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riahlynn101 · 1 year

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"Just Breathe" (2).

This is my second attempt at writing the second chapter. The other one included All for One not being beaten up, Izuku not in pain, and the tasing of a certain, annoying vestige.

Be forewarned, Izuku does not have a good time here.

Trigger warning: Extreme violence, major character death, possessive behavior, and implied child abuse.

Chapter 2

“You aren’t Yoichi,” All for One says.

“An astute observation.” First kicks at the ground. “Actually it’s a lot more nuanced than that. I guess I’m as similar to your brother as you are to the All for One quirk. So, I suppose it all depends on how you look at it.”

“You aren’t Yoichi,” All for One repeats. “He would have stopped this. Izu- Deku wouldn’t have ended up like this.” It doesn’t escape his notice how Yoichi’s brother cringes slightly at Ninth’s hero name.

“I’m not, though, as you have bluntly pointed out.”

“This is between me and you.”

Nana stalks forward, hackles raised.

“Tell that to my husband!” She yells. Banjo and Third hold her back from attacking. “Tell that to my son!” She continues to shout, tears streaming down her face.

All for One watches her display with a hint of amusement in his blood red eyes. Even bargaining for his son’s life, he can't help himself.

First sighs, tired.

Once a bastard, always a bastard.

“My family!” Nana sobs, sliding to the ground. Banjo pats her on the back.

First steps in front of Nana, blocking All for One’s view. “Enough,” he starts, succeeding in getting the man’s attention back on him, “we’ve waited a long time. Passing this power down in hopes of destroying your- you….in hopes of destroying you .”

“I see,” All for One drawls out. “Took quite a long time.”

First shakes off Yoichi’s brother’s comment. A dig at their individual and combined abilities, as well as a subtle way to burrow under his skin.

“As fun as that sounds, I have other obligations,” All for One says.

“What?” Second asks, and First sends a glare his way that he pointedly ignores, “to retrieve your son that you abandoned ?”

All for One flinches back as if burned. A hurt expression takes over his face. He clenches his teeth, eyes burning craters into them. “Do. Not.”

“But that’s what happened isn’t it?” First pushes further. Nothing like this-in all their shared memories-has ever happened before.

Sometimes he watches the others' memories - nothing super personal or gross. They act as long movies, offering little tidbits of information about his fam- co workers. Like, through watching her memories, he learned that Nana originally had a fear of the dark. So, he makes sure that there’s a light source always on when she’s around.

Or when he learned that Banjo feels proud of ‘Black Whip’ and loves sharing it with other people (though a little less literal when he was alive). And-since his own passing-is always the first to greet a new arrival, so First may have, potentially allowed him to speak with Ninth first. Of course there’s the matter of Izu- Ninth manifesting Black Whip before any others, so really it’s smart to have Banjo greet him first.

But you should have seen the fight that that decision caused…..he nearly smiles at the memory, but stops himself.

That, he reminds himself, wasn’t real. None of it was real.

He swallows, the action unnecessary, and smirks at All for One. A near perfect mirror to the one the man had been wearing not three seconds prior.

“Truth hurts, doesn’t it?”

“Truth? What truth?” All for One scoffs. “I didn’t leave them, because I wanted to. I left them because someone, not going to name names, punched my face off!”

“And?” Second asks. “Based on the kid’s feelings and tendency to attach himself to any and all adults that show the tiniest bit of care towards him, you never made an effort to keep in contact with him.”

“I…I thought he was better off not hearing from me. I wrote to my wife often, and she gave me little updates here and there about his well-being.” His voice sounds strained, like he’s doing everything in his power to not show how much this situation is affecting him.

First’s nonexistent heart clenches painfully. He pushes it down. “Regardless,” he starts, “of how we got here, it all ends today.”

As Second turns back around to face their collective nemesis, First reaches down to where little Ninth lay. He kneels next to the boy. His face looks so peaceful, and not for the first time he is reminded of how young the latest One for All successor is. He comforts himself with the thought that, after all is said and done, they can see the boy again in the vestige realm. Yes, he thinks to himself, stroking the boy’s face, they’ll comfort and soothe little Ninth. They’ll care for him better than the boy’s own parents.

(Not that that’s necessarily hard, considering their competition is a supervillain and a woman who isn’t here right now. Unfair, a voice whispers in the deeper part of his consciousness, of course she isn’t here. She’s a civilian! )

These thoughts comfort First enough to proceed with the plan. He daydreams of holding the ninth, cradling the boy - younger than he appears right now - in his arms. He’s always wanted a child, and he’s not averse to taking Yoichi’s brother’s. Besides, he reasons, after Ninth passes away he’ll need a lot of extra comfort.

“I do apologize for this, Ninth.”

He clamps a hand over the boy’s forehead.

In the second between tightening his hold and the next, Ninth is writhing in agony. A scream escapes from his mouth. First murmurs another apology, loosening his hold, and carding a deceptively gentle hand through Ninth’s curls.

A bright light radiates from the boy. It draws everyone’s attention, including All for One.

“Izuku!” The fiend yells out, forgetting their current situation. “My son!”

Something deep, deep down within First reacts to his tone of voice. A small voice in his head whispers that this isn’t right. That the price to be rid of such a terrible person shouldn’t include the blood and sacrifice of someone they all hold so close to their hearts.

He smirks, but the smug feeling is only surface level. Again, he runs a hand through the boy’s hair. Ninth winces away, face scrunching up. A whimper escapes him.

First ignores this, powering through. Already he can feel Ninth’s life force giving him his physical form back. Judging by the pleasantly surprised faces on the others, it’s safe to say they’re feeling similar effects.

“Leave him be!” All for One holds out a hand, threatening them. “Get away from him!”

“No,” First says, starting to hum a lullaby under his breath to Ninth. Just because this is necessary to beat Yoichi’s brother, doesn’t mean that little Ninth has to suffer alone. He remembers, from Yoichi’s memories, a time where he himself longed for the times where his (read: Yoichi’s) older brother would comfort him. Singing lullabies and reading stories to distract him (again read: Yoichi - because he isn’t Yoichi; he can’t be. He refuses to be. Being Yoichi means he’s willing to hurt his nephew; his only family member that isn’t dead or batshit insane.) from the pain of being chronically ill.

“Must hurt, huh?” First taunts, secure in the knowledge that he’s finally getting under All for One’s skin. “Finally being on the other side of all the pain you’ve caused. Because be rest assured, this all could have been avoided. All of this pain and suffering that Ninth is going through is simply a testament to your legacy of blood.”

-x-x-x-

Izuku cuddles up to Tenko. The two boys sit up against a wall, trying to keep each other somewhat warm.

Izuku has almost fallen into a second dream state, head lolling onto Tenko’s shoulder, when a sudden spike of pain hits him like a freight train. Now, he’s no stranger to pain. Breaking his bones is practically a hobby to him. But this is different, it’s somehow worse in every single way.

A terrible white hot sensation fills his entire being, deeper than his skin and bones and blood. It burns and burns and-

A scream is ripped from his throat.

Tenko jumps back, an alarmed expression on his face. “I-Izuku?”

“Make it stop! Make it stop!” He shouts, writhing around in agony. The cool floor of the vault is just barely enough to ease the heat consuming his very soul.

“Make what stop?” Tenko asks, hands hovering above Izuku’s body. “What’s happening?”

Another stab of pain leaves Izuku breathless and fighting to speak. “Mommy! Daddy! Help me! It hurts! It hurts!” His body wracks with sobs.

Tenko takes one of his hands, and then places his other hand on Izuku’s forehead. He hums a song he’s pretty sure his momma used to sing to him before…..

“It’s going to be alright,” he murmurs.

Izuku whimpers, the noise subdued in comparison to the ear-piercing screech he gave. “Mommy…..daddy…..help….” his voice is hoarse and very weak.

“Shhhh….rest.”

When the noise has finally petered out, Tenko lays down next to his former-nemesis-turned-friend. He stays awake, watching for any more signs of discomfort.

In the dark of the vault, someone else watches the exchange. Their teeth gritted and nails digging into the palms of their hands. “Izuku,” they whisper.

-x-x-x-

Hisashi isn’t a man of many regrets, but as he watches his only child slowly die in front of him, he has at least one.

Izuku screams again, head rolling from side-to-side. His eyes are closed, which probably means he’s asleep. A good thing considering the circumstances. Hisashi hopes his son is having a pleasant dream, and is not just trapped within the vestige realm.

Yo- First should have enough empathy not to do that.

He watches with mute horror as they all begin to become more tangible. Heroes, still not moving a muscle to arrest him or save Izuku, chatter amongst themselves.

First stands up, joining the brother-stealing-pest at his side. A smug smile on his face. He taunts Hisashi once again, but all he can focus on is his son’s prone body.

Izuku’s breath is coming out in ragged pants. His skin has a bluish tint, like someone is actively strangling him.

He moves forward. The second One for All user blocks him, but Hisashi is ready and uses air cannon to shoot the pest(s) out of his way - at a slight angle of course, they’re all going to die but not right now.

He’s nearly there, just another couple of steps. He reaches his hands out, ready to pull his son into his arms. They can all go to hell. Hisashi needs to get Izuku somewhere safe.

If they need energy so badly, they can find a way to take it from the Shimura brat.

He’s just about to kneel down when he’s being pulled back. An appendage-looking like a cross between a tentacle and whip-wraps around his middle. He’s flung back, closer to the useless heroes.

They scatter upon him landing.

He scrambles to stand up; his thoughts focus on one thing and one thing only: save Izuku.

If he can just-

Hisashi locks eyes with Yoichi-and he’s only known two people with those eyes, one being his son and the other being his brother-he’s hit with a sudden understanding.

His son would not be leaving this battle alive.

What remains of Hisashi’s soul dies with this knowledge.

-x-x-x-

Tenko wakes up with his arms empty. He shivers, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. It doesn’t make much sense to him why they can fall asleep when they’re already asleep, but he supposes it gives them an escape from their current predicament. He looks around for his friend.

“Izuku,” he calls out.

A soft shushing gets his attention. Tenko looks towards the furthest corner. He can’t see much as it’s bathed in darkness.

“Izuku?” He asks, an odd feeling welling up in his chest.

A figure emerges from the corner, imposing and familiar. Izuku lays limply in his arms. “Shush, I said.”

“Sensei?” Tenko gets to his feet. His hatred for the man in front of him is temporarily overshadowed by the fact that his new friend is at Sensei’s mercy. Diplomacy has never been Tenko’s forte, but for Izuku, he’ll try.

“Hello, Tomura.” He continues to rock Izuku back and forth, shushing him when he makes a pained noise. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“My name’s not Tomura,” he protests, all the years of bottled resentment coming to the surface. “I’m Tenko.”

“That you are,” Sensei retorts, a condescending edge in his tone. “Well, Tenko, how about you fill me in on how you two got here. Usually I can sneak a peek or convince one of the vestiges to fill me in, but it’s been radio silent for the last year or so.”

Tenko grits his teeth. Why does every action have to be like playing chess? He hates this! He hates being near Sensei! He hates him! He hates him so much!

Izuku cries out, bringing him back to his senses.

Tenko takes a deep breath. “It all started when I tried to beat up Gigantomachia…”

-x-x-x-

Izuku screams out. First spares him a glance. Soon, he tells himself, it will all be over soon.

All for One stares him down, positively seething in rage. He lunges for him, making his way from across the battlefield with several different quirks. First side steps his pathetic attempt.

Banjo uses black whip again to fling the resident supervillain around. At Third’s signal, he allows black whip to dissipate. All for One lands on his stomach, hitting his chin on broken concrete.

Third pulls back his arm, using Fa Jin he punches All for One six times in row. Each hit is harder than the last.

First makes his way back over to Ninth. The light is slowly dimming. They don’t have much time left - Ninth doesn’t have much time left. He watches his found family finally get a smidge of the revenge they deserve, petting his son’s hair.

Second uses his ability on a piece of broken ply-wood, sending the shards deep into All for One’s skin. He looks to First; his eyes flicker to Ninth. His expression softens. “Ours now?” He mouths.

First nods.

The light dims further. Some of the attacks don’t land as they should. It won’t be long now.

Nana picks up All for One. Using float she carries him up and up and up until they’re high in the sky, and then lets him go.

-x-x-x-

The All for One locked away in the vestige realm, cringes back. For some reason he feels oddly disappointed. He shrugs it off as the weirdness of the day.

He regards the small boy in front of him. “And then, you beat up the leader of the Meta Liberation Army?”

Tenko gives a hesitant nod.

He can feel the pure, unadulterated hatred coming off the boy. Some people can be so ungrateful. It’s not like he had to take the Shimura brat in. He did it out of the kindness of his heart (and to spite All Might, but that hardly matters in the grand scheme of things).

“You know, back in my day, Destro was a real pain in my-”

Izuku shifts in his arms. He shushes him.

“Sensei? Why are you holding Izuku?” Tenko asks, anxiously looking between Izuku and All for One.

“You don’t know?”

Tenko shakes his head.

All for One chuckles, slinking back into the darkness. The boy could follow him into the corner, but he knows Tenko won’t.

Finding his place against the furthest wall, he sits down with Izuku. He ignores Tenko’s calls for him to come back, instead focusing on his son (is this his son? Technically speaking, he’s only an impression of All for One’s personality from hundreds of years ago. They aren’t the same person. But yet, yet he feels a need to hold and protect and hide-)

A hand slaps him upside the head. “Give him back!” Tenko demands, tugging on Izuku’s arms.

The smack leaves him stunned. He never expected little Tenko to have the gall. When he finally gets his bearings back in order, a large grin takes over his face. “How about, no.” Using a small percentage of his power he pushes Tenko back.

He listens intently for the groan of pain or heavy thud but it never comes. Curious, he peeks out from the darkness.

No one is there.

“Huh, that’s-”

A kick to the side of his head makes him drop Izuku. Tenko pulls Izuku into the furthest corner before he turns around to face All for One. A feral grin has taken up much of his face. “I told you,” he starts, charging forward, fist pulled back, “to give him back.”

-x-x-x-

As the light dims even more, their attacks get weaker. Some even pass right through the super villain.

All for One has long since passed out - En’s smoke screen finally did him in. Nowhere near dead but definitely out for the count.

Izuku screams once more and then goes very, very still.

“It’s time,” First announces.

The others gather around.

“We’ve fought for centuries for this moment. I hope you all feel just the tiniest avenged.”

“But All for One isn’t dead,” En pipes up. “What if he breaks out of containment again?”

First motions to Tenko’s motionless body. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

#all for one #mha au #mha fanfiction #izuku mydoria #vestige realm #cross posted on ao3 #mha yoichi

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s11e17 · 3 years

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popping in to say i'm sorry to hear that and also your writing is so, so good. i get chills every time i read your work. got any excerpts or tidbits you'd like to share? anything you're especially proud of in past or current works?

wahh thank you so much anon! <3 <3

right now i'm kind of pleased over this little bit in the big bang fic - dean can't say "i love you" to cas, so instead, he asks him if he's ever been to the grand canyon.

Cas’s mouth tilts up sleepily, would be a smile if half of it wasn’t squashed against the pillow. He’d say it now, if he could, the thing that Cas deserves to hear, the thing Dean has never told anybody in his adult life.

Instead, he asks, “Have you ever been to the Grand Canyon?”

also i started writing this like 15k pwp (the plot is basically that dean and cas keep having sex in dreams, aka put up your dukes but not as good) but i feel like it'll be ages before i actually finish it so here are the first two scenes (mostly under the cut bc its like 1600 words lmao):

The few times Castiel has been put under by a djinn, he hasn’t felt particularly disturbed by it. Dean flinches when djinn are mentioned. Sam is deeply distressed when the possibility of unreality is discussed. But Castiel is not so committed to this distinction as the Winchesters are.

Yes, undoubtedly, there are things that are real, and things that are, well, unreal. He likes the prefix un-. It implies a sense of reversal; undoing. Something is real, and then made fiction. Fiction, of the Latin fingo: to make. To invent. To create.

Things are, or they are not. If they are not, then they’re nothing — unless they’re something, in which case, they are. So on and so forth. This is to say, a djinn dream must be as real as Dean’s smile: both created and natural at once. Nature, creation, it is. I am that I am. We are.

This must surely be why Castiel is satisfied with being, when it comes to his love for Dean. Isn’t it enough to create? To speak, and to therefore move from nothing to something? From unformed feeling to articulated truth, Castiel has heaved himself down to Earth from out of the sun more times than he can remember. Dean is his lodestone, and Castiel dreams of him often. It is enough.

Sam’s the one to ask him, in the end. Castiel supposes that makes sense. Dean’s always aimed his comfort at Castiel’s shoulders and his stomach, offering back pats and warm meals, as if even his hands can’t meet Castiel’s gaze.

Sam invites Castiel out to the roof of the bunker to look at the sunset, while Dean is out buying supplies for his tune-ups from the 24 hour mechanic shop he likes to visit when the usual customers aren’t around. Castiel knows this because Dean once told him, once said that he liked to go when the guys were just “shootin’ the shit,” so to speak, liked to roll up with Baby and have them look her over and tell him he’s done a good job. Castiel knows he likes the camaraderie of it, likes having men touch his shoulders and slap his ass the way men do, the way Castiel does not.

So Castiel and Sam are on the roof. “It’s beautiful,” Castiel says.

“It’s real,” Sam says, as if in reply.

“Yes,” Castiel agrees. “It’s that, too.”

Sam sighs. His cheek twitches, and he looks at Castiel. His body is so big— that’s what Castiel thinks, whenever he looks at Sam Winchester. So much goodness, in that broad and wiry body— how could anyone beat him down? Castiel’s heart clenches with love for his brother, because that’s what Sam is to him. “You know— you know this is real, right?” Sam asks. “You know it’s not— you’re not— you’re not in the djinn— in the dream anymore.”

“I know.” Perhaps it’s some angelic power, which makes Castiel so certain of his place. “I know where I am.”

“Good. That’s good.” Sam sits back in his chair, then. “Do you— do you wanna talk about what you saw?”

It’s kind of Sam to phrase it that way. Dean would’ve asked him directly. He would’ve said, What did you see? And Castiel would’ve had to tell him.

Maybe that’s why he didn’t ask. In any case, Castiel says, “I’m happy to tell you if you’re curious.”

Sam huffs out a laugh. “Damn,” he says, “you’re well-adjusted.”

Castiel smiles, too. “I don’t have much to hide from you, Sam,” he says. And he thinks of Dean, who surely must know— who must feel the weight of Castiel’s desire every day. Dean sees how careful Castiel is. He sees Castiel’s hesitance to touch him, sees Castiel’s eyes shining when Dean makes dinner for him, and knows the depth of Castiel’s feeling. The depth of Castiel’s feeling drives Dean to the 24 hour mechanic shop whose men can give Dean what Castiel can’t.

But Dean comes home to Castiel, too.

“Okay,” Sam says, “sure. If you’re really okay with it, then yeah, I’d— I’d love to know what an angel dreams about.”

Castiel wonders how to say it. “We had a house,” Castiel starts, “me and Dean.”

It was a small house. Castiel remembers that vividly. It was tall enough to feel comfortable, but with only a single floor. Two bedrooms— their room, and a guest room. Roof access. It was the kind of house where you could bump shoulders with someone in the kitchen easily, the kind of house that built intimacy. Castiel remembers Dean standing in the back door with his coffee, face turned up to the sun, as he did every morning. He was so beautiful. He’d had a smile on his face, an easy and gentle smile. He’d taken a sip of his coffee, and said, glad we started shellin’ out for the good stuff, Cas, because he knew Castiel was behind him. After so long together, Dean could trust that Castiel would always want to watch him in the morning sunlight, freckles coming in across the bridge of his nose. Some days, Castiel would kiss his shoulder, and say, You are who I cherish most in my life. Do you know that? and every time, Dean would say, Yes, sweetheart. I know.

“We were so happy,” Castiel whispers. It’s all he can think to say. He looks at the sunset. Dean will come home in an hour with new parts for the ‘58 in the garage and a spring in his step, and Castiel will say, Welcome home, Dean, and Dean will say, Thanks, man. They will sleep in separate rooms. Dean has no need for the kind of love Castiel dreams of. Dean is already as happy as he will ever be. In his own way, in the way Dean has outlined with his words and his body, Dean has delineated what it is that he wants and what it is he finds unnecessary. Castiel is honored to fit almost entirely into what Dean wants. The only thing he wishes is that he could jettison the remains.

“Did you— did you know you were in a dream?”

“The whole time.”

“And you—” Sam cuts himself off. “Jesus. That’s— wow. Did it, uh… I mean, what did you feel?”

Castiel considers the question. “I think a better way to phrase it is that I knew it… I knew it wasn’t material. That what I was experiencing was a construction. But it’s not… that distinction isn’t meaningful to me, the way it likely is to humans.”

“No shit,” Sam barks, too aggressive to be a laugh. Castiel looks at him. He’s hunched over, knee wiggling. “It’s— it’s important to me to— to— to know what’s real. That means something to me. Being certain about what the truth is.”

“I understand.”

“But I can’t know,” Sam says, and he looks at Castiel. Half-chuckling still, he says, “I think about it every day, but I can’t know. And you do know, but you don’t care. How fucked is that?”

Castiel’s mouth twitches, but he isn’t happy. He knows Sam isn’t either. “I wish I could give you my certainty,” he says, and Sam looks away. “All I can say is that you are real. I see you. I sense you, in all ways.”

Sam nods. He breathes, deeply, and asks, “Do you miss it?”

Castiel doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. Does he miss his house with Dean, the warm sunlight through the bay windows, the way Dean’s hands would slide over Castiel’s thighs in the front of the Impala? “No,” he says, because he thinks also of Dean’s bunker kitchen chili, and his unfettered delight at cowboy movies. “No, I don’t think so. Once — you remember, with God — once Dean asked me what about all this was real.”

“Yeah. I had the same question.”

“I told him we are.”

Sam exhales. “Oh.”

“Maybe that’s why it doesn’t matter to me,” Castiel realizes. “I know that Dean and I are real, that our friendship is— is a truth which has shaped our paths, in all ways. Whether it’s a djinn dream or a material place, I know the truth.”

Sam nods, considers it. Eventually, he asks, “What made you wake up?”

“I tried the moment I first realized,” Castiel says. “And again, a few— what I perceived as a few weeks later. That was when you found me. The first time I was too weak to escape on my own, and the djinn captured me again.”

“Shit, Cas,” Sam breathes. “You— you— you did it twice?”

“I’ve killed more often for less,” Castiel says. “Killing myself was easy.”

Sam doesn’t ask. Perhaps they’ve all tallied each other’s body counts. Castiel wonders if Sam keeps a list of all the people Castiel has killed.

Instead, Sam says, “Well. Here’s a— okay. The distinction between dreams and real life doesn’t matter to you. I get that. My question is, is it right to say that the material world has— that it’s primary, I guess?”

It’s interesting, to attempt to apply dialectical materialism to an angel. But perhaps faithful to God’s original purpose. “You’ve seen Heaven,” Castiel says, working it out as he says it. “It’s nothing but memories. Consciousness. You’ve seen Hell, too.”

“Yeah.”

“The only way to describe these places is through metaphor. A hallway. A cage. Ripping, tearing. I think that tells us that Earth is where true creation happens. No matter what Chuck says or does, you create your own destiny. Here.”

“Shit.” Sam shakes his head. The sun has gone down; now, Sam and Castiel are accompanied by twilight mosquitoes, by stars coming in up above. “We make our own choices, huh.”

“We have to.” That’s perhaps what was wrong with the djinn dream, the reason why Castiel couldn’t stay there. It had nothing to do with whether it was real or not. It was about choice. That Dean in that back doorway of that sunlit house must have had no choice — because this Dean, his Dean, would’ve chosen otherwise.

#asks #anon #suicide tw #(fictional suicide to get out of a djinn dream)#agoodsoldier fic

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thatcrazychalupa · 3 years

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Chapter 1

Fjord had many surnames: Stone, Tusktooth, Swiftblade, Sea demon, and a few more colorful unflattering ones. He was born in the Dwendalian Empire, his first memories being a slightly run down but functional orphanage. Life was hard there, but not unduly cruel. However, he was not allowed to stay long as the Empire began a crusade against any they deemed heathenistic enough not to be welcome in their Empire.

