[ a little pointed, a little obvious, definitely avoiding any mention of herself β and certainly admitting to the fact that she's been paying attention to his presence in the dining room.
but this is easier, somewhat, over broaching any other subject. ]
[ an astute observation β he hadnβt dragged himself out of bed for the fanfare of breakfast because being pathetic and hungover is a full time fucking job.
still, he can feel the pluck of guilt at his ribs like a harp, the promise heβd broken five years ago fresh in his mind as if heβd walked out of that chicago hotel just yesterday. her words feel like a well-deserved accusation. ]
hey, princess. did you have an extra mimosa in my honor?
that's the only thing sustaining hawk through this objectively ludicrous endeavor and following up on something that should have stayed an anonymous hookup. he's not even sure what's really driving this when he's at least back on speaking terms with tim - or maybe that's it in a nutshell. those words are echoing in his mind - coward, emotions, you run when it's too much, you pick the easy choice. as if any of this is fucking easy: still watching everything over one shoulder at all times, still living like there's someone watching him for the slightest crack to throw him in jail or present evidence of his deviancy to cohn and mccarthy on a silver platter. it's not like there's any shortage of it here, if anything, the cup runneth significantly over after a stop to the overworld and then some.
didn't stop him on christmas after the polygraph. didn't stop him from curling into tim at five in the morning after bailing leonard out of jail on a public indecency charge like previews of coming attractions if he didn't reign it in. and now here he is: out in public again, soliciting something meaningless because it feels like the walls are still closing in even if he's theoretically miles from dc and the farcical controlling force in the justice department right now.
there's whiskey on his breath and he's carrying a cigarette loosely between his fingers, walking the maze aimlessly with half the idea of turning around if he gets just lost enough, depending on how seriously their oh-so gracious hosts have taken the twists and turns of this. probably just some neat party trick to say they've got one on their grounds - a pissing contest between two wealthy fucks instead of investing in anything worthwhile. credit where it's due though - bathed in the moonlight it looks like some fairytale getaway, exactly where a prince might find his princess, or in this case, another prince. part of him thinks about what tim might look like out here, peeking innocently behind the hedges and waiting for hawk to find him in his solitude, to have his way with him here while the parties rage on inside and no one is the wiser about hawkins fuller and the heart he pretends he doesn't have.
well, he'll just have to settle for someone else.
he stops when he manages to reach the center, a giant statue looking like a bull? no, the minotaur, with a sigh and another deep inhale. it's only then that he notices something glinting off to the side - a bottle. hawk lets his footsteps fall heavier, still confident in their slowness as he takes his time making his way around the curve until he sees a figure sitting next to it. dark hair - a promising start. hawk lets his voice ring out clear, low and a little teasing from behind as he presses a hand against the statue and leans over.]
Well I guess that's as good a glass slipper as any.
[ it's suffocating inside, so obviously the better choice of action is to meet a stranger out in the maze for β what, exactly, he doesn't know. is a stranger even still a stranger if he's had their cock in his mouth? also unknown, though embry is leaning toward no in this situation, because a blowjob is pretty familiar even if it's between a wall. jesus christ, he's the king of questionable fucking decisions, and still he doesn't make a move from his perch beside the minotaur, because he's curious. achingly so. and yeah, he's a little fucked up too, but when is he not? everything he consumes here seems to have bad side effects, and yet he keeps drinking, keeps snorting, keeps putting shit in his mouth. no one's going to tell him no, because no one ever tells embry moore no.
that's the only real thing about this place. not even the stars wheeling across the sky can possibly be real, because a place with no exit is just some kind of nightmare, right? he should mind it a little more than he does, but it's nice to be out of washington. it feels great to be out of the closed doors of the goddamn white house that he dragged ash into. at least these doors feel like his mother's house, with lyonesse in the basement β all things easy and familiar. he knows this game, and he knows how to play it well.
