in a matter of seconds. He is dead within minutes.

The remaining two try to make a run for it. You give chase, jaws snapping at their heels as they scampered away like scared deer. The eldest of the group suddenly turns and brandishes a blade, sinking it into your shoulder and wrenching a surprised howl from your maw. How dare he!

The silver burns like liquid fire through your veins. You growl at him, springing backwards in high leaps, blood pulsing from the wound, heat flashing through you.

How dare you, you growl out, furious and ferocious all in one heartbeat. You lunge towards him and snap at the hand that bears the blade, snapping it in a quick twist of your jaws. He gives a half-hearted jerk, although there isn’t much of a surprised scent coming from him. The blade catches the corner of your lips, a red hot fire bleeding through you.

He will pay. They will all pay for hunting down your kind.

You tear into his face, blood blinding you; hot and sticky dampening your face further before you retreat. A quick snapping sound resonates through the clearing, and you pivot, [e/c] eyes blinking in surprise at the sight of another Silver Hand going limp, eyes rolling into the back of her head.

Aela stands tall behind her, hand clenching from where the other’s neck was moments before. The Silver Hand had held a silver dagger, dangerously close to where you were, blinded and incapitated. She would have killed you if Aela hadn’t been there.

Thank you, you say, more of a breath than actual sounds or words. Aela tilts her head, before she turns. You both leave the bodies, trekking through the forest. The smell of gore is still fresh in your mind, although that could also be due to the fact that it was smattered across your maw and between your eyes.

Aela is always a few strides ahead of you. You do not demand to stride beside her. Protect the alpha, is what your blood sings of.

The wolfblood is what made you mercilessly kill the Silver Hand, you know. Or at least you hope so. It is what comforts you when you think of what Aela asks of you, at least.

The wolfblood is also what whispers to you - things that you think you wouldn’t otherwise think of the Huntress. Protect, is what is echoing, deep in your flesh and bones. The instinct is not unwelcome; it gives you strength, the power to be brave and courageous and every bit of the Companion that Aela seems to think you are.

You nearly bump into her, so deep in your thoughts you are. Aela? comes your whine. She says nothing, only lopes forward again and splashes into the river that you recognize as the one that tears into the earth beside Whiterun.

There isn’t much cover nearby, but at least it is close to where you two transformed. She sinks beneath the shallows, or at least, as much as she can. She has no shame in rolling over to get her back, and as soon as she deems herself clean enough of the gore that had once stained her fur, she instructs you to wash off as well.

You emerge soaking wet, fur matted close to your body. Aela gives a sharp bark of laughter at the sight of you, even though her russet coat isn’t much better.

The sun will rise soon, she explains as she moves again, silent as ever. You pad alongside her, tail brushing against the undergrowth as you let out soft huffs of air. The other Companions will suspect something if we are not back soon. Especially Athis, you respond, thinking of how the Dark Elf watched you leave. She looks over at you, making a quizzical sound but does not otherwise question you.

When you arrive at the site of where you transformed, you both simply stand quietly. Aela quickly becomes restless and moves around the clearing, simply enjoying the last bit of freedom she has before she transforms.

You like being a werewolf, you observe.

Yes, she responds without looking at you. Her gait quickers before it stops altogether, and she turns her snout towards you. There is no worry of how others will react to what I say or do. I am my own person. I own everything; nobody can hold me back. I am free. You decide you have nothing to say to that, so instead you return to watching her pace.

You do not know how much time has passed before she suddenly stops and looks at you, an amused glint in her eyes. You are always watching me, [sibling]. Am I? I haven’t noticed, you reply wryly, offering a quick session of barked laughter. ..It is hard not to.

She hesitates, eyes keenly watching you. You are interested in me, she says boldly, although with a very confused accent underneath.

You are an interesting person, you confirm, although you know that is not what she meant. Her ears fold and she bares her teeth. She trots forward, a warning growl ripping from her throat.

Your ears fold and you tuck your head quickly, wolf instinct whispering harshly, alpha, alpha. You are tired of it telling you what to do, what to think of her. You never let yourself be subjected to your more primal nature; it tells you to rebel and challenge her, even though it remembers her as alpha. You wish to be her equal, in more ways than one. She has always called you [sibling], or even, once with a sneer, ‘pup’. Aela is an enigma; power in her movements and grace in her steps. She is mistress only to Hircine, daughter of the wild. She is untameable, untouchable, unreachable. These intimate night strolls with her is all you have to seeing her carefree gestures, the only time you listen to her howl freely and without care. Subconsciously, you had been watching her - judging her movements, watching her reactions. The primal instincts first saw her as a challenge, a rival for prey and territory, but now it saw her beyond the folds and safety of the pack. She has since achieved the title of ‘alpha’ - surpassing even Kodlak. She was the only one you answered to.

She was the one who had given you the wolfblood; she was the one whose blood coursed in your veins. She was always there, scent thick and choking, something that you reveled in. As your forebear, she was more intimate with you than anyone else could be.

Aela, you say, and this time she flickers her ears. This time she listens to you. She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. Aela, Aela, Aela, you say, her name rolling through your throat and past your lips. You are dizzy with the sensation of knowing that only Skjor and you have the privilege of hunting with her. Of being with her. You are the only one who I could be interested in.

She offers a wolfish grin, and lopes a bit closer to you before bumping muzzles with you. I am inclined to agree, [sibling]. She does not elaborate, and while your blood hums with the knowledge that what she’s just said implies means that she feels the same doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s carved in stone.

Tonight, you are alive. Tonight, all you want to do is live with her, in this moment where you are eternal beings and only the moon is your witness.

I am glad to hear that, Aela, you rumble back. Taking the initiative, you continue, There is still some moonlight left; do you want to walk with me, still?

She laughs, ears folding and lips peeling back in a grin. There is nothing that requires my assistance. Let us go.

The night welcomes you like lost lovers, your blood roaring to know that you are safe with Aela by your side. There is nothing that could stop you; just the inner wolf roaring and making you twine beside each other as you pace the earth.

For now, all is well.

#skyrim #skyrim x reader #aela the huntress #aela x reader #werewolf #skyrim imagines #the elder scrolls v: skyrim #aela #aela the huntress x reader #gender neutral reader #reader insert #x reader #werewolf lover #monster x human #monster x monster

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irrealis-mood · 9 months

Text

Getting Into Knives (Final Choice)

Crossposted from AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49311451

(You can't give me back what you've taken/But you can give me something that's almost as good)

The final meeting of Cazador and Astarion. Astarion makes a choice, and Eustace is a witness. Spoilers for Astarion's personal quest/ Act 3 of Baldur's Gate 3, and TW for violence. May continue this at a later date.

They see the potential for power in him, have seen it from the beginning. Astarion has always been a viper, a slick-fanged creature all slanted smiles, and when snakes are hurt, the venom comes to the front of the tooth.

Standing beside him, Eustace can practically feel the vibrant fury seeping from his every pore, can taste the coming storm of violence as sweet as petrichor on their tongue. They touch the death-mark on the back of their neck, more to soothe themself than to draw on the power of the divine.

Cazador stands before them, resplendent in red and black, lording over his dungeon’s depths. The thralls which came to their camp mere nights ago are already held in place by arcane bonds, ready to further the Black Mass, but Astarion pays them no heed. His focus is on the vampire lord before him, the emblem of his two hundred torturous years, and his fingers twitch at his rapier. He is seconds from his resolve fraying and driving headlong into the man--no, not a man anymore but a creature--before him, damned be the cost.

Eustace sends their vision down the parasite bond to him, doing their best to rein him back; the icy nothingness of the grave awaits anyone who dares go forth without thought.

Astarion steps back, once, twice, but his eyes burn bright red in reflection of his former master’s magic.

“So this is our prodigal son, come at last,” the man finally croons.

His voice hits Astarion like a knife to the chest. After weeks of not hearing it, not being forced to listen, being practically free from his bonds, here it is again. He feels like a child, like some sort of feral animal, like an insect about to be crushed by a boot. His shoulders curl, at once ready to pounce and cower.

“Do not slouch, boy! Have I taught you nothing? Have you no self-respect?”

His back straightens for a fraction of a second before he catches himself.

“You should be begging for your family’s forgiveness, on your knees, after what you have done. Abandoning the poor wretches you kept as siblings, and your master--” Cazador’s voice raises higher, nasal, disgusted.

“I owe you nothing,” Astarion spits. “Forgiveness? Hardly, after how you treated me. Treated all of us. Punishing us for the slightest error, torturing us, carving blasphemy into our skin.”

“It made you stronger, but not strong enough. Never strong enough. Despite how hard I worked to perfect you, you have not met my expectations. Piteous thing.”

The rage roils up again in him, tangible. It would be easy to give into blind fury, to make a sudden swing of his rapier, or a dagger, rend his skin even for a moment-- but before he can dash ahead, before his hand can even grasp his weapon, Eustace steps forth from next to him.

As ever, they radiate frigid calm, but Astarion knows that beneath it they’re as angry as he is. The evening talks they’d had over the weeks speak to that fact. Eustace had joked about flaying Cazador alive when he had first spoken of his master, all the while sharpening the bone dagger they kept at their side. How many nights had passed since the day they spoke of the webs fate spun for them, the un-lives they both were chained to? What had they said, when they told him of their own secrets?

“I would want, for once in my life, to have a hand in my own fate.”

And his hand seeks to change his own, so very badly.

Eustace continues their slow walk forward, dark eyes glinting in the light of the mage-lit thuribles, and when they speak, it is with a tone he isn’t sure he’s ever heard from them. Some power, some resonance that is unfamiliar to his ears, but from the corner of his eye, Astarion sees Shadowheart stiffen and brace for a fight..

“You have escaped death for centuries, Cazador Szarr, while visiting myriad horrors on this city, this world. So too, have you escaped justice.”

“What is this, boy, that you allow to speak for you? A cattle that professes justice? What disrespect you have brought into my home, and yet, I should not be surprised.”

“I am a bringer of no law but the divine ending, the completion of a cycle. You are due.” Eustace says simply, and draws their blade.

“I gave you everything, and yet, that did not suffice. I will wring your body free of insolence with my bare hands, and when you are bound and broken, you will burn in the divinity of my ascension!” Cazador’s voice echoes off the dungeon’s walls and falls into the chasms below him. Before he can entrap Astarion’s in his arcane lock, in the fraction of a moment, Eustace pushes the pale elf backwards, so he falls among the rank and file of his fellow companions. He readies his rapier, tips it with poison just for luck.

At once, crowds of bats fly screeching towards them, horrible abominations of wolves leap from their stations and make to pounce, Cazador fades into a red mist-- Astarion’s compatriots leap to the ready, spears and arrows and daggers lining up in defence.

And calm, quiet Eustace, Eustace who can stop an argument with a dark look and a quiet word, Eustace who has never met a battle they can’t strategize around, is stepping to the front of the line, before Astarion--

Necromantic energy pulses out of them in torrents of icy waves, eyes black as when they faced Ketheric Thorm, knuckles white enough to echo the bone dagger in their hand. They walk, and then they run, hurling spells with barely a whisper. Karlach leads the charge of the rest of them, screaming bloody murder as she frenzies, and the rest fall into alignment like a well oiled machine. Astarion can’t help but be swept up in the battle tide, slashing any creature coming close; the bloodlust, the promise of sweet vengeance fills his head, as he howls and plunges dagger and rapier into the oncoming storm. The day is here, and it is his, and he will win .

When Cazador retreats to his sarcophagus to regenerate himself, Astarion rips off the stone lid with a strength he wasn’t aware he possessed; throws the vampire lord to the ground and relishes the hiss of furious pain he hears.

“Get your hands off me, you pathetic worm.” Cazador grits out, but Astarion mocks his hateful words with a quick retort of his own, and comes to stand over the man’s body.

Eustace stands meters back, watching with an inscrutable gaze as Astarion rounds on his former master.

“I can kill you. I can do it here and now, and finally, I’ll be free of your torment. I won’t have to be afraid of you ever again. And if I take your place, I’ll be free of fear entirely. I’ll have the world at my beck and call.” he says, ragged.

“You idiot child, do you think I could let anyone usurp me? Those scars of yours mean you’re a part of this ritual too. You try it, you’ll burn just like the rest of your kin.” A wheezy cackle oozes through broken ribs.

Astarion makes a hiss of fury, and turns to face Eustace. His face is haunted, determined.

“I need your help to--to carve my scar markings on his back. So I can replace him. I shall ascend in his place.”

The elf’s eyes are wide, half deranged in their anger, in their anguish.

Eustace knows that desperation well, the search for some scrap of power that can turn the tide of fate. From the search for an escape from the bargain their mother made for their soul, to the moment they knew no god would help them, to the moment they found they were infected with a mindflayer.

How easy it could be, to tell him they would do it. For him to relinquish what humanity he had left, into the sweet waves of devilish power. How easy for Astarion, to give himself over, to be remade a god-king.

“Eustace, please. I need your help. Answer me.”

They have never heard him beg before, not truly. Not like this. It will hurt, they know, whichever path he chooses.

Eustace walks with silent footfalls over the stone to his side. They wave a hand over Cazador’s body where he lies on the ground, enveloping him in black tendrils to gag him and keep him in place. Turning to Astarion, they do not touch, as much as they could reach out a hand to steady his shaking form.

“You think this will bring you your freedom,” they say to the man before them.

“Of course it will, are you mad ? What has all of this been for, if not for freedom? For power?”

“The two are not the same.”

“I can make him nothing, I can make him less than nothing. I can be so much more than he is, if you’ll help me ,” Astarion pleads.

“You’ll be consumed,” they respond.

“No, that’s the point, I’ll replace Cazador in the ritual, and he’ll take my place, that way I can--”

“Astarion.” They let his name ring in the silence until the echo quiets. “You will be consumed, if you take part in this. Not by a death or sacrifice, but by your own power.”

They cast a glance to the vampire lord struggling against his bonds.

“As it devoured him,” they speak with disgust, “it will devour you wholly. You may become something of a god, something of a new being, but you will be empty . A shell of who you were. You will bring no end to your suffering.”

Astarion lets out a mirthless laugh, venomous, but they continue.

“You will become him. Not in name, but in spirit, in ideal, searching for power over all else. Is that what you want? To follow your master, eternally?”

“Gods but I want him dead , I want him to suffer, I want to be-- I don’t want to be afraid anymore,”

Astarion whispers to them, his hand gripping a claw into their shoulder.

“If you want him dead, then kill him. Kill him any way that brings you pleasure, brings you peace. But do not kill yourself in the process.”

They stop a moment, gathering their thoughts, and then cover his hand with their own, touch firm but voice breaking. “Astarion, you are more than what he made you, and you--you have a choice, you can change your fate . You don’t have to become a god to do the impossible, right here and now.”

The words pierce into his skull, and he wants to bat away the thoughts and feelings and bring back the blessed clarity from moments ago. Eustace always had a way of worming their way into people, hells, into him . All the way back on the beach after the nautiloid crash, when he had pinned their body onto the rocky sand and put a knife to their throat, he had faltered at the look in their eyes; as if they stared at death and found it lacking, unafraid and almost curious. The look they give Astarion now could not be further from the one he saw then-- Eustace’s eyes are far from emotionless, there is a bitterness, evident in their gaze, but all the same, a longing desperate hope.

The words unsaid hang in the air. Do what I cannot.

Karlach, Shadowheart and the rest watch carefully from a distance, eyes pinned to Cazador as well. Several moments pass, where the tension is strung tight, a bowstring ready to snap.

Astarion lets out a strangled breath, shrugs off Eustace’s hand. They let it and the tendrils keeping Cazador in place fall away. The elf stands alone over Cazador, the fated roles reversed.

“You don’t deserve the mercy of a quick death.” He spits out, teeth bared. “But I’ll enjoy the moments we have as much as I can.” He takes Cazador’s dagger, the one he kicked away from him as soon as he threw the vampire to the ground. Hefting the weight in his hand, he crouches so close that if the vampire lord could still breathe he would feel the breath on his face.

“You have no power over me, nor anyone else. I am not your shadow anymore.”

The blade plunges deep into the flesh, rending and tearing and ripping, and no screams have ever sounded so sweet as Cazador’s. Knife into heart and stomach and anything he can reach, over again, and down the bond Eustace feels the flood of agonizing victory, the culmination of two hundred years of torture and madness as Astarion carries out his bloody work.

Minutes pass. The screams stop, but when Astarion weeps bitterly and cries out to the heavens, Eustace feels as if they are the one being murdered.

#astarion #astarion bg3 #bg3 spoilers #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 fic #astarion x mc #astarion x tav

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obliqueblade · 4 months

Text

Desert Duo Superhero AU Chapter 3: All for a Parking Pass

Crossposted on AO3- https://archiveofourown.org/works/50109406/chapters/133703446#workskin

Scar’s POV

From the moment Scar opened his eyes, he knew it would not be a good day. The phantom pain in his legs was ranked up to eleven, and Scar didn’t even need to move his bedsheets to know the bruises from his fake legs were worse than usual. Scar could feel his lungs struggle, like the smoke from yesterday was still there, despite Cub ensuring he was okay. They had adjusted his oxygen intake regardless anyway just in case.

After Cute Guy had left him on the roof the day before, Hot Guy tasked himself with shuffling through the rubble due to his… distraction.

Sighing, Scar sat up and rubbed a hand over his face.

As much as Cute Guy insisted, Scar wasn’t usually one to get distracted. He wasn’t ranked number one because he caused the most property damage after all. This was a more recent development. One that Scar wished he could ignore, as it would make his life so much easier. At least the distraction hadn’t caused anyone to get hurt. Scar would not have been able to forgive itself if it had. That had to be one of the worst things about his job- the people he hadn’t been able to save.

Still, though, Scar had felt obligated to stay later and help the residents in the area find someplace safe to stay, and then meet with Scott for a press release to let people know the new dangers The Creepers had gained.

“ …there have always been new features added to the mobs on the other side of the wall…”

Scar had often wondered what the other side of the wall offered, and how people could live there. When he was in school, his teachers had nailed the point home that “people” didn’t live on the other side of the wall. They hadn’t much liked it when Scar had insisted that they were people. How could they judge Hybrids, when no one Scar had ever met had even SEEN a Hybrid? The only information that people had was from the Hero Association and their history books. Both of them agreed that Hybrids had angered the Old Gods, and as punishment, they were cast out.

Scar had never been much for that theory though.

With another sigh, Scar peeled back the sheets and shuffled over to his wheelchair. In his movement though, Scar nudged Jellie, who lazily lifted her head and fixed him with an unimpressed stare. Scar blinked a moment before laughter bubbled within him. So that’s what Cute Guy's stare yesterday had reminded him of. The irony of the avian hybrid pulling the exact facial expression of a cat did not escape him.

“Evil my foot,” Scar mumbled reaching to pet and attempting to soothe Her Majesty back to sleep. A part of him was almost jealous of her immediate ability to fall back to sleep, but Scar had chosen to continue to teach. While he enjoyed helping people, he loved interacting with his students every day. This did mean though, that he could not spend the remainder of the day embraced in his sheets.