Being half orc in blood, and showing that side visibly in his appearance, Fjord was forced to flee the orphanage and the empire when he was ten years of age. He found refuge on the seas, the captain of the ship "Hellwinds" allowing him to join the crew. For the next ten years he had been a sailor. During that time, the crusade in the Empire ended but the prejudice did not. Fjord soon found his allegiance siding with the Xhorasian Dynasty, especially when the prejudice turned to war with his new found home.

Long, bitter, harsh years followed; the war dealt heavy blows on both sides of the conflict with neither looking to become a victory anytime soon. Fjord led a group of warriors in the last two years that had made a name for themselves both in the Dynasty and the Empire. Somehow they picked up the name Mighty Nine from some one with a strange accent, and it had simply stuck. They were a mixed number of people from both sides of the conflict, all banding together with the common goal of ending the bloodshed.

Fjord, the half-orc warlock, had been elected as leader (generally just in public as the group was close enough to call each other family) and was viewed as Xhorasian in origin. He was still dealing with problems regarding his patron, yet the war had proven distraction enough in recent times. Mollymauk and Yasha were also viewed as Xhorasian in origin. Mollymauk was a Tiefling, vibrantly purple and ostentatious in dress, and a Bloodhunter by trade. Yasha was a fallen Aisimar barbarian, her size, milky skin and black hair enough cause for most any of the Empire to dismiss her.

Caduceus and Jester were considered neutral in the conflict, both from regions uninvolved in the fighting. As a Firbolg, Caduceus was better accepted on the Empire side despite his white pallor and bright pink hair. Meanwhile, Jester as a short blue Tiefling was better accepted by the Dynasty. As the clerics of the group, that had made it easier for them to gain trust of the others when they had initially joined.

Nott was a goblin, hated by both sides but her skills as a Rogue made navigating that minefield of danger possible.

Lastly, their one member from the Empire, Beauregard. A human expositor from the Cobalt Soul, the monk had been an invaluable asset during the last few weeks preceding the peace talks. While the Cobalt Soul was part of the empire and supported it, they had their own agenda that, thankfully, involved an end to the bloodshed.

The group now resided in a keep that was situated close to the main pass that connected the Dynasty and the Empire. As a mix of both sides, they were the front line for assuring peace and keeping any thoughts of invasion far from becoming reality.

Apparently, however, King Dwendal thought their numbers skewed too far in favor of the Dynasty. Thus, the group had gathered in what had been a war room but was now called a conference room instead.Fjord laid the message out on the tabletop, tapping it once as he announced the contents without preamble. It was the easiest way to get the rather chaotic group’s attention. "As a sign of their commitment to the peace, the Empire is giving us one of their Archmages."

There was a sharp outcry of 'what' and 'why' and Fjord held up a hand to still any arguments as he continued. "Her majesty did mention this as a possibility." He reminded them, speaking of the Bright Queen. "Most of us are from the Dynasty, it’s not so strange they want another representative of the Empire."

"But an archmage? Fjord, you have to admit, that is a little suspicious." Nott argued.

"Our group isn’t just a figurehead." Caduceus reminded the goblin. "We guard the pass and the villages around it. We show that both sides can fight together, not just against each other. It makes sense someone with battle capabilities would join our number."

"Better someone who can fight than some political liability we have to look after at all times." Fjord agreed, attention turning to Beau as the monk shook her head and leaned forward to speak.

"Unless things have changed dramatically in the last year since I've been away, mages aren’t well respected in the Empire and they don’t have much political power. There are a couple at the top, in charge of the assembly, that do. But the rest..." Beauregard shrugged.

"That could have easily changed. The last few months of fighting involved a lot of mages on their side." Molly reminded them. "Some of them leading the charge."

"Because they were running out of soldiers, same as us." Nott interjected.

"Exactly." Beau took up again, giving a brief nod of agreement. "Otherwise I doubt King Dwendal would have let them lead in the last few battles like they did."

"Okay, we don’t have to worry about this mage being sent for political reasons then." Fjord commented, trying to corral the discussion to stay on topic. "Much as I would love to trust it's for the continued peace and nothing more, there’s still the possibility he's a spy, here as a strategic way for the Empire to get some advantage before restarting the war."

Their group had worked hard to help bring about this ceasefire, Fjord did not want their hard work undone by one bloodthirsty Empire Archmage.

"You always say the best way to get to know someone is in battle, why don’t we do that?" Jester asked, breaking Fjord from his thoughts.

"That might not be the best idea." Caduceus negated. "The peace is too new and fragile. Even practice combat might be taken the wrong way."

"And accidents do happen. I don’t trust them not to make that claim if someone were hurt or killed during the spar." Nott agreed, also concerned with the possibility of war reigniting. Lack of political power or not, the Empire mages were fierce and ruthless in battle, as Nott has witnessed firsthand more than once.

"There’s been rumours of a pack of dire wolves over near the Gandre Forest. Killing sheep, pets, small children. Anything of a size that gets close." Molly offered. "I'm sure we'll get a request soon, that could be our test run?"

Fjord's gaze drifted over to Nott. The best thing about their group was that, while he was technically the leader, they were all close enough that they all viewed each other as equals. Each person had their own strengths and weakness, and they respected each other for that.

The goblin nodded. "I'll verify if it's true and get a location. Or find something else if it is not."

"Thank you." Fjord said, then leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

"Fjord, don't worry." Yasha spoke up, leaning forward with a concerned expression. "If this mage causes any problems, we can just kill him"

Fjord huffed a short laugh. Yasha's brand of humor (and he hoped it was a joke, though many times only Molly was ever truly sure when she was joking) was always unexpected. "Let's try and avoid that, but thanks."

"I'm sure killing is unnecessary." Molly offered, the Tiefling’s fangs showing through his wide grin. "I'm sure Beauregard would be more than willing to straighten this mage out on who gives the orders here."

Surprisingly to both Fjord and Molly, Beau neither agreed nor laughed, just frowned deeper with an irate grunt.

Fjord sat up again, remembering that the Cobalt Soul and the Cerberus Assembly, where the entirety of the Empire mages were trained, were not on good terms. "Beau, you gonna be okay with this?"

Beau met his gaze and nodded slowly. "Yeah. Personally, I haven’t had much interaction with the Assembly. Bunch of stuck up pricks run the place. So long as we aren’t saddled with one of those assholes, I'll manage. If the point is starting the war again, makes sense they'd pick a freaking mage..." she growled.

Fjord wasn’t entirely convinced of her anger. There was a hint of doubt, a held back judgement for whoever the newest member of the group might be. Fjord took that as a good sign that, hopefully, this wouldn't be too much like throwing gunpowder on a blaze.

He took in a breath as he laid out the final tidbit of information. "They'll be here in one week. Master Trent Ikithon is escorting the Archmage here. The letter doesn't give a name but does mention he had seen battle during the fighting."

"It’s this other guy, not Trent, that's staying, right?" Beau asked.

