#Listen I know this story is all about shades of gray

[ramblings-of-a-mad-cat]

Challenge: Aegon had to be King for his own survival. Rhaenyra would have killed him. And Alicent. Maybe not Helaena. DEFINITELY Aemond. He was protecting himself. AND he offered her the chance to p much keep living her life in peace.

Rebuttal: We have absolutely no evidence of this short of Otto's claims. And Otto is lying.

He saw firsthand what happened when a member of Rhaenyra's family tried to steal her inheritance. When Daemon occupied Dragonstone and declared himself Viserys' heir, did Rhaenyra resort to bloodshed? Did she use this as an excuse to try and kill Daemon? No. She called his bluff. She invited him to strike first. So when Otto tells Alicent that Rhaenyra will have "no choice" but to put her brothers to the sword, either he is suffering from memory loss, or he's lying through his teeth. He should know better than anyone that Rhaenyra is no kinslayer.

Here's the real truth. Otto realized that he couldn't control Rhaenyra. That she would not accept her position being taken away without a fight. He saw how easily she won over Daemon, how alike the two of them were. Just look at Otto's expression when Rhaenyra is flying away. He's realized that if it came to a fight with Rhaenyra, she'd have Daemon backing her. And that terrified him.

The story that Rhaenyra would preemptively murder her brothers to prevent any challenges to her claim is just that, a story. Otto uses it as justification for his plot to reject the succession. During the Green Council, he tries to have Rhaenyra and Daemon murdered so they won't challenge Aegon - exactly what he claimed Rhaenyra would do. Realistically, why would she ever do this in the first place? If she murdered her own brothers without any provocation, she would look like a tyrant. All the lords actually on her side would abandon her. Rhaenyra doesn't have a reason to harm Aegon unless he gives her one, and it's clear as day that he wouldn't do so on his own. She'd likewise have zero reason to hurt Helaena or Alicent. They have no real power. I suppose Aemond might be a problem, but again, only if he initiates. Rhaenyra isn't going to pick a fight with him.

The terms offered to Rhaenyra in 1X10 are, frankly, a complete joke. They offer her Dragonstone...which she already has. She's been living there, and now that she's queen, the castle belongs to Jace. They offer to re-confirm Luke as heir to Driftmark...even though he was already re-confirmed, just two days ago. Not to mention that Corlys survived, so the Crown really doesn't have jurisdiction over that anymore. Corlys will always choose Luke. Oh, and they offer to take her two youngest children as hostages. Sure, they don't call it that, but Rhaenyra's no fool, and it's plain as day that they would be hostages. Perhaps treated as guests, but taken for no other reason than to keep Rhaenyra in line. She's the rightful Queen, why should she entertain such nonsense? Oh, and they offer to spare any Lords who "conspired" against Aegon's ascent. Even though the story of Viserys "changing his mind" isn't well known, and these Lords would have simply been following the succession as they knew it to be. Get real.

Finally, Aegon acting in self-defense based on what he was told might have been his motive in the book. But in the show, it's very clearly a case of enjoying the attention. He feels validated and seen by the crowd. It's the first time he is actually shown to enjoy being King and maybe even start to want it.

#Rhaenyra Targaryen #House of The Dragon #The Dance of Dragons #Otto Hightower #The Blacks & The Greens #HotD Analysis #Dragonstone #House Targaryen #Daemon Targaryen #Aegon II Targaryen #Listen I know this story is all about shades of gray #Spools of black and green #And the characters are all complicated people #That one one is truly perfect #So it's silly to pin all the blame for this conflict on one person #But really #This is all on Otto #The Dance is his fault #None of this would have happened if not for his manipulations #God bless Rhys Ifan #Masterful performance

[hanni-bae44]

Title: When I Was Your Man (Wooyoung)

Pairing- Wooyoung x fem!reader (ft. Yunho)

Genre- angst, suggestive, fluff if you squint (warnings: mature language, mentions of sex, cheating & alcohol)

Word Count- 9.9k

Summary- The story in which Wooyoung didn’t know how good he had it with you until you were no longer his. Alternatively, you’ve moved on with someone who made you happy now. Someone who didn’t take you for granted. And Wooyoung didn’t like how it wasn’t him.

A/N- This story is inspired by the songs When I Was Your Man by Bruno Mars & Just A Dream by Nelly, so please give them a listen if you want :) Also, Italicized scenes represent flashbacks. Disclaimer: this fic is in no way meant to portray Wooyoung irl, it’s just fiction :D

-

“How do I look?” You twirled around in your flowy white sundress and you looked absolutely stunning in Wooyoung’s eyes.

“You look gorgeous, babe.” He couldn’t take his eyes off you as he stood up from the picnic blanket to walk towards you. His hands went on your waist, pulling you closer towards him. While your arms snaked around his neck. There was a sparkle in your eyes and Wooyoung swore he saw the whole galaxy in them. He could see how much love you had for him and his heart swelled from it all. He wanted this moment to last forever. He wanted you to be his forever.

The sun was bright as it shined down on the both of you but it wasn’t hot. The weather was breezy, the grass was green, and the blue sky was clear. The day was perfect for what he had planned and he couldn’t wait to surprise you with the ring.

It was your fourth year anniversary and he just wanted to make this day perfect for you. You loved picnics and nature so here he was at the Han River. He prepared your favorite flowers and even cooked your favorite foods. He couldn’t wait to recount this special moment to his future kids one day. To tell them that this was where he proposed to their mother. It was a memorable place too since it was where you both had your first date. He still remembered the early days where he’d chase after you because you’d turn down his efforts. It was hard to score a date with you but he knew you had your reasons. He used to be the type to mess around and had a bad reputation so he didn’t blame you. If he was you, he wouldn’t have given him a chance either.

But thanks to that one date where you gave him a chance despite everyone telling you not to, he found the love of his life. And here she was, beautiful as ever.

“Do you see us together as an old couple?” you randomly asked, causing Wooyoung to raise a brow.

“What?” There was a smirk creeping at his lips. You were so cute with your random questions. 

“I was just thinking. We’d look cute together with our gray hair and all, don't you think?” You were playing with the back of his hair and looking at him like he was your whole world.

“Yeah we would." The way you smiled at him made him feel like a teenage boy all over again. He was so happy. "I love you,” he mumbled.

“I love you too.” Your voice was gentle. Gosh, he loved your voice. Your eyes were glossy and full of admiration too and he could just tell you were about to lean in for a kiss. So before you could, he backed up and got on one knee, pulling a ring out of his pocket.

“Y/N, will you marry me?” It was insane how alive you made him feel. What did he ever do before you? He didn’t want to imagine a life without you ever again. 

Your hand flew to your mouth as your eyes said yes, but before you could verbally respond, the sky behind you was rumbling and turned a deep shade of blue and grey. You both stared up at the tenebrous sky.

“Wooyoung? What’s happening?” you asked, your voice weak. But he didn’t know what to tell you. He was unsure as well.

Wooyoung tried to stand up but he kept tripping since the ground began to shake too. Just what was going on? Was this an Earthquake? It didn't make sense. If this were an Earthquake, surely it would just be the ground. What was up with the sky? It was just so pretty a minute ago but now it was so dark and gloomy out of nowhere.

A muffled “babe,” rang in his ear so he turned his attention back to you, only to realize that you were gone. It was as if you had just vanished into thin air. He began to look around. Just where did everyone go? Even the picnic he had prepared for you vanished too.

All that was left of the scenery was just the field of grass, the river, and a thunderstorm. He stared up at the gloomy sky. Then all of a sudden, a lighting strike struck the ground a few feet in front of him. Startled, he scrambled backwards, trying to get away.

He blinked one more time as he fell backwards, then suddenly everything turned dark.

Wooyoung jumped, sitting up right away. When he opened his eyes, he was met with the sight of his dresser and TV in front of him. He glanced down at himself, then realized that he was back in his room.

Fuck, was it all a dream?

His hand immediately went to his forehead. Just why was his head pounding so soon in the morning?

“Babe.” A female voice muttered from beside him.

Wooyoung turned towards the owner of the voice. That wasn’t you, he realized. He frowned. 

“How did you sleep?” she asked, while grabbing onto his clammy hands. “You were smiling so much in your sleep and even said ‘I love you’. Were you dreaming of me? Did you mean it?” Her smile annoyed him so much.

Wooyoung couldn’t help but glare at Ryujin. She was the reason you left him. He met her at the club one night after an argument with you. He tried to push her away but she kept coming onto him and eventually he gave in. Wooyoung kept blaming Ryujin for being the reason you dumped him. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t her fault. She only gave him the bait, he was the one that bit onto it. So as much as he blamed everyone around him for his actions, deep down he knew he had no one to blame but himself.

“You should go,” he said absent-mindedly. Ryujin only reminded him of what he had with you. He didn’t even want to see her anymore. It only made him feel disgusted and dirty. Even more so than he already felt. 

“But shouldn’t we talk about us? We’ve been having sex for months now. What are we? Should we just make it official?” She asked as she clung onto his arm. 

And Fuck, was she annoying. 

“I told you I wasn’t looking for anything serious. So get out. And let this be the last time you’re here too because whatever we had ends today.” His voice was assertive and cold. He wasn’t playing around. 

“But babe-”

“Go!” His voice grew louder and Ryujin started to tear up as she rummaged through the mess on the floor for her clothing. 

Before Ryujin left, she looked at him one last time. "She'll never take you back. What you and her had is long over. You can take it out on me all you want but you were the one that begged me to distract you that night. Remember that." She waited for him to respond but when he didn’t, she stormed off.

Wooyoung just stared blankly at his dresser when she went off on her tantrum. He was so damn tired of her. He knew what she was trying to do. She wanted him to care and start an argument but he didn't even care about himself, let alone give two fucks about her.

He glanced around his bedroom when she left. It was a mess. There were piles of clothes everywhere, empty water bottles sprawled at every corner, and sheets that haven’t been washed in months. He was living in absolute filth. And yet none of it mattered. Nothing in his life has mattered since the day you left. 

Wooyoung rubbed at his eyes once more when he heard his apartment door slam. Finally, she was gone. 

That dream he just had about proposing to you gave him a wake up call. Just what was he doing with his life engaging in meaningless hookups?

He’d been trying to fill the void for four months now, sleeping with Ryujin and random girls at the club every night. But shit got boring real quick when sex was all they had to offer. He began to crave the emotional connection that one has when in a relationship. The emotional connection that came with having someone genuinely care about him. And to think, he once found it suffocating and annoying to have someone care so much about him.

But now? It was all he wanted.

He tried to move on. He really did. But he just couldn’t stop comparing every girl to you.

No one could ever fill the void you left in his heart. He missed you so much but he knew you deserved better. You were happy with someone else now and he had to live with that. After all, he was the one that cheated and took you for granted. And now you were with someone better. Someone who didn’t take you for granted.

Wooyoung wasn’t going to cry again, he told himself. He had work and the hangover was bad enough. He had to get started on his day and stop thinking of you.

He showered, brushed his teeth, dressed himself, then walked into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, but there was nothing inside but a couple beers. His stomach was growling and the hangover from last night was killing him. His mind momentarily drifted to you since he was so used to you making breakfast for him. Yet another thing he took for granted.

He sighed. He barely ate these days. But for the sake of survival, he had too. 

After rummaging through the cabinets, he finally managed to find a snack that wasn’t too bad. It was a custard dessert that had been expired for a month now. And since he had nothing else to eat, he settled for that. It was better than starving. 

“I have to get ready for work,” Wooyoung whined with a smile on his face. The both of you had just woken up and you couldn’t stop smothering him with kisses. He loved moments like this with you but he already wasted an hour to sleep in. If you kept kissing and pressing your body against his, he was sure he was going to get hard and be late for work. He had to start getting ready for the day and so he reluctantly pushed you back. “We can finish this when I get home okay baby? I really need to brush my teeth now.” 

You smiled back at him. You had bedhead and you were sure there was probably crust in your eyes but still, Wooyoung looked at you as if you were the most beautiful person on Earth. “I’ll make you breakfast while you shower then,” you offered as you stood up. “Do you want pancakes again?”

“You know me so well, baby." He kissed your forehead before hopping in the shower. He loved you so much. You always offered to do everything for him and you knew his preferences so well. How did he get so lucky? “I love you Y/N.”

“I love you too.” You smiled at him.

A tear trailed down Wooyoung’s eyes as he grabbed his keys on the kitchen island. He missed your voice so much. He’d do anything to hear your voice telling him that you loved him again. But he had to stop thinking about you. He had to get it together for work. 

During his commute, he turned on the radio to distract his thoughts. But he should’ve known better. It was Valentine’s Day and the radio was full of love songs. He switched from station to station but every damn one was just love song after love song.

The joy he felt when he finally got to a station that wasn't playing a love song was indescribable. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he listened to the advertisement for some dish soap. Never has he been more excited to think about washing the dishes. He used to love cooking, and just remembered, making a mental note to go get groceries after work. Right as he was getting into the mood of dish soap, the radio host began to talk about Valentine’s Day and before he knew it, another love song started to play.

He was one second away from changing the song when he heard the intro. Then his hand froze.

It was your favorite song.

The song you and him danced to last Valentine's day in the living room of his apartment. 

You scrolled on Spotify to find the song 'Perfect' by Ed Sheeren. It was your favorite love song of all time. You've always dreamed of dancing to this song with the love of your life and now that you found him, you wanted to make the dream a reality.

"Dance with me.” You dragged him by the hands to the empty area of the living room and placed your hands around his neck.

"I don't know, babe. I just ate a lot of pasta. I very much overate." Wooyoung patted his tummy and you playfully rolled your eyes. His hands found home on your waist anyway despite him feeling too full to even move. There was no way he was going to deny you this dance. Not when you looked so happy.

"You shouldn't have eaten so much then."

"Not my fault you make the best pasta."

"Just follow my lead, you dramatic baby. You'll be fine."

You both started to slow dance to the music, staring into each other’s eyes. The lights were perfectly dimmed and the mood was as romantic as it could ever be. Despite not wanting to dance at first, Wooyoung eventually found himself getting into the groove. He loved you so much. He felt like his heart could burst at any second as he stared into your pretty eyes.

“Babe?” He mumbled.

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

-

After work, Wooyoung was so tired.

He just wanted to sleep and forget about his boring life but then his friends-- Mingi and Seonghwa-- showed up at his door unannounced and now here he was at the bar, drinking again. He told himself he was done with hookups this morning but he still needed something to numb the pain. Numb the thoughts. Anything to get his mind off you.

And alcohol was always reliable.  

“I know it sucks seeing couples all around you but what happened to that Ryujin girl? Haven’t you been seeing her for months now?” Mingi asked.

“She’s gone. It didn’t mean anything. So I ended it.” Wooyoung mumbled, downing another shot. 

“Alright, that’s enough. We brought you here to have a good time, not blackout again. It’s been four months. She’s moved on and so should you.” Seonghwa insisted, taking the shot glass away from him. It was obvious his friends hated seeing him like that. They missed the upbeat and social Wooyoung. The one that could carry a conversation with anyone and make everyone laugh.

These days, Wooyoung was just angry and sad.

A former shell of himself. 

“I’m a terrible person." Wooyoung stated. He wasn't even begging for compliments, he just wanted his friends to know that and hate him just as much as he hated himself. He tried to push everyone away but his friends knew better than to let Wooyoung waste his life away and pity himself.

“Yeah, you are terrible.” Mingi said honestly. “But she’s happy now. Did you see her Instagram pictures? She’s dating a new guy now and he's attractive. You should find someone too. That girl over there,” Mingi pointed out, "She's into you, I can feel it."

"I'm done with hook ups, so no thanks. And she blocked me so no I didn't see shit,” Wooyoung mumbled.

His friends tried to get him to be himself again. To socialize and talk to people again. But their efforts were fruitless. All Wooyoung wanted to do was drink and he did exactly that.

And by the end of the night, it would be Mingi who carried him back into his apartment while Seonghwa tucked him in. He had to hold back the urge to scold Wooyoung for letting his bedroom accumulate into a mess of a landfill.

“Y/N,” Wooyoung mumbled drunkenly, tugging on Seonghwa’s arms with his eyes shut, “Don’t leave me.” 

Seonghwa sighed, knowing how you used to tuck Wooyoung in every night when he came back drunk. You did so much for him, even when you had your suspicions. 

Seonghwa felt like Wooyoung was stupid for cheating and lying. But he also empathized with him. Wooyoung punished himself enough. And while there was nothing he could do to fix his past mistakes, he could move on and change for the better. Because life went on.

And Seonghwa only hoped Wooyoung would realize this before it was too late.

[ 4 months ago ]

It was your fourth year anniversary with Wooyoung and you were so excited.

Despite the frequent arguments and how distant he has become the past four weeks, you pushed it all aside. Today was a special day and you wouldn’t let anything ruin it. 

Wanting to look your best, you even got your hair done the other day. You tried to wait for him after work yesterday but he came home late again because of work. Something always came up these days, but you supposed it was alright. It was inevitable.

You woke up extra early thanks to the alarm on your phone. You had to get a head start to surprise him with a good breakfast before work. You couldn't wait to sit down and eat breakfast with him for once. When was the last time you and him ate together in the mornings? You couldn't even recall.

After two hours, you finished Wooyoung’s favorite chocolate chip pancakes along with eggs and his favorite latte. You then did your makeup and wore his favorite white sundress on you. You couldn’t wait to get his reaction to what you prepared. You even got him flowers for once since you read online that men rarely received flowers in their lifetime. 

After setting up everything on the dinner table, you sat on the sofa and held the bouquet of roses in your hands while you waited for him to finish getting ready. You heard his alarm ring a while ago and you couldn’t hold in your excitement, bouncing your leg the whole time.

The moment he walked into the kitchen, you came towards him with flowers and kissed him good morning on the cheek despite how he didn't even look up. He was always texting. Always on his phone. “Did you sleep well? You come home so late these days, I rarely see your face anymore.” You tried to smile, you really did. But he was still on his damn phone. You grimaced when you saw how he didn’t even acknowledge you. “Babe?” you tried again. 

“Yeah?” he grumbled, eyes still glued to his messages app. It was probably his friend or another family member, you convinced yourself. The last thing you wanted to do was ask him who it was again.

Especially after he went off on you for being 'nosey' the other week.

“Who are you always texting these days? I thought you didn’t like texting much.”

“Just my cousin,��� he sighed, eyes glued to his phone on date night. 

“Right.”

Then finally, he looked up at you. But he looked annoyed. “What exactly does ‘right’ mean? You're so nosey these days Y/N, what happened to privacy? Don't you trust me?”

“You know what? No, I don't trust you anymore. Because who the hell texts their cousin long ass paragraphs with heart emojis every hour of the day? You must think I’m stupid don’t you?”

“You’re overreacting. You know how she’s about to graduate. She just wants advice on the job market.”

“Right.”

“There you go again.” He rolled his eyes. “You don’t believe me do you? Just say it. Whatever you’re thinking, just say it!”

“Are you cheating on me?”

“No. I’m not. I can't even believe you're even accusing me of that! We've been together almost four years now and you still don't trust me? What do I have to do for you to believe me, huh?”

“Show me your messages right now.” You were never like this. You never got jealous to this extent. But he was making you insane with how distant and dismissive he was being.

The past month? Wooyoung always came home late. He was cold. He didn't touch you anymore. His kisses were chaste. And most of all, his work clothes reeked of a woman’s perfume. And when you confronted him about it? He just brushed it off. Something about his old lady coworker always giving him a hug before clocking off. But did that old coworker also give him the marks on his neck? Yeah, you weren't stupid.

“You can’t be serious,” he scoffed. “You’re so insecure these days, it’s actually insane. You know what? You either trust me or you don’t. I’m leaving.” 

“Where are you going? It’s late!” You threw your fork on the table, and jumped up only to be met by the slam of the door.

You were so angry and annoyed at him for always leaving during an argument. You just wanted to talk things through for once but he would always lie or shift the blame on you and make you feel crazy. You didn’t know how much you could take it anymore.

You were stupidly in love with him. But you weren’t stupid. You knew something was going on. There had to be someone else.

You just didn’t have proof.

You couldn’t stop the tears that day. He didn’t come home that night and once again, you slept on the sofa, waiting for him to return.

Taking a deep breath, you tried not to think about that memory anymore as you plastered on a pretty smile for your fourth year anniversary.

Even if he was different now, you knew the Wooyoung you fell in love with was still there. Somewhere.

So despite your doubts, you were going to attempt to make this relationship work. No relationship was perfect. And you weren’t going to get deterred so easily. You wouldn’t give up just yet.

“What do you think of my hair?” you beamed, turning around to show him the back. “I just got it done yesterday.”

“Looks great,” he sighed, but you could tell he didn't even bother to look up from his phone.

“You didn’t even look,” you sulked.

“I did look and I said it looks great, what else do you want me to say?” he grumbled as he looked you dead in the eyes. “I need to get to work now, Google maps says there’s traffic on the way.”

“Oh,” you sighed. Disappointed, you placed the bouquet of roses (that he didn’t even notice were for him) onto the counter. “Well take some pancakes with you then, I’ll wrap them up for you.”

“It’s fine. I’m not hungry.”

“But you love these pancakes. I even woke up early to make them for you.”

“Yeah, well I didn’t ask you to do that. I used to like them but you make them practically everyday now, don't you get sick of them? Because I do.” He raised his voice. Something he did so much these days and yet you still felt a tear prick at your eye.

“You could’ve just told me that earlier...” You felt your voice get smaller as your eyes brimmed with tears. You’ve cried a lot the past month because of Wooyoung but the fact that today was your fourth year anniversary and he was acting like this made you frustrated.

“How can I tell you anything when you always start crying like this?” He clenched his jaw, and he seemed annoyed. Was he annoyed? 

“You could’ve just said it nicer.” You wiped your tears.

“Fuck, you’re so annoying,” he exclaimed as he ran his fingers through his hair. “ Can you stop being a crybaby for once? You always make me out to be the bad guy.”

“Well you haven't exactly been nice these days. What is up with you Wooyoung? Is work that stressful?” You tried to stay calm, in contrast to how your boyfriend was raising his voice. Was this how it was now that the honeymoon phase ran its course?

“Not everything is about work.” He glanced at the time again. “You know what, it’s way too early to be arguing again, I’m tired of this. I'm tired of you. You always have to get so emotional.” He reached for his keys then walked away.

“So that’s how it’s going to be then? Every time I want to talk, you brush things off? We never communicate anymore, we need to talk things through if we’re going to make this relationship work."

“I need to go, we’ll talk after work.” He said dismissively as he walked towards the front door. 

“I love-“ you didn’t even finish before the apartment door slammed in your face. He never said I loved you anymore, nor did he give you a kiss before going to work. But you supposed you shouldn’t be surprised.

Immediately after he left, you checked Google maps, inputting his usual route to work to check for traffic. Please let it be the truth. Please. Please. 

But there was no traffic. 

It was just another lie.

You couldn’t stop the tears the moment he left, it was as if all the bottled up emotions from the past month just came out. A part of you wondered what you did wrong. What made him so tired of you. He used to look at you with stars in his eyes but now it was more like annoyance. Resentment even.

Today was supposed to be special and yet he didn’t even seem to remember your fourth year anniversary. Or maybe he knew all along but he just didn’t care.

-

After work, he didn’t come home.

It was 10 P.M now and you were worried sick. He would usually at least tell you that he’d come home late but there was nothing today at all. No call. No short text.

You spent hours preparing his favorite pasta and steak for your anniversary dinner but it all went cold now on the dinner table. You even bought his favorite champagne, and lit some candles but it seemed like your efforts were fruitless. He wasn’t coming home tonight.

Was it work again? He always had something at work holding him up but you never thought he’d take on the extra load and be purposely late on such a special day. 

Eventually, you fell asleep on the sofa waiting for him.

-

It would be around 2 A.M. when you jolted awake from the loud knock at your door. Groaning, you got up from the sofa and opened the door. 

You rubbed your eyes. It was Seonghwa. And then there was Wooyoung, drunk as hell to the point he couldn't even stand by himself. Nothing new, but on your anniversary? Really?

Seonghwa made his way through the door and passed Wooyoung off to you on the sofa while you stood at the door, frozen. His friend tried to explain to you that he was just out drinking with the guys and got carried away but you knew better. You saw the lipstick on Wooyoung's collar.

When his friend left that night, all you could do was stare at Wooyoung who was fast asleep on the sofa.

Your thoughts and self doubt began to run wild. Where did things go wrong? When did he stop loving you?

You ran out of tears at this point. All you had was regret that you ever gave him a chance. Maybe if you never met him, you’d be happy right now. Instead, you were a fool and now you were tangled up in a web of loving him.

Despite this, you hated how you still cared for him. You tried to carry his weight to the bedroom and change him into more comfortable clothes. It took a while but you finally managed to get off his shirt. He stirred awake in the process and started to mumble a string of words you couldn't make out. You stood between his legs and he couldn’t stop smiling and moving his head. 

“Ryujin? Is it you, babe?” he muttered, “Fuck you’re beautiful.” He tried to pull you into his lap but you didn’t budge, too taken aback by the whole situation.

You took a step back. “What did you just call me?”