Scar retracted his hand and pushed himself up and over into his chair. Yep, still loved it, even when massively sleep-deprived and sore. The Hero Association had pressured him back when he was completing his Doctorate program to become a hero full-time. An offer Scar had wholeheartedly shut down, making clear that if anything the hero work would be the first to go. They hadn’t liked that response all that much, and Scar had been punished for it. Scar felt it was still worth it though- they never did bring up him quitting again.

Rolling away from his bed, Scar began to prepare for no doubt a long day that was awaiting him. He was meant to go back out for patrol tonight once he had finished teaching for the day. At least he loved the life he had lived thus far, tough as it may be at times. Cub wasn’t pleased about his schedule, but the Hero Association would not allow Scar a break and Scar was to stubborn to stop teaching. Cub eventually stopped protesting the schedule, but he made sure to put his foot down against some of the Hero Associations more assinin ideas. Ideas, he wouldn’t have told Scar had he not overheard the one afternoon he had arrived early to suit up.

Scar wheeled himself into his kitchen and prepared his breakfast and the various medications he needed to take before he would need to leave. Thankfully, he had the foresight last night to prepare his medical backpack, so at least that wasn’t on his agenda this morning. When he had first started on all of them, the process had been difficult to remember, but after all this time Scar was pretty sure he could do it with his eyes closed. Oh, the joys of a lifelong illness.

Grabbing the remote, Scar turned his attention to the TV in the living room, which he could listen to and m mostly see in his open kitchen and living room, as he finished prepping his bagel.

“... what do you think of the most recent involvement of a hybrid working with a Hero?”. Scar rolled his eyes, not turning around as he spread cream cheese on the bagel. He didn’t need to look to know that this was just an attempt from the Hero Association to regain control of the public opinion. Most citizens were not aware of the involvement the association had with just about everything, but Scar had seen more than most. More than he probably should have seen, and he wasn’t sure if the association even knew how much. Even now in a supposed interview of a “random” citizen, Scar knew they were just a hired actor meant to recite lines and create a new narrative.

There were very few news outlets in the Upper City that the Hero Association didn’t control, and while Scar tried to appear on those outlets more, there was no avoiding their influence.

“Well, hybrids are dangerous, so there is no way they would let an actual hybrid in Upper City, let alone what some of those conspiracy theorists were suggesting.

“And what have they been suggesting?

“That a hybrid is sentient or smart enough to help the Heroes out!”

Scar couldn’t hear the reporters response immediantly as he let the knife clatter to the counter as he whipped his head around to stare at the TV in horror. That cannot be the narrative they are trying to spin right now.

“... so you’re saying that the Hero Association has advanced enough to makeshift hybrids to save citizens' lives?”

Scar’s vision nearly whited out with blind rage. Of course, they would not come out and say they had advanced technology enough to compare to the Old Gods, but they would imply it. The vast majority of people within Upper City believed in the Old Gods, and everyone accepted their existence, even if they didn’t follow the religious aspects. Some things though, were just a fact that happened to tie to religion, thus involving everyone, so no one had a choice on their actual beliefs. People would continue to see hybrids as mindless beasts, and the Hero Association as their sole protectors and providers, a position the Old Gods had ensured their longevity to keep the people, safe. It gave them power without them having to state or exude that power at all, or at least not to the public's eyes. While some people questioned the Hero Association's treatment of Hybrids, no one could challenge the influence of the Old Gods.

Suddenly, Cute Guy’s words from the day before rang in his ears.

“It’s a mutual thing”

The Hero Association had managed to come up with a way to imply that Cute Guy was nothing more than a pawn in their plan. That all she had done for people was just the Hero Association.

Completely invalidating her.

All her success in changing how people perceived hybrids, is now rendered moot.

Maybe it was her words or the sad look in her eyes when he had explained why he would not let Scar take them to a hospital. All they’ve had to go through, just to be batted away as a pawn. While Scar had made that choice, he had a feeling the same could not be said for Cute Guy.

Scar’s hand twitched for his phone, but he resisted. As much as he wanted to call Cub and go over everything, there was no way of knowing which parts the Hero Association would listen in on. Though, he could be sure they would be listening. No way they’d let the number one hero have space to betray them. If Cute Guy was a pawn, Scar felt most days he was nothing more than a puppet, waiting for the higher-ups to yank him into moving. While he could get away with a lot, outright disloyalty to the association was not one of them.

Clutching his jaw tightly, Scar took in a few deep breaths, calming himself and his mind. There was no point getting angry over it, unfortunately, that wouldn’t solve anything. As if on cue, Jellie ran into the room and jumped onto his lap, purring loudly once she had landed.

“Thank you, Good Jellie, I don’t know where I’d be without you,” Scar murmured, petting Jellie softly allowing himself to breathe a moment. Scar stared into her eyes and could have sworn she was communicating with him.

‘We will get through this’.

Throughout the time they have spent together, Scar could have sworn that Jellie knew more than an ordinary cat did. Then she’d meow at her reflection for twenty minutes, and Scar would dispel those thoughts until the next time she did something strange. Scar’s alarm went off, indicating that he needed to be leaving now, and Scar sighed.

I love my job. I love my job. I love my job. I love my job.

“I suppose that means that I should leave now, right?” Scar rhetorically asked, and Jellie lifted her front paw and licked it in response. Answer enough.

“Right then, suppose that answers it then,”

Placing his hands underneath Jellie, she quickly scampered off and into the living room where she’d no doubt spend the rest of the day napping in the sun until he came home. Resolving himself to his fate, Scar made sure to grab his briefcase with papers he couldn’t be sure if he had graded, as well as his personal laptop. Wheeling to the door, Scar picked up his medical backpack, making sure that it was still appropriately packed with the medications he’d have to take throughout the day, as well as backups of nasal cannulas and the disinfectant for them just in case. While yes, he had packed it the night before, he’d made the mistake of not checking before and found the bag filled with clothes. Where had he pecked his meds you may wonder? A suitcase.

Scar didn’t own a suitcase.

As he was slinging that over the handlebars, a car horn went off in front, and Scar wanted to roll his eyes at their impatience. Despite this retinue on par with how long it usually took him, his ride always managed to honk the horn as Scar began to step out.

If he didn’t know better he’d swear they were doing it on purpose, but how would they even be able to do that? Meischif just came naturally to them.

“Bye Jellie!” Scar called back into the apartment and wheeled out the door. Not expecting a response, Scar turned and shut the door behind him, turning his body to lock the door with his keys, as he heard a car door open.

“I was coming you know,” Scar called teasingly, not bothering to turn and look at his friend as he kept his focus on locking his front door. While you would have to be crazy to attempt to rob the Number 1 Hero, that does not apply when the Number 1 Hero looks like an easy target. The most dangerous thing in Scar’s actual home was probably Jellie, though she had earned that title rightly so.

“Perhaps I’d like to make it to campus before nightfall is all,” the voice calls back just as teasingly, before a hand gently takes the keys from him, and swiftly locks the door.

“I was getting that you know,” Scar huffs annoyed, finally turning to face the all too cheery man who had designated himself his ride to campus every day. To no ones surprise, his driver had on another amazingly soft red sweatshirt, and if Scars' vision weren’t as good as it was he’d have missed the microscopic differences in all the sweaters he had.

“You looked like your head was about to snap off, Scar, we really need to find a better way for you to lock your doors,” Grian responded, moving behind his chair and wheeling him across the walkway, and to where his car was still running, the driver's door still open in Scar,s driveway.

“You know leaving your door open like that, you’re bound to get into trouble,” Scar offered turning his head up to stare up at the man.

“Oh please, Scar, I’m stronger than I look. Besides if anyone ever did mess with me, I’d probably annoy them enough where they’d just let me go anyways,” Grian teased as Scar opened up the passenger side door, preparing to lift himself out of the chair and into the seat. At least Grian owned a car and not some supersized, super “manly” truck that Scar was sure he’d need a team to get in and out of. Though it would be incredibly funny to laugh as they attempted to lug him in and out, Scar would be worried they’d more likely drop him on his butt for laughing at them.

“That’s true,” Scar settled on, after successfully settling himself into the seat. The bruises on his legs and torso practically scream at the movement, but Scar was all too familiar with hiding that pain.

“Scar!” Grian exclaimed swatting his shoulder as Scar broke down laughing.

“Well now look who's taking his sweet time, we’re going to be late you know,” Scar teased back gesturing to the clock display, watching as Grian's eyes widened in shock, before returning to glare at him.

“You’re lucky I don’t throw you out right now and make you wheel your way there,” Grian stated before shutting the door, cutting off Scar’s response. Moments later the back door opened and in slid his backpack, and then his wheelchair before the door was once more shut.

Scar eyed the horn, tempted, but after the last time he did that, Grian looked like he had a heart attack from the shock, so Scar decided to shelve that particular strategy for the time being. Besides, he wasn’t entirely sure if Grian would kill him or not. That would be a bit embarrassing if he was taken out by someone so small.

Cute Guy would never let him live it down, and that was something that could not be allowed under any circumstance. So, Scar would have to behave, however, no one ever said he could not toe the line.

As soon as Grian made it back to his seat, Scar turned, eyes pleading with him.

“No Scar,” Grian stated not even looking at him as he shut his door and put his seatbelt on. Scar's mouth dropped in response.

“What! But you don’t even know what I was going to ask!”

Grian fixed him with an unimpressed stare, before turning his head and beginning to back out of the driveway.

“... it would help us make it on time,” Scar offered quietly, and Grian sighed.

“No Scar, it will give me another traffic violation,”

“That was one time!”

“And there shall be no repeats!”

Grian backed out of the driveway and began driving as Scar still sat, pleading with his eyes. Jellie had gotten it honest after all.

“Come on, Grandma, we might be able to go over 30 without the world collapsing around us,” Scar rebutted. Once more only received an unimpressed stare,

“Fine, fine, but I’m telling all of your students you drive like a grandmother,” Scar said throwing his hands up in surrounder. Giran huffed in response but still didn’t increase the speedometer.

The drive continued in comfortable silence as they approached the more crowded inner city. Most people weren’t as lucky as he was to be able to afford to live in a quieter area, away from the overcrowded city. Most of his colleagues still lived there, however, Grian was another one of the few who lived with actual legroom.

As they grew closer, the overbearing reach of the Hero’s Association could be seen. Advertisements, billboards, propaganda, the whole lot of it. Almost a hundred screens displayed whatever the Hero Association wanted at any given time, and that was only on this street. Scar was almost terrified of what the entirety of Upper City looked like from above. Maybe that was something he could ask Cute Guy about. The re-emergence of the display screens reinforced Scar’s decision to live further away, at least then he wouldn’t have to see it all the time.

While most of the signs were portraying Heros, mostly Hot Guy, Scar realized, the same billboard always managed to catch his attention the most. Despite seeing it every morning driving in, Scar's eyes were always drawn to it, like it had somehow changed overnight. However, it had been years since that had happened.

The most wanted list.

There were several scrolling warnings, announcing criminals the Hero’s Association had deemed to be extremely dangerous individuals, and if anyone had information they could receive a massive reward. As long as Scar had lived, there had never been such information, no massive reward, and no one was taken off the board. Scar almost questioned if the people on them even existed, but what would the Hero Association gain by admitting there were people they couldn’t catch?

The first was a blonde man with a bandana wearing a strikingly green outfit, the next was a man with dark brown hair wearing plaid and overalls, the next was another man with blonde hair but with piercing Crimson eyes, and the only woman on the board had a blue hood covering most of her brown hair with blue eyes, and finally, the reason Scar had even started paying attention to this sign was a man with stark white hair, one red eye and a mask covering the majority of their face. The displays never gave a name, just displaying that they were wanted, the price for relevant information, and the image. The rotation increased the price dramatically for each individual, the final amount being a number that even now Scar wasn’t sure he had seen in his entire life. They always stayed on one particular person for 30 seconds, before rolling to show the next.

Most of the individuals had been on the wanted board for about as long as Scar could remember, and even after joining the Heros Association, he still had no idea who any of them were. The only thing that had ever changed was the addition of the female, several years ago. It had been the only change in 20 years, as far as Scar could remember tracking it. Scar had tried to ask about it at work, trying to prove that he could help as the Number One Hero, but no dice. The higher-ups told him they had their team on these individuals, and to mind the care of the citizens. He had begged to differ since the names seemed to grow, rather than diminish, but Scar knew he had to pick his battles. As Scar was studying the changing display, something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye.

“Oh no,” Scar stared at the new display.

“What?” Grian asked glancing over before looking back trying to figure out what had caught his attention.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Grian said, his hands tightening up on the steering wheel as his eyes landed on the new display. Now as Scar looked around, there were several displays along the busy street, they really should have noticed it sooner.

Standing back to back, was Hot Guy and Cute Guy. Hot Guy had his bow held out, pointed down with what was known as his “Hero Smirk” on his face. Cute Guy had her arms up, guns outstretched pointing to something out of the display, as her wings kept her off the ground. Underneath in big bold text was,

Newest Hero Association Experiment a Success!

Hot Guy Tames a Beast!

For the second time that morning, rage-filled Scar. ‘Tamed’? Tamed.

Like Cute Guy was some animal, Hot Guy had lured into becoming docile. Scar should have known the Hero Association wasn’t going to take kindly after the collapsed building, but they had to know they were begging Cute Guy to retaliate.

Though, they probably were. Merely waiting for her to do anything that they could deem ‘villainous’ and order that they be wiped out. Scar should have known better. This wasn’t a punishment just for Cute Guy, this was also to ensure that if anything ever did happen and Cute Guy hurt someone, Hot Guy would also be blamed. It was a reminder of what they had over him, the puppet strings tightening around his wrists and throat, ever pressing, and the area around his thighs seemed to throb, feeling the puppet strings tighten.

He could only imagine how Cute Guy was going to react to the new images.

“So this is how they’re deciding to handle that hybrid then,” Grian muttered eyes glancing from the road every few seconds to glare at the display before looking back at the road.

“I take it you’re not a fan then?” Scar asked, attempting to keep the trepidation out of his voice. In the past few years that he had known Grian, he hadn’t taken him as one to hate hybrids. Most of his colleagues were still nervous about them, but as far as Scar knew, none had ever expressed hating hybrids. While they had only recently started to get close, Grian didn’t strike him as someone to hate Hybrids.

“Not a fan of what?” Grian asked in lieu of responding. After knowing him for so long, Scar had gotten better at recognizing all his mannerisms, and he knew Grian had understood him the first time.

“Hybrids,”

Grain's eyes flicked back over to him quickly, before-

“I’ve got no problem with Hybrids, but that one is … different.”

“Can I ask why?” Scar felt it was fair to ask. Over the past few months, Grian had been self-appointed as his “work best friend”, but realistically Scar realized he didn’t know much about him. Besides some of the obvious like his age, job, general idea of where he lived, and his two cats, Scar didn’t know much about what Grian did before he began to teach at the university a few years after Scar had.

“I don’t like things that are going to threaten the safety of the people that I care about is all,” Grian says attention still taken with the road, only now Scar could tell it was to avoid having to look at him while answering.

“And Cute Guy is a danger. One that could get a lot of people hurt, even killed, and I don’t think they’re properly considering that,”

Scar remained silent for a moment, and a pang of realization hit him. One of the first times he had recognized Grian after he started teaching at one of the only universities in Upper City was from a few years prior on one of the worst monster attacks Scar had seen so early in his career. A massive part of Upper City had been destroyed, hundreds of lives lost, but Scar can still remember Grian's face as he screamed for his sister in the arms of one of his colleagues.

Out of everyone, Grian had a reason to be worried about the dangers a Hybrid would undoubtedly bring. Even without meaning to, Cute Guy could inspire Hybrids to do the same and get themselves or others hurt, and while Scar or rather Hot Guy knew, they would never mean to, the Hero Association would make sure to blame her. Or people would try and hurt the Hybrids, and without them able to get help from anyone in Upper City, and no way back to the Lower City, the amount of Hybrids that would be killed was something Scar did not want to risk. In the end, causing the cycle of fear and hate to continue- no end in sight. Even Scar had to admit that a building coming down in an area she had been spotted in wasn’t a good look, even if it had been his fault. That reminded him though.

“Then how do you feel about Hot Guy?” Scar asked as normally as he possibly could. While Grian was not the first one he had asked this question to in his years as a hero, it never got easier to seem as nonchalant as possible. Grian sat there a moment, Scar hoped thinking positively.

“I think he does an amazing job as a hero. One of the only ones I would give that credit to. I’m sure the gossip hit you by now, but when I lost my sister in that massive monster attack several years ago, he went back into the carnage and tried to find her. He almost killed himself trying to, and when they forced him to safety he apologized for failing. To this day though, he’s made sure that there have been no attacks like that since. I’ve respected himself ever sense,” Grian finished simplistically, and Scar’s breath caught. He had remembered returning to the wreckage to find whatever survivors he could, but he hadn’t expected Grian to remember it. Mainly because he had collapsed right after that and the paramedics had given him an evil eye before darting the man into a temporary med tent, Scar had assumed to wait for more ambulances.

“I am sorry about your sister, Grian. I had heard about it, but there never seemed a good time to mention it,” Scar almost apologized. While the rest of the staff had mentioned something, Scar didn’t feel he had a right to offer his condolences. After all, if he had been better at his job, Grian wouldn’t have to suffer through not having a sibling in the first place.

Grian only shook his head,” Don’t worry about it, I understand. It was a topic I needed to bring up in my own time. I appreciate it though,” Grian smiled as the car came to a stop. Startled, Scar looked up and realized they had arrived at the campus and Grian had parked in one of the closest handicapped spaces next to the Architecture building, even though the Sciences was further into campus.

“If I may though, about Cute Guy, I worry that they aren’t being safe, for sure, but hurting people? She would never.”

Grian slowly unbuckled and sent him a small smile, “Well, I’m glad she can have people here that have faith in her,”.

With that, Grian opened his door and got out, quickly moving to the other side of the car and wrestling to get the wheelchair from the backseat. Once that battle had been won, he grabbed the medical backpack, as well as his backpack, before shutting the door.

Scar opened his door, and with Grian's help to hold the beast steady managed to transport himself, and his briefcase, into the chair. Once more his body ached and protested at the movement, but Scar ignored it. Grian wrapped the straps over the back of the chair and nodded in satisfaction.

“Well, I believe you’re all set Dr. Scar, now on your way!” Grian cheered, locking his car before turning on his heel and beginning the march to the science building.

“Goodbye my one Good Deed,” Grian called sing songingly, flipping his hand in the air without turning around.

“Hey! I knew you were just using me for my parking pass!”

“Guilty!”

notes

Hello everyone, I know it’s been a while, and I’m going to keep this relatively short. I’ll link my Tumblr post where I discussed a bit about the health setback I had, as well as info about this fic if you’re interested. Also, I’m sure most of us have heard about Jellie by now, and as someone who has a pet going through medical emergencies I cannot begin to imagine how affected Scar is right now, so if you have a moment, leave a kind message to him on his post about Jellie if you have not already. I’m hoping to have another chapter before the end of January, but we’ll see how that goes. Also, can you spot the Technoblade reference?

As always, leave a comment down below your thoughts, favorite parts, or how you spent this past holiday season.

Stay safe everybody, and I’ll see everyone again shortly!