Fjord nodded confirmation and Beauregard leaned back in her chair with a muttered 'good'. The monk didn’t look too interested in sharing if she had any concerns, so Fjord let her be. There were enough preparations to make without antagonizing the monk.

~~~

Caleb Widogast was not what one would call an imposing figure.

His hair was a dirty red, disheveled most of the time even when he made an attempt at making some order out of its chaos. Perhaps the chaos was within his own mind, thus the reason for his continued failure in such regard. His clothing was deceptively ornate, though if one were a purveyor of such it could easily be recognized as subpar material.

The Cerberus Assembly had wanted to display their wealth and power, yet fine linens were not wasted on war dogs such himself. Mages were to be of use, not to decorate the court. It made little sense to robe the mage in lavish clothing when he was simply to be of use in combat. Of course, some had argued that a gift must be properly adorned, and as such a middle ground had been reached.

Whether this truly had been the events that led to his current delivery to the Mighty Nine, Caleb did not know. He was not privy to the discussion and subsequent decision, nor was he informed of the following discussion of logistics. He could only surmise what had occurred given his current circumstance.

Three days he had been traveling with his Master, Trent Ikithon, with still two more days left in the journey.

He did wonder about those he was being delivered to. He did have some inkling of who they were, the Mighty Nine were famous within the empire. Caleb was unsure if their name was meant to be the common nine or the Zemnian word, something he pondered during the journey, given the number of individuals in the group was only currently seven. Even should they feel the need to include his name among their number, it would not add up.

Whether they would view him as worth such, he was unsure.Most of them were from Xhorhas, so Caleb had little idea what to expect of them. He had no frame of reference for how the Dynasty viewed mages, nor where he would fall on the social ladder. His excursions into Xhorhas had been for battle purposes only and he'd had no permission to explore the culture. The Nine had, apparently, accepted the offer of himself, though Caleb knew this was no accurate measure of their intent.

Whatever his standing with them, he did not presume it would be very high, especially given the human monk, expositor Beauregard, that was a part of the group. To say the Cobalt Soul did not like the Cerberus Assembly, nor the mages it produced, was an understatement. While Caleb had only experienced this prejudice through cold looks and avoidance, he often heard of less subtle actions from Master Ikithon. He had begun to have doubts as to the validity of all of the information Trent imparted to him, yet had no other frame of reference to the truth.

From the information that had come his way regarding Beauregard, the woman was a formidable force. Opinionated and headstrong some had described her. Caleb had little doubt her views would not be hidden, and had likely been spread to the others. He hoped that would not be the case. It was... difficult living and obeying Master Ikithon who's actions and instructions were (so the man oft claimed) for Caleb's own good. He did not look forward to trying to please those who held his very existence against him.

Conjecture did little good and often led his mind down a dark path he would rather not follow. He was to follow the orders of his 'new masters' as Master Ikithon had so in-delicately put it. Trent had not been pleased to have his prized pupil taken from him, though he had been quick to devise a way to turn the situation to his advantage. Above obeying the group, Caleb had a separate set of instructions from his Master. Trent was not a man to lay out all his plans, so currently Caleb knew only that he was to gain the trust of these people, prove his loyalty however possible, and wait.

Easy enough, as he would have done so in any case. Obedience and loyalty were key to survival. Should the group be displeased with him, he would be returned to the Empire, to Trent, and his failure would not go unpunished. The thought made his heartbeat quicken in his chest, Caleb sneaking a quick glance at his master, paranoid that Trent would somehow see the weakness inside of him.

The other man, however, remained seating with his gaze cast outside of the carriage. His gaze was sharp, calculating, and Caleb knew he was not idle during this long trip to the keep. Whatever his Master planned; Caleb was sure to learn his part in it in due time.

Caleb turned his gaze out the small window as well, letting his eyes roam over the open terrain as they moved steadily closer to where he would be staying for the indefinite future.

#critical role #ao3 fanfic #fanfic #angst fanfic #completed #mollymauk x caleb

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writersmacchiato · 4 years

Text

seeing stars | charlie dalton

Summary: Charlie is in the unique position of falling in love with his fiancée while knowing nothing about her, only that they’re arranged to be married and she already has a boyfriend.

Request: Hi! Could I request a Charlie Dalton x Reader where they're set up for a marriage? And at the beginning they're not really happy about it cause either Charlie has a girlfriend or reader has a boyfriend but they end up liking each other. I'd love for it to have a LOT of fluff. Thanks in advance :) love u + Hi! I was wondering if you could write a really fluffy Charlie Dalton x reader please?? Thank you.

Warnings: angst with a happy ending, unnecessary detail about Charlie’s parents that isn’t canon, 2k words!!

You've got me seeing stars, brighter than ever Shining just like diamonds do

The rain splattered against the window, a roaring pour that offered no mercy to those unfortunate to be caught unawares by it. Charlie stared dismally at the passing cars and running people through the mirror, his expression was cold.

"Just a few more measurements, Mr. Dalton, then we'll be done."

Charlie hummed his acknowledgement, but he wasn't thinking about the suit he was wearing. The heavy material that weighed down his shoulders, tight around the chest, feeling more like a noose than something fit for a wedding.

"All done then." The tailor stepped away, folding his measuring tape away before making a few more notes in his notebook. "The alterations will be done by the 15th. Plenty of time before the happy day."

Happy day.

Charlie had to physically stop himself from scoffing. "Thank you."

His father clears his throat, looking up from his newspaper. He manages a tight-lipped smile at his son."Your mother will be pleased."

"Will she?" Charlie said, enjoying the way his father tenses.

The answer was no. Nothing pleased his mother; not the wealth of his father, the pride of a mother - she took her enjoyment by controlling those around her and bending them to her whim. She was pretty, beautiful back in her prime, but her relevance in high society was fading. A fact she hated more than anything.

. . .

There are rows and rows of fabric, cards with the names of the color written neatly in cursive.

"Purple or yellow?" Charlie flashed the two color cards at you, looking at the fabrics in disdain. Why were there so many?

"You can't just say a color! There are shades of purple and shades of yellow." You wrinkle your nose at him, looking between the two he held. "That canary yellow clashes with the plum. A darker yellow, like gold, would look better."

Charlie had to refrain from rolling his eyes. "I don't see how it matters. Or why they're making us plan so many things."

"They planned the marriage and can't even plan this?"

You catch his eye, both of you straight-faced, before you're looking away with a smile.

Charlie smiles to himself, flicking through the cue cards. It's only as he watches you walk away that he realizes it's the first time he's smiled genuinely around you.

. . .

You frown at the rich taste of buttercream; a velvety swirl of vanilla that is topped by a fondant white rose. The cake is vanilla bean, a soft and spongy delight that is overwhelmed by frosting.

Malinda Dalton, Charlie's mother, sighed in satisfaction. "This is the one."

Charlie sits with his arms crossed, looking at you with an unreadable expression.

"Are you sure? It's the first cake. We've prepared five cakes in total for tasting."

Malinda twists her mouth to the side, something she does when someone goes against her.

"It would be rude not to." You speak up with a smile, hiding your smirk at Malinda's side-eye in your direction. "In fact, we'd be delighted. Isn't that right, Charlie?"

"Absolutely." Charlie said.

The other cakes fall within the same line of the first one; delicious, but entirely too decadent. Malinda goes out of her way to make her distaste known, set on the first cake. You share a look with Charlie.

"I like the red velvet cake the best." You said.

"Really? Me too." Charlie fakes his surprise, noticing how you hold back a laugh.

An ugly look passes over Malinda's face before she covers it with her picture-perfect smile. "Well if it's what the couple wants..."

. . .

"Listen, Benny, when I say she's a momzilla--"

Charlie only hears the tail-end of your phone conversation, walking in with two glasses of champagne.

You're wearing a beautiful blue dress, an overlay of gold embellishments. Gold earrings catching the light as you turn away from the phone. There is no mistaking the sadness in your eyes, how much they glitter with melancholy.

"Talking to Ben?"

"Yeah."

Benjamin Jay West, your boyfriend of two years, or ex-boyfriend. Charlie wasn't sure what relation you still had with him.

"I'm sorry." Charlie said. "I know you'd rather be doing all of this with him."

Sometimes, Charlie forgets that you have a life outside of this. That you take classes at the state university, that you hang out with friends, that you have a boyfriend you love. This being the bullshit that is high society.

You don't say anything, but you offer a tepid smile. "I'm sorry, too. I know you don't want this either."

Charlie offers you the glass, watching the bubbles travel through the liquid. It's odd that this is the most you've talked without being forced to. You hold out the glass to his, clinking it gently.

"Cheers. To being in an arranged marriage like it's the eighteen hundreds."

Charlie smiles, genuinely smiles. "Cheers."

He can't help the small voice that says 'maybe this will be okay'.

. . .

Charlie doesn't hear from you in a week. Which isn't entirely unusual, but there was often something that had to be planned for the wedding that required some form of communication. It was two months away now. Invitations were sent out, RSVPs being received.

It was odd being outside of your studio apartment. Located downtown, it was close to the university. A graduation present from your parents. Charlie knew the address; had picked you up several times, had seen Ben peeking through the curtains.

Now, there was no sign of life.

The flowers on the stoop were wilted, a surprising neglect given your love of them. No lights are on that can be seen from the front entrance. It's quiet and suddenly he can't remember if anyone has heard from you.

The doorbell echoes throughout the building, before he hears the small patter of footsteps. Charlie can't help the way he visibly relaxes upon seeing you, even if your hair is messy and there are visible bags under your eyes.

"Charlie?" Your voice is tired, a little hoarse from disuse. "What are you doing here?"

"I was worried." He said. It surprises him how true that is.

"Do you want to come in?" You trail away, leading to the kitchen where you put on a kettle and grab two mugs.

You're quiet, the glittery look in your eyes that he's accustomed to seeing is gone, the air around you is filled with a sadness.

"Ben broke up with me." You said through a croak. "It's stupid. So stupid. I knew it would happen eventually, but I didn't expect it now--"

The kettle starts to whistle and you turn away from him, taking a long time to prepare the cups of tea. Charlie doesn't comment on it.

"I'm sorry." Charlie isn't sure how many times he's said that now, but it feels insignificant. Not worth enough.

"I wish I was brave enough to leave him when I found out, but I was too selfish." There are steady tears trailing from your eyes, finally putting a dull sparkle in them that is nothing compared to your usual brightness.

"I'm sorry." He says it again, like maybe if it means enough something will change.

. . .

You throw yourself into finishing the final details of the wedding.

Charlie didn't expect it. If anything he anticipated more resistance. It scares him, how eerily perfect your mask is.

He knows that is what you did; form a mask that hid your heartbreak over losing Ben. You never indulged much information about him. Only small tidbits that slipped out, everything Charlie knew about him was gathered from how you behaved after talking to him. The smile that was radiant, eyes shining with stars.

His father looks at the venue, carefully watching his wife from the corner of his eye as she walked around with a clipboard in hand. Pen in hand, making notes.

"You know, all things considered...you're lucky."

Charlie tosses a nasty look at his father, daring him to keep speaking with the sarcasm dripping. "Really?!"

"Your bride-to-be has a good head on her shoulders, she's funny, smart. She isn't like other young ladies her age."

Charlie follows his father's gaze, finding his mother meticulously smoothing out a tablecloth. Despite the burst of anger that rises at his father's words, he sees the reason behind it. They could have set him up with a stranger, someone like his mother who cared about money and status. At least he somewhat knew you before the arrangement was made. You were smart, incredibly witty. He was surprised how often you made him laugh. There is that voice again, louder;

'maybe it won't be so bad'.

. . .

The suit, with its alterations, looked perfect on him. The navy crisped and starched, looking pristine against the bundle of flowers pinned to his breast pocket. His hair was combed, full of gel that crunched his hair in a way he hated.

There was no denying that he looked every part of the handsome groom, though on the inside he was anything but.

His feelings had wavered for you over the months, but he was certain that he didn't feel anything close to love. Perhaps he liked how you smiled at him, how your eyes crinkled at the edges. The way you stood up to his mother and father. How intelligent you were, devoted to your studies but never letting them rule your life.

In different circumstances, Charlie might have fallen in love with you.

Instead he hears the organ begin playing, watching as you walk down the aisle in a white dress that looks extremely extravagant and nothing like you would pick out.

Your hands are cold in his, your expression empty. The necklace around your neck, a gift from your mother, shines brightly under the light - a stark contrast to the lack of light in your eyes.

"I do."

Never had two words been more damning, Charlie thinks as he kisses you for the first time. It's brief, awkward, and cold. Pulling away, his hand holds you as he leads the way out of the room.

The guests in attendance clap politely, showing no real enthusiasm, as if they too know that this wedding is unwanted.

. . .

Silence.

The apartment was full of deafening quiet, something Charlie eventually adjusted to. Instead he took note of mundane sounds: the scratch of your pen on paper while you studied and did homework, the soft patter of your socks on the floor, clinking of cups in the morning as you made enough tea for two.

It wasn't an unbearable existence. Charlie quickly beginning to notice your quirks and habits.

The silence is broken one early morning when he wakes up and sees that you're not in your room or kitchen. Worry picks at him before he sees the open balcony door. You're huddled under a wool blanket, cup of tea in hand, looking at the sun setting.

"Hey." You scoot over on the small bench, leaving room for him.

For once the silence doesn't feel cold or tense.

"I love sunrises."

"It's too damn early."

Maybe, Charlie thinks as he looks at your laughing face and starry eyes, maybe it will be okay.

. . .

The air is cold, fresh, as the morning dew collects on grass blades and leaves. There is a thin film of fog slowly dispersing as the sun creeps over the thicket of pine trees.

Charlie opens the door to the back porch, a blanket folded over his arm, with two mugs of tea in hand. The mugs touch the table with a gentle clank. You lean into his side, tucking the blanket under your chin. His hand runs over your arm, nose nestling against your head.

No words are exchanged as you watch the sunrise, finishing the tea in slow sips before it grows tepid. Pink blends into blue, a soft purple giving way to a peach that slowly slips away until it's only an ebb of yellow and blue.

"Can't believe in two days it'll be one year." You whisper, playing with the simple gold band on his finger.

Charlie presses a kiss to your cheek. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

Charlie feels his heart soar when you can't contain your smile, beaming up at him. Your eyes glittering with stars as you look at him.

#charlie dalton x reader #charlie dalton imagine #dead poets society x reader #dead poets society imagine #dps x reader #dps imagine #dps #charlie dalton #i feel like this doesnt flow very well but oh well

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mikwrites-archive · 4 years

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red dress — keigo takami

you and hawks have been all the talk online ever since seen performing a rescue — a prestigious gala is where you two meet again

pairing: keigo takami x reader warnings: none !!

a/n: this was so fun to write bc it was supposed to be my pro hero au w hawks but honestly.... idk what happened here and what it means so uhhh enjoy !! also titles are a big pain fuck

bnha taglist: @adi--writes @winterssoldierrs

Damned high heels.

You swear the devil himself crafted these shoes as you slowly make your way down, already debating on opting out of the gala despite not even having reached the actual event yet, trying to answer any questions you feel like answering by clamouring reporters and posing for photos.

Your silent prayer to make it to the gala without a fumble is lost as you balance is, and you wonder if the universe has cursed you with bad publicity and press coverage, but you feel yourself be steadied by a pair of hands.

“Red is a good colour on you.” Hawks smiles, palms light on your waist as his own vermillion wings perk up slightly. “Some might think we’re matching.”

You’re not surprised he’s at the gala, anyone who’s anyone should be here, but you are surprised that he’s associating himself with you; it can’t help but be wondered if he’s doing it for the sake of public image, because you were there when he made that statement pertaining to it being an asset to heroes, and you’ve heard the conversations flying around online about you both, or if it was just a coincidence he was passing by on the carpet.

Cameras click and flash, the shouts of the photographers catch your attention before you can reply, and you shake your head with a laugh, starting to walk once more, this time along with Hawks, one hand resting on the small of your back.

“You realize, we’re gonna be on the front page of tabloids for the next few days because of that, right?” It’s a rhetorical question, and you’re trying to gauge his reaction, but Hawks’ smile is charming as always, glittering with mirth.

“My sordid love affair will be revealed along with it I’m sure.”

“But Hawks, the secret lovechild we have!” You gasp, and Hawks feigns a mournful expression.

You’re barely paying attention to his witty comeback, because you’ve finally reached the entrance of the building, some rich mansion someone had rented out, and the golden chandelier sends off light that bathes him in warmth, and makes giddiness rise up in you like the bubbles in the pale champagne being passed around.

“Want a drink?”

His voice snaps you out of your admiring reverie, and you decide you should definitely toss these heels in the trash once you get home because you’re stumbling again, and Hawks’ grin is bright.

“Maybe I should stick by you for the rest of the night. Can’t have you falling. Could be dangerous.”

“If the number two hero wants to waste his time by catching me whenever I fall on these stupid heels, I’d say be my guest.”

“Then shall we?” Hawks offers his arm, and you wonder where the night will take you as you slip your arm through his.

It takes you to the bar first.

“People keep telling me we should work together.” You’re. twirling the small paper umbrella from your fruity drink between your fingers, dropping it when the point of the toothpick pricks you.

“Oh? Well, that’s the first time I’ve heard of it.” Hawks’ gaze glimmers with sarcasm, as he pops an olive from his drink into his mouth, and you smile, ducking your head slightly as you exhale a chuckle.

He thinks it’s beautiful.

“Can I ask you something?” Hawks muses as you both lapse into silence, listening to the clink of champagne flutes and haughty laughs of partygoers, his eyes studying you from over the rim of his glass.

“Go for it.”

“What happened that day?”

He doesn’t need to elaborate on what day, it was all you could see in the news in the following week, how Hawks had come to the rescue of you, a fellow pro hero, and a group of civilians, in a blazing inferno that had engulfed an apartment building. Hawks’ popularity had skyrocketed after that incident, and yours had declined, your actions of not being able to handle the situation yourself, deemed as foolish and unnecessary as to why you were a pro in the first place.

“My emotions got the best of me.” You’re drumming your fingertips against the bar, and Hawks is pensive, eyes slightly narrowed as he recalls a tidbit he’d read in a passing glance of a newspaper.

“That was your hometown.”

“And it was the same apartment building I lived in before I started working to become a pro.” Your words are slow, trickling out in a burning bitterness. “I couldn’t think straight, I just rushed in without a plan and almost got killed. Can you imagine that? A little girl, with not much money, wanting to become a pro in her small town, finally making it, only to have it come to a standstill because of her past.”

You sigh, raking a hand through your hair, having taken the pins out, and Hawks notices your other hand smoothing down your already immaculate skirt in a nervous tic.

“If it weren’t for you, I’d probably be dead.”

“Probably.” Hawks agrees, but it doesn’t take you aback, for it’s the truth, and it holds more weight than a slight jab, and you know that’s why he said it.

You forget sometimes how smart Hawks really is, but the more you think about it, the more your thoughts get muddled, so you move on, trying to follow Hawks’ new conversation topic, having pointed out some gaudy outfit someone was wearing as he chewed lightly on the wooden toothpick from his drink.

“Hawks.”

“Yeah?”

You’ve cut him off mid sentence, but he doesn’t seem to mind, head slightly tilted in curiosity. He looks dashing, like a secret agent in a spy movie that saves the damsel in distress, black suit jacket tossed to the stool beside him, his slightly rumpled dress shirt giving him a roguish look only he could pull off.

You want to kiss him, and little do you know, the exact thought is running through his own mind.

“Thank you.”

You’re unsure as to whether you’re thanking him for catching you all those times tonight, for saving your life in the fire, or for keeping you company, but he actually looks taken aback before he smiles. It’s not genuine in the sense of happiness, but you can’t quite figure it out.

“You’re welcome.”

Conversation still flows smooth after, the banter in high spirits, and it’s not until you’re on your way home that you think about the dangling feather earring that caught so beautifully on the light when he laughed, and Hawks’ thoughts are on the satin of your dress and rouge on your lips, burning red imprint in his mind.

They’re lost in the whirl of city lights.

#bnha hawks imagine #bnha hawks x reader #takami keigo imagine #takami keigo x reader #keigo takami x reader #keigo takami imagine #keigo x reader #hawks imagine #hawks x reader #bnha imagine #bnha imagines #mha imagines #mha imagine #mha x reader #bnha x reader #boku no hero imagines #boku no hero x reader #my hero academia imagines #my hero academia x reader

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cas-backwards-tie · 4 years

Text

Extraordinary

Paul Sevier x Reader

Request: paul trying to remember what it's like to be human again after the doc releases and attempts a normal, functional social life

Words: 2,603

Warnings: alcohol consumption, mention of genitalia, mention of bullying.

A/N: So... here’s the thing: in your request you stated ‘the doc’, like a documentary, and I... didn’t really see it that way? Yeah, at some points they were filming, but I more so assumed that it was for the government, not the public. So, I’m going to write something sort of in-between. I hope that you like this! I know that we don’t know a whole lot about him so I hope that you enjoy the beginnings of a sort of... backstory I’ve made for him, and ugh I can’t stop looking at this gif. It’s so cute!

There are many upsides to working in the Federal Government, sure, but there are a lot of downsides too. One of the few is that a social life, or time-off, is discouraged... discouraged to the point where one might imply it’s forbidden, but can’t really say so. That’s what Paul would say. Perhaps not in those terms, but it’s the truth nonetheless. Now, being a contract worker for the government... well, that doesn’t help. Being closely monitored after and in-between each job is somewhat disconcerting, to say the least, and when your literal reputation can be judged just based on the people you know or hang around, well, you tend to stay away from people.

After the recent case, Paul heads back home. While they discourage a social life, it doesn’t mean one doesn’t have friends or family, it’s just that, well, Paul sticks around the people he knows. Upon arrival, he’s already gotten a few requests from friends to meet up. One of his good friends, John, convinces Paul to at least accept one invitation, which ultimately ends up being his.

“I thought you knew we were going to this new bar, Paul?” John eyes him up and down from the front hallway of his tiny apartment, judging the sweater Paul wears. “For one, it’s the summer, and two, you’re not getting laid in that!” Trying to pry the sweater off of him, Paul swats at John’s hand.

“I’m not trying to get laid!” He defends, taking John’s advice and pulling the sweater up and over his head. The fabric clings on, a bit of his stomach showing before he finally removes his sweater and tosses it over onto the couch. “Please, do you really think I have time for that? The next case could be as early as tomorrow!”

“Or as early as three months from now! So what? Live for once, Paul! Geez. I can’t promise you that I’m gonna be here to help you out five years from now, man.”

The criticism and threat of an absent romantic life manage to bring him back to reality. Time continues to pass and pass, and with an endless onslaught of cases... there’ll come a time when he has to make a choice. Luckily, that day isn’t today. Taking the advice for once, Paul goes with the basic plaid button-up he’d had on underneath the sweater. After all, he’s not used to ‘looking good for the ladies’ or whatever it is that John and his buddies do. He’s glad at least that John hadn’t made too many remarks, or suggested contacts.

When they arrive, Paul’s glad to see that this isn’t a club or some dingy bar, in fact, this place isn’t just a bar: it has games. There are a few bowling lanes in the back, a few billiard tables scattered around, while many of the walls have booths for darts, which just happens to be exactly where John’s leading him toward.

It isn’t too noisy tonight, but he still has to actively listen and lean down to hear whoever he’s speaking with. “This is -” John introduces you, but your name gets lost in the noise. “This is Paul.”

“It’s so nice to finally meet you,” the kind words make it to his ears, and he can’t help but offer you a polite smile and handshake.

“Oh? Did John mention me? Hopefully nothing bad,” he jokes, surprised by the confident and firm handshake you have for someone so innocent-looking. The smirk and mischievous look that follows makes his eyes widen for a moment until you laugh.

“I’m just joking. He’s never said anything bad! Mostly talks about how you’re a workaholic... how he misses having you around.”

Nodding in acknowledgment, the feeling of someone’s hand on his arm grabs his attention. It’s John. “Thought you could use a beer,” he comments, handing Paul an IPA.

“You remembered,” Paul states, touched as he hadn’t known John really cared about him with his job taking him miles and miles away constantly, never permanent in one area.

The night ensues, rounds and rounds of darts being played, you, surprising him even more with your precise nature. He isn’t too bad himself, though he could probably use some more practice. Darts... not his thing. In-between turns he talks to you, not too fond of John’s current girlfriend, Charlotte, a fairly nice girl, but constantly causing unnecessary drama in John’s life.

“So you’re a coworker of hers?” Paul repeats back what she’d said, a tidbit he’d learned a while ago: if you repeat back what someone said to you, it makes them feel heard and understood, while you simultaneously get the facts straight. With a nod of your head, a faint smile displays itself on his lips, glad his little trick worked.

“Well, what do you do?”

Oh no. It’s the dreaded question. Internally panicking just slightly as he isn’t quite sure how she’ll take it or not, he grabs ahold of his beer from the table and buys himself a few moments to come up with a more... broad answer. Taking a sip, he plays it off as something indifferent. “Oh? I’m- uh, a contractor.”

“Okay?” You smile at him, shaking your head as you tilt your head slightly. That isn’t good, that means you’re interested. “But what kind of contract do you do? Construction? Freelance? Writing? Photography?” It seems you’ve pegged him for the creative type, a compliment if he ever got one. Your questions are smart, you have a real knack for interviewing, he supposes.

With his beer still in his hand, Paul sips at it again, deciding with the half an ounce still within that he should just finish it off. Once he’s swallowed the somewhat acidic liquid, he places his bottle aside and looks over and down at you. “Governmental work. They call, I come and fix whatever needs fixing.”

There... it’s out there now, there’s no hiding it anymore. A second flies by, then another, and he can tell by the look upon your face that you’re thinking about it. Unconsciously he holds his breath, awaiting your answer.

“Hey!” John suddenly calls, “Come on, we’re gonna play a round of pool.” The offer feels like a relief, an end to the conversation, a life-preserver thrown out into the sea of awkward social interactions at the last second, saving him from social doom. A quiet sigh of relief passes through his lips as he stands, and as he turns, the feeling of someone’s touch on his back makes him freeze.

“That sounds really cool. Badass, even. A lot more entertaining than what I do,” your hand slides down his back before falling by your side as you step around him and head toward the table, suddenly stopping as you notice his lack of movement. Looking back at him, you smile and beckon him to follow, your dress swishing as you turn and continue on your path toward the rest of the group.

Paul stands there stunned. What had he done? No one has ever responded that way before; going so far as to call him badass? Ha! Him? Scrawny, tall, geek Paul Sevier? A badass? A smirk forms on his lips. He’d like to think of himself as such, but of course, the bullies that haunt him would say otherwise. Completely disregarding the past, he decides to embrace the man that you see him to be, the man he wants to be, the man that sometimes, late at night when he retraces all the wildly unimaginable things he’s done in his lifetime, he thinks maybe he could be.

He’d been put on your team. Of course he had. The telling wink from John is all the clue he needs to know that he’s been set-up with you. Usually, he’s all for complaining, but tonight... he’d rather not. As you position the pool cue up to shoot, Paul grumbles a little louder than he’d thought.

“That’s not how you-” his words die on his tongue as he knows he can be a strictler for the small things, the nitpicky things... that’s just who he is.

