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hunny-beann · 5 months

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I am literally having the worst day ever, do you think you could write some insanely fluffy Dream for me? I'm talking tooth rotting levels of fluff here.

Rest Now, Wife, Mine

Dream of the Endless x f!Reader

Note: Hi anon! Thanks a ton for the adorable request, I had a lot of fun with it and really hope it helps make your day feel a bit better <3

Synopsis: Morpheus' wife finds their bed far too lonely without him in it, and seeks out his presence to remedy this so she may finally succumb to slumber for the evening.

Thankfully, he is all too happy to oblige.

Warnings: None! Just pure and unbridled fluff :)

Word Count: 1,298

Her steps are silent and her pace slow as she approaches the familiar throne room, sensing even from outside of its walls that it is as close to empty as it is going to get for the evening.

That said, as close to empty as possible for the throne room of an Endless such as Dream was not nearly as empty as one might think, with it being a rarity that he not be found there.

She fights back a shiver as she steps across the threshold, her bare feet suddenly far colder than before, and her majority uncovered shoulders beginning to undergo horripilation at the seemingly inexplicable shift in temperature.

That said, being easy to explain was not a rule that the Dreaming followed, so this was nothing new, and certainly nothing unexpected.

Though, the sudden voice that split the once heavy silence in twain on the other hand, was.

"And what could possibly have you awake at such an hour, dear wife?"

The voice asked quietly, laced with both amusement and even a twinge of concern that had the wife in question smiling softly in spite of her best efforts to not appear excited at the mere sound of her love's voice.

Oh, but she had never been that strong, had she?

He had her wrapped around his finger just as he did the entire realm that he ruled, though he notably reserved the one with the ring for her and her alone.

She padded up toward his throne quietly, not willing to answer his question until she was close enough that her voice might not reverberate so loudly off of the palace walls.

Some words, she had decided long ago, were for her husband and her husband alone.

Upon her eager approach, the Lord of Dreams could not help but raise one of the corners of his mouth at the mere sight of her, holding his hand out at her nearness to guide her to stand before his crossed legs as he reached gently to take her other in his own as well, making a mental note of how chilled her extremities felt due to the cool night air of his throne room.

He watched as she slackened slightly at his familiar touch, her body always so happy to find him near in a way never ceased to have his heart all but melting at her feet.

What a disastrous little thing she was, truly.

He could never love another.

As her form relaxed at the feeling of his hands on hers, so loving in spite of the power that they held, she could not help but yawn softly, eyes growing teary as her ease allowed the weight of the day to truly set in.

Her dearest Dream Lord smirked up at her, his brow raised knowingly and his eyes twinkling as he watched her fight off the eternally tempting wiles of sleep.

What a sweet little thing, so helpless in her battles against her own biology that it was entirely too amusing to ignore, and always far too entertaining to neglect to bear witness to.

"You are tired, my dear."

The Lord of Dreams stated matter of factly, tugging his beloved closer using his soft grip on her hands so he could properly brush some of her hair behind her ear, a gesture which caused her eyelids to flutter closed briefly before they snapped open once more, her fight against herself not yet over in her eyes (though Dream could see clearly in the way that she swayed on her own two feet that there was already an obvious victor).

He chuckled quietly, shaking his head,

"You need to rest, sweet stardust. Let me bring you back to the bedroom."

He spoke gently, rising to guide her back to their soft and familiar bed only to halt when he heard her reply.

"No, I don't want to go back, you're just going to leave once you think I'm tired enough not to follow."

The Dream Lord faltered upon hearing this, raising a questioning brow in response before lowering himself down upon his throne once more, though this time he pulled his wife right along with him, sitting her on his lap in order to get a better look at her exhausted expression.

He frowned.

"Have you been staying awake on purpose, my love? Lying in wait for me as you promised you would not do?"

She shook her head, but he could see the way that the blood rushed into her cheeks as she tried to explain, embarrassed to admit the things that she had to in order to quell his worries of any intentional harm having been done.

"No, of course not, I just..."

The Lord of Dreams hummed and brought one hand to her back, rubbing up and down along her spine and feeling her lean against him unintentionally in response, her bones heavy and all too prepared to sink into whatever comfort they could find.

"You just what, dearest?"

He urged, causing his lover to nod blearily in response, slowly coming back to reality again.

"I just find that sometimes I cannot bear to sleep alone, that the bed feels far too wide and empty without you in it."

Dream fought back a slight smile upon hearing this, feeling more than a little bit proud to know that his wife could rely upon him enough to truly need him so (though he was notably unhappy to hear that this was causing her any amount of unnecessary strife).

"And is tonight one of those nights, beloved?"

He asked, watching as she nodded, her head lolling slightly upon her neck as her overworked muscles struggled to remain in control over her all too tired body and mind.

"Poor thing,"

Dream all but purred in response, adjusting his love upon his lap until she was leaning against him, breaths warm on his neck and body seeming to grow heavier by the second as the feeling of his familiar closeness drove her into a type of ease that was felt only at a lover's closeness.

"That will certainly have to be remedied, won't it?"

He murmured against her ear, feeling her shiver in response, nuzzling closer with a nod as he gathered his coat that had been hanging on the back of the dais behind him with just one hand, draping it over her body and pressing a soft kiss against her head as he felt her begin to drift off into a much needed and far too well deserved slumber.

"Rest now, wife, mine."

He said softly, feeling his dearest love smile gently against his skin at his familiar words and the use of his favorite (and almost sickeningly sweet) nickname for her,

"I will see to it that no one interrupts you as you do."

If she had been more awake, perhaps the woman would have rolled her eyes or even offered a sarcastic retort in response to her husband's dramatics, but instead she simply nudged herself closer, pressing a gentle kiss against the pale flesh of his neck before she drifted off for the very first time that night, feeling truly safe in the arms of her most adoring love.

And when morning arrived, and the throne room became far less uninhabited, the two of them made for quite a sight, indeed.

After all, who would have thought that the Lord of Dreams might choose to sleep simply to live life as his dear wife did, his cheek pressed gently against her head and his arms wrapped around her as slumber found them both, pulling them closer together, ever still, in the very same way that they belonged now, and always would for the remainder of eternity, and perhaps even beyond that.

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feverdreamjohnny · 10 months

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The Epitaph of Anything Goes

I decided that this morning I would talk about The Museum of Anything Goes and the subject of lost media.

For the uninitiated, The Museum of Anything Goes is an obscure "game" released in 1995 by Wayzata Technologies, a company that is so far under the radar that I was unable to find any useful information about it outside of TMoAG.

All I could uncover is that they published a few multimedia projects (which are essentially lost now) alongside some asset discs (clipart, SFX, etc.). That's it.

The brains behind Wayzata are even more difficult to locate these days: there are only two main names credited inside of TMoAG - Michael Markowski and Maxwell S. Robertson.

The game alleges that Michael and Maxwell are well known in the art world, but any additional information about the duo is scarce beyond the confines of the museum. Attempting to search for either name online turns up plenty of rabbit holes - but none of them have anything to do with the Michael and Maxwell responsible for TMoAG.

This is particularly fascinating because it essentially means that TMoAG is the only accessible record of their lives. Before we dig any deeper into that statement, let me step back and actually address what this game is.

The Museum of Anything Goes is, by definition, a virtual art museum. Functionally it's a prerendered point-and-click adventure game where you can explore a bunch of multimedia exhibits that give the surface-level impression of a children's edutainment game, but once you start exploring further it reveals a side that firmly plants the game's feet into a haze of substance abuse and surreal humor.

Many exhibits are essentially just toying around with the astonishing new powers of CD-ROM. Everything has to make noise. Everything has to spin and flitter around. There's an air of genuine excitement for the medium, and I can't help but find it extremely charming.

The game also functions as a scrapbook, filled to the brim with photos of random trips to the zoo and snow-mobile rides with friends. At one point we even get insight into something as specific as Michael's one-year job as a tutor at a Chicago middle school, where he talks about how it opened his eyes to how poorly funded and mismanaged the school system is.

It's simultaneously quaint and chilling to see so much personal history packed into a world doomed to obscurity. As I explore the deeper parts of the museum, I contemplate if the creators are still alive today. It's a bit morbid, but imagine that - you create a single obscure game with your friend and it's all the world can see. TMoAG is currently the only surviving piece that gives any insight into who these two men were.

While many exhibits are lighthearted or nonsensical, there are occasional moments where the game dips into the eerie.

One exhibit has the player kill a man by dropping him from the sky, and after burying him you open the coffin to a video of a rotting pig carcass being put into an incinerator.

Other exhibits just feature simple 3D renders shifting around a dark screen while haunting groans play in the background.

While I would never refer to the game as "scary," its darker moments combined with the occasional mature subject matter definitely begs the question: Who is this game for?

You have to remember that this game came out long before the concept of "alt-games" had become codified in the digital space. Sure, unconventional digital art had been around before the advent of 256 colors, but TMoAG was being sold on disk as a game! It came out 2 years after DOOM hit shelves!

The trend of using the PC for entertainment was certainly on the upswing around that time, but It's not like TMoAG had a massive audience to find a niche in. With its mature themes it certainly wasn't suited for the kids market either, so who was it for?

At the end of the day, it's a moot question. We already know the target audience for The Museum of Anything Goes: Nobody. It doesn't have an audience because by its nature, TMoAG wasn't being made FOR someone, it was being made BY someone. It's a raw, unfiltered form of personal expression.

I think games like these are pivotal, because they question why people assume a game has to exist for the sake of being a consumable product. TMoAG certainly has the shape of a product: it features an intro cutscene, it has a tutorial, it features intuitive UX, it even has a map! These are all features that are solely integrated to provide comfort to an end-user. But once you actually wander around the museum for a bit, you realize how bizarrely its packaging fits its contents.

I think TMoAG is criminally underrated. It's not because its core content contains some earth-shaking truth, it's because the game defied all odds and cheated death.

How many thousands of other personal projects were deemed a little "too exotic" to be archived? How much history was lost these past 40 years as the digital space evolved and ate its old skin?

God knows how many other TMoAGs we'll never learn about because they weren't lucky enough to be preserved.

The Museum of Anything Goes isn't just some nonsensical art piece, it's a grave marker for so much lost media. Its existence is a reminder that some people's lives were fossilized, then macerated into nothing because a construction company built a skyscraper over them. The only evidence we have of those other games existing is this little fossil that somehow slipped out from under the skyscraper unscathed.

Even though so much has been lost, TMoAG survives as an epitaph.

#the museum of anything goes #TMoAG #writing

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nolita-fairytale · 10 months

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don't want to walk alone | carmen 'carmy' berzatto x fem!reader | chapter one: june/july

summary: you and carmy plan a wedding like it's the opening of a new restaurant.

warnings: swearing, eventual smut, lots of tooth rotting fluff, marriage, no use of y/n, second person pov

wc: 3.4k

listen to: let's get married (bleachers cover) - mitski

a/n: the long awaited wedding FIC!! welcome to part four of the 'make my heart surrender' universe (four part series). this takes place a month after the end of 'still into you' but before the carmy as your baby daddy headcanon series (my carmy masterlist is organized chronologically, if you'd like to read in order). anyways, i truly adore writing for these two and feel it important to note that after watching season 2, i've realized this has just become an animal of its own -- its own universe/timeline/entity which also means there AREN'T any SEASON TWO SPOILERS! this chapter was inspired by a conversation from two months ago between me and @carmensberzattos so courtesy of us, enjoy some healthy relationship-future husband!carmy. also don't worry syd will be starring in the next chapter. i missed her too. lmk if you wanna be added or removed from the taglist.

masterlist | part two

"let's just get married, don't wanna walk alone, so let's get married, 'cause we don't wanna walk alone or runaway." (bleachers, let's get married.)

'I just want to be married to you' are the words uttered (first by you, you think, but maybe he said it first, you really can’t remember) that lead you and Carmy to the decision that you should elope. Sooner rather than later, preferably, is what you both agree on. It’s not like you’re planning on having a big wedding anyways. How much work can a civil ceremony at City Hall and a nice dinner party afterwards be to pull off?

Famous last words.

You’re not sure how you’ve gotten from there to here, locked in a heated debate over menu edits with your fiance in the middle of your shared apartment when the sun’s just barely come up, but here you are.

“I’m just saying that we should be open minded and leave room for his artistic integrity!” Carmy passionately argues, winding you up as he makes his case.

“Artistic integrity? Carmy, are you kidding me right now? I-!” you fire back, shaking your head incredulously. “We said we were gonna keep everything chill.”

“It is chill!” he defends, matter-of-factly.

Oh, he’s just looking for a fight.

“There is nothing chill about a parm espuma and it certainly doesn’t belong anywhere near the carbonara!” you scoff, stubbornly. “I mean, the only reason he even brought up the idea of a goddamn espuma in the first place is because he was trying to impress you.”

Carmy’s jaw twitches in response as he grinds his teeth, a display of discomfort at the mere thought.

“He-he was not,” he denies with the kind of conviction of a five year old toddler who's sure as can be.

You shoot him a look.

“Carmen,” you warn him.

Sure it’s a silly thing to fight about, but there’s no malice in this argument. It’s all passion, artistry, and for lack of a better term, foreplay. You let out a sigh, softening before you rise out of your chair.

“Baby, when are you going to admit that you’re kind of a big deal and that people want to impress you?” you level with him, making your way over to your very stubborn and very insistent fiance. You settle down onto his lap, before tucking a stray curl behind his ear as you break, giving the sweetest smile.

He laughs dryly, averting his eyes from you because he’s not sure how much longer he’ll be able to stand his ground (especially when you’re looking at him like that).

You’re right. And he knows you’re right.

And Carmy’s never been able to resist you for long anyways.

A fox-like grin spreads across your lips and you know you’ve won the argument when you feel a pair of hands snake around your waist.

“Don’t push it,” he warns you, seeing the look on your face as he shakes his head, finally returning his eyes to yours.

You raise an eyebrow, “You like that I push.”

He nods slowly in surrender, his face softening as he asks you:

“You really want to fight about this?”

You shake your head with a laugh.

“No, of course not! Of course, I don’t want to fight about this!” you exhale, sliding your hands over his shoulders to wrap around his neck. “But I do think that your new buddy is trying to impress us and that it may be wise for us to reign him in – clear the air on what it is we’re looking for.”

A beat.

“Don’t get me wrong. Of course, we can leave room for creativity… but I don’t want our wedding party to turn into some pretentious fine dining fancy party.”

“Well, we did meet because of some pretentious fine dining fancy thing,” he points out, giving your hip a squeeze.

You giggle, “How could I forget?”

You shake your head once more, leaning in to press your lips against his. Carmy inhales deeply, enjoying the feel of your lips on his, your arms wrapped around his neck, the weight of your body on his lap.

You indulge him for a moment, deepening the kiss as you feel your future husband relax against you, because you really are happy that Carmy’s made a new friend.

Carmy had met a private chef a few months ago and had been trying to hire him for the restaurant for a while now. Wanting to work for himself, the chef had respectfully declined all advances, but he and Carmy had kept in touch, and it looked as if the relationship could potentially extend outside of the four walls of a kitchen. Since you both agreed that no one from the restaurant should work the party, it had been good timing (making a new friend and the fact that he was a private chef) and the right move for Carmy to ask his new friend to cater the wedding.

“Fine,” you resign yourself, pulling away from the kiss. “Derek can keep the liquid nitrogen but that is as far as it goes.”

Carmy shoots you a look – one that says he’s not quite convinced.

“And I will be more open minded in the spirit of… artistic integrity. But I’m not changing my mind about courses. Family style or bust, baby,” you negotiate, a serious look in your eyes.