#hermitblr #hermitcraft #desert duo #desert duo vigilante au #grian #superhero au #ao3 fanfic #cute guy grian #ao3 writer #archive of our own #goodtimeswithscar #hot guy scar #health #cat: jellie #gtwscar #gtws hermitcraft #life series #trafficblr #traffic smp

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tiannasfanfic · 2 years

Text

Gone Away

Billy Butcher x Reader (Angst)

Summary: Relocating to New York was supposed to be a fresh start after a supe related incident took everything from you. But now, you're just wasting away in a new city. Could a random job offer from a stranger be enough to save you? (Crossposted to AO3)

Rating: Teen and Up

Author Note: I listed this as angst since it has a dark theme. This is my first attempt writing from The Boys, so I focused mainly on the reader to ease into the tone of the setting and Billy’s way of speaking. He’s quite different to write than Adrian is, so it was fun branching out.

CW: Mentions of the family's death and how but no details, severe depression and grief, self destructive behavior, alcohol dependency, cussing, Butcher being Butcher.

Word Count: 1,470

Two years.

It had been two years since your life was destroyed. Your home, your family. All gone in the blink of an eye. Literally.

What happened?

Well, that you still didn’t like to think too much about. At least, not when you were out in public. That was just asking for a breakdown, panic attack, uncontrollable fit of screaming or all the above.

That was the whole reason you moved to New York last year. While you had wanted to since you were a kid, this was a good opportunity to get a fresh start. You couldn’t get away from what happened while still in your hometown. At least in New York, no one knew who you were. You could blend in again and people wouldn’t be staring at you with sympathetic looks. Or constantly asking how you were doing. Or offering their support then not being there when you actually needed them. Or any one of the million other things people did or said to make themselves feel like they were helping without actually having to help. You just wanted a normal life again.

The settlement from Vought paid for your relocation. In all honesty, losing everything due to the richest company in the world had taken care of the rest of your life. You were living off of the interest alone, and only a portion of the interest at that. You actually had more money now a year later when you made your decision than the check had been worth.

When you got to New York, however, you ended up getting one of the shittiest and cheapest apartments. It was a one room loft in a particularly low, low-income area. You could’ve gotten something better, but in your mind, what was the point? Depression and grief had a deep hold on you. Life had taken everything good from you, so in your mind, you didn’t deserve anything better. It would just be taken from you too, you thought.

For something to do, you ended up getting a retail job at a Walgreens. You were a standard floor associate, spending your days stocking and helping customers find stuff. It was mindless work. You could do it half asleep, hung over or high, and frequently did. You couldn’t sleep unless you self-medicating otherwise, you would just lay in bed, wondering why you were still here. That was becoming a problem too, but you didn’t want to think about that either.

In all fairness, you didn’t really think about much of anything anymore except for what you lost. You may have not died physically, much to your dismay, but there wasn’t any living left in your life. You were just going through the motions at that point. Nothing held your interest; nothing was fun anymore; it was all for nothing anyway.

It was your job that led you to being recognized. You helped a man who had a French accent in the first aid section find what he needed. He didn’t instantly know who you were but knew he recognized you from tv. Something about an incident involving a supe. It didn’t take but a quick Google search on his phone to confirm his suspicions. The incident that destroyed your home with your husband, three children, and pets inside had made quite a few national headlines.

Immediately after he left, the man informed his cohorts who he had identified at the store and pitched the idea that if anyone would want to join their cause, it was you. There was a fire in your eyes that he recognized. It was very, very dim, but Frenchie felt like if that fire could be stoked higher, you’d be one hell of an ally. After some debate, it was agreed on to at least talk to you about it.

Unfortunately, they made the mistake of sending Hughie.

In all fairness, it seemed like a good idea at the time. You both had a lot of common ground. He had lost the woman he loved to a supe in the blink of an eye, you had lost the family you loved to a supe in the blink of an eye. He could empathize with you and sway you to their side. How hard could it be?

No one counted on the fact that what passed for your personality these days was the exact opposite of Hughie’s. He said all the wrong things and you ended up having your manager throw him out.

A day later, Butcher stopped by himself to talk to you.

By that point, he was starting to wonder if this was all just one giant waste of time. They were doing fine; they didn’t need anyone else. They already had one person who lost everything, and he could be somewhat of a whinging cunt at times. Sure, Hughie was useful, but the last thing Butcher needed was two whinging cunts.

You were helping a customer shade match foundation when you noticed the big man wander over into the section. He was hard to miss, especially when he had a big energy about him that was a cross between a grizzled old sea captain and one of those Hollywood police detectives you see on network tv. He just had that sort of air of authority about him, which included a healthy dose of not giving a fuck. He stepped over to the Maybelline section and started browsing mascaras.

Once you finished with your customer and rang him out, you approached the man.

“You ever wonder why people put so much stock in all this shite?” he said in an accented voice, not taking his eyes off the display of eye makeup.

“Not much to wonder about,” you said, coming to stand next to him and looking at the wall of makeup yourself. “Initially it was men that invented and wore all this crap. Same with heels and hosiery and corsets. Then at some point they decided those were feminine things. What was considered masculine and good became feminine and bad. Fast forward a few hundred years and they still try to say it's the only way to be beautiful.”

“Oh yeah?” his eyes cut over to you, you nodded, and he looked back at the wall. “Well, that’s the biggest load of bollocks I ever heard. Women don’t need all that fucking shite to be beautiful.”

You chuckled. “Agreed. It is a fascinating history though.”

“I bet,” he said, then finally turned to you. “But I can’t say I came here for a history lesson.”

“I didn’t figure,” you said, chuckling and turning to him. “Looking for a new mascara then?”

“Eh?”

You shifted your gaze pointedly to the products he was standing in front of then back to him. He looked back at the wall then back at you.

“Course not. I don’t have the lashes for it, love,” he smirked.

You chuckled. “In that case, we have some pretty affordable selection of false lashes that might be better suited for you.”

That got an even bigger smirk out of the man.

“Tell me something, love. Would you wear those?”

“You want me to be honest?”

“Course.”

“Fuck no,” you said instantly. “I ain’t putting glue on my eyes, I don’t give a shit how safe they say it is.”

That got a laugh from him.

Butcher made a decision then. He had been doubtful about this whole thing, but now he saw the fire in your eyes that Frenchie was talking about. You’d be a good fit.

“I’ve actually got a job offer for you, if you’re interested,” he said.

“Pfft,” you should with a scoff, then you gestured around you. “And, what? Leave this fabulous career behind?”

Butcher chuckled. “Hear me out, at least. I think you’ll be interested.”

You studied him as you considered.

It couldn’t hurt.

“Alright,” you said. “I’m off in little under an hour. I usually go across the street for a drink after work to relax if you want to meet up there.”

At the bar, the introduced himself as Billy Butcher and you learned about his particular area of expertise. You found yourself listening to his explanation with rapt attention. For the first time in two years, you felt an interest in something. It probably wasn't the best of things to be interested in, admittedly, but something was better than nothing. You'd find out later that this man was absolute shit at pep talks, but something in his choice of words that day made you feel the fire in your blood that he saw ignited in your eyes. He wasn't even halfway through with his story when you told him you were in with absolutely no hesitation.

This is why you never send a Hughie to do a Butcher’s job.

#the boys #the boys fanfic #the boys billy butcher #the boys x reader #billy butcher #billy butcher imagine #billy butcher x reader #billy butcher x y/n #billy butcher x you #billy butcher fanfic

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catgirl-catboy · 1 year

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I don't think total drama's writing is bad just when it comes to ships this fandom is a mess, they still argue Duncney vs Gwuncan like rabid dogs

Total drama Z? I never heard the new season I'm a total dingus, I will watch it

And I read you like Tenko -my bi queen- can I take a Tenko analysis before I go watch total drama Z?

And well I guess we quite get along well, I'm happy about it. Autistic to autistic communication ig? Lol

Yesss! A fellow Bi Tenko headcanoner! I am pro headcanon whatever the fuck you want, but the fact that lesbian Tenko is the popular headcanon disappoints me because it is the most shallow way to read Tenko. "She hates men because she's a lesbian" is boring. I want to hypothesize a different explanation, because why take her at her word when you can overanalyze her so much. It got long, so I put it under a readmore. By long, I mean 2000 words. Honestly, I might crosspost this to ao3 later, since I legit love this.

The love hotel is dubiously canon at best, but ideas from it are shown in her FTEs and character development in chapter three, so I do think it works for me. That being said, if you are part of the fans that hate it I do get why.

Elephant in the room for a lot of my thoughts on Tenko... I think she was abused by her master. I actually have a lot more evidence than the Kiyo was a victim of abuse headcanon, which I also subscribe to!

She shows a lot of symptoms of abuse that were played for laughs. In her intro we get the line:

"If any degenerate tries to touch me, my reflex is to grab them and throw them across the room."

That could just be because shes an Aikido master, but it paints a very disturbing picture with the rest of the context.

In her first FTE with Kaede, we get the line "Master told me degenerate males always have perverted fantasies running through their heads!"

So her master is intentionally telling her bad things about men. He must know about her sexism. He probably even encourages it!

In the same FTE, when she talks about attacking Shuichi, she describes it as "pre-emptive self-defense" small problem, wouldn't it be pre-emptive defense of others? It was brought up in the context of protecting Kaede. Honestly, I really wish I knew Japanese so I could see the original text for this line.

I don't think it was the first time she used this logic/excuse.

There's Tenko's repeated insistence to Kaede that she doesn't consider herself cute reeks of low self esteem. If her Aikido master was like a surrogate parent to her, shouldn't he have caught on to this negative self talk? Should he have told her she was cute, since she's basically his daughter.

If you tell her that her passion is her secret weapon, we get the line "My passionate energy, huh? I have been told that it gives people headaches!" Her parents haven't been in the picture from a young age, so who would be telling her this?

Onto Shuichi's FTEs, we get this line after Tenko attempts to provoke him by growling. "Give me a reaction already! I don't know what else to do!" She acts out for attention, and will thrive on negative attention and positive attention all the same. Remember that. Its not related to my Tenko abuse theory/headcanon, but its interesting that someone who thrives off other's reactions to her falls for the least emotive character.

(I don't think she's as oblivious with Himiko as she wants us to think. I think, on some level, she knows.)

This next bit of dialogue is a reach even for my standards, but its fun to think about.

Tenko: I am calm! Upset, but still calm! Shuichi: You don't seem very calm. Tenko: It may not seem like it to a degenerate, but I'm super duper calm for a girl!

If she's currently under the impression her master was a woman, than she might be emulating him here. I don't think her master was a very calm person, so she has unreasonable standards of calm.

If you try to apologize to her, you get "Do you think you can fix it just by apologizing!?" which is totally something an abusive parent would say. HOWEVER, if you tell her to be quiet...

She legitimately gets scared. This is the same face she makes when she discovers a body, so its not like this sprite is always used ironically.

In order to try to calm her, Shuichi touches her shoulder and gets thrown. In Tenko's defense, she did try to set this boundary earlier and was clearly scared.

They talk about it in the next FTE:

"Shuichi… About before…I'm sorry for throwing you. But it's because you're a degenerate male. Blame yourself for being born that way."

You can write this off as trademark Tenko sexism, but why would she apologize when she clearly isn't sorry. Its a step she takes to appease him, in case he wants to hurt her worse. I think this apology comes from a place of fear.

Then we get something really interesting.

"I woke up in bed… Did you carry me back to my room, Tenko?"

"I didn't want to…but I couldn't just leave you there. It was bothering me."

Tenko is okay with touching men (even if she doesn't like it) so long as she initiates the touch. She also did not have to do this, and I don't think she would if she hated men as much as she claims to.

I think its more accurate to say she's afraid of men. That better describes what I'm seeing.

We get this line in the same FTE

"Yeah… My parents told me I used to have anger tantrums similar to an exploding volcano." Told her. Not tell me. They don't currently tell her. She hasn't improved her temper in the slightest, so why won't they still tell her this?

According to Tenko, her parents were worried she wouldn't be able to fit into society... so they sent her to live in an isolated temple? The logic is questionable. The timeline is also questionable. If she "used to have" tantrums, then why send her away now. Did she stop and then start again?

Her parents are never mentioned again after this. I think Tenko was abandoned by her parents.

This is another reach, but if we assume Tenko had one mom and one dad, I think it is interesting that it's never mentioned she had beef with her bio dad. (a heteronormative assumption, but Danganronpa tends to stick to traditional family structures unless specified) It is possible that she didn't hate men at that age yet.

Despite all of this, Tenko praises her parents and clearly cares for them.

These lines are also noteworthy:

"During my mental training at the temple, I called the head priest, "Master.""

"Master was very pleased about this and added a new rule to the temple. He declared that he was the Master of martial arts!"

So this guy gets called Master once, gets an Ego, and then decides to appoint himself in a position of power. Shuichi speculates on her master's nature, but this paints a pretty clear picture.

In the next FTE, she tries to teach Shuichi Neo Aikido. Her methods are incredibly harsh. She plans to engage Shuichi with no explanation of any moves, and little warning. You could argue that she is just doing this to Shuichi because she's sexist, but she specifically says "Whaaat? There's no such thing as "basics" in Neo-Aikido!", implying this is how she was taught as well. Reminder that we don't know how old Tenko was when she first came to the temple and met her master.

Since we never actually get to see this sparring match, we have no idea what Tenko's definition of sparring is. Except we do in the main story, when we unlock Tenko's lab. Where she attacks Shuichi with no warning... again. This is a pattern. Shuichi cries out in pain from the resulting attack, implying she did not go gentle.

In this scene, we get a disturbing line.

"instead of training, we just fight head on!"

In case you were wondering if this is just Tenko's sexism kicking in, she does the exact same thing to Himiko right after.

That paints a very disturbing tone for Tenko's sparring with her master. Allow me to re-quote her introduction to you...

"If any degenerate tries to touch me, my reflex is to grab them and throw them across the room."

Reflex. Not desire. She specifically states its a reflex.

The next FTE is where she tells you about all the supposed limits of Neo Aikido. Namely that "If you get too excited about Christmas or Valentine's Day, your moves become weaker!"

I find it odd she mentions Valentine's day, such a romantic holiday. It usually isn't considered a main holiday, and something like her birthday would make a lot more sense to mention.

What does she follow it up with?

"In my case, my moves become weaker if I interact with males."

this is the second time she mentioned her master instilling these ideas in her. Also, despite this (perceived) limitation, she still chose to carry Shuichi to his room.

The next line says it all for me.

"I will master Neo-Aikido! That's why I can't be touched by males!"

What happens if she masters Neo Aikido? Her training sessions with her master might slow or stop. But since she's just a child, and still learning... her master must have thrown her all the time, just like we see her doing in her lab.

In her mind, this creates an endless cycle. So, if she represses information about her master's gender, maybe she has a chance at winning. Of being free of her training.

Speaking of her training, during one of Tenko's anti-male rants, she drops this line.

In Neo-Aikido, you can use weapons! You can even attack before the match starts! Those are Master's teachings! Now do you see how invincible it is!?

Tenko... did your master use weapons on you? Did you have to use weapons to defend yourself from your master?

In the beginning of her last FTE, she drops this line. At this point, it could easily be referring to her master, but it also makes sense if its just like,,, random men that saw what's going on.

"Thank you, but I know males actually have an ulterior motive when they give sympathy!"

If her master taught her that specific line, it specifically discourages her from listening to any male that tells her the way she is treated is wrong.

Also, contrast this

with this gem from FTE two.

(Tangent, from what Tenko demonstrates, its okay for males to throw her to the ground with little warning, but Tenko feels the need to do a strained apology when she does the same thing before taking on the "Master" role with Shuichi.)

The conclusion of Tenko's arc in her FTEs?

She begins to question her master's teachings, but then comes up with an explanation that lets her keep her existing worldview.

Even Shuichi's thoughts cast what she's saying into question.

Even despite their heart to heart, she's still scared of losing her Aikido abilities by shaking Shuichi's hand. She's still too scared of getting caught in that infinite loop, but she's starting to doubt if its real.

To end this meta, I'd like to circle back to where we began...

Her extremely controversial love hotel.

It starts like this:

I think that Shuichi being senior is important here. Specifically, I think Shuichi is a standin for her master in a universe where she masters Neo Aikido and surpasses him.

Does this make the whole thing very Freudian? Yes. and? This love hotel was brought to you by the creators of the Kiyo incest plotline.

Also, thicker than blood. Interesting choice of words there.

If you buy into my theory of Shuichi being Tenko's master in this, then the fact that Tenko perceives him as male is vitally important because it suggests on some level that she does understand her master's gender.

Shuichi's thoughts in this role reversal likely mirror Tenko's own thoughts.

But even in this perfect fantasy for Tenko, she still gives Shuichi the power in this situation. You'd think this is the opposite of what she wanted.

Her master is mentioned in this, but I don't think its a deal breaker because Shuichi is a standin for an idea rather than her actual master.

In the context of fights, "the winner can do anything he wants to the loser" has some dark implications considering who she fights with in canon.

Even when Shuichi protests he doesn't want to do anything to her, Tenko encourages it. She expects something to happen. She expects abuse.

Can I remind you that during the fight where Tenko throws Shuichi and later apologizes for it, she specifically asked if shutting up was an order and then started panicing? This bet feels a lot like ordering someone around, even if the word was never used.

These are the most interesting lines in the whole thing. You can interpret them one of two ways:

1.) This is Tenmiko shipping fodder and acknowledgement that she understands Himiko doesn't feel the same way about her.

2.) This is about her master, and the fact that she on some level gets that his only love was for the power he had over her. Either way, there's this theme of Tenko preferring negative attention over no attention.

I'd like to leave you with this one line from the love suite.

If that doesn't sound like an abuse victim pleading for forgiveness I don't know what does.

#ask tag #danganronpa meta #danganronpa analysis #danganronpa #drv3 #tenko chabashira

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miramizar · 11 months

Text

@aphfrukweek

Day 4: Pets (sorry I’m a little late!)

(Takes place somewhere during the post-roman era)

~~~

Bonnie

Francis is in the garden again.

You may find it a bit odd, but for being a personification of a country he really isn’t that interested in battles, politics or even in expanding the borders of what is to become the Frankish kingdom. No, the young man loves beautiful things alone, and among them he loves his garden the most - he can spend literal hours in the clearings that are surrounded by lush forests and sparkling rivers, and he feels no shame in admitting that the meadows overflowing with pretty flowers are his biggest source of happiness.

But today there is something strange about the garden.

It is as he twirls in the grass that he notices something out of the corner of his eye; something bright and shapeless, and.. unnatural. He stops to look around, but sees nothing out of the ordinary. That should calm him, but it doesn't - Francis hasn't seen anyone for years, if you don’t count the conquerors that pass through every now and then, so for something to appear silently like this is quite alarming.

There!

He’s quick to react and grabs whatever it is that slithers across the ground near his feet, and immediately he is pulled forward, the power behind it forcing him to push his heels to the ground to avoid toppling over. After taking a couple of seconds to catch his breath, he turns his focus to the thing he is holding onto, which turns out to be a long, twisted rope with a loop that encircles a white horse’s neck. A surprised gasp then escapes the youngling’s lips as he looks up to see the horn located on the animal’s forehead.

“A unicorn?”

Then he is once again pulled forward, this time with such force that he loses his footing and finds himself being mercilessly dragged away.

He somehow manages to keep his hold on the rope until the unicorn slows down, and moments later he hears a cry of joy.

“Unicorn! Where have you been?!” Francis looks up from where he’s been dropped off and sees a mop of golden hair, green eyes and thick eyebrows that are raised high upon the little boy noticing him. “Who are you?”

Despite it sounding more like gibberish than words of an actual language, Francis understands enough to know that he has to introduce himself, which he does after tidying himself up enough to look presentable. “My name is Francis. Is the unicorn yours? It was in my garden - wait, I think we still are in my garden.”

He forgets his confusion when the boy leaves the unicorn and steps closer, squinting a little - because that’s when Francis recognises him.

“Arthur?”

It’s been ages since he last saw his immortal friend from across the sea, and he takes in the boy’s appearance, curious to know just how much he’s grown since then. Arthur on the other hand seems to become bashful under his gaze, running back to the unicorn when a hand is reached out to touch him. And yet, those big, beautiful eyes never avert from his and it doesn’t take long before they’re both smiling.

So if you notice something peculiar about the garden today, or rather it’s inhabitants, fear not - they simply got the nicest surprise of the century, all thanks to a certain magical creature that only the two of them can see.