He’d hoped you hadn’t heard him, but as you’re bent over the table, head turned to look up at him, he pales slightly out of embarrassment. “Show me how I’m supposed to do it then,” you say teasingly, making his cheeks and ears slightly flush. He shouldn’t be a flustered mess; that’s not what a badass would do... but he is, he’s flustered. Swallowing his anxieties, Paul closes the space between you, gently bending over to place his hands over yours, slowly guiding them to where they’re supposed to be.

“Relax,” he whispers, his lips right by your ear. Your eyes catch his and make contact as you turn your head to look at him, which he finds odd considering he’s trying to change the placement of your fingers on the pool cue. “It’s like this,” he speaks softly, motioning with his eyes for you to look at what he’s doing.

“Get a room, right?!” John interjects loudly, laughing as he makes everyone uncomfortable. Paul immediately straightens and puts some distance between the two of you, standing beside the table to watch as you take your turn. He’d been done anyway and shouldn’t have gotten caught up in the moment.

The next thing he knows, John and Charlotte are leaving, and given John was his ride... he’s stuck with you. One thing leads to another and you’re walking him up to his apartment, insisting that it’s the right thing to do. If things were any other way, he’d laugh and call you the gentleman, however, he still feels awkward after what John had done.

Now you’re standing at his door, leaning against the wooden frame as you both stare at one another. You don’t seem phased by his friend’s untimely joke, your eyes seeming to shout radiant energy up at him from the few feet apart. Slowly you’re closing that space, killing the distance in-between. Paul feels trapped, like prey caught under the gaze of its predator... only part of him wants to be eaten alive. He hasn’t had an interaction like this since college, and even then he didn’t have much time for such things. What could he say? Grades are important. Suddenly his eyes shut and he’s reveling in the feeling of your hands on his chest, his arms slowly sliding their way around the back of your upper torso and down to the small of your back.

Your lips are supple, soft, and refreshing, unlike the distant memories of kissing he can recount. There’s an expectation, a want, a desire... and Paul knows how to fill it. Fumbling behind your back with the door-knob, he eventually twists it enough to unlock the door and get in. It somewhat surprises him that you’d let him take you inside, walk you back toward the bed until the back of your knees are hitting the mattress. It’s only then that you part from the brief slew of kisses.

Both of your eyes focus on nothing but one another, some unknown tacit message trying to register itself with him. “Do... you want to stop?” He asks, confused by your lack of words. Although his hands still rest on your sides he doesn’t move them, not wanting to make your closeness more obvious.

“Actually... yeah,” you whisper, breaking the eye contact to shake your head, hair swishing with the movement. “It’s not that I don’t want things to go further... I just-” you sigh and tear away from his grip, starting to pace by his bed. “-I’ve been through this so many times, Paul- the going out, the kissing, the dating, even an engagement, and... it never works out.”

His eyebrow quirks up and Paul pushes up his glasses a bit from where they’d fallen down the bridge of his nose. The click of your tiny heels against his floorboard resound through the room and he tries to ignore the feeling of his length having started to harden. Despite this, he listens to your words with confusion within him. Why are you telling him this?

“I’m just tired of going through all this just for it not to work out. My mom, my friends... they’ve started to say I’m getting too old for this. I’m sure your friends have been saying the same. So... I don’t know if you mind, or what your intentions are, but... I’d rather just not do this tonight. As handsome as you are, I just feel like if this is going anywhere, it’s better to wait.”

Ah... so that’s where you were going. Adjusting the collar of his button-up, Paul clears his throat. “I didn’t really have any intentions going in, honestly,” he admits, turning to sit down on the edge of his bed. “John and I haven’t seen each other in a while, and though we talk through email and text... he thought it’d be good for me to ‘get out’ and meet some people. It’s clear now they were only trying to set us up. Not that I mind- I- I do hear those things too... my mom pestering me about a family. I get it,” his words trail off as he thinks about these things once more today.

You audibly exhale a sigh, joining him in sitting on the edge of the bed. “I get that,” you encourage him, slipping your purse off and onto the bed. “It’s just frustrating.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, glad that you actually seem to understand and aren’t just saying that like some of his other friends would. “I... was actually not planning on taking this further. Not because you aren’t pretty, or kind or anything... but because, well... honestly my job takes me away for months at a time sometimes, and I’m not always around. People don’t like that.”

Silence consumes the air and a comfortable energy settles in its place. “That’s the only reason? From... I don’t know, us going on an actual date?” It warms his heart in some weird way to hear you ask it so innocently, like a child being denied a popsicle after dinner or something alike.

“Mm,” he hums in thoughts, finally turning his head to look over and down at you, “yeah. I mean, it’s hard. Not a lot of people I know are really up for long distance, you know?”

A hum of acknowledgment emanates from you this time, you nodding your head thoughtfully. He notices the way you play with the fabric of your dress, hands bunching it up and fingers brushing back and forth over it in a nervous manner, or maybe one of thought. “Would... you be against trying?” As you meet his gaze, Paul feels taken aback but struck with some sort of awe and reality check. Aware of everything going on at this moment, he shakes his head ‘no’. He wouldn’t be against trying. “Then... do you wanna swap numbers? I’m not saying we should make it official or anything, but I do think I’d like to get to know you better, Paul.”

This is the first time a genuine smile has placed itself on his lips outside of work in... years. Within work, sure, he sees mystifying and unreal things every day, always bewildered by the extraordinary, but... eventually the ordinary just seems, well, boring in comparison. Seeing the smile on your lips and the hope in your eyes (at least he thinks it’s hope) Paul decides that you... you might just become his new extraordinary.

“Yeah, I’d like that too.”

#Paul Sevier x Reader #Midnight Special #Paul Sevier x Reader fluff #fluff #Midnight Special fic #my writing

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kittyandco · 4 years

Text

photographs

Summary: Peter & Kitty have a little moment while on the job, in which he steals a photo of a very reluctant Kitty... but it turns for the better, where they create a forever memory.

Word count: 716

Reblogs/likes appreciated, thank you for reading!

“Oh, hey. Look at that.”

Everything was new. Lively and crowded and fun - maybe a little dangerous, as if reflective of Manhattan. Too much to describe - it was like the whole world had been packed down one street. And that was the idea: troupes of citizens in cultural attire of their choice, gathering happily to celebrate the diversity which made metropolitan New York so special, definitively Americana.

Such an idea wouldn’t have occurred in her hometown, long left behind.

The man she directed her findings to promptly captured the snapshot with his trusty bulk of a camera. She watched him as if she didn’t lead him to it, for the simple love of how he handled his passion, when he treated every shot as the first.

“Lemme get your picture now.” His lips remained fixed in a relaxed grin.

“What?” Kitty whined whenever he asked. No matter how she primed herself that morning, or shortly beforehand, consent to be his muse never clicked. Even today with glossy lips and lime green shadow that gave her dark eyes a magic quality, skill fit for advice columns in messy kiosks.

“You’ll look good.” He promised by raising the camera, and eyebrows, just slightly. His glasses were sorely missed. They had always given him more of an innocence, of which he had every right to distance from now that his life had begun, when he stretched just past the cusp of anxious independence.

She glanced about. And there were just people. Like a cluster of bees, hovering, crowding, and buzzing, with the potential, and possible willingness, to strike at any moment. Probably people like her, who missed where they were born, but too busy to remember.

“Actually,” she snagged an unidentifiable tidbit off a tray, “Let me get a bite of this first.”

Peter took his chance. He moved promptly, the device shuttering as she shrugged with the failed compromise.

“Hey! Delete that!”

No. Under any circumstance did she want that photo processed in any formation, not even as pixels on a private screen - or however those things worked - for anyone’s eyes or memories. Eating was ugly. Baring her teeth like a stupid animal for something that’d add a gram or so. Too much. Unnecessary. In NY, she just learned to starve.

“It’s nice, though. Look at it.” All his offers so gentle, even more so as she bubbled hotter in dry city spring, he reasoned to show the photo and the charm he saw within it. He’s the artist after all - where’s the trust? “See? You look cute.”

It was strange to see herself as the focus. But there she was, clear as the sun. She smiled. She didn’t know she did that. A little cake between polished fingers, untainted lips bent casually, with only a tease of teeth, underneath pink, round cheeks that crumpled her eyes just enough to maintain their shape, the knowing raise of unkempt eyebrows and huge waves of hair framing all these features into one person whom she found unfamiliar. But that’s Kitty, alright. The one Peter saw. The one she, herself, saw every now and then, when the good days came around. The first memento of big city life, humble as it could’ve been back home.

“Well… I’m keeping it. I won’t show anybody.” So far he had kept his promises.

“Aww.” That fell out before the main idea. “You really want a picture of me?”

“Yeah,” he said without question, but for questioning her in why he wouldn’t want one, “of course.” And she imagined where he might have placed it. Tucked in the sliver between mirror and frame, pinned on a board, stuck to the wall, or most unbelievably of all behind clean glass and trapped within a wooden square. Maybe it was worthy of the last; but it wasn’t her choice. She didn’t know how long he’d keep it, and it didn’t matter. She’d remember this twenty five years from now regardless, when who knows what would happen to them, or to the uncertain fun of present New York - its familiarity crashing down in the instant of a phone call.

“Well… it does look good, I think. For once.” She smiled, differently than for the photo, bracing for the inevitable damage control on his behalf. But he said nothing.

#nickelback voice LoOk at this photOgrAHHPH #okay to reblog #fic #💕 stick with me #self ship #selfship #selfshipping #self ship fic #self ship fanfic #self insert x canon #s/i x canon #oc x canon #marvel self insert

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satashiiwrites · 3 years

Text

NYG1–AAT update/writing ranting

So I have this dilemma—not writer’s block necessarily but more too many ideas floating around in my brain on any given day.

I have this scene.... that probably is unnecessary. And if you read writing advice out there it’s always to remove stuff that’s unnecessary to the story. It’s self indulgent. A small little tidbit that I feel adds to the Scott/Reyes dynamic but isn’t absolutely necessary to the plot or relationship. I’ve been really slow at updating AAT because when I’ve been working on it i’ve been working on the ending parts/third act instead of the next chapter.

But I like adding these bits? So for now it’s staying.... I might edit it out later.

So here’s a bit of self indulgent writing:

From An Andromeda Tale, ch 57: Reyes POV. MReyder. Mass Effect Andromeda

Warnings for first draft. Scott still hates butterscotch flavoring.

The noise and recoil of the machine was a whoosh thunk that seemed to reverberate in Reyes’ skull it was so loud and the stone under his feet vibrate as the gun spun up to full force and velocity. Scott finally pulled his arm back and it wasn’t a moment to soon, the biotic shield he’d been maintaining flickering in warning before failing and the blue light that had illuminated the area around both of them winking out. The ashen look to Scott’s skin form the glow of the molten rock around them was concerning as he slumped boneless behind the console, eyes falling shut but his chest visibly rising and falling to tell Reyes he still lived.

In the chaotic cacophony of the turret taking out the tank Reyes managed to duck and weave his way back to Scott’s side, ignoring the explosion as the tank died that showered the area with shrapnel that miraculously didn’t hit him. “Scott?” He called his name as he crouched over him, protectively shielding Scott’s body with his own.

No response. “Scott?” He asked, urgency and worry leaking into his voice. “Scott?” He repeated as his gloved hands cradled his face, thumb rubbing a smear of dirt across the cheek.

Scott grunted in pain, his eyes open to mere azure slivers that seemed to glow in the dim light. “Scott?” Reyes called again, a question that he wasn’t sure of in his voice.

“Pulled a bit too much at once,” Scott’s voice sounded rough. “Need a moment. I’ll be good in a minute or two.”

Crouching protectively over Scott, Reyes took a shot at one of the robot fliers that dared to peek around a corner. In between shots, Reyes checked over Scott. No obvious bullet holes or areas he was bleeding from.

“Mr Vidal,” SAM spoke through his comm. “The pathfinder is correct—he just needs a moment. If you would retrieve one of the protein bars it would be beneficial.”

“What?” Reyes asked even as he pulled a bar from his own pocket and tore the wrapper.

“Low blood sugar from sustained biotic usage is a known hazard,” SAM instructed him.

The wry smile that Scott gave him was tired but he didn’t drop the protein bar when Reyes offered it to him. “Butterscotch,” Scott grumbled as he chewed.

“I take it that’s not your favorite flavor?” Reyes asked, squeezing off another shot. He could now hear Cora and Vetra making their way towards them. There hadn’t been an appearance of any more of the tank-like robots.

“Chocolate,” Scott admitted as he finished the bar, voice stronger already and eyes brighter. His breathing was easier too—Reyes noted.

“You have a sweet tooth?” He teased.

Scott rolled his eyes. “Who doesn’t like chocolate?”

Reyes found himself returning the smile, reassured that Scott was looking better. “Most I would assume.”

“Ah—be careful about assuming. You know what they say?” Scott got back up on his feet.

#aat #an andromeda tale #mea #mass effect andromeda #Nyg1 #first draft #self-indulgent writing is best writing

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myinconnelly1 · 4 years

Text

Throwing Pebbles - New Positions (22)

Masterlist / Previous

Word Count: 1,317

Warnings: implied adult situations.

“So wait, King Oskar transferred the title of Countess to you?” Dean asked as he paced in Julie's sitting room.

“Yes,” She answered, confirming exactly what she had already told him. “Now that I am a lady of my own title, it would make sense that my lady’s maid should be married.”

“What are you suggesting, girl?” Bobby asked, sounding more cranky than usual.

“I think Dean should marry Lisa, it will get the two of us out of our awkward situation and keep Michael from having any sway over Dean,” Julie said standing up and walking around to Lisa.

“You - what?” Dean asked, trying to process the statement.

“We can talk about that more, in private,” Julie said, dismissing his question.

“We have another problem. It sounds like King Oskar is giving you to Michael as a peace offering.” Cole said.

“Wait, you said that the letter was signed by the King’s secretary?” Sam asked. His eyes scrunched together as if he was deep in thought.

“Yes, why?” Julie turned to look at him as he spoke.

“Nickolas has long been after the throne, despite his lack of station. Our father talked about it a few times. What if Nickolas is in league with King Michael?” Sam asked.

“Or has his own agenda,” Dean offered.

“Do you think he is the reason that the vampires are so strongly centered around Oskar’s kingdom,” Julie mused.

“That would fit into our speculation that Oskar was too clueless to be part of the scheme,” Sam mused.

“Oh Oskar’s not the threat in that royal couple,” Bobby chuckled.

“What?” Julie and the brothers all echoed.

“It’s the queen who is the threat there,” Bobby said like it was obvious.

“Queen Rowena?” Julie asked thinking about all the times the Queen had been polite and kind to her. “But she’s foreign, I thought that wouldn’t put her in the know?”

“Oh, she’s old blood. Don’t let her sweet smile mislead you,” Bobby said.

“Could she be in on it then?” Dean asked.

“Maybe,” Julie said, unsure of whether the queen would do that to her.

“Well, we have Dean squared away safe and sound,” Cole said, drawing attention back to himself. “What about you, Countess?” He asked, offering the new title so Julie could be more comfortable when she was addressed with it. “You won’t be safe until Michael has no way to touch you.”

“I have an idea for that too,” Julie said. Her eyes flitted over to Sam, but the action was unnoticed by all but Dean. Julie couldn’t tell if he was holding back a smile or a snarl, but she knew that he was aware of her thoughts. “Bobby make our transition back to court tomorrow as easy as possible if you can.”

“Yes, milady,” He bowed before leaving her chambers.

“Bobby didn’t need to know what else I have been thinking about but this next part concerns everyone here,” Julie moved to sit in her chair again. “Dean, you and Lisa can talk in my room if you please.”

“What’s going on with them?” Cole asked as they shut a door behind them.

“Lisa is pregnant,” Julie said. It was information that the bodyguard needed to know to keep them safe, and knowledge that would not be hidden from Sam for long. “They need to be wed quickly if your brother agrees to it.”

“Agreed,” Sam said before turning to her. “Julie, what is your plan to safeguard yourself from the king?”

“If we get married, Sam, our union will protect me and Dean,” Julie said almost shyly. A look of pain crossed Sam’s face briefly.

“I’d like that. I will consult with Dean about it,” Sam said, taking her hand. Dean and Lisa came out of the room at that time, the look of shock on Dean’s face told them all that it was not what he was expecting.

“I think you two should go back to your apartment. You have a lot to discuss and we will regroup tomorrow before court, so we can make announcements if need be.” The brothers left the room, and Lisa retired for the night. Cole stayed with Julie to help her out of her corset.

“If Dean and Lisa marry, there will be questions about your relationship with him,” Cole said as he loosened the knot on the corset.

“It will work out the way it is supposed to, Cole,” Julie said. There was a knock at the door and Cole checked it, returning quickly.

“This is for you,” He said, handing her a letter. “Who is it from?” He asked.

“My father,” Julie said, recognizing the way her father wrote her name.

“Read it, maybe it talks about why Winchester Sir killed him. What he was doing with the vampires and the likes,” Cole urged.

“Finish my laces, I’ll read in private if you don’t mind,” She whispered, barely holding back tears.

“Yes, milady,” He answered, loosening her so she could finish this work.

Julie changed into her nightclothes then settled in her bed to read the note. She cried as she read about all the horrible things her father had done and plotted for other people. She couldn’t believe her eyes as she read the written confession. He had been working behind King Oskar’s back with Nickolas to take over the kingdom, which Nick believed to be his by some long lost blood relation.

“Julie?” Hours had passed since she had laid in her bed, and Sam’s quiet voice inside her room almost made her screams.

“Sam? What are you doing here?” Julie asked, pulling the blanket up to her chin. She thought in retrospect that it was a stupid and unnecessary move.

“I,” He chuckled, and Julie could see him rubbing his head in the cute way he did when he was embarrassed. “I missed you. Do you mind if I sleep with you for a time?”

“I’d like that,” She smiled and made space for him on her bed. “How is your brother?” Julie asked as Sam started to strip to his sleep shirt.

“You should have seen the dumb grin on his face when we were in private. I don’t think he wants to admit that he is happy. But I do know that he has been very fond of Lisa for some time now. I would venture to say this would be a good union for them,” Sam said smiling.

“Yes, I heard briefly of how fond they were of each other. Not in much detail,” Julie moved the papers from her father.

“Yes, well be thankful for that. What are you doing?” Sam asked as she placed the letter from her father on the bedside table. Julie hesitated for a moment.

“My father sent this to me. I think he knew he was going to die,” She offered him the pages that he father had scribbled.

“It’s not signed, how do you know it was him?” Sam asked. His body had gone rigid reading the letter.

“I would recognize the handwriting anywhere,” She replied simply.

“You had no idea that your father was involved in any of these things?” Sam asked.

“If it wasn’t for the fact that I am an only child, I don’t think my father would have kept me in the know of any of his affairs,” Julie shrugged before taking the pages back. “What do you think I should do with them?”

“Burn them,” Sam replied seriously. “If anyone finds them, they could implicate you in your father’s crimes.” Julie took the pages and held them over the nightstand candle before they caught ablaze.

“Well, that was dark and serious,” Julie smiled before turning to rest her head on Sam’s arm. “Make me smile, Mr. Winchester.”

“I was hoping you would say that,” Sam smirked before slipping beneath the duvet and kissing the insides of her thighs.

@waywardbaby @destielhoneybee @snffbeebee @deangirl7695 @spnbaby-67 @maddiepants @tabrown2021 @ladywinchester1967 @woodworthti666 @miraclesoflove @tumbler-tidbits @emilyshurley @akshi8278 @mannls @wendibird @bobasheebaby @flamencodiva @theoneandonlymelol @chelsea072498 @donnaintx @justsomedreaming @supernaturalenchanted @kalesrebellion @prettydeaneyes @emoryhemsworth @dontshootmespence

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risingsouls · 3 years

Text

Conversations: 3

[Part 3 of what should def just be called my self-indulgent and soon to be shippier bs. The shippy isn’t REALLY there yet but the chemicals are reacting, as they say.]

“I have another question.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Vegeta eyed Nabooru from across the campfire, usual frown twitching a touch lower. The flames danced in her gold eyes. Had it not been for the dinosaur steak roasting over the fire, the offered view of the flame’s glow illuminating her against the early night sky might have been pleasant. “Well, go on. I’ve indulged you every other time, why should now be any different?”

The Gerudo reached out to turn her dinner for an even roast. Considering their last encounter, how the train of conversation intensified to a point that felt as though the slightest movement would trigger violence, she almost didn’t expect him to let her follow through. A whole week passed before he returned to the wasteland for a spar and, while she tried not to dwell on it, to accept that she pushed too far and overstayed her welcome, or, harder to swallow he didn’t consider her a worthy sparring partner any more, it had bothered her more than she cared to admit aloud or to herself. When she hit the low point of considering finding him herself or showing up at his place of residence--a tidbit of information she picked up at the tournament if she couldn’t sense him--she threw herself into her own training. A good long span of survival training without the use of her ki helped clear her head and consider ways to move forward with her growth on her own once more.

“This one might be personal.” She snorted at the raised eyebrow he gave her and amended, “In a different way. Like about your body sort of personal.”

“What?” His expression morphed into a scowl. Heat soared into his cheeks and he glanced away to keep her from noticing it. “What the hell would you need to ask about my body?!”

It took a second too long for her to realize why her words caused such an indignant reaction in the prince. “W-wait! No, I didn’t mean it like that! I’m not--!” she sputtered, trying to regain ground. “Ugh, I’ll just ask. You and Nappa are both Saiyans, but he has a tail and you don’t. Did you have a tail at some point, too?”

Vegeta felt the blush flee from his face and his heart rate slowly returning to normal, but her inquiry did nothing to quell his sour expression. He turned it back on her. “Of course I had a tail. All Saiyans are born with them.”

Had. Considering the tidbits of his past she knew, she feared the worst. Frieza was obviously a racist bastard that feared his kind. Had he taken it? If so, why hadn’t he lobbed Nappa’s off? A warning? Another sort of message? Nabooru pulled the steak from the fire and extended it to him. A peace offering, a silent apology. A way to cool him off and keep talking if only for her own curiosity. “What happened to it, then? Or is yours special and invisible?”

Snatching the proffered meat, sharp canines tore into it. He ignored the burns to his tongue and the roof of his mouth as he chewed. “Got cut off,” he rumbled around the bite before taking another.

Nabooru failed to stop her eyelids from lowering and the corners of her lips dipping downward in an unamused frown. Rolling her eyes, she popped up to her feet and strode over to the carcass a few meters away from their camp. “Should I ask you how or why?” She considered summoning a ki sword but instead pulled one of her dual blades from her hip, if only to strike back by annoying him as he was her. When he found her earlier that afternoon training with her trusty blades--the weight welcome in her hands, the technique of wielding them so embedded in her muscle memory she lost no time delving into her old routines and toying with new ones--he had made it plain he didn’t care for such weapons. She brought it down in a swift arc, slicing another steak from the beast’s tail. Noting that he was halfway through the one in his hands, she hacked off another for insurance. “Or would I be wasting my breath?”

Though the rage from that particular day had long since dulled to a weak summer thunderstorm when given half a thought, Vegeta avoided considering it. A successful endeavor so long as his mind cooperated and no one reminded him of it. The day his life was upended and flipped upside down, never to return to a proper orientation even after all these years. His whole understanding of himself, his place in the universe, his strength and prowess as a warrior...all of it ripped to shreds and uncertain. Sometimes, it all still felt like an extended nightmare and he would wake up in his pod on some new planet to conquer with Nappa and Raditz at his side. Such moments were fewer and further between these days, but he once more found himself on precarious footing with no clear goal for himself. No clear desires. A murky identity despite his best efforts to conceal just how lost he felt through declarations of his princely status to a dead race.

Their last conversation had reminded him of it and, as he tended to do when he needed to feel like he was accomplishing something and forget the world around him, he trained day and night until exhaustion forced him to rest. Then he awoke a fee meager hours later and did it again. He lost at least a week this time, if the last message Nabooru sent and he replied to and her off-handed comment earlier was any indication.

"A fat man cut it off," he began between bites of meat. He swallowed, watching her prepare the next steak on the spit. "Never saw him again after. Best for him because I'd have killed him if I did."

An empty threat, likely. He had promised the others there that day the same fate but failed to enact any of them. A waste of energy, he told himself. But deep down, he simply knew it was a death wish when he still tailed Kakarot in power. And though back then he wished and sometimes still considered if he would have been better off sharing the same fate as his people, obliterated to space dust to forever float among the cosmos and join them in Hell, his fire to reclaim his honor and place as the most powerful Saiyan kept him alive.

Nabooru knew her follow up question was predictable, but if he found it annoying, he could easily amend it by filling in the proper details without prompt. "A random fat man just cut off your tail?" she asked, tone devoid of humor despite the image parading through her mind. "Seems rather random."

"It wasn't." Her steely gaze pinned him to the spot, full lips thinned and an eyebrow lifted. A chuckle rumbled in his chest, and he could imagine--almost feel--the missing appendage in question flicking in idle arcs of amusement. He finished the last bit of meat slow, relishing the taste and her mounting frustration over the game he played. "Our tails are what allow us to transform into the mighty Oozaru. He cut it off to return me to my normal form.”

“Another transformation? Like your Super Saiyan thing?”

“No, not exactly. During full moons, Saiyans transform into giant apes capable of leveling planets. Hence why our talents were in demand for someone like Frieza and his family.” He wiped his mouth with his arm. “Plenty of us could do it without the transformation, but using the Oozaru form was typically faster and more difficult for enemies to strike down.”

Nabooru whistled low, fascinated by the idea. She leaned forward and twisted the meat to the other side. “Mm, so then cutting off your tail was actually strategic of this mystery fat man?”

“You give him more credit than he deserves,” the Saiyan huffed. “Kakarot and his friends got lucky the first time I touched down on this damn planet. The clown was dead to rights, and had those idiots not shown up to our battle…” He trailed off, unsure of how that would change his fate and certain she could fill in the blanks herself. Where would he be now had he destroyed Kakarot and his friends that day? Still serving Frieza? Ruler of his own empire like his father promised him? Dead?

She opened her mouth to respond, pointing out that technically Goku hadn’t defeated him that day exactly by that detailing, but reconsidered. Another sore spot that, if she understood right, sparked his rivalry with the other Saiyan. His need to surpass him and defeat him in battle. She could understand that; she wouldn’t care for such an outcome either, and would crave a proper rematch. She suspected the blow to his pride ran deeper than just the need for a rematch, however. Like her, his warrior status was intrinsically tied to his identity, and the loss to Goku had shaken that, the reverberations of which he still obviously battled with.

“Why is it that I’m the one always answering questions, anyway?” Nabooru glanced up from the flames at her company. His muscular arms were folded over his broad chest, and he watched her with narrowed eyes. She blinked, and when he didn’t amend his inquiry, she replied, “Because you’ve never really asked me anything?” She lifted a shoulder. “I never talked much about myself because I figured you weren’t interested. I didn’t think you would like such a breach our quasi-master-student relationship or really care to listen.”

“And all of your questions didn’t do that already?” He sneered when all she offered was another shrug in response. He had no one to blame but himself on that front. If he really took offense to her interrogations, he could have ignored her. But the ease of conversing with her lulled him into blathering on about his past. And, if he wanted to know more about her in turn, a possibility he tried to deny due to its futility, he had no reason to doubt she would answer in kind. Her being a warrior as passionate as he was about improving herself had piqued his curiosity at her tournament, and her final words that all but ended their tense conversation a week before haunted him, further prodding the desire to uncover her past. His reasonably cynical mind deemed it pointless, an effort to form an unnecessary bond, and, until outwardly admitting it moments ago, he had conveyed such a mindset to her successfully by not partaking in asking her his own questions. But a part of him he could not pin down--simple curiosity? Loneliness? Hope of finding someone who could even remotely relate to him in more than basic ways and that didn’t annoy him too much?--begged him to ask similar questions to those she asked him and learn more. With his outburst, he had little choice but to follow through.