“Ryujin?” He tried to open his eyes, but they barely opened. Why would he be calling his cousin beautiful? That was when you knew he was lying to you about texting his cousin. 

“It’s Y/N.” You tried to tell him, shaking him awake by the shoulders. 

“Oh.” He sounded disappointed. Annoyed even.

“Are you cheating on me?” You knew he’d lie if he was sober but he was drunk right now and a drunk person couldn’t filter their thoughts. This was your only chance to get the confirmation you needed and you took it. You knew the moment he woke up tomorrow, he’d just push you away again and make you feel crazy for doubting him. 

“There you go again!” he mumbled loudly, throwing his hands in the air. “So what if I did? I’m so fucking tired of you. Always so clingy and insecure, it’s so damn suffocating. But Ryujin? She's sooooo good, makes me feel so good.” He smiled as he continued to ramble on and off about her. His words were slurred and he was incoherent but you were still able to make out his words. And that was all it took for you to stumble back.

He called you clingy. And that was rich coming from Wooyoung. Because if anything, he was always the clingy one in the relationship, the one to be overly jealous, and sulk whenever you were being too nice and smiling towards anyone who was a male. He was overly affectionate and touchy too so the thought that he found it annoying when you did those things back? It ticked you off. 

Then he called you insecure. Yet he was the one that never made you feel loved anymore. He treated you like shit and made you this way. 

So really, you should’ve realized something was wrong last month, the moment he turned away your morning kisses. But you just kept giving him the benefit of the doubt and look where that got you.

You felt disgusted and betrayed as you looked back at him. You should’ve known better. You smelled perfume on him for a month now yet you always convinced yourself that you were just overreacting. That the Wooyoung you loved wouldn’t do this to you. But you were wrong and all men were the same.

You didn’t even say anything as you watched him spill his thoughts. It wasn’t until he mumbled, “just go away, I’m sleepy,” that you realized you hated him. You couldn’t even stand to look at his face anymore. 

So if he wanted you to go, you'd go.

You didn’t want to talk to him ever again. So with anger bubbling in your chest, you decided to leave a break up letter on the kitchen island near his car keys.

There were no tears anymore but your whole body felt so fragile and weak, like it could shatter at any moment. Your hands were trembling as you pulled your suitcase from the closet and packed your things. You managed to get half of your belongings in there before zipping it shut. You’d just come back for your belongings someday next week when he was at work. Thankfully you didn’t own much and since this was Wooyoung’s apartment, you didn’t need to worry about anything.

-

The next day, Wooyoung woke up with a pounding headache. Confused, and nauseous.

Just what the hell happened last night? And why was his shirt off? He glanced around his room and everything looked normal. He then sniffed his arm, smelling the lingering scent of alcohol and weed from last night at the club and decided he needed a shower. 

After he got cleaned and dressed, he got ready for the day. When he walked into the kitchen, he didn’t see you and felt a sense of relief wash over him. He could have some peace and quiet today without you nagging or being annoying.

As he passed by the dinner table, he couldn’t help but notice the two plates of steak and pasta. Did you make that? There was also his favorite champagne from Trader Joe’s, rose petals, and a candle for some reason.

Then it hit him.

Was yesterday the fourth year anniversary already?

He groaned, feeling somewhat bad for leaving so abruptly yesterday, but he figured he’d just apologize when you got home from the market. Since you always went out shopping for groceries early on a Saturday. 

He then passed by the kitchen island and saw a folded note next to a bouquet of flowers that also had a note wedged into the middle.

Curious, he read the letter in the bouquet first. 

Note: I read somewhere that only 12 percent of men receive flowers in their lifetime. I feel like a shitty girlfriend for never realizing this over the past years but I plan to get you flowers more often now to show my love. I know we haven’t been like us lately, but I hope today will change that. Happy 4th anniversary babe, I love you. -Yours forever, Y/N

Wooyoung sighed. Okay, he was starting to feel really bad and guilty now. He remembered you holding the roses in your hand yesterday morning but he didn’t know they were for him. You were always so thoughtful.

He rubbed at his temple then opened the other letter.

Note: You’re probably too drunk to remember last night but you finally told me about Ryujin. Is she the girl you’ve been texting with all day? The girl you lied to my face about? You didn’t need to lie to me but I guess it was just exciting for you to cheat wasn’t it? You always did love the chase. I must’ve gotten too boring and clingy for you as it was heading towards our 4th year. We would have both been happier if you just said something and broke up with me but since you’re such a coward, I’ll do it for you. We’re done. That way you can be with that girl all you want. I’ll stop by later this week to pick up the rest of my stuff. 

Wooyoung needed to sit down. His head was killing him. He pulled out a chair at the dining table, and rested his elbows on the marble. His eyes glazed over the remnants of what was supposed to be a romantic anniversary dinner last night and he felt something twist in his stomach.

He wanted this didn’t he? He was so sick of you. But then why did he feel so empty now that you broke up with him?

He knew he was a shitty person. He had forgotten about your anniversary… but he also knew that was trivial compared to the bigger problem. The fact that he had cheated, lied to you about it, and you found out. 

You had planned a whole dinner and tried to call him. But instead of picking up your calls, he ignored it and ditched you for the club. He was certain he was tired of your constant arguing. For a month now, he was so tired of seeing your face everyday. Wooyoung couldn’t pinpoint the reason because you were truly just being a good partner, but you were starting to suffocate him. It wasn’t even like you were even clingy, if anything he was the more clingy and touchy one in the relationship. But then why did he say it? 

His head was spinning as he tried to figure out what exactly the hell he told you last night. He was so certain he was tired of you but then why did he feel so guilty? 

Wooyoung tried to call you when it was after noon and you still weren’t home yet but it didn’t go through.

Did you block him already?

As the day went on, he started to remember bits and pieces of what he said to you last night. He also recalled how annoyed he was with you for accusing him of cheating even though he was. 

He then decided to call Seonghwa to catch him up with last night’s events but all he could tell him was that he wouldn’t stop drinking and flirting with the bartender despite him trying to get him to go home to you.

He swore he would stop sooner but Ryujin was just so addicting. She brought a spark to his boring life and made him feel excited again. You and him were together for so long that there wasn’t much to talk about anymore, not much to experiment with, but with Ryujin? She didn’t know anything about him and it was fun talking to her. And maybe it was the thrill, but it was even more fun to mess around behind your back. She was a good fuck and made him forget about his mundane life that he had to wake up to every day.  

So was it love? No. But she made him feel alive in the moment and that was all Wooyoung cared about. 

He didn’t know why but he just felt so trapped living the same day every day. Even with you there beside him, he felt lonely. Every morning he’d wake up, go to work, then he’d get home and see your face. He was tired of his mundane life which was why he went out with the boys so frequently again. At first it was just for drinks and to let loose but then Ryujin who was a regular there kept flirting with him. At first he pushed her away but then he eventually gave in. He regretted it but what could he do? The damage was already done and he didn’t know how to end it either so he just kept on seeing her behind your back. 

But you? He loved you. You were there for him when through thick and thin and always took care of him when he was sick. So yes, he cheated, but he still loved you. Even if he hadn’t been showing it lately. 

-

The next day was Sunday. His day off. But he couldn’t get himself to rest like he usually would.

He tried to call your friends but none of them would answer. Did you tell them about the breakup already? Did they hate him? He even tried to call your parents and siblings but no one would pick up. He then took a drive to your parent’s house and held hope when he saw your car in the driveway. He knocked and knocked but no one would open the door. He knew you were inside but you didn’t open it. 

He wanted to talk so bad. To make things right again. But it wouldn’t be until Friday that he had the chance. 

Wooyoung was supposed to be at work but he ended up using up five of his vacation days to catch you and get the chance to talk. He knew how you had to come over to pick up your stuff eventually. And knowing you, you would choose a time when he was at work to do so.

It was around 10 A.M when he heard his front door unlock. Wooyoung took a deep breath before walking out, hoping you’d at least give him a chance to explain.

“Hey,” he began as he watched you open your suitcase to pack your fake plants that were on his bookshelf. But instead of saying hi back, you just ignored him, not even bothering to spare him a glance. That was fair, he supposed. “Can we talk?”

“A little late for that, don't you think?” You tried to hurry up and pack your decorations in a way that wouldn’t crush them. 

“Please just listen,” he pleaded. “I know what I did was wrong, but it was a mistake, I really was going to end it, Ryujin never meant anything to me.” 

“It wasn’t a mistake, Wooyoung. You cheated on me and when I confronted you about it, you switched it on me and called me crazy and insecure. You lied straight to my face then got the nerve to get angry about it.” You couldn’t help but laugh. “I should’ve known the moment you came home with perfume on your suit. I knew it, you know? I’m not as stupid as you think I am.” 

“You’re not stupid. And for the last time, it was a mistake. I was just so damn tired with work and everyday became so boring, and she was there-“

“How long?” For the first time today, you looked at him dead in the eyes. There was no love in them anymore, just cold set eyes.

“Does it matter?” he sighed.

"How long?" You repeated calmly. 

“A month. I’m sorry, okay?”

“You’re not sorry,” you laughed. “You're just sorry you got caught. What? Is she prettier than me? Skinnier? You always did have a thing for models. I wasn’t enough for you was I? Was it the sex? You know what? I don't wanna know.” You then got up and went towards the bathroom to get the rest of your skincare and makeup.  

He groaned as he trailed behind you. “Can't we just work through this? You wanted to talk on Friday, let's talk now. How about we talk about it over dinner tonight to celebrate our fourth year anniversary?”

You stood up from your kneeled position to look him dead in the eyes again. “Do you honestly believe we can just talk and go back like nothing happened? You cheated on me, fucked her every night I was waiting for you in our bed, then lied about it for weeks.” Your voice didn’t falter, it didn’t crack. You no longer felt the need to say exactly what was on your mind. 

“Come on, it was a mistake,” he pleaded. “It’s not like you’re perfect either, you always flirt with that barista.”

You had to laugh, it was comical how he was turning this on you again. “I was being polite to the barista, a smile and asking how his morning went is not flirting so don’t you dare turn this on me. I wasn’t the one that cheated. A mistake is one time Wooyoung, and even then it doesn’t justify cheating. You cheated on me nearly every day so you know what was a mistake? Us. I should've never given you the chance. All my friends warned me about you back when we were in college but I didn’t listen. My parents tried to set me up with this nice guy who could’ve easily made me happy but I chose you. Everyone told me you were bad news but I didn’t listen and I chose you and looked where that got me. I wasted four, five years of my life for this.” You threw your hands in the air, so angry at the life you chose for yourself. “You know what? It doesn’t matter, I’m over this.” You zipped up your suitcase then made your way out of the bathroom. 

“So what? You’re just going to flush this 4 year relationship down the drain?” He followed after you. 

“Don’t blame this on me. You were the one that did that the moment you cheated. I’m leaving Wooyoung and I hate you. Oh, and here’s your key,” you threw it at his chest, “I don’t ever want to see you again.” You made sure he heard it clear before you slammed his door. 

Wooyoung wanted to run after you but he couldn’t. His legs felt like jelly and all he could do was think about how he just lost the best thing that has ever happened to him. And it was all his fault.

-

After your breakup with Wooyoung, you did everything to distract yourself and threw yourself at your work. While things were good while it lasted, you just wanted to close this chapter of your life. You found yourself sad sometimes but you genuinely had no more tears left to cry. You just didn’t want to live in the past anymore. You refused to let him take over your future too. 

After a month of staying with your parents, you managed to find a roommate you got along with well and she was amazing. She quickly became a friend you could count on and even introduced you to her male friend who just got out of a relationship too. His name was Yunho and he was so tall and handsome. You both bonded over your exes, work, post-grad life, childhoods, anything and everything. Turns out you were two even in a Modern Physics class together one semester and even had mutual college friends. You both had so much in common that it was like a match made in Heaven. He made you so happy.

But since you were both still ‘fresh’ out of a long term relationship, you both took it slow.

-

The post break up life for Wooyoung wasn’t as liberating as he thought it would be. He was a mess.

At first, he thought he would be fine. He rejoiced in the freedom actually. He was finally able to breathe again in his own apartment. But as the weeks passed? The quietness only fed his loneliness. And he wasn't so sure this was what he wanted his life to be anymore.

He thought this was what he wanted. He really did. Freedom was amazing. He missed that feeling of not being tied down. No one to nag at him. No one to smother him with the same kisses and same old food. 

But he was wrong.

He ached for an emotional connection again but no one gave it to him. He was sick of meaningless sex. He tried to replace you but it didn’t work. He was tired of feeling lonely. He just wanted you back.

All he did was drink these days. He came to work with hangovers 24/7 and was practically a zombie, doing the bare minimum to get through the day. He could barely function too, a former shell of himself. 

He just felt so empty and broken Inside. 

But this was all the consequences of his own actions. He couldn’t blame anyone but himself.

[ Present Day, One week after Valentine's Day ]

“I don’t want to go to another party,” Wooyoung whined at Seonghwa. They were in front of a house that belonged to an old friend from college. This was a baby shower of sorts and the loud music was already giving him a headache. Usually he loved parties but he just didn’t feel like it these days.  

“Dude, you need to get out again. What happened to the Wooyoung that was always down for a good time?” Mingi asked, leading him inside the house.

“Yeah man, come on! HongJoong’s our friend. He’s having a baby with his wife, we should be here and happy for him.” Seonghwa tried to shake some sense into him. He couldn’t just wallow in his regrets forever.

Wooyoung supposed his friends were right.

He went to congratulate Hongjoong briefly before going to the kitchen for a beer. He gulped half of it in one go then leaned against the counter, not in the mood to be social. So he just observed.

It would be a while before someone noticed his sour mood.

“You look like you just got dumped,” HongJong joked as he neared him again. He was oblivious to the fact that Wooyoung actually did just get dumped which caused the boy to tense up. When Wooyoung didn’t say anything in response or laugh like he usually would, Hongjoong nudged his arm. “What’s up with you man? I was just joking. You've changed so much since the last time I saw you. Has life been that hard?”

“You think I’ve changed?” There was a sadness in Wooyoung’s eyes. Even Hongjoong noticed this.

“Yeah. You’ve lost some weight. And you aren’t as talkative anymore. How’s life been? It’s been forever since we’ve caught up.”

Wooyoung sighed. “It’s been alright. Still stuck at the same job I had post-grad.” Wooyoung didn’t know what else to say. The last thing he wanted to do was bring up the fact that he was a jerk who cheated on his girlfriend of four years. So instead, he decided to divert the topic back to the man of the party. “Congrats on your baby girl by the way. You’d make a good father.”

Hongjoong’s smile was melancholic as he fixated lovingly at his pregnant wife who was talking to some guests. “Mina was so scared, you know? We didn’t plan to have a family so soon but it just happened. I was scared too but I had to stay strong for her. We’re still so young and I can barely take care of myself. But then I started thinking. Everything happens for a reason don’t you think? If it was meant to be then it’ll happen. And then I started to picture a mini Mina running around the house and I got so excited, thinking about how I’m going to raise and take care of her. There’s just something so special about having a baby with the person you love.”

Wooyoung grimaced. Of course he was happy for his friend, but at the same time, the way Hongjoong was talking made him feel inferior. It seemed like all of his friends had matured and made a future for themselves while he went backwards in life. Wooyoung stared into the distance as the memory of you unfolded. If only he could go back in time and knock some sense into himself. Then maybe, just maybe, he could have his happy ending too.

You were lying on his chest, fingers tracing the lines of his bare abs. “Do you think about having a family one day?” 

Wooyoung sat up properly and you got off his chest. “What? Do you have baby fever again?” He couldn’t help but notice how beautiful you looked dazed post-sex, in nothing but an oversized t-shirt and your underwear. He couldn’t help but smile seeing how excited you were about having kids. 

“Can you blame me? You’re so cute around my little cousins. They love you and it just made me think how fun it would be to have little Wooyoung’s running around the house.” You and him were currently in your childhood bedroom after having a barbecue party with your whole family. They all just left for the night and you and Wooyoung finally had time to yourselves. 

“That sounds like a nightmare,” he joked. “They’ll make a mess of the house and be very loud. You’ll never get sleep again.”

“That’s part of the sacrifice don’t you think? The beauty of being a mother? Even if that’s the case, I wouldn’t mind. I just want to have my own kids to give a life to one day. I’d do anything for them.”

“How many kids would you like then?” He hummed.

“I want to have 5 kids, at least 2 girls and 2 boys,” you beamed, clapping your hands together, as you went on about how you’d spoiled them.

Wooyoung also loved kids but right now he was still so young and he didn’t want to think of having a family. But just knowing that you saw a future with him? That warmed his heart. “Are you sure you’ll be able to give birth that many times, babe? I heard shit is painful.”

You playfully rolled your eyes which made him smile. “Don’t underestimate me, I’m stronger than I look.” 

“I know you are, but I was just being realistic.” He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear before patting his lap. You took the hint and wrapped your legs around him before your arms went around his neck. “You know I love you right?”

“I do. And I love you too.” The look in your eyes. It was pure happiness and bliss. Pure love. And all for him. 

“You alright, man?” Hongjoong asked, nudging Wooyoung once more.

Wooyoung blinked, shaking his head. “Sorry man, what’d you say?”

Hongjoong smiled softly before patting his back. “I said I’m going to go meet some guests, take care, alright?” He then walked towards the door to tend to the couple that just walked in. It was only when Hongjoong moved his head that he saw you. But you didn’t come alone. 

You were next to a guy.

A very tall and good looking guy. Mingi wasn’t lying last week at the bar when he said your new boyfriend was attractive (as much as he hated to admit it).

Hongjoong gave the guy beside you a hug while Mina, his wife, took the foil tray of food from your hands. 

It didn't feel real that he was seeing your face after four months of trying to contact you.

Was he dreaming again?

Wooyoung couldn't stop staring at you. You were wearing a floral dress and looked absolutely gorgeous. You looked different from the last time he saw you but in a good way. More mature and pretty. Your hair was longer and you even got a new piercing. He couldn’t help but notice how you were practically glowing too.

Was he selfish for wanting you back?

He should be happy for you but he wasn’t. Not when the guy beside you was pissing him off. The guy’s hand was at the small of your back and you two looked so good together. Wooyoung couldn’t help but size him up, feeling insecure as he observed the guy. He looked like such a ‘nice guy’, the type your parents always wanted for you. And you looked so happy.

Your new guy then placed his hands on your waist and pulled you closer to him before saying something that made you smile wide.

When was the last time Wooyoung saw you smile wide at him like that? 4 months ago? 5 months ago?

And before Wooyoung knew it, that guy’s lips touched yours and you willingly pulled him closer.

Wooyoung clenched his fists and pressed his lips together. He knew he had no right but he just felt so jealous, anger boiling in his blood.

It had only been four months since you and him broke up. How the hell did you move on so fast? 

“I didn’t know she was going to be here.” Mingi said as he approached Wooyoung. “Are you alright?”

Wooyoung swallowed thickly, his eyes still locked on the way you smiled at the guy. “Yeah. Just great.”

When you backed away from the kiss, your eyes began to scan the party and that was when you made eye contact with Wooyoung. The minute it happened, your smile faded. There was no pain in your eyes but rather an empty look, one that made Wooyoung’s heart sting. You locked eyes with him for a few seconds before you turned back to your boyfriend with stars in your eyes.

Wooyoung didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just watched as your boyfriend led you outside to the back where the pool and barbecue was.

“She’s happy now. Don’t ruin things for her,” Mingi said, looking longingly at his friend. Mingi knew how Wooyoung was. Mingi could tell just by looking in his eyes that Wooyoung wanted to go up to you but now wasn’t a good time. “Do you want to leave?” 

“No.” Wooyoung replied. He finished his current beer then popped another one open.

Then he waited.

He waited until your boyfriend wasn’t next to you before approaching. This might be the last time he’ll ever see you again. He had nothing to lose but his pride. He didn't care though. He just needed to hear your voice again.

You were near the top of the stairs when he walked up to you. “Hey,” he began softly. 

“Hi.” He could tell you were uncomfortable with how you didn't even want to look at him. He didn’t blame you. 

“So what are you doing here? I didn’t know you knew HongJong or Mina.” Small talk. He had to start with small talk in order to not drive you away. 

“I don’t know them. Yunho’s friends with Hongjong though.” Okay, so you were still talking to him. You didn’t walk away which made him feel lighter. 

“So that’s his name? The guy that’s making you happy?”

“Yeah.” 

“Do you love him?” He asked but you didn’t answer and a stretch of silence followed. He found himself being desperate and vulnerable which he hasn’t been in a long time. “I’ve missed you,” he selfishly mumbled. Maybe he was just delusional but he wanted to hear that you missed him too. After all, you and him were together for 4 years. It had to mean something. “How have you been?”

“I should go.” You tried to walk away but he grabbed your wrist and you yanked your hand back. “Don’t touch me.” Your voice was cold. And so were your eyes. He hated how you looked at him. You used to look at him with so much love and now you looked at him as if he was the gum on your shoe. 

“I’m sorry. I just. I missed you. I still love you.” He was desperate for you to just say anything. 

“If you truly loved me, you wouldn’t have cheated. I have nothing to say to you, so just leave me alone. I’m here with my boyfriend for a good time with his friends, so I don’t want to talk to you anymore. I meant it that day when I said I never wanted to see you again, so let’s just pretend not to know each other for today, okay? If you truly still love me, you’ll respect my decision.” You were so much more assertive now, no longer holding back like you used to back when you and him argued. He couldn’t help but wonder. Did you hold back because of him? 

He stared at your back as you walked away. 

“I broke it off with her,” he said loudly. And you stopped in your tracks. For a second, he swore you were about to say something but then you just kept walking. Your body fading smaller and smaller before disappearing down the flight of stairs. 

This was Wooyoung's wake up call. He had to move on. Perhaps in another life, he would have treated you right.

Although he was still in pain. He knew that it was nowhere near the pain he had inflicted on you. He knew better than to chase after you. It would only make you hate him more. All you ever did was love him and yet he still managed to fuck it up and hurt you. He hoped at least that Yunho guy treated you right. That he gave you all his hours. That he loved you right. That he did all the things he should’ve done when he was your man.

#ateez x reader #ateez angst #wooyoung angst #ateez fic #wooyoung x reader #ateez oneshot #wooyoung fic #kpop angst #wooyoung scenarios #ateez imagines #ateez fanfiction #kpop fluff #wooyoung oneshot #ateez fluff #wooyoung imagines #wooyoung fluff #jung wooyoung #my fic #hanni-bae44 #i got carried away... this was also supposed to be like 3k lol. idk what possessed me.

[ozzgin]

I can't get your yakuza headcanons out of my mind, Daitou's got me in a chokehold and I'm not complaining, like--

in regards to that doodle you made to show height difference between reader and the boys [I love your art btw (●♡∀♡)] - I can't picture myself in reader's style, I'm currently going through my goth phase in my 20s lmao; picture a big bitch with tattoos and messy hair who's listening to nothing but 2000s hits and screamo bands - so I'd like to request a headcanon of how Daitou would react to a gender-neutral reader like this :D I also like to incorporate the idea of them once being in a famous band that he's a fan of! (sorry if this seems like a lot, I have a huge imagination hehe)

but if he's more into the cute and helpless type, I'll just walk my ass out the door and yeehaw my way into another yandere's arms ✌😔

That's on me for not drawing the reader inserts as cartoonish cinder blocks :') In truth I'm a little bit embarrassed seeing how many likes that doodle has gotten, it was something I put together in a hurry and the clothing was meant to be baggy, shapeless, with not too many folds for the sake of simplicity. I myself am more of a pilgrim goth, just to emphasize the randomness of the choice.

Drawing reader inserts always leaves me a little anxious. If I use a light shade of gray, will people think I'm excluding poc? Will plus sized readers feel like they've been disregarded? What about masculine readers? As someone who's demiromantic I always struggle taking appearance or gender into consideration, because to me it has no influence whatsoever. Which is hard to express when you want to offer blank slate visuals as an extra to the story.

What I'm trying to say is that all of my characters would like you for who you are. Sure, they find your looks cute, but it's not the defining reason. Maybe you have similar traits to them, maybe you're the complete opposite and they find it intriguing. You could be a buff man and Daitou would be just as grateful to have someone who isn't afraid of him. I usually stick to a female reader for bigger stories to avoid messing it up long term, but in the grand scheme of things it makes no difference. I always imagine reader to be a shapeless blob that provides the dialogue I need for the story mood. There's no concrete preference or type for any of my OCs. I mean, ideally you'd like them back and not hang them upside down above a BBQ pit but I feel these are sensible requirements (?).

And now for the actual headcanons since my ramble is over.

First encounter is comically awkward but for reasons you’re unaware of yet. You’re obviously used to people staring at you (more so in a country like Japan), so you were expecting the curious glance every now and then. On the other hand, being under scrutiny, from a man even more unusual looking than you at that, is odd. Mildly uncomfortable. You’re shifting yourself from one leg to another, hoping to be done with the introductions soon.