~~~

(crossposted on AO3)

#manga #anime #hetalia #hetalia axis powers #hetalia world stars #hetalia fanfiction #aph france #aph england #hws england #hws france #fruk #frukweek #frukweek2023 #miri's writing

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deada55 · 5 months

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When the River Meets the Sea - Chapter 10

crossposting: ao3

work summary: A nine-year old in Tomahawk, WI gets glaucoma surgery over Christmas break.

chapter summary: Pickles goes under.

tws: hospitals, body sensations

The car ride was slow and painful, drawn out by the hit radio stations playing too much rock n’ roll for Molly to be able to stand for longer than a couple songs before changing the frequency to something fuzzier and slower until it barely sounded like music. The seams of his coat pockets didn’t have anything to make the car go faster, or to make his mother turn around in her seat and call the whole thing off. Even the linings of the pockets were tacked into the coat, so he couldn’t turn the corner in and fiddle with it. As his saliva got thicker and thicker, he kept swallowing and swallowing until he was drinking air. When the car door opened, he heard a single, loud toll of a cathedral bell somewhere high over the parking lot.

The check-in desk was manned by a smiling, casual nurse with dark hair and tilted eyes who flipped through a magazine while they waited for an intake nurse to come and take him down the hall. The other people waiting went in first, leaving them alone with the rising buzzing of the phone and screeching, scratching pens streaking ledgers. Only then did Molly take Pickles’ hand in hers, and her cold fingers reminded him that crying couldn’t do anything but make her take her hand away.

When a nurse summoned him, his mother grabbed his duffel bag and ushered him by the shoulder into a small exam room to meet with the surgeon after his height and weight were taken.

Pickles climbed on top of the exam table immediately. Without his coat, Pickles felt blanched and small, made worse by poor posture as his body crumpled like the paper he sat on. His still legs pressed his hands flat until they went numb so he’d stay cooperative-looking until a phlebotomist came by to take some blood and handed him a cup for a urine sample.

Dr. Newcomb came into the room like a May breeze slapping a funeral procession with an even complexion, a budding cold sore, and a pile of chapstick on his mouth.

“Good afternoon, well… almost. How are we feeling today? Ready to get started?”

“Yeah,” Pickles replied, with all the vigor and enthusiasm of a shed snakeskin.

“Mom, we’ve had nothing to eat or drink today, right? Just our inhaler?”

“Yes, doctor.” Molly played her part with her hands neatly folded.

“Ok. Any questions?”

“How long will the stay be?”

“We’ll call you as soon as we know, but probably until the 26th or after, and we usually discharge in the morning.” Dr. Newcomb talked through him while taking yet another bright white look into his pupils.

As the adults talked, they gradually looked further and further away from Pickles. When Dr. Newcomb turned to put his ophthalmoscope away, it felt as if the exam table were slowly rolling backwards and the back walls were sliding like a drawer being pulled out. The second Pickles started to feel a little green, Dr. Newcomb cleared his throat and the room snapped back to normal, although the lights buzzed with a new fury.

“Ma’am, we have a few more forms for you to fill out,”

Another nurse walked in with a clipboard and an open hand that Molly pushed Pickles’ bag and coat towards, bobbing it up and down until the nurse took them under her with a huff.

“Pickles, I need you to go with Nurse Bierenbaum and get ready. We might catch up with you later, but you might beat me to the operating room, ok? See you soon.” Dr. Newcomb nodded in her direction and ducked out of the room, but the nurse stayed in the doorway.

“Are we ready to go?”

“He’s ready when you are. I think I’ll go to the lobby instead, thank you.”

“Ma’am, you’re more than welcome to come and get him settled in–”

Pickles slid off of the exam table and walked up to Molly like he were approaching someone to dance with at the world’s most miserable cotillion. She’d worn her pearl earrings and her gold jewelry today, over a light blue turtleneck.

“Bye, Mom.”

Molly bent down and guided him into her arms. When she felt his face press into her chest, she rubbed his back, then moved her fingers up to stroke his thick hair. She had to pull away in the interest of time. Although Pickles’ tried to linger, he stood straight when she took him by the shoulders.

With his round cheeks in her hands, she looked down into Pickles’ hazy, dusk-circled eyes and gave him a kiss over the apple of his freckled cheek.

“Be good, Pickles.”

“I love you.” The crackling of his voice was low and soft.

Molly heard the nurse shift her weight between her feet. “I love you, too. See you soon.”

He walked with the nurse alone down the ward, past men in casts and yellowed uncles sucking in air through gaping grimaces. Once he’d been dressed in a gown covered in smiling baby clowns, he rested against the raised head of the bed and looked out at the wall like a doll.

Or, like the impression of a doll, at least. Trying to let go would help, right? Soon there would be a razor edge peeling away the layers of his eyes, can’t do nothin’ about it, and his nerves were wound tightly around the weird half-death of a sleep that not even knives would wake him out of. Dr. Newcomb seemed nice, but so did principals and kidnappers. What remained of his life was laying in a stranger’s hands, without his mother to be steadfast and un-negotiable and strong and tell him not to be scared, without anybody—

He ached for her stiff hand, but he could only imagine her driving home, knuckles white, driving fifteen over the speed limit, flying north faster than Santa’s sleigh. What did her arms feel like a couple minutes ago? Did he remember if she was warm? What did she smell like? His bag of underwear and socks sat on the little cabinet beside the bed unpacked.

When he let go of the breath he was holding, he felt something boil in his throat and force a burp so narrow and sour into his mouth that it made his eyes bulge. Dr. Newcomb walked into his curtained paddock with another two nurses. “Ok, Pickles. Any last questions?” He shook his head and forced himself to swallow until his mouth was empty.

“Ok. you’ll see me again soon, I just need to get ready. Nurse Pinkett is going to take you to a different room in a couple minutes, and that’s where we’ll do the surgery.”

Dr. Newcomb leaned back with his hands in the pockets of his white coat instead of leaving. “So… are you scared?”

“No?” Pickles leaned back in the bed, pale and shaking all the way.

“Are you sure? Plenty of kids are scared about surgery.”

“I’m not.” While he trembled, Dr. Newcomb pulled a stool beside the bed.

“Pickles,” His voice softened, and his deep brown eyes angled lower to close the vertical distance between them. Dr. Newcomb’s hands wrung one another as he spoke. “If you were scared, I’d tell you that we want to take care of you, and I want to help you see as best as you can. If there’s anything we can do to make it easier for you, I want to know about it. Ok?”

“Alright,” Pickle's voice had tightened into a croak.

Dr. Newcomb took a slow, deep breath through his nose and asked again, carefully, “Do you have any questions before I go?” Pickles had already laid his hands on top of his stomach, ready for a wake. A bell rang down the hall.

“What happens if I cry?”

“It wouldn’t be good for your eyes if you cried a lot, coughed a lot, or rubbed your eyes, so it’d be best if you tried to keep calm and rest.” The doctor looked away from the empty chair against the wall. “We’re going to give you medicine so it won’t hurt, and you can watch lots of television and play games while it heals up. Uh, is that all?”

“Alright, well, I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

When Dr. Newcomb left and two new nurses tried to ask him questions, he could barely speak between wheezes and an awful feeling of choking, until he started to feel like he couldn’t get any air at all they gave him a nebulizer. But, almost every time a doctor or a nurse touched him, they had to do it again: nothing they did seemed to help him for longer than fifteen minutes.

As bad as he felt for making everyone wait, it wouldn’t stop. The longer the cycle of feeling constricted and being relieved by powder inhalers and aerosols went on, the more it made him lightheaded and the less he could hide it with so many people standing around grabbing his hands to look at the bluish beds of his fingernails. Someone pulled his gown off entirely to listen to his chest. Oh God, oh God…

Eventually, the head nurse, a round, wrinkled woman with a white bun and the starchiest cap in the ward, came around and let him lay on his side after taking another couple deep breaths of bronchodilating fog, taped oxygen tank cannula securely to his cheeks, and put a blanket over his shoulders. While she took his hand away from a trainee nurse and tucked it under the covers with him, her other hand rested on his shoulder and pressed down a little bit, which helped his stomach unclench. After a little while, the rubbing on his back became a stethoscope searching around under the blanket. At least, laying down like this, now that it was the same couple of people standing around him and less in-and-out, it felt a little bit better than before. By the time they got him to breathe well sitting up, the surgery had been delayed an hour and a half.

The anesthesiologist, a short blonde man, came in with a nurse and a new tray, and worked with a syringe and a vial while the head nurse stealthily came around to his bare arms. “I heard you just had a lot of medications, but I want you to hold your arm out for a moment. This medicine might make you a little sleepy, but it’ll make the other anesthesia work better. It might come on fast…” He was being injected before he could look over.

“Good boy. If you feel sick, tell us, I’ll see you in the operating room.”

When he left, there was a quiet workflow among the two nurses as they picked up the used syringe and updated his charts.

“That was… five milligrams of diazepam?”

“Right.”

The journey to the operating room, armed with all kinds of bells and whistles from what looked like a shower cap to an IV line, was a short trip down the hall on wheels. The overhead lights scanned by and he pretended the gurney he laid on was empty, like he was nothing but air, like he were rolling on an empty cart in Aunt Carol’s foyer, soon to become a holiday minibar. He was too dizzy to lift his head, but the quiet whirr of the gurney’s wheels was enough to soothe him to sleep if only the operating room doors were a little softer. A different doctor introduced himself amid the chatter and the sound of aluminum carts squeaking into formation. With the nudging of three more scrubs, he scooted himself onto the operating table… which was more like another bed than a butcher’s block. Whoever supported his side held half his weight until he could be eased down onto his back. Why did he feel warm…?

“When I put this mask on your face, I need you to breathe deep and slow, ok? Ready?”The thick smell of the gas quickly faded into a soothing levity of his whole body, like his spirit was a glowing mass in a lava lamp. The tension and the trouble that had made him ache for weeks sparkled away, out of his forehead. The gloved hands around his face pressed the black rubber mask a little harder over the bridge of his nose, and another deep breath plunged him into sleep could remember the word “tired.”

#metalocalypse #pickles the drummer #metalocalypse fanfic #mtl fanfic #molly metalocalypse #my writing

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oregano-writes · 2 years

Text

The Diplomat and The Consultant (Are Both Idiots)

Childe/Zhongli

Hu Tao outsider POV

Rated T for some description of wounds

2k words

Crossposted on AO3

Hu Tao, to the dismay of many who have to deal with her on a regular basis, is not as oblivious as she seems. Sure, she may trample over other’s feelings often, but can’t they see that their loved ones are still there? It’s not like they’ve gone anywhere.

Hu Tao was seven when she learned nobody else could see the ghosts. That would be strange, wouldn’t it? Having to say goodbye to someone who never left? Sure, there was the border, but they weren’t gone. Permanently, at least. After all, everyone dies someday. She wondered how other people got through their days, knowing their time was limited.

These worries were quickly forgotten when her grandfather had come home with two warm bowls of rice pudding, and Hu Tao decided not to concern herself with problems she would never face.

That was the end of Hu Tao’s troubles, at least for the time being.

Now, the young funeral director had a new problem. Two of them, to be specific.

The problems were named Childe and Zhongli, although those were not their only names. While their disguises may have been adequate to fool an ordinary passer-by, Hu Tao could not be fooled so easily. After all, a man haunted by the ghosts of so many of Liyue’s ancient gods was certainly not just a regular citizen, and no matter how baby-faced the young diplomat was, no real ‘diplomat’ would be trailed by thousands of felled soldiers wherever he walked.

There was one other problem with this pair.

They were hopelessly in love, and both refused to make the first move.

The first time Hu Tao noticed this, Childe had only just arrived in the harbor a few days prior. When he came to steal her consultant away from her, Childe grabbed Zhongli’s hand, and then they stared into each other's eyes like one of Xingqiui’s sappy romance novels. The dust girl ghost standing behind Zhongli pretended to gag. One of the misshapen Abyss creatures behind Childe scoffed.

The ghost looked old– it had gotten sort of faded and rusty, although it wasn’t nearly as decrepit as some of Zhongli’s ghosts. Many of his were so faded that Hu Tao had given up on figuring out their identities long ago, and giving up was not something Hu Tao liked to do.

Zhongli moved his hand to rest around Childe’s shoulders, and Childe gave him the most puppy-dog heart eyes Hu Tao had ever seen, and she came to the horrifying realization that she had become a side character in one of Xingqiui’s books. She pulled out one of the journals she kept in her desk and furiously scribbled out the whole interaction to ask Xingqiu about later.

She looked over her notes, scratched out the lines about the ghosts of gods and monsters (even though nobody could read her handwriting anyways, she wasn’t that much of a jerk as to share their secrets with Xingqiu of all people, everything that he hears finds its way into one of his stories), and went on her merry way to Wanmin.

At noon (couldn’t Zhongli wait until at least past rush hour to go slack off with the diplomat? For all he played the part of a penniless fool, his salary wasn’t cheap) Xiangling should be working, and Xingqiu showed up almost every day to have lunch with her and Chongyun. Hu Tao scanned the tables in front of her, before finding the people she was looking for and running through the streets to meet them.

“Xingqiu! Xingqiu!” Hu Tao yelled to him, waving her journal above her head. “You’ll never guess what– huff– happened today at– huff– work!”

Xingqiu looked up from his meal. “Did someone rich die?”

“Better.” Hu Tao grinned, her flower-petal eyes narrowing and gaining a mischievous glint.

“A lot of rich people died?” offered Xiangling.

“Even better– you know my darling employee Zhongli? And that diplomat from Snezhnaya who’s been going out to dinner with him?”

Xingqiu’s eyes widened in understanding. “You don’t mean…”

Chongyun squinted. “Zhongli-Xiangsheng and the diplomat died?”

Xingqiu whapped him on the forehead with his chopsticks. “No, you dummy. They’re in love.” The last part of that sentence was said with excessive eyebrow-wiggling.

Chongyun looked at him for a moment, before mumbling about how Xingqiu should probably wipe his chopsticks off before eating the rest of his food.

Xiangling put down the drink tray she was carrying. “Wait, before we talk about them, are we even sure they like each other? They seem like good friends, but saying they’re in love might be jumping to conclusions.”

Hu Tao cackled. “In preparation for this question, I have kindly documented their interaction this morning to prove this to you.”

Hu Tao tore out the sheet with the transcript on it, made sure there was nothing on the back, and tossed it to Xingqiu with a flourish. Xingqiu caught it, squinted at it, hesitantly turned it upside-down, and squinted at it some more. “ ...Thank you?”

“You’ll figure it out I believe in you byeeee!” Hu Tao turned around again and started the run back to the funeral parlor– she couldn’t afford to miss any more work, especially as Zhongli would most likely not be returning for the rest of the afternoon.

A few months later, Childe had come over to offer Zhongli a bouquet of flowers, and while Hu Tao couldn’t exactly make out what they were saying, she heard something along the lines of “good friend” from Zhongli, and Childe seemed to deflate. Zhongli then took out one of the flowers and tucked it behind Childe’s ear, and Childe’s face turned bright red faster than Hu Tao thought was possible. The dust girl was cracking up, and some of the dead soldiers facepalmed. Hu Tao did not have the luxury of being transparent, so she had to refrain from laughing as well. Nevertheless, Zhongli shot her a look, and she raised her hands from the paperwork she was doing in surrender.

As they were walking out the door, Hu Tao kicked her feet up on the desk. “Aiya, they really are pining.” Childe turned around to give her an incredulous look, but he and Zhongli were already halfway through the door.

The day Osial was released, Childe had ran into the funeral parlor, soaked, bloody and panting, and started asking where Zhongli was.

“I haven’t seen him since this morning. He said he had important business out in town.”

Childe blanched. “You don’t mean he’s…”

“I promise, he’s fine. I haven’t seen his ghost.” Hu Tao wasn’t the best at comforting people, that was always her grandfather’s skill. Still, she knew that people didn’t like it when their friends and family were dead, and she could pretty accurately reassure them about that. She wasn’t sure what was so terrible about death to them, but that wasn’t her problem.

Childe looked confused, but nodded. “That’s good. As long as he’s…” Childe promptly fell over on the floor.

“Childe?” Hu Tao hopped over her desk to check on him. She put two fingers to his wrist, and, finding an adequate pulse, lifted him up with an oomf and put him back down on the substantially more comfortable couch. “There ya go.” She brushed her hands off, and watched the ghosts poking at Childe’s face. “Now, we wait for your boyfriend.”

However, Childe ended up waking before said boyfriend arrived.

“Hey, have you seen–”

“No, I haven’t seen Zhongli or his ghost. I looked at his calendar, and it said something about the Northland bank. You could look for him there.” Truthfully, it said more than that, but Hu Tao thought it might be more interesting to let Zhongli explain what he was doing with the Tsaritsa’s eighth that afternoon.

That night, Zhongli had come through the door holding an unconscious Childe in a bridal carry. He seemed worse for wear, and Hu Tao could see a few places on his jacket where he seemed to be bleeding a frankly concerning amount.

He was dripping blood on her floor. Did he know how expensive the hardwood here was? Well, she didn’t know either, but it was probably expensive.

“Aiya, what did you two do?”

“Childe was… angry. Rightfully so. I lied to him. He wanted to fight, as an apology, and who am I to deny potential forgiveness?”

“Well, you’re Morax, and I don’t think Morax needs forgiveness from just anyone. I think you need his forgiveness.”

Zhongli looked a little shell-shocked, but once the second half of that statement registered in his dense, dense head, his face went bright red and he turned away from her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied, hugging Childe tighter. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to get Childe’s wounds bandaged. Goodnight.”

He walked up the stairs surprisingly quickly for somebody holding a whole grown man in his arms, although that was to be expected from someone like him. “Have fun with your boy-toy!”

Zhongli did not grace that statement with a reply, but the dust girl’s telltale laugh told Hu Tao all she needed to know about his reaction.

Four and a half weeks later, Hu Tao was having lunch with Childe and Zhongli when she noticed the chopsticks.

She normally ate lunch alone, but Childe always covered for whoever went out to lunch with him, and she was saving up to buy herself a new uniform– her old one was getting a bit worn down.