Carmy thinks it over for a moment before finally coming to a resolution.

“Deal,” Carmy nods with the same intensity as a ‘yes, chef.’

You nod too, completing the agreement.

“I want it to be real, Carm. I want it to be us,” you reiterate, your voice soft as you make your condition loud and clear.

“I know,” he returns, just as determined and committed to the idea as he is to you.

You’re satisfied with the resolution – even more satisfied with the fact that you’ve come to it together.

“You know…” he starts, something in his voice that you can’t quite make out, unsure if you’re going to like what’s about to come out of his mouth. “... it could be a perfect menu if you just let me-.”

“Don’t even finish that sentence, Carmen!” you interrupt, knowing exactly what he was going to say.

You are so not playing this game today.

“You don’t even know what I was-!”

“Yes, I do! You are not catering your own wedding party,” you protest, adamantly.

You know him too well.

He laughs, shaking his head as he leans back against his chair, like he’s in high school again, and you’ve just caught him sneaking back into the house.

“God, I love you! But sometimes you drive me up the wall, Carm,” you groan out of frustration, eliciting another laugh from his chest as you hang your head, resting your forehead against his shoulder this time.

“Such a control freak,” you sigh, against his chest.

“Thought you like it when I take control,” he murmurs, beginning to leave kisses across your exposed skin.

You giggle partially because it tickles, and mostly because of what Carmy’s said.

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

You lift your head and Carmy kisses you again, this time savoring the way your lips feel against his for a little while longer – just long enough to remind himself that he wants to have the option to sneak away in the middle of your wedding party to have sex much more than he wants cater to be in control all the time.

Sometimes, he thinks to himself, control is overrated anyways.

Only sometimes.

“Okay, okay,” he mutters, letting go of the idea. “I’ll get back to Derek about final menu edits and make sure he knows that while we want him to be creative, we also want to keep it… you know….”

“Chill?” you emphasize.

“Chill,” he confirms.

“Okay. Thank you, baby,” you smile softly, trying your best to enjoy the temporary moment of peace between the two of you. Carm squeezes your hip as you roll your eyes with a sigh, muttering an:

“Oh fuck.”

“What’s up?”

You shake your head again, laughing incredulously before letting out another sigh.

“Just wait till we go through this again with the cake.”

“Fuck!” Carmy shouts towards the ceiling, throwing his head back as you laugh. “Why did we say we wanted to plan a wedding again?”

“Well baby, I don’t think either of us can pass up on a chance to create a menu,” you giggle, leaving a few kisses along his jawline before you make your way up to his nose. “Can you imagine if we decided to have a full-on wedding? That’d be a freaking mess.”

He chuckles, “It’d be like opening another restaurant.”

“Yeah, pass,” you hum, so glad to have dodged that bullet.

-----------------------------------------

By the time you and Carmy are even ready to focus on the cake portion of said wedding-dinner-party it’s a month later. You’ve been through half of the bakeries in the city, you think, and something’s just felt off. You’re practically eating your words, as it dawns on you that you’re having the exact same thought as Carmy: that it could just be perfect if you were able to make it yourself.

Then again, you remind yourself that a cake is an entirely different thing versus running a dinner service, so it can’t be that unhinged to have these thoughts, right?

But you and Carmy made an agreement, so in solidarity, you decide it’s only fair for you to make like Tammy Wynette and stand by your man.

You’re grateful for the half day you have today (“Summer Fridays”, as it’s so fondly referred to around your office) – and the fact that you get to work from home. What it means for you is that today you can clock out early and pick up samples from the tenth bakery (okay, so maybe it’s the eleventh but truthfully, you’ve lost count) in the running for your wedding cake.

You change out of your pajamas for the first time today, throwing on a slip dress and one of Carmy’s crisp, white Ralph Lauren button downs – worn layered and open like a cardigan – before you head to the bakery, and then eventually, The Bear.

The restaurant is closed for the afternoon, as they do a shift change over: some stay and take a break, others go home, let the dinner crew come in and take over. It’s different these days and while some days you miss it – the hustle and bustle of the kitchen, the sounds of an ‘all day’ shouted by the expeditor, the careful dance that is working in a kitchen – you remind yourself that you’re enjoying a half day, and that when you’d chosen to leave, you were ready for a change.

After entering The Bear, you make small talk with Gary while he finishes turning over the dining room for dinner, catching up over the flag football league he’s recently joined – one, it seems, to be taken very seriously by all participants. You tell him that you’re here with wedding cake samples, and he’s more than eager to give you some space to set up, because who doesn’t love free cake? Mid-sentence, Gary gestures towards a table for you to set up on, as you begin to unpack your large brown paper bag.

“Well, well. Look who it is,” Marcus calls out, as soon as he sees you. “Heard a rumor you were out here. You brought cake?”

“I brought cake,” you repeat as confirmation, turning to see your dear friend and mentee. “But don’t worry. I’ll be thinking about yours the whole time.”

He snickers, moving in for a hug.

“‘S Good to see you, Chef. How ya been?” he asks, enveloping you in his arms for a tight squeeze.

“Good to see you too, Marcus. I’m good. Had a half day today so… you know, we’ve just been busy with wedding stuff. But what’s going on with you? What’s new?” you answer, turning the focus back onto him.

“Oh you know. The usual. Though, I’ve been workin’ on some new shit for Syd’s new menu when I’m not here,” he answers, a broad smile spreading across his lips as he talks about.

“Jeez, Brooks. I know, Carm’s got ya busy. When the hell do you ever sleep?” you ask, as you shake your head.

“I don’t,” he answers plainly.

And just as you’re about to remind Marcus to get some rest, Sugar comes bursting through the front doors, her rounded belly full on display now that she’s had a chance to tell almost everyone the news of her pregnancy.

“Hey! Sorry I’m running late,” Sugar says, announcing her arrival. “Got tied up running an errand and then I had to stop at the store for Tums. This baby is killing me with the heartburn these days. Fucking christ.”

“Oh, no big deal. I haven’t even seen Carmy yet,” you shrug, as she mutters a surprised ‘oh’ and Marcus mumbles something about going to get Carmy. “It’s good to see you!”

“Yo, Carm!” Marcus shouts, heading back to the kitchen while you and Sugar exchange hellos.

“Awww, it’s good to see you too, sweetie,” she smiles, pulling you in for your second hug of the day.

This is something you miss about working in the kitchen: the camaraderie, the found-family, all the love.

“Wow this is… quite the spread,” Sugar mentions, eyeing the cakes you’ve laid out on the table.

“Yeah… they had a lot of ideas, I guess,” you say with a shrug.

Sugar shoots you an unconvinced look.

“Okay, fine. I had a lot of ideas…” you admit guiltily.

“...aaaand no one is going to do it the way you want it to be done,” Sugar sighs in the middle of your sentence.

“And they were more than willing to play. I couldn’t help myself!” you finish, defending yourself.

“Well, your enthusiasm is one of the many things I love about you, but… yeah, this is a lot,” Sugar grins as she gestures towards the overwhelming amount of cake you’ve just laid out on the table.

Regardless, Sugar really can’t wait to be your sister-in-law.

“Speaking of… I thought this was just a small wedding. It looks like you’re preparing to feed the entire French Army during Marie Antoinette’s reign.”

“Oh it still is – small,” you answer, simply. “I went a little overboard, didn’t I?”

“Why go through all this trouble? You might as well have a small ceremony instead of-,”

“No!” you protest, hearing another voice say the same thing.

“Sugar, we’ve already told you that we don’t want to do anything big!” Carmy adds, as soon as he enters the dining room.

“Hey, babe,” he says, sending you the softest smile as he looks your way.

“Hey you,” you smile in return as he approaches you, giving him a short ‘hello’ peck on the lips.

“Fak attack!” Fak cries out, as he enters the dining room. “Ooooh cake tasting!”

“Yeah,” you chuckle, as Fak is quickly followed by some of the line cooks that have just wrapped up lunch service.

It’s then that you hear Tina’s voice, growling something in Spanish as Richie speaks way too loudly about god knows what, as Ebra follows behind, somehow in the middle of a story that has little to do with whatever Tina and Richie are going on about.

You smile to yourself, because you really do miss this part.

“I told everyone we were doing a cake tasting,” Carmy starts, gesturing towards the rest of the staff as they join you. “That cool?”

“Totally. We have more than enough to share,”

“That’s true,” Sugar says. "And I can't complain because the baby is reeeeaaally craving cake these days."

As everyone at The Bear crowd around the circular dining table where you set up the cake tasting, you all enjoy bites here and there, comparing notes, sharing reactions to each flavor combo.

Earl grey & lemon. A classic red velvet. And of course, you had to get a little weird with the black sesame clementine combination you’d dreamed up with the pastry chef you’d been working with.

“I think my favorite is the black sesame and clementine but I doubt it’s a cake everyone will like. Doesn’t have the crowd appeal we probably should keep in mind,” you murmur to Carmy as the two of you watch his staff go on about the tiramisu-inspired one.

“Well, babe, it’s our wedding! We can do whatever we want,” he encourages you.

“I don’t know,” you sigh, paralyzed with indecision.

“The tiramisu one is good. I’m leaning towards that,” Carmy shares with you, eager to hear your thoughts.

“Yeah, I don’t know. Don’t you think it’s a little too on the nose?” you reply, unsettled and unsure that any of these are right.

“Why don’t you guys just let me make it?” Marcus interjects, asking the question he’s been wondering this entire time.

“I-,” you start, unable to help the fact that your eyes begin to wet with emotion. “Really?”

He laughs, glancing sideways at you.

“Uh yeah. I’m a little offended neither of you did in the first place,” Marcus teases the two of you, though you know there’s some truth to it.

You and Carmy exchange a look that says something along the lines of: ‘oh shit.’

“Well, we didn’t think you’d-,” you stammer, beginning to explain the why behind you and Carmy’s hesitation in the first place.

“We just thought you’d want to- that you should be able to enjoy the party,” Carmy adds, finishing your sentence, his eyes widening as he realizes that you both kinda fucked up.

“Chefs,” he says, looking from you to Carmy once more, with a seriousness in his voice as he rises to his feet. “It would be my honor. And just because I’m makin’ the cake doesn’t mean I won’t be able to enjoy the party. I can do it in the days leading up to it.”

“Oh-, okay, yes! Yes!” you cry, leaping to your feet this time, as if you’re accepting Carmy’s proposal again.

Richie rolls his eyes in response, groaning as he mutters something snarky to Fak, as Marcus pulls you into the biggest bear hug.

“You all are a bunch of saps,” he scoffs, directing this next comment to Marcus this time. “You big softie!”

“Richie!” Sugar hisses, glaring the sharpest daggers from her eyeballs into Richie’s skull.

“Oh fuck off, Richie,” you snort, with a laugh. “You’re just salty because… wait. Carm, you haven’t asked him yet?”

“Babe, I-,” Carmy whines, his eyes wide. “You just ruined the surprise!”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah ‘fuck’ is right,” he pouts, though he can never stay upset with you for too long.

“What the fuck are you guys even talking about?” Richie asks, squinting as he looks between the two of you.

You and Carmy share a knowing look, deciding that now is a better time as ever.

“We want you to be our witness, Cousin. At the courthouse,” Carmy says, a soft intensity in his eyes as he answers Richie’s question.

“Jesus Christ,” Sugar snarks, with an eye roll as she realizes she’ll be stuck with him at the damn courthouse as well.

“Wh-?” Richie begins to ask, looking from Carmy to you, then back to Carmy again, tears welling up in his eyes as he realizes what Carmy’s just said. “You-? Really?”

“Yeah, of course,” you reply, in a well-duh kind of tone. “Plus you know I can’t get married without my Ava there.”

“And sign the marriage license and everything?” Richie balks, because he really can’t believe it.

“Yeah,” you reassure him.

“Yeah. I mean, fuck yeah! Fuck yeah!” Richie declares, even more sentimental than Marcus this time. “Shit, Cuz… Hell yeah, I’ll sign the fuck out of that marriage license as your witness.”

Tina snickers, exchanging a look with Sugar, and earning a glare from Richie. He lowers his voice, directing the question towards you this time:

“Oh and uh… cool if Ava still sings “Love Story?” I kinda promised her she could sing a Taylor Swift song as part of my best man speech and she insists that one is about you and Carmy,” Richie asks, looking around suspiciously, afraid of someone else hearing.

“Awwww, Richie. Of course,” you coo, only melting inside a little at the thought.

“What?” Richie snaps, realizing that he hasn’t been as discreet as he thought he was.

Sugar snorts in response, earning a laugh from both Tina and Marcus.

It’s Marcus’ turn to roll his eyes at Richie this time.

“What?” Richie repeats, this time with a little more annoyance in his voice.

Sugar smirks, firing back with a:

“Who’s the big softie now, Rick?”

#carmen berzatto x you #carmy berzatto #carmy x oc #the bear hulu #the bear fx #jeremy allen white #carmen 'carmy' berzatto #carmy berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto headcanon #the bear headcanon #carmy berzatto imagines #carmy berzatto fluff #comfort and chaos #still into you #make my heart surrender #dont want to walk alone

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catboybiologist · 3 months

Text

Alright I can't finish this all in one sitting, but here's at least a bit of.... something? A word vomit? A prelude to smut about the eroticism of the machine? For all you robot, mecha, and spaceship fuckers out there. @k1nky-r0b0t-g1rl that means you

Pappy always said that manufacturing biological transportation was nothing knew. I mean, shit, humanity's been breeding horses for how long? To him, not much was novel about what was going on in the shipyards way out by Neptune when I was a kid.

But Pappy didn't know a lot of things. And he certainly didn't meet Roseanna.

The Federation Navy had experimented with biologics for decades. The idea was to create self regenerating ships- something to interface with the hull, move the new titanium plates and particulates into place, have a living, growing mass interfacing with the steel so that the ship didn't have to head all the way back to the yards to patch up after every dogfight.

The first generation... worked. With a full time crew, that is. Full time people on deck jabbin the rigid, chitonous interface with the hull full of growth hormones to get them to set just right. Full time onboard bioengineers to compute what signaling cocktail ya need to hit 'em with to get it to grow back right. Skilled onboard technicians to shave back the chitin when it tried to overgrow the titanium, and slap some new cells in to seed the process in heavily damaged areas. Less input material, less time in the yards, but far more manpower. Great for a Federation cruiser on deep space peacekeeping missions. Far too complex for small craft. Right?

Until some bastard put brains in 'em.

Well. A lotta suits would say that they weren't brains. They were a diffuse network of sensory neurons and ganglia, living inside the body of the ship, integrating signals from a skin of alloyed metal and fibrous protein, calculating power draw too and from various components, and integrating with the mechanical and electrical components of the ship to precisely manage the "wound healing" process of the vessel. And of course, it just so happened that one of those ganglia was larger and more complex than the rest of them, and it just so happened that the computer interfaces with this ganglia exhibit complex, thinking behaviors on the level of human cognition, and it just so happens that most pilots and navigators reported them developing their own personalities.....

But of course, the Navy didn't want anyone to have some kind of pesky empathy in the way of their operations. And they certainly didn't want anyone side eyeing the rate at which they disposed of the damn things, and let them suffer and rot after disposal. So as far as the official record was concerned, they didn't have brains.

Like most people in the belt, I found Rosie on a... unsponsored field trip to the Neptune scrap yards. She wasn't a ship then. She wasn't much of anything. Not much more than a vat with the central ganglia and just barely enough of the stem cells needed to regrow a network. But I took her all the same. Brains were valuable. Few pilots outside the Navy had them back then. Nowadays, a black market for "brain seeds", a cocktail of neuronal stem cells and enough structural stem cells to grow your own into the chassis of your ship. They were pumpin' em out, and leaving them to die. It was cruel. They may be vehicles, but they're a livin' being too.