On his end, Daitou is anxiously fidgeting and trying his best to focus. He’s seen this face before and he can’t shake off the familiar feeling. Where the hell…He obviously can’t downright gawk at you, and he isn’t sure how to politely formulate a question. After several sheepish peeks, it finally dawns on him: weren’t you part of that band he really likes? No, what would the chances be? Then again, how many people out there would look exactly like you? Is it rude to ask? He has no idea. He resumes his mumbled description of the apartment and hands you the papers to be signed.

Back at his place, he finally digs through his merch and sprawls out the available clues. “I didn’t know you were into this kind of music”, Kazuya comments as he looks over the man’s shoulder. He’d come over to ask about the new tenant. “I’m pretty sure it’s them.” He concludes, confidently placing his index over a CD cover. “Huh? Who? The tenant?” Kazuya holds back his chuckle. “Why would a celebrity show up for a shady apartment offer? You’re tripping, man.”

“I’m sorry, this is getting ridiculous.” You finally exclaim, annoyed by the persistent stares of the now two men facing you. You’re standing in front of the apartment building, arms crossed, huffing at the tall scarred man and his blonde friend. “No, I’m sure of it. Even the tattoo is the same.” Daitou turns to whisper to Kazuya, oblivious to your complaints. In turn, Kazuya lightly elbows him, mouthing something about being rude. “Just ask them, man.” He adds, this time louder. “Ask me what??” You groan. “W-were you…um…in this band by any chance?” Daitou manages to blurt out, searching his pocket for the CD case and ceremoniously laying it under your eyes.

Ah. It finally clicks and you exhale, relieved. You confirm their suspicions and show them some backstage photos to solidify your claim. You ask Daitou if he wants an autograph or something, then swiftly scribble your signature on a piece of paper and hand it out to him. He holds it with a wide, childish grin. “You’re a weird one, you know? You could’ve just asked. I guess I didn’t expect to find a fan in the wild, especially here.” Daitou carefully folds the souvenir, eyes lidded with nostalgia. “Oh yes, it’s great. Drowns out the screams.”

#yandere yakuza #yakuza x reader #daitou

[absolutewhore101]

Cold As You - Chapter 3

A/N: here's chapter 3! this is the longest one yet, hope you enjoy!

Pairing: Joel Miller x ImpliedFem!Reader

Summary: Listen to 'Cold As You' by Taylor Swift

Warnings: stage 2 of grief - anger (also some light violence towards the end, as well as some gaslighting!)

Word Count: 2.1K

This is a flashback.

Chapter 2 / Chapter 4

MINORS DNI

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Everything about your relationship with Joel came easy. The shy flirting, the quiet nights spent tangled together, the protection of each other on the road.

And then the sighing, the avoidance of eye contact, the reluctance of spending time together. It was all easy, at least for Joel. 

He came as easy to you as breathing did, and you were sure that you were once that easy to him as well. But it seemed that your relationship was treading in waters too treacherous to survive.

You gave him everything - your heart, your mind, your very soul. And he took it all. 

First, he took it like a gift - like he didn’t think himself worthy enough to be given such things. Then, he took it like he deserved it - like you had no choice but to bare yourself to him in every way possible. 

“Are you kidding me?” You started one night. It wasn’t a fight worth having out, especially in your new home, but you needed to feel something. 

“What now?” He’d responded, sighing heavily. 

“Is it me? Am I not enough for you anymore?”

“Now, what the hell are you talking about?” He asked, exasperated. 

You shook your head, tears stinging the back of your eyes. He took a step closer to you, gently cradling your face. 

“Hey.” He said softly. “Talk to me.”

You let out a shaky sigh. 

“Sometimes… sometimes it feels like there’s someone else. Like, it kind of feels like you need more than me, more than this.”

Joel shook his head, bringing you into his chest. He cradled your head, rocking the two of you side to side. 

“There ain’t ever gonna be someone else for me. You’re all I’ve ever wanted, sweetheart. Don’t you forget that.”

You wished you could. It killed you to look back on memories like that one knowing that it was all a lie, or at least it was now. 

‘There ain’t ever gonna be someone else’? What a fucking joke.

A bitter laugh rose out of your throat, briefly shocking you from the noise. 

Here you were, sitting in your living room waiting for Joel to come home. And there Joel was, doing whatever the hell he wanted because you weren’t what he wanted. Not anymore. 

The walls you’d built around your relationship once looked so inviting, so comforting. Shielding the two of you from the world around you, keeping you safe. But looking at the walls Joel built around himself gave you the opposite feeling. 

There was a certain shade of gray that seemed to control your thoughts lately - a shade that exactly matched Joel’s walls. You stood there, on the outside, reluctant to walk away. You loved him so much, more than you loved anything else, and you did your best to wish them away. 

You gave him his space, you took care of him and Ellie while also trying to take care of yourself, and you let him walk around having his affair like you were none the wiser. 

So why weren’t you enough?

You imagined him sitting in the bar, telling her stories about you. How you were just so cute, dreaming about Joel, imagining a world where your relationship stood the test of time. How you had the nerve to adore him when he wouldn’t spare you a second glance. 

You imagined her laughing over the rim of her glass, her free hand resting on Joel’s shoulder as she tried to stay in her seat. 

A fire began to fill you - a flame that would only be extinguished after having it out with Joel. 

You sat there on the couch, staring at the wall ahead of you, letting your anger take over your thoughts. 

How dare he? Who does he think he is? Who does he think I am?!

Joel’s heavy footsteps trudged up the porch stairs, and he sighed heavily before quietly opening the door. You didn’t move. 

He closed the door behind him, toeing off his shoes and hanging up his jacket before he turned around, startling at the sight of you.

“Jesus,” he muttered, “you scared me, darling.”

He watched you shake your head slowly, standing from the couch and turning to face him. 

“Darling?” He asked.

“Don’t.” You started. “Don’t call me that when you don’t mean it anymore.”

He stepped closer to you now standing behind the couch, leaving it between the two of you.

“Excuse me?”

You didn’t flinch.

“‘When I don’t mean it anymore’? Care to explain what that means?” 

“Oh, sure.” You said, looking him directly in the eyes. “I’ll explain exactly what that means when you explain to me why you’re still here.”

He looked taken aback, as if he hadn’t expected you to bring this up. 

“I’m still here because I live here. With you.” He said. “Or have you somehow forgotten that?”

Your hands balled into fists, in complete disbelief that he could have the nerve to talk to you like that after what he’d been doing all night. 

Once upon a time, he would’ve said that he was still here because of you, because he loved you. But that time was long gone.

“Just walk away, Joel.” You said, exhaustion slipping into your voice. It was always so draining to fight with him, and you weren’t sure you had it in you anymore. 

“No, I want to know where the hell else I should be if not here. What’s your problem?” He placed his hands on his hips, condescension creeping into his voice. 

You looked away from Joel, focusing out the window on the town. He should’ve walked away, he had no way of defending himself, of defending words he hadn’t spoken to you in months. 

“What’s her name?” You finally spoke. He did his best to hide it, but you heard the stutter in his breath, felt the way the atmosphere in the room shifted.

“What?” He said, suddenly breathless.

You met his eyes again. “The woman you go see every night. The one who’s replaced me? I mean, I guess she hasn’t really replaced me if I’m still here, but you get the point. Who is she?”

“Darling-”

“Don’t. Call me that.” You said sternly. 

“I got no idea what you’re talking about.”

You walked around the couch, now standing directly in front of Joel. 

“Really? Okay. Then look me in the eyes and tell me you love me.”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “And what would that prove?”

“That you haven’t been pulling away from me since we got here. That you can still stand to look at me even though this is the first time you’ve met my eyes in weeks.”

He didn’t have a chance to get a word out before you continued on, too fueled by your rage to stop now. 

“I gave you everything, Joel. Every piece of me and who I am. And you know what I got in return? Nothing. You never gave me a damn thing, Joel. And I’ve had to sit here and watch you fall out of love with me and right into love with someone else. Do you know how that feels? Have you stopped even once to consider how that might make me feel? Or were you too distracted by her to remember that I was still here. That I still love you.”

Tears were steadily streaming down your face. 

“I don’t know… what you think you saw or what you think you know, but there is nothing going on between me and whoever this woman is.”

“Oh my god!” You started to laugh hysterically, reaching up to pull at your hair. “Is that what this is? You’re going to stand here and make me feel crazy because you can’t admit what’s going on.”

“No. That ain’t what’s going on.”

“Stop lying!” You all but screamed at him, baffled that he was still trying to act innocent. 

“I ain’t lying!” He yelled back, matching your tone. 

“I’m done.” You watched his face fall, anger burning in his eyes. “I’ve sat here for long enough, watching you live without me. I’m not doing it anymore. Admit it or not, I don’t care. You have someone else, now.”

Without looking back, you turned and walked out the door.

“Hey!” He called marching out right behind you. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?!”

“Anywhere but here!”

You looked to your left, seeing Tommy walking towards the two of you. 

“C’mon.” Joel tried. “Let’s go back inside to talk about this.” He tried to grab your arm, but you pulled away before he could.

“Absolutely not. I’m not going back in there so you can lie to me.” You shook your head as you turned to face him. 

Tommy interrupted the conversation before Joel could respond. 

“Is everything okay?” He asked cautiously, hands raised in front of him. 

You whirled towards him, your hair flying behind you as you did. Tommy had known - for however long - that Joel was having an affair. And he didn’t try to hide it. The pity in his eyes everytime he looked at you was obvious enough to say everything he wouldn’t.

You took a step closer to him, pushing your finger into his chest. 

“Unless you tell me what her name is, I want nothing to do with you right now.”

He gave you a confused look. 

“What?” He asked, looking over your shoulder at Joel. “What are you talking about?”

“Tommy Miller, I swear to god, you will not lie to me too.”

“I’m not lying, I just don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You turned back to Joel. “What did you tell him? Hm? Is everyone going to lie to me until I let it go? Until I come crawling back to you like everyone apparently seems to think I should?”

Joel reached out, this time managing to gently grasp your wrist. 

“No one’s lying to you. There’s no one else. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but we’ll figure it out.” He finished, a plea in his eyes as he looked at you, silently begging you to drop it. 

You were in complete disbelief. Joel was standing here, not just in front of you, but in front of Tommy, still trying to keep this up. He had to know that you knew. There was no way he didn’t. 

“Joel…” You muttered, complete disgust in your voice. 

“Carly.” You heard Tommy say, but you couldn’t take your eyes off Joel. His eyes closed as he let out a breath, dropping his head to his chest. 

You wrenched your hand out of his grasp and he let you, turning to face Tommy. 

“Her name is Carly.” He said, an apology written all over his face. “Look, I’m sorry-”

“No. You don’t get to be sorry.” You cut him off. “You knew for a fact that there was someone else, and not only did you not tell me, you lied straight to my face about it!” Your chest was heaving, air not seeming to fill your lungs. 

“Who else knew?” You asked. Neither of them answered.

“Huh? Joel? Who else knew? I know Ellie did. Is that really the example you want to set for her? Did everyone in Jackson know?” You were practically screaming at this point, and they let you. Tommy knew there was no amount of sorry that he could be that would fix this, and Joel knew that your relationship was well over by now. 

Tommy shook his head, but you knew that it wasn’t in answer to your question. Because yes, everyone in Jackson knew. 

“I told him not to say anything.” Joel spoke from behind you. “I told whoever asked not to say anything. I never thought it’d get this out of hand. It was just-” You tuned him out at that point, no longer wanting to listen to whatever excuse he was about to give. 

You weren’t sure how long you stood there with him talking. You were replaying your entire relationship in your head, the good and the bad. How did you get here, begging to be a part of his life? When did it end? 

“...but I need you to hear me when I say that I… I love you.” He finished, glassy eyes concentrated on the back of your head. 

‘I love you’? 

That caught your attention - the phrase he hadn’t spoken to you in god knows how long, and now he was using it to try to defend himself. 

You couldn’t do it anymore, so, without a second thought, you turned around…

…and smacked the shit out of him.

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

Tell me your thoughts! Thank you for reading :)

#joel miller #pedro pascal #the last of us #tlou #joel miller x reader #x reader #tlou x reader #tommy miller #ellie williams #pedro pascal x reader #Spotify

[canonicallyobserving911]

Buck & Eddie: Buck had already found "happiness" before he started searching for it!

The shades of baby blue he wore in S6 illustrates it perfectly.

At the beginning of 6A, I noticed several things about Buck’s clothes including his "looking for ANSWERS uniform" (linked here) and all the "ugly" and "ill fitting" clothes (linked here) he wore during the season. But I also noticed the difference in the vibrancy of the shades of baby blue he wore and it perplexed me but I didn't analyze it because of the way Season 6 ended🙄.

However, last week, while I was searching for scenes in S6 that showed him wearing his "looking for ANSWERS uniform" along with some of the "ill fitting clothes" he wore, I remembered the differences in the shades of baby blue he sported throughout the season and after I finally analyzed it, I developed a theory regarding what it meant and his clothes validated it.

At the end of Season 5, Buck wore a vibrant baby blue suit to Hen and Karen's vow renewal ceremony and that color would be the staple for his journey in Season 6. The shades of baby blue he wore throughout the season were very LOUD and they spoke volumes about all the things he wasn't verbally saying. Everyone knows he had a lot of questions about his life including him wanting to be interim captain, his relationships, his search for happiness, him being a sperm donor and him wanting to be a father but the problem was (and still is since he's still looking for the answers) Buck had already found happiness with Eddie and Chris and the vibrant shades of baby blue he wore in 6x1, 6x2 and 6x13 tell the story while the muted shades he wore in 6x7, 6x8, 6x9 and 6x12 illustrated how he was unsure about the decisions he made or was making.

Before I get started, I want to remind everyone about the way Buck spent the majority of the season "not talking" to the people he should have been talking to (his found family) but his clothes represented how the things he wasn't saying were still being said except it wasn't verbal. His clothes told his story or better yet, how he felt about his decisions.

In 6x1, Buck was cooking for his family, Eddie and Chris and while he was, him and Chris were wearing the same color shirts, i.e., blue, gray and white. Buck’s blue shirt was vibrant and it was in between light and dark (reminder the Diaz family color is navy-blue). It's like the show was saying, HEY BUCK, HERE'S YOUR HAPPINESS SITTING RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU AND THEY HAVE A COUCH WHICH IS YOUR COUCH TOO! But he didn't get it.

He was already HAPPY and he was literally cooking a meal for his husband and son.

But in 6x2, he started his search for happiness after he met Lev at the Happiness Convention and the color baby blue he wore started to get lighter and the more he wore it, the more muted it became.

In 6x7, the universe was SCREAMING at Buck and tried to STOP him from donating but he wouldn't listen and the muted color of his baby blue shirt illustrated it wasn't the right decision for him. Also, that shirt was too little and it was ill fitting.

In 6x8, Buck was proud of himself even though the muted color of his baby blue shirt proved he was unsure about his decision. He went to the Renaissance Fair with Hen and Denny but even though he's good friends with her, it was jarring for him to be there with them when her best friend is Chimney and he could have taken Jee-Yun with them. Reminder, Buck was there shopping for Jee-Yun anyway so Chimney could have gone. Also, IIRC, prior to that episode, Buck had only been shown spending time with Hen and Denny in 3x10 while they were at Eddie’s and he was making gingerbread houses with Chris and Denny.

Buck should have been with Eddie and Chris helping Chris get ready for his first dance. The way it was framed, it seemed like he wasn't where he was supposed to be.

In 6x9, he wore another dull baby blue shirt when he was on a four-way call with Hen, Chimney and Eddie. It was the call when he said he was the official creator of new life but the muted color of his shirt illustrated there's a different narrative. It showed he wasn't sure but he was forcing happiness again by trying to be part of a family (Connor's and Kameron's) when he was already happy several episodes earlier with Eddie and Chris.

In 6x12, Buck wore another dull baby blue shirt when he went to his appointment with Dr. Salazar. After he was struck by lightning, he was unsure about EVERYTHING and he admitted to Eddie that he didn't know what he was feeling when he went home... I mean when he fell asleep on his family's couch... I mean when went to the only place he could rest (Eddie’s).

The last time Buck wore baby blue in season 6 was in 6x13 when he was WITH HIS OWN FAMILY. His shirt was vibrant and bright and he was with Eddie and Chris when he wore it.

Reminder, this is the episode when he looked at Eddie after he said "I'm the guy with the answers, I kind of like it". Eddie and Chris are the answers!

Bonus: more proof Buck was trying to force happiness and his clothes illustrated it perfectly!

In 6x10, he wore a too little outfit when he went to pick up Margaret and Phillip from the airport. His muscles are literally bulging in those ankle beaters. It looks like he was trying to FORCE himself into a family that he doesn't belong in (look at the framing in the second photo to see how Buck’s in the background while all the other Buckleys are in the forefront. It's like he's in the dark about another family secret 👀).

His clothes were also too little in 6x4 when he went to ask Hen about being Connor's sperm donor. They were mismatched and his pants were ankle beaters. His shirt was black with tan trimming but his pants were a wine color and he was wearing his white hightops.

Here's proof that shows Buck did NOT dress like this before season 6. His clothes always fit and they weren't too small or mismatched.

In 4x7, he was dressed like he always did in custom fitted clothes.

In 4x3, his clothes fit perfectly (and so did Eddie’s jeans🤪😜).

In 5x14, he was NOT wearing ankle beaters. His clothes were once again custom fitted and who was he with? His family, Eddie and Chris.

If the show isn't trying to insinuate that Buck, Eddie and Chris are already a FAMILY and that Buck already found HAPPINESS, then the question remains, what is happening with Buck’s clothes?

#buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #christopher diaz #the buckley diaz family #buckley diaz family #911 abc #911 on abc #911 season 6 speculation #911 season 6 #911 season 7 speculation #911 meta #911 speculation

[gatzilksis-2]

My Stepfather Joe: 2023 Christmas Special 1

(This is based on true events, also following the original My Stepfather Joe stories. You can still enjoy if you haven't read them!)

18+

December 22

I got off a Greyhound bus at a McDonald's. My mom got out of her new SUV and waved me over. We got into the vehicle, and she started the short drive to her house. "Sorry to hear about your breakup."

"I don't wanna talk about it," I replied. I watched her drive up a windy road. "I can't believe how long it's been since I've been here."

"I know. What's the last time you saw Joe?"

I looked out the window, shrugging. It had been a good long while, but I still thought about him all the time. Joe and my mom had been together since I was a kid. He was cool and all, but the best part about him was his gas.

As Mom got closer to their house, I hoped his gas problems remained. It wasn't something I was comfortable asking Mom about directly.

She turned into their long, sloped driveway and stopped at the top. My mouth fell open at the sheer amount of junk and stuff piled in the center of their driveway, all in boxes. The boxes were stacked and piled in a line that disappeared into the garage.

"That's the garage sale stuff?" I asked.

"Yeah. He gets it from old storage units and sells it out of here and his friend's house." Mom rolled her eyes as she got out. "I hate it."

"I could tell." I got out with her, stepping onto the big front deck and into the house. I was hoping to walk into a fart, but the air smelled of food, instead.

"Hello?" Mom called as she padded into the massive kitchen.

I smiled when I saw Joe. He was visibly shorter than the last time I'd seen him. I was sad to see he lost some of his weight. It was healthier for him, but I thought he looked better with it. Now, with his curly hair and big beard a lighter shade of gray, he almost looked like Santa Claus.

"Hey!" Joe hugged me, unfortunately without a fart. He was wearing a sweater with a snowman on it and shorts with slippers. Joe pulled away from me and gestured to the oven. "I got a bunch of different chickens roasting; honey barbecue, teriyaki, one spicy, and one with just garlic butter."

"Sounds good."

We did some catching up as the food finished cooking, and we sat down to eat. Mom and I sat to either side of Joe. The entire time we chowed on our chickens, there were no signs of gas. I tried not to show my disappointment as I caught them up with a few stories from the past years.

I figured the chickens would do it. I ate as much as I could, while Joe had already eaten twice as much as me. I carried my dishes to the sink. "I forgot how good your cooking is."

"Thanks!" Joe got up with his own empty plate. As he walked towards me, it finally happened. Vwrrr-rrrmm-BWRRT! Joe's walking farts fell out in a booming splendor, and my mom pulled her head back.

Joe laughed and squeezed my shoulder. "You forget about that?"

"No." I smiled and put my dishes in the dishwasher, then walked back to the table. And there it was; the strong, skunky scent of Joe's farts that I'd been deprived of for too long.

"Come outside. I'll show you the business." Joe headed outside without me.

"I'll be back," I said to Mom and followed.

"In here!" Joe yelled from the garage.

I walked in and gasped: the garage was filled with stuff, displayed in cases and on tables and hidden in more and more boxes. "Holy shit!"

"Yeah. I got a lot, but think how much money I can make off this." Joe was too excited about this endeavor. He went on and on, but I was barely listening. It was all about how much each thing was worth.

There was barely any space to move in here. Back in the day, Joe would've taken advantage and farted at least once by now. But he just kept moving around the space, pointing out dozens of antiques.

And then suddenly, the smell came without warning, more rotten than the one inside, caught on a small breeze coming in from the driveway. I let it into my nostrils while Joe's back was to me. I think age was making his farts better, even if they were further apart.

"You can have anything you want." Joe gestured across all of the stuff. "Anything!"

"Thanks. I'll have to look before I leave."

"Come here." Joe started towards the driveway. He was going to show me more stuff. I couldn't take much more talk about boring antiques and their dollar values.

I walked through the crowded garage to him. When I was almost there, Joe bent his knees. Pwarp-farp-PHRRP! He stood straight and laughed as I came up behind him. The smell caught me right away, and I silently let it into my senses. "How do you get me every time?"

"Still!" Joe chuckled as he waddled out to the other piles of boxes and stuff.

He continued to explain about his stuff, and I continued to listen the best I could. We finally went back inside without him farting again, but he did head straight for the bathroom.

It was getting late, so we put on a Christmas movie and got ice cream. They only had an extra-cushiony couch and loveseat now, instead of a separate chair for Joe.

I waited for him to come in before taking a seat. "Where do you usually sit?"

"Right here." Joe sat on the long, lounge part of the couch, kicked his big slippers off his bare feet, and put them up in front of him.

Mom sat on the loveseat, so I sat on the big, open spot left on the couch. I appreciated that it was closer to Joe.

He downed his ice cream before it could even get soft and set the bowl on his belly. Joe lifted one leg into the air. PHWRRRT! "Oops."

Mom didn't react, but I laughed. I got up with my bowl, still with a few bites left. "I can get you more, if you want."

"Yeah. Thanks." Joe held his bowl up. I bent to get it, entering his most recent skunky gas cloud.

I got both of us more ice cream and returned. Joe finished his quickly again and walked the bowl to the sink himself. He let out a large belch, and when he turned back, he was pushing up his sweatshirt to rub his belly.

"You didn't take your pill, did you?" Mom chastised.

"No, but I'll be fine." Joe stopped rubbing his belly, but his shirt stayed up. He walked back to the couch, but this time, he passed his seat and turned to stand in front of me.

A silent fart, the strongest of the day by a longshot, attacked me, and I gave a little cough as I took a bite of ice cream.

"Oh, Joe!" Mom yelled and fanned a hand.

"Aah!" Joe took his seat back with a jovial grin.

That moment was vital for me, because it felt like old Joe. I hoped he would continue to act like this the next two days I'd be here.

Continued in next part...

#farts #gatzilksis #eproctophilia #fart kink #eprocto #flatulence #fart fiction #fart stories #male fart fiction #male fart stories

[awryval]

death of an author, reclamation, and you

"We never are what we intend, or invent 'Cause I make little lies and then I pull them apart Think something dark's living down in my heart And if I wanted to die before I got old I should've started some years ago digging that hole"

Brand New. "At the Bottom." Daisy, 2009.

Brand New was among one of my favorite bands in high school, and I still listen to them today. Their music is important to me and shaped a big part of who I am. Their lyrics about being tortured, burnt-out, and choking on the weight of your own self-perceived flaws are relatable! Their compositions ooze with a level of self-hatred that can only be genuine. It's utterly depressing, and I adore it!

That's not not the full story, though. Jesse Lacey, the vocalist of Brand New, is a sexual predator. This informs everything about how the music of Brand New is. It's self-loathing for a very good reason. I love Brand New. I condemn Jesse Lacey. These two statements coexist. I used to be a part of the /r/brandnew subreddit, and when the allegations against Jesse Lacey came out in 2017, many redditors of that sub were quick to claim "death of the author." After all, the band had broken up immediately after the news broke, and they had also cancelled their tours. Currently, the people using that subreddit mostly talk about buying old BN merchandise and discuss what their favorite concert memories were. Jesse Lacey himself confirmed that the allegations against him were true, so there isn't much debate to be had. The subreddit serves as a monument for fans who still enjoy the music, and as a platform to speak about it with like-minded fans.

In my opinion, claiming "death of an author" is a slippery slope. We can't always claim that Miku is the creator of Minecraft. But often, we see that that is the response people have when a creator is outed to be problematic; "I still like the thing So-and-So made, so I will ignore that the creator exists!" The reason that this worked for Miku Minecraft is because, by the time that Notch was publicly making transphobic comments, he did not own Minecraft anymore. The joke is quite literally that he does not own the thing that people like. He sold it to Microsoft, so he doesn't get royalties from it anymore. You can play Minecraft devoid of supporting its original creator. This joke works so well because it is an actual case of the death of an author! That's great and all for Minecraft, but what about other instances? What happens when we claim "death of the creator" erroneously? And why are we so obsessed with this concept anyway?