After the feast of a meal Zhongli ordered (with Childe’s mora, of course– the shameless bastard) arrived, Childe pulled out a pair of dragon-and-phoenix chopsticks, and Hu Tao nearly spit out her tea.

Childe have her a look, but Hu Tao just waved him away. “I have to talk to Xiangling. Right now. Bye!”

She jumped out of her seat, and ran over to the counter where Xiangling was finishing writing down an order.

“Xiangling! Look over at Childe. His chopsticks, specifically.” Xiangling took a moment to figure it out, but when she did, she gasped and brought a hand to her mouth. She looked at Hu Tao, delighted. “Oh my Archons, they finally got together! And got married! Let me get them a complimentary dessert to celebrate!”

When Hu Tao and Xiangling came back and gave them the red bean cake Xiangling had made, along with her congratulations, Childe looked extremely confused.

“I– what’s this all about?”

“Oh please, no need to be so modest! A wedding is something to be celebrated!”

“A wedding? Xiangling, I’m not engaged.”

At this, Zhongli looked extremely hurt. “Childe, what on Teyvat are you talking about? We’ve been engaged for almost a week, surely you have not forgotten so soon.”

“WHAT?” Childe was the reddest Hu Tao had ever seen him, and looked like he might pass out at any moment.

“Childe, it’s not very nice to forget about your future husband,” Hu Tao chided. “Aiya, you should know better than that.”

Childe looked back at Zhongli. “Zhongli, are we married?”

Zhongli nodded. “Yes. Or, we will be, soon.”

Childe looked flabbergasted, stared at Zhongli for a moment, and then pulled him in by his coat lapels and kissed him.

Xiangling politely looked away, and Hu Tao held her menu in front of her eyes.

The wedding, a few months later, was nice. Hu Tao didn’t usually enjoy weddings, but the adepti who had not-so-subtly attended had some interesting ghosts with them.

The dust girl, who Hu Tao had recently learned was named Guizhong, sat down in the seat next to Hu Tao.

“It makes me happy to see how well Morax is doing. After I died, I was afraid he wouldn’t be able to find his own happiness in life.” She smiled, happy and relieved, but with a twinge of melancholy. “Even– no, especially– without me.”

“I think he’ll be alright,” Hu Tao said quietly. She reached out to hold Guizhong’s transparent hand, and even though she couldn’t feel anything, Guizhong seemed to hold hers back.

“Thank you.” She smiled again, happier this time, before fading away once and for all.

Hu Tao took a moment to pay her respects, before getting out of her seat and making her way over to the food table. After all, she wasn’t about to let Xiangling’s cooking go to waste.

#Zhongchi #Chili #Tartali #childe #zhongli #hu tao #genshin fanfic #oregano's fics

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the-ragingenby · 7 months

Text

AO3 Crosspost:

As much as it behooves me to do these prompts out of order, the thing I got planned for the second one is like an extra epilogue thingy for the fic I gotta finish. So. It’ll come out when it comes out.

Anyway. Here it is. 20 minutes late.

Don’t ask why, just enjoy.

@flufftober

Prompt: “Wait, you love me?” - “I always have.”

~3350 words

“Wait, you love me?” - “We always have, you dork.”

“Did you hear that Mic and Eraser are together now?” Thirteen announced from their desk in the teacher’s lounge. Midnight rolled her eyes.

“That’s old news. Anyone with a working pair of eyes knows that by now.” Midnight snickered. “Though, it was kinda funny watching Ms. Joke flirting with Aizawa.”

“Well, I felt rather sorry for him, the poor guy.” Toshinori murmured, mostly to himself. He’d known about Hizashi and Aizawa for ages, which still surprised him a little. He didn’t think they trusted him much, especially with something as personal as their relationship status, but it was a pleasant surprise nonetheless.

“You are just too sweet, Toshinori!” Midnight gushed. Toshinori felt his mouth twitch, but he kept his polite smile. He wasn’t sure if she was just joking around…or maybe it’s at his own expense. “You’re a much better person than me. I’ll be making fun of him for ages.”

That’s not necessarily true. Toshinori sighed softly. I’m not that great of a person at all.

“I wish you people would find something better to do than just gossip all the time.” Eraser grumbled as he stalked into the teacher’s lounge, fixing them with his usual glower. His glare eased slightly though, as he caught sight of Toshinori. “Oh, good morning, Toshinori.” There was the faintest ghost of a smile on Aizawa’s face before he turned away to get what he really came in here for: another cup of coffee.

“Toshinori,” Midnight whined, draping herself over his shoulder. “How’d you do it? You got him to smile. He won’t even acknowledge the rest of us, that jerk.” She directed her words mostly towards Aizawa, who was pointedly ignoring her now.

Toshinori shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure.” He really wasn’t. He, Aizawa, and Hizashi had started hanging out together after school when they realized they lived in the same apartment complex.

At first, it was just out of politeness, but once Hizashi started crashing his place to insist that Toshinori makes the best bento boxes and Aizawa tagged along, he knew he wouldn’t be able to shake them.

Which has now resulted in the predicament he’s currently in. He may have, perhaps, developed a little crush on the both of them. Just a small one that’s totally not eating up his remaining brain cells. Of course I couldn’t settle for just one, but I just had to want both of them. Maybe I’ve lost it. “It’s because he’s just a big sweetheart. I mean, look at him!” Present Mic piped up, materializing in the doorway and skipping over to Toshinori.

He nudged Midnight away, taking her place draping over Toshinori’s shoulder. “Booo. That’s such a basic answer. Everyone knows that.” Midnight huffed, twirling her whip in her hands. Present Mic stuck out his tongue at her.

“So childish, the both of you.” Eraser chuckled, heading over to plant a gentle kiss on Mic’s cheek before escaping from the lounge.

“Awww. Gross.” Midnight pretended to gag, laughing as Mic fixed her with a halfhearted glare from behind his shades.

“See you later, Toshinori?” Mic asked, pressing his cheek to Toshinori’s own. Toshinori felt himself grow warm with embarrassment.

“Uh, y-yeah. Sure.” Mic smiled and tapped Toshinori’s nose with a finger playfully, before darting off to pester Eraser.

Toshinori pressed a hand to his mouth to contain the little scream that threatened to escape. Sometimes, he wished he could be part of what they had. The little affections the pair gave each other throughout the day, Toshinori could admit he was just a little jealous. But that isn’t right. You have to be happy for your friends. Even if it hurts.

“You okay?” Midnight interrupted his thoughts, her head tipped gently with concern. Toshinori tugged his hand away, pulling on his usual smile.

“Yeah. Never better.”

“–and that’s how far I’ve gotten with my training for One For All. I’ve gotten a little better at using Air Force, but I’ll need a little more practice with the gloves. Oh, and I’ve been able to keep One For All consistently at thirty-percent! I think that’s a pretty good accomplishment and…All Might, are you listening?” Izuku blinked, wide-eyed, at Toshinori, who was jolted from his thoughts.

“Oh! Um, of course, young Midoriya. I was just thinking about…something.” Toshinori tried to smile, but it faltered as Izuku stared at him. His eyes were bright, searching and trying to figure out how to help. How to save him.

Toshinori felt a newfound fondness for his successor wash over him. Young Midoriya is really doing his best. This time, though, there isn’t anything he can do. I’d better not worry him. Toshinori smiled brightly, reaching out to pat Izuku’s head. “Not to worry, young Midoriya! It’s nothing All Might can’t handle!”

Izuku smiled. He believed him. Of course he did. Now if only I could believe me.

After listening to the rest of Izuku’s updates, Toshinori let him go, encouraging him to enjoy his lunch with his friends. “Are you sure? I can stay, if you’d like.” Izuku murmured. Toshinori could only laugh.

“Go on, young Midoriya. Enjoy yourself.” Toshinori insisted. With a bright smile, Izuku nodded and left the room, leaving Toshinori alone with his thoughts.

“Geez.” He whispered, rubbing a hand over his face. “I really need to pull myself together.”

“Toshi! This is where you’re always hiding, huh?” Toshinori froze, slowly turning to see Hizashi and Aizawa peeking in through the doorway.

“Ah, um, well…” Toshinori looked away, a little embarrassed. He wasn’t sure why, but even the pair just being near him made him feel all fluttery.

“Don’t mind him. Think he’s had a bit too much coffee today.” Aizawa sighed, sitting a respectful distance from Toshinori on the couch. Hizashi quickly took the spot of his other side, leaning gently against Toshinori as he began nibbling at his lunch.

“Sorry.” Toshinori felt the need to apologize. I don’t want them to feel like I’ve been avoiding them or anything. Even if I kinda am. “I just wanted to give you guys your lunch time together, at least.”

Hizashi snickered, shoveling a ball of rice into his mouth before thoughtfully pressing his chopsticks to his lips. “We get plenty of time together. But we wanna spend time with you too.”

“If you don’t mind.” Aizawa quickly tacked on, eyeing Hizashi reproachfully. Hizashi stuck out his tongue in response. Toshinori blinked, a little surprised at the sentiment, but managed a mild smile.

“I appreciate it.” He murmured, leaning back on the couch a little, with Hizashi moving with him, only shifting a little to get more comfortable.

“Have you eaten yet?” Hizashi asked once he’d finished most of his lunch. Toshinori hesitated for a brief moment before replying. I mean, I didn’t but I’ll do it later. I don’t want to worry them.

“Uh, yeah.” Apparently his hesitation gave him away, because now they were both eyeing him suspiciously. I forgot how hard it is to lie to them. Without a word, Aizawa took one of his lunch containers, which happened to be empty, and portioned out some rice and sausage from his own lunch.

Hizashi dragged the newly filled container over and slid on a few assorted vegetables and sacrificed one of his sushi rolls. “Toshi, you need to take care of yourself properly.” Hizashi chastised playfully, booping Toshinori’s nose with his chopsticks.

Aizawa pulled out a disposable set of chopsticks and placed them beside Toshinori’s newly obtained container of food. “Here. Eat up, okay?” He encouraged gently, glaring fiercely when Hizashi was about to subject the poor guy to another prod, seemingly freezing him in his tracks. “And, if you want, we’ll take you out to eat later. My treat.”

Toshinori didn’t know what to say. He was already having a hard time holding back his tears. Why are they just so damn perfect? “U-um, no, t-that’s alright. You two have done so much for me already.” Toshinori opened the chopsticks and took a mouthful before he could make more of a fool of himself. I’m an idiot. But I don’t want to interrupt their date either. Hah, why is this so hard?

“Toshi, you’ve gotta say yes.” Hizashi whined, putting down his now empty container to cuddle himself more snugly into Toshinori’s uninjured side. “Shota’s been mean and has been depriving me of sweets. You’ve gotta come and bully him into getting me something. He’ll do anything for you.”

“Hizashi, behave.” Aizawa grumbled, though he did not refute anything his partner was saying, Toshinori realized after a moment. He closed his eyes to take a moment to collect himself, and stop himself from spontaneously combusting. When Toshinori reopened them, Aizawa met his gaze with a soft fondness, before his eyes quickly darted away to look elsewhere. I want to but I can’t. They’re together, plain and simple. I don’t want to get in the way of that.

Toshinori plastered on his best smile. “I don’t want to intrude on your, uh, outing? Date, maybe?” He looked away, not wanting to see whatever expression was on their faces. “But thank you for the meal. It…means a lot.” He added more quietly.

That evening, Toshinori was dragged out of his apartment by Aizawa and Hizashi to go out for dinner anyway. He could find nothing to complain about, which in turn made it even harder for him to keep his feelings bottled up, pushed into the bottom of his being to make sure it would never see the light of day.

It had been about two weeks since that dinner outing, and if anything, the couple seemed to be growing even closer to Toshinori. Not that he was complaining in the slightest, but now he was acutely aware of every one of Hizashi’s teasing touches or Aizawa’s reassuring pats. It was a little overwhelming to say the least.

“Oh, Toshi!” Hizashi called, lounging on Toshinori’s couch as he walked into the room. “There you are! I’ve been missing you.” Toshinori rolled his eyes.

“I saw you less than an hour ago.” Toshinori chuckled, settling into the small space Hizashi had left for him on the couch. He immediately shifted to rest his head in Toshinori’s lap, humming contentedly.

“Still wayyy too long.” Hizashi huffed, huddling closer. Toshinori couldn’t help but reach his hand down, carefully running it down Hizashi’s back, sort of like petting a cat or a small dog, now that he thought about it. “Your hand feels nice.” Hizashi murmured, a little sleepily, after a few minutes.

“Uh, I’m glad?” Toshinori hesitated, unsure of whether he should take his hand away or–

“Nooooo.” Hizashi whined, arching his back a little into the touch. “Don’t stop, you meanie.” Toshinori swallowed hard, closing his eyes for a brief moment to gather himself. Calm down. This doesn’t mean anything. Just think of him as an oversized, yellow haired, sunglasses-bearing cat.

Shakily, Toshinori continued his massage, if you could call it that. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but the bell soon rang, signaling the start of classes. Toshinori nervously cleared his throat. “Um, I guess you’ve got to go now.” He said, gently shaking Hizashi to wake him up fully.

“Mmm. I knowww.” Hizashi stifled a yawn, sitting up just a little. “I’ll see you later, Toshiiii.” Before Toshinori could react, Hizashi planted a soft, chaste kiss on his cheek. Toshinori sat, stunned, as Hizashi got up properly and managed a drowsy wave before slipping from the room.

“W-what??!”

That evening, Toshinori left the school grounds without bothering to say goodbye to anyone. He headed straight home. What am I going to do? Is Hizashi…cheating on Aizawa? With me?? I’m so confused. But I also don’t want to talk to him, because I know I’m going to do something stupid and just make things worse. But then again, he was super sleepy so maybe he didn’t know what he was doing? Maybe it doesn’t mean anything? But what if it does?

Toshinori fiddled with his keys for a brief moment before pushing them into the lock and stepping into his apartment. I just don’t know what to do. When do I ever know what to do? With a heavy sigh, he collapsed onto his couch in the living room. On the bright side, it’s the weekend. So all I need to do is just avoid them until school starts again. That sounds easy enough.

It was not, in fact, easy enough.

Toshinori opened his door the next afternoon to find, lo and behold, Aizawa standing outside. “Toshi…hey.” Aizawa blinked at him, his tired eyes alight with worry and concern. “Hizashi and I were wondering if you’d like to come over to our place for dinner. We’d like to talk, if that’s alright.”

Toshinori froze. Shit. I knew this was gonna happen. Maybe I should’ve gone on an impromptu trip to Europe or something. “Um…”

“And before you say anything, I want you to know that we aren’t mad at you or anything and both Hizashi and I have things we’d like to admit to you.” Aizawa continued before Toshinori could outright refuse. “...Please. We, I, really want you there.”

Toshinori let out a soft sigh. These guys really make it hard to say no to them. “Alright.” He relented. Though maybe it was all worth it to see that brilliant smile Aizawa had, even if just for a brief moment.

“Come by in a few, okay?” With that, Aizawa bowed a little before leaving. Toshinori closed the door with a soft click, running his hands over his face. I’m in too deep now. I’ll probably be losing some of my closest friends, but that’s okay. I want them to be happy, even if that means I can’t be around to see it.

Toshinori fixed himself up the best he could and made his way over to Aizawa and Hizashi’s apartment, which was only just down the hall. Shakily, he managed to knock once before the door swung open, revealing a Hizashi with his hair down, resting at his shoulders. A black and white cat sat at his feet. “Toshi! Hi.” He greeted warmly, though his smile looked a little tense. “Uh, thanks for coming. This is Cat.” Hizashi gestured to the ball of fur that turned and made its way farther into the apartment.

“Your cat is named Cat?” Toshinori asked, his apprehension momentarily forgotten. Hizashi laughed.

“Yeah. Well, it was all Aizawa really. He’s like super bad with names. I tried changing it, but Aizawa said he’s got custody or something. It’s grown on me a little though.” Hizashi stepped out from the door frame, motioning for Toshinori to enter. “Please, come on in.”

Toshinori carefully made his way through the couple’s apartment, eventually coming to a dining table that Hizashi encouraged him to sit at, before taking a seat next to him. Toshinori couldn’t bring himself to talk about anything else, instead waiting with bated breath for Aizawa to appear.

Hardly a minute had passed when Aizawa came into the room, setting bowls of rice in front of each person, including the chair he had claimed on Toshinori’s other side. On top of each were neatly sliced pork cutlets. “Hope pork cutlets are okay.” Aizawa murmured. “I can’t make them as well as you can, but they’re edible. So.”

“You’re an excellent cook, Aizawa. No need to sell yourself short.” Toshinori insisted, opening up a new pair of disposable chopsticks and taking a small bite. As I thought. It’s very good.

They ate in silence for a while, with Hizashi finishing the food first, as per usual. Once the dishes had been cleared, Toshinori began to excuse himself, half hoping to escape without having to really talk. “Hang on, Toshi. We…gotta talk now. If you’ll let us.” Hizashi said, strangely serious. Toshinori hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Whatever will be, will be.

“‘Zashi told me about what happened in the “secret” teacher’s lounge, where we normally have lunch together.” Aizawa began, meeting Toshinori’s eyes. “Although I didn’t mind, I’ve told him a million times not to be so forward. That he needs to work up to things like that.”

“But that’s not how I roll.” Hizashi snickered, clamping his mouth shut when Aizawa fixed him with his usual glare.

Carefully, Aizawa took one of Toshinori’s hands, holding it gently. “Although we’re in a committed relationship, and have been for ages, we also have quite a soft spot for you. We’re, uh, enamored, to put it in other words.”

“What he’s trying to say is,” Hizashi continued, taking Toshinori’s other hand. “Is that we like you a lot. Like, a lot, a lot. And we wanna date you.” Toshinori’s mouth hung open in shock. I must be hearing things. Maybe I’m going mad.

“Sorry?”

“We wanna date youuu, Toshi.” Hizashi dragged out the words, pressing his lips gently to Toshinori’s hand.

“I…but why?” Toshinori finally found his voice.

“You are…extraordinarily kind. Working one on one with students, encouraging them to push themselves, while always taking time to hear about their problems. And you’re one of the most caring, empathetic people I’ve had the pleasure of working with in a long time.” Aizawa let out a breathy laugh, squeezing Toshinori’s hand just a little tighter. “Is it any wonder why we like you so much?”

Toshinori couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s what anyone would do. I’m not special.”

“For being such a great teacher, you sure can be dense sometimes.” Hizashi sighed. “We don’t want anyone else. We want you.”

“Please.” Aizawa added softly, pressing forehead to Toshinori’s hand.

Toshinori doesn’t know what to make of it. Maybe they’re just messing with me. It just doesn’t make sense otherwise. “I don’t really think you guys would want someone who looks like he’s aged 30 years in the span of a few months.”

To his surprise, Hizashi started laughing, shoulders trembling with the effort to stifle his snickers. Aizawa fixed him with an even sharper glare before returning his attention to Toshinori. “We are truly serious about you, you know.” He whispered. “We don’t care about your looks or anything like that. We care about you.”

Toshinori opened his mouth to give them something, anything, to just refuse him and let him wallow in self-pity. Stop getting your hopes up. “Hey, no more self-deprecating talk, yeah? Otherwise, we’ll have to shut you up ourselves.”

“And how do you intend to do that–" Toshinori was cut off when Aizawa, shockingly enough, moved forward to press a soft kiss to Toshinori’s lips. Without even thinking about it, Toshinori leaned into it, following Aizawa’s lead before he pulled away.