But I digress. I'd never do that to Roseanna. I make sure she gets proper care. And for a good, proper, working ship? That includes some good, proper work.

The asteroid we were docked in was one of my usuals- good bars, nice temp quarters, nice views of the rock's orbiting twin, and a spacious hanger for Rosie to rest in. The chasiss I had imprinted Roseanna to was a 40-meter light skipper, with some adjustments for handling deep space trips. It was pretty much the smallest thing you could actually use to live and work for long periods of time, but it got the job done. The angular design made the entire ship look like a wedge, or the blade of a bulky dagger. It didn't hurt that each bottom edge was fortified with a sharpened titanium blade, turning the entire sides of the ship into axe-like rams.

Those would probably come in handy today.

I approached Roseanna on the catwalk above her, marveling her alloyed scales. I could almost see her shudder in anticipation as my footsteps vibrated through the air above her. I took the steps down, and hit the trigger to open her top hatch.

When the news got out of the Navy scuffling with a rebelling mining station, an electric air raced across the station. Some went about their day as normal. Some resigned themselves to picking at the leftovers after the dust had settled. And some, like me, knew that they could get the finest pickings.

I strapped in to the pilot's seat like it was an old boot.

"Welcome, Captain Victoria."

Rosie could talk, but more often than not, she chose not to. But she understood me just fine. Most of our communication took place using her three prerecorded lines- her welcome statement, affirmative, and negative- as well as the tiny screen showing a small, emoticon face. Many pilots chose to give their ships an elaborate render, but Rosie preferred it this way. It was the first face I gave her, from somewhere out of the scrap heaps, and she refused any offer I made to upgrade. Secretly, I was overjoyed. To me, that was her face. That was her voice. And it was beautiful to see her true self through them.

I brushed my hands across her paneling. Across the switches, the hydraulic controls for the plasma fuel, the steering, the boosts, the comms channels. The thing with biologics was that you were still the pilot. For whatever reason, they hadn't quite gotten to the point where the brains could take over their own piloting. My personal opinion was just that their personalities lacked the ambition to. But whatever reason that was, the best pilots were still the ones that knew both their ship, and the ship's brain. And me and Rosie? We knew each other well.

As my fingers touched the brushed aluminum controls, rimmed with chitinous layers rooting them into the ship, I could feel the walls around me holding their invisible breath. "Do you know what we're doing today, Rosie?"

Her tiny panel flickered on. ...?

"We got a scrap run."

^_^

Her panel flicked between various expressions of excitement. My finger quivered on the main power, holding for a moment before flicking it on. The primary electronics of the ship hummed to life, and what Rosie controlled pulsed with it. My hands moved across the main functional panels- main hydraulic plasma valve, exhaust ports open, and finally, flicking the switch the start the plasma burner.

My hands gripped the steering. The hanger's airlock doors opened in front of me. My neck length hair started to float as the station's gravity shut off. I hit the switch to unlatch from the supports above. For a moment, we hang there. The dull crackle of the idling plasma burner is the only sound that resonates through Rosie's hull.

Go time.

I punch the boost.

#eroticism of the machine #robot girl #mecha girl #spaceship girl #the fuck do I even tag this LOL #yall gotta tag this and make sure it gets to the right spaces for me okay

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hi-sierra · 28 days

Text

Biologics, chapter 0.5

Hello, hello! I finally have added a significant amount to my story, Biologics, resulting in a total of ~4400 words. Not a whole ton, I know, but unfortunately life gets to ya. It isn't quite where I want it to be to consider a proper chapter one, but I feel like there's enough written for me to post. General warning that this is intended to heavily lean into the theme of "eroticism of the machine", so if that doesn't appeal to you, you've been warned. It does, however, have many general sci fi worldbuilding elements, so I hope it has a somewhat broad appeal!

So yes, if you already read the first snippet, that's going to be mostly a one to one repeat with some grammatical adjustments. Feel free to scroll down until you get to the new stuff. Flow-wise, there just wasn't a good place to break between the two sections.

Look at me rambling. And I wonder why I can't get any of this stuff done. Anyways, here it is!

Biologics

But Pappy didn't know a lot of things. And he certainly didn't meet Roseanna.

The Federation Navy had experimented with Biologics for decades. The idea was to create self regenerating ships- organic matter that interfaced with the hull, moving new titanium plates and patches into place down to microscopic precision. If you had a living, growing mass interfacing with steel, a ship didn't have to head all the way back to the yards to patch up after every dogfight.

The first generation... worked. With a full time crew, that is. Full time people on deck jabbin the rigid, chitonous matrix full of growth hormones to get them to set just right. Full time onboard bioengineers to compute what signaling cocktail ya need to hit 'em with to get it to grow back right. Skilled onboard technicians to shave back the chitin when it tried to overgrow the titanium, and slap some new cells in to seed the process in heavily damaged areas. Less input material, less time in the yards, but far more manpower. Great for a Federation cruiser on deep space peacekeeping missions. Far too complex for small craft. Right?

Until some bastard put brains in 'em.

Well. A lotta suits would say that they weren't brains. They were a diffuse network of sensory neurons and ganglia, living inside the body of the ship, integrating signals from a skin of alloyed metal and fibrous protein, calculating power draw too and from various components, integrated with the mechanical and electrical components of the ship to precisely manage the "wound healing" process of the vessel. And of course, it just so happened that one of those ganglia was larger and more complex than the rest of them, and it just so happened that the computer interfaces with this ganglia exhibit complex, thinking behaviors on the level of human cognition, and it just so happens that most pilots and navigators reported them developing their own personalities.....

But of course, the Navy didn't want anyone to have some kind of pesky empathy in the way of their operations. And they certainly didn't want anyone side eyeing the rate at which they disposed of the damn things, just to let them suffer and rot. So as far as the official record was concerned, they weren't brains. But I knew different.

Like most people in the belt, I found Rosie on an... unsponsored field trip to the Neptune scrap yards. She wasn't a ship then. She wasn't much of anything. Not much more than a vat with the central ganglia and just barely enough of the stem cells needed to regrow a network. But I took her all the same. Brains were valuable. Few pilots outside the Navy had them back then. Nowadays, a black market for "brain seeds", a cocktail of neuronal stem cells and enough structural stem cells to grow your own into the chassis of your ship, was thriving. The Navy was pumpin' em out, and leaving them to die. It was cruel. Sometimes, being scavenged and resold was a kinder fate. But more often, some nasty piece of work would pick them up eventually, and treat them like just another goddamn ship. They may be vehicles, but they're a livin' being too.

I digress. I'd never do that to Roseanna. I make sure she gets proper care. And for a good, proper, working ship? That includes some good, proper work.

The asteroid we were docked in was one of my usuals- good bars, nice temp quarters, nice views of the rock's orbiting twin, and a spacious hanger for Rosie to rest in. The chassis I had imprinted Roseanna to was a 40-meter light skipper, with some adjustments for handling deep space trips, as well as some... personal touches. It was pretty much the smallest thing you could actually use to live in and work for long periods of time, but it got the job done. The angular design made the entire ship look like a wedge, or the blade of a bulky dagger. It didn't hurt that each bottom edge was fortified with a sharpened titanium blade, turning the entire sides of the ship into axe-like rams.

Those would probably come in handy today.

I slipped into the pilot's seat like it was an old boot.

"Welcome, Captain Victoria."

Rosie could talk, but more often than not, she chose not to. But she understood me just fine. Most of our communication took place using her three prerecorded lines- her welcome statement, affirmative, and negative- as well as a tiny screen showing a small, emoticon face. Many pilots chose to give their ships an elaborate render, but Rosie preferred it this way. It was the first face I gave her, from somewhere out of the scrap heaps, and she refused any offer I made to upgrade. Hell, she even had a hi-res screen for external cameras and comms, but she refused to interface directly with it. Secretly, I was overjoyed. To me, the little pixelated screen was her face. That was her voice. And it was beautiful to see her true self through them.

I brushed my hands across her paneling. Across the switches, the hydraulic controls for the plasma fuel, the steering, the boosts, the comms channels. The thing with Biologics was that you were still the pilot. For whatever reason, they hadn't quite gotten to the point where the brains could take over their own piloting. My personal opinion was just that their personalities lacked the ambition to. Cuz they certainly could take over some ships functions directly, and had the skill to do complex mechanical and electrical tasks. The Navy never let 'em drive, though, and most pilots didn't even know they could give them the ability to control any of the ships functions directly. But with a little help, a little bit of solid engineering, and a pilot that knew their ship... well, you could do a lot. And me and Rosie? We knew each other well. Over the years, I'd added some nice things for her, and she loved using them to help me out.

As my fingers touched the brushed aluminum controls, rimmed with chitinous layers affixing them to the ship, I could feel the walls around me holding their invisible breath. "Do you know what we're doing today, Rosie?"

Her tiny panel flickered on.

[...?]

"We got a scrap run."

[ ^_^]

[ :) ]

[ ^_^ ]

Her panel flicked between various expressions of excitement. My finger quivered on the main power, holding for a moment before flicking it on. The primary electronics of the ship hummed to life, and the parts Rosie controlled pulsed with it. My hands moved across the main functional panels- main hydraulic plasma valve, exhaust ports open, and finally, flicking the switch the start the plasma burner.

Go time. I punch the boost.

The station shakes. Rosie was never a subtle one.

The mechanics are deafened.

The crowd of spectators are deafened.

The other pilots in the hanger are deafened.

But me? The vibrations of Rosie's hull shuddering under me was the sweetest symphony my ears ever had the pleasure of hearing. As we shot out of that hanger, I found myself involuntarily humming a high note, harmonizing with the sweet rumble of my baby's acceleration as we shoot out into the inky, black expanse of space. The twin asteroids shot by us as we disappeared, leaving only the faint blue plasma trail from our engines.

My hand is firm on the boost, weathered hands tightly gripping the bar of the accelerator. I remember installing this thing in her- it was an aftermarket adjustment, not included in the usual light skipper chassis. Gently stripping away the back of her chassis, caressing her insides as I rooted the paneling, firmly attaching the tanks and burners on her insides... these hands had taken great pleasure in that. Bested only, of course, by the first time I had felt the thing roar to life.

And what a feeling it was. Rosie's entire chassis, biological and mechanical, shuddering under my grasp. The grip of my calloused hands on the boost controls, tight and sweaty around the ridged grip of the horizontal bar. The noises she made, as if to shout in glee and wild abandon at being unchained and let loose into the eternal field of space, as she was made to do. The gentle touch of her skin on my back, my body pressed in contact with the small fraction of hers that was my seat. I glanced down at her face panel.

[ :| ]

[ :D ]

[ :| ]

[ :D ]

[ :| ]

[ :D ]

[ :| ]

[ :D ]

My humming gave way to a chuckle, and then a wholehearted, exhilarated laugh. Someone was enjoying herself. The flickering faces on her panel reminded me of the happily panting station dogs back on Mars.

But as much as I would like this to just be a joyride, I had promised Rosie a scrap run. And the pickings were looking good. I glanced down at the nav. I was intentionally headed at a slightly indirect angle- Rosie's boost was her main attractive feature (both as a ship, and as a working partner), and the extra leeway I had in travel time let me strategize a bit more. I doubted we would be the first people there, but I figured we could get in before the main rush. The only trouble was darting in and grabbing something right from under the noses of the first locusts. The scrap field in question included a disabled heavy mining freighter, a goliath of the ship larger than some of the asteroids it made supply runs between. I assumed that most other scavengers would be approaching directly from our station, and the other stations in its proximity. With Rosie's boost, we could overshoot, hook around, and put the freighter in between us and the guns of the more violent craft. Rosie has no long range weapons of any kind- not only would they slow down her miraculous speed, but she didn't like them. I tried installing a small plasma cannon once, and she expressed immense distaste. Maybe they were too brutish for her, or maybe she didn't like the way they felt inside her, burdening her with pressure from the inside that didn't befit the delicate touches I usually graced her with. Rosie loved speed, precision, elegance, and stealth above all else. It's just the kind of ship she was.

That's not to say she was a pacifist, or defenseless. Quite the contrary. She just prefers a more... personal touch.

The navicom beeped at me. We'd reached the point where we needed to make that hook. My bare feet gently swept across the titanium flooring to the steering pedals. My right hand delicately gripped the steering joystick, while my left eased its grip on the boost accelerator.

"Ready for this, darling?"

[ >:) ]

I slammed the steering to the left, and Rosie gleefully complied. The wide bank of the turn as we rotated and soared through the sea of stars twisted my body in its inertia, compressing me further into her. As the angle straightened out to the proper heading, I punched the boost again, and Rosie roared forward.

Slowly, our target came into sight. Damn. This thing had taken some serious damage. Mining freighters typically weren't heavily armored- their only job was to get material from point A to B- but this one had clearly been through some serious modifications. Modifications that now lay in ruin. Titanium plating was scattered in a field around the core of the freighter. I couldn't quite tell what was stuff left behind by the battle, and what was the result of shoddy craftmanship- but it didn't matter. What did matter was that the entire thing had been split almost in half, and the scattered cargo that was leaking out. Cargo that most likely included half the weapon supplies of this little rebel faction. Would fetch a pretty penny, to the right buyer. And hell, if it was just gonna sit here unclaimed...

Ah shit. It wasn't gonna sit here unclaimed. Despite my best efforts, it looks like we weren't the first ones here. A larger scavenger gang had already arrived, and it looks like it was one of the ones I knew- Augustus and his lot. Most likely, they'd be after the weapons intact, one more thing to use to shakedown the scattered independent stations I always flitted between. He would not be happy to see me n Rosie here. What he called his "fleet" was a single, mid-sized carrier ship, about half the size of the freighter we were looting, and the dozen or so scout fighters and strip mining crafts he had looted from the Navy and various corps, and one Biologic that he called his. I respect that part, to be honest. What I don't respect is him immediately turning around and using that charge every goddamn station his ever-increasing "protection fees". Not to mention my personal disdain for the way he treated his ship. Didn't even give her a damn name. I digress. But any chance to loot something from under that slimebag's nose was a win in my book. I knew he wasn't gonna make it easy, though.

Welp. That's what our positioning was for. The side facing us was the main starboard face, and like the rest of the ship, it was peppered in small holes and gashes. Seems like the main damage had happened from the other side, and a few cables and scaffolds on the starboard just barely kept the two rear cargo compartments clinging to the front.

"Alright Rosie, time to creep it in slow. Be quiet, now, don't want them picking up a plasma surge"

[ :| ]

Ha. That was her "my lips are sealed" face. She's having fun with this already.

I cut the booster, coasting closer and closer to the bust open vessel. I eased the reverse thrusters ever so slightly, my fingers gently stroking the dual brake levers, lightly teasing at them to wait until we were as close as I thought we could be without attracted attention.......... before slamming both sides back towards me. For just one, crucial moment.

The goal here was to approximately match the speed and trajectory of a floating piece of titanium plating. Rosie's frontal blades were essentially that, anyways, so all they would see is a somewhat more angular piece of rubble. Hopefully they hadn't seen that same piece of rubble screaming out of travel speed, but I was cautious enough with my distances that I didn't think that was a problem. And they hadn't seen me yet. Once we were close enough to the freighter itself, we were blocked from their raw sightline, and Rosie was running quiet enough to not tip off any of their energy sensors.