Another huff blown out through his nose. “Fine. You said you didn’t get to kill your Frieza. Who was your Frieza?”

Nabooru hid her surprise in his follow through by casting her gaze to the steak and turning it slowly. Habit and buried bitterness made her want to question his sincerity in asking: did he really want to know, or was he just trying to get back at her for all of her inquiries? She didn’t usually share her experience with anyone, and most were too caught up in themselves or completely unaware that she and her people hailed from a different planet and would never think to ask such questions. She kept most at arm’s length outside of the Gerudo to not only shield her emotions but to, perhaps, better cope with the past and the loose ends she left behind. It’s success felt questionable most days.

“He was the King of Hyrule,” she said, deciding at length that Vegeta wasn’t the type to bring something up if he wasn’t genuinely curious. “Well, really the monarchy of Hyrule. Perhaps the whole country in its own way.” Gold eyes flicked up to him, assessing. “It’s...a long story. It would take a bit to help you underst--”

“Try me.” A challenge issued out of both his undeniable interest in her tale and annoyance that she tried to deflect his question when he answered all of hers (nevermind that it took some coaxing on her part). “You and I seem to have little more than time, so get to explaining. Not so fun being on the other side, is it?”

She chewed her lip and pulled the meat from the fire. She turned it over, once, twice, then handed it over to Vegeta instead. “Well...as I’m sure you guessed, the king and his people were not very fond of mine. Decades of friction from how we fought the longest and hardest in the Civil War, and likely could have won if our supplies and numbers had held up. In the end, we surrendered and joined the other nations in signing a treaty of unity, but the spoils were tactically skewed against us. It offered a semblance of peace, ensured our sovereignty as long as we played by their rules. It did not, however, help us secure better lives for ourselves in expanding outside of the desert for farmland nor did it open up the trade that had been restricted. Though they blocked every request, despite our people dying from the war draining our supplies and a desert not being the most hospitable home, we did our best to find ways to survive while trying to play their games of diplomacy and peace. It was hard not to see it as an orchestrated, slow strangling and punishment for our near success in the war.”

Nabooru paused, the next portion of her story lodging a lump in her throat and igniting a furious flame in her belly. She still struggled to talk about certain bits, the memories painful and the feelings of shame stilling her tongue. Perhaps another time she would illuminate Ganondorf’s role and her betrayal in more detail. For now, she could work around it for the most part.

“Our king...he lost patience with them and staged a coup on his own. He was captured before he could get too far and...imprisoned, likely to be executed. It only fueled the hatred Hyrule had for us, as well as their fear because they assumed we would pick up where he left off.” She stabbed the spit through the remaining stake with unnecessary ferocity. “Whole groups, including people of the court called for our complete eradication. It was considered radical at first, niche groups popping up here and there, but it quickly gained traction, and the king nor his lackeys ever denounced it all, despite the peace treaty and our insistence to uphold it. I had taken over as leader and tried everything I could to convince them, to stave off the growing violence and once more try to save my people and give them a sustainable life. To play their game like they wanted. It did no good. I was laughed out of every meeting.

“Back home, we were split. We were all angry, desperate, and many called for war, even though we could never win with hardly the supplies to sustain ourselves in peacetime and being horribly outnumbered by the rest of Hyrule. Others suggested we take our chances with the desert before they storm our gates.” She swallowed, staring into the fire, reminded of the torches they bore and how it glinted off their steel as they swarmed their home. “We didn’t get the chance to make the decision. Soldiers and civilians alike stormed the fortress en masse. We fought as long as we could, but we had to make the decision to flee into the desert. Only those that made it here survived.”

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes but she refused to let them fall. Tears of mourning, of shame as a warrior who was forced to flee rather than face her attackers and die a warrior’s death or come out victorious with the King’s head on a pike. No matter how reasonable, no matter how she had helped save at least some of her people and helped them flourish in another home, it felt cowardly. Unfinished business never set well with her, but, at the same time, she wasn’t entirely sure that, given the chance, she would go through with making the dreams of storming Hyrule and leveling it with her newfound power a reality any more. The fleeting satisfaction it would bring didn’t feel worth it.

Somewhere during her story, her fingers had woven into her ponytail to glide through the crimson tresses. She snatched her hand out of them as if they had burned her and burrowed both hands into the space between her crisscrossed legs. “While I took down plenty of those who attacked us, I didn’t get to kill the king or his court or anyone else who wished me and my people dead. That’s why I said what I did. I understand that yearning for...well, I don't know what to call it. Justice? Revenge? Closure?”

Vegeta had slowed the pace of his eating as she spoke, nibbling on the hunk of meat rather than tearing chunks from it. Many of her people were killed out of fear of their might and potential--as warriors and in what they might do--and they were forced to flee because of it. He could easily see why his own history resonated with her, the parallels uncanny. And she was their leader for a time, a fact he could have guessed at considering the others still seemed to turn to her for guidance, likely out of habit, and the way she carried herself among them. They both understood the pain of failure, of helplessness to change anything due to lacking power or sway to do so. She at least didn't grow to resent the survivors of her kind, or shove them away because they were weaker or deemed useless. She had the chance to learn to be a proper leader. His only guidance in that department was Frieza.

He grit his teeth; he hated when he realized just how similar to that bastard he had been. How many of his habits and practices he picked up unintentionally just to survive.

“All three, I suppose,” he mumbled at last, choosing to stare at the meat in his hands than make eye contact. “Maybe someone else got vengeance for you and your race.”

His words didn’t make her feel better, but she suspected they weren’t meant to. “Mm, somehow I doubt it. People like that always live longer than they deserve to.” She pulled her knees up to her chest and turned her steak. “You still wish it was you, then?”

Vegeta popped the last bite in his mouth and chewed it slowly. He didn’t miss the bitter hope in her tone. Her gaze finding his despite his best efforts to avoid it. For what, though? Someone to understand? For someone who was anything but “normal” to validate the hollowness of a vendetta not claimed?

“It should have been me. But the universe thought Kakarot had a better stake to the claim than me.” He didn’t mention his own son cutting Frieza to pieces like he was nothing and, to add salt to the wound, did it as a Syper Saiyan as well. “But...yes. I suppose I do. Not so vehemently as after the fact, but I will still say he was mine to kill after all the shit he put me through. After all he took from me.”

Nabooru remained silent for a while, offering only a nod of agreement in answer, the crackle of the fire and the howl of a coyote in the distance the only sounds. Though the ache remained, they had both figured out how to manage. Perhaps not in the healthiest of ways but maybe they could help each other with that. The thought surprised her; did she really expect this sparring arrangement and conversing like this to be long term with no real indication that it would continue even the next day? Once more she had to contend with her potential want for his company, not just anyone’s. A confusing revelation, since the last decade or more of her life had been spent consciously avoiding creating such bonds and pretending she didn’t want them outside of the few Gerudo she had already established them with.

"Hey."

The Saiyan returned his attention from a lizard scaling a nearby rock to the woman with a raised eyebrow. "What?"

Nabooru bit her lip, a smile tugging her lips. "Want to spar? The night is young."

He stared at her, confusion still present on his features. "What about your food? You need to eat or you won't have the energy to make it worth my time."

"What are you my mother or just scared?" She rose to her feet and smoothed out her pants, kicking sand onto the fire. "If you really want to play that game, you obviously need to get more sleep. I could see the bags under your eyes from a mile away."

"Scared of what? You maybe landing a decent hit?" He scoffed and rose to his feet. He didn't care to be nagged about his extra erratic sleeping patterns of late, and the prospect of a spar sounded more enticing than delving into their bloody pasts and regrets for much longer.

She stepped toward him and rested her hands on her hips. "So, are you going to fight me or what?"

He smirked, feet leaving the sand. "If you're so eager to get beaten,, then let's go. We're burning moonlight."

#// vegeta ♅#:: nabooru ☀#i hope this doesn't post twice #tumblr is shittign the bed

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blackmissfrizzle · 5 years

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Hey Hey! Just wondering if you have any Klaus Mikaelson x Black reader fics?? They're like non existent along with Kol fics with a Black reader. But if you're doing requests, can you do one where the reader is long time friends with benefits with Klaus and he's always wondered how she's never loved him back or had feelings and finds out that she had someone compulse her to not have feelings for him in fear of being hurt by him? Thank you love!

Ahhhh! My first request!!!! Thank you for this request!!! I’ve been racking my brain for a plot for a Klaus x black!reader, but couldn’t think of anything. Also, sorry for posting it so late after the request. I struggled with the ending but I hope you like it! @ourquicksilvered

Title: Beauty and the Beast

A/N: Fluff. Some angst. And then back to the fluff.

A/N:I really hope I got the characterization of Klaus right.

“Stay,” Klaus ordered as you rummaged the room for your discarded clothes. It was becoming more frequent that Klaus would ask you to stay after hooking up, but you couldn’t or more like you wouldn’t. No sleeping over unless you had feelings for them, was one of your personal rules and you wouldn’t break it for anybody, even Klaus Mikaelson. However, you did wonder how you didn’t fall in love with Klaus, he was exactly your type. Bad boy who secretly had a heart a gold. It had to be that he could be a raging, murderous psychopath at times that stopped you from developing feelings for him.

Shimming your jeans over your wide hips you answered your former enemy turned best friend. “You know I can’t Klaus. Sleepovers only for boyfriends. Anyways, I’m meeting with Marcel. He’s helping me with a history paper.”

Klaus clenched his jaw, struggling to keep his anger at bay. Why would you leave his bed just to visit another man? He thought you had to be the most infuriating woman and he was hopelessly in love with you.

The day he met you, he was occupying Alaric Saltzman’s body and you were an aide delivering something to his class. It was the way your brown skin gleamed against the sunlight and your melodic voice that had caught his eye, and when you were the first person to figure out that he was Klaus and not Alaric, he was intrigued. That was why he had you along with Stefan agree to come with him in exchange of his blood to cure Damon from a werewolf bite.

He knew he fell in love with you when you unsuccessfully tried to thwart every one of his attempts to turn werewolves into hybrids and he didn’t try to kill you. It was your fierceness, bravery, and kindness that you displayed that made him open up. With each little tidbit of information about himself and how horribly his parents treated him, you understood him more and your heart began opening up to him, until one night you both were craving the touch of someone and you ended up in his bed. Thus, began your friends with benefits relationship.

When you got back to Mystic Falls you noticed you were falling in love with the notorious hybrid, but when you noticed how Klaus paid no regard to your feelings in his choices, you had Damon compel away your feelings for him.

Now it’s almost been three years and there was no change in your dynamic. The two of you would text while he would try to distract you from whatever diabolic plan he had going on, you find out about the plan and try to discourage him from going through with it, sometimes you succeed and sometimes you don’t, and when you don’t, you fuss at him for being an asshole then you two end up in a screaming match only for you to end up face down ass up in Klaus’ bed as he goes to pound town. Klaus was tired of it, he wanted more. He wanted a relationship, but he knew if he pushed you, he would lose you altogether.

“I’m hurt, love. You know I’m older than Marcel, I can help with that pesky paper of yours.”

You took in a gasp of disbelief and clutched your invisible pearls. “What? Klaus Mikaelson wants to help with homework? Hell must’ve frozen over.” Klaus gave you a fake chuckle as he dangled your shirt. You snatched it from him and worked its way over your torso.

“When I need help over Viking history, I’ll call you. But if you have a first-hand account on how black men were used as cannon fodder on the front lines during the war, then by all means help a girl out.”

He rolled his eyes, because he knew you needed Marcel’s help and had to accept defeat. “Please be careful. You know my psychotic parents are on the loose. And remember last time you didn’t fair too well against Michael.”

You grabbed one of the pillows that fell onto the floor and threw it at Klaus, but thanks to his vamp speed he caught it. “Asshole.”

“Don’t be a sore loser, love!” He called out as you exited the room.

Klaus and Elijah were standing before the woman they hated the most, Esther Mikaleson. Currently, she was occupying the body of a local witch, Lenore and she once again was trying to convince her sons to become human.

“Give it up, mother. We’ll never change our minds.” Klaus exhaustedly stated.

“Not even for your precious, Y/N, Niklaus?”

Rage consumed Klaus at the mention of your name and grabbed and lifted Esther by her throat. “What have you done with her,” he bellowed as he threw his mother across the room.

With the flick of her hand, Esther had Klaus on his knees agonizing in pain. “I’ve done nothing. I just gave her a little potion to get into that mind of hers. And by the way son, that was a struggle, she’s strong. You’ve chosen a good one.”

“The theatrics are unnecessary, mother.” Elijah rolled his eyes, obviously wanting to be done with the little game his mother was playing.

“Ah, yes back to what I had to say. Like I was saying, I went deep into Y/N’s mind and found a buried memory. She’d been compelled.”

Clenching through his teeth, Klaus responded, “Impossible. She wears a vervain bracelet and mentally trains herself against it.”

“But what if it was her choice to be compelled, my dear boy?” Klaus stood there in silence, he knew you hated the thought of compulsion, because it took away control. “I found a memory of her asking Damon Salavtore to compel her. You want to know why?”

“I’m sure you’ll let us know either way,” the boredom filled Elijah’s tone.

“My dear sweet Niklaus, she asked for him to make her forget her feelings for you. She’s afraid that you would break her heart, because you would never change, and she wouldn’t be able to survive. The poor girl is in love with you.”

“LIES!” Niklaus yelled, he refused to believe Esther. You were not one to shy away from your feelings and wouldn’t agree to such a thing.

He tried to attack his mother again, but she incapacitated him with her powers. “I suggest you take my offer, Niklaus. I doubt Y/N would have hesitated to confess her feelings if you were human, just remember that.” And just like that Esther disappear.

Noticing he was on the edge, Elijah preemptively tried to calm Klaus down. “Brother, she was lying. Don’t do anything rash.”

“Get out of my way, Elijah. I have a trip to Mystic Falls I must make. I’ll be back within a day.” Klaus turned his back to his brother and went out in search for the truth.

After threatening the life of Elena Gilbert, Damon finally told Klaus the truth. You did in fact ask Damon to compel you to forget your feelings about Klaus. Now, Klaus was in a mix of fury and joy, mad that you had your feelings compelled away, but happy that you had feelings for him in the first place.

“This isn’t gonna work. You actually think Y/N is gonna let me compel her to break a compulsion. You’re delusional.” Damon tried to convince Klaus from the passenger seat.

Thankfully, the ride to Marcel’s place was short, because Klaus was seconds away from ripping Damon’s heart out. He and Damon were welcomed to the sight of you sitting next to Marcel, a little too close for comfort for Klaus. Both of you were too focused that neither one of you noticed the two new guests. Klaus loudly cleared his throat to gain your attention.

Lifting up your head, you saw two of your best friends standing next to each other.

“Damon! What are you doing here?” You ran over to him and pulled him into a tight hug.

“Helping out your psychopathic hybrid friend.”

“Careful Salvatore, I could easily rip out your heart if need be.” Klaus threatened through gritted teeth.

Damon wagged his finger at Klaus, “Except you need me.”

Tired of their pissing contest you got in between them, putting a little bit of distance between the two. “Ok that’s enough. What’s the problem? Is it Esther or Michael?”

“Esther. She somehow got a hold of you and revealed a secret you had Damon compel away.”

Laughter bubbles from your throat. There’s no way Esther could’ve gotten to you and you let Damon compel you. “You’re joking right?”

Klaus stepped up towards you and gripped your arms to grab your attention. “Luv, it’s not a joke and I need you to let Damon undo the compulsion.”

Soon your disbelief turned into worry. How the hell did Esther get ahold of you and why can’t you remember. But a more important question you had to ask yourself was, what was so damn important or secretive that you had Damon compel you.

All three in the room could sense your panic. Each knew you were a control freak, especially being the human friend of a bunch of supernatural creatures. So, for you to not know anything had your anxiety on the rise.

“Listen, Y/N. I know if you had yourself compelled you had it done for a good reason, but if you want that control back that Esther took from you, I think your best option is to reverse the compulsion.” Marcel offered.

You stared at your friend’s warm brown eyes and shook your head yes. Even if you didn’t agree, someone else knew a secret of yours that you couldn’t recall on and you didn’t want to give anyone that power.

“Okay, Damon let’s do this.”

“You sure,” Damon asked with a quirk of his eyebrow.

“Yes! I can’t let that bitch have something over me.”

Damon had to remind you to take off your vervain bracelet and let all of your mental guards down, since you were so easily resistant to compulsion. To help relax your mind you took three shots of Marcel’s good bourbon, which annoyed him a just a little.

Once you felt your guard slipping, you gave Damon the go ahead. His blue eyes peered into your brown ones as he commanded you to remember.

One word. Three syllables. That was all it took for all the feelings to come rushing back. It was bittersweet. You remembered the immense love you have for Klaus, but you also remembered knowing it would never work out.

Tentatively, Klaus walked over to your hunched over form and reached out to you. “Luv, are you okay?”

Instantly you slapped his hand away from you. Feeling betrayed by his dubious act. “Get away from me.”

Finally gaining your strength, you stood up to your full height. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew exactly what you were looking for?” You accusingly asked the love of your life.

Klaus didn’t trust his voice, so instead he just shook his head yes.

“And you had to have threatened Elena’s life, huh? Because Damon would have never done this if you hadn’t.” You could feel yourself getting angrier as you put the pieces together. “Did Esther even kidnap me or was that part of the lie?”

“It was the truth! I just needed to know if your feelings were true!” Klaus yelled back at you.

Old insecurities bubbled up and you responded, “Why? So, you can make fun of me or use them to manipulate me?”

“No! You completely oblivious and infuriating woman. Its because I LOVE YOU!”

That proclamation got you to shut up. The only thing that broke the silence was Damon whispering a ‘finally’.

“We’ll let you have the room. I just ask Y/N, if you do decide to kill him be mindful of the furniture,” Marcel said as he and Damon exited his loft.

Awkwardly you stood there staring at Klaus in disbelief. Did the original hybrid you’ve been secretly pining for have feelings for you? It couldn’t be.

“Stop overthinking, luv,” Klaus called out, interrupting your inner dialogue.

“I wasn’t overthinking.”

“Sure, you were. Its what you do best. Anyway, your face scrunches up when you’re thinking too much. It’s cute.”

You looked at Klaus as if he grown a third head. “How do you know that?” You asked skeptically.

“Because I love you. I loved you ever since our first summer together.”

“You mean the summer where you held me hostage as you killed multiple packs of wolves trying to sire hybrids?”

Klaus shrugged his shoulders, “Not the ideal beginnings of a love story, but yes. And I do remember you coming on your own free will.”

“That’s because you were gonna let my friend die if I didn’t go with you!”

Again, there was another moment of silence. Both of you retreating into your own minds, remembering that summer. It had to be one of the best worst summers ever. On one hand you were falling in love and on the other you were falling in love with a homicidal maniac.

As you reminisced on that summer, you began to laugh at a random thought you had.

“What’s so funny, little hunter?” Klaus asked, curious of your sudden outburst.

“I just realized I probably have a worse case of Stockholm syndrome than Belle,” you responded between giggles.

“Belle?”

“From Beauty and the Beast. C’mon I had you watch that movie like a thousand times.”

Disregarding you describing your relationship as Stockholm syndrome, Klaus horribly joked, “Well you’re the Beauty to my Beast”

“Wowwwww. That’s was horrendously corny. I thought Kol was the only Mikaelson with such horrible jokes.” You replied as you looked up to the man of your dreams.

“Besides we wouldn’t work anyway,” you said, steering the conversation in another direction.

“How,” he asked in a whisper, pulling on one of your tight coils.

Knowing Klaus was using his closeness to you as a distraction, you moved towards Marcel’s tumbler to pour yourself another drink. “Most likely, you’ll be a manipulative asshole or go on one of your psychopathic tirades without any regards to my feelings. And I’m a hunter and you’re a vampire.”

“Well, luv, I hate to break it to you. You’re not a very good hunter, considering almost a good portion of your friends are vampires.” Klaus pointed out.

Automatically you flipped the bird at Klaus, and he responded by throwing his head back in laughter, causing the butterflies to flutter around in your stomach. It was one of the most glorious sounds you heard, and it was one that you didn’t get to hear too often.

“I’m serious, Niklaus. It’ll never work. No matter how hard I try to get you on the straight and narrow, somehow you still end up doing something devious and breaking my heart in the end.”

Klaus knew the conversation was getting serious when you used his full name. He took every word you said in consideration, but he was ready with his rebuttal. “Y/N, I’m trying to change. If Damon can change for Elena, then I damn sure can change for you.”

Smacking your forehead in frustration, you argued back. “That’s the problem, Klaus. I don’t need you to change for me. I need you to change for yourself. Change for Hope. Don’t use me as your emotional and moral crutch. You have to do this on your own.”

You were walking to the door when Klaus vamp ran in front of you. “No. You don’t get to leave until you hear me out. Then you can decide if you want this to happen or we can just remain friends.”

Following Klaus as a sign of agreeance, you sat down on the couch. You at least owed him this explanation.

Klaus grabbed your hands and encased them in his. “What I meant is I do want to change. I want to be a better father for Hope, and I want to be a better friend and lover to you. You deserve that. Hope deserves that. It just helps to have that reminder when your right by my side. I can’t promise to always be the better man. I’m still working on that temper of mine. But I promise to you and Hope, you’ll get a different Niklaus Mikealson than the one from centuries ago. Hell, a different one than from a year ago. Just let me love you the way you deserve until you tire of me, please.”

By the end of his speech, tears were on the cusp from falling from the both of you. Klaus was right that he was a different man than he was a year ago. So, how different could he be in another five? Also, you were pretty sure that if you really hated Klaus’ decisions you wouldn’t be friends with him, and you would’ve been long gone.

“I could never get tired of you. I love you too much for that,” you admitted, finally declaring your love to Klaus.

A smile crept on his face and he leaned his forehead against yours. “Really,” he whispered against your lips.

“Yeah, really. You’re my always and forever,” you whispered back, quoting the Mikaelson family motto.

Klaus pulled you into a kiss, marking you as his. Promising you a future full of love and passion.

When his lips did release yours, he replied back, “I love you, too. Always and forever.”

@twistedcharismaaa

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keelywolfe · 4 years

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FIC: Side Effects ch.1 (baon)

Summary: In the aftermath of from the events in 'Internal Disputes' and 'Bedside Stories', the fallout has an effect on everyone and they all have their own issues to deal with.

Tags: Spicyhoney, Kustard, Established Relationships, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Fluff

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

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Read it on AO3

Read it here!

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Waking up alone was not unusual in the scheme of things. That was most days and even on weekends the bed next to Stretch would usually be empty by the time he was ready to roll out for the day. Which wasn’t to say he’d never been awakened early by an amorous and handsy Edge, ready for a different kind of wakeup call, but Stretch tended to fall back asleep afterward. In his humble opinion, it wasn’t worth getting out of bed until there was some form of light outside and that was a fact that Stretch was willing to stand by, with plenty of Twitter polls on his side.

So when he reached out sleepily to sweep a hand over the sheets, he wasn’t exactly surprised when the only thing that greeted his touch was 1000-thread count sheets. A little disappointed, yeah, a smidge grouchy, absolutely, but definitely not surprised.

Stretch sighed and rolled over to give the ceiling fan a good stare. It only stayed in place innocently, the fan blades not pausing one whit at his mood. Which, to be fair, Stretch wasn’t exactly sure he could even classify his current mood; right now it was more a jambalaya than any single ingredient. What a week.

After the kitchen crisis, once Edge got his fill of groping Stretch’s soul, they’d gone upstairs, Stretch helping Edge to hop along for once rather than gathering up his crutches. That’d been a comedy of errors right there, they’d probably looked like some kind of tortured three-legged race, hobbling along. They’d gone right to bed, do not pass go, skip the two-hundred, and lain there wrapped around each other, Edge still petting his sternum even though his soul was no longer visible. Stretch really had no idea when he’d fallen asleep or when Edge crept out of bed, but it must’ve been a fun trip downstairs without his crutches. Hopefully not a literal one.

Stretch gave up on his contemplation of the ceiling fan to glance at his phone. The time made him blink. After using so much magic to heal Red, he’d been expecting to sleep in ‘til noon before guiltily creeping out to feed the ladies. But unless he’d accidentally changed the time zone, it was only nine o’clock. Huh. Magic drain was exhausting and he hadn’t eaten so much as a piece of burnt toast afterward and yet, he didn’t feel tired. Honestly, he almost felt energized, ready to get up and face the day.

Was this how Edge always felt in the morning? That was kind of terrifying. No wonder only half of the brotherly teams got to be energetic, hell, just thinking about Red waking up with his battery fully charged was giving him the creeps, he’d probably try to take over the world.

Thinking of that little pain-in-the-ass goblin made him wince. He really hoped Red was doing okay. There were no text messages waiting for him, but maybe Edge knew.

Welp, may as well get up and go find out. Maybe they’d be going on with the shitty continuation of opposite week, where he got to be the protective one, Edge got to lay around all day, and both of them would be a lot happier when things got back to normal.

The bedroom was a little chilly outside the toasty warm blankets, enough that he scrambled over to where his bathrobe was hung on the back of the bedroom door. Stretch slipped it on over his bare bones. Real clothes could come after coffee. He opened the door and that was when he heard muffled voices that were definitely not from the television. Kinda early for reasonable visitors and Stretch tightened the belt on his bathrobe, no point in giving a free show, and peered downstairs to see what sort of nefarious characters decided to drop by this time.

Honestly, they needed one of those prohibited door signs, except they could cross off ‘solicitors’ and write in ‘drama’. Stretch had pretty much had his fill of that sort of excitement, thanks.

But nefarious probably wasn’t the best way to describe the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Monsters who were standing at their kitchen door with Edge. Familiar Monsters, actually, Stretch thought they worked at the Embassy. In their hands were mops and carriers loaded with cleaning supplies. Their pointed ears swiveled in his direction and they looked up in unison, both giving him a wave as they went into the kitchen, although what the hell that wary look was for, he wasn’t sure. Usually he wasn’t considered the scary skeleton in the closet in this relationship.

Usually.

Edge was leaning on his crutches and as soon as Stretch got a good look, relief flooded his soul. He was looking pretty bright-eyed himself even minus the tail, and his smile was warm.

“Good morning, love.” Edge called up. There was no sign left of his near-breakdown the night before, so maybe a snuggly night’s sleep did him some good. Firmly competent looked like the phrase of the day and Stretch was down with that, he really was.

30 seconds on the stairs seemed like a criminal waste of time this morning and Stretch shortcutted down instead, very nearly right on top of Edge. He happily ignored his husband’s exasperated sigh, stealing a kiss before he murmured, “mornin’. what’s going on?”