he looks every bit the brooding prince tonight, moonlight catching the haughty glint of his eye, his blazer discarded in the grass, tie hanging loose around his neck, an errant lock of his dark hair curling across his forehead. the bottle of gin is mostly empty, and tragically out of reach so it can be seen from the maze's path, and embry hears the visitor before he sees him, craning around toward the sound of confident footfalls before meeting a pair of eyes shrouded in shadow, blue peeking out. the utter handsomeness of the man strikes him first, because embry thinks primarily with his dick, but something itches beneath his skin at the way the man looks or stands or just breathes, the same visceral tug that curled in his gut when he'd uttered his annoying fucking command through the wall. he shakes it off, because the last thing he needs is a repeat of ash fucking colchester syndrome in this stupid house. ]
[ When she accepts Embryβs offer, she tells him the location of her room, nextdoor to Lestat de Lioncourt, though his room remains closed to her. In Kingβs Landing, such an invitation would condemn her to scandal, but sheβs quickly learning there are no such rules in play here.
Still, her heart flutters like a bird in her breast, as she opens the door. Ser Criston had been her guard since she was a girl, Viserys as good as family until sheβd been asked to β to β ]
Itβs most reassuring to see you, Embry.
[ A little thrill, at calling a man by name, not title. Sheβs only ever been able to address her sons so informally. With a slight smile, she clasps her hands before her. Today, her dress bridges the gap between the world she knew and this one, a shimmering green cut across her chest, shoulders and collarbone exposed. The light fabric reaches her ankles and the sleeves split open, cuffed gold at her wrist. Bandages line her left forearm, obscuring the mark of the beast. ]
Would you β [ She turns around, her dress open to her lower back. ] I suppose I canβt ask you to βlace meβ when these dresses havenβt any stays.
[ has anyone ever, in life, felt reassured to see him? maybe ash during their years deployed in carpathia as tensions turned into a war, just because seeing him meant embry hadn't gotten himself recklessly killed yet despite the abundance of opportunity. embry is typically the one disappointing the ones he loves, watching their faces twist into magnanimous suffering as he pulls away, never one to stay put for too long despite making his homes in people instead of places. his life is sacrificial, secondary to ash's grandeur. it's a choice he made, and any bitterness he holds is his personal fucking business β and fuck, is he bitter. not towards ash, not really, because he loves him too much to hate him like he wants to. but he has enough bitterness to feed the entire breakfast table and more.
but he is a politician, and he's spent years honing his vice president voice. he's not the same wild idiot he was at twenty-one, falling obsessively in love with another man under the crushing weight of don't ask, don't tell. the smile with which he greets alicent is equal parts adoring and mischievous, the smile that's earned him his rightful place as the most eligible bachelor in politics, a man that's known to have a new woman on his arm every night while spending his days standing loyally by the president's β his best friend ("friend") β side.
it's a marvelous sight first thing in the morning to see alicent's exposed back. especially since he'd spent the night in torment thinking of ash and greer and all the dirty things they might have been up to without him. ]
Morning, sunshine.
[ embry looks like he's stepped out of the pages of a magazine in pale trousers and a baby blue sweater that matches his eyes, his dark hair doing a perfect regency flop over his forehead. as a professional in his misery, it's undetectable that he was up half the night drowning his sorrows in a bottle of gin. with the practiced ease of a man who's helped many a woman into β and out of β a fancy dress, he begins zipping alicent closed before running into the obstruction of her enormous mane of hair. ]
How's your arm feeling this morning?
[ he asks the question only half because he cares; he is intensely distracted by the color of her hair, glorious, deep copper set in waves that rival the goddamn ocean. it's nearly the same shade as greer's cousin, abilene, and when embry lifts a gentle handful to sweep over her shoulder to clear a path for the zipper, all of last night's gin threatens to come back up as stale bile burning his throat.
he swallows swiftly and yanks the zipper the rest of the way up, setting his hands on her bare shoulders as he twirls her around to face him. ]
[ theoretically, they should have been. he doesn't want to admit that he didn't know the full extent of danny's freaky strength until the bed started shaking and he was too horny to care. ]
ropes are hot. would i even still be here if i hadn't tied you up?
