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matan4il · 1 year

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Buddie 618 meta

Since this could have been the show finale, not just this season’s, I hope you allow me to do a small overview of the ep as a whole with this in mind.

I’m gonna be honest, I want to send ABC a bouquet of flowers, because if this would have been the show’s last ep, it would have been an incredibly disappointing one. Not that it didn’t have merit. 911 has always been about the importance of the good that we do - for ourselves, for our loved ones and for strangers. That’s why the significance of this ep’s emergency was actually great. We got to see the 118 saving themselves, each other and be saved by a complete stranger, who wouldn’t have been there if it weren’t for the 118 saving him four seasons earlier. My issue with it is that it would have been better IMO to spread out this emergency over two eps, really give it room to resonate emotionally, in much the same way that Buck’s lightning strike did. That would have also left more airtime for the team’s personal lives to get closure.

When looking at the personal resolution to the 118’s stories, I did like the return to Henren’s adoption via foster care storyline, it needed closure and I’m so happy this is the one it got. I have talked in more than one fandom about the importance of showing how same sex couples ACTUALLY go about becoming parents, so I think this is extra significant. I can’t wait to see this not just being a wink at the end of a show finale, but an actually developed storyline in s7. I also think “Here’s to more chaos and more love” is my fave line in this ep and a perfect summary of the best of 911. I also loved Bathena getting to go on their honeymoon, getting to live carefree for a moment. They absolutely deserve this, and it felt even better thanks to being a callback moment. I also enjoyed seeing Madney seal the details of their wedding. I have loved and enjoyed them since Maddie called Chim cute in 206, they deserve all the happiness and joy, and to me, having to see her twice this season bracing herself for the possibility of losing Buck and / or Chim (in 611 and now) made it even more meaningful to see Madney happy by the end of the ep. Again, I can’t wait to see the actual wedding in s7. It’s gonna melt all of our hearts. Still, all of these resolutions felt a bit rushed and I believe they could have had more of an impact if they were more than blink and you miss it moments during the final montage.

But if those felt underdeveloped, that’s nothing in comparison with Buck and Eddie’s personal lives’ resolutions. Was 911 really going to leave them with the “endgame” of women who literally only showed up as Love Interests in the last couple of eps of the show? If I weren’t a part of fandom, as a casual viewer, I would sincerely not have even remembered Marisol from her emergency, so I would have been confused by her and Eddie’s conversation. In fact, I found it funny that when Eddie wants to text her, it’s presented as a disruption to Bobby’s talk, just like Buck’s call with Kameron. I also thought it was wild that we discover Marisol and Eddie exchanged numbers, because that most certainly wasn’t even hinted at during 617. We clearly saw him walking away, they exchanged a last look, and that was it. Eddie and Marisol are so underdeveloped, we don’t even know how they happened! Did Marisol rush after Eddie? Did he come back to ask her for her number? Did they both decide to take the leap? How did the conversation go? Why was their phone call in 618 so awkward if they had already made their intentions clear when they exchanged numbers? We have zero answers to these questions. This was so forced, so unearned, so underdeveloped, it makes it painfully obvious that it was done just to not leave Eddie heterosexually single. Because I’m sorry, homosubtextually, he’s been married for years.

Which brings me to Buck and Natalia. I gotta roll my eyes at my own 615 meta, where I talked about the meaning of her name connecting her to birth, now we literally had her at the birth of Buck’s bio kid. What a piece of ironic foreshadowing. And yet, despite Natalia being a bit more developed than Marisol, despite the fact that Buck had what was maybe the most invested in personal resolution in the finale, it was still a let down for me. We have mostly seen why Natalia doesn’t suit him in eps 615 and 617. She did come back in the finale, but then so did Taylor in 414. That doesn’t mean either woman fits Buck as a partner. I’m left with the uneasy feeling that we have here a rerun of that s4 finale in terms of the ep shoving both men into relationships with underdeveloped LIs. TBH, the juxtaposition makes 618 worse IMO. Because the comparison with Marisol and Natalia actually makes Ana and Taylor look slightly more invested in! That says a lot about how little 911 cares about the 618 LIs. But it also gives me this bad sense of stepping in place with Buck and Eddie in terms of their romantic development. For example, the fact that Buck ends up tying yet another one of his couches to yet another gf at a way too early stage of their r/s (too much time couldn’t have passed between Kameron giving birth, ruining Buck’s couch, and his conversation about getting a couch together with Natalia since he was just getting around to having the old one looked at to see if it could be saved. He’s once again rushing into commitment with a girl he doesn’t yet know well enough, and who we saw in 615 he was idolizing as truly seeing him, when the truth was very different or she wouldn’t have run out on him in 617. I also can’t tell you why Natalia came back based on the few interactions we’ve seen between them, we haven’t had a single meaningful moment between them so far to explain it, making it clear he’s going in circles. I do suspect Buck doesn’t realize this is him repeating past mistakes, he thinks this is progress given his ability to let go of the baby, which could be an interesting angle to explore in s7. But probably what makes giving Buddie rushed heterosexual “endgame” LIs worse is that every bit of development either man made that isn’t about their love life got sidelined in this ep...

I think in a sense, the underdevelopment of all of Buck and Eddie’s LIs, even the “endgame” ones in what could have been the show’s finale, might actually be a testament to the power of Buddie. If a showrunner knows they could never hope to develop any LI to have with either Buck or Eddie even a tenth of what they have with each other, that can explain not even trying. In fact, we got a reminder of the strong bond between these two men during the call. Buck saved Eddie, just as Eddie saved Buck during the lightning strike. The way they looked at each other, the zoom in on their hands grasping one another, was very emotionally poignant exactly because we have seen these two losing their whole damn minds trying to save the other man on more than one occasion. And Buck used the words “I got you,” a reminder that they will ALWAYS have each other’s back, on and off the field.

The good news is that ABC has a chance to correct the course of where this finale left off. I do believe the move is being done knowing they would have to rejuvenate 911 if they want it to fare better than on Fox, and I think that giving Buddie the room to become canon would be exactly that. But I have said in more than one of my ask replies that to me, no matter what, this show has been telling the epic love story of Buck and Eddie, with the little family they built. Whether TPTB go through with that canonically or not, this is what they gave us. And nothing will take that away from me. If 911 ends with Buddie being single, I’ll just assume their feelings realization and confessions happen after the end of the show. If 911 ends with “endgame” heterosexual LIs, I’ll just know that those couples eventually break up at some point during the 118’s post-show future, and then Buddie finally get together. Because that’s the story we got over the course of the last 5 seasons, one that only has a single possible resolution, whether the show itself gives it to us or whether it forces us to have to imagine and write it down in fix-it fics ourselves. We ALL know what we saw. We ALL get what Buddie have. We ALL see how that inevitably would lead to them getting together sooner or later, and if it doesn’t happen during the show, then later it is, but it WILL happen. That’s how I look at the show, and that’s why even if this were the last ep of it, it still wouldn’t have destroyed Buddie for me. I hope this POV can help others, too.

~~ I’m gonna be here during the hiatus, if anyone wants to be here with me. Thank you so much to all of you who made s6 a lovelier ride by taking it with me! I’m endlessly grateful for every single one of you. xoxox

~~ (my weekly meta posts) (my Buddie gifs) (all of my content)

~~ My tag list will follow in the reblog, please let me know if you wanna be added/removed here.

~~ Thank you to the amazing @whosoldherout for making this season so much better with your gifs, for these meta posts and in general!

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 3 months

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Napoleonville [Chapter 4: The House Of Glass]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, koi fish, smoking, drinking, drugs, kids, parenthood, Willis Warning, impractical architecture, angst, Adventures With Aegon, historical topics including war and discrimination, let's all give a nice warm welcome to Christabel! 🥳

Word Count: 7.4k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @marvelescvpe @toodlesxcuddles @era127 @at-a-rax-ia @0eessirk8 @arcielee @dd122004dd @humanpurposes @taredhunter @tinykryptonitewerewolf @partnerincrime0 @dr-aegon @persephonerinyes @namelesslosers @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @daenysx @gemini-mama @chattylurker @moonlightfoxx @huramuna @britt-mf @myspotofcraziness @padfooteyes @aemonddtargaryen @trifoliumviridi @joliettes @darkenchantress @florent1s @babyblue711 @minttea07 @libroparaiso @bluerskiees @herfantasyworldd @elizarbell @urmomsgirlfriend1 @fudge13 @strangersunghoon

Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! 🥰🧁

It’s dawn, but you’ve already been up for hours. The sky turns from indigo to embers to flames to a cool, cloudless blue; mourning doves coo, goldfinches chirp, swamp rabbits gnaw on blades of grass glittering with dewdrops like diamonds. As the vanilla bean cake bakes in the oven, you go to Cadi’s room, sit on the edge of her bed, lay a hand lightly on the indistinct knoll that is your daughter curled up beneath her Rambo-themed blanket.

You murmur as she stirs awake: “Bonjour, ma cherie.”

Cadi rolls over, blinking groggily. You don’t call her this often. It’s something you picked up from Willis when you were married. You have a vision—sudden, jarring, though not entirely unwelcome—of him pacing back and forth with Cadi in his arms, one month old, 1 a.m., Willis humming some Cajun folk song to lull her to sleep. “Mom? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I called Cascade Stables, there’s a spot reserved for you.”

“What? Really?!” Her face glows, Christmas lights, the Fourth of July. “But you said…how…?”

You can’t take the credit. You won’t give it to Willis if it’s unearned. “Actually, Aemond offered to pay. So you don’t need to worry about anything. The house is fine, the car is fine. No need to sacrifice your birthday presents.”

Cadi sits upright and ponders you, enigmatic childish confusion. “Mom…is Aemond your boyfriend?”

Well, honey, at first he was just some stranger from a kinky personal ad and then he was a delicious distraction and now I fear I might be starting to want more from him, something not so temporary, something forbidden. But I don’t know who he is. “I don’t think it’s quite that serious yet,” you say instead. “Would you like for him to be around more?”

She shrugs, and you recognize it not as true reluctance but rather as feigned, self-preserving indifference. “Yeah. I mean, I guess so. He’s okay.” Then she adds: “What happened to his face?”

“I honestly don’t know. He doesn’t like to talk about it.”

“Maybe he was in a war,” Cadi says, glancing down at her Rambo blanket, Sylvester Stallone armed and stern and shirtless.

“Um, yeah, maybe.”

“Can I have cake for breakfast?”

“No, you cannot,” you say, smiling. “But you can have some of Amir’s leftover jambalaya that’s still in the fridge.”