Not that he couldn’t guess, they probably weren’t using the mops to whip up a five-course meal.

Once Edge was finished shaking his head in fond resignation over unnecessary teleportation, he pulled him close, trying to work out a way to hold him around the crutches. It took him a minute to whomp up a strategy that let him lean a little weight on Stretch, the rest on a carefully balanced crutch, and none at all on his casted foot, and only then did Edge offer up a lingering return kiss of his own.

By the time, he drew back, Stretch almost forgot his own question and Edge’s satisfied smirk meant he knew it, even as he said, “Sans sent a team over to check on our kitchen. What’s left of it. He explained to them about how the experiment you were doing went wrong and they’re going to handle the mess. I’m sure he would have brought them himself, but Red is still sleeping off that hangover.”

Coded message received, Red was doing okay. But it was the previous little tidbit that cut through his relief and brought his thoughts to a screeching halt. His mouth dropped open, excuse me, his experiment? And he couldn’t say a damn thing, not with those guys working in the kitchen with the satellite dishes they had for ears all prepped to listen in on some sweet gossip. All he could do was glare at Edge, whose eye lights glittered with obvious amusement.

Dude, not cool. That was going to be all over the Embassy and probably topple the whole ‘showing up naked in a sheet’ as his highest rated fiasco. What a dick move, he liked to come up with his own disasters, thanks, he didn’t need help. Except, of the two of them, people would buy him blowing up the kitchen over Edge at about a thousand to one ratio. Which was probably why Sans came up with that scenario to begin with.

Stretch sighed. Welp, the cover story was out there and now they had to roll with it. Yeah, okay, he could take one for the team, but if he was taking the heat for this, it better have a reward, sexual favors preferred, and not from Sans, either.

He and Edge could discuss a payment plan later.

“that was very nice of sans,” Stretch gritted out. He jerked his head towards the kitchen. “are they even going to be able to clean it all up?”

“Possibly, but I’m not going to try.” Edge gave him another light kiss around his scowl, then let go and headed for the sofa. His small groan of relief as he put his foot up was a pretty damn big clue that he’d probably been standing too long. “I’ve decided with the amount of damage, I’d like to do a full remodel, instead.”

“yeah?” He knelt down to help Edge get his casted foot settled on the pillows. Most of the red paint on it was cleared away, leaving the drawings and signatures underneath tinted pink but it didn’t look too bad. Which meant Edge was probably up way too early if he’d gotten that cleaned up, the brat.

But back on subject before his brain train rattled off the wrong way. Huh, kitchen remodel. Edge had been living here for a few years before Stretch, and the kitchen was definitely his personal territory so if he wanted a makeover, totally his choice. To be honest, he’d sort of expected Edge to be distraught over his kitchen, but right now, he seemed pretty damn serene.

“i mean, yeah, you should. treat yourself.” He gave Edge a sour look, adding dryly, “not like i can complain, since i did ruin your kitchen and all. with my ‘experiments’.” Since their cleaning crew could hear but not see, he went ahead and gave it the whole finger quotes treatment. Probably needed to get Sans to give him the details about ‘the wreckening’, unless his plan was to go all ‘we don’t talk about science club’ with it.

A gloved hand smoothed over his skull, ripe with silent apology. Stretch leaned into it and let it mollify him, for now. “Today they’re only handling basic cleaning up. I’ll contact the building team and see when they’ll be available, and we can work out a plan. Did you want to help me pick out new tile?”

Uh. About as much as he wanted to install a few chalkboards around the house and give ‘em a good scratch whenever he walked by.

Edge must’ve read that off his face like a headline, because his mouth curved in faint amusement. “Then I’d like to ask a favor.”

“anything.” Seriously, picking out tile with Edge sounded as entertaining as weekend plans to watch paint dry. No pun intended.

“Someday, I will teach you all to ask for terms before agreeing so readily,” Edge murmured, almost to himself, then louder, “I have a couple pairs of trousers that I’d like you to take into the tailor for alterations. I’ve already spoken to them and given them measurements, but I need for the pant leg to fit around my cast for when I go back to work next week. I’m afraid my current attire doesn’t exactly fit with dress code.”

Edge looked down at himself in distaste and Stretch had to agree; it’d been pretty weird to see Edge lounging around in shorts all week long. Not that Stretch was complaining, he was fine with bare bones, even put up a good argument for it, which Edge successfully disputed with a firm ‘no’. Of course, he’d paired those shorts with plain t-shirts, no sweaters or button-ups even if he was chilly, because Angel forbid he doesn’t match, seriously, Edge might lose his membership to ‘Sharp Dressed Monthly’. But yeah, if he went into the Embassy dressed like that, they might arrest him as like, a spy or a clone or something.

“yeah, you gotta follow dress code. you don’t want janice to have to punish you for being a bad boy,” Stretch said, slyly, just to see if he could get Edge’s socket to twitch. “that’s my job.”

Edge ignored that because he was boring that way. “A sense of normalcy would be much appreciated as well.”

That had a certain weariness layered beneath it and Stretch tossed his playfulness on a mental shelf for later use. He settled a hand over Edge’s gloved one, squeezing gently as he asked softly, “babe? you okay?”

“Yes. I’m fine.” His firm tone of voice was pretty convincing, but, maybe he wasn’t quite as okay as he seemed? Hard to tell and there was no way Edge wasn’t going to put up a good front with anyone else in the house. “I did want to ask, have you considered allowing me to speak with your therapist for my assessment? I’m not trying to rush you, there’s plenty of time, I’m only working on planning out my week.”

“i--” Stretch sank back on his heels, swallowing hard. He hadn’t considered it, honestly, he’d mostly forgotten about it with everything else going on.

He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about it, but it made his soul feel weirdly tight and itchy. If Edge spoke to his therapist, she’d be talking to him knowing all the things Stretch had told her in confidence, all the things he hadn’t even been able to speak of to Edge. Those were the sessions he was speaking more to the carpet than his therapist, but it was still a relief to get it out, lancing mental wounds he’d had for so long he barely noticed the pain anymore. But, so what, did he really think she’d be blabbing it to Edge? Her experiences with him and Sans probably made her the most qualified Human on the planet to help Edge through any problems or trauma. She’d take good care of him, and suddenly the choice was an easy one.

He reached out and cupped Edge’s face in his hand, fingertips grazing the crack through his socket. “you know what, yeah. call her. i trust you both.”

“Thank you,” Edge told him with quiet sincerity. He took Stretch’s hand in both his own, drawing it over to press a light kiss against his knuckles. “For trusting me.” Then he promptly betrayed it by shifted his grip to Stretch’s wrist and pulled, toppling him into his lap. He yelped, trying to keep most of his weight off Edge before he hurt his fool self, but it was useless with Mister Grabby Hands holding on tight. “And I’m sorry, what was that about me being a bad boy? I think you’re the one who gets into the most trouble in this relationship, hmmm?”

“you’d think, but i ain’t the one with a broken foot...edge!” He squealed a laugh as Edge gave him a poke in the ribs, right where he was most ticklish. He let up for a second, letting Stretch catch his breath, only to double down, tickling madly while Stretch squirmed and shrieked. One leg kicked out without his permission, narrowly missing a lamp on the side table, and Stretch gasped out through laughter, “stop! haven’t we broken enough lately?”

Before Edge could offer his opinion on that, heck, maybe he was hoping to remodel the living room, too, the kitchen door swung open and two burly Monsters bustled on out, mops in hand and just in time to catch a front row seat.

“Okay, so we’ve got the worst of--whoops, sorry!”

The tall guy took an instinctive step back, right into the shorter one, who hastily turned to try getting out of the way. Only he forgot about the mop in his hands, and it turned with him, smacking his companion in the face with a wet slap. That sent his buddy reeling, swinging around to give the mop treatment right back.

While they were working on their Stooges impression, Stretch hastily scrambled out of Edge’s lap to his feet, barely avoiding the fingertips that tried to snag onto him again, not this time, brat. That didn’t stop the heat of a blush scalding across his cheek bones as he yanked his robe down modestly, yeah, there was more gossip for the Embassy, if Tall Boy and The Short One ever stopped sputtering through their facefuls of dirty mop.

A glance at Edge didn’t help, either, his face was schooled to calmness already, not even cracking a smile at the comedy gold in front of him. How was it he managed to look cool and professional with one foot in a cast and gym shorts? He probably didn’t even need to modify his trousers, one sharp look would shut any complainers right up. Even his damn t-shirt looked freshly ironed. Meanwhile, Stretch was feeling kinda sweaty and unwashed in his bathrobe, and he hadn’t even had coffee yet. A mop in the face might even feel refreshing right about now, but that seemed like a thought best kept to himself.

“Thank you for your help,” Edge said evenly, sitting as regal as a King on his…uh…sofa. The two Stooges paused, and the power of Edge’s gaze seemed like enough to straighten them out, both of them turning back to Edge, nodding and smiling.

“Hey, no problem!” Tall Boy said heartily. “Anything to help out you and Sans.”

“Yeah, no problem, anything to help out,” The Short One agreed. “If you have any other...erm...” He slanted a knowing look at Stretch, like he hadn’t been re-enacting an entire slapstick routine two minutes ago right in their living room, “…experiment issues, give us a call.”

”oh, i sure will,” Stretch muttered darkly. “for all my ‘experiment issue’ needs.” He stalked over to the front door and held it open, forcing a smile, “but thanks guys, really appreciate it.”

Took a few more head bobs, but eventual Stretch managed to herd them out the door, mops and all. When he turned back to Edge, his head was dropped back against the sofa, his sockets closed. That stoic mask faded back a bit, leaving behind weariness.

Yeeeah, that disguise was slipping more by the minute. Stretch sat back down next to him. “babe, are you sure you’re okay? lotta shit went down yesterday.”

Edge opened his sockets and offered him a faint smile. “Yes.” He reached out and ran his thumb gently across Stretch’s cheek bone. “I’m only a little tired.” His smile turned wry. “I can guess some of what you’re thinking, you know. Yesterday was difficult, and yes, my kitchen is important to me. But I’ve been very recently reminded that nothing is as important as the people in my life. You’re safe, my brother is safe. Your brother, Sans, Papyrus, Jeff and Antwan. Everyone I care about is safe. It’s something to be grateful for, isn’t it?”

“yeah, it is,” Stretch agreed slowly. It was, but it didn’t mean Edge could turn off his emotions about it like a water spigot or even that he should. Maybe it was a good thing Edge was gonna be talking to his therapist; if nothing else, she was damn talented at finding the X marks the spot to dig at. Stretch knew that from personal, and painful, experience. “we’ll get the kitchen taken care of, so long as no one gives those two hammers.”

“Cleaning duty is probably better for everyone involved,” Edge agreed.

Understatement. “it’ll take me a little while in town, why don’t you take a nap while i’m gone?”

It was mostly a rhetorical question, so he was surprised when Edge nodded. “I will, love. And I won’t touch any work until you get back.”

Good enough.

By the time he fed the chickens, got dressed, and headed back downstairs, Edge was already asleep, his foot propped on the sofa arm and the rest of him hidden beneath the fluffy blanket from the back of the couch. That was good, let him rest, let him find his balance again. Tempting as it was to straightened the blanket or give that much-loved skull a pat, Stretch kept his hands to himself. Better not to take the chance of startling him, Toriel wouldn’t be happy if he voided her warranty, but damn if he didn’t want to.

For all his doubts, the Stooges actually did a pretty good job of cleaning up the kitchen. The remains of the table were cleared away and so was the worst of the paint. Stretch poured himself a travel mug of coffee before heading out to the bus stop, garment bag in hand.

A stop at the tailors to get his baby some real pants would help him get back in the direction of the normal Edge was craving. He hoped. Looked like Opposite Week wasn’t quite finished yet but that was okay. Stretch didn’t mind getting to be the protector, for once.

-fin

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #by any other name

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pollylynn · 4 years

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Title: Integral WC: 1000

Once upon a time, he killed an hour or two—and an unspecified number of brain cells—at hotel bar in Nashville. He and a would-be songwriter occupied adjacent stools and intermittently chatted and left one another to silently contemplate the world through the bottom of their respective rocks glasses. He’d been casting about blindly for an idea that didn’t utterly bore him, she’d laughed and told him she’d kill for such luxury—she’d been writing to titles on demand, most recently to the title, “There Are Pieces of You (All Over the Place).”

And thus, lightning struck.

He’d picked up her tab, inclusive through the end of the night, and immediately pushed back from the bar to start working on the plot that had landed, fully formed, square in the middle of his head before she’d finished the parenthetical. He’d wound up mostly writing away the gruesome dismemberment.

He’d reunited toes and foot, fingers and hand, thinking it was all simply too much, and if that, then why not entire limbs? Next he’d realized, the Black Dahlia murder not withstanding, that separating torso from abdomen was both time consuming and messy, to say nothing of the glut of unnecessary trace evidence it created. In the end his victim suffered nothing more than a particularly vigorous throat slashing, but there’d have been no victim, no plot, no eventual book that didn’t entirely bore him, without that hotel bar.

The murder of Lester Hamilton has him, if not reliving the glory days of well and truly dismembering a potential victim for possibly inclusion in Frozen Heat, then at least whistling an imaginary tune to go with the killer title. There’s Lester’s blood (except where Lester’s blood isn’t), and then there’s Lester’s headless body. There’s Lester’s bodiless head (and there’s only that, because there was Lester’s brain matter where it ought not to have been). If it weren’t so grisly—if it weren’t ultimately such a romantic tragedy—it could totally be a breakaway hit as a French farce.

But it is a romantic tragedy. He thinks so, anyway, and as much as he’d like to sequester himself and refresh his own memory of the vocabulary dear to reducing a human body to its most basic components, he has his mind on the present, not the past. He’s dwelling in the astonishingly open way she declared Cynthia Hamilton’s actions to be a crime of love, the clear, quiet hope in her voice when she said that she and Lester would find their way back to one another in some hereafter. He’s dwelling on the heart and the head.

It’s the essence of the conflict, her and everywhere. The killing damage to Lester’s heart, when he let his head take precedence, literally and metaphorically. The question of whether Cynthia was insane, in love, or both—whether she was right that Lester, with a tumor ravaging his brain, could possibly have been in his right mind. It’s one hell of a plot and a convenient distraction for his own head at the moment, a convenient excuse to consider where the line between love and madness lies for someone else entirely.

He is, by nature, hopeful. His heart gravitates toward tidbits like the fact that she didn’t bat an eye when he boldly brought up how things between them will be ten years from now. It brushes aside all the eye rolls and impatient barbs and offers up as memory the smile that says she’s not that happy at the thought of doing without him for a few hours.

And he is, by long habit, a risk taker. A taker of certain kinds of risks, anyway. He snowboards and sky dives and bungee jumps at the drop of a hat. He devours roller coasters and has flouted every custom, written and unwritten rule, and more than his fair share of less serious laws. Hell, every day he works with her—not to mention Lanie and now Gates—is a day that there might be Pieces of Him (All Over the Place).

But she—this—is not the kind of risk he takes.

She left him for months, and before that—before Montgomery and everything—she’d pulled the ripcord. And what about you, Rick? she’d asked and the trap was set. If he’d told her then she’d have run screaming. Or told him point blank that she didn’t believe him. Or pushed him out the window. Or thrown him to the floor and taken him in front of Buddha and everyone.

Okay, so he really has no idea what she would have done if he’d told her then, though that last one is probably a long shot, unfortunately.

But she left him for months. That’s certainly true, and he’s still angry. He still thinks he ought to frame that rejection and hang it on the wall somehow. But more than angry, far more, he’s . . . afraid. His head would like a higher-rent word there—terrified, paralyzed, petrified—but the truth is, he’s simply afraid.

It makes his head loud. It gives free rein to all the very practical reasons this is not the kind of risk he takes. It shouts—a lot—about the fact that she never actually said that he’s the kind of relationship she wants. His very loud head is pretty sure that everything his heart heard between the lines is, in fact, a Three’s Company-level wacky misunderstanding. And—and—his very loud head hastens to add, even if it’s not, he himself with the secrets he’s keeping that is standing between her and the primary obstacle to the kind of relationship she wants to have, quite possibly with someone who is not him.

It tells him, loudly and persistently, that to risk this is well over the line into madness.

But for all that, his heart gravitates toward the quiet hope and the quick, bashful looks. It stores up the kindnesses and the moments she’s possessive, protective, partial to him. For all that, his heart is winning. A/N: OMG. I swear I will stop writing about bodies and body parts some time. But I really do know a person who spent some time in Nashville who was asked to write that song. Hmmm. images via homeofthenutty

#Castle #Caskett #Castle: Season 4 #Castle: Head Case #Kate Beckett #Richard Castle #Fic #Fanfic #Fanfiction #Fan Fic #Fan Fiction #Writing #Hmmm

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moonlitgleek · 5 years

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On Account of Her Womanhood

I started this post over two months ago with the hope that it would help me work through my iffy feelings on Fire and Blood, namely how much I dislike the way many of the female characters are written in this book and how it repeats and expands on some unsavory elements of GRRM’s narrative that have been broadly noted in fandom across multiple books. But a closer look only increased my frustration with this book for how it underlined several of Martin’s problematic patterns when it comes to writing women but in a more condensed form this time, perhaps due to the nature of the medium. The history book form of F&B focuses these recurring problems and offers little to offset or challenge them that the authorial issue of casual and uncritical misogynistic writing feels more pervasive. It may be that Martin tried to address at least one aspect that’s been criticized before, but I remain disquieted with how he largely traded one issue for another.

Whatever the case, I think that a writer of Martin’s caliber and with his affinity for interrogating and examining traditional genre tropes can and should do better than this uncritical use of misogynistic writing that he not only leaves to stand unchallenged, but actively leans into. In this depressingly long post, I’ll address some of the problems that jumped out at me while reading. Feel free to add any I may have overlooked.

Objectification and the categorical sexualization of female bodies:

One of the most noticeable trends I found in F&B is how distinctly different it treats male and female bodies. While there may be plenty of overlapping, there is a decidedly heavier focus on sex in women’s stories. Too many stories witnesses a woman’s ultimate fate incorporate a sexual component, often violent and/or fatal, that is if the story isn’t completely built on sexual appetites or escapades. Fire and Blood dives into the personal lives of its characters far more than its cousin The World of Ice and Fire, and that has translated to a lot of sex. That is not inherently a bad thing, but F&B is also notably heavier on female characters so it’s really conspicuous that the number of women goes up in direct proportion to the increase in cases of sexualization and sex stories.

To put it mildly, women’s stories are drenched in sex, to the point where I’ve compiled a list in my initial notes under the title “Gyladyn is a Pervert” due to the sheer amount of unsolicited, unnecessary and disturbingly detailed accounts of women’s sexual experiences. You’d be hard pressed to go one chapter without focus being given to minute details of women’s sex lives which sometimes spans whole pages of the text. It’s primarily the women who get framed through a sexual lens in this book, especially in instances where the female characters don’t even get a story that is not based on their sexual history. Sexuality is not just one aspect of a woman’s personality like it is for the men, it is the core of her entire characterization. Far too many Targaryen ladies get that treatment, along with a myriad of other women. I chose some examples to discuss, but they are but a drop in the total number of characters receiving that treatment.

Coryanne Wylde

Lady Coryanne’s story is the most infamous examples of a gratuitous sex tale that doesn’t serve any real purpose in the narrative, but not only does it occupy way too much space in Gyldayn’s writing, he goes on to describe in excruciating detail the violation and abuse of a young girl while consistently blaming her for it. For all that Gyldayn keeps saying that we need not concern ourselves with the sordid details of A Caution For Young Girls, we get to hear quite a lot about Coryanne’s sexual history.

Coryanne’s entire narrative derives from sex. She gets no other story and no other characterization. Her voice and actions are filtered through the opinions and assumptions of various maesters. Her body is presented as an object for more powerful and/or older men to use and abuse, and the one spin of her story that affords her some figment of agency (i.e, the take that Coryanne taught Jaehaerys how to have sex because she became fond of him and Alysanne) deliberately minimizes how dysfunctional her entire situation is and neglects to reflect her real age and experiences by casting her as someone with more carnal knowledge and the ability to teach Jaehaerys about sex. Keep in mind that Coryanne’s so-called sexual "knowledge” has been exclusively through rape.

I read to what amounts to one quarter of a chapter about Coryanne Wylde but I still have no idea who this girl was. What I do know is way too much information about her sexual history and the men who took advantage of her.

Rhaena Targaryen

Rhaena is luckier than Coryanne in the sense that her characterization doesn’t derive solely from her sexuality and her story is more nuanced and layered. However, not only does Rhaena’s sexuality remain the underlying factor in her narrative, it’s kinda absurd how the narrative ties itself into knots trying to justify the inclusion of rumors about how Rhaena lost her virginity to a lowborn lover whose identity is debated, even though the information presented thus far by the in-universe author contradicts the very premise of those rumors or even the reasoning presented as the cause for discussing those rumors. The whispers of Rhaena’s so-called affair is preceded by rather strong hints of Rhaena’s preference of women; though that does not necessarily preclude the possibility of her liking men too as her reported affection for her brother Aegon suggests, it’s that affection and the note about how Rhaena and Aegon grew up expecting and welcoming their eventual nuptials that makes Rhaena’s supposed loss of virginity to a random guy all the more weird. Too, it’s been noted previously that Rhaena neither encouraged nor entertained any of her many suitors and instead preferred the company of her siblings, dragon and her latest favorite Alayne Royce. So for rumors to exist about her having a raunchy affair with some lowborn guy she met while dragonriding is not only random but baseless. Where did these rumors come from if there is nothing in Rhaena’s history to either trigger or support them?

The reasoning the narrative gives us for those rumors is to explain Rhaena and Aegon’s marriage, since Aenys was supposedly driven to marry Rhaena off as soon as possible in light of these rumors. However, reports of Rhaena and Aegon’s closeness and their expectation to wed, as well as the Targaryen incestuous tradition more than explains the match and Aenys’ decision, especially since Rhaena and Aegon were well-within the normal age for marriage in Westeros. There is nothing weird about this match that warrants an obscure affair to explain. Which only serves to illustrate the oddity of this unsolicited commentary on Rhaena’s virginity. Those rumors stand as a random tangent about a subject that no one should care about in the context of the story. Who cares whether Rhaena was a virgin or not when she married Aegon? What possible effect did her virginity or possible lack thereof have on the narrative for it to be included? The way this story is handled, Rhaena’s sexual agency is there to serve as a matter of intrigue, speculation and scandal when there is no fathomable reason for that to happen, not to mention that it makes Rhaena’s dynastic role as the expected future queen dependent on the expression of her sexuality.

Alyssa Targaryen

Full disclosure: I hate how Jaehaerys and Alysanne’s daughters are written and how sex is the make of their stories. That’s the case for five of the seven daughters they had, and it is infuriating. Is this the best you could come up with for the daughters of the best Targaryen queen Westeros has seen, GRRM? Sex, dead (Daenerys), septa (Maegelle who is clever and reconciled her parents, that’s mostly it) and barely mentioned (if you count Jocelyn Baratheon) are the only options?

The characterization of Princess Alyssa starts off promising enough with information about her personality, her unladylike interests and her closeness to her brother Baelon, but quickly devolves to be solely about sex. We literally do not hear one word from Alyssa’s mouth that is not about sex. Her story is a tale about how she loved sex, had sex, joked about sex and shrieked during sex. For all the narrative says that Alyssa was brave and irrepressible, it reduces her to someone whose sole purpose and sole story focus is sex. Alyssa Targaryen exists to have sex with Baelon and give birth to Viserys and Daemon before conveniently dying of complications after birthing her third son.

Alyssa’s story is not only symptomatic of the incessant sexualization in this book but of the recurring misogynistic problem of reducing women to their sexuality and fertility. Alyssa’s function in the story becomes intrinsically tied to both since the narrative never bothers to give her anything outside of her sex life. What non-sexual tidbits we get are either dismissed or glossed over. This is a princess who reportedly delighted in dragonriding, followed her brothers to the training yard and eschewed ladylike activities but for some reason, she responds to Baelon’s statement about how his bravery in battles does not measure to her own in giving birth by telling him that he was made for battles and she was made for childbirth. What even is that?

Alyssa Targaryen is a woman of whom Septon Barth said: “Alyssa may be all her mother is and more”, but we never get any elaboration on that. Instead we get to know about how Alyssa’s sounds of pleasure echoed through the Red Keep on a regular basis and how she constantly wanted to have sex.

Saera Targaryen

Dear god, is this an optimal example of how this book centers women’s characterization on their sexuality. Saera’s story is that she had sex with her companions and Jaehaerys punished her for having sex with her companions, which filters all aspects of her personality through a sexual lens by the narrative. It’s rather pointed that everything we know of Saera’s childhood is almost exclusively negative with a clear vibe of presenting her behavior as an escalating problem that reaches its peak when she has sex. It felt like Saera’s entire characterization up to when her sexual relations are discovered is one long build-up to that point of discovery. Saera’s “appetites” are remarked upon since she is literally a baby in a rather clear attempt to underscore her later actions when those appetites turned sexual. This is not simply a matter of hindsight coloring perception of Saera too, given how Maetser Elysar’s comments about how Saera “wants what she wants and she wants it now” are dated to 69 AC, when Saera was all of two. That gives the feel that Saera’s sexuality was the fulcrum that the rest of her characterization was build on, which certainly explains why her sexual affairs are framed as an extension of her previous bad behavior.

Daella Targaryen

Oh but this is a lesson in frustration. Daella's story doesn’t drip of sex like her sister Saera, but even when she is not unbearably sexualized, sex is still a primary filter that Gyldayn uses to shape our perception of her as this childlike frightened figure who apparently had no interests and no purpose in life other than needing comfort, and who wouldn’t talk to boys because she was frightened.

The text infantilizes Daella to such an extent that her disinterest in men who had no interest in her (Corlys Velaryon), who tried to force her into drinking (Simon Staunton) and who sexually assaulted her (Ellard Crane) is treated as a fault in Daella. Her entire story is about her parents’ ardent efforts to find a husband for her, a pursuit so irksome to Jaehaerys that he mandates that Daella must marry within the year when she approaches 16, in a conversation that introduces a rather needless sexual component in how Jaehaerys talks about Daella when he suggests lining a hundred naked men before his not-yet-16 year old daughter so she could pick one to marry. The story also seems to treat Daella’s later refusal of a bedding ceremony as a childish quirk that Rodrik Arryn indulged “his precious princess” in.

It might be a different facet of how a woman’s sexuality is used to define her than the previous cases, but it remains that Daella is treated as a sexual object by both the characters and the narrative in their dismay of how she doesn’t fit the traditional mold of womanly behavior and sexual mores in Westeros. It’s as if Daella is looked down upon for not having a sexual history.

Baela Targaryen

Wild, willful and wanton are the three words used to describe Baela Targaryen. It honestly boggles the mind that a character that has so much going for her gets introduced through a sexual situation. One of our first glimpses of Baela’s agency comes through the mention of her playing kissing games with squires followed by that one time she was found with a kitchen scullion who had his hand inside her jerkin. It’s especially notable to see how Baela’s willfulness (and unladylike behavior) is tied time and again to her sexuality and her interest in boys, which is very clear when Gyldayn talks about her unsuitable pets that she brought back to the Red Keep, a mention that is immediately followed by how her septa - who was in charge of Baela’s “moral instructions” - despaired of her and how Septon Eustace spoke of the need for her to wed immediately.