But there was still no guarantee. Rosie, however, had no shortage of tricks. Something that she and I had developed together was a nice little bit of snooping. Well cared for and well trained, a Biologic brain had the problem solving of a human, and the computational power of a machine. But them together, and you've got a perfect decoder. And I happened to know that Augustus used an encrypted local frequency to keep his

"Alright Rosie, thinkin you can eavesdrop a little?"

Affirmative.

[...]

[..!]

My comms crackled to life. "...7 heavy cannons in center-front portside bay, 3 replacement fighter hatchs...."

The comms crackled back and forth, with each pilot giving updates to what they were finding in their own little segment that they were slicing apart. Occasionally, I saw Augustus or the fighters flick between the slicing ships, overseeing their progress on the port bays. Good. Let them focus on the other side for now. Slowly, the fleet was overshadowed by the freighter. We made it. I released my breath- shit, didn't realize I was holding it- and took a better look at what we were dealing with. It looked as if the scattered debris field had mostly been the remnants of the hull, as well as light weapons for small craft and even infantry. They would fetch some small change, sure, but Rosie's cargo capacity was small. Packing efficiency was the name of the game. I saw the gash that it had all been flooding out of on this side- the entire freighter was covered in them- and peered inside. And ho boy, did my heart flutter.

Heavy cannons.

Jump-graded travel boosters.

Raw, precious metals.

And, hidden in the back corner, seemingly bolted into the wall.... a brain.

We'd hit jackpot, and potentially rescued a poor ship from abandonment, or worse.

"Alright Rosie. Time to get to work."

Affirmative.

And here was another lil something that made Rosie special- her manipulation arms . She always preferred that delicate touch, and wanted to interact with the world in a tactile, real way. So we worked on it. Together. I was tired of taking spacewalks to grab small pieces of scrap, or using the entire goddamn cargo bay on a piece that only had a tiny core, or scraps of precious metals inside. So we needed something that could pluck apart our finds. Do some light disassembly in the field, extract what was valuable, and load it in with the most packing efficiency possible. So I gave her arms- snake like appendages, coiled up in her cargo bay, with thousands of points of articulation. At first, I tried to make some kind of control system that I could use from the cockpit. But Rosie had a different idea. At her urged, I jacked them directly into the same sensory and motor systems that let her grip onto, position, and repair her hull. And by god, it worked.

When I showed her off the first time, no one had ever seen anything like it. Because there was nothing like it. A ship taking real mechanical control, over something so precise and delicate, was something that only a deeply intelligent, deeply skilled ship, with complex decision making and tactile movement could do.

And I was goddamn proud of her.

Every time she deployed them, I watched awe. Rosie gave a face of determination, and sinuous, metallic, tentacle-like appendages slid out in a bundle from the cargo bay opening on her underside. Each one was headed off by a different attachment- a precision laser cutter, a simple three-pointed grabbing claw, a drill, a tiny buzzsaw, camera that let me see what was going on, and more. Each one could be swapped out, depending on the task at hand. With eight of them slithering out from her cargo bay, though, there was usually something for everything. They extended out as a single bouquet, down through the hole of the cargo compartment, and split apart once inside. Each arm got to work.

Her observation monitor flickered on, giving me a view from the camera arm. I would've liked to get the brain out first, but two heavy cannons and a booster blocking the way anyways. We'd cut through that, picking off the energy cores and precious metals in the circuits as we go, and work our way towards the back. Rosie seemed to like the plan as well. My only job was to watch the comms, and watch the sensors.

I watched the camera as the petite tools of the arms excised and picked apart the titanium shell of the first heavy cannon. Her tools- the delicate 'fingers' of her arms- picked, pulled, tugged, and gently gripped every necessary notch, every joined titanium plate that needed to be undone, ever scrap of precious material. Firm, yet precise. Strong, yet never breaking or mishandling a single piece of cargo. As Rosie worked, my eyes darted across the energy sensors. I could see blips firing off as the ships on the other side of the freighter as the slicing ships worked and flitted between their stations from the other side. The comms crackled with their reports to Augustus- they seemed to be moving back and forth to the main carrier to drop off their hauls. It seemed like they had a lot to go through- we'd have plenty of time.

On the camera view, I could see a grabbing claw retracting back through the cargo bay. The first cannon had the back section cleanly excised from the massive barrel and chassis, leaving a path for the tools to get to the booster. The precious energy cell was sliding its way back into Rosie's cargo bay. God damn. She was quick with that. The laser cutter and saw were already making short work of the booster, too. We'd get to the brain in no time.

The chatter on the other line continued. We were still safe, but Augustus' crew had made more progress than I had hoped. Once the slicers had picked apart the port, they'd loop around to the starboard. We had to grab what we could as fast as we can- but I knew neither me or Rosie was gonna leave without that brain. Rosie gracefully sliced the fuel cell and ignition from the plasma burner, leaving the bracketing and vents behind. The second heavy cannon was soon to follow. Each cut through each piece had left a winding path towards the back of the chamber, allowing a physical path to what I had seen just barely poking through: a container for a genuine ship's brain. Rosie slid her camera arm in for a closer look.

The brain was bolted into the chassis of the ship, as well as some containers of growth factor. Seemed like the intent was to grow her in to this freighter. That was certainly an ambitious task, but if they knew what they were doing, it would be well worth it. A self-repairing, intelligent hauler as large as this one would be the heart and soul of resistance movements everywhere, supplying every backwater mining station or moon that longed to be free. Unfortunately, the brave and principled can still be stupid, and these chucklefucks had no idea what they were doing. Slapped in a random cargo bay, desperately trying to get growth out from there with no proper imprinting guidance... shame. If they'd've found me before running into the Navy, I might've helped them out. But at least now, we could give her a better life. I knew a lot of good, caring pilots that would take loving care of a fine ship like her.

From what I could tell, we were still safe from Augustus. Based on what I was hearing on the comms, each slicer was working on its last cargo hold subsection, and after that, they'd be poking around this side. We had to get this brain and get out.

Tenderly, her claw arm gripped the top of the brain's chamber, as her other fingers started working on the rivets. A saw would bust through part of the titanium bracket holding the chamber down, and when it got too close to the container itself, laser cutters took over, delicately slicing off each affixation point one by one. Rosie worked in a clockwise direction, first working down the three riveting points on the right, sawing off the bottom bracket, and then working up the rivets on the left.

C'mon Rosie. You got this. Just need the top plate....

"Finishing up there, slicer 5T?"

Shit. That was Augustus on the comms.

"Sure thing boss. Just gotta get this load to central. Mind if someone takes a peek on the other side for parasites before I get there?"

Shit.

"Sure thing. Fighter 3A, get your ass in gear and make a full pass of the ship."

An energy spike pinged on my sensor panels as the fighter revved up a booster.

"Gotcha boss. Starting at aft segment."

Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit

We still had a sliver of time before we were seen. They'd wanna get a good pass everywhere- there were ships far stealthier than us out there. But it was minutes at most. We had to finish up.

"Rosie, how're we doing there? You done?"

Negative.

[ ;( ]

"Fuck. Rosie, we gotta get outta here."

Affirmative. Affirmative. Affirmative. Affirmative.

Rosie-speak for "I know, I know, I know"

My eyes were fixed to the scanner and my cockpit windows for a visual, but I spared one moment to check Rosie's cam. She was finishing sawing through the top bracket. Just a little more....

"Aft clear, moving to starboard cargo bays."

The brain snapped off of the hull, and Rosie's claws were zipping it back to her cargo bay. I revved the engines into standby. The arms tenderly guided it through the path we had cleared, and out through the hole in the hull. We might be able to barely slip away without them knowing.....

I looked up through the cockpit, just as the dinged-up, formerly Navy fighter showed itself from behind a piece of debris. It froze for a moment, and then lined its nose to face me. Cannon ports shifted open, and slowly took aim.

"Well shit, Augustus, you're gonna wanna see this. Get your ass over here, I'm switching to public comms."

I heard slight fuzz as he switched his channel.

"Alright, leech, I'll keep this simple. You have thirty seconds to relinquish your haul before you join the debris."

For a single, cold moment, I swear I made eye contact with him through our cockpits.

#writing #sierra writes #biologics #robotfucker #eroticism of the machine #story #sci fi story #scifi #scifi story

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rollinouttahere-writes · 1 month

Note

Crocodile gets this from an annoyance (Spandam)

You know what? Here, have a drabble. First fic using Lizard's official name.

No one in Impel Down got visitors, that's a given. Especially not someone left to rot in level 6, a level that even other prisoners didn't know existed. That's why Crocodile laughed when he was informed he had a visitor, having assumed it was a joke. The guard kept a straight face and said that the visitor would be there shortly, then left.

That certainly intrigued Crocodile and the other prisoners that had overheard the exchange. It didn't take long for the news that there was going to be a visitor to spread through out the entire block. Speculations about who it could be bounced between the cells, and the prisoners closest to him asked if he knew who it was. Crocodile shrugged off their questions. He genuinely had no clue. All he could do was wait for his visitor to arrive.

A door could be heard unlocking and opening down the hall, and Crocodile knew that that must be whoever has come down here to see him. His cell was around a corner, so he couldn't see who it was yet, but he could hear.

He could hear an onslaught of taunts and mockery coming from the other prisoners. Whoever this was appeared to be well known amongst these people, and most certainly not liked.

When the mystery visitor finally turned the corner, Crocodile had more questions than answers. Some battered, swollen man in a full body brace was being pushed towards him in a wheelchair. That definitely wasn't what he had been expecting to see.

The prisoner in the cell across from him started laughing hysterically. "Holy hell, Spandam?! And here I thought your mug couldn't get any uglier!" More prisoners joined in on the laughter, visibly elated to see this Spandam character in his sorry state. Crocodile had no idea who this man was, though he can recall hearing the name thrown around a few times.

Spandam is brought to a halt in front of Crocodile's cell. The ex-warlord smirked down at the weak looking man before him. He walked up to the bars and slid his hand and hook through them, grinning when he saw Spandam deliberately wheel himself back a bit when he saw the gleaming hook.

"Leave." The order was barked at the guards accompanying Spandam.

They looked at him incredulously, "Sir, this is Level 6, we can't just-"

"I said leave! I want to speak to him alone!" For such a thoroughly beaten man, he had a surprising amount of bark to him.

The guards hesitated, but eventually sighed and left, looking downright relieved to get away from him. Crocodile stared down at Spandam, curious as to what business he had with him.

"You!" The man seethed.

Crocodile chuckled, "What about me?"

"Your daughter!" That certainly caught his attention. "That little monster attacked me!"

For a moment, everything was silent. Crocodile took in Spandam's appearance, then laughed. Hard. Harder than he has in a long time. When he finally calmed down, he responded to the insane claim, "Sure she did. And I'm here because the Marines defeated me." He chuckled again, finding the bold-faced lie amusing.

Spandam's face turned red in rage, "She did!" He reached into his mouth and ripped out a bridge, "That crazy bitch kicked out my teeth and bit my fingers off!" The hand clutching the bridge only had three fingers, the pinky and ring finger absent.

Crocodile sneered at him, not caring for hearing this pathetic whelp call his daughter such a thing. "Nubia catches insects and gives them to her body guards to release outside because she can't stand to kill them, and you want me to believe she did that? If you're going to lie, at least make it believable."

The wheelchair inched closer to the cell as Spandam tried to act tough and yell. "I am a World Government official! I'm the chief of CP9! You can't even begin to comprehend the power I have!"

"And yet you couldn't fend off a little girl!" A prisoner called out from down the block, making many of the others laugh.

Spandam was practically foaming at the mouth. He turned his head as much as he could with his brace and casts and scowled at the offending prisoner. Then he looked back at Crocodile with a maniacal grin. He wheeled himself even closer to the cell, "You know why I came down here? I wanted to tell you in person that when I get my hands on that girl again, I'm going to make the rest of her life a living hell! She'll be begging for me to kill her whe-"

His words are cut off when Crocodile lunges forward. His hook sank into Spandam's shoulder and yanked him closer, and his hand locked around his throat to prevent him from screaming and alerting the guards. Murmurs of excitement echoed down the block as every prison clamber to watch the entertaining spectacle.

Crocodile glowered at the idiot before him, squeezing his neck harder and relishing in the panicked thrashing and gurgling sounds coming out of him. He spoke slowly but firmly, making sure that this fool would hear every word.

"If you so much as look at her, I'll rip your eyes out with my hook. If you breathe the same air as her, I'll eviscerate you, and if you ever touch her," Crocodile squeezed his neck tighter and dug the hook in deeper, "I will kill you."

With that, Crocodile released Spandam, making sure to do as much damage as possible when he tore his hook out. The scream that he let out once he could breathe again was ear-piercing and caught the attention of the guards. Despite the blood still dripping from his hook, they said nothing to Crocodile and just focused on removing the shrieking man from the block.

Everyone was cheering Crocodile on, happy to see him tear into the CP9 Chief. Crocodile didn't register any of their words as he stared at his blood soaked hook. His daughter was specifically being targeted by some very powerful people.

He needed to get out of here, and fast. And when he did, Spandam was going to be his first victim.

#strays au #crocodad series #crocodad3 #sir crocodile #spandam

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beautifulpersonpeach · 7 days

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BPP, oh my god, the MHJ New Jean's news?? Do you have any thoughts? That's actually insane! What do you think is going to end up happening with New Jean's?

Ask 2:

Have you read about what’s happening with Ador and Hybe? What do you think?

Ask 3:

The TEA today about Ador Ceo was sad but not surprising. BTS is the story of betrayal by outsiders.

I was surprised when Tae worked with HER for his album. I didn't see that collaboration coming.

I have to wonder if she purposefully misled Tae into a "mid" album. Look, Layover isn't a bad album but its not a masterpiece regardless of what Tae solos believe.

The results are so different between albums like JITB, Astronaut, DDAY, Indigo, Face and Layover its crazy. The depth/personal experience reflected in those albums is undeniable while Tae's was all surface.

Golden is departure and its own thing. JK went for global popstar and achieved/ate!! His choreo reflected his status as part of 3J and his vocals were on display. Gorgeous!!! (Had to add that in because in this house we don't leave out members)

I feel bad for Tae today realizing he worked with a traitor. I will always wonder what he could have released if he had just worked with the Bighit team instead of Ador Ceo.

Maybe you have more insight into all this?

Ask 4:

Sooo... what are you thinking about this inter-hybe conflict between belift and ador? I know you're a nj fan but I think I've also heard you say that people are too quick to call things a nj copy, so I'm curious what you think about mhj's claims. I'll be honest that I thought that what I've seen so far seemed kind of unhinged-main-character syndrome to me but I also don't follow these groups and don't know how deep this goes. Certainly, I think mhj has been very deliberate and successful in building nj's brand, but I found this public argument unnecessary and potentially damaging to both groups. What kind of fallout do you expect?

Ask 5:

Bpp! Thoughts on the Min Heejin Hybe mess? I thought we were done with the corporate drama but tuns out no!

***

There's really nothing to say... yet.

News leaked that HYBE has leveled some allegations and accusations at ADOR, most likely based on a tip off, and launched an audit to ascertain if these allegations are true - in HYBE's statement confirming the audit, they don't name the people accused, but the news leak makes a point to name Min Heejin specifically, keeping the name of the VP who is accused of committing the acts unknown.

Min Heejin has responded in an exclusive interview and statement by ADOR, that she's innocent of most of the accusations and that this dispute started because HYBE has refused to curb inter-label plagiarism of her ideas with NewJeans. She refers specifically to Be:lift's new girl group Illit, noting how everything from choreography to visuals to styling to sound is based on her ideas, without proper attribution to her from Belift, nor an apology for what she calls blatant theft of concepts she's developing at ADOR. She accuses Bang PD of being complicit and prioritizing short-term profit over long-term viability of the new groups he's pushing out.