“Fine.”

“Get up. Get ready. Amir should be here soon, once he can watch the cakes I’ll drive you to school.”

“If you let me stay home, I could help you bake.”

“You definitely wouldn’t help. You’d just spend eight hours playing that Nintendo.”

Cadi grins. “Probably.” Then she rolls out of bed and shuffles towards the kitchen over the creaking, sinking floor.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh, what the fuck,” you hiss to yourself as you park behind Willis’ sheriff’s vehicle—a Plymouth Gran Fury—which just so happens to be towing a 20-foot jon boat. You step outside into glaring 90-degree sunshine, slam the door of your Chevy Celebrity, and jog into the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office. You are carrying a white bakery box full of cherry cobbler muffins.

“Hey sugar,” Willis drawls when he sees you. The holding cells are empty; the electric fans are whirring. Heather Locklear is simpering from where her poster is taped to the wall.

You throw the bakery box down onto his paper-strewn desk. “What the hell is that outside?”

“My new boat,” Willis says proudly. “Picked it up first thing this morning.”

“So you can get a new boat, but Cadi can’t go to horse camp?”

He throws his arms wide, exasperated. Men love to make a habit out of being exasperated by things that should be obvious. “She’s gonna get way more outta that boat than from spendin’ a week brushin’ horses! We’ll be fishin’ in it together ‘til she starts poppin’ out her own babies. If Lake Verret ain’t a puddle of oil by then. You know I’ve had three deputies resign in the past ten days? Three! I’m bleeding manpower. I can’t compete. With overtime, they can make twice as much workin’ security on the rigs.”

“I thought you voted for Reagan and his energy independence.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want them drillin’ in my neighborhood.” He flips open the box, grabs a muffin, and takes a huge, messy bite. Crumbs go flying everywhere.

“Well, Cadi is going to get to brush those horses after all,” you tell Willis. “She’ll be gone from June 24th to July 1st. Just so you know.”

His forehead crinkles as he chews. “Where’d you dig up a spare $300?”

He gave me $400, actually. “A friend offered to pay. Kind of embarrassing that they stepped up instead of you.”

Willis ignores this jab. It is uncharacteristically combative of you; but you’re hot, you’re exhausted, you have a splitting headache, you still have four cakes to finish before noon tomorrow. Sweat rolls in beads down the slope of your neck, the curve of your back. It will evaporate once you’re back outside again, once the sun bakes it off you like nightmares fade in daylight. “A friend, huh?” Willis is more fascinated than annoyed. He gnaws on his muffin, contemplating you. “The only friend I know of is Amir the Queer, and he ain’t got nothin’.”

He does; he’s just squirreling it all away for San Franscisco. “Don’t call him that. Don’t be a neanderthal.”

Willis’ thoughts are elsewhere. If not Amir, then who? Who? He asks, smirking: “You got a petit ami, sugar?”

A boyfriend, he means, a beau, a lover, a partner, a suitor. Do I? “No,” you decide. “No, he’s just a regular friend. Really.”

Willis chomps on his cherry cobbler muffin. His smirk stretches into a grin. “Sure he is.”

“Okay. You called and asked for muffins, and the muffins have been delivered. Now I gotta go. I have a hell of an order to finish for tomorrow. Which reminds me…” You take the folded piece of yellow legal pad paper out of your shorts pocket and open it to read the address of the Targaryen residence. “Where is 1066 Loch Raven Terrace? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Oh, that’s in a brand new development, real highfalutin, mansions and all. That’s where the Jade Dragon folks are livin’. You gotta go way down 401 towards Lake Verret. Turn onto Owlet, then Egret, then Loch Raven.”

You snatch a blue pen out of the mug on his desk—World’s Best Cop, it says—to scribble the directions down on your paper. “Great. Thanks. Why’d they name it that? We don’t even have ravens in Louisiana.”

“Maybe they got ‘em back in England and the Rockefellers want to feel right at home.”

You nod. This makes sense; this is a sufficiently egotistical explanation. You check the clock on the wall; it’s almost time to get Cadi from school. “You’re picking up Cadi tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah. ‘Round 8:00, as usual.”

“Sounds good. I’ll see you then.”

Willis asks longingly, looking nowhere in particular: “Remember when we were gonna go to Mexico for our anniversary?”

“Yeah. And I remember when we didn’t.”

He shrugs, perhaps regretful, mourning some hypothetical versions of yourselves. “I got busy. I got lazy.”

“We would have ended up in the same place, Willis. It just might have taken longer.”

“Sure,” he mutters, but he doesn’t sound like he believes it. He’s reaching for his second muffin as you push through the glass door and step out into the sweltering afternoon sunlight.

Twenty minutes later, you’re rolling into your driveway: windows down, cicadas screeching, a flock of pelicans flapping by overhead, Cadi singing along to Jump by Van Halen. But when you cut the engine, you catch a glimpse of something strange in your rearview mirror. You have a visitor. He’s coasting down the driveway in his red Audi Quattro, displacing a grey wave of gravel. You and Cadi climb out of your Celebrity to greet him.

“Aemond?” you say, hands on your hips, a growing involuntary smile. You weren’t supposed to see him until Saturday night, until your talk about the future, a future you both disavowed before starting to get a taste for it. “What are you doing here?!”

“I only have a minute.” When he emerges from the Quattro, he’s dragging his neon teal duffle bag.

Cadi gasps. “More Nintendo games?!”

Aemond chuckles and shakes his head. “Sorry, not quite.”

Cadi groans dramatically and sprints off into the house, probably to devour an ungodly amount of baked goods.

“Don’t eat the Cap’n Crunch Treats!” you shout after her. “They’re for a customer!”

Aemond strolls over to you, wearing jeans, a white tank top, and his Adidas sneakers. His ever-present Marlboro jacket has been forgotten. His hair is a mess, he’s touching his chin restlessly; he really does look like he’s in a rush. “Hey,” he says softly, returning your smile.

You point to his duffle bag. “So you’re not here to tie me up.”

“Regrettably, no.”

“Cadi was really, really happy this morning to learn that you paid for horse camp.”

“I’m glad. Please don’t mention it again.” Aemond glances to his right and spies the alligator sunbathing a few yards away, a deep swampy green and fast asleep. “Oh, fuck!” He grabs your arm, pulls you to him, walks with you briskly towards the house. “You need to get that thing turned into a purse or shoes or something.”

You laugh. “She won’t go after you. She knows you’re bigger than she is.”

“I’m not going to take your word for it.”

In the living room, Aemond tosses his duffle bag on the couch, unzips it, and lifts out a Nikon F3 digital camera. Amir peeks out of the kitchen, flour and powdered sugar dusting his palms, his forearms, his cheeks. “What the…?”

“I need a white wall,” Aemond says distractedly, peering around. The living room walls are pink, the kitchen is mint green, Cadi’s room is yellow, the bathroom is a pale blue. Cadi watches as he darts around the small house, sitting at the kitchen counter and chomping on a ginger molasses cookie. Then Aemond snaps his fingers, remembering. He turns to you. “Your bedroom has white walls.”

“And of course he knows all about your bedroom,” Amir says.

“Come with me,” Aemond orders you.

“Okay…?”

“Cadi too.”

You and Cadi follow Aemond into the bedroom, Amir trotting close behind to satisfy his curiosity. Aemond shows Cadi where to stand against the wall, in a spot where the lighting is good, no shadows, no cracks in the paint, no paintings or photographs. He raises the Nikon and gazes through the viewfinder with his right eye.

“Alright, here we go…just from the shoulders up…yeah, look at me straight-on, just like that…big smile, one two three!” He takes a picture; you can hear the click. “Beautiful! You’re Cindy Crawford! Naomi Campbell! Linda Evangelista! Let’s go again…”

Cadi giggles as she poses: a few respectable smiles, a few silly faces, a few where Aemond asks her to act serious. Cadi says, with an exaggerated grimace: “Look, I’m Mom when Daddy tries to talk to her.” Amir guffaws from the doorway.

“Your turn,” Aemond tells you, waving you over. Aemond directs you like he’s looking for excuses to touch your shoulders, your waist, your face, making minute adjustments that can’t really matter. You’re good at the serious faces, but he’s not satisfied with your smile. “No, a real one. A real smile!”

“I am really smiling!” you protest.

Aemond lowers the camera and raises an eyebrow at you. “You can do better. I’ve seen it.”

And suddenly, effortlessly, you’re beaming.

“There you go,” Aemond says in approval, and snaps a few frames. “Done.”

“What do you need pictures of us for?”

“Just a little project I’m working on,” Aemond says, evasive. He ventures back to the living room without further explanation.

As Aemond zips the Nikon into his duffle bag, you go to the kitchen to see how far Amir has gotten with the Targaryens’ engagement party order. In a dozen different icing colors, he’s painted wildflowers—your favorite since you were Cadi’s age—all over the white buttercream frosting of the vanilla bean cake. You wrap an arm around his waist, rest your head against his chest. “You’re Picasso.”

“I’m a sad, single, four-eyes twink who lives with his Grandma.”

“You’re the love of my life.”

He laughs and smacks a noisy kiss onto your cheek. Aemond watches, amused, thoughtful. He has that same look he had when he walked in on Cadi and Amir dancing to Kyrie, like someone studying a work of art in a museum, something beautiful but arcane, crafted by a foreign stranger who’s been dead for centuries. You start chopping pecans for the hummingbird cake.

“Okay,” Aemond announces with a heavy sigh. “I gotta run.”

“Already?” Cadi says, more disappointed than she’s trying to let on.

“He’s a very busy man,” you tell her. “He’s an engineer. And a historian, too.”

“Just an engineer,” Aemond says, startled.

“Only a historian would think to quiz me about Napoleon to see if I was worthy of his time.”

“You should know something about the man your town was named after.” Aemond leans in close—smoke and cologne, sun and salt—and growls into your ear: “Bye, Cupcake. Taste you later.”

“Bye.” And you watch him leave with his neon teal duffle bag slung over one shoulder, so preoccupied you completely forget about the pecans. Your knife rests on the cutting board, your thoughts are tangled up in what you and Aemond need to talk about tomorrow. I want more than something casual. I do, I really do.

Amir whips you with a dishtowel. “Ho, we’ve got cakes to bake! Let’s go, let’s go!” And then he asks more sympathetically as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose: “How’s your headache?”