( heartbreak moves in inches, ash finds. not miles.
it doesnβt feel real the first 24 hours. existence without embry is futile β is less than futile, ash finds. he has to remember how to breathe. his heart doesnβt beat but it does clot, like an angry, infected wound. every time he thinks about embry it picks the scab in one messy tear, a river flow of emotions dumped in the empty cavity of his chest. he remembers. one time, embry got him to share a cigarette in the backdrop woods of their army camp, and laughed while ash coughed with the wheezing pain of smoke in his lungs, punching him boyishly on the shoulder.
ash remembers thinking, no one in the world has warmer hands than embry moore.
except, they arenβt warm now. theyβre cold and gray, the fingernails pale and lifeless, lips dry and cracked. embry moore, the life of every party. embry moore, every good army boyβs hall pass. embry moore, the man ash wouldβve doodled little hearts around his name and written mr. ashley moore in his school boy notebooks if they met a decade earlier.
ash spends all his energy on crying, until there arenβt any tears left. exhaustion forces him to sleep, curled up in a ball on the floor in his room, thinking about embryβs hands. )
( when ash was twenty-seven, he had a dream about embry moore.
embry has one of those faces you could see on a gallant knight of the realm, on a dapper prince in some long forgotten country, on some military man saving you from a fire. ash dreamed he had a suit of armor clinging to his chest, a helmet under his arm, his chestnut curls plastered against his sweaty forehead. he knelt before ash, a playful, promising look in his eyes. when ash dreams tonight, he has the same dream, only when he goes to pet embryβs head it falls off his shoulders, hand fisted in the hair of his decapitated head, blood draining out of him like a waterfall, like the tears from ash's eyes. his mouth lolls open. it says werenβt you supposed to die for me?
ash decides he isnβt going to sleep again. not for a long, long time. )
[ the day after hawkβs announcement, alicent leaves a bouquet of flowers outside embryβs empty room: zinnia for missing friends, pink camellia for longing, heliotrope for lasting love βand forget-me-nots, an unspoken promise to hold embry in her thoughts and prayers. no need to write a note, when her flowers say all, but she signs a slim card anyway.
one more name for her nightly vigil. alerie florent, lucerys velaryon, claudia de pointe du lac, aemond targaryen, embry moore. ]
[after the werewolf murders, the accusations hurled at rosie, and especially after he has to fucking play nice with danny, hawk does something stupid - takes a few drinks calls. definitely not to hear embry's voice or anything like that. no way.]
I hate this shit, you know that? And the worst part is - I really think you would have gotten a kick out of it.
Things are good with Tim and I. Rosie's better. But it feels like the goddamn world is ending, and it started with you being gone.
Jesus, what am I doing. Neither of us believe in an afterlife, but I almost wish you'd come back and haunt my ass.
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[an extended pause, the crackle of something like a lighter or the end of a cigarette burning.]
[ he thought about being mad at alicent, thought about blaming her too for not voting with ash, but β he couldn't, not when ash told her she'd sought him out when nearly no one else did. she'd known, somehow, exactly what embry would want her to do β what he needed her to do without telling, without asking. she remembered what ash was to him, remembered that he was a widower, and with embry gone, was essentially one once more.
that means more to him than anything. more than her showing up to his funeral, although ash would not describe her dress in detail, claiming that he "couldn't see" through his grief. ]
my room. i stopped by to get some clothes. i'm smelling your flowers right now. they're crispy. come by.
[ there are so many ways he could respond to this. your son will never know good sex, or isnβt it weird that you both are gayer than a two-dollar bill? or, his favorite, that fugly slut. ]
who are you getting grandkids from? never mind. which oneβs he fucking? aemond? wait, who does the fucking? arenβt they both bottoms?
[ he can't ask tim about this, because he might laugh. for similar reasons, pierce and hawk are out of the question. asking any of the vampires β most of all daniel and armand β makes aemond rather he eat glass. he doesn't want to trouble homelander with this, either.
don't take it personally, ser embry. he's as tormented in this asking as you might be in receiving this message. find comfort that he came to you last. ]
[ a of all, who the fuck are these people? what happened to beyonce?
b of all, this is the last person he wants to give advice to. ]
are you asking for an interpretation? i'm more of a sylvia plath girl, and i can definitely point you in the direction of something that holds a bit more literary merit. not that i'm against spitting, gagging, or choking. or a little uvula action (the dangly thing).
you really should stop making yourself available to just anyone.