So like, back to Brand New... they released their last album, Science Fiction, back in August 2017. The allegations came out later that same year. I own all of Brand New's discography physically, including their last release. I bought most of it off eBay when I was 15. I was not supporting them post-allegations. But that leaves me with a lingering question- what do I do with all these CDs that I still very much enjoy the music of? From how I see it, there are two firm camps on this topic:

Camp 1: You know about Lacey's crimes now and his music cannot be separated from his actions. Solution: Throw your CDs away.

Camp 2: It's something you bought without knowledge of Lacey's crimes, so you should enjoy it anyway. Death of an author! Solution: Continue as usual.

I'm not fond of either of these answers. They come off as too polarized for a situation that is the entire Pantone swatch library of grays. "But, how are there any shades of gray when its clear that Jesse Lacey is in the wrong?" I want to provide some counter questions for you to think about:

What about the other people in the band? You might not be directly supporting the sexual predator anymore, but there are other victims here too- effectively his band mates lost their jobs overnight. (Another example would be LOSTPROPHETS)

Is it feasible to destroy each object you own because it was created under problematic circumstances? When or when isn't this the case? Does it apply to your cup of coffee? Does it apply to the clothes you wear? What about any product with palm oil in it? What about the hardware in your computer? If you look into any company, you're going to find some horrific things you don't like about it. The takeaway here is that it isn't beneficial to treat situations like these as black or white. I don't think that destroying my CDs is going to do anything to take away the abuse that Jesse Lacey caused. Nor do I think ignoring the context of his music will do anyone any favors. The music he made is a product of his crimes. To ignore that fact would be disingenuous to why people enjoy his music and why the music exists in the first place. There's another element here, though. I, and many others, are no longer monetarily supporting Jesse Lacey. You can't even officially support the release of Brand New's music anymore as their record label (Procrastinate! Music Traitors) doesn't even seem to have a functioning website anymore? Regardless, I wouldn't want to support his music in a way that supports him, anyway. Yes, I enjoy the music and the themes of it, but I do not want to be directly supporting abuse that happened BECAUSE he was a vocalist in a band. And I can safely do this with CDs that I bought secondhand, right? This is death of the author. So what's the issue?

I believe there is an issue when people claim “death of the author” far too quickly and scramble to reclaim the media for themselves. It’s an increasingly popular trend these days to pluck characters/concepts from an author deemed to be problematic. "I'll save [Character I like] from this shitty piece of media!", they claim. I don't think people realize how multifaceted in effect that is, though. For instance, if the author is actively making money from their creation, you can't truly "reclaim" a character from them. It's more like you're paying homage to them with fanart.

My best on-going example of this would be Floraverse. There are a multitude of reasons why people do not like the author/s of Floraverse, which I will not go into here. To put it simply, though, since its inception in 2013, many artists and writers involved with Flora either left or were kicked out. These artists either directly contributed to the art and worldbuilding of the webcomic, or were heavily influenced by it. To this day, there are many times someone links me to art on Discord and I’ll say “oh I remember that person, they used to be a Flora fanartist!” and the other person is absolutely floored that that artist was ever linked to Floraverse. Anyway… There have been multiple attempts at people trying to reclaim Floraverse from the author, and this never works out. Like, it really doesn’t work out. Any time that someone tries to reclaim Floraverse characters for themselves whilst condemning the author, that person is dogpiled by the Floraverse community. Which is a weird behavior for a CC BY-SA webcomic, but I digress. Here are some highlights:

In 2019, there was a thread dedicated to Redesigning Floraverse that immediately got taken over by Floraverse itself a month later.

An artist got harassed for multiple years (I think it was 2020-2023) for having an oc based on Beleth, a character in Floraverse.

Just 2 months ago, an artist got harassed for drawing fanart of the characters

Historically, reclaiming Floraverse characters from the author hasn't worked out. And I mean.. why would it? It's an actively running "webcomic" (I'll be charitable) and with an active community that supports the author's current works and views with their wallets. It's one thing to enjoy a piece of media with a problematic author and want to reclaim that media for yourself. It is another for this reclamation to actually be effective. Attempts of "reclaiming" Floraverse get written off as fanworks that the community dislikes. You cannot reclaim Floraverse characters as they do not exist in a vacuum. Listening to secondhand Brand New CDs does work in a vacuum; Jesse Lacey's career is dead in the water. The same cannot be said for reclaiming the art of Glitchedpuppet and co. Floraverse characters and stories are not divorced from the abuses they cause. Characters will be used as strawmen to abuse community members, past or present. Or entire works will be up dedicated to making light of your childhood trauma! These characters were made by an abuser, and will be used to abuse. That is a simple fact about Floraverse. Except... in that statement, I'm not even talking about Glitchedpuppet, the current author of Floraverse. I'm talking about Marlcabinet, the previous author of Floraverse. This statement does however, apply to both of them. Hey, wait a minute, that's weird! I've been talking about "death of the author" for this entire post, and I just said that reclaiming Floraverse characters can't work because the way the characters were used to abuse real people doesn't exist in a vacuum. So like, why does this work within the Floraverse webcomic itself? Marl is the abuser of Glip, but Marl is also the author of the majority of early Floraverse. Isn't the story itself, as it currently stands, an act of reclaiming characters used to abuse community members, minors, and any detractors? Then who is to say that those who contributed to Floraverse and were similarly abused are not also allowed this same privilege? Their real-world suffering is what fuels the comic. When I was 13-16, I adored a Floraverse character named Cayenne. His whole deal was that he was an autistic child slave and was horribly abused by everyone around him. Weird character to connect to, but he’s the character that made me figure out I had autism! I drew a LOT of fanart of this character and I even own a (gifted) life-size plush of him. The authors only ever treated him as a joke and it was a joke even within the Floraverse community that I was the only person who actually liked/cared about him. Sometimes I think about reclaiming him for myself. But I also don’t want to get harassed, and I know I could design much better things, and write better things. Conversely, I also think about how this is the exact character that made me get into contact with Marl when I was 16. It’s a heavy weight to carry knowing that this exact character was the reason I was almost in the clutches of a child predator. Glip personally deferred me to him. Reclaiming Cayenne would hold emotional value for me as a reminder of my triumph over a predator. Would it be wrong for me to reclaim an abused child character from a comic that abused me and many others as children? I've no clue. And I don't think anyone can answer that. I've waffled on it for ~2 years now. Reclaiming Cayenne would give attention to an individual that profits off abusing others, myself included. I'd say that reclaiming Floraverse characters wouldn't be a case of "death of the author", but the original creator of them was a child predator that's no longer on the internet. Floraverse is already practicing death of an author, and it is a shell of its former self. That being said, it is not a story that only has one author. Its other authors are still active, and these authors include every person that it has abused in its wake. After all, it's a comic that relies on you to know about its dramas with and traumas of real people. Tell me: Does a death of the author matter when its being written about you?

#text #brand new #floraverse #death of the author #abuse #grooming

[whatsnewalycat]

Passenger / Chapter 5

Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust

Chapter Five: Wyoming (Part Two)

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Chapter Summary: Charlie and Din test the waters.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 7.8k+

Content / Warnings: yearning, horny thoughts, anger problems, crying, food mention, handcuffs, hi yes the only one bed trope is alive and well, unlike the Titanic (it's relevant I promise), small town, lying, fictional town, sorry to Wyoming-ites if I got WY all wrong, (Bernie Sanders voice) I am once again talking about The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Notes: Howdy, howdy. We are balls deep in the yearning with this one, folks. Thank you @frannyzooey for proofreading and being the literal best, I appreciate you endlessly.

Just like Paul promised, The Jackalope Motel is conveniently located straight across the county road from Giddyup Auto. 

The single-story, L-shaped motel, whose faded roadside sign advertises low weekly rates and color TV, shares a gravel parking lot with a two-pump gas station. Its brick exterior is painted a pallid shade of yellow, all ten room doors varnished with this glossy teal finish. 

Nestled into the elbow of the building sits a white screen door with the words MOTEL OFFICE printed on the front. 

Din departs from your side to hold the door open, an action you assure yourself is rooted less in chivalry than it is him not wanting to turn his back to you. A loud creak sounds from the battered door and announces your arrival. The dog charges through the threshold, pulling his leash taut in your grip as you step inside the cramped, wood-paneled office. 

An elderly woman perks up on her barstool behind the front desk. She stubs out her lit cigarette in a nearby ashtray and calls in a husky voice, “Howdy, howdy.”

“Hi there,” you smile, glancing back at Din to determine who will take the lead in this interaction.

He does, taking three wide strides past you to the counter. As he moves through the room, a thick sea of smoke parts for him, churning and dancing in his wake.

“We need a room. Two nights for now.” 

The gray-haired woman pulls the glasses hanging on a chain around her neck onto the bridge of her nose, “Let me see here…”

At your feet, the dog sniffs his surroundings. He follows an invisible trail to a tattered plaid couch. You follow, listening to Din and the motel manager discuss lodging arrangements. 

“I got a couple two three rooms open, I can stick you in one away from the rabble rousers. Somethin’ more private,” she winks at him. 

His back straightens and he holds up a hand, “Do you have anything with two beds?”

The mischievous look on her face flattens and she raises her eyebrows, looking down at her books with a frown, “‘Fraid I don’t.” 

Din looks over at you, his face blank, eyes inscrutable behind his aviators, then turns back to the woman and gives her a nod, “Anything you have is fine, then.”

He takes out his wallet as she starts getting paperwork together. You gravitate towards a wall of faded, dusty brochures that advertise Western Wyoming’s finest tourist traps, including, but not limited to: a cowboy-themed amusement park, guided tours of mountain ranges and caves, horseback riding expeditions, and hot springs. 

“What brings y’all to town?” 

When you turn to Din, he gives you a mild, one-shouldered shrug, so you tell her, “His rig broke down about an hour from here. Paul—do you know Paul?”

She chuckles and nods, “I’ve known Paul since he was in diapers. Used to watch him for his momma while she was at work.” 

“No kidding?” you approach the tall front desk, propping your elbows up on the counter, “He’s fixing the truck. Really nice guy, referred us to this place ‘cuz we don’t know how long it’ll take.” 

“Can I get your ID, hun?” she asks Din, who complies without comment, then she glances up at you while jotting down your companion’s information, “He’ll get y’all fixed up good. We got a few things to do ‘round here if you get tireda bein’ holed up here. A few parks, some trails. There’s a fella that has a ranch just on the outskirts of town, he does horseback riding, if that squeezes your lemon. Downtown, we got some bars, coupla places to eat ‘n’ all that,” she hands the ID back to Din, sighing, “Nothin’ fancy, but better ‘n nothin’ at all.” 

“We don’t need fancy,” you grin at Din, who does not return the sentiment, then ask the motel manager, “What’s your name?” 

“Annie.”

“I love that name,” you smile, “Annie Get Your Gun.”

She smiles, too, toothy and wide, revealing her too-perfect teeth–obviously dentures–and says, “You know, I was actually named after her. Annie Oakley.” 

“That’s awesome. A fantastic namesake, she was a true badass.” 

“She sure was,” Annie nods and takes the glasses off her face, letting them drop around her neck from the glasses chain, “Well, the room comes to $59 per night, plus taxes and fees, ends up runnin’ closerta $75. Do you wanna settle the tab for two nights now, or see if you needta tack on more and take care of it at checkout?” 

You look over at Din, who answers, “We can settle at checkout.” 

“Fine with me,” she swivels on her little stool and stands to grab a key off the wall behind her, “We got an ice maker and vending machine outside the door here, don’t be too loud, and pick up after yer dog. Any questions?” 

She slides a key across the counter, whose big turquoise keychain reads 10 in metallic gold, and glances between you and Din. He grabs it, and you respond, “No ma’am.”

“Alright, well, let me know if y’all need anything.” 

“Will do, thank you, Annie,” you give her a polite wave before following Din outside, pulling the dog along behind you. 

The room smells of bleach and water damage. 

Much like the office, its walls are all wood-paneled with a dull oak finish. A framed painting of a bunny with deer antlers hangs above the queen sized bed. As you try to untangle the leash from your guitar and backpack, you nod at the painting and chuckle, “A jackalope.” 

Din grunts in response. He tosses his backpack on the bed, then turns to the dog, crouching down to unclip his leash from the collar. The dog reacts like he’s hit with a cattle-prod and goes zooming around the motel room in a lop-sided oval. 

You start giggling as he tears over the bed, to the bathroom door where he makes a U-turn and speeds past the dresser, then your feet, then Din’s, then does it again, around and around until he runs out of steam. He comes to rest on the fireproof, floral bedspread, circa 1984, and leans back on his haunches, panting and out of breath, tongue hanging out of his jowls, glancing between you and his person. 

“Feel better?” Din asks him, and he sneezes. 

You go to the window, pulling the top pane down to let crisp October air spill into the room, carrying with it the earthy scent of organic decay. When you close your eyes and inhale, you see piles of raked-up maple leaves, those big mosaics of orange and red and yellow and brown, hiding rot underneath. It reminds you of home. 

You turn to your captor, who seems to be inspecting the bathroom. He flicks the bathroom light on and peeks inside while you release an exaggerated sigh, “So, Din.”

He brings his attention to you and leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms, raising his eyebrows in question.  

“That is your name, right?”

“It is.” 

A smile spreads across your face. 

The fact that you’re able to put a name to this man, brings you a surprising amount of joy. He seems less like a force now, and more like a person. Which, you suppose, is probably why he didn’t formally introduce himself before shoving your face into a trailer door and abducting you. 

“Great, well—Din, it’s nice to actually meet you,” you cross the room and extend your hand to him. All he does for a moment is stare at it, until you tease, “Aw, come on. I don’t bite.” 

“Maybe I do.” 

Your lips part and you blink at him. When the corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk, your face transforms into a heater. This whole situation would be a lot easier if he wasn’t so handsome. 

RULE #3: Keep your wits about you. 

“Funny guy,” you snort, rolling your eyes in feigned annoyance, but continue to hold your hand out to him. 

He takes it and gives it a firm shake. His palm is warm and calloused and his grip seems to swallow yours. Even though he’s wearing those stupid sunglasses, you can tell when his eyes meet yours because a jolt shoots through the middle of you. Your throat tightens and your cheeks get even hotter. 

Before he can tell how flustered you are, you take your hand back and retreat to the bed, plopping down to scratch the dog as you ask, “What now? Do you wanna go explore this podunk town?” 

“No. We’re staying here. The less we’re seen, the better.” 

You groan and throw yourself back onto the bed. There’s a yellow-tinged water stain on the ceiling that almost looks like a face if you squint and tilt your head a little. It brings to mind this short story of a woman slowly losing her sanity while on “rest cure” to treat her depression. She’s forced to do absolutely nothing, and starts to see figures in the yellow wallpaper of her bedroom. 

Granted, your situation is much different than the one Charlotte Perkins Gilman penned, but you still feel a sense of solidarity with her protagonist’s captivity. You feel antsy. Cooped up. The thick layer of grime on your skin becomes hard to ignore, and you remember it’s been a week since you last bathed. 

“Can I at least shower?” 

When he hesitates to respond, you can’t stop yourself from sitting up and scowling at him, “Seriously?” 

“There’s a window in the bathroom.” 

You stare at him blankly, “So, what, you think I’m going to—”

“Yes.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you get to your feet and stomp past him into the very retro, very pink bathroom, yanking the shower curtain open to inspect the window. 

In all fairness, you could climb out of it if you really wanted to, but you still roll your eyes and tell him, “Probably can’t even fit through there.” 

He just stares at you, unmoved. 

Frustration simmers in your stomach. All that’s standing between you and the sweet relief of a shower is his lack of trust. There has to be a middle ground. 

“What if—” your mouth clamps shut. You shift your weight from one leg, to the other, then shrug, “Would it make you feel better if you were in here while I showered?” 

Din’s lips part, stunned for a moment before he carefully says, “Better isn’t the right word—”

“Ok, well, feel free to substitute ‘better’ with ‘more secure,’ or ‘reassured,’ or whatever. You know what I mean.” 

He studies the window for a moment, the muscles in his jaw wiggling as he considers the compromise, then looks back at you and nods, “Sure.”

“How long will this take?” 

From behind him, Din hears you wrestle clothing off your body into a pile on the floor as you say, “Five minutes, tops.” 

The faucet squeaks, then the water comes to life with a stuttering hiss. Twin metallic swooshes signal the shower curtain being pulled open, then shut, then you moan, “Fuuuuck that’s so good.” 

His imagination bucks out of his control, and for a moment the only image in his mind can conjure is his body pressed up against yours, skin on skin. How soft and warm you must be. How those words would taste on your lips. All the ways he could make you utter them again and again. 

He thinks of your stubbornness, your defiance, and wonders what it would be like to break you. Would you like it? 

I am not a good man. 

Din squeezes his eyes shut and tries to flush out the deviant thoughts, reminding himself of the handsome bounty he’ll collect when he turns you over. The peace that financial security will bring him. He won’t have to live job-to-job with a white-knuckle grip on existence. He’ll have room to breathe. Maybe he’ll even be able to live a little. 

Your honeyed voice pulls him out of his tail-spin. 

“Blackbird singing in the dead of night. Take these broken wings and learn to fly…”

Din opens his eyes and stares at the bathroom door, shaking his head in amusement, thinking, Of course you sing in the shower.

It’s sort of nice, though. He doesn’t mind it. In fact, he kind of likes it. 

Grogu, obviously feeling left out, scratches at the other side of the door, then lets out a disgruntled whine.  

You stop singing and ask, “Is that the pup?” 

“Yeah.” 

The shower curtain rings squeak, then your voice is right next to him, “Let him in.” 

Without thinking, he turns to you and scoffs, “No.” 

Water drips off the ends of your sudsy white-blonde hair onto his boot. Your features pinch into a scowl, dark eyes searching his face, “What, why not?” 

His gaze flicks to the blur of skin barely concealed behind the shower curtain, then to the pink tiled floor as heat rises to his face, “He’s just gonna jump in there and get wet.” 

“So?” 

“He’ll stink up the room.”

You snort, “You’re already doing that.“

Din goes to glare at you, but corrects himself and glares at the ceiling instead, “Sure that’s not you?” 

You let out an exaggerated gasp that quickly dissolves into laughter, “You asshole.”

He looks down at the doorknob and shakes his head, stifling a chuckle. 

“So rude,” you tease as you slide the curtain closed and step back into the steaming shower stream, “Come on, big guy, let the pup come in. He can’t possibly stink more than I did.” 

Grogu scratches at the door again, this time letting out a sharp bark instead of a whine. 

“Awww, listen to him,” you say, the pout evident in your voice, “So lonely, he just wants to be with us.” 

Din rolls his eyes and twists the doorknob to let him in. The dog barrels into the room, skittering across the shiny, bubblegum pink ceramic into the empty garbage can. It goes toppling over, and he uses it like a bumper to correct his course towards the tub. He stands on his hind legs and peaks behind the shower curtain, then woofs for your attention. 

“Hello handsome boy!” 

Grogu starts panting with excitement, his nails clacking on the floor and the porcelain tub. 

“Oh my goodness, do you want to come in here with me?” 

He barks. 

Din protests, “Don’t—”

“Ok, ready, here we go.” 

Both you and the dog groan a little when you lift him, then Din hears clattering and splashing as he lands in the tub and starts flailing around in the water. A sharp giggle pierces his eardrums, making him wince, but there’s such an abundance of joy in your laughter and the dog’s playful growls, Din catches it secondhand and ends up smiling like an idiot. 

“Look at you, happy pup! You love the water, don’t you?!” 

Grogu lets out a low bow-wow and sneezes, which you respond to with a squeal of delight. Something tender and warm blooms in Din’s chest. Just as soon as he realizes its fragility, he stomps it out, snipping over his shoulder, “Are you almost done?” 

The water shuts off with a loud clunk from the faucet and you respond, “Yep.” 

Din ends up trying to dry off the wet, rowdy dog while you dig through your backpack. 

“Do you think there’s a laundromat here?” 

He glances up at you, eyes briefly trailing along the outline of your body beneath the fluffy white towel before he clears his throat, then says, “I don’t know.” 

You sniff one of the sweatshirts from your backpack, shrug, and toss it onto the dresser. 

“We should check. Everything in here is fucking rank,” you mutter while inspecting a pair of dark pants.

The dog zooms past, drawing Din’s attention, and he manages to scoop him up into a towel, “Gotcha!” 

Whining and throwing his weight around like a fish out of water, Grogu tries to escape as Din dries him off. You turn and snort at the dog, “Good luck, I’ve been trying to do that for days,” then pad across the faded, low-rise carpet to the bathroom. 

Din glances up at the oval-shaped mirror mounted to the wall, catching a glimpse of your reflection as you drop your towel. Stunned, he fumbles the task at hand and the dog flies from his grip like a bat out of hell. 

“Shit,” he mutters, propping his hands on his hips, watching the little white dog torpedo from one end of the room to the other. 

“This probably feels like wide open spaces to him after being cooped up in the truck, huh?” you chuckle from the bathroom. 

His eyes betray him, flicking to your reflection again. At least you have pants on this time, the waistband of tight black leggings nestled into the dip of your waist. He studies the curve of your spine up to a compass tattooed between your shoulder blades. You pull a baggy maroon sweater over your head and spin around before he can look away. Shame creeps hot up his neck and makes him drop his gaze. 

If you caught him staring, it doesn’t show. You just trot past him and throw yourself onto the old, squeaky mattress, stacking one foot atop the other as you stretch out. 

Grogu breaks out of his orbit to hop up onto the bed and climb in your lap, tongue hanging from one side of his mouth. A giggle chirps up your throat, and you scratch between his ears, “Do you two have a home base, or just the truck?” 

“Just the truck,” Din answers, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall. 

“Oooh a coupla rubber tramps,” you grin, “It’s fun, right? Nomad life?”

He tilts his head at you. 

Is that why you do this? Because you think living on the road is fun?

His lack of response tugs at the arch of your brow. You look around the room, releasing a sigh through slack lips, making a pfpfpfpf sound, then ask, “Well, whaddya wanna do?” 

Din pushes off the wall and starts towards an armoire that looks heirloom or at least second-hand, swinging open its solid oak doors to reveal an old tube TV. A shelf at the top of the cabinet stores a VCR and a few tapes. 

“Finding anything fun?” 

He reads movie titles off the faded VHS sleeves, “The Wedding Singer, Titanic, Pocahontas, Men in Black.”

“Anything you like?” 

“I’m not much of a movie person,” he admits in a murmur, and casts a glance over his shoulder, “Do you have a preference?”

“Not really,” you shrug, “I’m not much of a movie person, either. You pick.” 

Din swings his gaze back to the armoire, wrinkling his nose at the options, then pulls out the double-barreled VHS of Titanic and pops in the first tape. 

After feeding the movie into the VCR, your captor goes to the little two-person dining room table in the corner of the room and grabs one of the chairs, carrying it over to the opposite side of the bed. You watch him the whole way, eyebrows raised, blinking with annoyance when he sits in the chair and kicks his feet up onto the bed. 

“You’re really gonna watch a movie like that?”

He glances over at you, crossing his arms over his chest, “Like what?” 

“With your whole,” you circle your wrist around your ear, “Incognito thing. Plus, boots? You can like… be comfortable, did you know that?” 

His mouth flattens into a line. A few awkward seconds go by before it clicks and you nod in understanding, “But you can’t be comfortable around me, can you?” 

He doesn’t answer. Not that you expect him to. 

You grab the remote control off the nightstand and turn up the volume. With previews still running on the TV, you sigh and pull a pillow out from the cheap bedspread, plumping it up and adjusting yourself into a more relaxing position. 

“I get it,” you mumble at the screen, “You think that in order for you to maintain this power dynamic, you can’t show belly.”

“Is that what I think?” 

When you look over at him, he seems to be studying you through the tint of his aviators. You ask, “Isn’t it?” 

He doesn’t answer. Probably because he doesn’t want to admit you’re right. Better than him giving you some bullshit contrarian retort, you suppose, but his silence still burrows gritty between the layers of your skin. 

“Whatever, man,” you scoff and roll your eyes, “If you wanna sit way over there in your stupid getup, that’s your decision, but it seems pretty fucking miserable for no good reason.” 

His jaw gnashes back and forth a bit before he sits up and takes off his hat, tossing it onto the nightstand, then his sunglasses. His dark eyes meet yours, “Better?” 

You look at his black leather boots. 

He sighs and drops his feet to the ground, bending over to remove the boots one at a time. When he returns to his previous position, arms crossed over his broad chest, socked feet propped up on the bed, you suppress a grin and turn back to the movie.

"I believe you may get your headlines, Mr. Ismay." 

Beneath the thick, curved glass of the TV, the first VHS runs out of tape. Out of the corner of his eye, Din sees you sit up and throw your legs off the bed. Grogu croaks out a sleepy sound from beside you, rolling onto his back. You rise to your feet, asking, “Can we get something to eat before starting the second tape?”