“Oh,” you say, only realizing it when he asked. “It’s gone now.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The driveway is long and meandering, brand new but meant to look old, cobblestones lined with meticulously manicured hedges and beasts carved out of marble: bears, dolphins, horses, dragons. On the shores of Lake Verret, out of sight of the rigs and surrounded by towering gnarled southern live oaks older than the United States, you find the Targaryen family residence—manor? estate? chateau?—and park your Chevy Celebrity amidst a sea of Lexuses, Audis, Porsches, Cadillacs, and Alfa Romeos. There are willowy whooping cranes tiptoeing their way across the lawn. A blue merle Great Dane, gigantic and glaring menacingly, lurks behind the white columns of the wraparound front porch.

“That is not a house,” Amir says, gazing up at it through the windshield. “That is a castle.”

“That is where we’re going to make a lot of money if we can impress the Rockefellers.”

“Whoo hoo!” he cheers, climbing out of the car. “San Fran, I hope you’re ready for me!”

You’re dragging the coolers out of the back seat when you are descended upon by a herd of servants, dressed in black so as not to distract from the festivities, so they can fade into the backdrop, so they can become invisible. You and Amir have missed the memo. Your sundress is from Kmart: white with pink zinnias, a cheap and unextraordinary flower for an undistinguished woman from an anonymous town in one of the most impoverished states in the nation. Amir is wearing neon orange shorts and a (very tight) t-shirt from Queen’s Magic Tour that he found at a yard sale.

“These are the cakes?” the head butler asks impatiently, a grim-faced man with salt and pepper hair and spotless white gloves.

“Yeah, that box has the coconut cake, and that one has the key lime, and there are the Cap’n Crunch Treats, and…hey! Wait!” You watch helplessly as the fleet of servants ferry the boxes up the porch steps and into the house. You and Amir stare at each other as you stand abandoned on the cobblestones. “What do we do now?”

“Do we just…leave…?!”

“You made it!” Alicent cries, sailing out of the doorway and swathed in a flowing cream-colored gown. Her large dark eyes are bright and ever-shifting, almost manic; sunlight shimmers on her auburn hair. There is music pouring out behind her, thudding but indistinct, rumbling bass, heady guitar strums. “Come inside. You simply must come in.”

“Oh, we couldn’t impose!” Amir says, already inching towards the house.

“I’ll hear no more of that. You rescued me in my hour of need and I shall not forget it.” Alicent beckons you closer. Her smile is broad and radiant but tight, like she’s having to remember to keep it that way, like her muscles are beginning to ache. “Enjoy some hors d’oeuvres, at least. We have shrimp cocktail, miniature quiches, vol-au-vents, clams casino, Swedish meatballs, little smokies, deviled eggs with paprika, and lots of champagne! Quickly now. There are some people I’d like you to meet.”

Amir glances back at you as you follow him up the porch steps. “People, huh?”

The Great Dane stalks over to you, sniffs, growls deep and low. You freeze, not wanting to provoke it. Its eyes—muddy greenish-brown and swimming with a cunning hostility—remind you of an alligator’s, not the five-footer that idles on your lawn but one of the true monsters of the bayou, old and grizzled and always hungry.

“Vhagar, no!” Alicent scolds, pushing the beast’s massive muzzle away. You imagine it chomping on her hand until it’s gone: one bite, two bites, nothing left but gristle and blood. “No! Bad dog! Go away, go!” The Great Dane reluctantly retreats, glowering from behind a column. “I’m so sorry about that. I’m utterly mortified. She’s terribly unfriendly, but she doesn’t bite. Usually.”

“It’s fine!” you say, heart still racing.

“She belongs to my son. My children…their obsessions confound me. But as mothers, we’re powerless to stop them, aren’t we?”

“I suppose so,” you reply, thinking of Cadi’s wildness, willfulness; though trying to change her would feel wrong.

“Now I certainly owe you a glass of champagne,” Alicent says, billowing like a cloud into the house, her gold heels clicking on the marble floor.

You pass through the doorway and into a vast, crowded foyer, all white and gold: a massive crystalline chandelier, oriental vases and sculptures of men you don’t recognize, paintings on the wall, servants flitting around with trays of hors d’oeuvres. On one table is a tower of champagne glasses, each with a single red cherry marooned inside. Guests mingle in their sport coats and suits and taffeta and sequins, and oddly, none of them are talking about the couple whose engagement is being celebrated. They talk instead about ski trips, polo matches, oil futures, the Soviets, the Saudis, the godawful humidity in this misfortunate corner of the world that they can’t wait to leave. There are stained glass windows everywhere, scenes of suns, stars, sunflowers, dragonflies, lemon trees, sand on beaches. It’s cold, extremely cold, frigid drafts gushing from the air conditioning vents. A Dire Straits song pours not from a Panasonic boombox but from a stereo system with a pair of speakers as tall as you are, Sultans Of Swing. There is a baffling dual chorus clanging around in your skull: Nobody needs this. I’ll never be able to give my daughter anything like this.

Amir whistles as he peers around, eyes wide behind his tortoiseshell glasses. “This place must cost a fortune to cool.”

“I Teleftaia Epithymia.” Alicent struggles with the pronunciation; she speaks slowly, effortfully. “It’s what my husband named the house. What we named the house, I mean. It’s Greek for The Last Desire. As in, no one could possibly want anything more than what this home can offer. Isn’t that poetic? I’ve fallen quite in love with it.” Still, there is that slight nervousness to everything she does, that over-eagerness to please, that restless rushing fidgeting. She wears large gold teardrop earrings that she keeps touching. “We knew we’d have to build something here for the new project on the lake. My son is overseeing it, and he’ll have to spend the next year here, at least. It’s a big step for him. It’s the first drilling operation he’s been given command of. And he—”

“Alicent!” A man comes striding through the crowd. He has shoulder-length pale blonde hair and is wearing a black pinstripe suit, a business suit, authoritative but not joyful. He doesn’t notice you or Amir. You don’t exist to him yet. “Where the hell is the ice sculpture? You said there would be an ice sculpture.”

“It’s on its way, darling. I already called.”

“It should be here now!”

“Viserys, please.” Alicent’s voice is low, embarrassed. “The driver got lost, you know our address is new. They stopped at a payphone and rang us and I straightened it out. They’ll arrive any minute.”

“They better,” the man grumbles. “It’s her family’s crest, for Christ’s sake. We need that ice dragon.”

“This is my husband,” Alicent tells you and Amir, forced smile, pleading eyes, trying to pivot. “Viserys, do you remember the wonderful people I told you about? From Hummingbird Bakery?”

“Bakery?” He seems to have only a vague recollection and even less interest. His gaze is already wandering to other guests. He flashes a grin and waves at a few middle-aged men in grey suits.

“They saved me. They were able to bake us six beautiful cakes with only two days’ notice.”

“And Cap’n Crunch Treats,” Amir adds.

Now Viserys Targaryen does turn his attention to you, and his forehead knits into perturbed wrinkles. His cool blue eyes skate over your Kmart dress, your forearms still dotted with flour and frosting, your cheap pink flats with bows on the front. “It’s a pleasure.” Then he looks to Amir—orange shorts, too-tight shirt that stops at his navel, dogwood flower in his hair—and seems to startle a little. “Alicent, you didn’t mention…uh…he’s…oh well. Too late now. It can’t be helped.”

You and Amir share a glance, polite smiles pasted on your faces. Alicent is abjectly horrified. “Viserys, he’s extremely professional.”

“There are the Lannisters. I must be off.” And the Targaryen family patriarch unceremoniously departs. You and Amir pretend to admire the stained glass windows. Alicent picks at the beds of her fingernails, her rings jangling against each other, her eyes misty.

Criston appears out of nowhere, wearing a white suit with a zebra print shirt underneath. Today his single earring is silver to match. He glides a hand around Alicent’s waist and leans in so close that his nose brushes her fiery hair. “What? What do you need?”

“The ice sculpture people—”

“I’ll wait outside for them,” Criston says, and departs as swiftly as he arrived.

“Please allow me to give you a quick tour of the house,” Alicent says, recovering somewhat. “I’m so grateful for your help. And things keep happening that only make me feel more indebted.” Then she hands each of you a flute of champagne, spins on her heels, and leads you out of the foyer.

Each room is a different color. The living room is red, furniture of lush velvet and Italian leather, bookshelves tall enough to need ladders, a brick fireplace that they’ll never use. Through a pair of French doors you can glimpse a garden and a pool with a water slide. The dining room is a cheerful butter yellow. The kitchen is teal, and like all the rest of the house has stained glass windows to match; these are shaped like a cathedral’s and run all the way up to the ceiling. Servants have arrayed your cakes on the counter, each with a label handwritten in cursive and a set of knives to cut it with. A plate of Cap’n Crunch Treats has been tucked away back by the stove like something they’re a little ashamed of.

Everywhere she goes, Alicent introduces you and Amir to the guests she crosses paths with. “Have you met these heavenly people from Hummingbird Bakery yet? Yes, they’re local, true Louisianans! I see you’ve already helped yourself to a slice of the key lime cake. Isn’t it just fantastic?! And a gorgeous shade of green! It’s so peculiar, you won’t believe what this sweetheart has living in her yard, a real-life alligator…”

You whisper to Amir: “Are we her pet poor people?”

“You might be. I’m proudly undomesticated.”

“Christabel!” Alicent shouts jubilantly as the girl scrolls into the kitchen. “There you are, dear! Come see your cakes.”

Christabel complies, shy but agreeable, peeking out from under a shock of feathery blonde bangs. She wears gleaming diamond earrings and a very bridal white one-shoulder dress, showing quite a bit of skin; you notice that some of the other guests milling about the kitchen cast her judgmental smirks. Christabel asks Alicent, as if she’s afraid of the answer: “He’s not here yet?”

“You know how busy he’s been,” Alicent says, apologetic. You think, remembering the drunk man from the holding cell: Yeah, busy committing misdemeanors. “Those rigs…the S&P 500…anyway, he’ll be home before you know it. In the meantime, let me get you a piece of cake. You’re disappearing, love.”

Christabel skims a palm down the front of her dress self-consciously. “Alright. Just a tiny one.” Then she acknowledges you and Amir. “You must be the masterminds then. Alicent told me all about you.”

Amir says: “About our excellent service and reasonable prices?”

“Yes.” Christabel isn’t skittish like Alicent, but there’s a sort of pensiveness to her, an impression that she is eternally woolgathering. Now she looks at you in particular with a small, warm smile. “And about how beautiful you are.”

Amir laughs at your stunned expression. Me? Beautiful? And the only other person to call you that in years has been Aemond, tangled up with you on your bed in your falling-down house, and you aren’t sure if that counts. “Oh, um, thank you,” you manage. “I really like your dress.”