[there's a small set of boxes wrapped in glittering silver and blue, a common theme when embry opens them up. the first contains a black velvet box with a sapphire and diamond tie pin nestled inside. the second, a book that's been wrapped in paper from alina's shop - a collection of walt whitman's poems. it's clear hawk hasn't done much flipping through it, but there is one specific poem marked by a sterling silver bookmark with roses adorning the top. if embry pulls it out he'll see the tongue is engraved - hfz, with his last name jutting out in the center.
and last, but certainly not least: a rich leather case with navy and silver accented pieces: a paddle, a whip, a flogger, and a plug fit for a little prince.
hawk almost doesn't leave a note. it's a small envelope, his sloping handwriting taking up most of the card inside.]
[ he doesn't expect any reply to his message, but embry had done his mother a good turn, first for showing at the vigil then with the gathering held in her honour. aemond would have approved were it not for the host, and truthfully he was not paying attention to anyone else but himself and aegon in his grief.
that said, he's sought out homelander and daniel in the aftermath, which leaves just one more person to acknowledge in light of alicent's return. ]
Mother has returned to us in true. We thank you for your support in the time she was not with us.
[ itβs enough to snap the tenuous thread tethering him to his own sanity when it comes to danny johnson.
heβs almost grateful for it. it gives him something else to do besides feel how his heart β bloodied, butchered, tattered β struggles to keep beating. how every feeble pulse hurts. breathing hurts. blinking hurts. he canβt even go back to the coronal to blitz himself out of his mind, not because of the revenants roaming the stairwells, but because thatβs where heβd held ash close, where heβd kissed him and fucked him and given him promises that in the end meant nothing β because in the end, an empty man like him has nothing to offer to someone so full of love, so full of light, like ash colchester.
he feels no remorse when he drags danny through the biting cold, shoving him up against a tree trunk as snow rains down on them from the shivering branches above. embryβs eyes are the same color as the sky, pale shards of ice, and his knuckles match the blood leaking from dannyβs nose and welling from his busted lip. less obvious are the wounds hidden beneath dannyβs clothes where embry had taken one of the very useful wooden weapons repurposed from the churchβs pews to dannyβs ribs, as good for breaking human bones as they are for busting in revenant skulls. at least the chapel had been good for something.
from his other hand, he throws down a shovel, shoving a knee against dannyβs crotch to hold him up and slapping him once in the face. ]
What is it your dad used to make you dig? Foxholes? [ embry sniffles from the cold β not because heβs wanted to cry every second of every day heβs had to exist while ash is dead dead dead β ] I should make you dig this for yourself, since youβre the goddamn expert.
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text; g.galloway
[ a little pointed, a little obvious, definitely avoiding any mention of herself β and certainly admitting to the fact that she's been paying attention to his presence in the dining room.
but this is easier, somewhat, over broaching any other subject. ]
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still, he can feel the pluck of guilt at his ribs like a harp, the promise heβd broken five years ago fresh in his mind as if heβd walked out of that chicago hotel just yesterday. her words feel like a well-deserved accusation. ]
hey, princess.
did you have an extra mimosa in my honor?
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β€ ππππππ
that's the only thing sustaining hawk through this objectively ludicrous endeavor and following up on something that should have stayed an anonymous hookup. he's not even sure what's really driving this when he's at least back on speaking terms with tim - or maybe that's it in a nutshell. those words are echoing in his mind - coward, emotions, you run when it's too much, you pick the easy choice. as if any of this is fucking easy: still watching everything over one shoulder at all times, still living like there's someone watching him for the slightest crack to throw him in jail or present evidence of his deviancy to cohn and mccarthy on a silver platter. it's not like there's any shortage of it here, if anything, the cup runneth significantly over after a stop to the overworld and then some.
didn't stop him on christmas after the polygraph. didn't stop him from curling into tim at five in the morning after bailing leonard out of jail on a public indecency charge like previews of coming attractions if he didn't reign it in. and now here he is: out in public again, soliciting something meaningless because it feels like the walls are still closing in even if he's theoretically miles from dc and the farcical controlling force in the justice department right now.