Din glances down at his watch. 4:30. His stomach rumbles. Given the unpredictable twist this day has taken, food has largely remained at the back of his mind until now. 

“We could walk further into town and see what we find. I bet the pup has to go potty, anyway. We could take him with us. Maybe Annie can give us a recommendation—”

He looks over at you to respond, but finds himself momentarily tongue-tied. You stretch your clasped hands skyward, pulling the hem of your sweater up to expose a generous slice of your midriff. You’re still distracted as rambling he stares, unable to stop his thoughts from returning to how soft and warm you must be. 

His hungry skin aches, deep and throbbing, down to the marrow.  An infection festering for years. Or longer. Decades, really. 

He tries to recall how long it’s been since he felt the heat of another person. It was snowing, he remembers that much. She was one of those women that made her way around truck stops selling pleasure to lonely guys like him. Lot lizards, some of the truckers called them. 

Was he in Colorado? Or was it Ohio? 

He remembers the excruciating quiet as she stripped off her snow-clotted outer layers, revealing a petite brunette with wary eyes and a businesslike attitude. Not that he holds those things against her. It’s understandable. Advisable, even, given her line of work and clientele. 

Her company didn’t do much to quell his hollow yearning for intimacy, but it was a release nonetheless. 

“—So, what do you think?”

Din snaps out of the trance and meets your eyes, all warm and hopeful. 

Goddamnit. 

“You stay right next to me the whole time.” 

“Do I get a treat if I’m good?” you smirk, one eyebrow raising in challenge. 

The question bubbles hot at the base of his spine. He tries to keep his countenance neutral when he says, “We’ll see how you do.” 

Grogu waddles over to the side of the bed closest to him and yowls for attention. Thankful for the diversion, Din reaches over and scratches the dog between his big ears, “Both of you.” 

The dog sniffs the sidewalk a few feet ahead of you and Din, tethered to his owner by a leash. He zig-zags back and forth, completely engulfed in the sights and smells of this brand new world. 

You find yourself in a similar state of awe and appreciation. Tilting your face up to the big cotton candy sky, you inhale two lungfuls of the most refreshingly crisp air you may have ever been blessed to receive. Yellow Seed was built in a valley, and it seems like everywhere you look there are mountains in the distance, dark and evergreen and ominous. A stark contrast to whatever magic is happening in the atmosphere. 

The world feels so infinite and beautiful that if you let yourself, you could cry about it. 

Too caught up in the moment to pay attention to your gait, you knock hands with Din. The impact makes your heart jump. You hear yourself stammer out an overreaction, “Oh shit—sorry, I um, didn’t mean to—”

“Might help if you stop daydreaming.” 

“What’re you, my mother?” you scoff under your breath, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. 

“What’s that?” 

You glance over at him. 

His smug smirk draws your attention briefly before you shake your head and change the subject, “Have you seen Titanic before?” 

“Can’t say I have.” 

“What made you pick it?”

He shrugs, “Long run time.” 

“Shut up, that’s not the only reason, is it?” you laugh, “It’s not because you get to see Kate Winslet’s tits or anything, right?” 

His head jerks back a little and his ears turn all red, “What? No—”

“I’m just giving you shit,” you snort. 

He exhales an airy chuckle, and a few seconds go by before he asks, “What about you? Have you watched it before?” 

His cadence is halting and rusty. Out of practice. You can tell he doesn’t make conversation often, but he’s trying and that’s… sort of sweet, actually. 

“I have, but it’s been years. I think I was a kid, maybe six or seven, when I watched it with my grandma at her house,” you smile fondly at the memory, kicking a rock along the sidewalk, “She made me cover my eyes during the nudity and sex and stuff, but I totally peeked.” 

“So you’ve always been a troublemaker.”

“I guess so, huh?” you chuckle. 

The conversation dies a natural death, and for a while, the two of you just walk alongside each other, following the sidewalk further into Yellow Seed. 

The houses you pass, like motel, auto shop, and gas station, all seem to have been built in the 1950’s with few updates since the 1990’s. Mid-century ramblers outfitted in white trim and chipped pastel paint—so much canary yellow. Neat lawns and landscaping and tattered American flags flapping in the wind. As the sidewalk brings you closer to the heart of the town, structures get older, more homes with front porches and earth-toned exteriors.

Downtown Yellow Seed barely occupies two city blocks. The businesses stand shoulder-to-shoulder, all of them constructed of brick or lumber, none of them within the last century. When you turn down the main drag, you squint and blur your vision so that the pickup trucks look like buggies, and you can picture exactly what it looked like when the roads were dirt paths carved out by wagon wheels and horse hooves. 

“Outlaw Saloon,” you nod to the sign on an upcoming building and grin at Din, “Sounds like the place for us.” 

“Speak for yourself,” he mutters, stepping up onto the sagging floorboards of the porch and starting towards the door. 

The dog follows his suggestion, suddenly very interested in this change of direction, his ears perking up into high-alert. Din plucks him off the ground, then pulls the squeaky door open for you to enter, releasing a cacophony of noise: country music and clinking glass and the low murmur of conversation. 

As you walk past him into the establishment, you tell Din, “That’s your problem, big guy, you know that? You think you’re so much better than me, but you’re not.” 

All you hear in response is a grumble, then the jarring crack of the spring-loaded door slamming shut behind him. When he saddles up to your side, you feel his hand press into the small of your back. 

It surprises you a little. Both the action itself, and the way your pulse jumps in response. 

You don’t move, but look over at him and find you’re close enough to see his eyes behind his aviators. They flick around the bar as if searching for potential danger in the two dozen locals occupying the saloon. He holds the dog firm and close to his chest and he doesn’t move his hand and you realize that he is protecting you both. Subconsciously, probably, but he’s doing it nonetheless. 

Something happens inside you. 

A brief but sudden free-fall that flips your stomach and gelatinizes the cartilage in your joints. Your throat struggles to swallow around your thudding heart. 

RULE #9: Do not get attached. 

Ignoring the warning, you bring yourself closer to him. Just an inch or so, intending to be subtle, so that maybe he won’t notice. You don’t want him to think you like or need his protection, because you don’t. 

Need it, that is. 

Liking it, however…

If you can glean anything from the steady thrum of heat between your thighs, it’s that you do like it. That is, unfortunately, too blunt a force for you to ignore. 

An unamused looking waitress approaches your little trio, grinding a wad of gum between her molars, “No dogs.”

“Oh—he’s an emotional support dog,” you tell her, softening your features into a non-threatening, winsome expression. You put your hand on Din’s arm and explain, “My friend has horrible agoraphobia. The only way I can get him to go out is if we have the dog with us.” 

Her eyebrow raises and she blinks at Din, “That true?”

He nods once, “It is.” 

She glances between the two of you for a moment, eyes flicking in time with the smack smack smack of her chewing gum, then shrugs, “Alright, come with me.” 

As you follow the waitress, he stays by your side, with his warm, wide palm held flush to your spine. 

He’s just making sure you don’t bolt. It doesn’t mean anything. 

This little voice inside your head makes you feel so foolish, your cheeks start to flush. She’s right, though. You’re making something out of nothing. 

But then his thumb moves. Only slightly, and just once, this gentle wiper blade motion—a fucking caress if you’ve ever felt it. 

Your face heats even more. 

The waitress stops at a wooden, high-back booth and pulls two menus from her apron, placing one on each side of the table. Only when you slide into the booth does his hand depart your body. He sits across from you, placing the dog down beside him. 

“Can I get y’all somethin’ to drink?” 

“Could I get a water, please?” you ask, flashing her a polite smile. 

She nods, then looks at Din. 

“I’ll have the same.” 

“Two waters, anything else?”

You glance up at Din, trying hard not to drop your gaze when you feel his eyes meet yours. He shakes his head slightly, and you tell her, “No, I think that’s good for now, thank you.” 

“Be right back.”

Once she’s out of earshot, Din asks, “Agoraphobia?” 

“Pretty slick, huh?” you grin. 

He smirks and shakes his head, looking down at the menu. The dog wriggles his way under his owner’s arm. Din allows it, absentmindedly petting him while evaluating food options. 

Letting out a sigh, you turn your attention to the menu, too. Burgers, chicken, basic sandwiches, fried food. Standard bar fare. It doesn’t take you long to decide on a grilled cheese, leaving you to study the innards of the Outlaw Saloon. 

The place is cavernous. Tin ceiling tiles two stories above the ground stretch much further back than you expected. Everything else, from the walls to the furniture to the floors, all appears to be made from the same dark, lacquered wood. 

Predictably, the décor is an homage to cowboy lore. Taxidermized livestock, paintings of horses, and antique farm equipment have been mounted on the walls. Among them hang wanted posters of infamous Wild West gunslingers, such as Wyatt Earp and Billy the Kid. Sort of camp, but in an endearing way. 

The bar bustles with activity, much busier than you thought it would be. In a small town like this, you weren’t expecting to see more than a handful of regulars out on a Wednesday evening, but there are at least 20, maybe 30, other patrons scattered about the venue. 

As you look around at the strangers, you think to yourself, “Not one of these people would look out of place at a rodeo,” which is to say that the crowd looks to be a mix of ranchers and other working class folks. At least half are strapped with a handgun, which isn’t particularly alarming, especially in a rural Western town like this, but always good to note. Occasionally, people mutter to each other while shooting dirty looks at your table. Probably because you’re out-of-towners who had the audacity to bring a dog into their beloved saloon. 

“Damn, if we were carrying, I bet we’d fit in a little better,” you comment mildly. 

“Who says I’m not?” 

You look over at him and tilt your head, “Are you?” 

“I am.” 

This interests you. You fold your legs up into a pretzel and lean your elbows onto the table, “Whaddya have?”

With his expressive eyes concealed, it’s hard to read what his silence means, but you guess trying to determine your question’s intent. 

Before either of you can say anything else, the waitress approaches your table carrying two glasses of water. As she slides one in front of you, then the other in front of Din, you ask her, “Do you guys ever have live music here?” 

“Sure,” she shrugs and plants one hand on her hip, “Nothing this weekend, though.” 

You glance over at Din, who’s shaking his head slowly, as if to say, “Don’t you fucking dare,” but ignore it and ask, “Do you want live music this weekend?” 

“I take it I do not get a treat?” 

Din clenches his jaw, glaring up at you from his crouched position as he unhooks Grogu’s leash. He hasn’t said anything to you since you coaxed your way into a gig at the Outlaw Saloon, blatantly disregarding his wishes to lay low in this town.

If he wasn’t so goddamn hungry, and if it wouldn’t have roused the attention of the already suspicious locals, he would have hauled you out of the restaurant the second you inquired with the waitress about live music. 

You must have felt the anger radiating off him in waves, because your attempts at conversation since have been few and far in between. 

For that, he’s grateful. 

The red glowering beneath his skin feels unpredictable. That familiar loathsome beast. Something he believed extinct inside him, eradicated through years of training, now awake and growling. 

He rises to a standing position and starts pacing, trying to keep calm. 

Meanwhile, you take your doodle-ridden acoustic guitar, plop down on the bed, and start strumming a tune. 

Heat wells up in his chest. 

“It’ll be fun, you’ll see. Gives us something to do,” you tell him, watching your own fingertips move skillfully along the neck of the instrument, “Plus, I could rake in a decent amount of money, which could help us—”

“Stop it.”

The music cuts immediately. 

He takes off his hat and sunglasses, tossing them onto the chest of drawers, then turns to face you, meeting your doe-eyed gaze with too much vitriol. 

“There is not an us. This is not a team. I do not want or need your help.” 

Your shoulders sag. You furrow your brow, searching his face, and your lips part to protest, but he cuts you off hard. 

“You are nothing to me but a payload. An annoying, entitled payload. Do you understand?” 

You react as if he slapped you across the face. Your head jerks back and you drop your gaze to the floor, face getting all red.

He stares at you, awaiting your counterattack, but all you do is let out a choked sob. 

The sharp tip of this noise pierces the over-inflated balloon of his anger, bursting it instantly. In its sudden absence, an ache starts in his chest. He looks back at the situation from this calmer state of mind, cleared of red haze, and feels ashamed of himself.

Grogu jumps onto the bed to sit at your side, and whines up at you. Inhaling a wobbly breath, you reach out and scratch his head, then mumble a damp, “It’s ok, pup.” 

Some time goes by with only your quiet sniffles to break the silence, then you ask, “Where am I sleeping?” 

As soon as the mention of sleep hits him, his bones turn to lead, heavy with exhaustion. How long has it been since he’s slept? It feels like days. Nothing last night, barely a few hours the night before that. 

“You have options,” he responds. At this, you let out a sad, soft chuckle that he ignores, continuing, “There’s the bathroom, your sleeping bag, or the bed.” 

“I assume I would be restrained in each of these scenarios?” 

He folds his arms over his chest and nods, “In the bathroom, I would cuff you to the toilet. The other two, I…” he grimaces, “It would be to me.” 

“Wow, ok,” you take the guitar out of your lap and prop it up on the nightstand, “A toilet or the man who thinks I’m a piece of shit.” 

“I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t have to.” 

He meets your gaze, holding it steady for a few seconds before saying, “Charlie, I…”

The apology gets all tangled in his throat. You wait a while for him to finish the thought. When he doesn’t, you move past it, your voice void of emotion. 

“Do you have a preference?”

“No.” 

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to sleep in the bed.” 

Din nods in acknowledgment. He glances down at his watch, finds it’s barely past 6, and asks, “Are you tired now?”

“Kinda, yeah.”

As if to confirm, you suck in a shaky breath and yawn, stretching your hands above your head. It spreads to him. 

“Give me a few minutes,” he tells you.

In response, you tug at the bedspread and wriggle your way between the sheets. Grogu grumbles for a moment at the adjustment, then turns in a few circles and plops down beside you with a hmph.

You’re probably exhausted, too, given the ups and downs of this week. Being taken captive. Sleeping in the same room as Din when you cannot trust him. Spending all your time with someone whose explicit intent is to turn you in for a pretty penny.

It must take an emotional toll, even if you don’t let it show most of the time. Even if you have that rule to… how did you put it? 

Live in the now. 

To your credit, you have been trying your damnedest to follow that rule. By getting to know people whose paths cross yours, bonding with Grogu, writing and drawing in your notebook, playing music, suggesting ways to squeeze as much experience as possible out of what little time you have left. 

Din likes that about you. Your relentless optimism. It’s admirable. 

He likes a lot of things about you, he realizes. Your cunning, and your curiosity, and your ferocity. Your gap-toothed smile. The skillful way you play the guitar. How you curled into him ever-so-slightly when he placed his hand on your back earlier. 

It occurs to him then that you may feel it, too. That gooey electric current when he touches you, or when his eyes meet yours for longer than a second. 

His own words echo back to him: “You are nothing to me but a payload.” 

He wants to take it back. 

It’s not even true, he just wishes it was. He wishes he looked at you and saw a bad person who’s going to get what she deserves. The truth couldn’t be more contrary. 

While your captor goes about his nighttime routine, you sulk. 

It’s all you can do, really, since he’s made it abundantly clear your presence is a nuisance. Worse than that, even. You are nothing but an asset to him. 

Ironically, it makes you feel worthless. 

You think about how pathetic your burgeoning crush on him is. Were you imagining the chemistry between you? 

Of course you were. 

You were making things up—“Living in LaLa Land,” as your mother used to say. 

Din pulls back the covers on the opposite side of the bed. The mattress shifts under his weight, and he groans as he stretches out. Every nerve ending in your body lights up when you feel the heat of him. The distance between you is exactly the width of a French Bulldog. 

“Hey, kid,” he murmurs. 

His voice is low and syrupy. Warm. 

Your throat works in a slow bob before you roll on your back to look at him. Your eyes meet his, and your stomach flips. When whoever said that thing about the eyes being the window to the soul, they must have been talking about him. You can see it all right there, written in bold print: I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. 

Or maybe that’s just what you want to see. Fuck, but why? Why do you even care? 

You should fucking know better.

This is only temporary. Din. His dog. The truck. This room. Tonight. Life, really, if you wanted to get existential about it. 

“Do you want to watch the rest of that movie?” 

You frown as you consider this for a moment, then nod. 

He gets out of bed and walks over to the big armoire. As he pops in the second Titanic VHS tape, you study the broad span of his shoulders and biceps stretching his t-shirt taut. 

God, he looks solid and strong and just so fucking good.  

This guy robbed you of your dignity and all you can think about right now is what his lips would feel like on yours. If he would be a greedy lover, or a generous one, or both. Would he be intuitive or clumsy with your body? Would he be rough? 

He would be with me.

Heat blossoms on your cheeks and deep in your center. You don’t know how you know, but you do. He just seems… pressurized. Combustible. Especially towards you. 

On his way back to bed, while the tape rewinds, Din rummages through his backpack and piles some of its contents into one arm. He sits down at the edge of the mattress and hands you a bottle of water, then holds out two candy bars and says, “Pick one.” 

“Is this an apology?” 

“No, it’s chocolate.” 

You blink at him and cross your arms. 

His features soften. He shakes his head, “What I said was not kind. You didn’t deserve that.”

“No, I didn’t,” you agree, keeping your gaze stern, “You can’t talk to me like that.”

“I understand. I’m sorry.” 

You search his face. There’s such earnestness there, you believe him. 

A mechanical click sounds from the VCR, then the TV lights up as Titanic starts where it left off. 

Your gaze drops to the candy bars, and you pluck one from his hand. The one that advertises a peanut-buttery crunch. Peeling off its yellow wrapper, you smirk, “Apology accepted.” 

Din climbs all the way into bed, stuffing the flat hotel pillows behind his back, then opens the shiny silver wrapper of his candy bar. For a while, it’s quiet except for the warbled audio from the TV and the crunch of your chewing. 

You get that feeling again like sunshine on your skin or God or whatever, and you laugh out loud. 

“What?” Din asks.

“It’s probably really weird that I’m happy right now, right?” 

“Are you?” 

You peek over at him and chuckle, “Yeah, I mean… I’m eating my favorite candy and watching a good movie. Laying in a bed with a cute dog and…yeah,” you shrug, turning back to the TV, “I don’t know. I like it.”

He hums in acknowledgment, then asks, “Do you have your knife?” 

“Why, you gonna take it from me so I don’t kill you in your sleep?” You let the question hang in the air for one whole second before continuing, “I’ll be real up close and personal, wouldn’t even have to sneak, just,” you drag your thumb across your throat, “Blech, dead.” 

“I’m not taking it from you,” he tells you, pulling out his handcuffs, “But if you want to get it or use the bathroom, now’s your chance.” 

You take the opportunity to relieve your bladder and change into your comfiest (and least offensive smelling) clothes. 

Before tucking your pocket knife into your sleeve, you stare at it for a minute and consider actually using it to get the fuck out of here. Something you’ve considered dozens of times, if you’re being honest, but this time the idea weighs a million pounds. 

When you open the bathroom door and step into the motel room, Din looks up at you from the bed. His gaze wanders briefly down your body as you climb into bed, then correct its course back to your eyes, “All set?”

You nod and hold your right arm out to him. 

His touch is gentle when he closes the cuff around your wrist. Clicks sound from the apparatus until it’s clear your hand won’t be capable of wiggling free. 

He secures the other cuff around his left wrist, settles his arm next to yours, and asks, “How is that?”

“It’s fine,” you nod, your voice too high, then swallow hard and chuckle, “Well, I guess as fine as being handcuffed in a bed can be. Probably not the best it could be, but not the worst, um, either.”  

You wince at yourself and look at the TV, where Rose is wading through thigh-high water, carrying an ax. Thankfully, he doesn’t respond, but turns off the light on his nightstand. You do the same with yours. Aside from the TV, only a faint glow comes in through the window. Daylight’s last gasping breath. 

You close your eyes and fondle the cool metal of your pocket knife in your left hand. 

RULE #8: Take care of yourself.

Din shifts a little, and the back of his hand butts up against yours. Neither of you go to move. Warmth branches out from the spot, expanding and taking root deep in your belly. 

RULE #2: Listen to your gut. 

With this, you tuck the pocket knife under your pillow and roll onto your side facing him. You think about how nice it would be to rest your head on him, but resist the urge. The edges of consciousness start to fold in on themselves, and you murmur, “Sweet dreams, big guy.”

“Goodnight.” 

#din djarin #din djarin x you #din djarin x ofc #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #passenger

[aemondsbeloved]

From The Tides [Part 6]

summary: a feast, a tourney, and Aemond's accusations about Daemon throw your wits off kilter. attendance at the tourney is unavoidable, as is the inevitability of running into Aemond again (8k).

pairings: aemond targaryen x reader, (platonic) lucerys velaryon x reader

warnings: violence (brief), show canon aegon, familial death (mentioned), less angsty than previous chapters imo though

notes: it's been a while. hoping to update this more often in the future. I recommend reading this on ao3! the formatting is better there

He wanted us all dead, did you know that?

Aemond’s words plagued you that eve of the feast. All throughout your company with Lord Cregan Stark whomade you feel like the person you were before you met Luke was difficult to enjoy. You might have enjoyed his company more, maybe even craved it for how lighthearted you felt as he told stories of Prince Jacaerys during his time at Winterfell. But Aemond’s poisonous words ruined everything.

You had never seen the snow in the Stormlands where you hailed. Cregan insisted that you should visit Winterfell to see it one day. Smiling at his words, you were mimicking true joy all because of Aemond Targaryen’s words. The Queen’s Consort was a rogue, you knew that. But it was difficult to believe he would want little children dead. And Aemond seemed assured of it. You could not trust him but you could not believe he would lie about such a thing. 

“I told him it was impossible to hit the stag from as far away as we were, but he didn’t listen!” Cregan laughed. Jace was leaning over your shoulder and you heard his chuckle at Cregan’s words, already knowing where this story was leading. “But that’s a Targaryen for you. I suppose Dragonriders always have to learn the hard way!” Cregan slams his cup down and the dark wine splashes onto the table. 

The scene is reminiscent of your uncle’s tales of taverns during his travels and the raucous men can cause, which makes you join in the laughter. You could almost imagine how rowdy Winterfell was compared to the Red Keep with his presence. 

“I did get the stag eventually,” Jace says pointedly after taking a sip of his wine. 

Cregan coughs a laugh and sensing another bout of japes was coming, you grinned at the Lord of Winterfell. “Did he now?'' Your words sound sweet and teasing. Cregan seems to enjoy this just as much as he stifles another laugh. 

“Eventually,” he said with emphasis. The three of you laugh loudly after the fact. How long eventually had been you never did find out.

Jace returns to the imposing high table where the Queen and her family sit in front of the Iron Throne. The look his mother seems to give him is stern and with a clap on Cregan’s shoulder he departs quickly to take his place next to Luke and Daemon.

“The lot of them are imposing,” Cregan remarks, flitting a glance at you after gazing at the many Targaryens sitting above you all.

“They are not all so bad,” you say smiling at him before looking back at The Queen’s family. You did not only think of Jace and Luke along with their cousins, but also of Helaena.

“Lady Alicent does not wear green now?” he asks gruffly, curiously looking at Lady Alicent. There is a glint of judgment in his gray eyes, not one to forgive so easily. If he is truly Jace’s closest friend, then Jace might have told Cregan what Luke had told you. The knowledge of Alicent Hightower and her sons labeling Jace and Luke as bastards was too vile a cruelty to ignore, but you pitied her in a strange way. Cregan did not seem to share your sentiment. 

He was right about her dresses, though. Her dresses had grown lighter shades of green in recent past weeks but now it was a shade of blue. “In certain lights I am certain that blue might look green,” you quip. The thought of saying horrible things about the former Queen did not tempt you, surprisingly. 

There is a long, comfortable silence that seems to stretch between you both. “Jacaerys has told me you hail from the Stormlands.”

He does not mention that you were born a commoner, the daughter of a fisherman. How unlike a certain silver haired prince he is. “I do. A very different land than this.” There is a faint smile on your lips as you recall your village. 

“You must miss it,” he comments, taking another sip from his cup. This time he does not slam it down. He is every part the kindly lord that many ladies form noble houses adore, if not rather gruff. 

His kindness is not unusual to you, having long since become used to such kindness from the dark haired Velaryons. To receive it from another noble blooded man who had no reason to be courteous to you was another thing altogether, though. 

“I can never be parted from Winterfell for too long,” he grinned and a look crossed his eyes as he remembered something unknown to you. Maybe the snowfall of the North. 

“We all long for home,” you concede. “Yet I do not know if I could ever tear myself away from the Red Keep now.”

He tips his head in a nod, understanding your reasoning in a way.

Then, Rhaenyra rises from her chair and her crown glimmers on her head in the candlelight. Your eyes are drawn to her as are the rest of the people around you. Whatever conversation you had with Cregan fades away.

“Today we celebrate the beginning of my reign. House Targaryen is stronger than ever. The tourney on the morrow and feast will show the realm how united we are,” Rhaenyra looks down the table and smiles. Even in her action full of warmth, there is an air of a ruler and strength within her. 