“Really? I fear people think it’s too…revealing. I liked it fine this morning when I put it on. I didn’t have any notion it might not be suitable. Now I’m feeling like an idiot.”

“No, it’s so nice!” you say, pained for her, one misfit recognizing another. “I never would have thought there was anything wrong with it.”

Alicent gets a plate from the pile on the counter. “What flavor would you like, Christabel?”

“Whatever this one is.” She points to the vanilla bean cake, adorned with Amir’s frosting flowers. “Isn’t it stunning, with all the colors?”

“Amir is the artist,” you say. “I love wildflowers.”

Alicent asks: “Did you have them at your wedding?”

No one bothered. No one remembered. “I wanted to.”

“Wouldn’t that be lovely, Christabel?” Alicent passes her a slice of vanilla bean cake. “Wildflowers? It would be different. Everyone has roses or lilies or something. But wildflowers? I can’t recall ever going to a wedding with wildflowers. Especially if you’re going to get married here. It would fit with the scenery. This place is so exotic, so untamed!”

Christabel nods, taking nibbles of her cake. “Wow, this is delicious! Yes, wildflowers. We could use them for the bouquet, and the corsages…”

“Now we just need a venue.” Alicent sighs. “We’ve had such a terrible time trying to find a good place. Somewhere historic, but not rundown or unsavory. I mean, you can’t get married on an old plantation or something. Bloody hell. How tone-deaf would that be?”

“Very tone-deaf,” Amir concurs.

“There’s a church across the lake in Belle River that you might like,” you say. “The Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens. It’s a historic site, I believe. It’s not very big, but it would make for nice pictures.”

“There’s an idea!” Alicent chirps, then she is stricken as a woman walks into the kitchen. Her fair hair is tied up in a messy bun. She wears a white t-shirt stained with dirt, denim overalls, and Converse Chucks. There is a bluish-green chameleon perched on her shoulder, goggling at everyone with its rotating, conical eyes. “Helaena, put your dress on.”

“Dreamfyre doesn’t like the silk. She won’t sit on my shoulder if I’m wearing it.”

“Helaena, it’s a lizard.” Alicent is exasperated. “Go upstairs, stick it back in its cage, and put your dress on, now.”

“Fine,” Helaena mumbles before wandering off.

“Oh, is that the ice sculpture?!” Alicent cries, peeking out into the foyer through the kitchen doorway. “At last! If you’ll excuse me…” She scurries off to attend to it, Christabel trailing her like a shadow.

You put your empty champagne flute in the sink. “I need to go find a bathroom.”

“I need some shrimp cocktail,” Amir replies. “Do you think I should try to explain the evils of gentrification to people?”

You giggle. “Yeah, definitely. Start with Viserys.” You part ways, Amir headed towards the foyer, you journeying down a mysterious hallway that adjoins the kitchen. The walls are flame orange and decorated with portraits of grave blonde people, each with an outlandish name etched into the plaque beneath its likeness: Baelon, Alyssa, Jaehaerys, Alysanne, Aenys, another Alyssa, Aegon, Rhaenys, Visenya. “This family is so fucking weird,” you mutter to yourself as you continue down the hall.

You find a bathroom, but there’s already a hoard of glamorous, ornamented women waiting outside of it. They’re chattering about which is the superior place to take a holiday, the Canary Islands or the south of France. They stare at you like you’re vermin, a nutria or a raccoon. You keep moving.

At the top of a spiral staircase, you find another hallway. The first door you try is a home movie theater complete with a popcorn machine, neon signage, several rows of seating and a plethora of bean bag chairs. Behind the second door is a bedroom, but it’s not unoccupied. You are greeted by the sight of the man who must be the groom. He looks much like he did when he was detained in a holding cell of the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office: slicked-back hair, unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, flushed cheeks, tiny shorts, flip flops. He’s hunched over a desk with three lines of white powder on it. There’s an HP computer—something you’ve never seen in person before—in one corner of the room, a television and collection of hundreds of VHS tapes in the other. His walls are black and cluttered with posters of punk rock bands, the Ramones, the Clash, the Misfits, Minor Threat, Social Distortion, Bad Religion. His Akai stereo is blaring Fight For Your Right by the Beastie Boys.

“What?” the man says agitatedly. There’s powder on his fingers and his nose. “What? What? Who are you? What do you want?”

“Um, sorry, I was just…uh…” There’s some kind of rodent running around on his unmade bed. Its fur is a sandy yellow color, its body freakishly long and four legs stumpy. What the fuck. “I was looking for a bathroom.”

He blinks, muddled recollection. “You’re the cake lady.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Delivering cakes.”

“Oh. Right.” He points directly across the hall. “There’s a bathroom.”

“Okay, great, thanks.” He starts snorting another line before you’ve even shut the door.

You spend a minute or two in the Targaryens’ lilac-colored bathroom, paintings of the night sky hung on the walls—comets, moons, stars, galaxies—and amethyst geodes on the sink, a stained glass window with a scene of a lavender field. By the time you navigate back down to the kitchen, the man is there. He’s eating a Cap’n Crunch Treat, cocaine still streaked across his pink face and caught in his wisp of a mustache.

“You did this,” he says. “I know you did. It’s too good to be anyone but you.”

With his hand that’s not holding the Cap’n Crunch Treat, he’s cradling the lean rodent against his bare chest like an infant. “What is that? A weasel?”

“It’s a ferret. His name is Sunfyre.” The man nods to a photograph pinned to the refrigerator with magnets shaped like miniature oil rigs. There are two people in the frame, a woman and a girl, their cheeks squished together as they laugh on a pink sand beach of some topical island you’ll never visit. “That’s my dad’s first wife.”

“He’s divorced?”

“Widowed. She died in a car accident.” He taps on the girl in the picture, perhaps Cadi’s age. “That’s my half-sister Rhaenyra. She’s an Olympic fencer. She lives in the Lake District and fucks our uncle.”

You shake your head. You must have misheard him. “She what?”

“Yeah, I know how it sounds. I’m not kidding. She lives in a castle and fucks our uncle and has kids with him. Fucking sick, man. And I’m the screwup? Because I like coke and strippers? I’m supposed to feel bad about that? Bite me, Viserys.” He grabs a second Cap’n Crunch Treat and gestures for you to follow him into the foyer. “Come on. You need some champagne.”

You chuckle. Mental or not, there’s something likeable about him…though you can’t say you envy Christabel. To be married to someone like this man must be hellish. Now, to be married to someone like Aemond… “I’ve already had a glass.”

“Okay, well I need some champagne, and I don’t want to go out there alone.” His flip flops slap noisily against the marble floor as he plods out of the kitchen. He looks back to see if you’re following, and then you hurry after him. The heir to the Jade Dragon fortune weaves through the crowd, ignoring everyone and being ignored in return. In the packed foyer, he plucks a flute of champagne from the tower and chugs it. He eats the cherry and holds up the stem. “You know how to tie these with your tongue?”

“No, I definitely do not.”

“I do,” he announces proudly. He shoves the stem in his mouth, wiggles it around for a while, accidentally swallows it and has to hack it back up. He spits the cherry stem onto the pristine white floor, attracting a few grimaces. “Wait. Wait. Let me try again.” He reaches for another glass of champagne. The opening notes of Asia’s Heat Of The Moment boom from the speakers.

You give him a sympathetic smile. “Pre-wedding jitters?”

He snorts. “I’m not the one getting married.”

“Wait, you’re not?”

He cackles, like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “I already have a wife. Stephanie, she’s a princess from Monaco. Right now she’s in Ibiza or something. I haven’t seen her since New Year’s. This New Year’s? Last New Year’s? I’m not sure. Maybe it was the Grand Prix. I remember a lot of confetti.”

You gape at him. “So who’s getting married?”

“My brother Aemond.”

“Who?!”

He points with his Cap’n Crunch Treat. Across the foyer by the front door, Aemond is grinning and accepting congratulations from a gaggle of men in suits: black, grey, navy, tan. Aemond himself is wearing emerald green, dark and luxurious and striking and expensive, because he’s a Targaryen who’s marrying a noblewoman and he’s an oil tycoon and a millionaire and he is most certainly not single and not looking to change that.

“You fucking liar,” you hiss.

The man with the coke in his mustache peers over at you. “Huh?”

You can’t tear your eyes away from Aemond. You feel scarlet rage soaking into you drip by drip, you feel the blood turning hot beneath your skin. You shouldn’t be this upset over a man you barely know, you don’t understand why you are. Except part of you does, and it’s heartbreaking, and it’s humiliating beyond words. Of course he’s marrying someone like Christabel. Of course he’d never choose me.

Aemond bids farewell to his well-wishers, and as he turns away from them his right eye catches on you. From across the room, his face shifts from disbelief to astonishment to horror. His jaw drops open. The flute of champagne he’d been clasping shatters against the marble floor. Immediately, a flock of servants materialize to clean up the mess. You flee from the foyer to the living room, through the French doors, into the garden. It’s midday and hot as hell, humid, swampy, suffocating to the British aristocrats that fill the house. You don’t see anyone else outside. You run past the swimming pool and through cobblestone trails bordered by blue cardinal flowers, orange coneflowers, coral honeysuckle, resurrection ferns, maypops, white sage, firewheels, magnolias, cinnamon ferns. You stop at the edge of a fish pond larger than your kitchen and glare down into the water, trying not to let tears blur your vision as glimmers of scales—red, orange, black, white, gold—dart beneath the transparent rippling water.

I have to go back inside. I can’t leave without Amir. I can’t leave without formally saying goodbye to Alicent and thanking her for her hospitality and licking the boots of these people so they’ll throw just enough cash at me to keep a roof over my daughter’s head.

You hear hurried footsteps; Aemond appears on the cobblestones. He’s found you, but that’s as far ahead as he’s planned. He holds his hands open, not knowing what to say.

“You told me you didn’t have a girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“She’s your fiancée, that’s worse, don’t you get how that’s worse?!”

“Okay, this looks bad, but it’s not what you think—”

“You’re marrying her, right?” you demand, and he hesitates. “Right?!”

“Yes,” Aemond admits, and it feels like knuckles to your stomach.

“Then you’re a liar and a cheater.”

“It’s not…it’s…” He gestures frantically, not knowing how to explain, how to translate it into words you’ll understand. “There’s not an expectation of fidelity.”

“Does Christabel know that?”