There are reports (unconfirmed) that HYBE has called for Min Heejin to resign. If ADOR doesn't call for a shareholder meeting by tomorrow, HYBE has indicated they might sue. The fact the meeting is being called before the audit is concluded, has all the hallmarks of a textbook corporate power play move, and implies to me something else than what I'm seeing most people here allude to. But still...

...there's nothing to say because what we're seeing is the middle innings of a power play game. There's simply too little info to make any decisive statements.

I immediately get a headache whenever things like this happen in k-pop because, even for more innocuous subjects, there's nobody more mind rotted than the average k-pop stan. And before long we'll have people whose only experience with executive/corporate power struggles is watching Succession, giving us endless takes in endless discourse. And this particular discourse is going to be more annoying because (1) Min Heejin is a woman who is already widely disliked, (2) There's an overwhelming amount of intersectional motives and interests both within and outside HYBE given the nature of the dispute, which typically leads to people infusing moral language into the discussion. It's going to be the HYBE-Kakao-SM discourse on steroids (and even in the HYBE vs SM drama, we had far more information to go on that what's available in this case).

I mean... Anon 3, you're already convinced this is a story of "betrayal", and claiming she is a "traitor", and you're tying a corporate power struggle to BTS. Not like I'd expect to see anything less from most other people to be honest.

This is really a dispute between Min Heejin and Kim Taeho (Belift's CEO), with increased grievance due to Taeho supposedly enjoying Bang PD and Park Jiwon's support and Heejin, supposedly, not.

The fallout, predictably, is going to be nasty. Given all the above. NewJeans is slated to have a comeback next month, Illit is only just ramping down debut activities while ENHYPEN is just starting the final leg of their FATE+ tour. If HYBE is indeed demanding MHJ resign, it's likely they only mean for her to resign from the CEO role but remain as the Creative Director of NewJeans - because the reality is that if there is no MHJ, there is no NewJeans. And it's that reality that in my view, is the primary leverage MHJ has. And she doesn't strike me as the sort to bluff. The worst case scenario is she leaves HYBE completely and NewJeans is put on hiatus, or the members sue to break their contracts with HYBE to follow her while she courts outside investors, similar to the Fifty Fifty situation.

Inter-label competition and drama is expected in a company like HYBE, it's wonderful because it can yield truly incredible results and unique approaches, but also potentally horrible because it can result in cases like MHJ's vs HYBE. There are ways to properly manage this competition to prevent the latter case, but I can't say I've seen any indication that with Jiwon nor Bang have done so. I said above that MHJ leaving HYBE completely is the worst case scenario for NewJeans, but it looks like the scenario most preferable for certain parties given it's one of the only viable outcomes from having this news broken this way. And so, most likely to happen. Unless Bang PD develops some hitherto unseen business acumen... so yeah I'm not holding my breath.

I have nothing insightful to add. My opinions about the suits at HYBE and Bang PD's business decisions for the last 2 years have skewed mostly negative, and that's not changed in this case. I'd rather not share my full opinions because I feel they run contrary to the dominant talking points here, and partly because they're not fully formed and nobody here is paying me to fully develop a view. I'm really not going to do that work for free.

We're all just going to have to wait and see.

What I will say though and something I find particularly interesting, is that HYBE has been accused of what Min Heejin is alleging, since at least the start of last year. Also, Belift in particular has been accused of plagiarism since the start of the year, twice, on issues unrelated to NewJeans. The first was when 'mobiius_music', an indie music producer on Instagram, accused them of lifting his music almost bar for bar for ENHYPEN's 2023 GDA dance break. The second was when Kelley Sweeney, an American choreographer who shares her routines on Instagram and tiktok, accused Belift of using her choreography for Illit's pre-debut practice without credit. Both times it was for low-level offences as it wasn't related to official music releases or album content, and so in that way Belift is better than bigger and more known agencies, but it still reflects a lax vetting process in the best case and unethical creative practices in the worst.

Anyway, my concern is for the artists involved while the suits try to play god with their careers. I can only hope that whatever happens is only the best possible outcome for all involved.

#newjeans #min heejin #bang pd #park jiwon #kim taeho #belift #hybe #kpop #ador

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seradyn · 10 months

Text

I Won’t Let Go

Ruben x Reader fluff

Helping Ruben cope with a seizure, giving him lots of cuddles and comfort afterwards.

For my dear @broteinshake69 , based on this post.

Word Count: 3611

^ I am incapable of writing short one-shots :)

TW: None

I am not a neuroscientist, nor have I ever had a seizure, so I hope you can excuse the pseudoscience and inaccurate depiction x)

Les go

———————————————————————

A soft, familiar squelch filled his ears as the scalpel cut cleanly through the brain. Each incision was made with practiced precision, every wave of the small knife deliberate. He’d done this so many times before, it was second nature by now. Dissect, record, kill, dissect, record, he’d done it since he’d freed himself from beneath his parent’s thumbs. Since he got out of the basement. Ironic, now that he’d set up his main lab there.

Today was no different, though Ruben had chosen to focus on one particular part of the brain; the cerebellum. It sat lower on the organ, closer to the brainstem, meaning he often had to kill his subjects to get to it. No matter, the data was more than worth it. And it was there waiting for him, a wellspring of neurotransmitters and chemical reactions. The mind’s response to his live dissections etched into the stone walls of chemistry.

With one final, satisfying cut, the gelatinous glob fell from the rest of the organ, the gentle weight falling into a gloved hand. Ruben placed it onto its own tray, shoving the rest of the brain into a corner. He’d have to discard it before it began to rot, but that could wait. His scarred fingers twitched with the anticipation of new data. His creation, STEM, was nearly ready for its first prototype, he was so close.

Standing, he went to retrieve the rest of the tools he’d need, listing them off as he removed his gloves; syringes, sharper scalpels, a microscope. Things he preferred not cluttering his desk while he worked on getting the parts he needed. Sometimes he could work on the surgical tables marking the center of his ‘exam rooms’, but alas, he still needed to dispose of the body, too. Something that only served to waste his time, which could be spent doing research.

He grunted with the weight of some of the equipment, his hands sending dull shocks of pain up his arms. Ruben had years to cope with the weakness of his body after the fire, but it was moments like these that made him grit his teeth in silent rage. That day had rendered his existence one of constant pain and strife, and he was loath to be reminded of such.

Though that rage quickly simmered down, burning with a low heat in his chest. That was why he was doing this research, after all. His body, his life…his sister. What he lost, he would get back.

One subject, one dissection, one brain at a time.

Ruben let out a tense sigh, his robe catching the stale air as he spun around, awkwardly walking back to his desk with the bulky microscope cradled in his hands. He only wished it wasn’t taking so long. His project was years in the making, and he knew it would take years more for it to come to fruition. Truthfully, he was frustrated by it all. He was tired of living this joke.

The microscope hit his desk with a dull thud, the scars on his hands and fingers aching from the excursion. He shook them out, flexing his fingers to tame the soreness in his joints. The day was still young, and he was determined to make the most of it.

Ruben picked up his scalpel, positioning the cerebellum so his cuts would be clean along its length. To get the proper images, he’d need slices as thin as hairs, which meant there was little room for error. Too thick and he wouldn’t be able to see what he was looking for, too thin and there wouldn’t be enough to work with. He would be injecting them with dye, which in turn would react with the various chemicals throughout the soft tissue, changing the dye’s color. Crude methods, certainly, but they delivered the desired results. The way the brain coped with such high levels of stress, fear, and pain - he would have that as his prize.

Or, at least that was the plan. Plans which came to a grinding halt when Ruben found himself unable to move his arm or hand.

Puzzled, he furrowed his brow, glancing at the offending limb. It was frozen in midair, scalpel raised, as if stuck in time. He tried to force it into motion, but it didn’t budge, the muscles stiffened without his consent. Frustrated, he turned his attention back to the brain on his desk, hoping his muscles would relax after a moment. It wasn’t unusual for his body to just give out on him, much to his annoyance, but with any luck, it would pass after a few moments.

Ruben was caught off guard though, when his vision began to swim. He couldn’t focus on any one thing, all of it smearing into a watery mess of indistinguishable colors. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his muddy eyes, but there was no relief.

He heard a distinct clatter, that of metal striking metal. He’d dropped his scalpel, it took him too long to realize. He hadn’t even felt it, couldn’t perceive as his fingers closed around nothing. He could feel his breaths becoming frantic, his body not listening to his commands. The colors warped, shifted and melded, until everything began to go dark…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You knew something wasn’t right when you heard a metallic tink as you were coming down the basement stairs. The place was usually home to similar sounds, that of Ruben exchanging one tool for another while he worked, but this time it sounded different. Louder, more chaotic, like something had been dropped. That wasn’t like him - Ruben was meticulous, and took great care of his equipment. It wasn’t like him to be careless.

You’d been on your way down to deliver some water when you heard it. Ruben had trouble remembering his own physical needs while he was working, meaning more often than not, that duty fell to you. You made sure he stayed hydrated, and had something to eat if he got hungry between meals. He feigned irritation, stubborn as he was about being able to take care of himself, but you knew he appreciated what you did. The glasses were always empty when you came back to retrieve them, and his supply of snacks was always steadily depleting. While he didn’t approve of you being in his lab for long, he allowed you these short visits.

Besides, you always sweetened the deal by giving him a quick kiss before you went back upstairs, and you both knew Ruben couldn’t refuse you when you did that.

All such pretense went down the drain when you heard the strange noise, your heart jumping a little. You hurried the rest of the way down, dropping off the glass on a random table when you reached the bottom. Without hesitation, you barged into the room he was working in, not caring if he got mad at you for the intrusion. He was standing before his desk on the far wall, hand poised above a pink blob on a tray. Part of a brain, you supposed, but you hadn’t the foggiest idea which piece.

More worryingly, Ruben hadn’t acknowledged you when you came in. You tilted your head at him quizzically.

“Ruben?” You said, voice meek as you tentatively stepped forward. He offered no response, which only made your concern grow. Upon getting closer, you noticed a slight tremble to his form.

“Ruben? Ruben, what's wrong?” You said, more frantic now. You’d never seen him act like this, and you hadn’t a clue what could be causing him to do so.

You reached out a hand to steady him. His trembling only seemed to be getting worse.

Before you could graze the fabric of his robe with your fingers, his legs appeared to give out. Eyes widening, you jumped forward to catch him, yelping as he dragged you down to the floor with his weight. You collapsed in a tangled heap, Ruben’s body cushioned by your own. The concrete was cold, unforgiving as it bit into your tailbone.

Recovering from the tumble, you looked down at the man in your lap, opening your mouth to ask more questions. You just as quickly froze, feeling Ruben’s body twitch and convulse in your lap. The blood drained from your face, heart in your throat as you watched his body jerk violently.

Seizure, your brain offered through its panic.

“Fuck,” you muttered, setting Ruben gently down on the floor, mind whirling with what you were supposed to do.

He’d warned you this was a possibility. When you two started a relationship, he’d given you a laundry list of various complications that arose from his injuries. Numbness, trouble with temperature regulation, limited movement, muscle stiffness, and yes, seizures were on that list. He told you they happened more often when he was a boy, his body unable to cope with the loss of so much tissue. They didn’t happen as much anymore, but they would never fully go away. There was always a chance of one happening.

Too great a chance, you thought, ripping off your shirt and putting it under his head. He’d given you some basic instructions on what to do if he ever went into such a state, back when he explained all this. It was a bit hard to concentrate though, heart like a drum as you watched him seize.

Safety, safety first, you reminded yourself, spotting a scalpel close by - the one he dropped, you presumed. You quickly snatched it away from him, setting it on his desk so he wouldn’t cut himself. Next, you remembered him telling you to time his seizures, to make sure they didn’t last too long. You grabbed at your phone with shaky fingers, fumbling with the device until you finally got a timer going. Make sure he’s breathing, don’t hold him down, keep things out of his mouth, your mind recited the list, mentally checking off each one as you did it.

His last instruction, stay calm, was admittedly quite a bit harder to honor.

How were you supposed to stay calm with your love seizing on the floor?!

What was minutes felt like hours. You sat beside him, feeling useless and scared as you worried your bottom lip between your teeth. Ruben told you these weren’t a huge deal, and you trusted him, but being in the presence of it was something else entirely. You felt like you should be able to do more, make it less torturous somehow, but the logical part of you knew you couldn’t. Now it was just about waiting.

Slowly, his muscles began to settle, the spasms happening less often, their strength waning. You spared a look at his face, frowning at the grimace still on it. You hoped he wasn’t in pain. You peeked at the timer; 1 minute 40 seconds, it read.

You let out an anxious breath, rocking back on your shins. Not a medical emergency, then, if it was already clearing up. For that at least, you were grateful.

A deep groan filled the room, and your attention snapped back to Ruben. He was finally starting to regain consciousness, squeezing his eyes tightly shut against the fluorescent bulbs overhead. Once you were sure it was safe, you scooped him up into your lap, cradling his head and shoulders while you softly whispered his name. You nudged his nose with your own, trying to get him to open his eyes. You needed to know he was okay. His flesh was cold, and you held him firmly, giving him as much of your warmth and comfort as you could.

Eventually, it worked. Ruben groaned again, a deep, pained sound, eyelids parting a crack to look up at you. They looked glassy, like he’d abruptly been awoken from a deep sleep. You gave his shoulders a light squeeze, delicately stroking the scarred side of his face while his good side pressed against your chest.

“Ruben, are you okay?” You asked gently, looking at him with clear worry etched into your face.

He blinked at you a few times, taking a moment to process your words.

“I…What happened?” He croaked, his voice horse. You’d have to remember to make him drink something.

“You had a seizure,” was your simple reply. You tried your best to sound calm, but your voice wavered as you spoke, giving you away. “I did my best to keep you safe and comfortable.”

Ruben studied your face for a moment before he nodded stiffly, his attention leaving you to scan the room.

“And where…are we?” He asked.

Ah, the confusion. You remembered he told you that was the most common symptom. Seizures almost always left their victims confused and disoriented.

“We’re in your lab, at the manor,” you told him. He seemed pleased with that answer, the last of the stiffness leaving him as he relaxed into you. Your heart melted as he nuzzled his face into your sternum, blinking lazily as he let out a contented sigh.

Loath as you were to move him, you knew this wasn’t the best place for him to rest.

“Hey,” you kissed his forehead to get his attention. Those pale irises snapped to you instantly; he couldn’t resist your touch. “I’ll take you to bed, okay?” You waited for a response, and after another nod, you continued. “Do you want me to get your wheelchair, or can you stand?”

His nose wrinkled at the mention of his chair. You knew he hated it, hated how much it reminded him how weak his body was, but with mobility being a common issue, he needed to keep it around. You wished for his sake he used it more often, but you never pushed the matter.

“I can walk,” he said quickly. He didn’t need the help, he could do it himself.

To prove his point, he tried to sit up. Tried, being the operative word. His adam’s apple bobbed with anguished grunts as his muscles screamed in protest. Everything was sore, like he’d just run a marathon in sweltering heat. His teeth ground together as he slumped forward, head hung as he fought down a wave of nausea.

“Hey,” you said again, supporting his back so he wouldn’t fall and hit his head. “Don’t push yourself. I’ll take you as far as I can, but if you need the wheelchair, please just ask for it. Now is not the time to be stubborn.”