there's whiskey on his breath and he's carrying a cigarette loosely between his fingers, walking the maze aimlessly with half the idea of turning around if he gets just lost enough, depending on how seriously their oh-so gracious hosts have taken the twists and turns of this. probably just some neat party trick to say they've got one on their grounds - a pissing contest between two wealthy fucks instead of investing in anything worthwhile. credit where it's due though - bathed in the moonlight it looks like some fairytale getaway, exactly where a prince might find his princess, or in this case, another prince. part of him thinks about what tim might look like out here, peeking innocently behind the hedges and waiting for hawk to find him in his solitude, to have his way with him here while the parties rage on inside and no one is the wiser about hawkins fuller and the heart he pretends he doesn't have.
well, he'll just have to settle for someone else.
he stops when he manages to reach the center, a giant statue looking like a bull? no, the minotaur, with a sigh and another deep inhale. it's only then that he notices something glinting off to the side - a bottle. hawk lets his footsteps fall heavier, still confident in their slowness as he takes his time making his way around the curve until he sees a figure sitting next to it. dark hair - a promising start. hawk lets his voice ring out clear, low and a little teasing from behind as he presses a hand against the statue and leans over.]
Well I guess that's as good a glass slipper as any.
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that's the only real thing about this place. not even the stars wheeling across the sky can possibly be real, because a place with no exit is just some kind of nightmare, right? he should mind it a little more than he does, but it's nice to be out of washington. it feels great to be out of the closed doors of the goddamn white house that he dragged ash into. at least these doors feel like his mother's house, with lyonesse in the basement β all things easy and familiar. he knows this game, and he knows how to play it well.
he looks every bit the brooding prince tonight, moonlight catching the haughty glint of his eye, his blazer discarded in the grass, tie hanging loose around his neck, an errant lock of his dark hair curling across his forehead. the bottle of gin is mostly empty, and tragically out of reach so it can be seen from the maze's path, and embry hears the visitor before he sees him, craning around toward the sound of confident footfalls before meeting a pair of eyes shrouded in shadow, blue peeking out. the utter handsomeness of the man strikes him first, because embry thinks primarily with his dick, but something itches beneath his skin at the way the man looks or stands or just breathes, the same visceral tug that curled in his gut when he'd uttered his annoying fucking command through the wall. he shakes it off, because the last thing he needs is a repeat of ash fucking colchester syndrome in this stupid house. ]
Came to repay the favor?
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action, before breakfast.
Still, her heart flutters like a bird in her breast, as she opens the door. Ser Criston had been her guard since she was a girl, Viserys as good as family until sheβd been asked to β to β ]
Itβs most reassuring to see you, Embry.
[ A little thrill, at calling a man by name, not title. Sheβs only ever been able to address her sons so informally. With a slight smile, she clasps her hands before her. Today, her dress bridges the gap between the world she knew and this one, a shimmering green cut across her chest, shoulders and collarbone exposed. The light fabric reaches her ankles and the sleeves split open, cuffed gold at her wrist. Bandages line her left forearm, obscuring the mark of the beast. ]
Would you β [ She turns around, her dress open to her lower back. ] I suppose I canβt ask you to βlace meβ when these dresses havenβt any stays.
[ Zip her up, ladiesβ maid. ]
cw for potential mentions of rape
but he is a politician, and he's spent years honing his vice president voice. he's not the same wild idiot he was at twenty-one, falling obsessively in love with another man under the crushing weight of don't ask, don't tell. the smile with which he greets alicent is equal parts adoring and mischievous, the smile that's earned him his rightful place as the most eligible bachelor in politics, a man that's known to have a new woman on his arm every night while spending his days standing loyally by the president's β his best friend ("friend") β side.
it's a marvelous sight first thing in the morning to see alicent's exposed back. especially since he'd spent the night in torment thinking of ash and greer and all the dirty things they might have been up to without him. ]
Morning, sunshine.
[ embry looks like he's stepped out of the pages of a magazine in pale trousers and a baby blue sweater that matches his eyes, his dark hair doing a perfect regency flop over his forehead. as a professional in his misery, it's undetectable that he was up half the night drowning his sorrows in a bottle of gin. with the practiced ease of a man who's helped many a woman into β and out of β a fancy dress, he begins zipping alicent closed before running into the obstruction of her enormous mane of hair. ]
How's your arm feeling this morning?