“That’s the thing, that’s what you don’t get, it’s not like that between us. We don’t discuss it, we’re not…” More vague, frenzied gestures. “We’re not…um…” He groans, rubbing his scarred forehead. “We’re not fucking. At all. Nothing close to it. It’s not a physical relationship yet.”

“But she doesn’t know about me.”

“No, God no, of course not.”

“So she thinks you’re…abstinent…?”

He sighs, defeated. “I don’t know. I don’t really care, honestly.”

“Why aren’t you sleeping with her?”

“Because we can’t until we’re married.”

“I’m sorry, are you Pilgrims?! Are you time travelers from the 1400s?!”

“It’s her family’s standards,” Aemond says. “It’s not uncommon for women of her…status.”

“Girl,” you pitch at him. “She’s a girl. How old is she? Eighteen?”

“Nineteen.”

You’re furious that she exists; you’re furious on her behalf. “And she’s planning her fairytale wedding while you collect local women to act out your kinky fantasies with.”

“One woman,” Aemond says softly.

“What?”

“There’s one woman currently. Just you.”

You shake your head, swiping enraged tears from your cheeks. “Why are you marrying her?”

“It’s sort of an…arranged thing.”

You stare at him. “Someone set you up?”

“My father knows her father. They think it’s a good match. Her family needs money, my father wants ties to the nobility. She’s one of probably five people on this planet that he would approve of. And she seems enthusiastic about it, so it’s happening.”

“Aemond, that is an insanely bad idea.”

“I have to do it.”

“You’re marrying her because your dad told you to?!” You explode. “Are you serious?! Everyone with the sole exception of Amir told me to stay with Willis, my friends, my family, my neighbors, my bakery customers, the checkout ladies at the Piggly Wiggly, my goddamn mailman, my father was in the hospital dying of lung cancer saying that his last wish was for me to never get divorced, and I still went through with it because I knew it was the right thing to do and no one was going to stop me!”

“I don’t want to talk about Willis,” Aemond snaps.

“Well, he’s kind of an inescapable aspect of my existence, so if I can get over it I’m sure you can too.”

“I hate that guy,” Aemond seethes, and you have no idea how to respond. You gaze down into the pond and watch scales and fins and tails fly like bullets beneath the surface.

“Those are the biggest goldfish I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“They’re koi,” Aemond scoffs.

“Oh, is that what they teach people about at Imperial College in London? Fancy fucking fish?”

“Don’t be a bitch to me, just…just give me a second, I didn’t think I was going to have this conversation until tonight, this is not how I wanted it to go.”

You say quietly, betrayed: “You’re a robber baron.”

“What? Like Vanderbilt or Rockefeller, that kind of robber baron, that’s who you think I am?!”

“That’s who you are! You hoard and exploit and use and pollute and destroy! I don’t destroy things, I create them!”

“You bake cupcakes!”

“And I don’t hurt anyone by doing it!”

“You are so goddamn delusional, you are completely insane—”

You start counting out crimes on your fingers. “I don’t kill people, I don’t endanger the Earth, I didn’t irrevocably screw up Ketchikan, Alaska—”

“So I’m terrible because I want to bring jobs to your pathetic, dead-end town?! Because I want there to be a few less pregnant teenagers and more high school diplomas? That makes me a war criminal, that puts me right up there with Jaruzelski or Pinochet?!” He realizes what he’s said when he sees the wounded fury unfold on your face. “Oh fuck. Come on, I didn’t mean you.”

“No, you just meant people who are exactly like me in every way.”

“You know what? I take it back,” Aemond says, knife-sharp, wrathful. “I did mean you. Because you are wasting your life here, and you’re too stubborn or too scared or too much of both to recognize an opportunity to have something more. Don’t you think you deserve better? Don’t you think your kid deserves better?”

“I built something here, I made a future for myself and my daughter here, and you’re going to work our people to death and poison the lake and then pack up and leave when it all goes wrong because that’s what oil tycoons do! The opportunity is for you, not us! More mansions, more champagne, more coke, more demented pets!”

“Then leave! Get in your car and drive back to your sad, structurally unsound house and live happily ever after with whatever braindead barbarian you marry next.”

“I will,” you pitch back. “Enjoy being married to your marquess.”

“She’s not a marquess. Her dad is the marquess. She won’t inherit the title until he dies.”

“Enjoy being married to your future marquess, you pretentious prick.”

“Women can’t be marquesses. They can only be marchionesses.”

“Yeah, you’re so smart. I’m really impressed. At least I don’t have to tie people to beds to delude myself into thinking I have some semblance of control over my life.”

You storm through the garden and back into the house as Aemond watches you, violently disappointed. You yank open one of the French doors and slip into the midst of the festivities. Illustrious guests are still mingling, toasting, boasting, scrutinizing you skeptically when they notice you at all. In the archway between the living room and the foyer, Amir joins you, sipping a flute of champagne.

“Hey, ho! Did you get lost? Did you find the cellar where they keep the bodies of their political enemies?” He has eaten so many hors d’oeuvres he’s basically waddling. “You look stressed. How about a nice shrimp cocktail?” He follows your eyeline to where Aemond is trying to sneak covertly into the living room through the French doors. Christabel intercepts him, relieved that he’s finally arrived, beaming, sparkling, entirely unaware of any conflict. Aemond conjures up a smile, fond yet guarded. She doesn’t touch him, and he doesn’t touch her either. He clasps his hands behind his back instead. “Is that…?!”

“Yeah.”

“And he’s…?!”

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” Amir says. “Oh.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, his dark eyes wide and shellshocked. “We should have made him buy all of us Nintendos and a week at horse camp.”

“I want to go home.”

“You got it, let me just grab a few more of those Swedish meatballs—”

“Amir,” you say, tears brimming in your eyes. “I really want to go home.”

“Okay, okay.” He slings an arm around your shoulder, smacks a kiss against your temple, walks with you towards the front door. “Then let’s go home.”

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x you

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a-doubleh-x · 25 days

Text

Why I like Chaggie

Hey! My last casual ship review did pretty well, so here I am with another! Needless to say, but thank you all for the interactions, I appreciate it very much 🥰

Last time I talked about Charlastor, a notorious controversial ship and today I'll talk about a surprisingly controversial ship: Chaggie. Why do people dislike this ship? I'll go a bit into it on the second half of this post, but first I'll talk on the positive I see in this cute couple.

First of all, as a guy in his late twenties who's been on at least one relationship, I will say that I appreciate a relation that's mostly based on comfort and support. Some people might think that's boring or not quite the basis of romance, but I think quite the opposite. Johnathan Decker, a licensed couples therapist on youtube (you might know him from Cinema Therapy) often talks about how safety and mutual understanding are the basis of any lasting relationship.

At the start of the Amazon series, Charlie and Vaggie have been together for 3 years, which is evident in many of their day to day interactions. They're comfortable with each other, they rely on each other and best of all, they still coo every now and then over how adorable the other is.

That is not to say the relationship is without conflict, which in my opinion as a writer it's the lifeblood of any good story. Vaggie is clearly quite codependent of Charlie, which is why a large portion of her self worth is based on being useful to her. However, I think the two of them do a decent job of talking through the problems this brings sometimes, such as episode 3.

I think it's cool that the relationship seems to work despite their rocky moments. Charlie most likely thinks a person like Vaggie is a breath of fresh air in Hell, she's selfless, loyal and dedicated. That's probably the reason why she has so much patience with her, a feeling that I'm certain is mutual. Vaggie is clearly very aware of how silly and idealistic Charlie is, in fact she often tries to nudge her to be careful with her attitude. And even though she may not agree with everything, she still always supports her without appearing judgemental, which I think speaks volumes of her character.

Now, let's talk about the shortcomings in the face of the audience. Some people think there's not enough substance in canon to be sold on the couple, which I think is a valid opinion. Some people argue that Chaggie's relationship is boring and not quite as interesting to watch as Charlastor, which I don't entirely agree with. Some people plain dislike or hate Vaggie because they think she's just a naggy chick who is an awful partner to Charlie in every way, which I *definitely* don't agree with.

My opinion falls in a more moderate standpoint. I think, even in the series, their relationship isn't boring, but it could've been presented better. While I said earlier that I think conflict is good in a story, I think a problem in the series that's probably unintentional is that most of the story beats with Charlie and Vaggie are negative.

In episode 3, they have a fight over their lack of communication. In episode 6, Vaggie puts her own secret status as a fallen angel over Charlie, which harms her later. And in episode 7, Charlie spends most of the episode mad at Vaggie and they make up offscreen, which is something unilaterally most fans believe was a mistake.

To the showrunner's credit, there are some positive major story beats. There's Charlie's trust fall on Vaggie, which was cute. There's their beautiful duet in episode 8. And there's them fighting alongside each other in the final battle.

Unfortunately, the fact their arc is a bit wonky and doesn't have a proper buildup makes it so that the climax (the duet) may feel a bit unearned. I don't want to make this whole post about the series because I could spend all day talking about it, so I'll just say for now that i underdtand why some people aren't sold on the ship.

I will say. Some fans have some very beautiful, gorgeous pictures of this ship. There's this great comic made by squids-and-fruitcake that's been running around about Charlie giving Vaggie a gift for Christmas (here's a youtube link in case you want to watch a dub, I couldn't find the original)

youtube

I think it's a great example of why this relationship works: they love each other. They may not completely understand each other's circumstances, but they try every day and are still together because of their mutual effort.

Charlie herself, as Hell's number 1 laughingstock can really use the support and the fact that Vaggie supports her even though she doesn't have all the answers means a lot to her. She brings her stability, peace and affection, all things she lacked until she met her.

Vaggie, on the other hand, who was plunged against her will into a pit of violence and cynicism also needs Charlie's perspective. She loves the fact that she cares about something bigger than herself, that she wants to help damned people like her, which given her circumstances I think it's something she also needs in a fundamental level.

That haz bin my review for today! What do you think? Do you like Chaggie? Do you think it could've been written better? What's your favorite interaction between them? Let me hear your thoughts! It's been fun to put my thoughts down for casual reviews, I hadn't done it before, so expect more in the future while I'm still working on the next chapter of my fanfic.

I think I already have an idea about what my next Hazbin post is going to be about (hint: it has to do with Angel Dust). Thank you again for all the love, hope to see you all soon!

#hazbin hotel #charlie morningstar #vaggie #chaggie #Youtube

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incandescent-creativity · 28 days

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Ash is so mean in her narration and I’m kind of living for it. These are all from chapter one alone.

My response is less enthusiastic, but I think it would be difficult for anybody to match this level of energy.