Ruben huffed at you, but he knew he was in no position to argue. “Fine,” he hissed, letting you loop his arm behind your neck. With a quick countdown, you were able to hoist him up, both of you stumbling a little as you found your footing. His scars pressed up against you as he used you for support, and you did your best not to cause them any unnecessary irritation. After making sure Ruben was okay, you began your slow, awkward hobble up to the second floor.

It was a long, arduous process. One made almost entirely in silence, both of you struggling to put one foot in front of another. Only two questions from him broke the silence on your journey there: how long was the seizure, and why weren’t you wearing a shirt. You had to stifle a laugh at the second one, but you answered them honestly. It wasn’t long before you reached the bedroom, causing you both to sag in relief. You had to kick the door open, leading him inside as gravity shut it behind you.

He plopped onto the sheets heavily, panting from the pain plaguing his joints. You sat down next to him, taking his hand in yours, rubbing his knuckles with your thumb to sooth him. You couldn’t begin to imagine how hard something as simple as walking must be after that, especially with his burns already making movement difficult. Your own shoulders were sore from holding him up, but it was a small price to pay if it lessened his own suffering, even if only a little.

After a pause, Ruben sighed, lifting his head to stare at the wall opposite you.

“This is pointless,” he grumbled, turning to meet your gaze. “I’ll be fine in a few minutes. I should be back in the lab.”

Your brows drew down at that, eyes narrowing. Even for him, that was an insane notion. You leaned forward, placing a single finger on his charred nose.

“Liar,” you accused sternly. “I know you want to do more, but you’re in no condition to be running experiments. You need to rest.”

Ruben scowled, removing your hand from his face. “I need to get back to work. I’ve lost enough time as it is.”

You scowled back at him, a harsh rebuttal on the tip of your tongue, but you stopped yourself. The expression just as quickly dissolved, replaced by worry and sorrow. You knew how important his work was to him, you knew what he’d done to obtain it. Aside from you, it was everything to him.

“I know,” you said softly. You pushed the hood of his robe down, revealing his scarred, hairless face. You ran your hand along the edge of his jawline, admiring how handsome he looked like that. “I know it means a lot to you…I just don’t want you to hurt yourself.” He gave you an incredulous look, but you weren’t finished. “I know you’d stay down there every waking moment if you could, and I don’t fault you for that. But I can’t stand the thought of finding you impaled on your own equipment, or one of your subjects getting out because a seizure impaired your judgment. I don’t want to think about what could happen to you if you don’t give yourself a break. So if you can’t do it for yourself, can you at least do it for me?”

Ruben didn’t say anything at first, his eyes rolling over your face while you stroked his own. Part of you expected him to keep arguing; after all, he’d survived this long without you.

Instead, it hardly took a moment before his features began to soften, and he melted into your touch. His eyes closed in sweet bliss as you traced his scars with a loving reverence, basking in the way you worshiped his body.

“Alright,” he breathed. When he looked at you, his eyes were filled with a subtle adoration. “I’ll rest. But only if you promise to stay with me.”

Your face lit up at his condition, smiled brightly at him. You leaned forward, brushing his lips with yours.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” you purred, smirking as his pupils widened with desire, a tiny shiver rippling across his skin. God, how easily he became putty in your hands.

Before he got any ideas though, you pulled away, wordlessly tugging at the sleeves of his robe. You both knew it would only catch on his scars while he was under the covers, so it needed to come off. He let you carefully remove it, not a word uttered from either of you as you threw it over your shoulder. You’d deal with it in the morning.

Averting your gaze from his bare chest, heat rushing to your cheeks, you wormed your way back onto the bed, flopping down onto your back. As an afterthought, you unclasped your bra, pulling your arms through it as you tossed it onto the floor. Like hell you were going to sleep in that. Satisfied, you beckoned Ruben to join you, holding out your hand invitingly.

Unfortunately, he was a tad busy, staring wide eyed at your form, to notice. He still wasn’t used to seeing such things, even after living together with you for months.

“No funny business,” you teased, lightly pulling on his arm to make him lay down.

His eyes flicked up and down, meeting yours before admiring you again.

“No promises,” he smirked.

You scoffed, pulling on him enough to finally coax him into action. He hesitantly crawled over you, lowering himself as you wrapped your arms around his waist. He let out another happy sigh as your breasts squished against his flesh, so soft, so warm. You traced along his spine with the pads of your fingers as he buried himself in the crook of your neck, letting your chin rest atop his head. Legs intertwining, he gently clutched at your shoulders while you pulled the blankets over your bodies. You smiled at the feeling of the dual textures of his rough, burnt skin and the smooth, untouched parts of it. The buttons of Ruben’s pants dug into your thigh, but you hardly noticed, instead enjoying this moment of affection between the two of you. You knew you were likely to wake up alone, Ruben having gone back to his lab, so you were going to savor this as long as you could.

As his breathing began to even out, you placed a few final kisses on the crown of his head.

“Rest now, my love,” you whispered, hands continuing their ministrations. “Rest, and I might just let you go back to work tomorrow.”

“As if you could stop me,” Ruben quipped, but his speech was slurred, his heart not in it. Shortly after, his breathing slowed considerably, and you knew he was fast asleep. He must’ve been exhausted; he didn’t usually fall asleep so fast.

Happy he was heeding your words, you closed your eyes, determined to follow suit. You imagined sitting by him in the music room, Ruben expertly plucking a melancholy tune from his piano as you drifted off to sleep.

———————————————————————

It’s been way too fucking long since I posted any fanfics, I almost forgot how I even format my own posts >.<

Anyway, more Ruben x Reader fluff in the future.

#ruvik x reader #ruben victoriano #ruben ruvik victoriano #ruvik victoriano #ruvik #ruben victoriano x reader

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emilykaldwen · 1 month

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The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Five

Rating: Explicit Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

Tropes: Childhood Sweethearts/Friends to Lovers, Generational Trauma and Cycles of Abuse, It's All About the Character Development, Unreliable Narrators, Multi-POV, Canon Divergent, Bisexual Aegon II Targaryen, Book/Show Mash Up, Fix-It Of Sorts, Stopping the Cycle of Abuse before it gets us all killed, Team Neutral, fairy tale vibes meets victorian medievalism meets grrm

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Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four

CHAPTER FIVE - PAIN IN MY HEART

Some time has passed for the dust to settle in the wake of the betrothal, unshed tears, and attempts at fratricide. Aegon and Abby begin adjusting to the new state of things and Alicent begins to show her hand. Mommy issues abound for all.

The maester's hands were cold and uncomfortable as they examined him, searching for sores and whatever the fuck else he rattled on about as he came entirely too close to his person. Aegon's fists clenched at his sides, his head tilted back so he had no chance of catching sight of the grizzled head below him, bobbing around his cock. It would certainly ruin any pleasure that he would ever experience again.

It was too damn early for this. The sun was still creeping over the walls of the Keep, not even past the early morning. Dreadful.

"No unsightly marks, your Grace," the man affirmed. "Ensure that any pleasure house you visit keeps clean quarters, and you should be safe from giving illness to your Lady wife."

His Lady wife. He saw the smile that graced her features, the spray of freckles along her nose and cheeks. Her bright eyes were blue as the sky he found escape in, and her cascade of sunset curls were his. Every bit of her would belong to him in a few moons. Cool hands that tempered his fevered skin would touch him without a barrier. The soft pout of her heart-shaped mouth pressed open by his thumb-

"I don’t need guidance on spreading illness to my wife when I visit her bed. I’m more concerned about avoiding having my cock fall off," he snapped defensively, yanking his trousers up as soon as the maester pulled away, not wanting the stirring from where his thoughts had been wandering to manifest in front of his current company. Ser Criston was on the other side of the low partition and Aegon did not need to meet his gaze to know that he was being examined and judged and found wanting.

Aegon could barely resist mouthing the words that followed, for they were as familiar as his mother's prayers. "Every woman is an image of the Mother and should be treated with respect," Cole reminded him with a level voice. Aegon knew it, as intimately as his mother's judgment, that the man was disappointed; disappointed in his inability to be better in the training yard, and his inability to keep his cock in check.

For as long as Aegon could remember, Ser Criston Cole had been by his mother’s side and by extension, that of him and his siblings. While Viserys (he could never think of the rotting king as his father, only Sire, for all that the word entailed) had noticed him in Aegon’s earliest memories, telling him how he would tame a dragon one day, and regaling his young self with stories of the Black Dread, it was Criston who came to his mind when one asked or spoke about father. Just as he desired to keep and then win back his mother’s affection, lost to time as it had been, he felt the same with the man who was currently judging him like the Father and Warrior themselves. Once, Cole had seemed heartened by Aegon’s natural talent with a blade and his hunger to prove himself in the training yard, especially in the face of Rhaenyra’s growing brood of dark haired brats. It hadn’t hurt as much then, the lessons. The weight had not come upon him all at once. It was a slow build. Stone by stone, they pressed down on his shoulders, with each turn of the moon until he struggled beneath the weight of the expectation.

His mother’s growing paranoia and panic with each new son born to his sister, and what Aegon suspected was pressure from outside sources, left his cheeks mottled pink and red from her hands and the bite of her nails on his shoulders. It left him sensitive to raised voices and sudden movements. It left him pretending to be more in his cups than he was, if only to keep watch of what went on around him, what people said, what someone might do to him. Then came the times when he was beyond caring of his fate and hoping some percent oblivion might be found beyond the next bottle.

Cole’s growing shift in praise to Aemond and his increasing barbs for Aegon to pay attention and how a warrior and a prince did not prowl after the ladies and the serving maids poured salt on the growing wounds his mother gouged.

“A man saves himself to perform his husbandly duties,” he’d said when catching him in the hall with his tongue down Lady Melia’s throat when he was three and ten. The older girl had been dismissed from his mother’s service within days of the event.

Ser Harrold had told him that he should not force himself on a lady, that a good and honorable man does not use his power as an advantage over young lasses. A good and honorable man treats them with respect. “A man denies the temptation to sully himself for one night for a simple promise or a hope of a dream,” he’d said when Aegon had been dragged back from the Street of Silk, soaked to the bone from the rainstorm, and bruised and beaten from the paramour of the woman who’d lured him in. He’d been five and ten. She had been the daughter of a merchant, sharp and lovely with brown ringlets that frizzed in the heat. Aegon thought she loved him, or at the very least, desired him enough that maybe he could run away from everything that hurt. Maybe, with this other woman and her dark curling hair, he could forget how beautiful Abby looked laughing beneath the dappled sunlight of the weirwood tree, for surely he would never be allowed to have her. She would be sent away, meant for someone else because he was a growing disappointment and do you not see how Aemond applies himself? Why is it so difficult for you?

Ser Harwin had sat him, Aemond, and Jace down one afternoon after coming upon them doing something ridiculous in the garden. He couldn’t remember if it was because he had pulled Abby’s hair, or the fact that Aemond and Jace had been fighting over something - a toy or some such nonsense. He’d said that when you found the perfect someone, you would make a deal with the seven devils if you had to, to be with them. And that it was always worth it.

“Women and young ladies are not here for such earthly pleasures. They are all that is pure and good in the world, and are ruined beyond measure when they fall into the depths of pleasures of the flesh. Every woman is the image of the Mother, and every young girl the Maiden herself. Protected and unsullied,” Criston said when Aegon had come bounding to him, barely ten years of age, flushed and with bubbling nerves and excitement in his belly. He’d asked if Abby kissing his cheek meant that she loved him. “Do you think Mother would let me marry her if I asked?’” For she was his Rhaenys, and Cole knew his mother better than anyone in the world.

‘Always with the Mother,’ Aegon thought, feeling as if the cascading shadow of the Seven-Pointed Star shone on him now. ‘Always with the Mother, and every girl an image of the Maiden, so thank you so much for that.’

The smile Aegon turned on the Kingsguard was deceptively innocent, dimpled cheeks and all. "Funny, pretty sure the two I fucked the other night would have my queenly mother scream in terror and bar herself in the sept."

Now Ser Criston wasn't even trying to hide the look of judgment on his oh so perfect face. Aegon snatched his tunic off the partition and shoved his arms through. "Is she going to keep me under house arrest until the tourney? The wedding? Lock me in a tower like a maiden in a song?"

"Your mother could have married you to the princess."

Aegon felt a curl of nausea in his stomach at the thought of bedding his sweet sister, regardless of the custom of his forefathers. "And make dear little Aemond a kinslayer? I would not survive long enough to make it to the sept."

"Or she could decide to marry Lady Abrogail to your brother."

“And we’re back to Aemond kinslaying, or worse, to get himself out of a marriage he never asked for. Not with our sweet sister right there and ripe for the taking.” It mattered little to Aemond that it was becoming increasingly obvious to anyone who cared to look that Helaena’s affections had withered, that, in truth, they had really never been what their little brother thought they were. Aegon scoffed. “It puts us all back in the same boat." His gaze flitted to meet the knight's through the mess of hair hanging in his eyes. "Me miserable and alone, or dead. Such love you hold for me. Not to mention, how cruel of you to flaunt my betrothed’s narrowly avoided demise to prove a point." His waspish tone didn’t feel like enough to banish the pressure of unease that settled inside Aegon’s chest at the thought of harm befalling Abby, poor point or not.

Such love and regard his family held for him, while screaming that he was to be king. Expecting one thing from him, and something he didn't want.

At least we like one another. That counts for something, doesn't it, Aegon?

But it didn’t count, did it? Liking had nothing to do with what he wanted. He didn’t want the neglect and cruelty within his parents’ marriage. He didn’t want Abby to simply like him.

Aegon lifted his wrist to adjust the cuff of his sleeve and hissed softly when the fabric dragged over the healing scratches Abby had left. He instinctively pressed his mouth against the injury to soothe it before doing the clasp. So rarely did Abby’s teeth bite at him, and there was something satisfying and pleasing at the reminder of it.

Unlike Cole, who continued to speak to him as if he were a child, as if he were some squire or recruit. Sometimes Aegon felt as if the knight treated him no better than a troublesome hound. As if the man were his true father, thinking it his right to speak to him in the same tone he already heard from his mother. This man was Kingsguard, his mother’s sworn shield, and if they were so hellbent on making him king one day, Cole would answer to him. Perhaps he should remind Cole of that more often.

"You didn't answer my question, Ser Criston." Still waspish, his tone grew firmer. He might not be king yet, but Aegon was a Prince of House Targaryen, one of his father’s heirs, and a dragonrider - no mere mortal man, not a backwater soldier from who knows where.

Cole watched him steadily, the muscle in his jaw ticking before averting his eyes "Not so much locked in a tower, but confined to the Keep, my prince.” Cole spoke as if the proper etiquette physically pained him and Aegon smirked, humming softly. “You may go to the Dragonpit, escorted, but should you try anything, your mother has ordered that we bar you from it."

Something ugly curled in his chest and he barked out a laugh as he pushed open the door and headed out. "Cruel woman." It almost impressed him. Only once had they ever barred him from Sunfyre, and it was when he thought, after several cups, that going riding was the best idea ever. He still thought it was. His mother? Not so much.

He still had the scars from her nails along his elbow. A half crescent around the joint like a bite mark.

Cole was not far behind, and he glanced sidelong at the man. "Is there a schedule now? Classes with Aemond and his favorite maester? How lovely to be shown up by him in another arena."

"Well, that's why you're going to the yard. Your… everything could use some work. And it'll be a good release for you, since you're under confinement."

They had confined Mother for three moons before she had Daeron. Seven hells, he and Abby were going to have to have children. He was supposed to sire heirs and be a father, and his father was utter shit. But making heirs wouldn't be so bad?

A clap on his shoulder jogged him back to attention. "Physical exertion helps."