“Sorry.” He breathed, still just a few inches away from Toshinori’s face. “I just couldn’t restrain myself anymore.”

“And you’re always telling me to behave myself.” Hizashi muttered, huffing. “I wanted to kiss him too!”

“You already got to, so it was my turn.” Aizawa shot back, before hesitating for a moment. “I’m really sorry. Was that too much? I probably should’ve asked first.”

“See? You’re just as down bad as me.” Hizashi teased. Aizawa pointedly ignored him.

Toshinori blinked, still a little stunned. “No, no. Um…that was perfect. You were perfect.”

“So does that mean you’ll date us?” Hizashi flashed his best puppy-dog eyes at Toshinori. “We promise to treat you super duper well, and spoil the shit outta you. You deserve it.” Maybe, for once, he can be selfish. Just once.

“Alright.” Toshinori breathed, and was then immediately engulfed in a tight, but careful, hug on both sides.

“Love you.” Aizawa murmured against Toshinori’s shoulder.

“Love y’all more.” Hizashi shot back.

“Wait, you love me?” Toshinori was a little stunned. Love is certainly a step up from like.

“We always have, you dork.” Hizashi was quick to reply, with Aizawa voicing his soft agreement.

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moonstrider9904 · 2 years

Text

The Newlyweds

Chapter 2 of Gravitation

{series masterlist} | {next chapter - soon!} {previous chapter}

{crossposted to AO3}

Pairing: Tech x Original Female Character (Bree Peridot)

Summary: Bree’s feelings for Tech grow, but she comes to realize approaching him may be more difficult than she thought, and she calls upon the efforts of her lifelong best friend.

Tags: 18+. References to sex, some of them quite explicit, but there is no smut in this chapter. Fluff, one (1) idiot in love, food, bonding, overall cuteness and lightheartedness, brief reference to pregnancy. Also this has a bunch of references to Moonlight, but don’t worry if you haven’t read that one yet uwu

Word count: 5.3k

Songs: liberate

It was an active morning at Scarlett and Hunter’s cabin; Tech had arrived shortly after Bree, and not long after that Wrecker had made an appearance as well. While they were all having some nice rounds of caf, they all talked about things going on in their lives.

Bree was always happy to see Scarlett and Hunter being hopeless for one another, but whenever her gaze would drift to Tech, and he wasn’t already looking at her, she’d inevitably feel a pang in her chest.

In the three weeks of Clair and Crosshair’s honeymoon, Bree had been looking after the Moon Pie bakery. Being there had inevitably sparked memories of the past and thoughts of new possibilities. Despite the fact that Bree had seen Clair just before the honeymoon, she still hadn’t had the clearest of answers.

It was indeed obvious Clair would be happier than ever to welcome Bree into the bakery and into the planet, but Bree still thought a lot about it.

It didn’t help that whenever she tried meeting Tech’s gaze, he’d be focusing on something else.

A knock suddenly came on the door, interrupting the lighthearted conversation with an air of excitement shared equally by everyone in the room. They already knew who was knocking, but the very idea of their return made them all giddy. Ultimately, it was Wrecker who made his way over to the doorway and opened it, having insisted he had to be the one to greet the newlyweds.

“OH MY GOSH YOU GUYS ARE BACK!” Wrecker bellowed as he lunged onto the porch and wrapped his arms around Clair and Crosshair, squeezing them together as he lifted them up.

“Wreck!” Clair called, her voice strained. “We need to breathe!”

Wrecker set them down, laughing nervously. “Sorry. I missed you guys. And your cooking.”

“We missed you too, Wrecker,” Clair replied, her smile gleaming with the gentle kindness that defined her.

“I didn’t,” Crosshair added in a snarl, but the smirk that curved his lips as he nudged his older brother’s arm gave him away.

“How many times did you do it?” Wrecker grinned.

“Seventy-seven times in the three weeks we were gone,” Crosshair said. “Ninety if you count hand-stuff and times we had only foreplay.”

Clair widened her eyes at him. “Crosshair! Did you actually keep track of all of that?”

Crosshair winked at her, flashing a cheeky grin. “It’s one of my proudest achievements.”

Clair playfully rolled her eyes. “You’re gross. I love you, you know that?”

“Oh my gods, get in here so we can all barf at how adorable you guys are!” Scarlett called from inside the house.

Wrecker moved so that Clair and Crosshair could go all the way to the table where the others greeted them, all of them happy to see the couple after their honeymoon. Bree enveloped Clair in a tight hug, after which she observed her best friend do the same with Scarlett. Her gaze drifted onto Crosshair as he gave Hunter a hug—a sight that would not repeat again for generations—and finally gave one to Tech as well, one that was much shorter, but no less genuine.

But for all her efforts, Tech would still hardly look back at Bree.

“You arrived here quite unexpectedly,” Tech commented at Clair.

“We wanted to come by and give you guys a surprise,” she responded. “We actually didn’t know everyone would be here; I was counting on seeing you, Bree, and Wrecker later.”

“How’s the cottage?” Bree asked.

“Alright,” Clair replied. “Though we can tell Bean snuck back in a few times, apparently just to knock over jars. He broke my rosemary jar.”

“It’s not the cat’s fault,” Crosshair crooned.

“You’re right, it’s yours,” Clair smiled sweetly at him as she spoke, making Crosshair chuckle.

“I told you from day one, Bean will do as he pleases,” Crosshair looked over at Wrecker. “Where is he?”

“Back at my place,” Wrecker answered. “If he hasn’t snuck out again.”

Hunter pulled out chairs for Clair and Crosshair to sit at around the table, and the two took their places with their hands joined, letting the wedding rings stand out.

“You’ll come hunting tomorrow, won’t you?” Hunter asked Crosshair.

“Yeah,” Crosshair replied. “I missed shooting.”

“I set a bit of a record while you were gone,” Hunter teased.

“Too bad I’ll put you back in your place,” Crosshair replied with another one of his signature bastard grins.

“To be fair, Hunter, you set yourself up for that when you chose to hunt alongside the best marksman in the galaxy,” Wrecker laughed.

“Hey!” Clair said. “That’s my husband you’re talking about!”

Wrecker tilted his head. “I didn’t insult him!”

Clair giggled. “I know, I’ve just always wanted to say that.”

Crosshair looked over at her with a faint smirk. “That’s solely why you married me, isn’t it?”

Clair pretended to be deep in thought, grinning playfully. “No, I actually only married you because you’re good in bed.”

“Please don’t start,” Wrecker’s voice came out strained and in a higher pitch than normal.

“I agree,” Tech added. “If the number Crosshair gave us is real regarding how many times you two shamelessly fornicated on your honeymoon, I would expect your libido to have considerably gone down.”

“Oh, come on, Tech,” Clair said as she looked over at Bree. “I’m sure you understand now.”

Though Bree couldn’t help but blush, no response came from Tech. He did, however, look over at Bree as he adjusted his goggles, his lips curving into a soft smile.

“Once cannot possibly compare to eighty in the span of three weeks,” Tech commented. “However, I am sure the rest of our brothers will not appreciate the details.”

“I asked nicely,” Wrecker added in a similar tone as before.

As the subject subtly changed, Clair kept a close watch on Bree, a habit she’d learned from Crosshair himself. She noticed Bree sneaking several looks at Tech, very few of which were actually reciprocated. Clair’s suspicions were neither denied nor confirmed when she finally met eyes with her friend, who gave her a subtle sigh as her eyes briefly softened in worry.

When the conversation naturally fell silent, Clair spoke up, her free hand reaching across the table with her palm set down to call Bree’s attention.

“Why don’t you come by the cottage later?” Clair said. “I could use some help thinking of this week’s menu for the bakery.”

Bree knew her friend too well, and she knew discussing recipes wouldn’t be the only thing in Clair’s mind. Bree still didn’t know much about Crosshair, but she could tell that being with him had somehow made Clair sharper.

“Name a time and I’ll be there,” Bree gave her most carefree smile.

“Oh, is there anything you have in mind?” Scarlett asked. “I’m always so curious about how you guys do it, especially since you’d worked together for so long.”

“It’s mostly a matter of synchronicity,” Clair smiled, her eyes drifting downwards as though memories rushed before her eyes. “Bree and I have similar tastes in food, but in our early years, there was a lot of experimenting, and a lot of failure.”

“It was after that one batch of rock-hard cookies that we vowed to stick to cakes and pies,” Bree chuckled. “Remember that old man who claimed his tooth had broken?”

Clair laughed, nodding her head. “Yeah, those cookies were awful, but we were beginners. I’m sure we could make a decent batch at this age.” Clair quieted down and finally giggled, looking over at Crosshair. “I… I guess you could say that batch was a—”

“Clair, don’t—”

“Bad Batch,” she giggled again.

Every one of the former soldiers in the room facepalmed.

“I’m sorry,” Clair shrugged, even though she really wasn’t. She finally turned to Scarlett, intent on answering the question she’d asked at first. “I mean, the crescent rolls have been a major success, so those can’t be missing from our menu. And since the weather’s getting colder, I think some recipes involving cinnamon or apple or even cheese should do the trick for anyone craving something comforting.”

“How about something with pastry cream?” Scarlett asked. “I really like it.”

Clair suddenly blushed a bright red, and beside her, her husband nearly succeeded at hiding his smile.

“I really think pastry cream suits hotter weathers,” Crosshair crooned.

“Indeed, love,” Clair said. “Perhaps we’ll wait for spring to implement it into the menu again.”

Bree could tell by the tint in Clair’s cheeks that there was a story there, and using only her gaze, she met Clair’s eyes with a you need to tell me later look.

“My,” Tech spoke up, scurrying from his seat. “I should have left for the town hall five minutes ago. This has been great, but I must go.”

“Take care,” Scarlett smiled softly as Tech packed himself and left, looking over his shoulder at Bree before he left even if no more words left him.

“I think we should go too,” Crosshair began to stand up. “Wrecker, take me to your place, I need to pick up Bean.”

“Yeah, so I can scold him,” Clair chuckled.

“No,” Crosshair replied finally, locking his fingers with those of his wife.

“Yes,” Clair answered as she squeezed his hand. She then looked over at Bree, her features softening. “Is 19:00 good for you?”

“I’ll be there,” Bree smiled back. “Have fun.”

Clair directed one more smile at her best friend before walking out of the cabin with her husband, and she made her way alongside him to Wrecker’s place.

Tech had left before anyone could notice.

As the day went by and Bree remained with Scarlett helping with the errands that had to be run, she could tell that Scarlett would look at her intently, her eyes always widening with unspoken questions wanting to be said. Bree could understand better than ever the appeal Hunter saw in her, with her enormous eyes and silky black hair that would always be in waves when she let it down from that braid, and like Clair had adopted some of her husband’s keen observation skills, she could recognize some of Hunter’s empathy and concern in Scarlett.

Bree would have encouraged Scarlett to ask all the questions she wanted to if she had any understanding of the situation herself, but she lacked it. The night of the wedding had been phenomenal, and even if she and Tech had gotten together after that in the three weeks following it, there was very little conversation that could be had with Tech regarding the subject.

He’d speak endlessly about quasars and the operations of the village and whatever project he was working on, and Bree definitely enjoyed hearing him, but just once, she wished he could talk about her.

Would it ever go anywhere? Bree had never seen herself as someone who would be willing to have casual flings with a man when they needed to blow off steam—nevertheless, she’d never claim to dislike being able to share some intimacy with Tech.

The more she thought about how much he amazed her, the more her heart squeezed for him.

The day wore on and it was finally time for her to pay a visit to Clair’s cottage. Bree walked down the path of the forest, enjoying the chirping of the birds and the pit-patter of the rodents nearby; in some ways, it reminded her of the lake country on Naboo, even if Répit had a blend of earthy browns and cool greens as opposed to Naboo’s warm-toned greens and yellows, distinctive of an eternal summer where they used to live.

She remembered how Clair would always hate the hot weather, and now that she lived in an eternal autumn that would only ever be subdued by a colder winter, with a few warmer days in the summer but nothing unbearable, Bree figured Clair would truly live happily ever after in that little forest planet.

It was definitely more appealing than the loud city of Coruscant.

Bree could hear some chatter coming from inside the cozy little cottage when she walked up on the porch. She thought about the first time she’d seen it on Clair’s wedding day, when she’d walked up to the house knowing she’d surprise Clair by showing up. This place was Clair’s new home, different from the little apartment they’d lost the day of the explosion on Naboo, but just like the weather of Répit, that cottage matched Clair’s whole essence better than Naboo ever did. “She’s here!” Clair yelled from inside just as soon as Bree had knocked, causing her to let out a little chuckle at the image of her friend panicking over the house looking decent enough for visitors.

After a couple seconds, the door finally opened revealing Clair in one of her distinctive dresses, an emerald green one printed with tiny white flowers. Despite it being a perfect sight at first, the lovely dress was wrinkled and her hair was messy on some parts; inevitably, Bree smirked.

“You had fun killing time while I got here, didn’t you?” Bree chuckled.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Clair replied with a bright smile and hugged Bree, whispering into her ear, “you’ll understand when you’re married.”

“Oh, you mean the need to jump on someone and have them with utter disregard of the time and place? I know it very well,” Bree said as she let go of Clair.

“You do realize that’s why I invited you here, don’t you?” Clair asked her as she closed the cottage’s door. “May I take your coat?”

“Always such a graceful hostess,” Bree smiled as she handed Clair her brown coat, revealing the dark brown flowy pants and cream-colored blouse she’d grown so fond of. Clair smiled, thinking it suited her.

Bree took a moment to look around the little cottage. She’d only gotten to see it in the light of day before, but as the sun went down, the lights inside the cottage gave it a warm, almost magical glow. Warm-toned browns and greens, along with a few yellows and reds decorated the living room and the cushions, and on one of the edges, at the center of the wall, the fireplace cracked gently filling the silence.

From behind the armrest of one of the couches emerged a little, furry white head with green eyes that slowly squinted open, and afterwards, the infamous cat let out a sound that was neither meow nor growl, rather an odd mix of both that conveyed nothing but annoyance.

“He’s the one who broke your rosemary jar?” Bree asked Clair.

“Yeah, and now he’s mad because I had the audacity to scold him afterwards,” Clair chuckled. “He takes after his father in that sense.”

Bree turned to Clair. “You’re talking that way about a cat.”

“Crosshair loves that furball with his whole heart,” Clair said. “And frankly, so do I, even if he’s cost us our smooth floors and my favorite jar.”

Bree’s smile turned sly. “Are you ever going to talk about a kid like that?”

Clair winked and shrugged innocently. “We shall see.”

As if on cue, Crosshair emerged from the kitchen making a beeline for his wife, only acknowledging Bree with his gaze and a very faint smile.

“You’ll have to remember my husband is more of an introvert,” Clair said.

“I think I can handle myself around your oldest friend,” Crosshair crooned. “She’s the one who’s going to tell me embarrassing stories about you.”

“Sweetheart, I am so ahead of you in that aspect,” Clair laughed. “Your brothers talk.”

“And I’ll have my payback soon,” Crosshair faintly growled at Clair before softening his features and looking at Bree again. “Welcome to our place.”

“Thanks, you have a lovely home,” Bree replied. “Your cat’s very cute too.”

“He’s not that nice, you don’t have to pretend to like him,” Crosshair said. “Anyways, the muffins are out of the oven.”

“You have him baking?” Bree looked over at Clair.

“He’s more of a chef than a baker,” Clair linked her arm around his. “A damn good one at that.”

“I just help get the things out of the oven when Clair decides to invite people over,” he smirked down at his wife.

She looked at him with sparkling eyes. “You do that really well too.”

Bree felt the familiar squeezing of her heart as she looked at them, longing suddenly for so much as the presence of the one who’d caught her attention. She was so happy for Clair; what she had with Crosshair seemed like it was out of a fairytale, a true happily ever after, two souls that had found each other to make a wonderful life together, who were each other’s best friends, each other’s favorite person.

It wasn’t long before Clair took notice of Bree’s yearning, and with a little clear of her throat, she led Bree into the kitchen.

“I made peach muffins, your favorite,” Clair said with a smile.

“You really didn’t have to,” Bree replied as she took a seat at the kitchen table. “But it smells delicious.”

“I’d missed cooking with peaches, honestly,” Clair answered as she began pouring the tea from the kettle into three separate cups. “Lately, I’ve been using a lot of berries.”

The conversation fell into a silence Bree thought was intentional, and she confirmed it when Clair looked up from the cups she was pouring at her, handing her one of the cups filled with tea with a knowing look.

“Bree Peridot, you know why I’ve called you here,” Clair began. “I know what happened on the night of my wedding, but what’s happened since then?”

“We’ve met up a couple times,” Bree answered with a brief sigh. “I don’t really think it’s a secret from anyone. Hunter and Scarlett know when I don’t spend the night with them, and, well, Wrecker might live over at Iroh’s but he hears gossip.”

“Most likely from Scarlett,” Clair chuckled.

Bree smiled softly and took a sip from her tea, setting the cup back down almost too gently. “I just… I figured something else would have happened by now, and it hasn’t. It’s like the dream cast by your wedding is fading. Tech and I are almost strictly physical, we don’t talk much, and well…”

“You want to talk more with him?” Clair asked.

“Yes,” said Bree.

Clair set her teacup down as well, looking intensely at the basket of muffins at the center of the table. “I’ve noticed a couple things. I’ve caught him looking at you, and I’ve also seen how you look at him. The problem is that Tech is aloof; his mind goes at stellar speeds, thinking of multiple things at a time.”

“Damn straight,” Crosshair says. “If he ignores you, don’t take it personally. He’s not doing it to be an ass.”

“That’s your role,” Clair nudged Crosshair.

“You still married me,” Crosshair answered.

“Anyway,” Clair looked at Bree again. “He’s right. Tech is a little harder to approach because of the way his mind works.”

Deep in thought, Bree took one of the muffins from the basket and sank her teeth into it, moaning at how good it was as it melted in her mouth and the flavors of peach and vanilla invaded her senses. Feeling a warm, fresh pastry, one baked by her best friend, seemed to cast a light over her, and suddenly, instead of stressing over Tech and how she could approach him, all she could find herself thinking about was how much he dazzled her.

“Clair, I’ve never felt this way,” Bree said as soon as she swallowed. “Damn, that’s a good muffin. Anyways, you know my history with men. It’s almost non-existent as it is, but… Tech is something else. I knew he was cute since I saw him, and then everything happened, and next thing I know, he contacts me, and not long after that I’m standing at your porch on your wedding day and he greets me and takes me in to see you and while I’m thinking about your wedding I’m also feeling my heart doing leaps because there he is again and then that night at the wedding we drink and we hook up and it’s spectacular and it’s just as spectacular each time we hook up again—”

Bree paused to take another bite from her muffin, moaning again, picking up again when she finished it.

“Did you know he wakes up in the middle of the night to write things down?” Bree chanted.

“Yes,” Crosshair replied.

“Well, of course you do,” Bree continued. “My point is, he’s nothing like any man I’ve ever met. The way he talks and expresses himself, the way he knows so much, his eyes, his hair, his hands… dammit, he’s such an amazing lover.”