“Well, I don’t know what you do here,” he says, apparently incapable of understanding the words Help Center written on my door, “but I think the most pressing thing is breakfast.”

“My name is Ash,” I say, doing my best to sound like a helpful Auxiliary and not use the flat sarcasm linked to the fact that I am wearing a name tag.

I am a helpful Auxiliary. It is literally my job to help people. Even strange people.

If he didn’t sound so casually sincere when he said it, I would say he is making it sound like I’m the stupid one in this conversation.

(right after Zach asks her where he is) With how pale his hair is, I imagine any blood from a head wound would stand out. And with his skin tone, I should be able to see any bruises easily. But I don’t see anything. Is he… serious?

… Zach says with completely unearned confidence.

#my writing #the dynamic duo #character: ash #lore book 1

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dasinclair · 26 days

Note

king lizard for the ask thing :3

lizzy wizzy

favorite thing about them: his confidence is very charming to me even if it's largely unearned. he's got a classic villain vibe that i really enjoy, from his dress style to his little mannerisms and monologues. i like that he can be something of a commanding presence (to the lizards) but also so casual, like the scene of him putting his legs up on the nuclear control board

least favorite thing about them: he seems to view the other league members as disposable even though they've probably been there for him since he was a kid. also that he gets punched so much in his beautiful face. in the comic he talks about his "infectious seed" and that's kinda nasty

favorite line: big fan of how he says "well, look at this brave little soldier"

brOTP: i will take this as favorite non-romantic relationship and say i'm intrigued by the dynamic between him and his mom. they appear to be the only "actual" lizard people in the bunch (i imagine them as a rare / endangered species) and she's been preparing him for this position all his life. queen lizard seemed to command more respect than he does and he's got to live up to her name. i imagine that'd be kind of a weak spot for him

OTP: my lizardsona that i haven't fully designed yet. their name is skink. skink is very excited for carnage and bloodshed but king lizard keeps making them do technical stuff around the HQ because he likes them too much to send them out on the field where they will surely die

nOTP: this is a question for characters who actually get shipped with people

random headcanons: his fangs are retractable (which is why we only see them in that one shot) and also he has more reptile traits in my mindscape like claws and a forked tongue... he gets cold a lot and will wrap up in his cape but only if he thinks nobody's looking. everybody pretends not to notice that he has a fake Leader Voice that he puts on. he likes citrus flavored things and he loves complaining

unpopular opinion: he isn't stupid, nor is he completely unqualified. i feel like the fact he was able to escape prison and take out supreme lizard by himself is proof enough of that. but he puts his pride above all else and that's his main problem

song i associate with them: black venom or bring it (snakes on a plane)

favorite picture of them: hard call but i really do like this one

#king lizard

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lurkingshan · 6 months

Note

I hate how Boston has been treated in the show and by some parts of fandom just cos he doesn’t conform to the norms of monogamy and likes casual sex. I also get the feeling the finale favoured the branded pairings so their couples ended up endgame even if it didn’t make sense.

Neo is not in a branded pairing so his character’s story arc got screwed over. Sighs… I agree with your other anon that Boston leaving the toxic friend group is a silver lining. That’s the only positive thing for Boston. I still hate how he’s been treated overall.

The finale definitely favored the branded pairs and sometimes in a way that didn't track with who they were or their stories up to last week. Ray basically got a personality transplant this ep (which can be hand-waved away by his relative sobriety) in order to portray him as suddenly perceptive and make him and Sand a stable couple all of a sudden; it felt very off to me. And did you notice how they said they were going to call their new business SandRay? Giving themselves a literal ship name! Kind of on the nose.

Mew and Top barely felt like themselves in some parts of this ep; I definitely had a few out of body moments where I felt like I was back in bossbabe watching Gun and Cher. Since when is Mew clingy and cuddly and cutesy? It was such a weird vibe all of a sudden. And that fire alarm scene was plainly only to reassure the audience that Top didn't lie about his trauma; that scene was there to respond to fan outcry about Top's character, it served no other narrative function. For me, the over the top happiness of their ending after weeks of being told they don't trust each other just felt false.

As for Boston and Nick. What really gets my goat about this ending for them is that we have spent weeks in a narrative about how Nick gets Boston in a way other people do not. He told him point blank that he doesn't have to change, he loves him for who he is. And this finale completely undercut that. I was actually on board for their conversation about the different way they see the meaning of being faens; for Boston that is all about emotion and quality time and has nothing to do with sex while for Nick it's all or nothing. That's valid as a final conflict for them. I could have even been happy with an ending where they mutually decided to part ways because of this impasse. But instead, we got Boston desperate and confused and Nick firmly rejecting him, leaving him alone on the concrete. That's fucking rancid as an ending for them after everything they've been through.

And even with that said, had the whole show stayed true to its original tone of mess and chaos and destruction, I could have rolled with that bad ending for Boston and Nick if the sentiments of it were echoed across the show. But they decidedly were not. The narrative singled them out for this shitty ending while the other couples got to bask in unearned happiness. I get madder the more I think about it.

#only friends the series #thai bl #shan answers

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captainresources · 2 months

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hey, tumblr rpc. we're a deeply parasocial space and we need to accept that!

i've noticed an uptick in people preferring to remain insular / friend focused or indicate to not immediately express familiarity, or say that they owe their mutuals nothing. and that's true! this isn't to say that you can't make true friendships, or come to know someone fully, in the roleplay community: i'm a part of it, and i've met friends i now have known for more than ten years. but there's a difference between people having conversations that aren't just about rp (e.g., personal life, depending on each other for support on tough times as the people involved slowly open up) for extended periods of time, and having casual conversations solely about rp over 6 - 7 months and going no further than that. to some people, that may be friendship, but the reality is that you really don't know that person, and we need to do better and respect that boundary. being mutuals isn't automatic friendship. seeing what your mutuals post on the dash is only a fraction of what they are actually like, and it is their prerogative to share as much or as little as they want. unfollowing, soft or hardblocking isn't personal. you cannot press people to share about themselves when they do not wish to. when people specify "i owe nobody nothing", it refers to acting on an unearned sense of familiarity. pursuing friendship is natural! but in online spaces where activity varies and people are now mostly offline due to busy personal lives, it's imperative we remain courteous and respectful. again, this is a parasocial environment, and that's fine. do better, get to know people naturally, and don't hold boundary establishing against them.

#rp resources #rp psa #roleplay psa #maybe it's just my own perception but i've noticed this and i'm sure i'm not the only one feeling this way

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beansidhebumbling · 1 month

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Snippet from This Shared Hunger- Chapter 1

Her interest in learning to hunt was met with wariness by Feyre, like it might be some trick designed to shred the fragile bond between them, but a cautious acceptance was offered all the same. A tender that would have been rescinded if Feyre had the slightest notion that Nesta had slightly larger, more magical targets than rabbits and deer.

Flint eyes looking at her, like she might be a mirage still, weeks into her tutelage, in the shadows before dawn as they trekked through the thicket. She had to admit, in the bracing air, with the cloak of peace a mutual silence brought, that she was rather enjoying learning to hunt although the her lack of skill was eating at her. She could not afford to be a slow learner. She had always sat by in the desperate, though less dire times, in hopes their thrice-cursed father would do something, say something, attempt to provide maybe, or chastise her for barely tending the home as Feyre brought home meat she was never thanked for.

A mistake she now knew. One that lived, like a tapeworm inside her, its presence constantly felt, fattened on shame ever-present. In trying to bait her father, she had ruined what lived between herself and Feyre until their connection was a mere whisp, water of the womb and little else. No action came free. Hurting a man, who was somehow less than even that, had cost her a sister. The regret that formed a tumour in her lungs, made it hard to breathe around Feyre. She did not offer apologies that would be surely unwelcome and unwanted. Words cost nothing after all. She would show Feyre. She would save her, maybe then all her regrets, letters bundled into words, speeches well-rehearsed in the liminal hours of night, sitting like a stone within, would be worth more.

Feyre was a good teacher she mused, not for the first time, as her sibling showed her how to read a story from treads left in grass and mud. Hunched together, examining, what to Nesta looked like nothing at all but Feyre insisted was definitive proof a stag had passed through, she allowed herself to hope this could be built upon, seeing her sister gesticulate earnestly, eyes eager and bright, glancing at Nesta a little too often to be casual.

'See that bend there Nes, see the angle of these broken branches. See how deep the tracks are. He passed through here recently. We could catch him today!'

Feyre's voice was low and enthusiastic. A pang again in Nesta's stomach at how young her sister sounded.

'I believe you…hundreds wouldn't'

The dry retort is all she could muster. But her sister still huffed a soft laugh, air pushed from her lungs condensing into a foggy puff.

'Well as long as you believe me Nes, that's enough.'

The tone was cheeky, the words sincere, they were chiselled into her ribs as her breath caught in surprise. A love unearned. Feyre had always been the best of them.

#nesta #feyre #acotar #spring cleaning

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raineandsky · 1 year

Text

#25

Of all places the villain has been hit on, this has to be a new low.

She’s standing rather tensely in the canned food aisle, studying a tin of beans and pointedly ignoring the hero standing very blatantly next to her, dressed in casual civilian clothes and smirking at her with a level of audacity that she wishes she could get away with punching her for.

The villain always thought it odd that the heroes don’t keep their personas a secret. They never seem to get a moment’s peace, constantly swarmed by the masses, but most of them seem to revel in the attention. Most villains keep their personas as just that, a persona – mostly to avoid getting randomly attacked on their days out to work or shops or through the park. Something the villain hadn’t accounted for, though – hell, they doubt any villain would – was a hero taking an interest in her.

Unfortunately, her lack of enthusiasm in the other’s advances is only making the hero double down. She’s clearly used to people throwing themselves at her when she graces them with a conversation, and it seems she’s up for a challenge.

“You really do look familiar though,” she says for the fifth time as the villain dumps the can she was holding in her basket. “I’m sure I know you from somewhere.”

The hero recognises her from when she beat her ass into the ground the other day. Not that the villain would ever tell her that. She’s not about to have a throwdown in a supermarket. “I doubt that. I probably just look like someone you know.”

“Come on…” The hero gives her a nudge, and it takes a lot of self-restraint to not hit her for her unearned confidence. “You recognise me, right? I’m a hero. I thought you’d be more… interested that I know you.”

“Because you don’t know me,” the villain snaps, and the hero steps back with an unbothered laugh, her hands up in an innocent show of harmlessness. The villain moves to continue down the aisle, looking for a bag of rice, and the hero tails her like a goddamn lost puppy.