[ he asks the question only half because he cares; he is intensely distracted by the color of her hair, glorious, deep copper set in waves that rival the goddamn ocean. it's nearly the same shade as greer's cousin, abilene, and when embry lifts a gentle handful to sweep over her shoulder to clear a path for the zipper, all of last night's gin threatens to come back up as stale bile burning his throat.
he swallows swiftly and yanks the zipper the rest of the way up, setting his hands on her bare shoulders as he twirls her around to face him. ]
Green's a great color on you.
cw mentions of sexual assault, grooming (theyβre fine)
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text β un: goatface
( better question is, how long was he watching danny back prior to drugging him. )
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ropes are hot.
would i even still be here if i hadn't tied you up?
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text; sometime ... this month
checks notes
the united states??
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i'm on hiatus
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un: hightower
[ catching him up on the drama. ]
He worries we are outnumbered. Iβve told him to seek you out.
[ please donβt say anything weird (horny). ]
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outnumbered for what? beach volleyball? don't worry, i have a mean serve, and i'd choose both of you for my team.
did you tell him i'm basically an honorary member of your family? that means there's three of us.
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2/3 jk
3/3
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un: aemond_
Have you a moment?
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having fun yet?
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text; un: persephone
are you ok?
β one of six.
it doesnβt feel real the first 24 hours. existence without embry is futile β is less than futile, ash finds. he has to remember how to breathe. his heart doesnβt beat but it does clot, like an angry, infected wound. every time he thinks about embry it picks the scab in one messy tear, a river flow of emotions dumped in the empty cavity of his chest. he remembers. one time, embry got him to share a cigarette in the backdrop woods of their army camp, and laughed while ash coughed with the wheezing pain of smoke in his lungs, punching him boyishly on the shoulder.
ash remembers thinking, no one in the world has warmer hands than embry moore.
except, they arenβt warm now. theyβre cold and gray, the fingernails pale and lifeless, lips dry and cracked. embry moore, the life of every party. embry moore, every good army boyβs hall pass. embry moore, the man ash wouldβve doodled little hearts around his name and written mr. ashley moore in his school boy notebooks if they met a decade earlier.
ash spends all his energy on crying, until there arenβt any tears left. exhaustion forces him to sleep, curled up in a ball on the floor in his room, thinking about embryβs hands. )
β two of six.
embry has one of those faces you could see on a gallant knight of the realm, on a dapper prince in some long forgotten country, on some military man saving you from a fire. ash dreamed he had a suit of armor clinging to his chest, a helmet under his arm, his chestnut curls plastered against his sweaty forehead. he knelt before ash, a playful, promising look in his eyes. when ash dreams tonight, he has the same dream, only when he goes to pet embryβs head it falls off his shoulders, hand fisted in the hair of his decapitated head, blood draining out of him like a waterfall, like the tears from ash's eyes. his mouth lolls open. it says werenβt you supposed to die for me?
ash decides he isnβt going to sleep again. not for a long, long time. )
β three of six.
β four of six.
β five of six.
β six of six.
ad.
one more name for her nightly vigil. alerie florent, lucerys velaryon, claudia de pointe du lac, aemond targaryen, embry moore. ]
voice;
I hate this shit, you know that? And the worst part is - I really think you would have gotten a kick out of it.
Things are good with Tim and I. Rosie's better. But it feels like the goddamn world is ending, and it started with you being gone.
Jesus, what am I doing. Neither of us believe in an afterlife, but I almost wish you'd come back and haunt my ass.
............
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.....
...
[an extended pause, the crackle of something like a lighter or the end of a cigarette burning.]
I miss you, alright?
Fuck.
[click.]
@hightower
Where will I find you?
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that means more to him than anything. more than her showing up to his funeral, although ash would not describe her dress in detail, claiming that he "couldn't see" through his grief. ]
my room. i stopped by to get some clothes.
i'm smelling your flowers right now. they're crispy.
come by.
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cw: self-harm
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@t.laughlin; voice
Answer the phone. Now. What is wrong with you?
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I didn't want this, okay? I didn't tell Hawk to go after Danny like that.
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Tim Laughlin is bedding my son.