You want to absorb every moment of her speech and catch a glimpse of Luke’s family healing except you cannot. All you can see is Aemond’s lilac eye and the way even now, he is looking at you from his place at the high table. It unsettles you, pushing your mimicked figure of a composed lady off kilter, and seeing the satisfied look on Daemon’s face looking upon Rhaenyra is no better. He is looking at his wife, seeming as pleased as he could be. 

Was it true? Would he have killed Helaena’s children? Impossible. No one kills another family member.

The voices in your mind battle as you barely hold a grimace off your face. The other voice tells you that this is not your village and greed makes monsters of men. The Targaryens are hardly a united family at all. With the way the usurper looks at Aemond, grins maliciously before glancing at you, there is certainty that there are both men and monsters in this family.

Rhaenyra’s speech is over before you can grapple with your own thoughts. After a moment, you clap hastily. The smile you wear on your smile is fake, but your worries are old. Cregan does not notice the falsity of your pleasure. It’s better that way.

The Lord of Winterfell disappears back into the crowd of dancers and you retreat, finding comfort in the edge of the room. You could not dance for long. You were no learned dancer like the ladies in court. The thought of peril on this night had slipped your mind as you stood by a wall past the many tables.

“You dance well for a commoner,” an irritating voice murmurs near your ear. You didn’t need to look at him to recognize Aegon by voice alone, or rather the smell of wine. 

He stands behind you, leering over your figure and you tilt your head away from him, trying not to grimace. “Did you not hear me, hm?” he asks again, not bothering to conceal his laughter. 

You search the room, hoping to see someone. You would take Daemon’s intervention that would undoubtedly lead to violence over being near Aegon. But no one can be found. There was no one keeping you near him, though. You could leave.

Aegon tuts, grabbing your wrist harshly and tugs you back when you start to leave. Only now you are much closer to him than you were before. For a drunken man he has surprising strength, but you do not say this aloud.

“My little brother would be so envious if he were here now,” he mused, faking a sense of intelligence as he mocked your stiff body with lecherous interest. “You never do stop talking according to dear Aemond. Asked him if he was deaf, I heard.”

Aegon shakes his head slowly, drinking in your uncomfortable body with leering eyes. “And you told me you wanted to gut me like a fish. How vile you are and yet my wife does seem to adore you. Aemond never fails to mention how irksome your presence is, but I am sure there are some good parts to you, at least.”

Once your father said that the best of sailors can sense when a storm awaits them. They either flee it or fight the waves themselves. The sailor could drown either way. Best to fight, he always told you, but flee all the same. 

You roughly bring up your knee to his groin, kneeing him hard. He keels over from the force of him with a large groan of pain before mumbled curses at your person. Before he can say anything coherent you pinch his chin with your index finger and thumb, pulling his face to look at you. 

“Threaten me again, usurper, and I will go to the King Consort and he will make you wish I had gutted you like a fish. Your screams would be most pleasing to my ears.”

Releasing his chin, you look up, panting a heavy breath. Behind Aegon now stands Aemond and though he looks at you with a scrutinizing gaze, he does not reprimand you nor does his hand ghost over his dagger. Aegon sneers at you but his brother makes no move to help him steady himself.

You huff a heaving breath of air and turn on your heel. As luck would have it no one saw the altercation between you and Aegon. Any that looked now would see the prince who is always drunk in his cups too deeply. Only Aemond knew the truth.

Your chest tightened at the thought of Aemond having something over you and being the lone person knowing what had happened. Quickly, you turned away from them both and stalked over to the other side of the hall, anywhere that was far from the Targaryen princes. 

You didn’t even notice you had left the hall all together until you were in a quiet corridor far from the noise of the feast. It is there that you brush your thumb over the wrist Aegon had grabbed roughly. Bruises are not new to you but you hoped this one was different than the rest and come the morning there would be no evidence of his cruel behavior. The questions would bother you and there was enough to worry about as it is.

_______________

The bruise had blossomed around your wrist in the morning to your annoyance. Years of knocking into the wooden boat your father would fish on and being careless had led to a lifetime of bruises. You weren’t clumsy now and a bruise around your wrist would only cause questions. Questions that you did not want to answer.

You only allow yourself a moment to close your eyes and deeply breath in and out, because there is much to do today. Hastily you dress knowing that the Queen needs you, not to mention that you must see Luke. 

“Who has harmed you, my lady?” Ser Erryk asks when he sees you, briskly walking after you as you hardly gave him a moment before stalking across the castle to the Queen. “Your wrist—”

“A bruise is a bruise,” you whisper harshly, hating that your sleeves could not cover your wrist. “And do not speak of this to anyone.”

Ser Erryk is silent, but is perturbed enough to sigh temperamentally. “Prince Aemond—” he begins to accuse and all you can do is roll your eyes harshly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you bite back. “If Prince Aemond wished to harm me he would not have done so at a feast. He is not so careless or foolish.”

You are hardly aware when you felt the need to defend him nor do you recall even calling him Prince Aemond instead of Kinslayer.

“Who?” Ser Erryk insists as you both move up the stairs to the Queen’s rooms. 

This will not be avoided, it seemed. “Who else but Prince Aegon?” you ask him lowly, making sure no one heard. Hearing him make a noise of anger in his throat, you turn around to face him at the top of the stairs. “Do not waste your breath on the usurper, Ser. He learned his lesson. I think that he should still feel his bruise in his groin.” You smirk at the reminder, feeling self satisfied, before turning around to reach the Queen’s rooms. Ser Erryk says nothing in return but you are certain he is smiling. 

Rhaenyra breathes your name in relief when she takes note of your presence. With a wave of her hand the two maidens that were tending to her and readying her in your absence back away. She is nearly ready, half of her hair braided in twists while the rest falls past her shoulders and draped in black and deep red silks, her dress is a vision. 

“I left you too long this morning, I am sorry, your grace,” you frowned as you regarded her. “It seems the feast tired me and I was late.”

She waves you off too before taking a seat in front of her vanity. “Nonsense,” she refuted your apology. “I woke early. Could not sleep well knowing my sons will be competing in their first tourney. These events get bloody so frequently and I worry for Lucerys.”

You smile softly in silent understanding before reaching for her jewels. Over the months you have discovered just what Queen Rhaenyra prefers. While there are more important jobs, knowing what she likes and preparing her for her days is a task you are well equipped with now. Gently, you put one dangled ruby earring in after the other. Only after the other maidens leave do you speak again. “There was enough violence in a war. Blood is not what today is about, but peace. Luke will be well, my Queen. Aemond would not be so foolish to harm him.”

In the mirror, Rhaenyra stares at you for a moment. There is an inner battle in her mind, one that you do not know. She thinks to mention something, perhaps trivial, but disregards it all together as she smiles at you with rare warmth. She is stressed these days, all but being pulled at the seams. “I believe you are right, but a mother still worries,” she dismisses.

Draped in jewels and lush fabrics, Rhaenyra departs for the tourney. In the Wheelhouse, she is with you, Princess Rhaenys and Lady Rhaena. With every bump in the cobblestone streets that takes you to the grand event, you can only think of how much you loathe wheelhouses. “Where is Baela?” Rhaenyra has the self awareness to ask Rhaenys.

The older women only smirks, bemused. “She insisted on flying to the tourney.” At this Rhaena shuts her eyes briefly as she mutters gods be good, but her grandmother pats her hand in her lap. “Not to worry, of course. She just has a flair for the dramatic like her father.”

Rhaenys never mentions Daemon directly and you are sure the smile on her lips is not for affection for him. But Baela was so like Daemon and her insistence to do things the least simple way had not only Rhaenyra, but Rhaena smiling as well. On cue, a roar of a dragon and the hue of Moondancer was flying over the wheelhouse, much higher above you all.

The wheelhouse comes to a creaking stop and you are sure you might have jumped out of it, if decorum was not an issue. Rhaenyra exits and the shouting and noise from the smallfolk is overwhelming. They do not sound angry but excited, yet you feel like you might just pass out. Rhaenys then Rhaena exit and at last you leave the wheelhouse. 

The heat is still unbearable, despite your hair being braided in twists resting in a low bun. While you do not dress as traditional handmaidens had been, you do not look like a servant at first glance, being a companion to Rhaenyra and a handmaiden second. Still, you cannot look as grand and breathtaking as the royal family and for that you are grateful. At least the eyes of the masses do not linger on you.

You are sure that the stairs never end as you follow them up to the stand where the royals sit. Rhaenyra sits herself on a chair larger and more plush than the rest. To her right, her hand Lord Corlys, who stands and bows to her before taking his lady wife’s hand, assisting her to sit on his other side. Rhaena does not hesitate before walking down to the row below the Queen, taking her seat below Rhaenys where Baela already is sitting.

“Rhaenyra,” you hear Alicent say. Dressed in a blue much like the other night, Lady Alicent looks younger to you than the first time you saw her in the throne room. She curtsies as she stands by her seat on the opposite side of Queen Rhaenya at the very end. The empty seat besides her belongs to Daemon, though he will be competing in the tourney the consort’s seat remains in place. 

The apologetic look in Alicent’s eyes catch Rhaenyra’s attention as she looks at the lady. Her eyes glance at the empty seat below. “Where is Aegon?” she asks, but seems to already know. Only Helaena sits down there, one seat to the left from the end. 

At that, the princess turns around and when she sees you standing, she smiles and utters your name with fondness. “Sit with me,” Helaena insists, patting the empty seat at the end. “Come, Aemond will not be needing his seat. It would be a shame if you should not have such a magnificent view for your first tourney.”

You cannot resist her and Alicent offers you an albeit tight smile as you pass her.

“Have you brought it?” Helaena asks in hushed tones. You do not roll your eyes, but it is only because she is such a kind soul. She leans in, brilliant violet eyes wide as she regards you curiously. 

“I did,” you admit in a whisper, pulling out the favor Helaena had insisted you make a few nights ago. Besides trying to knock competitors off their horses, knights, lords, and even princes that compete in tourneys ask favor from ladies and princesses. Helaena had insisted you should make one. 

“Let me see it!” she nearly begged but she need not have as you laid it on your lap. It was made with yellow flowers and green leaves as it reminded you of the wildflowers at home. She gasps, reaching to delicately hold it in her nimble fingers. “This is most lovely, I should say,” she smiles in her rather dreamy way before setting it back in your hands. “Whoever asks for your favor will be most lucky indeed.”

You don’t have the heart to tell her that you doubt anyone will ask the Queen’s lowborn handmaiden for favor. The double meaning in her last words goes over your back like water. You ignore the way she smiles like she knows someone will ask for your favor. 

You know four men who are competing in the tourney: Lucerys, Jacaerys, Daemon and Cregan. Luke and Jace will ask for their betrothed’s favor, Daemon will ask his wife if not one of his daughter’s and you are sure Cregan will ask for someone’s favor, though it should not be you. Nonetheless, you cannot ignore Helaena’s kind words. 

 “Thank you, Helaena,” you say instead of anything else, but you cannot help but overhear Alicent behind you.

“He went to Flea Bottom again,” Alicent whispers, still speaking to Rhaenyra. “He has not left bed for hours. I worry for him. It has only gotten worse. This is a fine day and we should be glad he is not here, but I worry what he might be inclined to do when he leaves his chambers.”

You worry too and are glad you don’t let the grimace on your face show. The only distraction is when the tourney begins. Daemon has a flair for the dramatics as Rhaenys said when he lines up all the knights participating in the tourney. Besides his stepsons and nephew, there is no one he could not choose from the ranks. He takes his time as he looks at each of them, moving down the line on his black horse. You think he might be making a show of himself, enjoying the attention, but you would never voice that.

“Quite the peacock,” Princess Rhaenys comments, loud enough for everyone in the royal stands to hear. Baela laughs louder than the rest who are content to hide their chuckles. “Consistency was always Daemon’s strong suit.”

You make no noise of amusement at her quip, though an amused smirk lifts the corner of your lips. When he chooses Cregan Stark, your eyes widen. Perhaps it is because you had begun to know him last night that leads to a wave of nerves in your stomach. But the Lord of Winterfell only smiles, looking content with going against the Daemon Targaryen.

Dressed in the dark gray of his house colors with glinting silver armor, Cregan Stark moves on his dark brown horse to the other side of the arena. Even from a distance he appears self assured, almost nonchalant about facing a battle worn Prince.

When the horses kick off dirt and charge towards the opposite opponents, you consider that this is the excitement tourneys are about. The moment Daemon attempts to strike Cregan only to miss narrowly has you on the edge of your seat, but when they go for another bout a gasp passes your lips as Cregan nearly falls off his horse. Sliding alongside the railing while he horse runs he might have fallen if not for his determination as he sat upon his horse again. 

The entire stand is full of excited whispers at this and Daemon is quick to ready his joust, charging towards Cregan Stark for the second time. Things are fiercer this time around and it is clear Daemon did not think the Wolf of the North would be such an equal contender. The movement of Daemon’s joust is swift, deceptive as he pretended to move it to the side only to strike under Cregan’s horse. As Cregan falls there is little blood, you note there was no animosity between the two. Daemon goes to the Lord of Winterfell and brings him to his feet. What words are said behind their lips you could not tell, but the resentment that Daemon had when looking at Alicent Hightower and her sons is nonexistent. 

Helaena claps her delicate hands besides you, though the noise from her movement is quite loud despite the nimble touch. Turning your head, you catch a glance at her and you feel lighter at the sight of her toothy smile and enjoyment of the events below you both. Baela is standing a few seats down, clapping loudly in the most undignified way she could, though the smile on her and Rhaena’s faces are identical. 

When Jace appeared and Cregan climbed atop his horse again you could not be surprised. Jace’s dark horse moves to the stands and the bright smile that always errs on boyishness, a contrast to Luke’s trepid smile that always appeared like he was figuring out if he was able to smile, is directed to his cousin. Already standing, Baela walks over to him and leans against the railing. Jace does not mind as he regards her. 

“If I had your favor my lady I know there is nothing I could not accomplish,” he says. Baela smiles coyly, enjoying the attention and not hiding it as you hear Princess Rhaenys make a humph under her breath. Baela’s favor, bright blue and white flowers falls down his joust. “I wish you luck Jace,” she says with a pleased expression. Jace’s smile does not falter as he moves to the center of the arena.

You turn to Helaena about to say something about how lovely Baela’s favor was to distract yourself from the onslaught of competition to follow when you heard your name from a deeper voice strung with the address of Lady ever in front of it.

Cregan Stark sits atop his dark brown horse, tall and stately, although like many men in the Keep, he does not look arrogant or proud. He has an easy way about him, not smiling but not as stern when he looked your way. “I would be honored to have your favor, my lady. It would serve as the final stroke for my triumph in this tourney.”

Feeling several eyes on you at once, you rise from your seat beside Helaena and walk forward with the favor of white and yellow flowers in your hands. Not as naturally nimble as Helaena or Rhaena, you are making a herculean effort to not hold it too tightly. This gesture is a kind one from him, you think, and try to display some semblance of gratitude when you smile softly at him. “I wish you luck, Lord Stark,” you slide the wreath down his joust.

“I thank you, Lady,” he smiles and looks boyish as Jace had done but a moment ago. Striding off on his horse to face the competition, you turn and move to your seat. 

Rhaenyra and Alicent wear expressions of surprise with Alicent’s raised brows and Rhaenyra’s parted lips while Baela and Rhaena only smile at you knowingly. What they think they know is unknown, but when you catch Helaena’s fallen expression, you sit by her side again with haste, worrying over her.

Her toothy grin has fallen and by the twitch of her eyes, you can only assume she is perplexed over something. “Is something wrong, Princess?” you ask quietly to be sure no one else would hear you.

You hardly pay mind to Jace and Cregan kicking their horses and charging at one another. Nor do you notice when Jace hits Cregan with surprising force before they go for another bout. You can only look at Helaena as she recovers.

“Nothing!” she says hastily, pulling her lips into a pleasing smile. “I did tell you to bring favor and it is a good thing that I did.” Helaena laughs lightly in a way most of the ladies of the court do, but it only worries you further. This is not the light laughter she lets out in the gardens but something false.

“I would have thought he would ask for your favor,” you wonder aloud. “You are a princess, he is a traveling lord. It makes sense.”

“I am married and it would be improper,” she says with no real determination, shrugging at the thought. “Besides, Aemond will ask for my favor when he jousts against Lucerys.” Her clipped tone betrays any show of happiness at this, but for the first time you do not have the will to ask her if she was being honest.

Cregan Stark might have been bested by Daemon, but after a few rounds he has knocked Jace off his horse. The men both laugh like this meant nothing, and perhaps to them it was inconsequential, but then they left the field and two others entered.

Surely your heart had lodged itself in its chest as you saw Lucerys on his horse that was white as snow. He might have begun growing in the many moon cycles since you met him but when his uncle sat on his black steed it was no use. This was a horrible idea. Aemond’s heart was as black as his riding leathers he frequently wore and whatever peace Rhaenyra and Alicent had achieved was nothing to Aemond.

This was a ruse to him, an excuse to finish the job he had failed to do at Storm’s End. He was vile, truly, and how you had felt the need to defend him when Ser Erryk assumed he was the culprit behind your bruised wrist as if he had not sent Lucerys to the waves of Shipwreckers Bay? You felt the fool in the present, feeling sick to watch Aemond take his vengeance on Lucerys and show you who he was, and unable to look away from the scene.

Helaena’s fingers squeezed the top of your hand. A breath was released from your chest and with a heaving chest and wide eyes, you glanced at her.

“Are you well?” she queried, eyes scanning your face with worry. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” you ask harshly, more so than you meant to be, but Helaena smiled softly.

“You are gripping the chair so tightly I might think you mean to break it.”

Her eyes moved to the wooden arm of the chair and you followed her sight, mouth falling open when you saw the leethal grip you had on it. “Oh.”

“Oh,” she repeated, more amused than anything.

“Sister, I wondered if I might have your favor,” a voice usually chilled down to the bones spoke with something that might be warmth if it were not for who said it. 

Helaena looked away from you to Aemond. As you followed her line of sight you took in the prince who wore armor without a scratch, all with the regalia of House Targaryen and their dragons.

This was all for show, a mere falsity all to prove that House Targaryen was united.

Helaena rises from her chair looking angelic as she moves towards her brother. From the side you can see how she smiles and it is similar to the way she looks when you are with her in the garden surrounded by bugs and flowers. She does not look like a princess, a former queen even, but a sister.

“I wish you luck, valonqar.”

The favor falls down his joust and you wonder what the word means, though it must mean brother. Helaena flounces back to where you sit as Aemond moves to the center of the arena on his horse. She says nothing, smiling at you warmly before setting her eyes upon Lucerys on his white horse.

Something has changed in the past few moon cycles and he is no longer quite the same as the boy you met one fated dawn. As Rhaena rises to go to him, you follow. His cousin is all warmth that a betrothed must be, but you only lean over the partition still every bit a fisherman’s daughter that is pretending to be a lady. 

“Good luck,” you murmur, eyes flickering over to where Aemond is atop his horse waiting. For what you are unsure, vengeance or a show of false amiability. “Knock Prince Aemond off his horse, I would enjoy that.” The words are teasing with the intention to make him laugh.

He huffs, shaking his head. For a moment he looks like the boy he was, not the man he was growing into. Briefly, you wondered if you had changed that much too and you suppose you had. “You overestimate my abilities,” he raises his brows. “But my uncle off his horse and on the ground would be amusing enough.”

By the grin he wears you know the mere thought made the worries leave his mind, if only for a short time. Without saying anything else, you turn from him, returning to Helaena once again. 

Lucerys asks Rhaena for her favor and the wreath and flowers slide down his joust. As young as it is you can see the love there in her lilac eyes to his brown ones. “Can you see it too?” you ask Helaena in a whisper.

Her eyes follow yours to where they both stand. Rhaena returns to her seat and Lucerys meets Aemond, but she seems to understand all the same. “They will be a fine Lord and Lady of Driftmark one day,” she agrees. “It is easy to see.”

You can almost forget the fears you had of what Aemond might do and how he would strike, but when the princes move, white and black horses charged forward. For a moment you can see the end— Aemond’s vindictive strike, Lucerys fall and the heir to Driftmark’s failure to rise after Aemond’s stroke, Daemon’s vengeance taking over Aemond’s. You can taste the bloodlust on your tongue before Aemond even strikes.

A white horse passes a black horse and Aemond’s joust comes down on Lucerys, but your weary eyes catch the direction of it. The wooden joust hit the white horse, but not hard enough to spook the animal or send Lucerys crashing down. It made little sense to you and the relief you feel as you grip the arms of the wooden chair is short lived.

Violence you could take. You might have welcomed it from Aemond if he matched the version of himself you had imagined the days after Lucerys told you everything so long ago. If Aemond gave you blood there could be comfort in that but this ruse of pretending to strike Lucerys only to strike his horse in a way that was clear the prince would never fall— well that you could not take.

His mercy was ill fitting. On Lucerys off all people you were certain was the last one he would bestow it on. 

The horses go around again and this time as they charge, neither hits the other atop their horses. Lucerys tries, at least that is what your eyes believe they see, but he only hits Aemond’s black stead shortly, before each prince rides the other way.

“I do not understand,” you murmurs, worrying your lip so much that it might be bitten bloody if this goes on much longer.

But Helaena is still beside you and turns, disinterested in the joust. Her eyes, large and alight with some unknown emotion you could never identify, but one that seemed to know more than others could, fell on your anxious frame. 

“All will be well,” she affirms, but your eyes cannot fall on her relaxed figure, not when Aemond is there, able to harm Lucerys at a moment’s notice. “No one will be harmed.”

Saying nothing, you want to laugh at that. There is no humor in the thought of it but Aemond could kill Lucerys if he liked. He did not need protecting but in your mind, Lucerys still did.

“Your brother rather enjoys hurting Luke,” you bite out. If you could have stopped the thought from leaving your lips you would have, hating to cause Helaena harm. But like Prince Aemond you could not seem to help yourself from insults and impulsive actions. “I doubt you can stop him if you’ve forgotten what he is capable of.” Now, your words come out softer, more regretful.

Helaena does not react at first. There is no sharp intake of breath or the opening of her mouth for some refusal of your words. He is her brother, after all, and a part of you imagines her defending him.

“No, I have not forgotten,” she says at last, head still facing yours, and the words are as soft as the glades of grass brushing against the back of your hand. Unlike yourself, she does not have to practice her gentleness and hope it is believable. 

“It is not possible to forget.” She is solemn, eyes drifting downward to the tourney field. 

As she says the words, Aemond and Lucerys have come to meet one another on the jousting field for the third time. Both of their jousts are facing the other and in a blink of an eye, both young men hit the other. In a mere moment, Lucerys is thrown off his horse, unmoving as you see the blood trickling down his face.

From the side of your eye, you see Rhaena jump up from her seat and it is only Baela’s hand holding hers that steadies her. 

Helaena’s breath then leaves her when Aemond’s back hits the railing before falling down. Unlike Lucerys he rises, though he visibly winces. Helaena is not the only one who is affected. She turns, consoling her mother who shakes her head, murmuring affirmations that Aemond will be fine.

You can barely hear anything over the dull noise in your ears. The blood rush to your head and your rapid heartbeat sends your worries for the past days into overdrive. Aemond and Lucerys are gone from the field, having been carried to tents to be healed from their injuries. The thought sends you over the edge, making you turn around to the Queen.

“Your Grace, might I see Lucerys? To check on his injuries?” Rising from your seat, you barely notice her solemn nod, approval written on her features because you scurry away down the wooden staircase down to the ground.

Several deep red and black tents have been drawn up, all so grandiose that you would usually have an ironic thought of the riches of the Red Keep all down to their tents, but your mind is hazy with fear. 

When you catch sight of a young man, even younger than Lucerys, with auburn hair and skittish eyes, you round on him. “Where is the Prince?” you ask with urgency, each word flying out of your mouth.

The auburn haired man blinks, confused as he regards you. “I—” he begins, red creeping up his neck and freckles cheeks before he stammers some more.

You shake your head at him, annoyed at the situation at hand. “The Prince Lucerys!” you raise your brows in frustration. “Where?” you attempt to be gentler, kinder, but even then you feel crazed.

He gestures behind himself to a large tent that looks the same as the other. Without thinking, you dash right into the one closest.

“It is only me!” you announce before evening entering the tent. Pushing past the thick material of the tent, you cannot see with clarity where he is in the darker tent. “Are you well? I feared the worst after he hit you off your horse.”

“I think you will find it was the other way around,” a familiar voice says indifferently from the other side of the room.

With the limited sunlight that pours into the room, you blink once, twice, thrice before it dawns on you.

“What are you doing here?” you spit the words, halting your steps as soon as you realized whose tent you were in.

Sitting on a table was Aemond. His arms were holding his upper body up and his silver hair, now moused and in waves from the heat and exertion, fell around his shoulders. His bare shoulders. Dried blood spotted his side from a few cuts that had yet to be clean. 

“I rather think I should be asking you that,” he replied in the same uncaring tone that somehow made him sound vexed by your very appearance. Almost like the air you were breathing belonged to him and he could barely tolerate the slight of it. “This is my tent, although I suspect I know whose you thought it was.”

You met his words with a glower, your body growing rigid.

His words cut through to an unamused breath of what must be laughter to a man as sinister as he. “The boy is fine,” he said without care nor respect for Lucerys. “A scratch will not kill him.”