“I’ll figure it out.” She leans on the shelf next to the villain as she goes about looking at the brands in front of her. “You’re a mystery I’m willing to solve.”

“I’m a mystery because you’ve been talking to me for a minute,” she points out in annoyance. “And you’re not making me particularly inclined to talk to you.”

“Ouch.” The villain picks up a random bag and drops it into her basket. The last thing – finally she can leave, and escape the hero’s prying before she figures out who she’s talking to. She moves towards the tills, and she can see the other shoppers staring as the hero goes trailing after her, still talking. “Maybe I just think I recognise you because I see a lot of pretty people.”

The villain huffs a sarcastic laugh as she starts dumping her items on the conveyor belt. The cashier is staring at them, obviously jealous of the attention the villain is unwillingly receiving. “That’s not the compliment you think it is,” she snaps coldly.

“I called you pretty,” the hero tries a little desperately as the other traipses to the other end of the till to start shoving things into bags. The hero starts passing her each item idly, either without thinking or in a last ditch effort to get on the villain’s good side. “Can I not call you pretty?”

“No.”

“Attractive, then.”

“Look, [Hero].” The villain abandons the foods piling up to turn to the hero coldly. “I’m flattered, really, but I’m not interested. Back off.”

“Oh.” It seems the concept of not being adored is going in for the first time. “Could I… change your mind?”

The last thing is thankfully shovelled thoughtlessly into the villain’s bag. “Never, ever say that to anyone. Ever. Being a hero doesn’t mean you can’t be a creep.”

The hero scoffs in offence as she follows the villain out of the shop and to her car. “I’m not a creep.”

“You’ve followed me to my car,” she points out, a little nervous that this interaction is still happening. “That’s creepy.”

The hero sulks rather openly as she starts shoves the bags into her boot. “I don’t mean to be.”

“I’m sure.” The door shuts with a slam that’s a little harder than necessary and the hero flinches slightly. “I’m going home now.”

“Okay.” The hero darts forward to pull the driver’s door open for her, and she doesn’t thank her as she gets in. “Do you always shop today?”

“One-off,” the villain lies. “I have no intention of ever seeing you again after this enlightening first meeting.”

“But maybe–” The hero doesn’t get to finish her sentence as the car door slams shut, the engine growling to life. “I’ll see you again!” she calls through the glass, and the villain flips her off with a sarcastic smile as she pulls out.

She glances in the rear window a little ways down the road, the hero still watching her car recede. The conversation has done nothing to make her think any higher of heroes – if anything, she’s pinned down that her hero is a fucking freak. Of course she’s stuck with the weirdo.

She turns her gaze back to the road, just thankful that it’s over. She can’t wait to beat the hero into next week for her nerve.

#writing #creative writing #writing community #writers on tumblr #writblr #heroes and villains #hero x villain #wlw #oh my god ive been out filmin for my final film. for 8 hour days.#and we gotta lug all the (heavy ass) equipment up and down giant hills #its been 2 days and i STILL ACHE #my shoulders and my elbows (??) hurt so bad. i am going to enter a coma when this is over to recover i think

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davidaltofsky · 8 months

Text

@porcelainxxx1x1

Henry was still having to get used to how different things were around the White House than they were back at the palace but he was enjoying getting the chance to be here to help Alex out in the preparations for the big inauguration day. He carefully made his way through the building, slipping past assorted interns until he got to the little office that had been given to Alex while he worked "Alright, enough work for now, it's been several hours and you need a break" Henry said with the unearned confidence that came naturally to his family. He carefully lay out a tray of tea and cookies, though it killed him to not call them biscuits whenever they were with company, and looked over Alex's shoulder "Yeah you definitely need a break because a more alert Alex would know sitting those two next to each other is just asking for a civil war to break out by the end of the night so come on, grab a cup and relax" he whispered, kissing the man's cheek tenderly before moving to take the other seat in the room "So, take it we might be here a lot longer today to finish up all those preparations?" he asked as casually as he could while picking up his own tea and taking a little sip of it.

#henry x alex

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nakedmonkey · 8 months

Note

17 shivlina please?

Thank you, anon!

This is set after Safe Room

17. "I was so worried."

The sound of a car pulling up outside alerts Karolina of Shiv’s arrival and she’s got the door open before Shiv even reaches her doorstep.

“Hey,” Shiv says, and Karolina’s never been more pleased to see all that unearned confidence before.

Sure, Karolina’s emotions are on high alert tonight, and sure, the one and a half glasses of scotch she’s consumed prior to Shiv’s arrival might have a lot to do with it, but it’s been a hectic day, to say the least, and the sober, calm and collected Karolina of earlier today who could rationalize Shiv’s silence away, could easily push down the desire to pick up the phone herself and track her down, confirm her safety, is now buzzed and relieved in a very raw, very dangerous way.

“Hey,” she says, and congratulates herself for her neutral tone. Her self control should be admired. Awards should be given to her. Shiv walks straight through to Karolina’s living room, letting out a big dramatic groan as she produces a bottle of wine from a paper bag Karolina’s only now noticing.

“What a day,” says Shiv and sets the bottle down on the coffee table before shrugging off her blazer. “You knee deep in this shit still?”

Karolina blinks, looks down at her laptop, her inbox a rolodex of incoming emails she can’t possibly focus on anymore tonight. She nods and replies, “Hasn’t stopped all day.”

“Yeah. I heard you missed all the excitement. Where were you?”

“Oh uh, getting some coffee a few blocks down.”

“You don’t have your assistant do that?”

“She’s not very good at that, and I like getting a short walk in during the day–how did–did you get down to the safe room okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, it was fine. Why? Were you sitting at your little cafe, clutching your soy latte?” Shiv teases, barely looking at Karolina. She’s hyper in a way that’s new, rambling a little. “Are you just dying to go all 50’s damsel on me, crying, Oh, I was so worried?”

Karolina gives half a chuckle and sips her scotch.

“Yeah. You want a corkscrew?”

Shiv must pick up on the tense energy in the air because she finally looks up at Karolina, and then something dawns on her, like something cracking open, and her face falls. Her breath hitches a little as she takes a step forward. Reaching out a tentative hand, Shiv touches Karolina’s hip, steps closer still as she grasps her hand instead and squeezes it.

“I’m okay.”

Karolina nods. Shiv isn’t the only one avoiding overly emotional exchanges these days. It’s quite unfortunate that uncontrollable situations push an otherwise casual understanding into places where they might have some ties after all.

“I’m glad you weren’t there,” Shiv adds softly. She opens her mouth, as if wanting to say something more, something bigger.

Karolina takes a breath, fearing what might be declared, what might happen after the fact, and she feels her heart race at the thought of it being something they won’t be able to take back. There’s a sinking feeling in her stomach, and she’s glad that Shiv has the presence of mind to stop whatever they’re on the verge of starting by cutting the tether clean off with a kiss, and another that lasts longer than it probably should given the circumstances.

They kiss like they want to will all of it dead. Like if they kiss long enough, that awful feeling of not knowing won’t matter. Like it won’t matter that Shiv is here, in Karolina’s home, and not with her husband.

Shiv will dirty things up a little, and Karolina will let her, returning the favor with a nip to Shiv’s bottom lip, and by the time they pull apart and they’ve drained all of it into each other like one would a tumor, it’ll be safe again. It won’t matter that Shiv holds Karolina a little tighter than usual, or that Karolina’s lips linger when she kisses Shiv’s cheek, as if she’s assuring herself of her presence there.

Security measure, is all.

So that when they’re not kissing anymore, and they have make eye contact again, Shiv can just say, “Fucking suicide, huh?” Like it’s just a thing that happens, and Karolina can shrug and reply, “I know. Let me get the corkscrew.”

This is how one survives a crisis.

#succession #shiv x karolina #shivlina #fanfiction #prompts #fic: shiv x karolina #shiv roy #karolina novotney

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theluckywizard · 5 months

Note

Happy dadwc! Let's have "You cannot stain a black coat. -Nicholas Nickelby" from the Dickens prompts, for Kirkwall-era Garrett Hawke?

Thank youuuu! I also incorporated these twin prompts from @about2dance and @bluewren for @dadrunkwriting

This inspired a scene in my MatchmakingMoms!AU where Leandra Hawke and Alsatia Trevelyan are trying to fix up Garrett and Rose, their incorrigible adult children who have no interest in getting fixed up. Context: Dougal is coming to extort more money and effectively interrupted Hawke's introduction to Rose. Hawke is off to deal with him with his friends. WC: 2,211 Characters: Garrett Hawke, Isabela, Fenris, Merrill, Varric, Dougal, Aveline, Anders. Rose Trevelyan, Alsatia Trevelyan and Leandra Hawke are implied. Ship: Garrett Hawke x Aveline Vallen (unrequited)

Striding along the snow dusted streets of Hightown in the clink of his armor and mail, Hawke’s mind bounces between the impertinence of Dougal and the ill-fated introduction he’d just endured. His friends all seem to be waiting for him to say something, unusually short on quips considering everything going on. He glances at them, testing his theory and in spite of their varying moods, their brows all lift inquiringly.

“I don’t know. I mean you saw her. She looked as pinched as every other blazing noblewoman I’ve met, but there was something about her expression—” Hawke says starting right in, swinging along the tidy streets of Hightown toward the lower market where Fenris says Varric is running interference. “She— smirked.”

“She smirked.” Fenris’ flat tone is somehow flatter. Hawke thinks back on her momentarily. Truthfully he couldn’t see well beyond the severity of her coif and gown, but she had pleasant enough face he supposes. He hadn’t been paying much attention until she smirked. And then his friends foisted themselves upon them all.

“Yeah, her smirk. I mean I can’t blame her. I am me. But it was— nice. And… weirdly familiar.”

“Pinched she may be, but that girl’s been plucked,” remarks Isabela with a wry twist of her lips.

“What do you mean she’s been plucked?” asks Merrill. “Because she’s a Rose?”

“Yes, because she’s a Rose,” answers Hawke, grinning stupidly.

“She’s had sex,” hisses Isabela to Merrill.

“Ohhh. How do you know she’s— well— been plucked?” asks Merrill.

“I just know,” smiles the Rivaini.

“Anyway. Surely she and her enterprising mother will take a hint after another day or two and flee back to Ostwick,” says Hawke, rather eager to be rid of the intrusion this first holiday alone. They’re certainly in no need of the audience as he and his mother feel out how to be fabulously wealthy and normal all at once.

“You are humoring your mother,” observes Fenris like it’s the strangest thing. “Couldn’t you tell her no?