Aegon sneered. "Says a man who doesn't fuck. You can't trust a man who doesn't fuck, with only his own hand for company." He made a lewd stroking gesture before miming a spray of victory.

"Says a man who was once seven and ten," Ser Criston corrected, and Aegon rolled his eyes. His point still stood. Fucker never gave into the bait that he laid for him. Aegon still felt annoyed, although he acknowledged it deserved some respect.

As they reached the training yard, his eyes still bleary with sleep and the lingering headache, the coil of tension in his chest eased. Aemond was not alone, making the impending humiliation more bearable. Helaena may cheer for every time he'd get whipped in the yard, but there was no malice in his sweet sister.

"Good morning!" Helaena sang, her voice like a bell bouncing off the worn red brick of the yard, and she waved excitedly at him and Ser Criston. "It's been so long since I've seen you with a sword."

Sweet, supportive sister.

Aegon peered into the basket she was holding, snatching a piece of gingerbread. "Wine?" he asked with a hopeful look.

"Mother says you're to dry out so that you stop sweating wine." Aemond's tone was neutral, but his sly little smirk - what Mother would call sweet innocence - was all that he needed to provide.

"Does she not care to witness her son's humiliation that she ordered by her own queenly command?" His voice was light as he pulled on his padded coat over his tunic. At least Ser Criston was letting him ease back into things. No need to cut him and have him grow leprous the way their father had. He felt a vague dread at his siblings' pitying glances. He yanked at the strap on his tunic as Aemond moved towards the ring, twirling his wooden sword in hand.

His brother had long moved to live steel and Aegon's bitterness was acrid in the back of his throat. Or maybe it was just the lingering effects of the wine. He grimaced at the weight of the practice sword in hand and reached for a second one. It had been months since he'd dragged himself to the training yard. When Aemond lost his eye, he threw himself into the blade, and Aegon felt overshadowed as his brother earned admiration and love for something he was supposed to excel at. The presence of Daeron would worsen the situation, but it might shame Aemond with him before the shining little star.

"Alright, let's warm up. Aemond, what we did yesterday. You," Ser Criston pressed the tip of his own wooden sword - a toy in the hand of a Kingsguard and the Queen's sworn protector - into Aegon's chest, “You surely remember how this goes, right? It's been some time. Mayhaps you'd like to start off with only one, my prince?"

The taste of bile continued in the back of Aegon's throat. This man might be the closest thing he had to a father, no matter how he rejected it. Ser Criston Cole was there, without his gleaming Kingsguard armor, and he spoke to him in the same holier than thou tone he would to Ser Harwin Strong.

“Breakbones.” Ser Criston's voice would drip in sharp venom. Breakbones to the man who he'd witnessed act with kindness to his little sister, who had inquired to his well being when Aegon had been hacking away at the practice dummy until splinters of his sword had embedded into his palms. Who'd pressed a cup of cold water in his hands and simply sat with him as he desperately tried to catch his breath.

Aegon felt the muscle in his jaw tense and jump, his ears burning with a feeling that he would not acknowledge. It was the wine. The hangover. Nothing more. Aegon used his left sword to knock Ser Criston's away and the man let him with a smirk.

He should apologize.

He should ask Abby how she truly felt. He should ask her why she had gotten so upset when he laughed. He should… do a lot of things. Aemond was probably right, insufferable as always, despite his lack of understanding when it came to their sister.

Riding. He would take her riding, Aegon decided, while his man set out fresh clothes and his riding leathers. He scrubbed the sweat off the back of his neck and concocted his plan. Yes, he'd pack a basket of wine - no, cider, Abrogail preferred cider, but he preferred wine. So, a sweet wine. Yes. Perfect. There certainly would be cakes in the kitchens, and they would picnic beneath the afternoon sun in the Kingswood. By the lake, he thought, tugging the loose, bleached linen shirt over his head and shoving his legs into his trousers. Black wool for warmth and leather along the inside of the thighs for strength. The lake where they'd played as children would be perfect.

The last time, they'd played capture-the-treasure, during Rhaenyra's nameday before she'd left for Dragonstone. Helaena refused to be the princess, so Abrogail took her place and had been quite the quarry. She'd called Jace and Luke for help and he had to fight them off until Aemond and Helaena showed up.

Aegon paused as he pulled his hair back from his face. Maybe he should get her something. Girls liked trinkets and pretty things. It always excited Helaena when Aemond brought her bugs and flowers. A frustrated sigh and he grabbed his jacket. "Where's my sister and her ladies?" he asked his man, who'd been tossing the used water out the window.

"With her Grace, your mother, my prince," he said with a bow.

He winced. With his mother. Aegon wondered if he should ask if Lady Abrogail was there, but Abby was always with Helaena.

The path to his mother's room was an achingly familiar one, and the knots in his stomach were frustrating and unpleasant. Why did she have to be with his mother? She'd been angry about the fight, and Aegon had been doing his best to avoid her while Aemond sported the worst of the bruises. Laughter echoed down the hall when he made the turn towards her chambers, and he flexed his hand, wiping it along his thigh. Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.

"You are close enough to my size, but I do not think this suits you for a wedding," came Mother's voice, through the half-open door. Thoughtful, critical, but not bad-critical. "Turn? I don't think this shade of red goes well with you."

"The curse of red hair," was Abby's reply, light and agreeable as always. "It's a beautiful dress, your Grace, but should this not be for Helaena?"

"I don't like it," came her sister's complaint. "It feels like it wants to hook into my arms. Oh! Hello Aegon!" she called, and he realized they caught him before he could even announce his entrance.

He wondered if Helaena knew he was coming.

Mother's room was full of afternoon light streaming through the southern facing windows. Helaena sat on the couch facing towards him, running her fingers through an assortment of brightly colored ribbons in her lap. Mother stood by the window, speaking to the woman who knelt at her feet, adjusting the hem of the dress that Abby wore. She stood on the stool in front of the mirror, and from where he stood in the doorway, he had the perfect view of her reflection.

The red of her curls glowed almost as gold as Sunfyre's scales where the sun caught them unbound down her back. Abby smiled uncertainly as she gazed at her reflection, her hands on the golden dragon decorations on her shoulders. She wore a cream dress with deep Targaryen red slashes in the back of the skirt and long tapered sleeves lined in the same blood crimson.

Aegon's mouth went dry at the sight of her, and the way her eyes widened when she looked towards him over her shoulder. As his mother turned to look at him also, he tried to school his appreciating expression to one that wouldn’t get him scolded and thrown out. Abby’s face was one of surprise, his mother's expression one of exasperation.

"I…" He couldn't speak. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth and he wiped his hand on his thigh again. The twisting sensation in his gut moved lower, familiarly, and he shifted his jacket in front of him.

"Ser Criston tells me you performed well in the training yard this morning," his mother said, and the exasperation turned… into a smile. Not a large one, but a genuine smile all the same.

"Did he?" Abby asked, looking at his mother, then she positively beamed at him, which wasn’t what he expected after the way things ended in the garden a fortnight ago. "Well done! Did you use both swords today, or just the one?"

Aegon swallowed and felt the blood rush to his cock and to his cheeks. "Just the one. The one sword." Not quite a lie, as his dual swords did not last very long. Why did he sound like that? High pitched and voice cracking as if he were a kitling like Aemond. "I don't think Ser Criston wanted to face me with both, no matter how rusty I am." He cleared his throat, rocked on his feet. "Need to lull him into a false sense of security. Underestimate. Your opponent, I mean."

Helaena giggled.

Aegon's cheeks flamed hotter.

"Well," his mother stared at him, and it really did nothing to dissuade the discomfort in his trousers. "I'm very glad to hear that. Was there something you needed?"

‘Her. I need her.’ Aegon didn’t know how to voice the prayer.

"I… I was just letting… I'm going riding. On Sunfyre. I'll be back by supper." His voice didn't crack again, and he got all the words out. Huzzah.

"Oh! Abby's outgrown my old riding clothes," Helaena said with such excessive delight that Aegon wanted to throttle her. "We should also have new ones made for her. Perhaps they could match Aegon's!" His sister's bright eyes met his, and he could sense the mischief radiating off her. "You could leave your jacket, wear your spare today."

Aegon took everything back. He hated his sister.

"That's a good idea, but Aegon doesn't need to leave anything," Mother mercifully cut in. "Enjoy your riding, Aegon."

"Have a wonderful ride, Aegon," Abby echoed, averting her eyes and turning back to the mirror.

"Are the rooms prepared for Lord Tully and his retinue?" the Queen asked Lady Fossoway, who sat across the table with parchment scattered across the blue and green tablecloth. Abrogail took her seat on the other end of the Queen's settee, the elder woman sparing her a glance and a small smile of greeting.

"Yes, your Grace. Lord Tully and the Lords Bracken and Blackwood will have rooms within the South Tower," Lady Fossoway confirmed. "Lord Vance will join them, and Ser Simon Strong will meet with their party when they reach Harrentown."

"Uncle Simon's coming?" Abrogail broke in. Lady Fossoway's green eyes flicked up to her and Abrogail felt as if she should apologize for speaking out of turn. The words caught in her throat and she broke the lady's gaze to look at the Queen, who was watching the exchange with an unreadable expression in her dark eyes. Something in it felt like a test, and so Abrogail continued. "Larys said that Uncle Simon would relay to Aegon and I about the current state of Harrenhal and where we might start."

She almost said where Aegon might start, but Abrogail understood that in running a lord's holding, both husband and wife had their duties. Queen Alicent sat on the Small Council, and she knew from stories that her own lady mother had run Harrenhal before they joined her father in the capital.

"Yes, he'll be staying with us through the tourney, so that the pair of you may be better acquainted," the Queen confirmed and Lady Fossoway's eyes averted back to the parchments. "Abrogail, I'd like you to join me in the small council as our cupbearer."

Lady Fossoway's gaze rose again, only just.

"Shouldn't…" Confusion overtook her previous uncertainty. "Shouldn't that be for Aegon, or Helaena, or even Aemond?" Or Jacaerys, she thought, but did not say.

"Aemond will also serve. The two of you will take turns, but I want you to have the experience before you leave for the Riverlands. Della, Lord Grover's maester, has requested a meeting with Grandmaester Mellos to see about the ailments he's having. Make sure he tends to him. Can't have him dying beneath our roof." Clipped tones, matter of fact, one item after another.

They passed a parchment to her, and Abrogail took it. A list of ladies and houses filled the page. Alerie Blackbar, Wylla Karstark, even Allana Tyrell and Josana Lannister. She even saw the names of the Blackwood girls as she scanned down the page. "You and Helaena will each take a Baratheon into your circles, and then between you both, you can find which of these ladies will be appropriate for your needs." The Queen continued to speak to another of her ladies who had just come in and Abrogail took a deep breath, fingers wrinkling the edges of the page.

"Aegon should do it," she said in a rush, and the gazes of the three women now gathered around her turned to look. Abby took a deep breath and licked her lips.

Marrying Aegon makes me a princess, she thought. And she wants to make him King, and I'll be his Queen.

"With respect, I am grateful for the opportunity, but Aegon should be cupbearer before we leave. It would be prudent for him to understand the workings of the council, especially since he shall be in the position of vassal in the future." Vassal to his elder sister. To speak otherwise would be treason, even among this circle.

The Queen’s large, brown eyes watched her for a long moment and Abrogail did all she could not to shrink away from it. There was something deeply unsettling about it, as if she saw something weak inside her that she wanted to sink her teeth into at worst, or at best, bat around like a lazy cat to see what Abrogail might do. The watchful gaze felt like it lasted for eternity before the Queen finally lifted a hand towards her ladies in dismissal. The women quickly moved and Lady Fossoway shut the door, leaving Abrogail with Alicent Hightower and the anxiety at speaking up threatening to suffocate her.

"You are a good girl, aren't you?" she said after a long exhale that did not quite ease the tension riddled line of her shoulders. The Queen reached out and her cool fingers tucked Abrogail's hair behind her ear. Her curls hung free down her back, a simple twist on either side of her head keeping them from getting in the way.

The Queen was beautiful, as she always was, with her auburn curls pulled back with tendrils loose around her face, untouched by gray. Beautiful, and ever melancholy. Even when she smiled, it did not wipe away the shadow that lingered along her regal features.

Abrogail would never speak it aloud, but the Queen and Aegon looked more alike every day, and it broke her heart.

She did not answer, and one did not appear to be expected of her. The knuckles of the Queen's hand traced along the curve of Abby's cheek and instinct compelled her to reach up and take the woman's hand in her own to hold. No different from what she might do with the others, even if it was stepping over a boundary that she wasn’t supposed to cross. There was pain in the woman's eyes that hurt to see, for the Queen, for Alicent Hightower, was the closest thing that Abrogail had left to a mother anymore.

An almost child she might be, but Abrogail was under no illusion that she was as important to the Queen and the Hand as if she were a true child of the crown. There was no one left for that, and so, she would do all that she could to be valuable.

"I am merely a reflection of the lessons and values you've instilled in me, your Grace," Abrogail said, fingers squeezing the Queen's hand. "I want to make you proud, and to not dishonor you, especially now that I am to be your good-daughter."

"A daughter," came the swift correction that had Abrogail looking up with surprise. "You are like one of my own children. I have watched you grow the same as them. The only difference is I don't have to worry about you the way I do them, now do I?" The Queen extracted her hand and Abrogail folded hers in her lap. "You are a wonderful influence, and I am ever grateful."

“Always smiling, it warms my heart in these trying times, a stór,” her papa would tell her when Mama was sick. Never stop.

So she didn't.

"Forgive a mother for her inclinations," the Queen continued. "I understand that the decision made has changed everything for you and it's not a simple thing. This is one of those events in our lives that we as women must endure, and we must make do." The Queen paused, looking away, and Abrogail watched the Queen's fingers twist, fingers picking at her thumbnail. “Aegon is certainly not whom you imagined. I never thought I would marry the King. I was young and thought I might marry a Tyrell, or perhaps a Tarth. Knights of flowers and charm."

Something cold settled in Abrogail's stomach. It was an unsettling and familiar sensation, one that ran through her veins when they stood as witness to Aegon's tongue lashings, the sharp crack of a hand. Sometimes there would be the thunderous threat of warning when the Lord Hand was giving it, for he would raise a hand to Aegon and Aemond both.

She'd noticed the Queen flinching during those moments, a pale look of dread on the woman's face in the presence of her father.

"My apologies, your Grace," Abrogail spoke softly, mouth turned into an uncertain, her brow furrowing. "I don't quite understand what you mean."

She wanted to hear Aegon's mother say it.

The Queen reached out to take both of her hands and held them tightly, thumbs rubbing soothing strokes along the back of Abrogail's palms. Brown eyes glistened with unshed tears, a softness to the Queen's features that reminded Abrogail of Aegon and a faint memory of her own mother.

"Aegon refuses to listen to me. He’s out of control. He is determined to flaunt every privilege granted to him, every opportunity we set before him." When the Queen took a shuddering inhale, it felt as if she was drawing the air from Abrogail's lungs to sustain herself. "He's like Rhaenyra in that way, but she was eager to serve the King on his council. Aegon, sadly, lacks the same ambition she has. Fortunately, you and I, my dearest, are very much alike. Therefore, I've asked you to serve, not him."

Abrogail's gaze followed the Queen's fingers as they held hers, unable to face the hurtful expression in her eyes. She thought of Aegon vomiting in the bushes after he dragged her from the Hand's tower. He clutched at her like demons from the hells would reach up and tear them apart. Even when he’d hurt her the way he had, unintentional as she was sure it was, Abrogail couldn’t hate him.