“You hit him off his horse,” you spat, your neck leaning forward at the force of the words you threw at his face. 

He shifted his position, leaning the palms of his hands on his thighs covered in the same dark black trousers that must have been under his armor. The linens, though now filthy, hid nothing of his muscles.

For a moment too long you looked at how his fingers encompassed his thighs and knees. You had to bite your tongue to distract yourself, an action you swore never to repeat.

Aemond smiled showing teeth that looked like knives ready to aim for the kill. “You do know what a tourney is, do you not? One of us had to fall off the horse, tis how the game goes. Perhaps you never knew of such things in that wasteland village of yours.”

His words are sharper than usual, something you barely take into account because you are full of anger too and are glad to give it to him.

“Then you should have fallen off of your horse!” you hissed, stepping towards him angrily. “He is a prince who will inherit Driftmark. He is the future of his house, you are not! Why you had to throw him off his horse is unseemly.”

“Future of his house,” he mocked, shaking his head at you. “My, my, you have been listening to the words of men on the small council for so long you think you are learned in politics, do you not?”

You say nothing. A thin line pinches your lips shut in distaste, the gaze in your eyes growing heavy and hateful. 

“You know nothing,” he regards you from head to toe and it is obvious he finds you lacking. “A poor girl from a village who happened to save a prince, that is all you are. You are an arrogant creature, unfit to serve a queen. What my sister sees in your distasteful person I will never know. I do not care to. I see you exactly for who you are.”

You smile and like him you are spiteful. “You see what you want to, my prince.” You see a lowborn girl and think her worthless. “Why your sister thinks you are redeemable and true I will not think to consider, for it is a wasted effort to tax my mind for the irrational. I would never forgive a brother so vile, let alone love one without conditions as she does.”

“A good thing you have no brothers,” he tells you coolly. “You are not fit to love another as a sister does, I think.”

The words pierce through you as you think of the brother you had and lost. He does not know and you are glad he does not. Aemond does not need another knife to sharpen and use on you. 

You are no good at hiding how this barb was one too far, one too sharp, when your lips turn down in a grimace. Somewhere in your eyes there is the truth and he seems to see it for a moment, the ruthlessness of his lone eyes dimming for a spare moment. 

He does not know the tender wound he has poked too hardly into. The flesh bleeds anyways. For the very first time it occurs for you to care what he says.

Perhaps he hit too deep. Maybe the events of this day had been too worrying. The lack of rain your village in the Stormlands had in King’s Landing has strained your mind and the heat is too much.

There is a heavy cloud that hangs upon your head, pulling you down until you can only feel the discomfort words alone can bring. The way he stands up and the purple of his eye changes into something akin to confusion escapes your notice. You never see his fingers twitch— not once thinking he might be reaching for you.

In that light his emotions in the purple of his iris might have been worry, not confusion. You notice no such thing. As quick as he stands, you flee.

By now it is habitual to flee from him. You do it in the courtyard when his eye finds yours. You left in the throne room at the feast as his brother was keeled over from your swift kick.

Why should now be any different? On all accounts it is the same feelings you leave him in a flurry of skirts— the discomfort in your chest at the way he regards you, cool and perturbed. 

Yet when you leave him this time, frustration not yet pulling tears from your eyes but landing a frustrated heave from your chest all the same, it occurs to you for a moment that this discomfort is not the same as the one so keenly known before. There is no part of yourself that wants to identify it.

The curtain feels heavier this time when you push back it, nearly tripping over your own feet when you feel the unveiled sunlight beat upon your neck again. What makes you nearly fall is not just your own feet, but the two faces you are greeted by. 

In front of you is head of braided silver locks, warm eyes, and a relieved, happy grin. Besides her is another silver head, this one of waves and large purple eyes you know well. 

“Lucerys is well!” Rhaena beams, ignorant of your discomfort. She gestures to the tent next to the one you are outside of— Aemond’s. Her brow creases, the only moment of worry, before it too disappears from her expression. “He has not seen you. I am certain he would be eager to, though, come.” Rhaena is ushering you in the direction of the tent, the smile on her face never leaving.

She may be none the wiser but Helaena’s eyes are on you and the tent behind your body. There is no escaping her perceptive stare and what is worse, Baela appears behind them both. Her eyes immediately looking to the tent, then to your figure.

Everyone seems to know where you were and there minds must be assuming what happened behind the tent. An unbearable heat seizes your chest, making your skin feel what you can only assume dragonfire feels to the touch. It takes the breath from you and for once, you cannot look at any of their eyes, your own flitting between the three pairs set on you.

Rhaena’s smile falters, genuine concern taking its place. She calls your name, once or twice, you cannot recall. Your feet move before your mind thinks it through, fleeing the scene. It will not be until you are off the grassy field where the tourney was held, far in the castle within an isolated corridor that you can breathe.

It is there that the shame creeps up, leaving you feeling guilt that crawls under your skin and makes you want to disappear. 

You had a habit of fleeing the scene.

You had a habit of fleeing Aemond at the first chance. 

Never had you felt ashamed of leaving him in a blazing fury. He was vile, cruel, ill-tempered and above all dangerous. Not once had you thought of him as others had— resilient, dedicated, devoted. 

The image of him moving towards you coupled with the look in his eye was all consuming to you. It was a feeling that could end your very being. 

Like the very night in Dragonstone where you slept in a room too large with opportunities too noble for your blood, you feared you would get no sleep come the night.

With a heaving chest and weak arms grasping a stone pillar for support, you knew the truth as you saw it— whatever his meaning behind his eye in the tent, you knew you wanted but one thing from him.

His hatred. You could endure not much else.

note: consider reblogging and comment if you enjoyed this- that's what motivates me to post my writing here

#aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen one shot #aemond oneshot

[aconflagrationofmyown]

A Whole Man is Hard to Find - chapter 13

an Elvis Presley fanfic AU

Warnings: the typical universe warnings apply for this chapter, special emphasis on dated views both held and aspersions cast, by various characters

Summary: picking up from where we left off, this particular one is a bro chapter, -as I like to call the ones sans Rosey- though perhaps the underlying homoeroticism and money talk dampens the broship a bit ;)

Love note from a nutty author: thank y’all so much for all the feedback, love, screaming and prompts, it means the world to me that we’ve gotten as far as we have with this story and I cannot wait to continue on, sharing it with y’all has been such a bright spot of my year. Here’s to hoping this chapter isn’t too boring or grammatically offensive. Apologies to Steve Binder for me always making him a twink, it’s a cross some have to bear

“Captain Presley!” Calhoun’s panted greeting and the boy’s flailing limbs collided with Elvis the minute he stepped on deck, “I was trying t’stay awake last night t’tell ya but I fell asleep and then Mr Schilling wouldn’t tell m’where ya where when I done woke up this’mornin an’ I was tryin to find Miss Beaumont, -and he weren’t no help with that either, and just had to find ya…“

“Breathe my boy, try takin a breath, that it!” Elvis huffed good naturedly, patting his scrawny back as the kid gripped his fine clothes and babbled a mile a minute, “You found me now, and I’ll listen but ya gotta hold it for a lil longer, got a real powerful man comin aboard any second now.”

Cal bit his lip in frustration with the one front tooth left him, “But I gotta tell ya what I saw-“

“-And I wanna hear it, more than anythin’, but in a minute.” Elvis insisted with firm gentleness, spinning the boy around and tucking him under his arm as he walked them both towards the head of the gang plank. “Jerrah!“ he greeted his friend who looked like he was about to be sick by the sight of the approaching dandified official, “Who ya watchin? Oh why, if it ain’t the cute lil fucker with the crush on me.” he mimed surprise at the sight of the approaching visitor just for the satisfaction of seeing Jerry Schilling turn a shade greener, “Mr Bundle, wasn’t it?”

“Binder -as you know damn well.” Jerry seethed, “And if we aren’t all locked up for your obscenity by breakfast then it’ll be due to the intervention of a loving god.”

“Goodnessme.” Elvis clucked his tongue, “Mind yourself in front of the boy.”

“I should be telling you that.” Jerry shot back. “Only the pleasure of delivering a fate that’s real painful for both of us would give that man the energy and bravery to show his face after last night.”

“Since you’re so peckish, why don’t ya take Cal down below, allow me to handle this.”

“I don’t trust ya to handle that fancy man in any way shape or form that would be beneficial.” Jerry belligerently stuck a cigar in his mouth and his hands in his pockets, “I had to tuck him into a carriage like a helpless child he was so wobbly after you were finished with him. Reckon I’ll mind my post, thanks very much.”

“Goin down with boat, hmm, Jerrah?” Elvis snickered.

“Besides,” Jerry ignored him, “that fat fuck of yours is down below givin instructions to clear the boat out and won’t elaborate when he said he’d imprison me for obstructin federal orders when I told him I only take orders from you.”

“The hell?” Elvis muttered in bewilderment.

“So, you don’t know what he’s up to either? Damn him. How’s Miss Beaumont?” Jerry turned with Elvis to face their oncoming guests, calculating that brevity would force his friend to be honest.

Elvis could feel Calhoun’s hopeful, upturned face waiting for his reply. He tightened his hug on Cal’s shoulders and murmured a tersely comforting “Well enough, she’ll be at breakfast.” out the side of his mouth while turning to greet Mr Binder as that fellow gingerly stepped off the ramp and onto his polished deck.

Gray suit, gray waistcoat, blue tie. Elvis' little lesson had not gone unheeded. The pretty official’s eyes were near azure with the new touch of dyed silk.

“My dear Mr. Binder!” Captain Presley greeted with obnoxious familiarity, “This is an unexpected treat!”

Binder looked at the hand offered in a handshake like it might bite him before thrusting forth his pallid one and squeezing the Captain’s hand so tightly the rings bit into his fingers and bruised. It made Elvis grin wider.

“To what do we owe this visit?” Elvis queried, taking stock of the multiple federal soldiers arranged behind Binder like personal Pretorians, stiff and ready to guard the government’s dutiful clerk from a second defilement. “Ya here for business or pleasure?”

Mr. Binder’s hitherto stoic face flushed crimson as the Captain’s rankling pleasantries angered him enough he found his tongue, “Business, Captain P-Presley, b-business -of course, what else.”

“Oh I dunno, didn’t wanna presume,” Elvis raised two placating hands in surrender, causing his bracelet round his wrist to jangle against his time piece, “gotta whole lotta ‘else’ aboard.”

“I-I’m here to tell you, Captain Presley,” Binder’s tone grew firmer after managing to at last say his name without a stutter, “that the government has requisitioned your boat -for a brief period, not long, just a brief period to transport troops upriver to the territories.”

“And it just had to be my boat?” Elvis glowered, his amusement fast fading.

“Yes, yes your boat is required and, and your skill recommends you as perfect for the handling of…handling of -your skills as a captain I mean, of course! -handling of men…troops, government property.” he brought his clutched order up to his face and examined the paper frantically before quoting: “-Captaining government assets up the treacherous waterway to St Paul.”

He rallied at the end after consulting his orders, managing to find a vocabulary that did not provoke double entendres, lowering the paper and looking at the Captain with federal expectancy.

Elvis mourned Binder’s success only briefly before allowing himself to absorb the reality of a trip up north under government orders, all protest against it resulting in a even worse demand. Or prison. Jerry gave a snicker beside him at their ill luck, the self inflicted karma of Elvis’ fucking with this dainty fellow.

“I am ever at my country’s service, Mr Binder.” Captain Presley replied with grave decorum before remembering the importance of keeping so easily flummoxed an ally on his side, “-and at yours.” he added in a tone he had not heard himself use in a coons age.

His tongue felt sour from how easy it had been to slip back into it, even sober. How effective it yet remained on the man before him who’s professional reply died on his lips with that personal addition.

Mr Binder’s betraying flush lasted one single, damning moment before a genuine scowl of derision replaced the fawnish wince of before. Mr. Schilling feared this had gone too far at last, a death blow was about to be struck to his incorrigible friend’s long streak of bridge burning immunity. Jerry often wondered if Elvis perhaps wanted to burn the whole operation to the riverbed floor, so as to be done with the carnival shit. Handing that job to someone else would make him blameless. No one was better positioned than Mr Binder to damn them so expertly.

“And I came to aid you, Captain.” Mr. Binder continued with admirable indifference to his momentary slip.

“Oh?”

“Yes, I’ve a question for you.” Mr. Binder nodded, looking once at Mr. Schilling and then the boy Calhoun who was watching these proceedings with fascinated bewilderment.

“Ah now, I’ve never known a question that was helpful, Mr. Bi-“

“Don’t.” Jerry begged, slapping Elvis’ hand from its intended journey to Binder’s flinching shoulder. “Just don’t, for once in your life.”

“I’ve been sent by President Grant’s Administration to clean up the laws and commerce of the Mississippi River, Captain Presley,” Mr. Binder stated his well worn script of the evening prior, “and you best believe I intend to do so. But I’d rather not lock up its most able captains when I think the corruption I seek is ashore. Do you understand me, sir? Or do you only speak in the lustful language of the depraved? Your…purser led me to believe you were a -deeper- sort of man.”

Mr. Schilling’s cough was grating and deafening enough to make Cal jump in surprise. “There was mention of aid and a question, Mr Binder?” he redirected with effortless, homespun charm.

“Yes, I suppose there was.” Binder flicked his clear blue eyes over to the second mate, “Do you men not want to partner with me or do you actually enjoy slowly declining into outdated, useless finery?”

“Beg pardon?”

“What I’m trying to understand, Mr. Schilling is why after agreeing to the boat race one of you would put in an offer, tantamount to a request, to be used by the United States army, thus disqualifying you from such a race for nigh on half a month's time? Do you really hate the idea of making money so much you’d wreck your own ticket? Or am I right in judging that neither of you knew about this development until now?

Mr. Schilling and Captain Presley exchanged a look that was a non verbal communication of a resounding “told ya so” on Jerry’s part in regards to the basic command structure aboard.

“I am correct?” Binder prodded, a prim sort of authority having bloomed in him when left in peace from fiddling fingers and dancing blue eyes, “Right, then, the next question is, who actually owns this ship?

“It’s a boat, sir.” Elvis corrected gently.

More silence followed and Cal craned his neck near backwards to observe the Captain’s silent seething from the vantage point of under his jaw. It seemed to him that conversations between important men involved a great deal of glaring and not much talk. If Rosey had been there she would have taken note of the thumping vein in his neck, giving away how very much Elvis appreciated Colonel Parker wrecking his first, profitable, basic chance for autonomy.

“It was mentioned to me,” Mr. Binder went on, “-in the early morning as I had not bothered with sleep and the light was on and a fellow felt free to approach my desk- that Colonel Parker left the gala last night and departed straight away to the telegraph office, and thence to the railway office, before coming back to his lodgings aboard. Does any of this interest you, Captain Presley? I’ll repeat, who owns this boat? And why would they rather it act as a human cattle car than make a profit by submitting to a constitutionally elected committee?”

“That would be one Colonel Parker, of telegraph and railway office fame.” Jerry made a brave decision and smiled placidly, even as Elvis gave him a look that would strike most men dead. “Very fond of the old method, that one, you know, the dancing, singing, gambling, carnival style method that the railway is gonna make obsolete in a couple years.”

“I own this damn boat.” Captain Presley growled over Cal’s head and the boy felt his shoulder nearly crushed under his clenching hand.

“Not according to Mr. Moore, ya don’t, been goin through all those papers like ya asked….” Jerry kept smiling the smile of someone who enjoys a victory at all costs, and Elvis smiled the teeth-clenched smile of one who’d rather seethe than cry over a betrayal.

“How bout we take this somewhere, more private.” Elvis offered to Mr. Binder with admirable decorum for a man in such dire need of breakfast.

“Yes.” Mr. Binder was hesitant to leave the pure, open air of the deck and the federal guardians of his purity for an enclosed office and Captain Presley’s wiles, “Some discretion might not be amiss.” he conceded.

“Excellent, be so good as ta follow me, and you, Schilling,” Elvis pushed a firm hand against his mate’s chest, “will stay above with Cal and see to it that no more unloading happens until I can sort this little miscommunication out, hmm?”

“Yes, Boss.” Jerry donned his now quite common look of sullen mutiny but he took Cal under his arm nonetheless, watching with stubborn hope as the two men descended the stairs to the Captain’s practically unused office.

“What was it that you so badly wanted to tell the Captain about, boy?” Jerry asked Calhoun after a split second’s decision to make business that wasn’t his business his business. He had a strange presentiment that all business aboard would soon be everyone’s business with the way things were devolving so rapidly.

“Colonel Parker pointed a gun at me.” Cal shrugged with aggrieved pride at having been put off so long.

“Now that weren’t very patient of him.”Jerry remarked, “What’d you do?”

“I didn’t do nothin!” Cal remonstrated viciously.

“What’d he do, then? -No, no you ain’t taken the piano anywhere, not nothin else is goin off here till the Captain comes back up!” Jerry broke off to yell at a few movers who were beginning to haul out the dining halls' more entertaining furniture, “Go get, move your asses back, nothin comes out till he says. Now, you were sayin, Calhoun?”

“I was goin into Miss Beaumont’s office for my lesson-“

“-that’s really Rosetta’s office, boy.”

“-yes, right, well, it’s got the safe in it, and it was empty ‘cept for the Colonel and he was busy diggin’ through it and pullin things out,” Cal explained, “and they were things I’d seen the passengers give Miss Beaumont and she done locked them up and had them slip things-“

“-deposit slips.”

“-yeah, depot slips, and he was takin the jewels out and he spooked real bad when I came in.”

“Why’d he point a gun at ya?” Jerry gnawed on his cigar placidly much to Cal’s irritation.

“He told me not to say nothin bout what I’d seen. And I asked him why not.” Cal shrugged as if this were explanation enough.

“Then what?”

“I done told ya, he pulled a gun on me!”

“Jus’ like that. You didn’t say nothin smart back or nothin?”

“Well I-“

“C’mon now, what’d you say?” Jerry fancied himself a decent detective when it came to children, the trick of it he figured, was never to outgrow one’s own childish logic.

“Well I may have told him that Miss Beaumont had killed over less.” Calhoun smiled the smile of the crooked and the besotted and Jerry offered up a prayer for him that his teeth would grow back in at a rapid pace.

“Yeah, that’ll be what done it.” Jerry leaned back against the bulkhead and looked out at the slate gray sky where it met the muddy river and imagined going northward under these conditions.

“Stick next to me or ya might get tossed over to the gators, not be the first to go that way.”

“There ain’t any gators this far north!”

“You wanna test that, boy?”

“No! No sir!”

“You done told anyone else about this?” Jerry inquired in the way of those making conversation for lack of a better pastime.

“Rosetta, rights before you hauled me up here.”

“Oh, that’s excellent.” Jerry observed, “She’ll have told most the boat but now in her righteous fury, and there won’t be no way that fucker won’t hear it somehow or other.”

“What fucker?” Cal inquired placidly.

“Elvis.” Jerry replied as if the words were synonymous.

Elvis felt himself in about as foreign a space as Mr Binder, so little used was his office and entirely stocked with his father’s materials, not his own. It was sobering, that recollection of his father’s plight and he ushered Mr. Binder into the cramped space with the gravity befitting his station. He flicked open the blinds and let the now overcast sky make a dent into the gloom and settled himself behind the desk.

“How can I help you, Mr. Binder?” he asked placidly.

Mr. Binder took time to seat himself and flick out his coattails, adjust his cravat and scan the office before folding his hands in his lap and replying with tepid politeness, “I spent a rather sleepless night last night.”

Elvis' arms tensed on the chair rests and his fingers began to stipple on the desk top uncontrollably. He himself had done a great deal of thinking about how far he’d go for a pardon, for Rosey’s pardon, and he had comforted himself that his promises and vows to God might be easily upheld if he had so antagonized Binder against him as to turn away the fellow’s desire as well. Mr Binder, to Elvis inward alarm, did not seem particularly antagonized. “I spend quite a few of those myself.” he ventured. “I like to spend them reading.”

“As do I.” Mr. Bidner smiled and it was a pleasant, sparkly sort of smile Elvis suspected only made a show when the fellow didn’t intend for it to, the thought of books had brought it out, “Usually Milton or Shakespeare, the Brontës.”

“Mm.” Elvis smiled encouragingly.

“Last night,” Mr Binder continued in this way, “ I was kept enthralled by twelve years of case files on one Elvis Aaron Presley.”

Elvis knew his face had gone white, he knew the tell tale signs of that cold cheeked response, but he kept his mouth firm, his eyes glinting, his body painfully still.

Binder went on, “I’ve had my officers taking a look into things regarding this whole operation, not just yours but the whole of it up and down the river. Shocking amount of corruption, mostly from authorities ashore I found, though of course there’s the gambling and the prostitution and the murders, all charged to various accounts -and through it all, yours was a shockingly thick stack of case notes. And then it just…ends.” he had no lilt of glee or triumph in his voice, they could have been critiquing the latest Dumas’ publication, so placid was his narrative, “Just a single line of aquittal, stamped with a Judge’s seal and every heinous crime they don’t even let people talk about gets swept under the rug and you get yourself a nice little river boat and a life -of sorts. If you call this living.” and there was the old, now familiar derision Elvis was hearing more and more in the voices of the younger set.

“So what?” Elvis asked, his voice lowly ominous as he allowed himself to swivel back and forth in the desk chair, childishly unconcerned, “You gonna arrest me now, ya pant wetting pansy?”

That barb had the intended effect, Mr. Binder’s face flushed red and what bit of dominance he had secured in the room fluttered precariously in the heat blast of Elvis’ scorn. The poor man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and undid the meticulously pressed thing with careless haste, pressing it to his sweating eyes. Elvis thought the room rather chilly. He may have commented to that affect.

“We have an opportunity here, Captain Presley,” Mr Binder rallied, but took care to address himself to the floor, and the foot of Vernon’s desk, “a very brief window of opportunity where we can pass the buck to certain officials currently being investigated and culled in preparation for President Grant’s termination and the reign of the ever so scrupulous Mr. Hayes. He’ll get the nomination, don’t even argue the point sir, he’ll get it. What that gives us, is both a tiny window in which to entirely reinvent the Mississippi River into something modern and respectable -a river upon which families and merchants may traverse without impunity- and toss the crimes, such as you yourself engaged in with bribery, back to the officials themselves, instead of the poor, innocent captain’s from whom the bribes were extracted. Do you get me?”

“You wanna keep your captains while locking up a bunch of senators and congressmen and judges?” Elvis summarized patiently.

“Yes, yes I do!”

“That’s real cute, sir.”

“Oh for God’s sake man! It’s already happening!” Binder cried through a face aflame, “Three in Arkansas and two in Mississippi last month! General Grant has taken stock of his presidency and found that it’ll be recalled as a trash fire of corruption and back room deals. He’d rather his deputies' sins not have the last word so he is cleaning house, monumentally, and it’s effecting the juries. They hear about the corruption in other states, they hear of action being taken and actual resignations occurring -they’re voting with the common people caught in the middle. It’s dismantling reconstruction faster than policies and trust me, men like your idiotic partner know their time has come. Middle men are going down to hell with their crooked beautocrats and that’s the way it should be.”

“Mr Bidner, I think you’ll find that -this dirty money you so abhor, it’s what’s made these illustrious captains you wish to save.” Elvis observed him closely, “And I’ve personal stakes here, I do gamble, I do have women aboard who make their living on the passengers, I do have a record such as would prevent me from being offered any common job -but most importantly, my father is in a Memphis jail cell, and has lingered there for months, no bail.”

“I’m sorry to hear that and-“

“Mr Binder!” Elvis insisted on being heard, “You can play the reformer all you want, but if this backfires, it’s goin to be me and my dependents gettin scorched. There’s not a single city councilor or judge in Memphis who I trust worth a damn, and I’m tellin you in confidence, I’m telling you that I’m about to send a pile of gold down to them in exchange for my father, and I’ve sent piles and piles before this to keep them happy. Now is that something you can just…write off when you accuse these men?”

“Yes.” Binder smiled and Elvis wanted to smack the man, “Yes I can, Captain, if it’s just gold that we are talking, I can. Such are the last days of the Grant Administration.”

“My darlin man,” Elvis leant forward over the desk, “you’ve no idea what you’re up against.”

“I think I do.” Mr. Binder’s pretty brows were drawn in a stern line and he too leaned forward, “All I’m asking, is that you don’t fight me on it, that you let me sort this out, that you do not come to the defense of your partner when and if he is implicated, that you warn me here and now if there is more to be found than a money trail. Is that so very hard?”

“You want me to betray a man I owe everythin, to, and then ask me to trust ya?” Elvis laughed.

“I ask you acknowledge the way of the future, sir, and I ask you to see that a man who has made a living taking homes from the impoverished, providing blackmail for politicians and who saw a skilled tart in yourself and took advantage to build this fucking carnival has been long overdo in reaping what he is about to sow.” Mr. Binder’s voice had steadily rose throughout this tirade and Elvis was surprised to find instead of shrill it became rather impressive, “And trust me, I’ve got my damn sickle out, and I’m going to harvest this operation you’ve got going here, and you can either have your pretty neck snapped for past crimes and your Purser’s neck, too, or you can aid me in this. Those are you options, sir. I don’t like threats, Captain Presley,” he sniffled briefly as he smoothed himself back into decorous moderation, “they don’t inspire loyalty. But I’ve brought a gift of sorts, a goodwill token, if you will. To show you I mean business, and that my business is not to your detriment.”