“Not this time. The mother’s an old friend. And I’m a sucker for seeing my mother rekindling old friendships after everything. The aren’t many who will associate with her after her infamous flight to Ferelden. Even all these years later. And no amount of gilding will cover up that stain.”

“You’re a good son, Hawke,” says Merrill. “I thought she looked lovely.”

“Yes, my mother is a delight,” teases Hawke.

Merrill smacks him with the back of her hand. “That Rose girl.”

“She was fine I suppose. Nothing that could tempt me outright I don’t think. But fine.”

Dougal and his horde of unwashed brutes loiter restlessly in the Guild Quarter, heavily armed and bearing torches. Varric wisely stands to one side with enough space between him and the gang that he can’t be jumped without pulling Bianca first. Dougal himself is cursed with an unearned sense of confidence, eyes glittering over the warped smile on his face

“You’re only missing pitchforks,” Hawke says with an affable smile.

“We’re missing a little more than that.”

“Says you. We had an agreement,” says Hawke, reaching casually for the weapon of one of Dougal’s henchmen. The young dwarf, not knowing what to do with such a bold, unconcerned incursion, allows it. Hawke inspects it and hands it back to him, ruffling his hand in the hair of the dwarf.

“I’ve seen the spoils of your expedition,” says Dougal. “The lavish estate. The fine furnishings. I think I deserve a larger share of your fortune. Fair is fair, right?”

“I’ll be the last one to say we should have listened to Bartrand,” interjects Varric. “But we should have listened to Bartrand.”

“Isn’t this a conversation we should have had— say— eight months ago?” asks Hawke.

“What can I say. Things have gone poorly for me and I’m a bitter man,” says Dougal, inspecting his stubby fingers.

“So you admit to being a shit investor and then come slithering my way thinking you can make me cough up more?” asks Hawke, his amusement supreme.

“Now you’re getting it,” says Dougal.

“And if I say no?” says Hawke, crossing his arms. He’s already counted the opposition— twelve excluding the man himself who would doubtlessly hide behind his muscle. Daggers and hammers and crossbows. Leather armor at least. He feels a swell of pity for the goons that have fallen in with this slimeball. Most of them are just trying to make it in this town the same way he was. And Maker, he’d really rather not kill anyone tonight of all nights.

“Let’s just say that I’d hate to see something happen to that lovely mother of yours who spends all together too much time alone. A hundred sovereigns and you can make this go away.”

“Extortion’s never really been a favorite of mine, you know,” says Hawke cheerfully, drawing his sword from its sheath on his back. He tosses it lightly in a little show, admiring how the brazier light flashes on each side of the fuller. “But shameless creature that I am, I suppose I’m tough to blackmail. You can’t stain a black coat.”

“A man does what he must,” says Dougal, easy amongst his squad of stabby goobers.

“You’ve already interrupted Hawke’s special day,” says Isabela with her usual wry grin. “Now you’re threatening to kill his mother?”

“Special day?” asks Dougal.

Hawke rolls his eyes lightly. “It’s not that special.”

“Well now you have to tell me,” says the rat.

“If you must know—” Hawke begins.

“Hawke’s mother is trying to set him up with a wife,” finishes Merrill, utterly delighted.

“Oh?” Dougal’s brow arches high and then he laughs, a pitying one that echoes off the cornices and columns until it devolves into wheezes. He clutches his side, recovering himself while his men chuckle along dutifully. “Well it’s a good thing I’m claiming my due now. She’ll drain your coffers dry and run off with the stable boy.”

Hawke snorts at the man's confident advice. “Today is not your day,” he says, smiling as he slips his shield onto his left arm. “Why don’t you let all these nice people head along home to their lovely spouses and fight me head to head like the Maker intended?”

“You and I both know I pay good coin for this back up.”

“Good, is it?” Hawke asks. He turns to the men. “I’ll pay you double this month’s wages to fuck right off right now! Toss in a wheel of cheese for your trouble!”

“You can’t buy their loyalty. They’re all family!” laughs Dougal. “Though maybe you don’t quite understand. I heard you notoriously lost your family during your little expedition.”

“Bold blazing words from an actual turkey. Come on then. Let’s get this over with,” says Hawke stretching his neck and rolling his shoulders in preparation before flipping down his visor. He sees the faint the shimmer of Merrill’s barrier hugging him as he invites the onslaught, pounding on his shield to draw them upon him.

By now his crew is well aware of his distaste for outright murder. He’d seen Varric and Isabela’s precision— pinning culprits to walls with bolts and removing armor with surgical slashes of blades. And Fenris had mercifully learned to execute a relatively delicate little pop on the head when needed. Merrill summons her fantastically freaky tendrils and wraps them up as needed. Hawke is appreciative of their restraint considering.

“I don’t suppose anyone had the forethought to fetch Aveline?” asks Hawke, sending assailants tumbling back with aggravated nudges of his elbow and bashes of his shield.

“Blondie went for her,” says Varric, ducking under a triplet.

“I wish he’d hurry the blazes up,” says Hawke, glancing down at the blood pooling in his mail under his gauntlet. “Fuck.” He shakes his arm out like it might make it feel better and then gets right back to it.

It's Dougal’s numbers versus the eclectic capabilities of Hawke’s crew. The clash carries on long enough that everyone involved starts getting loose and careless in their movements, the early snap of battle settling into a languor as everyone starts hankering after stamina pots and lyrium draughts. Hawke flips his visor up to swipe sweat from his brow.

“So how’d you know this girl anyhow?” asks Dougal, sashaying lightly away from one of Merrill’s grabby vines.

“Daughter of a family friend,” grunts Hawke, shoving one back with the flat of his foot against the poor sod’s stomach. Convenient to be so tall in a fight against dwarves.

“Does she have a nice set of badonkers, at least?” inquires Dougal.

“Acceptable,” remarks Isabela, stepping on her unconscious quarry as she binds his wrists behind him. “Hard to tell underneath those bloody stays that are getting so popular these days.”

“She was perfectly prim,” insists Merrill, cracking the head of a cheeky bastard with her staff.

“You’re all getting ahead of yourselves,” says Hawke, hovering somewhere between exasperation and unbridled laughter. “I have about as much chance of settling down with her as I have sprinting up Viscount’s court in my birthday suit.”

“Hawke,” says Fenris in the simplest challenge.

“Well all right, through the Chantry then.”

“Hawke,” says Isabela, eyebrow raised as she disarms another assailant, kicking their blade far across the stones.

“You don’t really believe that I’d—“

“Hawke,” says Varric, tilting his head in amazement.

“You do something one time!” he grumbles, knocking back the last goon between him and Dougal hard enough that the blighter doesn’t even get up.

“You’re not going to kill me,” says Dougal, backed against a wall. “You’re soft. Effective but soft.”

“You don’t know that,” says Hawke. “Maybe I want to get back to future wife with the badonkers. I’d get there faster if I stuck you with my sword.”

“Everybody knows your soft, Hawke,” says Dougal, dodging the admittedly lazy thrusts of Hawke’s blade. “Maybe if you’d been quicker to kill you wouldn’t have had to make a deal with me.”

“For Maker’s sake,” mutters Hawke, deftly cornering Dougal with renewed fire and squashing him against the wall with the flat of his blade. “Do I talk this much?”

“Yes!” comes the hollered chorus.

“You can’t get rid of me so easy,” says Dougal, glancing at his subdued henchmen. “There’s only two ways to make me go away.”

“Three, actually,” comes a blessed voice from across the yard. The shuffling sound says she came with reinforcements. Dougal’s head falls back in annoyance.

“It’s my word against yours, Hawke,” he spits.

“When’s the last time you did a favor for the Viscount?” Hawke asks with a grin. “Or are you going to extort him too?”

“Not a bad bit of rescuing, if I do say so myself,” says Anders, attending to Fenris who mutters a string of Tevinter curses while a laceration in his side gets a dose of luminescent relief.

Aveline’s guards shackle the ones writhing in pain and check those who have already been trussed up. Hawke asks Anders to work on the most dire of Dougal’s injured goons, eager to relish in being the bigger man.

“Well, Hawke. Can’t say I’ll shed any tears about this one,” says Aveline come alongside Hawke.

He feels a shadow of the same thrill he once got when she came around, but her indifference to him has at last settled permanently within him, the disappointment sticking like a splinter too deep.

“He threatened Mother," says Hawke, "Like a common hoodlum."

“The worst crime of all,” says Aveline with a wry little smile. “Give my best to Leandra.”

“Didn’t you hear? Leandra is hosting Hawke’s future wife,” chimes in Isabela.

“And she’s lovely!” adds Merrill, earnestly excited.

“Future wife, Hawke?” asks Aveline. “Leandra must be beside herself.”

Hawke’s eyes roll deeply back into their sockets. “They’re visiting for the week. An old friend and her daughter. Figure I’ll spend a little extra time down in Lowtown this week.”

“Aw, Hawke. What if she’s nice? You could use a nice girl,” says Aveline

“Like a singing, dancing bogfisher,” gazing at Aveline doubtfully.

She shakes her head at him in that same Maker-forsaken sisterly way she always has, but he has to acknowledge there’s some truth to it. His romantic heart has too long been preoccupied and alone, fixating on an impractical mirage. He daydreams of something. A secret intimacy of terrible jokes and favorite touches. Of lazy mornings and shared investigations. But he doubts the finicky creature who smirked at him once would be the woman for the job. There isn’t space in this life of his for anyone who can’t keep pace with his nonsense.

Hawke glances around at the carnage— a rather tidy victory, he admits— barely a mess for the street sweeps to cope with, and little more than a sweat broken. He remembers the stab wound near his elbow and shakes out his forearm and hand again before downing a mild healing pot and making a note to dress it at home.

“Watch your coffers, Hawke,” warns Dougal with a smirk as he’s hauled away.

“Better hurry on back,” says Aveline again with that same teasing diffidence.

Hawke snorts softly and thanks her for her timely aid. He makes everyone promise to bother him at the Hanged Man later where he’ll be taking refuge from the machinations of his mother and the elder Trevelyan woman.

Varric comes up alongside him and pats his back, fully aware of the long misery that’s in the midst of flickering out at last. “Come on, Chuckles. I’ll walk you home.”

#DA2 #Garrett Hawke #Rose Trevelyan #MatchmakingMoms!AU #DADWC #Fenris #Merrill #Isabela #Varric #Aveline #Anders #DA2 Act 2 #Canon Divergence #Dealing with Dougal #Fighting and Bantering #Theluckywizard #Hawke x Trevelyan #Blue-Purple Hawke

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