(Side note: I found the language of that paragraph so weird. It carries a heavy suggestion that Baela may have been involved sexually with her so-called pets, makes fun of her intelligence and suggests that she may or may have not been involved with the twin female prostitutes that the text then links to her own sister because they were twins “like us, Rhae” in Baela’s own words. There is a lot going on in that paragraph that I don’t know what to do with. Is Gyldayn trying to imply that Baela had sex with all of these people, including an entire trope of mummers and two girls that she explicitly connected to herself and her sister? Because he is certainly insinuating so, and I have been burned by this book enough already to assume good intentions).

Nettles

Instead of basing her characterization on it, how about we use a woman’s sexuality to undermine her accomplishments just to shake things up? Here’s a girl who relied on her intelligence instead of a pedigree to tame a dragon and succeeded in becoming a dragonrider, but her taming of Sheepstealer gets prefaced by a statement about how “worse was yet to come with dire consequences for the Seven Kingdoms” to preemptively blame Nettles for Rhaenyra’s own brutality and Daemon’s subsequent abandonment of her cause (a statement not made any better by talking about how “the power young maidens exert over older men is well-known” when discussing Daemon’s affair with Nettles as if to cast her as a seductress), and that’s when her dragontaming is not getting framed as something she traded sex for as suggested by Gyldayn’s speculation about how she traded sex for the sheep she fed Sheepstealer. He makes sure to treat us to his thoughts on the state of Nettles’ virginity when she began her affair with Daemon while he is at it as well.

Helaena Targaryen & Alicent Hightower

Straining logic to add a sexual rumor is a personal favorite of mine. Look, Gyldayn may be less zealous and less outrageous than Septon Eustace in his bias towards Aegon II, but he is still clearly biased towards him. He writes about him with a degree of sympathy not present in his writing of Rhaenyra and he goes out of his way to undermine events that may paint Rhaenyra in a better light while arguing against rumors that paint the greens as (more) monstrous. How convenient it is, then, for that bias to fail when it comes to discussing the rumor about how the teenage Alicent may have slept with both Viserys I before Aemma’s death and the elderly Jaehaerys I when she was his caretaker, a rumor that Gyldayn seems disinclined to believe (or so he claims) but more than willing to wink at its possible accuracy through a comment about how Alicent strangely spoke often of the Old King in her final hours but not of her late husband.

To add insult to injury, we’re also treated to a rumor about how Rhaenyra, on the behest of Mysaria, may have forcibly prostituted Alicent and Helaena in what comes to be referred to as the Brothel Queens. Spending time on a rumor that casts Rhaenyra in a bad light at least falls in line with Gyldayn’s biases, but it strains logic to have Mushroom be the source of that rumor. Why would a guy who loved Rhaenyra well as Gyldayn says perpetuate a rumor that casts Rhaenyra in such a monstrous light? It seems like the logic of this amounts to “Mushroom delights in sex tales and perverse rumors so he was the obvious choice” which doesn’t account for Mushroom’s feelings or biases (and which is problematic in its own way - do you think I missed that the two vulgar books that are widely quoted in this work were written by a woman and a dwarf, GRRM? Do you think I missed that the implication here is that Mushroom’s sexual perversions are prioritized over his depiction as a person who liked Rhaenyra?)

The Brothel Queens rumor adds nothing to the narrative but another case of unnecessary sexualization. Gyldayn ultimately rejects that rumor as false but I question the need to include it in the first place. Is it there to perhaps inform us that the public view of Rhaenyra was so bad at this point that people were inclined to not only believe in but also manufacture rumors about her monstrosity? Having one of Rhaenyra’s supporters as the accredited source of that rumor flies in the face of that, and narratively speaking, this doesn’t accomplish anything that the latter rumor about how Rhaenyra sent Maelor’s head to Helaena in a chamber pot - which is clearly framed as evidence of how much the public opinion on Rhaenyra has soured - doesn’t. So why is this pesky rumor there and what purpose does it have beyond showing us that Gyldayn is all too willing to spend his time discussing every sexual rumor under the sun?

As I’ve said, these examples are but a few of the number of women needlessly and excessively sexualized in this book. I have more on my list but talking about every story separately is going to make this post longer than it already is, not to mention be unbearably repetitive because many of them bear the same elements of having our knowledge of these women centered almost exclusively on their sex lives and their presence in the text reduced to their sexuality. Gael Targaryen was seduced, gave birth and died. Sara Snow's is a contrived and downright illogical story that only exists so she could have sex with Jace either as his wife or a fling. All Viserra Targaryen gets to do is pit boys against each other for her favor and try unsuccessfully to seduce her brother Baelon. Aliandra Martell is there to entertain men and possibly sleep with Alyn Velaryon to the displeasure of her siblings (psst, GRRM, your depiction of the Dornish, especially Dornish women, continues to be atrocious and this book does nothing to deconstruct the stereotype of them as violent hypersexual people). The questions Gyldayn ponders while discussing Tess killing Dalton Greyjoy include ones about her virginity and her physical beauty. Rue - one of two female writers in the book, the other supposedly being Coryanne Wylde - is there to write a vulgar account about Alyn Velaryon who she may or may not have slept with. The list goes on and on.

Sexualizing the mundane:

The hypersexualized treatment of women bodies is so overwhelming in this book that it extends to ordinary stuff like nursing and pregnancy, both of which get weirdly graphic and gross descriptions in Alys Rivers’ story when she puts her pregnancy with Aemond’s child as “I can feel his fire licking at my womb” while her wetnursing is described as “the milk that flowed abundantly from the breasts of Alys Rivers”. Not even death or description of women’s death throes is spared that sexual aspect. While Princess Aerea is getting cooked from within in a horrifying portrait of suffering and agony, the fact that smoke is emanating from her vagina gets described as obscene, even though smoke is coming from every other body orifice. Meria Martell gets the rumor that she was coupling with a stallion at the time of her death. Rhaenyra’s breast is prickled to rouse Sunfyre.

Even in death, women’s bodies are treated as sexual objects. Mysaria’s horrific death via scourging has a sexualized dimension in how her body is put on display in her agony as she gets whipped while being paraded naked despite her crimes not being sexual in nature. To be fair, both Septon Bernard and Lysaro Rogare also get sexual punishments for non-sexual crimes, but the notable difference between them and Mysaria is that Lady Misery gets narrative focus on her “pale white body” while dying. (Mysaria’s fate is also too contrived in a way that Bernard’s and Lysaro’s aren’t but that’s only relevant here for how it appears like the narrative conspired to have her caught by that specific mob so she could get such a punishment). Even immolation gets a gendered and sexualized tint because when it’s women burning, they obviously get to “dance in gowns of fire, naked and lewd underneath the flames”. The thrashing of someone burning is apparently “lewd” if it’s a woman. Women’s suffering get inexplicably beautified (dance in gowns of fire) and sexualized, and somehow they are blamed for it because they are being lewd by thrashing in agony.

Child brides

Let’s start with their number, shall we?

Alyssa Velaryon, 15

Larissa Velaryon, between 12 and 14

Alysanne Targaryen, 13

Alyssa Targaryen, 15

Aemma Arryn, 11

Helaena Targaryen, 13

Elinor Costayne, exact age unclear but younger than 16

Floris Baratheon, 14\15

Unwin Peake’s unnamed daughter, 11\12

The Northern blacksmith’s daughter whose story Alysanne cited to ban the first night, 14.

Daenaera Velaryon, 6

Jaehaera Targaryen, 8

This list doesn’t account for those who were meant to be child brides but ultimately weren’t because of external circumstances. Cassandra Baratheon hadn’t yet flowered in 129 but she was going to marry Aegon II immediately in 131 when she was between 13 and 15. Viserra Targaryen was being shipped off to wed at 15. Myrielle Peake (14) was touted as a suitable queen for Aegon III because she could get pregnant immediately. Prudence and Prunella Celtigar were offered by their father for Maegor to immediately wed at 12 and 13 (at a time when Maegor had just murdered two wives, btw), Jaehaerys Targaryen made ardent effort to marry off Daella as young as 13 and mandated she marry by 16. And those are only the marital relationships that involve young girls, but the inherent issues of child brides exist in cases of non-marital sexual relationships like Marlida of Hull’s with Corlys Velaryon when Marlida was 15 if not younger, or Rhaenyra Targaryen’s “training” by her uncle Daemon at 14.

So what’s the problem?

This has been a subject of debate for a long, long time, whether in terms of its actual historical inaccuracy despite GRRM’s claim to the contrary, or of its defiance of Martin’s own Word of God. Margaret Beaufort is an example that has been brought up repeatedly to justify the broad inclusion of child brides in ASOIAF but while Margaret did give birth aged 13, the severe physical toll that took on her not only rendered her sterile but was a main reason she argued vehemently against her granddaughter being wed young too. But Martin only reflects the first part of the story while steadfastly ignoring the second part. Oh, it’s true that F&B acknowledges that the in-universe characters know that bedding young girls has severe and often fatal health risks, but that knowledge is either dismissed or categorically ignored.

The most outrageous example of that comes from the story of Daella Targaryen. In what could have worked as a way for the narrative to call out the problems entrenched in the concept of child brides, Gyldayn notes that Queen Alysanne blamed herself and King Jaehaerys for marrying Princess Daella too young when her physical constitution made pregnancy dangerous and indeed ultimately fatal for her. But rather than working as a resounding rebuff, the way this plot is handled makes it stick out instead as an oblique attempt for the author to say “see, I said it was bad!” rather than a serious condemnation of that constant trend. It’s a throwaway line without the commitment to showing that this information changed anything in-universe or was even allowed to stand as a clear, if a late and woefully limited, condemnation of the narrative’s over-reliance on child brides. Rather, Alysanne’s justifiable condemnation is promptly undermined by how it is immediately tied to her grief over Daella’s death with the clear aim to paint Alysanne’s deduction as an emotional - and thusly not rational - response which in turn dismisses her completely justified assessment.

Still, I might have only ascribed this to Gyldayn’s own misogyny if only that statement hadn’t been soundly forgotten by everyone in-universe, apparently including Alysanne herself. This incident appears to have come and gone with no visible effect on the main participants’ actions - it sure doesn’t look like either Rodrik Arryn nor Jaehaerys Targaryen learned one damn thing considering they go on to sign off on Aemma Arryn’s marriage at age 11, at a time when Queen Alysanne goes mysteriously silent on the subject. That is further compounded by how Alysanne herself comes to arrange for the 15-year-old Viserra to wed only four years after Daella’s death.

Be sure to give it up for the maesters’ (painfully casual) assessment that Aemma’s childbearing issues were because she was bedded too young though, it sure had as much impact on the narrative as Alysanne’s own statement years earlier, considering the numerous girls who would go on to be child brides, including Viserys I’s own daughter Helaena. Despite strong evidence of the risk of forcing girls into sex and pregnancy at an early age and despite the narrative’s own admission to it, it remains a regular occurrence to see teen girls married off (often with no pressing reason) and giving birth way too young without any kind of explanation as to why their guardians would think it a splendid idea.

Also a story where the text came close to properly addressing the core issue of child brides is that of Alysanne Targaryen. The narrative initially touches upon the issue of the inherent sexualization of child brides with Alysanne’s story, but somehow still ends up reaffirming how young girls tend to be regarded through a sexual gaze in Westeros. Gyldayn goes to great lengths in trying to differentiate between Jaehaerys and Alysanne’s nuptials and consummation, and that of your average Westerosi child bride where girls get no agency in the matches made for them, often to much older men who have no qualms about having sex with actual children. By contrast, Alysanne is shown as an architect of her marriage to Jaehaerys, actively going to him to curtail her betrothal to Orryn Baratheon and pushing for their marriage to be consummated so that no one could set it aside. Alysanne’s ability to consent in a match that she pursued to a similarly-aged boy is starkly different from what we typically see in matches with child brides, which is then affirmed by Jaehaerys’ recognition that Alysanne is too young for the marriage to be consummated after their first wedding, and her own advocacy for consummation later despite Jaehaerys’ lingering hesitance. So far, so good. It is another instance of a child bride but it’s used to add commentary about the inherent problematic elements of it rather than being presented in an abstract manner and left to stand unchallenged.

But not only is the commentary we can glean from this story undermined by Jaehaerys’ own actions with his daughters and granddaughter later, it is further diminished by the constant insistence to sexualize Alysanne. Gyldayn deems it necessary to tell us of how Jaehaerys and Alysanne slept naked, gives us servant gossip about the long lingering kisses they shared and inserts an offhand rumor about how Jaehaerys might have invited Alysanne to the bed he supposedly shared with Coryanne Wylde to “frolic with them in episodes most often associated with the infamous pleasure houses of Lys”, persisting in referring to Alysanne as “the little queen” throughout. That insistent sexualization of Alysanne contextualizes the mention of Jaehaerys’ refusal to consummate the marriage to be an attempt from the author-character to make Jaehaerys look good, rather than an attempt to offer any kind of critique to the custom of deflowering too-young maidens. It does, however, fall right in line with Gyldayn’s tendency to dedicate an ordinate amount of space to comment on the sex lives of teen girls. Which brings me to:

The hypersexualization of young girls

One can not go through this book without taking notice of how absolutely obsessed Gyldayn is with the sex lives and sex appeal of teen girls. Too much of this book is spent discussing, speculating on and pondering rumors about the sex lives of young girls, minor and major characters alike. It’s really telling that he, and the narrative by association, is so cavalier about inserting commentary about a girl’s body, sexuality or sexual desirability, even for characters who were only mentioned once or twice in the text. It’s all so disturbingly casual that it might not register on first read but there is an unholy pattern of slipping in a sexualizing comment about barely seen teenagers and pubescent girls. They may have no personality, no voice, no agency and sometimes no names but for some reason their sexual history (read: abuse), desirability or physicality is brought up. Among them:

Prudence and Prunella Celtigar. For the longest time, our knowledge of both is restricted to their age, and Rogar Baratheon’s charming comment about them being chinless, breastless and witless which Gyldayn keeps bringing up as their defining factor.

The Archon of Tyrosh’s daughter (15) is noted for her wit, hair and flirtatious manner (she is later rumored to have cuckolded her eventual husband, Orryn Baratheon, and birthed a daughter that wasn’t his, since she is a woman of the Free Citites and all that)

There may have been a nameless faceless 12-year-old girl that was being raped by Aegon II at the time of Viserys’ death. But fear not, we know exactly what kind of sexual act she was performing on him.

Jocelyn Baratheon (16) barely exists in the text, but we needed her physical description to include that she was full-breasted just so we can understand that she was desirable.

According to Mushroom, Aemond kissed all four of Borros Baratheon’s prepubescent daughters to “taste the nectar of their lips” before picking one as a bride. The second-eldest, Maris, makes a sexually-charged comment to challenge Aemond’s manhood at like, 11.

Floris Baratheon’s characterization is limited to pretty, sweet, somewhat frivolous and dead.

The only mention of the 15-year-old Johanna Swann’s is that she was sold into sexual slavery and became a famous courtesan in “a fascinating” tale according to Gyldayn.

No less than 8 girls involved in the so-called Maiden’s Day Cattle Show are defined by sexual comments and sexual deeds. (There is a comment from Mushroom about how everything couldn’t have been more beautiful, unless if the girls had all arrived naked. This is a ball that had girls as young as six and seven.)

Coryanne Wylde’s first sexual “encounter” rape happens at 13 and she is assaulted repeatedly by the time she is 15.

“Aegon III had never shown any carnal interest in either of his queens (understandably in the case of Queen Daenaera, who was yet a child)” - Uh, Gyldayn? Jaehaera was ten when she died. So why is the extent of Aegon’s maturity judged as lacking because he didn’t desire a literal child and measured negatively against that of his brother Viserys because Viserys, who was a child himself, consummated his own marriage?

As for the regular-flavor hypersexualizion of major characters by the narrative, you can find Rhaenyra Targaryen whose sexual training assault at Daemon’s hand at 14 is described in painful detail, Rhaena Targaryen who is strongly implied to have had somewhat of a sexual awakening at the age of 12, Nettles whose virginity is speculated upon with the conclusion that she must have had sex before she flowered taken as a basic fact and Baela Targaryen who gets a majority story focus on her sexual adventures.

The worst part is that there is no point to most of the above. I can maybe find a logical narrative motive for one of those stories and the only point I can find to several others is to frame the character of the men involved, including Gyldayn. But mostly, these characters exist to serve as as a set dressing, to be exploited and paraded to sensationalize a story.

Sexual violence as a punishment, a plot device, and a sacrifice for male characters’ story

GRRM has frequently claimed that the various acts of sexual violence in his books, against both men and women, is historically accurate. He takes it as a dishonest approach for him not to show that rape and sexual assault were historically a part of war. The existence of sexual violence in wars can not be denied, but it’s rather remarkable that Martin took only the negative parts of women’s lives from real life history, then made it worse for the women in his narrative. Despite his claim that Westeros is no darker nor more depraved than our RL history, Westerosi patriarchy is actually worse than the real Middle Ages and it is lacking a lot of the roles women occupied throughout history, which gives the effect of furthering the women’s suffering without giving them the benefit of having proper well-rounded narratives.

Furthermore, if, as Martin claims, sexual violence is a part of war narrative, what are we to do with the numerous examples of assault and sexual violence that occur in peacetime, both in the main narrative and in F&B? Westeros wasn’t at war when seven Lyseni slaves were used and abused by the Baratheon brothers prior to the Golden Wedding, nor did Coryanne Wylde’s repeated assaults occur during war. Alyssa Velaryon and Alysanne Targaryen were not impregnated, to the former’s grave and against the latter’s expressed wishes, by wartime enemies but by their own husbands. Saera Targaryen had her own father condone her humiliation and abuse in the name of punishing her. And what about the countless child brides who had no choice in their marriages, many of whom went on to either die in childbed or suffer health problems due to premature consummation of their marriages?

Sexual violence is a frequently used window dressing across the series. That Westeros is a terrible place for women is often the singular take of such stories that consistently build on the victimization of women, either as a decoration for the setting to inform us over and over and over that Westeros is a misogynistic society, or as a tool to characterize male characters and further their stories. This is an overarching problem in Martin’s narrative that sees the use of women’s very bodies on the sacrificial altar of the narrative’s requirements, to the extent that even in their suffering, the story belongs less to these women and more to the men whose stories they are sacrificed for. Too often does that happen in this book.

Argella Durrandon is one such case, a women whose violation at the hand of her own men is mostly there to tell us about the gentleness of Orys Baratheon. Several women are used in various ways to inform us about Rogar Baratheon in what is frankly a perplexing waste of narrative space because we didn’t really need these women’s suffering to tell us that Rogar is a grade A asshole when we had plenty of damning evidence of his villainy and misogyny. But we still get such casual mentions of Rogar and his brothers “deflowering” slaves who were probably too young, mainly to juxtapose the actions of Rogar and young Jaehaerys during the proceedings of the Golden Wedding and paint the former in a bad light while holding up the latter. Coryanne Wylde has her narrative of abuse that tells us nothing about her and more about the men taking advantage of her, and Alyssa Velaryon is severely sidelined by the narrative during the regency and has her body used to her death to further Rogar’s characterization. And while this upcoming example is a part of a war narrative, it remains that the function of the rape and sexual slavery of Lady Alys Oakheart and her ladies is largely about informing our perception of Wyl of Wyl and being used to threaten Princess Deria with a similar fate.

Sexual violence also gets used as a tool of punishment against women for various “offenses”. Argella Durrandon is stripped of her clothes and her voice alike for her defiance. Coryanne Wylde’s assault is treated as some sort of karmic punishment for her so-called promiscuity and bearing a child out of wedlock. Princess Saera gets silenced, shaved and beaten essentially for liking sex. Her punishment is designed to shame her for having had sex before she is pressed to the Faith in an attempt to force her into chastity and moral righteousness. The Silent Sisters continue to be routinely used as a threat and a punishment for sexual promiscuity.

Rape culture and normalising sexual violence

I’m having a bit of a case of stating the obvious when I say that Westeros has a flourishing rape culture. But it’s still a fact. Westerosi patriarchy perpetuates and enables sexual violence on an institutional level to the extent that rape has become so normalised that no one so much as blinks at it. The custom of the first night is a clear example of that. And although we have Alysanne and Septon Barth’s impassioned arguments against it that ultimately succeed in having it banned, Gyldayn does his level-best to downplay and beatify the sentiment towards the first night on Dragonstone and exclude the Targaryens from pushback against it. According to Gyldayn, not only was the resentment of the first night muted on Dragonstone, but “brides thus blessed upon their wedding nights were envied, and the children born of such unions were esteemed above all others". Normalise and glamorize rape, why don’t you, Gyldayn?

Also a fixed feature of Westerosi mores is the bedding ceremony, something that involves the stripping of both the bride and the groom by the wedding guests and that often include liberities taken with the bride. In F&B, Daella’s rejection of a bedding is treated disparagingly by the narrative as a facet of her childishness and immaturity, while Rhaenyra, at the age of 9, is included in the party that disrobed her father for his bedding ceremony. For the boys, the bedding ceremony is treated as a sign of virility, strength and character maturity as seen by the reactions of those who attended the bedding ceremony of the 13-year-old Maegor, and the description of how mature the 12-year-old Viserys was because he bedded his wife.

Those are facets of a problem that, for me, largely starts and ends with the authorial attitude towards some forms of sexual violence in the text. In a discussion about F&B on westeros.org, Martin’s collaborator Elio Garcia, echoing previous comments made by Martin, insisted that bedding young girls is understood to be gross and inappropriate in Westeros and that an example such as Unwin Peake’s young daughter is simply an indication of Peake’s (and his onetime goodson’s) awfulness and cruelty. However, the argument that it’s socially, if not legally, frowned upon to bed young girls in Westeros does not hold in the face of the sheer amount of young girls being wed and bedded at young age, to the extent that the matter became so normalised that neither father nor husband of any such unfortunate girl attracts any kind of censure, not even socially. I certainly saw no such sentiment when Viserys I was marrying the 11-year-old Aemma Arryn and bedding her at 13 to the tune of zero opposition. Nor when no one blinked at the fact that the-nearly-60 year old Thaddeus Rowan was searching for a suitable young maid to wed after the death of his first two wives, or when he later wed the 14/15-year-old Floris Baratheon. What about when Jaehaerys and Alysanne Targaryen arranged for their daughter Viserra to wed their contemporary Theomore Manderly at age 15? Or when the 60-year-old Corlys Velaryon started sleeping with Marlida of Hull at 15, if not younger, which earned zero condemnation and zero focus? The perversion and predatory behavior of these old men is treated as a non-issue within the text, even though Martin and Garcia keep telling us that it should. They just fail to have the narrative actually show that. But you can’t keep insisting that it’s considered perverse in-universe to bed young girls when everyone is doing it.

As for the argument that young Lady Peake’s example was meant as a deliberate point about her father’s character, that’s a fig leaf that doesn’t even hold up in the face of the text. It’s easy to say that this was an added commentary on Unwin Peake’s character when Peake is an awful human being that we’re meant to hate, but what about Thaddeus Rowan who is clearly presented to us by the narrative as a decent and moral man that we’re supposed to sympathize with? Was there a point to be made about what an awful man he was in his marriage to Floris Baratheon too? Did I miss any part of the narrative that treated Rowan as a figure worthy of denunciation for his culpability in Floris’ death, or even acknowledged that culpability? Because from where I’m standing, that young girl’s death was treated as something that we’re supposed to sympathize with Rowan over. What about Rodrik Arryn, a two-time offender who impregnated the delicate Daella and witnessed her death only to repeat the tragedy by marrying off his daughter as a child? Rodrik is also presented as a decent person who loved Daella and who is barely criticized for his part in her death, which is ironically an improvement on the lack of acknowledgment of what he did to Aemma.

You want to present child brides as some sort of commentary about the terrible character of their guardians and husbands? Don’t have your best king - who previously refused to consummate his marriage to his own sister-wife on account of her age - and his good queen arrange a marriage for their minor daughter. Don’t have the fact that Rodrik Arryn had loved Daella for years before marrying her at 16 count as something in his favor when that means he was in love with a literal child. Don’t have numerous kindly-written characters do the exact same thing that you claim indicates awfulness and cruelty. Also, also, don’t have your characters treat the rape of a 13-year-old girl as her fault. F&B is utterly unsympathetic to Coryanne Wylde despite acknowledging that the man who slept with her was in his thirties, but Coryanne is blamed by everyone for “her shame” and her subsequent assaults are treated as something she brought on herself. Don’t tell me that a boy kissed Daella against her will in those exact words, then not only act like she was unreasonable for disliking him, but make no mention of any kind of rebuke made to a kid who forced himself on a royal princess. Don’t normalise child brides and build a society that enables, encourages and accepts the rape of pubescent and prepubescent kids as par for the course.

Depiction of female sexuality and queerness:

Let me preface this section by saying that I’m not a medievalist or a historian so my knowledge of the medieval era comes from what research I did on the subject, all of which makes me scratch my head over the fascination with female sexuality present in Gyldayn’s writing. This goes beyond cases where a woman’s sexuality was a part of events that would typically be noted by a historian to include random tangents about a lady’s sexuality for pretty much no reason. That strikes me as really weird because that information is relayed to us in the form of a history book, and female sexuality wasn’t typically that widely scrutinized, recorded and commented on. Moreover, the way their sexuality is used in the narrative leaves a bad taste in my mouth, especially when it comes to talk of their queerness - the narrative gives us very little in means of a relationship between two queer women, but uses their sexual orientation to either undermine or negatively frame these women.

Queen Rhaena Targaryen is a prime example of how a woman’s queerness gets used to depict her negatively in the text. It doesn’t get any clearer than her sexuality being referred to as a beast through Frankly Farman’s Four-Headed Beast epithet that just so happens to describe four queer women. It might be argued that Franklyn is not necessarily the voice of the text and so his view is only reflective of him and not of a textual problem, but the problem is that the text never really bothers to challenge Franklyn’s misogynistic and queerphobic view. In fact, it appears as if the text is at best excusing and at worst exonerating Franklyn, first by repeatedly talking about how condescending and dismissive Rhaena’s companions were towards Androw as if to suggest that Franklyn was correct to dislike them and label them as beasts, then by having Rhaena’s confrontation with Franklyn after Elissa’s escape condemned unanimously by Jaehaerys and his court as Rhaena’s fault. Jaehaerys might have taken issue with how Myles Smallwood talked about Rhaena but he certainly did not contradict his assessment of her or Franklyn’s own misogynistic response to her. It’s Rhaena who gets the explicit censure while also being painted as wrong and borderline hysterical.