“Do I want to hear this conversation?” Crosshair whispered over at Clair, who, for once, shrugged at him, not really able to predict how far Bree would go.

Bree paused again to take a sip from her tea, trying to calm down, even though her mind continued to wander on the subject.

“He’s amazing and being with him is amazing. And forgive me for being so forward,” Bree blushed a bright red. “But the way he eats out is just so…” she shivered just by thinking of it.

“Okay,” Crosshair got up. “Not to be rude, but I’m out.”

Clair laughed loudly. “Sorry, berry pie. Girls need to talk.”

“Wait til I’m gone” Crosshair grumbled as he picked Bean up from the couch and carried him up the stairs, finally leaving Clair alone with her oldest friend at the kitchen table.

Bree and Clair looked at each other and giggled, and as Clair took another bite out of her muffin, she looked over at Bree with a glint of mischief.

“So…” Clair said. “That fateful day at the Allium, I wasn’t the only one to find love?”

“I’m not so sure about love…” Bree said. “I mean… Tech amazes me, and I can barely stop thinking about him or the times we’ve been together, and I want to tell him everything that comes to my mind, but I don’t know if he feels the same way.”

“I’m beginning to think Cross should have stayed,” Clair said. “He knows his brothers better than they know themselves, he might be able to help you. Consider talking to him about this, just spare him any carnal details regarding his brothers.”

Bree chuckled and sighed. “Clair… Clair, he’s amazing. He’s handsome and smart and funny, and—oh my goodness, he’s so fucking fantastic in bed. I’m telling you, that man works his tongue like his best tool—I’m gonna tell him to give Crosshair some tips.”

Clair gave a confident laugh. “Sweetheart, I appreciate it, but Crosshair was a fuck boy before he met me, and after a toothpick addiction and oral fixation his whole life, he’s already…”

She trailed off, her hips visibly bucking as she clenched around nothing, thinking about her new husband’s skills.

“Cheers to that, my friend,” Bree raised her cup of coffee.

“Let’s drink to our men,” Clair responded.

“Don’t drink too much, I still need to ask you,” Bree looked mischievously at Clair. “Pastry cream. What’s with that?”

Clair’s blush deepened. “That is a… nice story.”

“You totally used it for sex, didn’t you?”

“Crosshair and I had done it for the first time the night before, we’d said our first I love you’s, we were happy with our newfound love, we were on Coruscant with a whole day off…” Clair smiled softly as she remembered. “We went to many places including this lovely little hotel where we got room service, which included a plate of fruit and some pastry cream.”

“Which you totally used for sex, didn’t you?”

“I can’t make any pastry cream without getting horny anymore,” Clair admitted.

“See, that,” Bree said. “That’s what I want.”

Bree and Clair fell silent, both gazing into their teacups and their muffins until Clair finally looked up again.

“Trust me,” she said. “These men are all different, and Tech’s mind is on a whole other level. You’ve seen it already; he gets up at midnight to scribble equations and theories. You just have to approach him in a way that’ll work. Believe me, it wasn’t easy to break through to Crosshair either, he put up a fight.”

“I was a real asshat in denial,” Crosshair’s voice invaded the kitchen as he took a seat at the table again. “I fell when Clair let me know she wouldn’t put up with my bullshit. With Wrecker, the way to get to him would be through food. Hunter’s a wild card, he proposes hours after meeting someone.”

Bree and Clair exchanged looks and laughed.

“But with Tech, you have to be willing to listen,” Crosshair continued. “You have to be willing to understand the way he works. You don’t always have to answer, or discuss equations with him, but you’ll have his trust when he realizes you’re willing to hear his rambles and never tell him to shut up.”

Crosshair only looked Bree in the eye until then. “When we were still cadets, we all had a lot of trouble because we were made differently from other clones. We were all bullied, but Tech struggled the most with that. There were times when other cadets would make him talk about something just to laugh at him or to tell him to shut up. No amount of bullying would change that about him; he was engineered that way. So if you can manage to listen to him, to understand that he might not always have the most sympathetic response—sometimes it can feel like he’s ignoring you, or like he’s too blunt, but he never aims to be a bad person. He sees things the way they are and it’s always been his job to report that. If you understand that about him, and earn his trust, you’ve already had a good start.”

Clair looked at her husband and reached for his hand, wrapping her fingers around his. “Crosshair…”

“What?”

“That was moving…” she smiled at him.

Crosshair gave her the faintest of smiles. “I still look after my brothers. I know them.”

“You sure you’re the youngest?” She asked him with a soft chuckle and then turned to Bree. “I told you he’d be able to help you best.”

Bree looked over at Crosshair and smiled at him. “Thank you.”

Crosshair acknowledged with a nod. “There are times when Tech can be too clueless regarding emotions, even for his standards. If you ever need me to give him a nudge, I’ll do it.”

“It’s fine, I…” Bree trailed off. “I really like him, and I want to do this right.”

As Clair looked at her best friend, she realized she really never had seen Bree that smitten for anyone. She loved the idea of her and Tech getting together now more than ever, seeing the way Bree’s features softened as she clearly thought of the engineer. Clair briefly remembered she’d adopt the same behavior while thinking of Crosshair all those months ago when she was starting to fall in love with him.

Meanwhile, Bree observed Clair’s hand in Crosshair, getting a closer look at the couple.

“You two look amazing together,” Bree said.

Clair’s smile widened. “Thanks. Now, keep eating your muffins. I want your belly to ache like when we were kids.”

Bree snickered. “Remember that one time my mom got the biggest fright because she saw you napping on the floor?”

“Yeah, I remember having to explain afterwards why all the cake was gone,” Clair muttered.

Crosshair tilted his head, his eyes almost visibly focusing on his wife. “Sorry, what?”

“You wanted to hear an embarrassing story about her, right, Crosshair?” Bree giggled. “Well, when we were about nine years old, the girl that would years later become your beautiful bride was just finding her love for baking—for eating the baking, at least. She snuck into my house’s living room back and forth taking a handful of cake each time—no utensils, no, she grabbed it with her hand and kept that up until she finished the cake.”

“My belly popped for five days after that,” Clair laughed. “Cross, don’t tell anyone.”

“I’m going to text Wrecker right now,�� he took out his comm device only for Clair to reach and snatch it from his hand, making Crosshair try to retrieve it with a playful growl and a grin.

“Bree, was Clair napping angelically like she does now, or did she look like a little monster?” Crosshair crooned.

“She was face down flat on the floor and her hands were coated in crumbs,” Bree laughed.

“I invite you into my home, present you to my cat, offer you fresh muffins and tea, and you insult me in this manner?” Clair faked disappointment. “You even turn my own husband against me?”

Crosshair wrapped his arms around his wife. “Come on, I only find you cuter now.”

Clair decisively looked at Crosshair. “Says the man who ate glue.”

“You witch,” Crosshair grinned at her. “Using my own embarrassing stories against me. I’ve taught you well.”

“Wow, you two really make others want to puke with how sweet you are,” Bree laughed.

“Bree, my dearest Bree,” Clair chuckled. “I’m a baker and thrive on sweetness. Crosshair is fueled by spite. Together, you’d best believe we’re going to combine those two powers to make everyone get a sweetness overload, purely out of spite.”

Bree’s features softened. “That’s the dream.”

“And it’ll come to you too,” Clair replied in her usual big-sister tone. “Maybe sooner than you think.”

“I can’t take it for granted,” Bree answered.

“No, and you’re wise not to,” Clair told her. “But that alone makes me have more faith in you.”

Bree sighed. “There’s something else.”

Clair tilted her head, prompting her.

“I still don’t know if I’m going to live here,” Bree continued. “I would like to, but until I know for sure, I’m torn between not wanting to leave without having tried something with Tech, but I also don’t want to stir something and then leave anyway, but staying here for him sounds a bit far-fetched—”

“If the feelings are true and reciprocal, staying here for him doesn’t have to be some major rash decision that you’ll regret,” Clair intervened. “Plus, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. But I think what you’re dealing most with right now is anxiety due to uncertainty. You need to chill.”

“Sleep on it,” Crosshair added. “And in any case, don’t rush your decision.”

“And don’t decide for anybody but yourself,” Clair finished. “Okay?”

Bree smiled. “Thanks.”

Clair reached out and took her best friend’s hand. “Anything else you want to talk about?”

Bree looked up at her with gleaming eyes. “I’d really just like to catch up.”

“Alright,” Clair leaned back on her chair. “How’s your family?”

“Great, she was actually thinking of you a little while back,” Bree began.

Crosshair got up from the table and went to pick up some of the things in the kitchen while he listened to Bree and Clair talking. He pondered on how much of a shock it had been for him to let someone entirely new into his life, someone whose bringing up couldn’t have been more different than his; he pondered on the rough beginning his story with Clair had, and where they were now.

Seeing how happy Bree made Clair, Crosshair couldn’t help but root for her.

He did, however, get the feeling he might have to give Tech a push or two, and hopefully Tech wouldn’t be as much of a pain as Crosshair had been.

Taglist: @coffeyorky @wildmoonflower @misogirl828 @ladykatakuri @eyecandyeoz

Thank you for reading!

#oc bree peridot #gravitation series #tbb tech #bad batch tech #tbb tech fanfic #tbb tech x oc #clone trooper tech #the bad batch #tech bad batch #clone force 99 #moonstrider writes

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peninkwrites · 2 years

Text

A New Era - Ch 3 of 11

Niki, Quackity, Eret, and HBomb rally to help Ponk get away from Sam.

[CW: abuse of power and aftermath of police brutality]

Crossposted to ao3

Ch 1

Ch 2

Ch 4

Mafia AU masterpost

~ A Collective ~

Quackity is irritable and distracted when Niki calls, but he says he’ll get to the station soon as he can. He’s in the middle of something right now. Niki doesn’t want to know what Quackity might be taking care of at seven in the morning at Schlatt’s place, really she’s surprised he’s there at all. She wants to ask how Tubbo is, but there are more urgent matters to attend to.

Niki hangs up and starts dialing another number. While it rings she waves over Ranboo, who had been drowsily prepping the dough that had risen overnight.

“Huh?” He asks.

“Ranboo, I might need you to watch the shop, not sure yet but I might have to leave,” Niki says.

“What?” Ranboo is more alert now. “Is everything okay?”

“Not sure yet,” Niki shifts restlessly as it rings.

A weary voice answers. “King residence.”

“Hey, H, it’s Niki!”

“Hey, Niki! Uh, everything okay? Bit early for a social call,” HBomb says blearily. Niki can imagine he had a late night out with Eret.

“Actually, H, everything isn’t really okay. I’m fine! But is Eret in?” Niki doesn’t know why she feels so urgent. Ponk had sounded scared. Actually, properly scared, and from what she knows about them, they don’t scare easy.

“Yeah. Uh. She’s somewhere in here. One sec.” There’s a clatter as HBomb sets down the phone.

The following minute or so is agonizing, but finally voices return, a far deeper one picking up this time.

“Niki? Everything alright?”

“I’m not sure. But… I need you to do something for me. Well, not for me, but for a mutual friend.”

Eret sighs, “you know I’ll help you in a heartbeat, but is this not the kind of help that can wait a few hours? I haven’t slept yet and holy fuck am I about to be hung over–”

Niki feels fond annoyance at her friend’s usual exploits. “It’s actually urgent. It’s– It’s Ponk.”

“Ponk?” Eret immediately refocuses. Eret knew that Ponk was friendly with Niki to some extent, but this situation is growing more and more unusual and therefore far more concerning. “Are they okay? Are they at The City?”

“No, they’re– They’re at the police station, Eret,” Niki feels a pang of guilt. This isn’t her story to tell, especially to Ponk’s boss, but Eret is also their friend. She may not involve herself in the city’s underbelly of criminal activity beyond visiting the speakeasy, but she knows better than to trust the institutions of this city as well. She won’t judge them. “They were arrested and I think they might need help. Help from someone a little more prepared to– I mean, I don’t know what I can do, I don’t have anything to back me up, so. Well, I think they might need help from someone like you.”

A pause on the other end of the line, her voice muffled and more distant in the background for a moment, “H, bring the car around. Can you find my cane?” A reply from HBomb Niki can’t quite make out and then Eret returns to the line. “Thank you, Niki. H and I will go get them. Take care of yourself.”

“Of course. Quackity said he would defend them on the legal stuff, I just thought, well.”

Eret replies with a hint of amusement, “money can never hurt, right?”

Niki exhales a laugh. “Yeah, right.”

“I’ll try to call and update you later.”

“Okay. Thank you, Eret.”

The line goes dead and Niki manages a bit of relief.

“What’s going on with Ponk?” Ranboo looks worried.

“Not really sure, but Quackity and Eret are going to help them. Nothing left for us to do but get ready to open,” Niki shakes herself, trying to refocus.

Ranboo poorly buries a smirk. “Should we make Wilbur earn his keep a bit?”

Niki pushes him lightly. “Let him sleep in today. But, yes. After this, he’s officially a City Bakery employee.”

“Yes! He’s doing deliveries,” Ranboo says smugly before putting on his mask to head up front.

“I don’t know if he can even drive!” Niki calls after him.

Quackity does not have fucking time to deal with this. He’s got a dead body on a blood soaked mattress and a scared teenaged murderer struggling to get a move on. And apparently, he’s needed at the fucking police station because the universe has decided to make his life as difficult as possible. He’d already called Karl hours ago and told him he wouldn’t be home that night, then he got ahold of Purpled who will gladly take care of a corpse for a couple hundred bucks, but that doesn’t change the messier aspects of this particular murder– the politics.

“Okay, Tubbo. How d’you wanna play this, huh?” Quackity has dragged Tubbo out of the bathroom and sat him down on the edge of his bed. “If you feel like trying the ‘died in his sleep’ route, you can. No one who matters will believe you, of course, but hopefully knowing you killed the bastard means they won’t say shit.”

Tubbo is fiddling with the watch Quackity gave him, staring at the floor.

“Come on, man, I need you to snap out of this– I need to go.”

Tubbo looks up, a flicker of panic showing for a moment. “You said–”

“I know I said I wouldn’t leave, but I’ve got someone to take care of the body on the way and it is urgent,” Quackity sighs.

“What kind of urgent? Is Karl okay?”

Quackity has a moment of fondness that Karl was Tubbo’s first concern. “No, actually. Ponk got arrested. No clue the details, but Niki said Sam arrested them. So. It’s gotta be at least a little fucked, y’know?”

Tubbo gets to his feet, whatever haze he’d been struggling through is lifted immediately. “Are they okay?”

Quackity sighs. “I don’t know. That’s why I gotta go.”

Tubbo nods. It might seem strange, that they both feel such concern for the person who had arguably prolonged Schlatt’s life over the past few years, but Ponk had always been good to them. Maybe giving a raging alcoholic sedatives had risked Schlatt’s life, but it’s not like Tubbo and Quackity were too concerned by it. Ponk showing up in the evenings to give Schlatt medical advice he would most definitely ignore had always been a good thing because they knew Schlatt would be passed out for the rest of the night. Ponk obviously hadn’t done it for Schlatt’s health, they’d done it as a favor to the other people stuck in that house with him. Ponk had always taken the time to ask either of them if they were hurt. Ponk knew what kind of man Schlatt was, and even if Quackity and Tubbo had never had the need to take them up on it or had at least never chosen to, Ponk offering to tend to any injuries without judgement had been a comfort. Ponk in general had been a comfort, their presence easygoing and lighthearted despite everything else that came with this particular patient.

“You should go. The body is handled. Later today I think some of the boys were supposed to come over to talk about the border with the Badlands. I can deal with that and if they ask why it’s me and not Schlatt…” Tubbo reaches almost subconsciously for the holster under his arm. Quackity hands him the gun he had taken from him earlier, now cleaned of blood. Tubbo takes it almost robotically. “I’ll tell them. And if they have a problem with it, I’ll make sure that they don’t,” Tubbo’s voice is no longer small or shaky.

Quackity knows the kid is strong enough for this, but he also knows the types Schlatt has invited to his inner circle. Quackity can almost see it. Tubbo asserts his authority, at least one of them will try to kill him. Tubbo can shoot one of them, but if things start to fall apart, it’ll be hard to control who else gets shot.

“Alright. I don’t think you should go alone. You need someone to back you up, someone tough. So not Ranboo,” Quackity says pointedly. “And the guys you’re gonna be dealing with are too stupid to know they should be scared of Niki.”

“Niki has enough going on and I would never do that to Ranboo, are you kidding?” Tubbo almost laughs. He thinks it over for a moment. “Okay. Jack Manifold.”

Quackity laughs. Tubbo doesn’t. “Wait, you’re serious?”

Tubbo nods, smirking but utterly sure of himself. “Jack Manifold has been working in customer service for however many years it’s been now, with Tommy being a bother for at least half that time. Do you have any idea how close that man is to snapping?”

“Does he know how to use a gun?”

“Yeah. And a bat,” Tubbo says simply.

Quackity tries to read Tubbo’s face for some sign of insincerity. “Fuck it, you’re the boss now, do what you want.”

Tubbo smiles a bit more weakly at that. “Right. I’m the boss.”

Quackity puts a hand on his shoulder, the best he can manage to reassure him. "I will be back as soon as I can, Tubbo. Promise."

“You know you can leave, Quackity,” Tubbo says.

“I know, I know, I’m going–”

“No, I mean. I’d like your help, at least in the beginning, but if you and Karl want to get the fuck out of here, I want that for you,” Tubbo looks too old. Quackity almost can’t believe the kid had just turned eighteen the day prior, but then again, Tubbo has had a weight on his shoulders his whole life.

Quackity hesitates. He doesn’t need Tubbo’s permission and he doesn’t think that’s what Tubbo is offering, he’s letting him go as a friend, not an authority. “We’ll see how your first meeting goes, boss,” Quackity gives him a pat on the back. “I gotta change into something a little less gross, get ready to scare some pigs.”

“Give them hell, Big Q.”

“Always,” Quackity grins. He doesn’t look in the master bedroom as he leaves. When he next returns, Schlatt will be gone and he will pretend that means nothing to him.

“Captain?” There is urgent knocking on the door of Sam’s office.

“Yes?” Sam answers irritably. “I hope this is important–”

“I don’t know,” the Officer looks anxious. He’s new, just on desk duty at the moment. “She said– She said you were gonna want to talk to her?”

Sam frowns, following him out.

Sam doesn’t know what he was expecting, he hadn’t listened in on Ponk’s phone call of course, doubting it would be of any use to him, but he had been curious as to who Ponk would call. He certainly hadn’t expected they’d call their boss when arrested. That is the opposite of what most people would do, but Eret King stands in the lobby in irritable glory. She is not dressed for a 7 am run to the police station, instead a deep purple evening gown reaches the floor, wrinkled slightly just as her curls are a bit askew and her lipstick faded, her red tipped cane is unchanged, simple in its design save for an ornate handle, black sunglasses on as always; a bombshell, and an intimidating one at that. She’s clearly come straight from one party or another, but she definitely doesn’t look tired or weak in any way. At her side is a much shorter man– although that’s not hard, she towers over Sam as well, heels or no heels– in a black suit, a chauffeur's hat in his left hand, his right arm offered to Eret should she need it. Sam vaguely remembers him from the work events Ponk had dragged him along to, he works for Eret as well, HBomb if he remembers right.