Slowly, she extracted her hands from the queen and leaned back to put some distance between them. Teeth caught at her lower lip as she tried to find her words.

‘I am to be his wife, and that is a sacred thing,’ she thought. It didn't matter if they were Lord and Lady, or King and Queen. They would be Aegon and Abrogail, married beneath the eyes of the Old Gods and the New, and like the example shown by the Queen, Abrogail would stand by Aegon through whatever trials awaited.

The promise was made years ago in the cold room at Driftmark, while she cut his long curls with embroidery scissors and he wept for his brother and cursed his father.

"You've watched us our whole lives. You’ve borne witness to the games we've played, the companionship and trust that we've built, and yet you feel you must apologize to me?" Her voice wavered, but her posture was strong, and she held the Queen's gaze. "I know Aegon. I've known him my whole life and while maybe we aren't as close as we once were, I know these good things are still there."

Abrogail remained steadfast and silent, hoping the Queen would understand Aegon was not a punishment. Despite everything, she knew that the kind boy she had known was still there, and she was confident that she could help him find his way back. She wouldn't have to spend her nights wondering if news of Aegon's death in Flea Bottom would reach her by morning.

"Abrogail, your heart is gentle, but your fond memories do not erase the egregious things he does now. Not his drinking, his lechery, his bad habits. But, if we work together - you, me, and your Uncle Otto? We can shape him into the king that he needs to be. That takes trust, my dear child." With each word out of the Queen's mouth, Abrogail's heart fell, and a mournful understanding took root inside her chest. "We do not leave you to handle Aegon on your own. You tell me everything, and we'll handle it. Do you understand, my sweet Abrogail?"

Did she understand everything, sweet girl that she was?

Sweet girl. Darling girl. Dearest Abrogail. Sweet Abrogail. Little Maiden Marchpane, sweet as honey, and so easily devoured.

Mo stór beag, Papa would call her, the River tongue rolling off him as easily as common. My little treasure.

The loud sound of the door opening broke the silence, boots scraping across the stone floor, and both of them jumped at the suddenness of it. Aegon entered silently, his jaw tight, lips pursed, and hair disheveled.

"Aegon," she said, her voice lilting, immediately drawing back from the Queen, feeling an easing sensation in her chest that chased away the cold. Abby smiled while the queen frowned at the intrusion.

She watched him move, glancing between them, and Abby stood up, fingers smoothing the pale blue and gold silk of her gown. She wondered if she still had to curtsey to him now that they were engaged; Aegon was apathetic about such things, while the Queen was not.

At the moment, Queen Alicent's thoughts were irrelevant to her. Despite still feeling heartsore from the morning in the gardens, Abby smiled at Aegon. It was not a bright one, but it was there all the same, and focused on him.

Aegon seemed confused, then his face softened as he searched her face for something she didn't understand. He then turned his gaze to his mother. "Abby's coming with me this afternoon," he said with no sort of greeting except the clearing of his throat. "We're going riding. We'll be back before nightfall."

The command of it all brought a flush to Abby’s cheeks, and she cast her eyes to the ground to avoid the piercing look the Queen was giving them both. It was a complicated feeling that tumbled inside of her chest; she was still hurt, though the bruise on her arm from where he’d grabbed her had faded. In truth, Abby was still sour about it all, but in the wake of the conversation and the Queen’s request, in the aftermath of her frustration and distaste for her son, and her own insistence of Aegon being given a place to serve and not her, she felt protective of him - gentled towards Aegon. And it was a feeling that was most certainly helped by the way he simply walked into his mother’s room to state "Abby’s coming with me." There was no asking for permission, nor even a greeting to his mother. She wondered if it was nerves, she wondered if he had seen something in her expression that spurred it.

Abby knew though that she didn’t have to wonder at her answer to it.

"Abrogail is assisting me with the arrangements for the tournament, Aegon. Perhaps you should find Aemond. I believe he's still training in the yard with Ser Criston," the Queen said, indulgent but firm in her tone.

Abby's mind was racing as she swallowed nervously. "Your Grace, I apologize, but Aegon and I had already planned to ride." She looked at the Queen with her eyes demure, a curtsy dropped, the lie flowing from her so easily she could not believe herself. "I’ll take the time to pry his mind for things he'd like at the feast."

As Abby moved, Aegon's gaze shifted from his mother to her, making her stomach tighten. It reminded her of the look on his face in the fountain beneath the weeping cherry tree. Her hand reached out for him and she bobbed another graceful curtsy to the Queen. "Your Grace," she murmured. It was her turn to pull him out of the suffocating room and Aegon’s huff of surprised laughter made her grin.

[Chapter Six]

#fic: the maiden and the drowning boy #aegon x abby #hotd fic #hotd fanfic #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii targaryen x oc #aegon targaryen x oc #aegon x oc #my fics

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just-another-siimp · 1 year

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Ooo I saw that your requests are open. I was just wondering if you could write something cute and fluffy about Gaz and his S/O giving each other a trinket or something that made them think of their partner.

Thank you :)

okokokokokokokok but i'm literally feral for this kind of stuff? gift giving is the best love language and you can't tell me otherwise okay??

warnings: no use of y/n, reader goes by Chip, this is just tooth rotting fluff.

There were, on occasion, times when the 141st wasn't in the midst of a firefight. For you it meant taking on the occasional night shift in the bases hospital, the allocation of your time was always met with complaints from Gaz. It only took a gentle reminder that you'd be back on the normal roster after two nights for him to cease, especially if a kiss or two was added to sweeten the deal.

On the night shift itself your time was usually occupied by all of the paperwork you'd neglected over the last few days, it wasn't until you were paged that you'd go out onto the floor. By 0700 you were practically crawling into the showers, washing off the nights work and changing into the comfiest pair of pajamas that you owned.

They were a gift from Gaz, he'd caught you searching for a new matching set after Soap had accidentally shrunk them in the wash. You still hadn't forgiven him for that. The soft fabric bought a whole new level of comfort as you made a b-line for your bed, only to be stopped by a gentle tapping at your door.

"Come in." just from a knock alone you knew it was Kyle who had knocked at your door, he was the only person who would tap on the door. It was like a secret code. When the door opened and Kyle entered you met him half way, arms wrapping around his shoulders as he squeezed you into a hug. "You're just in time, I was about to crawl into bed."

"Came just in time then didn't I? Thought I'd pop by before you fell asleep, love." Without effort he lifted you up, carrying you the rest of the way to bed. He maneuvered you so that you were sat on his lap, it was hard to miss the mischievous grin that spread across his face when his eyes met yours.

"How was last night? Did you end up going out drinking with Soap?" You asked, squinting slightly trying to figure out what it was that made him smile like that.

"Yeah, we stopped in at the markets before going to the pub. I got you something." There it was, the reason behind that look on his face. "Don't look at me like that, you'll love it Chip."

This had happened once before, except you'd been the one who had stopped in at the winter market before an exceptional night of drinking. You'd bought Gaz a novelty mug with a elephant doing a handstand, neither of you were sure why the image was so funny but it stuck for some reason.

So when he pulled out a pair of earrings with potato chips on them you burst out laughing, they were the cutest thing you'd ever seen and certainly not regulation. Sleep never came, the two of you opting to go and show of your newest addition of jewellery to Ghost.

#i didn't know where to end this #so here will do #kyle garrick #kyle gaz garrick #johnny soap mactavish #john mactavish #simon ghost riley #captain john price #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle garrick x reader #modern warefare ii #call of duty #modern warfare x reader #call of duty x reader #requests open #pls send me things lol #this is kinda trashy #simp writes

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dreamingofyeo · 4 months

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𓏲๋࣭ ࣪ A siren's song࿐࿔𖦹ִ

Chapter 2: akin to none࿐࿔𖦹ִ

~ details in masterlist

~ Playlist

~ 1,119 words

~ chapter warnings: mild description of SA, sexism

~☆彡 tumblr's algorithm works off of reblogs so please consider it if you like my work :)

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Boarding the crimson is a surreal moment to say the least. As Broner manhandles you across the plank, away from the soon to be rotting corpses of your father and his crew; you look down at the sea below desperately seeking a way out of the terrifying prospect of boarding such a vessel. However the never ending sear of Broner’s harsh grip keeps you steady on your way across the wood, your’e certain to have bruises from it.

The first touch down of your foot onto the Crimson’s deck feels like a sealing of a warrant letter. Your life as you know it is now over, if you din’t die on this ship you’re sure to never be as you were before it. The leering of the men around you does not go unnoticed, both silent and vocal. The way their features contort into gruesome windows to their thoughts makes your skin crawl, seeing that makes you almost wish for the grip on your arm to remain.

You’re so focussed on observing the new faces around you- mostly trying to pick out ones to avoid more than others- that you barely even register the sound of the plank being dragged back onto the deck. Vervona crosses into your vision, blocking it from a face you couldn’t quite get a read on.

He leans down to your eye level, smiling crudely at you. You do your best to hold eye contact with him, he seems to notice the emphasis on your attempt rather than execution before laughing under his breath and spinning on his heel to address his crew.

“Well lads, as you can see we have a new member of our crew.”

The various laughs and whistles threaten to draw bile from your stomach.

“Come on then sweet, introduce yourself.”

You debate saying nothing, but you do not wish to provoke anyone in your situation. Your real name is not an option in the slightest, if you ever escaped them they’d be able to find you that much easier should they decide to. A faux name is the best option.

“Cara Jones.” You manage to get out.

Vervona smirks at you in such a way that you feel he most certainly knows of the small deceit. You can’t help but regret it in a way, perhaps gaining enough trust to escape could’ve been an option, unlikely as of now.

“Well then Cara Jones, what are your uses?” He snides, turning back to you and emphasising your ‘name’ in a mellifluous tone, drawing more unconcealed laughter from his crew.

“Pardon?” You’re genuinely perplexed, was it his way of asking what jobs you were capable of aboard a ship? or was it meant in a crude context?

“Your uses, you’ll earn your keep aboard my ship.” The way he says it as if he had a choice in boarding it urges you to land a swift slap to his face.

You don’t dare though.

“I am partially schooled in navigation.”

“Not cooking?” A vile voice questions.

Vervona snorts.

“Unlikely lads, this one is from a family with money, don’t do their own cooking say for buns for the oven.”

More laughter. You feel so small. He continues.

“We already have a navigator, you will work alongside him until I find a more efficient use for you.”

Work with someone? Navigation takes place in a room apart from everyone else, that is the last thing you desire. Your stomach churns with warning and unease.

“Yeosang, come here. Introduce our Cara here to yourself and your work.”

He steps away and Broner releases his grip on you, both walk off presumably to Vervona’s cabin, you don’t care to know. Not when the man you couldn’t get a read on from behind him begins walking towards you.

He stops a few feet away from you, offering you a slight smile which almost seems to be intended to be reassuring. You observe him silently, his features are soft and youthful, his hair almost shoulder length, black and wavy, tied in a half knot behind his head with a few loose strands framing his face. His countenance seems far away yet focussed, as if he’s forcing himself to be in the present moment. He speaks after a few moments of the mutual observation, his voice is low yet soft.

“My name is Kang Yeosang, it’s a pleasure.”

You say nothing, offering only a nod. To which he seems content with as he smiles and nods back. At least he is polite, you could’ve ended up with a worse person to ‘earn your keep with’ you suppose.

The moment of ‘at least’ is shattered unceremoniously by the owner of the vile voice from not a few minutes prior. You did not even register him behind you until he had his hands on you. You freeze and lock eyes with Yeosang. His lips are moving, features forming a scowl. You cannot hear a word being said. It is not a moment akin to anything, it is the source of nightmares you will be haunted by.

Turn off your mind. Don’t think. Don’t feel.

Try as you might, feel you do. The bile threatening its presence from earlier finds its way into your throat and you swallow it down harshly. A tear begins to slip from you. Your lips are quivering, fighting the urge to let out a scream. Your legs are numb.

Then in an instant his hands are gone, the terror evoked from them replaced by shock and horror at the sound of the gunshot near your ear. You reflexively lurch away from the sound. The man is bleeding out from his head on the deck.

Good.

Vervona is standing by his cabin door. He lowers the pistol.

“Anyone else tries a stunt like that, you will meet the same bloody end. This one is to remain unspoiled. You are aware of our plans.”

His persistent emphasis on ‘unspoiled’ makes your insides churn. He takes a few steps towards you before confirming your earlier suspicion.

“Cara, since you don’t deign to grace my crew with your name, I will be giving you a new one.” He turns to his crew.

“Temptress she may be but give in to such a melody and you won’t live long enough to truly regret it. What’s that sound like to you lads?”

You could swear their faces turn pale with knowing, Yeosang’s is still that akin to steel.

Vervona turns back to you.

“What about you hm? You know what a siren is?”

Your blood runs cold.

The crew member’s words fly to your mind and you curse yourself for singing a siren’s song at the railing of your fathers ship.

<-chapter 1 ~ chapter 3->

taglist:

@voicesinmyhead-rc @decadentstrangernacho @baek-at-it-again95 @amalialoved

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noodyl-blasstal · 9 months

Text

Hate To See You Leave - TAZ Sapphic Week Day 1

Happy TAZ Sapphic week to all who are celebrating! For Day 1 I went with the prompt "alarm" and swiftly spiralled from there. - What if you can't do the job you love any more because of corruption? - What if the rent's due and no one will hire you? - What if a gorgeous, maddeningly mysterious woman shows up with a solution?

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The alarm punches through the nighttime city rumblings, wailing as the shards of glass hit the floor. A tall figure, face obscured by a mask, surveys the damage, places their token on the counter, and smiles...

–

Hurley's early this morning, she’s early every morning. She could change the office hours any time, scratch off the rickety paint and add something new, but she’d only arrive earlier. Even the day after race nights it’s hard to do anything but head to the office. She likes routine, she likes structure - knowing she’s getting through the door an hour before she’s supposed to is just about the only level of regularity she can bring to the job. The existing hours stay.

She doffs her suit jacket and sets the coffee pot to brew, dropping into her cracked leather chair while it gurgles and drips. The evening newspapers are still on her desk, nothing of note, again. Sure, it was full of crime, but it’s the usual kind, the kind Hurley didn't touch any more. Now she only helps when someone asks, and only for the right price… or the right kind of pretty smile - she could own up to her weaknesses. The only problem was that no one was asking and race wins didn't pay the rent, especially not with The Raven on the scene to beat her half the time. Hence, the newspapers. If she can find the right crime, maybe, maybe, she can convince someone to hire her to solve it.

The morning papers arrive with a loud thwack against the door. The glass rattles in the pane as Hurley jumps up to chase after the news urchin, but the corridor is empty. She can’t even tell which way they went, whichever one it was is long gone. The topmost paper bears yet another fluff piece about the mayor and the chief of police: 'Tough on crime! Tough on corruption!' "Tough fucking luck if you try to actually do your job." Hurley mutters. Everyone has a price, and they've clearly found The Morning Tribune's. Goldcliff Daily doesn't fare much better, proclaiming 'New duo clears up city!'

They certainly were clearing up, clearing out anyone who would get in the way of their kickbacks. She slams the paper into the bin as hard as she can, the tribune following suit. Then pulls them out to do it again, and again. Fuck it, she doesn't need to read them, there’s nothing for her there. People were scared to speak up, scared to go to the cops, scared to go to anyone who might be connected to them. Mayor Garfield had made Capt. Captain Bane a deal he clearly couldn't refuse, and now he was busy rotting the police from top to bottom. She ‘left’ before the rot got to her too (technically. She quit before Bane could formally tell her she was fired, but it still counts.)