Too, I dislike the way that Rhaena’s performance of her formal dynastic role seems to have been tied to her sexuality by the text, an implication which exists in the pointed reporting of Rhaena’s rudeness and emotional absence during a royal progress until her current favorite was summoned to her side, and in how Jaehaerys seems to blame Rhaena for bringing Elissa to Dragonstone in a segment that carries a suggestion that Rhaena’s sexuality and her love for Elissa undermined her governance of Dragontone. More damning is the sense of vagueness with which Gyldayn talks about Rhaena’s companions that were killed by Androw. While the term “favorite” is consistently used when the text wants to indicate a lover rather than a friend, Gyldayn has used the term “companion” to indicate a relationship too - more clearly in the case of Jeyne Arryn and her dear companion Jessamyn Redfort - so for him to call those killed by Androw Rhaena’s companions and including two of her acknowledged favorites among them, Gyldayn (and Androw himself in his final conversation with Rhaena) seem to be implying that Rhaena was involved with all of them. Even the 14-year-old Cassella Staunton and Lianne Velaryon? It’s unclear but that vagueness introduces a problematic dimension to Rhaena’s sexuality that certainly did not need to be there and that does nothing for the story.

The story of the Maiden of the Vale carries similar elements to Rhaena, only clearer. While the story provides us with an entirely legitimate concern of how men try to leech power from powerful women as a possible motive for Lady Jeyne’s refusal of marriage, she is still the subject of rumors about being a lesbian, or alternatively, someone trading sexual favors from the 15-year-old Jace for her political and military support which links her political action to her sexuality, of which we only get a last-minute confirmation on her deathbed. The rumors about Lady Jeyne can certainly stand as an example of in-universe misogyny, but it’s undeniable that the story both builds on and asserts a prevalent misogynistic assumption that a women who doesn’t want a husband must be a lesbian (which strikes me as a modern stereotype), while linking refusal of marriage to a man to exploitative behavior.

Also a modern stereotype is the assumption that two gender non-conforming women who share quarters and appear to be close must be lovers which is present in the thinly-veiled suggestion that Sabitha Frey and Alysanne Blackwood were involved. It’s immensely strange to base such a deduction on the fact that the two ladies shared a tent and were always in each other’s company when they were the only two women in an army of men, especially in a society where a highborn lady sharing her quarters with friends, companions and ladies-in-waiting is a common occurrence. I can see where people would think Lady Sabitha or Black Aly unnatural or even grotesque in the way Brienne is treated in the main novels for being gender non-conforming and/or ugly/not traditionally beautiful, but making the jump to “well, they must be queer” for keeping company with each other and sharing a tent when surrounded by men is not a typical sentiment of the medieval era as far as I know.

This, however, is a symptom of how Sabitha Frey in particular is portrayed in the narrative. She is a fairly prominent figure throughout the Dance and yet we don’t really get much in the way of a characterization for her. She gets called merciless and grasping in passing with no elaboration as to why she is thought to be so and when she gets a moment of close examination, Gyldayn uses it to tell us of how she “would sooner ride than dance, wore mail instead of silk, and was fond of killing men and kissing women”. I don’t know if Martin was trying to lean into or affirm our negative perception of House Frey, but Sabitha’s sexuality and gender performance seem to be the focal point of her characterization so assigning uncorroborated negative attributes to her does not come across in the best light.

Another aspect of how badly this books deal with queerness comes from a certain parallel I noticed between the stories of Saera Targaryen, Baela Targaryen and three girls from the Maiden’s Day Ball, the three Jeynes as Gyldayn calls them - Jeyne Smallwood, Jeyne Mooton and Jeyne Merryweather. In all three stories, there is an offhand mention (or an obscure insinuation in Baela’s case) of how each of them had sex or at least experimented sexually with other women that is simply there to frame the scandalous wanton behavior of each of them. Saera’s relationship with Perianne Moore and Alys Turnberry, Baela’s possible involvement with the twin brothel workers, and the three Jeynes’ supposed visits to the Street of Silk are mentioned casually and aren’t treated like any kind of a meaningful connection but as a sensationalized scandal that adds color to the story through its eroticism. That treats wlw relationships as an embellishment that solely exist to decorate the narrative. It’s fetishizing and dehumanizing in the way it treats these women and their relationships as merely objects of scandal.

Portrayal of women’s relationships:

This is one part where I think Martin made an attempt to in try to fix the solitary woman issue that’s been pointed out repeatedly in the main novels – how we keep hearing about male friendships and male relationships that frame and sometimes drive the narrative whereas women are either mysteriously solitary figures or have their friendships go unexplored/framed negatively. Queen Alysanne and her companions are where Martin succeeds in fixing this problem to some extent; everywhere else..... Eh.

I’ve argued before that the problem in Martin’s writing of female friendships isn’t just that he gives precious few of them, especially compared to the male friendships that drive the narrative; it’s in the overwhelmingly negative representation of female friendships. The majority of female friendships (and that includes familial relationships) are mired in conflict and negative associations across the series, and this book is no difference. Women’s relationships are often defined by jealousy, competitiveness over a man or rooted dislike. Maris Baratheon is so jealous that Aemond Targaryen chose one of her sisters over her that she challenges his manhood and, in Gyldayn’s eyes, provokes Aemond into attacking Lucaerys Velaryon in a plot that is both unnecessary and contrived so as to blame a woman girl for a man’s actions. Cassandra Baratheon spreads a false rumor that her sister Ellyn asked Aegon III if he liked her breasts during the Maiden’s Day Ball, and that’s when we’re not spending time on rumors about how she may have been involved in young Jaehaera’s death because she blamed the little queen for her woes, which are that she didn’t get to marry Aegon II and become queen, and that she lost her place as the heir to Storm’s End due to her little brother’s birth. Oh yeah, I can certainly see how that is a natural line of thought. Cassandra then goes on to be involved in the plotting against Daenaera Velaryon and the Rogares.

Saera Targaryen is disliked by every single one of her sisters (but it should be noted that both Aemon and Baelon were amused by her). The question of the possible motive of Jaehaera Targayen’s suicide includes her being jealous of Baela’s pregnancy (Jaehaera was ten). Rhaenys and Visenya’s relationship is largely defined by a rivalry over Aegon. Rhaena and Alysanne’s relationship is afflicted by tension, resentment and blame. Lucinda Penrose’s jealousy of Daenaera Velaryon having the queenship she coveted not only led her to participate in the plot against her, but made her quite randomly blame Daenaera for no man wanting her, implying she was attacked because of Daenaera which is not true. Priscella Hogg wanted Larra Rogare dead so that Prince Viserys could marry her.

Why do female relationships need to be defined by the presence of a guy, GRRM? What’s up with the downright illogical motivations of some of them? Why is it that the only positive relationship a queen has with her ladies on-page is that of Queen Alysanne?

GRRM also has a frustrating tendency to link female friendships to their sexuality or introduce a sexual component to those friendships. In the main novels, we have Cersei’s rape of Taena Merryweather and Arianne’s youthful sexual experimentation with Tyene Sand as notable examples; in F&B, Rhaena Targaryen is the first woman who gets meaningful relationships with named women and it’s suggested that many of them were her lovers (Rhaenys, Visenya and Alyssa Velaryon are said to have had lady companions as well but we barely get anything in the way of an actual relationship with any of them, or, you know, names for them). Sabitha Frey and Aly Blackwood gravitate to each other and share a tent during the Dance and we immediately get a reference to a potential sexual involvement. Coryanne Wylde, in one of the many versions of A Caution For Young Girls, is said to have thought of Alysanne as her own sister, with the reported rumors being either that she “taught” Alysanne’s husband how to pleasure Alysanne or that she taught Alysanne herself alongside Jaehaerys how to have sex. Saera had sexual intercourse with her two female companions. It is as if two women can not be friends without sex being a part of it.

So basically, men get to have friends and meaningful positive relationships in asoiaf while women get sexually-tinged friendships or have their relationships revolve around squabbling over a man. With the exception of Queen Alysanne and her companions, the vast majority of female relationships are either negative or framed negatively by the text.

Broken mothers, broken women:

Grief is a woman’s kryptonite in this book, especially if she is a mother. Gender is used as a default explanation for why several women break and freeze after a child’s death, often as a prelude to their stories tapering off till their death. While certainly understandable in the context of the tragedies they face, I question why it’s always the women who break down, rend their garments and retreat from public life, whereas men react to similar tragedies with anger, pursuit of vengeance and singular political focus. I also question why Martin uses a mother’s grief so often as a convenient plot device to force passivity, silence and absence on his female characters to fit the requirements of the plot, even when their previous (and sometimes even later) characterization and actions fly against that abstract frozen moment of time they experience due to their grief. Why do you keep having women freeze in their grief, Martin?

The tale of the Dance of the Dragons is not new to F&B but in the stories of Rhaenyra and Helaena appears a clear gendered approach to the depiction of women’s grief over their children that is echoed in several other places. This is somewhat more apparent during the Dance for how Rhaenyra and Helaena’s reactions can be contrasted against that of Daemon and Aegon II, both of whom reacted to the death of Lucerys and young Jaehaerys respectively by swearing vengeance, exacting a bloody toll in revenge and pushing their political and military campaigns. But while their husbands reacted, Rhaenyra and Helaena suffered from crippling depression that forced them out of the war narrative entirely, even to the detriment of their respective factions as underlined by the repetitive remarks about how additional draconic power might have affected the course of the war. That Dreamfyre was rendered useless to the greens because of Helaena’s inability to ride due to her depression is pointed out repeatedly, whereas Rhaenyra’s seclusion and grief over Luke’s death and her absence from her own war council is blamed for Princess Rhaenys flying to Rook’s Nest alone and getting killed. The narrative even accentuates how detrimental Rhaenyra’s absence might have been to her own war efforts in having Corlys Velaryon blame her for Rhaenys’ death, and again in having Jace recruit dragonseeds to increase the black’s draconic power at a time when one of their dragonriders is indisposed.

In the case of both sisters, a mother’s grief is largely used as a way to get a dragonrider out of the picture, at least for a period of time in Rhaenyra’s case - a gendered approach that adds to how Rhaenyra’s pregnancy and childbirth, both clearly gendered, were also used as a convenient plot device to sideline her in the early days of the Dance. In the words of Gyldayn, “[t]he death of her son Lucerys had been a crushing blow to a woman already broken by pregnancy, labor, and stillbirth”

Mother’s grief is also used to explain how sisters Rhaena and Alysanne retreated from public life after the loss of their daughters. Rhaena leaves Dragonstone for Tarth then Harrenhal, turning into a ghost herself as she settles in the haunted castle after refusing to return to her seat on Dragonstone or have anything to do with court for years till her death (Rhaena had previously stopped governing Dragonstone and retreated to her chambers to mourn her companions as well), while Alysanne takes herself from court to Dragonstone after Gael’s death, a more acute echo of her self-imposed isolation following Princess Daenerys’ death, and the offhand mention of how her four youngest children’s marital plans brought her so much pain and grief that she considered joining the silent sisters. It just so happens that two of the four (i.e, Daella and Viserra) had died at the time and Jaehaerys persisted in pushing Alysanne to consider Saera dead as well. Alysanne even tells Jaehaerys point-blank that she is going to Dragonstone to grieve for her dead daughters.

But two exceptions exist to this trend: Alyssa Velaryon and Alicent Hightower. Alyssa is a character that defies the broken mother trope by being a main architect of Jaerhaerys I’ accession and the survival of the Targaryen dynasty after her two eldest sons died horrifically. She survived the loss of three children and estrangement from her surviving three. She could have been a sound critique to the broken woman trope, if only the narrative allowed her to stay that active dynamic figure she was instead of trying to minimize her. Despite her defiance of the trend of how a mother’s grief leads to depressed seclusion, the narrative still managed to sideline Alyssa by having her inexplicably choose a self-imposed confinement for the remainder of Jaehaerys’ regency after her confrontation with Rogar Baratheon in the small council. Not only is this undeniably minimizing to Alyssa’s character, it flies in the face of all her prior characterization. This is the woman who survived the loss of two sons by horrifying means but soldiered on and showed tremendous political ability, who dealt with estrangement from her surviving children but continued to rule the realm throughout it, who stood up bravely in the face of her husband’s dehumanizing attack. But I’m supposed to buy that Rogar Baratheon broke her? Come on now. To make things worse, this act of isolation is the last thing we get of Alyssa’s own agency.

Alicent Hightower is another case of someone who defied the broken mother trope by being a steady political presence throughout the Dance, even after only Aegon II remained to her. Even after Aegon’s death, Alicent still tried to influence the court by trying to get her granddaughter Jaehaera to kill Aegon III. But when the time came for Alicent to depart the narrative, GRRM chose to fall on his tried trope of the broken depressed woman. For the last year of her life, Alicent's time in confinement was spent weeping, ripping her clothes to pieces and talking to herself. Alicent’s deteriorating mental state might not seem unreasonable in the context of her circumstances, but it certainly boggles the mind that she is presented to us as slowly losing her wits while imprisoned in her own apartments at the same time that the horrifically tortured and maimed Tyland Lannister is said to have kept his sharp wit through his harsh imprisonment in the black cells, so Alicent’s gentle imprisonment in a familiar place with servants and septas attending her somehow took a worse toll than Tyland’s residence in inhumane conditions where he was tortured regularly. Too, Alicent's final image in the text is wretched and undignified which is striking compared to how Grand Maester Orwyle is presented as a hero during the course of the Winter Fever and a vital source of information on the Dance through the confessions he wrote while imprisoned.

So even in the cases that the broken mother trope is challenged, GRRM still uses the same element of seclusion and depression to define a woman’s fate. It has not escaped me that our final look at both Alyssa and Alicent depicts them in ghastly conditions.

Treatment of women’s voices:

Fire and Blood’s handling of women’s voices is hit-and-miss, with the misses outpacing the hits by miles. It goes without saying that not everyone in the narrative can or should have a voice so it’s not that I expect every single woman that ever appears to have one, but some of the omissions are really glaring. Take Jocelyn Baratheon for example. She was a sister/surrogate daughter to Jaehaerys and Alysanne, wife to Aemon and mother to the fiery Princess Rhaenys.... and we know almost nothing about her, leaving her function to the story to be about her motherhood and her fertility. Pages upon page of this book is dedicated to discussing women’s sexual lives but I guess the life and experiences of a court-raised onetime crown princess was unimportant to warrant a mention. Jocelyn existed to birth Rhaenys then promptly disappeared from the narrative after her angered reaction to Baelon being named heir over Rhaenys and her unborn child.

More acutely, the narrative has a bad tendency to have notable women suddenly fall silent or completely disappear at times when they should be present and outspoken, if it’s not actively punishing them for having a voice altogether, while their male counterparts get pages detailing their opinions and their reactions. The broken mother/woman trope discussed above contributes heavily to this problem in presenting a distinct sense of narrative-enforced quietness that befalls these characters once the narrative decides that their voices are no longer necessary for plot development. Princess Rhaena Targaryne is pretty much turned into a ghost on the outskirts of the story from Aerea’s death till her own. Her mother Alyssa gets turned into a nonentity not long after her fight with Rogar Baratheon in the small council. Alyssa’s retreat from public court is the last time she is given a voice of her own. The report that both the former Hand and the Queen Regent were “wounded and silent” in the aftermath of that showdown really struck me, because for all that Rogar and Alyssa fell silent, it’s Rogar that the narrative chose to restore voice to, despite the fact that, unlike Alyssa, Rogar’s silence was a result of his own hubris and thirst for power. For him and Alyssa to be treated as if on equal foot by the narrative in the first place and for their silence and “wounds” to be framed as similar is preposterous, but what’s even more preposterous is the fact that Rogar gets afforded pages to detail his reconciliation with Jaehaerys and even a transcript of their meeting, whereas Alyssa gets one paragraph in which the focus is on Jaehaerys’ own thoughts and we hear nothing from her; instead her thoughts and feelings are posited by Grand Maester Benifer.

From there on out, we don’t hear from Alyssa Velaryon, only of her. The narrative deliberately silences Alyssa and substitutes her voice with the suppositions and opinions of the men around her. It’s Jaehaerys and Rogar who get voices in Alyssa’s own marital reconciliation but we don’t hear about what she thought about it. We don’t know what Alyssa thought about either of her pregnancies or the health risk they posed. We do hear about Rogar and Benifer’s happiness and Barth’s concerns though. Even when she lay dying and arguments were made about her and her child’s chances of survival, Alyssa is denied a voice. The one statement we get from her is immediately dismissed by Gyldayn as likely not happening and we’re left with the reactions of those around her, Jaehaerys and Rogar, Alysanne and Rhaena. But we never find out what Alyssa thought or wanted. Instead, her narrative purpose lies in her fertility.

At least Rhaena voices a condemnation for the way women’s bodies are callously used by men in Westeros in a statement that is contextually very powerful but that is, once again, undermined by the narrative not too long after. It is both outrageous and unnecessary to have Jaehaerys himself ignore such a powerful statement years later in a plot that also dismisses Alysanne’s clearly expressed wishes and borderline silences her since Jaehaerys’ objection to her reasoning is voiced to Grand Maester Elysar rather than Alysanne herself, and she isn’t even given the chance to give the counter-argument that, you know, the mother that Jaehaerys is citing died because her husband only cared about having a child. Queen Alysanne may be the most prominent, most well-rounded female voice in F&B, but that does not stop the narrative from robbing her of her voice when it wants to. I certainly have not forgotten how she falls silent on the matter of her granddaughter Aemma’s marriage, or how there is so much discussion about the tragic fates of Alysanne’s children all around that conspicuous quietness. Neither have I forgotten how there is a random comment about how Alysanne contempled joining the silent sisters due to the pain and grief she suffered in the matter of her youngest four’s marital prospects.

Then there is Maris Baratheon and the convoluted needless story that does nothing but attempt to shift blame off Aemond for Lucerys Velaryon’s murder and lay it on Maris, then have her literally silenced as a punishment, whether that’s through being consigned to the silent sisters or the rumor that she had her tongue removed beforehand. Maris exists to be scapegoated and silenced, her forced silence a penalty for a man’s violent tendencies.

Going back a little in history to Aegon’s conquest gets us a few more queens who got silenced by the narrative. I’ve talked before about how Argella Durrandon’s fate stands as a unique abnormality in the history of the rebellion and how her forceful loss of voice was the last we hear of her in the narrative as the focus thereafter shifts to Orys and his own actions and behavior. Similarly, the circumstances of Marla Sunderland’s deposing bears uncomfortable parallels to Argella’s own: while not sexually humiliating like Argella’s, Marla had her voice violently stripped away when her tongue was pulled out before she was sequestered to an order that takes women’s voices away in the name of piety. That Argella and Marla were the only ones to suffer that literal loss of voice in the history of the rebellion (while Rhaenys and Visenya get their voices take away by the narrative itself since both inexplicably vanish from the story despite being physically in the area right before Argella and Marla were deposed) makes it very much about their gender.

Of course there is always the argument that it’s not only women who had their tongues ripped out or got silenced throughout the narrative, and while that is true, they were the only ones during the rebellion to receive that pointed stripping of voice by men, including Marla’s own brother. Moreover, it’s really glaring that this violation was specifically a punishment for defiance and daring to claim power. The violence visited on Argella and Marla was unnecessary for plot development, weirdly personal in a clearly gendered way, and done exclusively by men for the benefit of men as a punishment to these women for having the audacity to have agency and power in their own right.

Death by childbed

In times of peace especially, it was not uncommon for a man to outlive the wife of his youth, for young men most oft perish upon the battlefield, young women in the birthing bed.

Well, perhaps women wouldn’t die that often in the birthing bed if they weren’t getting pregnant as young as 12. Just saying.

This is another recurring problem in Martin’s writing that’s been broadly criticized for being too present in the narrative. It intersects with the problem of child brides, and the Dead Ladies Club, though it’s not only limited to them.

Death in childbirth is an inherently gendered death that is used as a rather convenient way to kill off female characters across the series. Often these women’s relevance in the text amounts to their fertility and the children they bore, and they are used as either a vessel to deliver the true important characters, or a part of the setting around a male character. By my count, F&B has 12 women dead by childbirth.

The unnamed wife of Edmyn Tully. Exists to explain why her husband resigned his seat on the Small Council

Queen Jeyne Westerling. Exists as a part of framing Maegor’s political decline and her function in the story is explicitly solely about her fertility.

Queen Alyssa Velaryon.

Princess Alyssa Targaryen.

Princess Daella Targaryen.

Queen Aemma Arryn. No characterization. Narrative function lies in having Rhaenyra.

Lady Laena Velaryon. Afforded scant characterization. Dies for the convenience of the plot. Main function is having Baela and Rhaena Targrayen.

The unnamed fourth wife of Jasper Wylde. The first three may or may not have died of “exhaustion” as well, since the man sired twenty nine children on four wives.

Lady Arra Norrey. Childhood companion and wife to Cregan Stark. Dead giving birth to his son Rickon. That’s it. That’s all we know of her.

The unnamed daughter of Unwin Peake. She died in childbed aged 12. That’s the extent of her relevance.

Lady Floris Baratheon. Pretty, sweet, frivolous, dead.

Ormund Hightower’s unnamed wife. Only mentioned in the introduction of her successor, Samantha Hightower.

The main point of criticism here is that these women didn’t need to die in childbirth or complications from childbirth of all things. They didn’t need to be reduced to walking wombs or plot devices or set decorations. They didn’t need to be a side note tacked on to explain a quirky nickname. And they didn’t need to die for the male character’s angst or characterization.

“But the above is only reflective of Gyldayn’s misogyny, not an authorial problem”

I chose to address this argument at the conclusion of this post because I know that inevitably, the argument that the problem lies in the in-universe narrator’s bias rather than an authorial failure will come up. I’ve already seen it argued, by fans as well as Elio Garcia, that Gyldayn’s own misogyny and personal views account for the problems that many fans have criticized in the text. But that’s a paper shield. Ascribing every problematic element in the narrative to the in-universe characters is not good enough at this point. This argument is neither productive nor satisfactory, and it strikes me as a rather transparent and convenient way to shut down any critique leveled at Martin’s writing, or at the very least deviate it from its intended objective to tangle us in a debate about sexist narratives vs sexist societies.

But I will have that conversation because this distinction causes a lot of confusion over what’s an authorial problem and what’s not. Westeros is a misogynistic patriarchal society that systematically minimizes, marginalizes and dehumanizes women, but just because your society is sexist doesn’t mean that your narrative has to be. We see that in the main novels when characters like Catelyn, Asha, Brienne, Arya and many others have to contend with the limitations their society places on them and the prejudices leveled at them because of their gender, but the narrative does not validate that misogyny. It doesn’t discredit these women or treat them as an afterthought. Westeros may be biased against these women but the narrative isn’t. That is not the case with F&B because Martin chose to make our sole source of information on these women a deeply misogynistic man, which made his narrative deeply misogynistic as well by virtue of the narrative adopting Gyldayn’s biases and making them a defining aspect of the characters’ stories. That is a choice on Martin’s part, just like exaggerating Gyldayn’s misogyny to the point of minimizing the few instances of challenge the narrative attempts to offer is also a choice.

It wouldn’t have cost Martin anything to leave Alysanne’s condemnation of Jaehaerys and Rodrik Arryn’s role in Daella’s death to stand without undermining it. It wouldn’t have cost Martin anything to let Alyssa Velaryon and Alicent Hightower remain as a deconstruction of the broken mother trope, instead of falling back on tired ideas that build on breaking women’s spirits down to their graves. It wouldn’t have cost Martin anything to have Rhaena’s powerful statement about how men use women’s bodies to their graves to stand without undercutting it via Jaehaerys (who once refused to consummate his marriage out of concern for Alysanne but apparently have grown to not care that much about her health in later years). Those rare cases of pushback are right there; they allow for both the characterization of the author-character and the worldbuilding of the society to stand but offer a critique of the misogyny shown instead of just leaving it present and unchallenged as a set decoration. Even allowing for Gyldayn’s misogyny, Martin could have found a way to elevate some of the problematic aspects of this book. He didn’t. He chose to undermine his challenges instead.

I find that the idea that Gyldayn is the one who should be blamed for what this book is rather than GRRM such a weird argument to make. Gyldayn is Martin’s creation; he does not exist independently from Martin. If Gyldayn is a sex-obsessed pervert, it’s because Martin chose to write him that way. If Gyldayn is a misogynistic victim-blaming abuse apologist, it’s because Martin chose to write him that way. It goes without saying that it’s not inherently problematic to write a character with these characteristics, but the problem emerges when that character is an author whose lens our knowledge of every single woman is filtered through. We’re not likely to have any information about these historical characters from any other source. The best we can hope for is a throwaway line in the main novels that wouldn’t give us much in the way of personhood for these characters. In writing Gyldayn as he did, Martin crippled our knowledge of a large number of women in Westeros history and denied them any chance of ever becoming realized characters in our eyes. So why did Martin choose to write Gyldayn as the avatar of every patriarchal bias in existence? What is the narrative gain in having your narrator be so interested in the sex lives of teenage girls? What did GRRM do to push back against Gyldayn’s misogyny? Why is Gyldayn’s characterization prioritized over the personhood of so many women? Because Gyldayn’s characterization is only relevant insofar as his function as a vehicle for authorial exposition. The narrative and the readers gain nothing by him being so painfully misogynistic. In fact, this is what is used to cut any attempts by the narrative to challenge the rampant misogyny in the text at the knees.

Furthermore, the argument that that Gyldayn’s prejudices shouldn’t be taken for the narrative’s own and thus as an authorial problem falls apart when you consider how many of the issues I discussed above exists in the main novels too, when there is no Gyldayn to blame for the narrative’s misogyny. Also, it should be noted that Gyldayn in-universe misogyny doesn’t even account for all the problems of the text. Gyldayn isn’t the one who made Jaehaerys ignore Alysanne’s wishes not to have more children. Gyldayn isn’t the one who made Septon Barth denigrate Alyssa Velaryon as someone whose main objective was to be liked. Gyldayn certainly isn’t the one who decided to kill off 12 women in childbirth, or cover F&B with child brides. Gyldayn isn’t the one who decided that multiple women needed to isolate themselves to grieve. And Gyldayn might have been the one who reported on Coryanne Wylde, but he sure as hell wasn’t the one who created her story. Those are authorial choices made by GRRM.

I’ve seen it argued that F&B is supposed to be some kind of critique of how misogyny colors history but I disagree vehemently with that notion. You can’t lean into old sexist tropes and call it a critique. You can’t put an inordinate focus on women’s sexual lives to the exclusion of their own personhood and call it a critique. I know that that depiction is not endorsement, but it is not a critique either. Depiction is not inherently a condemnation. There is no inherent challenge in events just being there - the narrative needs to make some effort to push back against them to make it clear that something is being called out. F&B rarely challenges the misogyny permeating it, and when it does, the challenge is promptly undermined, dismissed or ignored.

#asoiaf #asoiaf meta #fire and blood volume 1 #asoiaf criticism #misogyny in asoiaf #gender in asoiaf #the dead ladies club #warning for a lot of awfulness #gyldayn #is a warning on his own #also I'm a ranter so be aware #long post

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