“It’s Sam, Eret,” HBomb murmurs at his approach.

“Mhm, yes. The Captain,” Eret says scornfully, facing Sam’s general direction, nails glittering under the harsh fluorescents as she drums them on the counter impatiently. “I’m sure you’re a busy man, Captain, so I’ll make this short. I’ve been informed that there’s been a mistake, leading to the arrest of my best curator. I’m here to collect them, because as I’m sure you’ve realized, my staff represent me, and I know your adorable little department would never accuse a King of any sort of criminal activity, or whatever this nonsense is about.”

Sam knows how this is going to go. As Eret said, she is the head of the King family at present and her estate could buy a small country. Maybe the Mayor isn’t entirely in her pocket, but he knows to respect her opinion when it is offered for the sake of his career. She is a threat and definitely knows it from that charming smile.

“Well, you can’t just collect them, Mr. King. They’re in our custody,” Sam says coolly.

Eret leans forward, bending down so they’re eye to eye. She lowers her sunglasses revealing startlingly pale eyes with a smile that almost appears wolfish. “Okay, and how do I get them out of your custody, Captain?” She says, sweet like poison, her voice deep and unwavering.

Sam forces himself not to step back. He doesn’t know how much of him she can see, but either way it feels like Eret looks right through him. “They’ve been formally charged with obstruction of justice. We are well within our rights to hold them.”

“Hm,” Eret pulls back. “Are they a flight risk, Captain?”

“No. I don’t believe so,” Sam says stiffly.

“That’s wonderful news, Captain. That means you’ve set bail, I presume?” Eret says.

“They are still being held for questioning.”

“Do they have a lawyer?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Sam says coldly.

“Can I speak with them?”

“Unless you’re their lawyer, no,” Sam snaps back. He has no intention of letting a rich snob try to order him around.

Eret sighs. “It’s a bit early for this, Captain. I’ve had a long night. I’m tired, but if I must,” she steps closer, “I understand this might call for some of my charm, just to encourage you to speed up this process a bit.” She smiles. “Captain, I can and will ruin you. Do you know that?”

“Are you threatening a police officer? Right here, in the middle of the station?” Sam snaps. Sam is used to threats, it’s her calm that unsettles him.

Eret laughs, low and dangerous. “Do you really think a person of my status need messy my hands with something as trivial as threats? No, Captain. Let’s call this a civil courtesy, or even friendly advice, shall we? I could ruin your career with a word. And as I said, accusing one of my people is the same as accusing me and see, we Kings don’t take insults like that lightly.” A pause, waiting for Sam’s defense. He says nothing, jaw tense. “Hm,” she seems amused by his efforts at restraint. “Last night I had drinks with people far more powerful than you. I had drinks with some of the people who employ you, who drag you out of the muck every time one of your trigger happy fools make a mistake. And even then, none of them are as powerful as me,” she inclines her head in almost a bow, like this is a proclamation of humility rather than pride. “I find it… well, rather sweet that you think organized crime is the greatest danger in this city, but you don’t seem to realize how much more you have to lose beyond your life. See, I don’t need to threaten you, to use violence or some irritating illegal exploits. See, I fucking own half this city and you, Captain,” another scathing look over her glasses, something somehow even more vicious there than before. “Are nothing but a dog on a leash.”

Sam feels like he can hear his blood pumping through his ears. She didn’t quite anger him, that would be too simple, but he definitely felt wrong. Sam forces his tone to remain flat and unfeeling, “unless you are their lawyer, you have no right to speak with my suspect. Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. King?”

“Hm,” Eret is still smiling. Sam tries not to let that make him feel uneasy. “May I borrow your phone?”

“There’s a payphone just outside.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Eret turns around, accepting HBomb’s arm and returning to the street.

Sam lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “She’s a lot scarier than I remember,” he mutters.

“Yeah,” the lackey at the desk agrees nervously.

“You didn’t hear that.”

“O-Oh– Yes, Captain.”

Eret hasn’t even dialed when HBomb gently taps her arm.

“It’s Quackity. Quackity HQ– He’s walking toward the precinct. He’s probably a pretty good option, and I mean, he’s right here,” HBomb says.

Eret sets down the phone, “which way?”

HBomb turns her in his direction.

“Mr HQ?” Eret calls.

Quackity stops. “You’re… You’re Eret, right? You’re a King, or I guess the King right now. I remember you from… Niki’s place,” Quackity says vaguely. “Look, while I’m sure you’ve got something interesting and ideally profitable to tell me, I’m actually here to help a friend–”

“Ponk, right?”

Quackity stops, caught off guard. “Yeah, yeah it’s Ponk,” he turns to face her, surprised. “They work for you. Are you–” He grows wary. “Why are you here?”

“Niki sent me. I am only here to help them. However I can. I know you’re not cheap, Mr. HQ. Bill my office, okay?” Eret says.

“Nah, I wasn’t gonna charge th–” Quackity quickly stops himself, realizing he had almost thrown away a very rewarding opportunity. “Thank you, Mr. King. I will.”

“The Captain was being rather avoidant, but HBomb and I will hang around. If he posts bail, please tell me. I can take them home…” Eret stops, thinking again of the man she had just spoken to, the last time she had met him, he’d stuck close to Ponk’s side, sounding nervous among rich museum donors, but Ponk had reassured him, calling him handsome and promising they could go home soon. “Or not home, but wherever they want to be.”

Quackity gives her a nod before realizing a verbal reply would probably be more effective. “Uh, will do.”

“Thank you.”

Sam had maybe expected Eret King to return, waving threats of whatever team of lawyers her family had, he had not expected Quackity HQ to enter the precinct with clear antagonistic intent.

“You,” Sam says before he can stop himself. “You?” Quackity HQ had been a goliath haunting the police department. He had gotten Schlatt out of legal consequences more times than Sam can count, not to mention being wholly responsible for what few members of the Badlands that had ever gotten arrested never being tried and is solely responsible for Captain Puffy’s graceful and legal retirement from the police force, expertly ensuring her illegal exploits are politely ignored at the risk of destroying the department’s reputation. Quackity should come with a danger warning to every officer unfortunate enough to be in his presence. There is only one reason for him to be here, however little that computes in Sam’s mind. “You’re Ponk’s lawyer?”

Quackity grins with more than a little delighted malice behind it, gesturing grandly to himself. “Play stupid games, win stupid prizes!”

Logically, Sam could guess Ponk had mob affiliations, but Quackity HQ? “You’re… You’re taking on Ponk as a client? Not really your usual work.”

Quackity leans against the counter, hands folded in front of him. “Ponk is a good friend, a good guy.”

“And you would know?” Sam says icily.

“Oh yeah, of course,” Quackity says with mocking earnestness. “You know, Sam. Can I call you Sam?”

“No.”

“Sam, Ponk has told me all about you.”

Sam scowls, bitter anger returning. “Oh yeah? Let me guess. They told you what time I got off work, where I’m stationed, where my staff will be, maybe even when I’ll be out of the office for a break in, huh? Did I get any of that right?” He says dryly.

“Oh no, Sam,” Quackity first feigns hurt, a hand over his heart. Then he smiles with too many teeth and every bone in Sam’s body says run. “Nothing like that. Just how much they love you, how sweet you are with your dog, how they worried about you because you work so much, and they can’t wait to go home and see you,” Quackity gives Sam an unimpressed once over. “And so on.”

Sam is struck by the profound feeling that he’s doomed. Doomed of what he has no clue, but doomed nonetheless.

“So where are they, Captain?”

Sam almost preferred when he mockingly called him Sam. Captain almost feels like Quackity is painting a target on his back.

Ponk looks up sharply when the door opens. Sam enters, followed by Quackity.

“Oh thank fuck,” Ponk’s shoulders sag with relief. “H-Hey, Quackity,” they smile weakly.

Quackity steps around the table, assessing them carefully. “You hurt?” He asks them the same thing he had asked Tubbo the night before, with the same tone of gentle worry. It’s already clear the answer is yes, the question remaining is how bad.

Ponk hesitates, glancing toward Sam before quickly looking away. They nod.

“Were you hurt here? In custody?”

Another nod.

“Okay. Good. I know it doesn’t sound like it, but that’s, generally speaking, good,” Quackity had hoped he’d be able to catch up a bit more from what Ponk knows so he’d know what he was dealing with, but it’s obvious Ponk needs serious help, so he turns back to Sam, worry sharply traded for loathing. “My client is going to be released. Now.”

“That’s not for you to decide,” Sam refuses to look at Ponk.

“They need medical attention.”

“We can provide that.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

“Because they haven’t asked. How are we supposed to know they need medical help if they never asked?” Sam feigns innocence.

Quackity pauses, glancing back to Ponk for confirmation.

“Didn’t realize I…” they mumble. “He’s the one that did this, so. Thought he knew. And just, I dunno. He was refusing to get me help or something.”

Quackity nods, irritated but understanding. “Okay. So, my client is not a flight risk, so why are they staying in custody?”

“Because we still have reason to question them.”

Quackity smiles, bouncing back on his heels. “Well, then. Let’s get a move on, shall we? I can see you take your questioning very seriously,” thinly veiled rage behind every word. He’s the one that did this. Quackity had already had punishing intentions for Sam– cops are scum by nature, but a cop that arrests their partner, a partner who had been nothing but devoted to him, even if they didn’t always give him the whole truth, that deserves bloody retribution.

Quackity sits beside Ponk. “Are you going to call in a medic or what?” He snaps at Sam. “And if you think for a second I won’t be reporting their injuries–“ Quackity laughs. “Well, Captain or not, you still have a boss, don’t you?”

Sam ignores him, returning to his place across the table. “You do that. Ponk is going to tell me who they’ve been giving information to, and then I will make their medical care my top priority.”

Quackity grows more agitated. He knows he cannot force Sam to release them from questioning, but there are other means of making this easier.

“You cannot withhold medical care from someone in your custody, Captain. And Ponk, as your lawyer I advise you not to answer any of his questions,” it’s redundant, Ponk definitely knows that, it’s just one step in several of making it clear Sam’s interrogation efforts will do nothing but give Quackity more ammo to dismiss the case altogether.

“Yep, got it,” Ponk says wearily.

Quackity stares at the table, black coffee beginning to dry to its surface and definitely having soaked Ponk’s left arm, which is much more swollen than the right.

“What’s this?”

“Spilled coffee,” Sam says simply.

Quackity gives another vicious smile, “Right. Of course.”

He turns back to Ponk, speaking quietly. “Burns?”

“Y-Yeah. It–” they stop with a shaky inhale. “Yeah.”

“Do you think it’s a break?”

“Probably. Hurts like a motherfucker.”

“Okay. Don’t worry, we’ll get you out, no problem,” Quackity puts a gentle hand on their other shoulder. He turns back to Sam. “Captain, Ponk will not be answering anything today. If you want to question them, I would be happy to supervise or negotiate a time for that depending on what you can offer, but if you expect either of our cooperation, you’re going to release Ponk now.”

Sam considers this for a moment, calculating something. “Okay. How about this. I will release them, assuming they can pay bail, if you agree to come in for questioning, Mr. HQ.”

“Me?” Quackity laughs. “Buddy, I’m a defense attorney, not a suspect.”

“Okay, either you and Ponk both stay here until we can have a reasonable discussion, or Ponk leaves, and you and I discuss their charges and… other relevant information,” Sam remains calm and unyielding. Quackity wants to stab a pen into his smug fucking face.

“I’d be happy to,” Quackity sneers.

“Quackity, I mean,” Ponk laughs nervously, gesturing to their hurt arm. They don’t want Quackity alone if Sam and his lackeys are really so quick to violence. “If you’re here with me, I can deal with–“

“You can go to a hospital, Ponk,” Quackity cuts them off. “I’ll be fine. This is literally my job. And trust me, big dogs like this…” Quackity gives Sam a once over, tutting him softly. “Well, they get pretty pathetic when whoever they’re talking to isn’t chained to a fucking table.”

Ponk keeps looking at their broken arm. The pain has made this entire conversation hard to focus on. They’re too tired to argue. “What’s bail set as?”

“$1,400,” Sam says.

Ponk looks up at Sam head on for the first time since he’d returned, cautious. Maybe Ponk could scrape that kind of money together from their joint account, but not from their personal one. One look at Sam’s face and they know he has no intention of letting them touch that money. Unless there’s some legal defense entitling them, Quackity would know better.

“Bail is taken care of,” Quackity says.

“What? Quackity, that’s too–“

“Not by me, you kidding?” Quackity scoffs. “It’s your boss, Eret. She’s been waiting outside.”

“Eret?!“ Ponk sits up, bewildered and a bit nervous, before wincing as their arm protests the movement.

“Don’t worry about it, man. She doesn’t believe this shit for a second. Just wanted to help. I think Niki told her,” Quackity says quickly.

“Oh,” Ponk relaxes a bit.

“Captain?” Quackity gestures to the cuffs.

Ponk can’t help but flinch when Sam grabs their hand, but the relief is immediate. Blood has beaded up where the cuff had dug into their wrists, more starkly on their left, a thin line encircling it and pushing back against where the broken bone had caused swelling. It still hurts to move, even if only to cradle their broken arm close to their chest. Sam goes to steer Ponk out of the room, looking like he’s about to drag them out with a hand on their right arm, but Quackity puts himself between the two of them immediately with a glare, Sam towering over him, but Quackity doesn’t move or let Sam move an inch closer to them. Sam doesn’t acknowledge him, simply leads the way.

“You’re letting them go?” Dream stops Sam with a hand on his arm, Quackity and Ponk continuing forward.

“Can I help you, officer?” Sam says coldly.

“But we have them, if you could’ve just kept that lawyer busy and let me try–”

“Go back to your desk, Now,” Sam snaps almost like an angry parent.

Dream pushes past him without another word. He’s limping, Sam notes. Not just a little, but badly, however hard he seems to be trying to cover it up. Maybe when he’s less miserable he’ll ask if he’s okay.

Sam lets the two of them out into the lobby, going to the front desk and telling him to fine Eret, who has been waiting impatiently in the lobby.

“Hey, Ponk,” HBomb gives them a little wave.

“Hey,” Ponk nods. “Um, Eret, you don’t– I don’t know how to–“

“Don’t worry about it, Ponk. This is nothing to me and I’d much rather make sure you’re okay,” Eret shoves a wad of cash across the counter without another thought. “Actually, H, check my count. I’m not giving these bastards a cent more. You can pocket the rest.”

HBomb counts the bills, taking back a $100 bill before returning it. Maybe Ponk shouldn’t be surprised that Eret had $1,500 cash on her, but they have to admit that much money is a daunting thought. Ponk doesn’t like knowing how much they needed other people to get them out of this.

“How’re you doing, Ponk?” Eret asks.

“Been worse?” They try to keep their tone light, but Ponk is so relieved this is over they could just pass out.

“HBomb?” Eret asks.

“Uh, their arm looks pretty busted up. And a bloody nose. And they look really tired– no offense–“ HBomb adds quickly. “They have a big bruise on their chin too.”

Ponk shifts uncomfortably under the attention. HBomb needs to be Eret’s eyes and Ponk knows that, but it isn’t exactly pleasant to have a catalogue of their visible injuries passed along.

“Take them to a hospital,” Quackity speaks up. “Make sure they take note of their injuries, maybe see if you can get ahold of a camera. We’re gonna need evidence. I’ll handle stuff here.”

“You’ll need to reach them–” Eret turns to HBomb. “Can you give him my card?”

“Uh, yep! Yep, one sec–” HBomb rummages through his pockets before passing a card to Quackity.

“The first number is the museum, the second is my car, and, H–”

“Already got it,” HBomb snatches the card back and grabs a pen from behind the desk, scribbling a third number on the back before returning it.

“And that one is for my home. If that’s alright, Ponk, you can stay at mine. And if Quackity needs to reach you, he can,” Eret says.

“Yeah, yeah that’s fine.”

“You… have a phone in your car?” Quackity stares down at the card with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, yes. It’s come in handy quite a bit,” Eret shrugs offhandedly. “And since we’re going to be running from the hospital to wherever else, that might be the best choice to call. Or Prime Memorial hospital.”

“Prime Memorial– that’s–” Ponk winces.

“A very nice hospital, yes. Which I will gladly take care of whatever insurance doesn’t cover,” Eret says firmly.

“Eret, I don’t need your charity,” Ponk doesn’t mean to sound ungrateful, but it’s been hard enough feeling like they’ve spent the past hours waiting to be rescued.

“It’s not charity. You’ve been a good employee and a good friend. Of course, if you’re not comfortable with it, that’s okay,” Eret is unwavering.

“Just let her do it, Ponk. She might as well be paying for a cab it’s so little to her. No offense,” Quackity says, Eret unbothered. “I’ll do what I can here, but I’ll definitely have to call you later so I can get the details from your end of things.”

Ponk doesn’t have the energy left to argue. If their bone had broken through the skin they would’ve bled out by now, but the pain alone is making it harder and harder to stay standing, and they have no idea how severe the burns actually are. They nod.

"Ponk, before you go, can I speak with you alone for a minute?" Quackity follows them to the entryway where there's enough background noise to cover their conversation. "Is there anything I need to know?"

Ponk glances furtively back at the front desk where Eret seems to be doing her best to make Sam uncomfortable.

"I– S-So," Ponk takes a deep breath. Fuck– Everything hurts, but they know why they need to do this now. "Sam saw me coming back to the apartment late with his keys, so including his work keys. A-And lately a lot of police information has seemingly been getting out, shit like the mob always avoiding their patrols and things. And he seems to think... he seems to think I did that," Ponk says very carefully and very deliberately.

Quackity nods, understanding immediately that Ponk very much was the one sharing that information. "Okay, okay got it. But all he's got is you with some fucking keys?"

"Yeah? As far as I know."

”Good. He doesn’t have jack shit.”

"I-If he offers a deal or something, I can't give him what he wants. I can't tell him who I was giving that information to– it'll– it'll make all of this pointless I can't do that–" Ponk sounds utterly frantic.

"Hey, it's okay, man. I am going to get you out of this. No deals, no nothing, okay? This piece of shit won't even get you in a court room," Quackity is utterly vindictive.

"How the hell will you–"

"Ponk, I am a very good lawyer," Quackity grins, dangerous enough that Ponk believes him.

"Okay. Okay, thank you, Quackity, really," Ponk turns back toward the desk, HBomb seeing them and tugging on Eret's sleeve to let her know.

“Come on then, Ponk. We’ll make them pay for this, okay? Wrongfully arresting a member of my staff– they’ll regret it,” Eret offers Ponk her arm. “Would you mind?” She did not need help leaving the station, and if she did that was part of HBomb’s job at present, her offer was for Ponk’s sake.

“Yeah, sure,” Ponk takes her arm with their right. She gives their hand a gentle squeeze and Ponk lets her support them, if only until they get to the car. Ponk is almost out the door before they think to look back. Sam isn’t looking at them, instead looking at Quackity, and whatever he seems to be saying in their defense. At the last second Sam looks up and stares back. For a moment Sam shows something human, Sam does not look guilty, but he does look hurt. Ponk tries to find the hatred Sam must surely deserve, but they can’t.

Their entire reality has shifted from even twelve hours ago.

#I have been so excited for this one #my writing #mafia au #quackity and eret are sooo fine in this one #as always feedback is cherished <3

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