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who are you getting grandkids from?
never mind.
which oneβs he fucking? aemond? wait, who does the fucking? arenβt they both bottoms?
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text β un: aemond_
don't take it personally, ser embry. he's as tormented in this asking as you might be in receiving this message. find comfort that he came to you last. ]
Respectfully, I demand an explanation for this:
"don't wanna spit, I wanna gulp
I wanna gag, I wanna choke
I want you to touch that lil' dangly thing that swing in the back of my throat"
Is this what passes for poetry in your world? Speak true, I implore you. I will have the truth of it and only.
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b of all, this is the last person he wants to give advice to. ]
are you asking for an interpretation? i'm more of a sylvia plath girl, and i can definitely point you in the direction of something that holds a bit more literary merit. not that i'm against spitting, gagging, or choking. or a little uvula action (the dangly thing).
you really should stop making yourself available to just anyone.
[ translation: get some standards, buddy. ]
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text β un: aemond_
[ he gets no pleasantries. they're past it now. ]
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there's nothing alicent could do that would make me turn on her.
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πππβπ‘ ππ πβπππ π‘πππ ππ£π
and last, but certainly not least: a rich leather case with navy and silver accented pieces: a paddle, a whip, a flogger, and a plug fit for a little prince.
hawk almost doesn't leave a note. it's a small envelope, his sloping handwriting taking up most of the card inside.]
@t.laughlin
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i know you messed up. my best advice is write alicent a five page letter and hope she doesn't burn it.
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@t.laughlin
I'm gonna tell you something else. And I'll even let you gloat about it.
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you were technically right not to betray her trust, but for future reference, i consider myself the exception to every rule.
really? she must've given you brain damage.
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backdated to helaena's arrival.
that said, he's sought out homelander and daniel in the aftermath, which leaves just one more person to acknowledge in light of alicent's return. ]
Mother has returned to us in true. We thank you for your support in the time she was not with us.
We have no reason to meet in person again.
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that was the worst thank you i've ever heard, and i would've preferred if you said nothing.
tell your mom i don't have a concussion and i am accepting visitors.
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π
text β un: goatface
( lucky guess. )
fucked up 'cause he would've done you the courtesy of killing you, probably. he seemed like that kind of boy scout. reflect on that, embry.
cw violence, attempted murder, mentions of death
heβs almost grateful for it. it gives him something else to do besides feel how his heart β bloodied, butchered, tattered β struggles to keep beating. how every feeble pulse hurts. breathing hurts. blinking hurts. he canβt even go back to the coronal to blitz himself out of his mind, not because of the revenants roaming the stairwells, but because thatβs where heβd held ash close, where heβd kissed him and fucked him and given him promises that in the end meant nothing β because in the end, an empty man like him has nothing to offer to someone so full of love, so full of light, like ash colchester.
he feels no remorse when he drags danny through the biting cold, shoving him up against a tree trunk as snow rains down on them from the shivering branches above. embryβs eyes are the same color as the sky, pale shards of ice, and his knuckles match the blood leaking from dannyβs nose and welling from his busted lip. less obvious are the wounds hidden beneath dannyβs clothes where embry had taken one of the very useful wooden weapons repurposed from the churchβs pews to dannyβs ribs, as good for breaking human bones as they are for busting in revenant skulls. at least the chapel had been good for something.
from his other hand, he throws down a shovel, shoving a knee against dannyβs crotch to hold him up and slapping him once in the face. ]
What is it your dad used to make you dig? Foxholes? [ embry sniffles from the cold β not because heβs wanted to cry every second of every day heβs had to exist while ash is dead dead dead β ] I should make you dig this for yourself, since youβre the goddamn expert.
text | un: HZF
[it's so stupidly simple that he almost doesn't send it.]
Tim told me what happened - before and after. I know he's back now, but...how are you holding up?
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fine, i guess, now that it's over.
tim told me you'd call.
1/2
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text | un: HZF
Am I loud in bed?
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you're not NOT loud.
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@t.laughlin, day after easter
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it doesn't even hurt.
[ it hurts like a holy fucking bitch. ]
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AU INBOX (JUNE 2025 EVENT)
WELCOME TO THE SALTBURNT NETWORK USERNAME: LITTLEPRINCE
text: un: kboy88
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