Elvis slowly extended his hand over the desktop to grasp the offered documents. In the pale, overcast light of the office window he could read that one was a telegraphed but nonetheless officially stamped and signed pardon for one Miss Savannah Beaumont of Belle Meade plantation.

He looked up at Binder, incredulous that the man had accomplished this in less than twelve hours. Testing the pansy as to whether he had any grit in him had paid off. Here was his girl’s pardon and the offer of immunity,

which, as this miracle shimmering with barely dried ink, seemed more substantive than a few moments before.

“And the other, Captain.” Mr Binder prodded.

Elvis flicked the page over and found a rather rumpled and aged one, a case report, stamped by the warden of the prison of Golddust Tennessee, stating the particulars of his arrest for crimes of lust and perversion. He’d never actually read the damn thing, had only heard the court harrang with its usual, elevated language. The document in hand read like a rather sordid novella in which his name appeared with nauseating frequency. He made it halfway down the report when he decided that was quite enough for the outdoor at hand and flicked up a inquiring eye to Mr. Binder.

“Is this one a threat or a gift?” he snarked, swallowing down the sick he felt over revisiting the trip home and the thought that here sat a man in regards to whom Jerry’s cautions would have been best heeded.

“A gift.” Binder assured, as if the damning paper was a pineapple or yo-yo, “What I am keeping behind is your pardon, less salacious for certain but a shockingly terse document with no explanation or hint of a jury. I’m sending men down to Memphis, as we speak, Captain, to go through the papers of your Partner, and for your sake I’m hoping that they find evidence to damn those judges besides that pardon. But trust me, if they don’t, it’ll do. I’ll use it. Unless, of course, you can provide me some aid.”

“I’ve said before,” Elvis made sure to smirk in that sad but winsome way that most found anything but aggravating, “I’ve assured you, Mr Bidner, I am ever at your service.”

“Right then. I’ve three things to ask.”

“Ask them.”

“Firstly, promise on whatever you hold dear that when you return from this…troop maneuver,” Mr Binder made a face at having to mention the odious interruption, “that you will sign on with the Waterways Commitre -don’t worry about your partner objecting, I intended for him to be securely out of influence by the time you make it back down to Memphis.”

“Alright.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Well…swear on something!”

Elvis hesitated, thumbing at the pardon and weighing the chances of all this backfiring terribly. It seemed a better cause to die in, at least. He’d been missing something of that nature for awhile now. “I swear on my mama's grave.”

Mr. Binder took a great, steadying breath that served to make his victory rather unimpressive. Elvis clutched the miraculous pardon to assure himself that the wee fucker before him actually had some serious governmental authority. “Excellent, oh that’s very good, yes, yes alright.” Binder mopped at his eyes again and went on, “The second requirement is quite simple, it’s that you are to make no intimation to Colonel Parker of any such investigation having commenced.”

“Naturally.” Elvis agreed dryly, propping his boot on the desk and getting comfortable, grinning at the thought that Rosey would have really enjoyed being privy to this conversation.

“Parker has already stated he does not intend to make the trip north-“

“-Now hold up -how the hell did he know about this trip before me?”

“He arranged it, Captain, quite plain to see.” Binder sniffed, “I’ve the telegraph logs back home to prove it, if you wish -“

“Sweet Jesus he…” Elvis trailed off, loathe to appear any weaker before Binder by giving away just how little he knew about what went on under his very nose. They were both thinking it, he could tell by the contemplative pity in Binder’s bright blue eyes and the next requirement confirmed it:

“Mr. Moore agrees there been a great deal of uh -embezzling might be the best word for it- going on aboard, every payment you’ve made for the ship-

“-it’s a boat-“

“-has been allocated elsewhere, and is in such a tangle as to confuse anyone looking at it facevalue. You’re about to be out a great deal of money, what with unloading the prostitutes and entertainers-“

“-what now?” Elvis balked.

“The army won’t allow your gambling men, your whores or your band to remain on a government vessel -which the Proud Marie now is until you are released from this commission.”

Elvis bit his nails and wagged his boot atop the desk, grinning venomously at the barer of this new bout of fuckery. “Course.” he gritted out. “Wouldn’t want a buncha bored soldiers to have a way to pass the time while getting shipped up to have their asses handed to them by the natives.”

“I don’t make the rules.” Mr Binder simpered and Elvis wanted to smack the man, see if he’d be into that, too. “But I do suspect you’ll be paying wages for all your offloaded dependents and so, we come back round to the books and the depleted money and I’m saying that something drastic needs to occur so that the Waterways Committee has some security.”

“You want the boat?”

“Oh I wouldn’t be so cruel.” Mr Binder tutted, “I’d like a contract drawn up, signed by yourself and myself and Mr. Moore, perhaps Mr. Cash’s mark would add weight, and the details of it are benevolent -I’ve left it with a fellow to give Mr, Moore, it’s already drawn up- but it would ensure that stupendous half percent that is currently flowing from Parker’s pockets to the gaming tables will, eventually, be the Committee's share.”

“You think you’re real slick, don’t ya. Gonna offer me a deal no better than the last? How bout 40 percent.”

“How about,” Mr Binder put his finger to his pretty little lips and pretended to ponder, “I get you a new boat as this one is, god bless her, hardly staying above water. And uh, 30 percent, with a clause in there for a pension.”

“Who’s pension?” Elvis puzzled.

“You’re wife’s, Captain.” Mr. Binder huffed impatiently, “that extra ten will go to her, in case anything should befall you. Prison or the Colonel, you see I make provisions for innocents, just as you do.”

“I don’t have a wife, Mr. Binder.”

“No? Well, I suggest you make one, speedily, before that contract gets signed, in fact.”

“Make a wife?”

“If God managed it out of a rib, surely Elvis Presley can out of a Purser?” Mr. Binder was growing a bit giddy in his success and Elvis had to close his eyes and recall the fellow’s tear stained humiliation last night in order to press on.

“This is gonna serve what purpose?”

“Mr. Moore suggested that as things are, it’s all a muddle, and trying to untangle your affairs from Parker’s -including who owns the boat- would be hopeless. If taken to trial, the jury would vote for the wife. Parker hasn’t got one, but you, you would have one by then wouldn't you?” Binder seemed to have some second sense that this morning had been hellish and that pressing the point before breakfast was an easy way to make the Captain break.

“You’re suggesting I enter and pervert a sacred institution in order to save some money?” Elvis bit out.

“Wouldn’t be the first time you bent such a thing to your will, would it?” Binder sniffed then flinched as Elvis rose to his feet with uncanny speed and charged him, fists clenched, “And think, sir,” he aimed for respect as Elvis stood there ready to inflict pain, “Miss Beaumont would not only be provided for, she would also make certain that the half allocated to her would support your dependents. Say you were arrested, say the malaria catches up to you, say you get shot for being a bastard,” Mr Binder smiled almost fondly at that, “she and your dependents would have your money. If you can’t trust her, if what I thought I saw between you last night was not all theater, or perhaps one of your mulatto women will do.”

“You’ve been talking with Jerry and Moore, haven’t you?” Elvis muttered, fists slowly uncurling.

“Ah, yes.” Mr Binder had the goodness to look abashed, but that was more likely brought on by the ominous way Elvis was still standing over him, barely pacified, “And Sister Rosetta, that’s your uh, uh”

“Quartermaster.”

“Yes, her!” Binder agreed, “It would seem there is a benevolent mutiny aboard, Captain. And if your conscience smites you for turning in Parker to his just desserts, I suggest you tell it to consider the well being of your crew?”

“And the well being of your pockets.” Elvis pointed out.

“My goal, Captain, is to do so excellent a job in the position afforded me on this godforsaken river that when President Grant’s dismal excuse for a term runs out and the great reshuffling begins, -no fault will be found with me. Or those under me. And not for one single minute will the Bureaucrats think to relieve me of my post and return me east to the shadow of my father and the arms of a wife I cannot stand. Do you hear me now? And I’m offering you a chance to not get culled with the chaff.”

“Has anyone else’s boat been requisitioned, Mr. Binder?” Elvis asked, quietly and in a tone Binder could not decipher.

“Well, no one else asked to be used.” he laughed at last, “But I’m sure someone else’s will be as yours alone is not sufficiently large.”

“Then may I ask you a favor of my own, Mr. Binder?” Elvis ventured from beneath fluttering lashes.

“Uh, yes, of course, if it’s in my power.”

“Mmm, sounds like just about anythin is in your power, sir.” Elvis intoned alluringly, slinking to a crouch beside the arm of Binder’s chair, much to that official's shivering foreboding, “Is there any way you could manage to purloin Captain Jones’ boat as well?” he asked, voice going soft and high, sounding about as young and harmless as a child.

“What are you up to?” Binder asked, warily taking in the elegant hands clasped atop his chair arm and the alluring v of the Captain’s squat and the calculated harmlessness that the man, well past thirty, was swathing himself in, to an alarmingly successful effect.

“I-I just thought…” Elvis trailed off as if bashful of his thoughts.

“What did you think?” Binder demanded with outraged morality, about to flee from the scene of his second, imminent ruination and this terrifying, forever morphing creature squatted before him. “What did you think, Captain?”

“Well, t-t-there’s no need for all that, sir,” Captain Presley’s soulful eyes looked wounded and his cherubic lips, highlighted by the no doubt calculated slant of those damned sideburns, wobbled in hurt, “I-I just thought maybe Jones an’ me could have a lil race up the river while we’re at it, just a teaser of sorts.” He confessed, bashfully looking down at his hands and shrugging his shoulders in the manner of the forever falsely accused.

“God damn you to hell, Presley.” Binder seethed through his own mirth as Elvis’ shoulders began to shake up and down in something besides pantomimed hurt. Eventually both men were laughing, the act abandoned, one perhaps more uproariously than the other, but there was humor found at last. Captain Presley also rose to his feet, by some merciful intervention of a loving God looking out for Mr. Binder’s soul.

“You know.” Binder huffed when some sobriety had been regained, “The whole world isn’t full of dogs and bitches, there’s no need for this whole…whatever it is, you do.”

“Don’t you ever just do something for the fun of it, Binder?”

“Yes, occasionally,” Binder rejoined, “Do you?”

“Yeah,” Elvis got a fond look of reminiscence which suggested it had been awhile, “I race riverboats and charge the extra coal to the colonel’s account.”

“I’ll see to it that Captain Jones’ coal is charged similarly.” Binder smirked and Elvis felt the first taste of genuine like for this man, “Although Parker’s assets may be frozen due to imprisonment by that time.” he quipped, “Best to transfer the rest of the funds to a Mrs. Presley lest they take the brunt of such expenditures.”

“I’m hearin you.” the mirth had gone right out of the Captain's voice, “Can I not just sign it to my father?”

“What? With him in prison, too? Be sensible, Captain. It’s either a wife or child. Wait -have you got a child?”

“No.” Elvis could finally say that with certainty thanks to Rosey’s report. Maddy’s son was not his.

“Shocking.” Binder teased and Elvis might have been in the mood to laugh were he not contemplating marrying a woman who he thought was a different woman twelve hours before. “Invite me to the wedding won’t you? I was thinking this evening would be best, I’ll even ensure the Colonel is on the noon train down to Memphis so as not to meddle.”

“I ain’t gonna make this a church weddin.” Elvis insisted.

“Well, alright, easier in court anyway.” Binder shrugged, watching Presley’s sullen demeanor curiously, “I had thought such a thing was already imminent between you two-“

“Is that all, Mr. Binder?” Captain Presley cut in.

“Until this evening and the contract, yes, I suppose so.” Binder rose, sensing his blatant dismissal, “I’ll arrange the Colonel’s ticket and uh, meet you at the courthouse, yes?”

“I’ll send word if that particular endeavor is on.” Elvis parlayed.

“Oh it had better be, sir.” Binder reiterated, earnestly. “Or you and she will be wiped clean of funds, and my efforts for that pardon will be as nothing.”

“I’m hearin you, Mr. Binder.” it was a wonder that so ominous a voice, like an earthquake or the rush of an elemental force, could have affected brainless innocence so capably a few moments ago. Binder’s brain and other organs were confused by the change, but that was becoming a familiar feeling when in Captain Presley’s presence.

“I’ll leave you to it, then.” Mr. Binder muttered, at a loss as to how to conclude one of the most eventful interviews of his life when his opponent (or was it ally?) had his back to him, staring out the window with soulless eyes.

Binder let himself out.

Captain Presley followed shortly after, his steamrolling gait bound for the mess hall and a long overdue breakfast.

“Captain!” Calhoun waylaid him right in front of the mess hall doors, right where he could smell the scent of bacon and eggs and his sought after sanity.

“Lemme guess, you wanna complain ‘bout the Colonel ta me.” he slurred exhaustedly while dragging the boy along from where he hung on his jacket sleeve.

“Matter o fact, ye-“

“Take a number, boy.” he sighed, pushing open the doors to the mess and vowing to eat something before he heard another word spoken in English or otherwise about his benevolent partner.

I’ve made the following one time taglist for those of you who used to like and comment and enjoy this work on my previous, deactivated blog. I thought I’d alert y’all that this project is still ongoing, I’m still ticking and there’s new chapters if you have any interest. Cheers and all the love 💋 ~Marina/@aconflagrationofmyown

@tacozebra051

@notstefaniepresley

@tyne18

@horror-movieshoes

@lillypink

@blurredcolour

@bisexualwatson

@j-v-9-2

@pearlparty

@crash-and-cure

@dkayfixates

@woundmetender

@captainthisamerica

@eliseinmemphis

@lindszepplin

@foreverdolly

@ab4eva

@jelliedonut

@powerofelvis

@thatbanditqueen

@lookingforrainbows

@vintageworld

@robinismywife

@from-memphis-with-love

@steph-speaks

@avengen

@butlersxbirdy

@ash-omalley

@eliseinmemphis

@stylespresleyhearted

@missmaywemeetagain

@prompted-wordsmith

@whositmcwhatsit

@snowf86

@vinnvered

@butlervol6

@artlover8992

@coolgirl462

@cigaretess

#elvis fanfiction #mine #a whole man is hard to find #elvis imagine #elvis fanfic #elvis presley #elvis x reader #elvis x you #elvis smut #austin butler elvis #austin elvis fandom #austin elvis x reader #southern gothic

[mysticmunson]

lone star; preview

summary: eddie had packed up his things and moved to the big city, indianapolis, but when he enters the fast growing world of adult entertainment industry, it gets lonely.

rating: R (includes smut, talks of intense smut, depression, smoking, drinking, and etc. let me know if i missed any warnings)

authors note at the end!

The cool air of Indiana nipped at Eddie Munson’s cheek, the slight burn of his aftershave still leaving him grimacing in the presence of the blue building. As his cigarette came to just ashes and smoke, he stomped it out before walking inside the brightly lit studio, pushing his sunglasses to his hairline. 

Hawkins left little to be desired after he graduated from high school, already feeling the unemployment office calling his name as the boys of corroded coffin went off to college. With his last check from the hideout and necessities in his bag, he headed for Indianapolis. He would have gone further, but part of him couldn’t be too far from Wayne, ringing him every other day to recall the cheap french toast he ordered that made him experience euphoria or to ask Wayne about his j0b.

The latter always being responded with, “Same ole, same ole kid.” 

He found a job at a local pub, not the kind he would perform at, but one that at least didn’t play madonna every night. The walls were splattered with neon paint, posters of celebrities he had never heard of across them, and large, wooden bar counters with obscure stains. 

He was, somehow, able to convince them to give him a chance bartending. He didn’t know if he’d be good, but he knew the paychecks far surpassed that of a busboy. Thankfully the people of the big city were much more accepting of his long hair and loud personality, partially thanks to the liquor, but companys, company.

After a few months, he was operating by himself on weekdays, typically being greeted by the same older men who recalled stories of being in war or middle aged women sucking his red wine supply. 

“Bourbon.” A middle aged man gruffed, slightly disheveled as a few buttons on his shirt were undone and his hair tousled. Eddie nodded, knowing better than to piss off the hand that feeds you, even when there was no hello or please. 

“Sure thing.” he scrunched the sleeves to his elbows, the chilling air of November not reaching all the way to the back of the building. Pouring the copper drink into the logo-adorned glass, he placed it in front of the stressed man wordlessly. 

“Thanks.” he responded shortly, downing it in one swing, signaling another round. Eddie’s eyebrows lifted, but nodded, grabbing the cup again and refilling it. He felt the strangers eyes bore onto his back, trying to remember if he wore any offensive clothing or forgot to wash out a stain. 

Spinning back around, he set the cup down again, but the mans gaze didn’t falter. His thick rimmed glasses fell down the slope of his nose before he adjusted them, “What’s your name, kid?”

The air became warmer as Eddie analyzed him, trying to remember if he was a cop he pissed off in adolescence. He did have a cop-esq haircut, brown with shades of gray that was thinning the closer it got to his forehead. 

“Eddie.” he quipped, grabbing a rag from under the counter to wipe up the reminisce condensation rings. The guy said nothing, still fixated on him as he straightened up the napkin stack. He wasn’t one to hold his tongue, something he had gotten better at since joining customer service, but this was testing his strength. 

“Listen man, i’m not gay or anything, it’s cool if you are but could you stop checking me out.” Eddie blurted, watching the opposing face distorted to a loud laugh, coughing at the seeming absurdity of the statement. 

His chortle faded into a quiet one as he sipped his drink, face clenching briefly before signaling another one with Eddie snatching it to restock. The glug noise was unprofessional, but he debated on just throwing it in his face alternatively, so subtle rebellion was going to be his best friend for the next few minutes. 

Slamming the glass down, the drink swooshed and let some drip down the sides. He walked to the other end of the bar, checking the beer taps as he realized they closed in about a half hour. Relief rushed over him as he heard the stool squeak, but the annoyance quickly returned as he realized the blue collared man just moved closer. 

“Eddie, i’m not gay, i’m a director. My name's Bill, I need an actor for a film and I think you’d be a good fit.” He clarified, clasping his hands in front of him, giving Eddie his time to cackle. His chest burned at how hard  it came forth, expecting attempted murder before a scouting agent. Wiping his finger at the corner of his brown eyes, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“Oh really? What kind of role? Will I have the honor of being freak number five in a John Hughes picture?” He joked, turning his back to try and make all the labels face towards the front, something that stephanie, the opening manager, relentlessly busted his balls over. 

Returning to his time to laugh, Bill released a far airier one than before, leaning in closer, “You ever seen a dirty movie?”

authors note: hi friends, i've been working on this for a little bit now, here's the preview, i hope to have chapter one up within the next day or two :) please share your thoughts! also thank u to my loves august and autumn for being amazing and providing me feedback, mwah. @indouloureux @lilacletter

#elora writes #eddie munson #eddie munson gif #eddie munson smut #eddie x you #eddie x fem!reader #eddie x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson imagines #eddie munson oneshot #stranger things season 4 #eddie steve #stranger things 4 #steve stranger things #stranger things #steve harrington #robin buckley

[kiddbegins]

Taylor Swift Inspired Prompts | Pt. 1

note: I hope these get the ideas swirling cause I know her lyrics make things turn in my brain. Pleaseee please please tag me if you use them i would love to read them. also please feel free to send me requests with any (and all) of these :)

of course these can be used as general idea prompts or if you want to use them as direct dialogue, enjoy however!

Debut

— When you think happiness, I hope you think that little black dress

— There's no time for tears, I'm just sittin' here planning my revenge

— I'll bet she's beautiful, that girl he talks about And she's got everything that I have to live without

— You put up walls and paint them all a shade of gray And I stood there loving you and wished them all away

— Nobody ever lets me in

— And no one knows That you cry, but you don't tell anyone

— There's pretty girls on every corner They watch him as he's walking home

— And I should've been there in the back of your mind

— A few years had gone and come around We were sitting at our favorite spot in town

— Our song is the slamming screen door Sneakin' out late, tapping on your window

— You and I are painting pictures in the sky

— And you can't see me wanting you the way you want her, but you are everything to me

— Why would you wanna take Our love and tear it all apart now?

Fearless

— Begging you please don't go

— Did I say something way to honest make you run and hide?

— It's like a million little stars spelling out your name

— Mr. 'never had to see me cry'

— I miss screaming and fighting and kissing in the rain

— I said leave but all I really want is you

— time slows down whenever you're around

— I'm not the one you'll sweep off her feet, lead her up the stairwell

— If you could see that I'm the onе who understands you

— I can't breathe without you

— And now you're asking me to listen 'Cause it's worked each time before

Speak Now

— You made a rebel of a careless man's careful daughter

— I run my fingers through your hair and watch the lights go wild

— this is me swallowing my pride standing in front of you saying i'm sorry for that night

— the story of us looks a lot like a tragedy now

— 2am who do you love?

— Stood there and watched you walk away from everything we have

— I'll watch your life in pictures like I used to watch you sleep

— I loved you from the very first day

— And I want you now, wanna need you forever

— We would've been timeless

Red

— Love is a ruthless game

— Losing him was blue like i'd never known

— put your lips close to mine as long as they don't touch

— so casually cruel in the name of being honest

— put my name at the top of your list

— spinning like a girl in a brand new dress

— I think it's strange that you think I'm funny cause he never did

— i just wish you were a better man

— i miss you like it was the very first night

1989

— so hey, let's be friends

— i've been there too a few times

— we were built to fall apart (then fall back together)

— all you had to do was stay

— I wish you knew i'd never forget you as long as I live

— say you'll see me again

— your kiss, my cheek i watched you leave

— didn't they tell us don't rush into things

— coffee at midnight

— please, take me dancing

#writing prompts #writing prompt #writing #fic #writing prompt list #prompt list #prompt lists #taylor swift #taylor swift lyric #taylor swift prompt list #lyric prompt list #taylor swift debut #debut #fearless #speak now #red #1989 #fearless taylors version #speak now taylors version #red taylor's version #1989 taylor's version

[twoidiotwriters1]

The Curse of Oenone (Leo Valdez xFem!Oc)

A/N: Something something they're all sad -Danny Words: 2,081 Series' Masterlist Previous Chapter // Next Chapter Listen to: 'In My Place' -by Coldplay

LII: I Might Lay down and See if This Fixes Itself

"You know what pisses me off?"

"Many things nowadays," Leo replies from the crawlspace where he works.

"This project," Ara continues grumpily. "What the hell, dude? We're supposed to be honest with each other!"

"We're supposed to be boyfriend and girlfriend and you still call me dude," the boy responds, crawling out covered in grime and scowling. "What's your point?"

"Why didn't you tell me you wanted to rebuild Festus?"

Leo seizes the cloth hanging from his toolbelt and cleans his hands. "Festus was your baby first, I couldn't tell you and then fail—Didn't want to look stupid if it didn't work."

"Then why are you telling me now?"

"Because you think I don't know what I'm doing but I have a good plan here!"

"I don't like this thing you're doing to us."

"Ain't doing nothing, doll..." he walks past her. "It was done to me too, remember?"

Ara follows him downstairs to the cabins. "I don't think this is the best idea you can come up with, that's all. I think you're going easy on purpose."

He steps into his cabin and leaves the door open for Ara. "I thought Ithaca would help, and it didn't. We think wrong sometimes. You should bribe Janus so he tells us what to pick."

"Oh, don't get me started on that guy! He would make things more difficult for us on purpose, he thrives on indecision—all shades of gray and stuff." Ara looks around the room and gets distracted. "Gods, Leo, how do you sleep with all this mess?"

He snorts. "I don't. I just work here."

The girl gets confused. "You've only slept two nights in my cabin this week—where do you spend the night when I say no?"

Leo changes the subject. "I work better around clutter. If I don't figure out a way to make sure Festus won't crush me to death—"

"Have you been sleeping in the engine room?"

The boy raises his voice in frustration. "Listen to what I'm saying!"

Ara looks at the bulletin board: Leo's drawing of the Argo II is accompanied by a picture of the crew who built it and another of Ara hugging Festus's head. She doesn't want to listen, Ara wants to hide under the blankets with him until the war is over and wants to go back to New York, hand in hand with Leo. 

Ara longs for the little things, and at the same time, she hates them because they make the things she aims for look frivolous and selfish. When Leo met her, she was obsessed with being useful and giving meaning to her death since she'd already concluded her life would be short and dramatic, yet uneventful when it came to being normal. 

Who is she to tell Leo not to aim for the big flashy sacrifice? In short, she's going insane. "I can't listen to this. I'm sorry."

Leo doesn't look surprised, this conversation has happened twice since he returned from Ogygia. Ara isn't ready to face what's coming, and Leo doesn't know what to do to help. The boy sighs, then pinches the bridge of his nose, he looks ten years older. Ara's ashamed of her cowardice, she could talk if they had a clear path ahead, but there is only a pitch-black void.

"I need to know," Leo is extra careful with his words because Ara won't like what he's about to ask her. "If I die for good, are you going to erase me from your stories like you did with Mike?"

Ara's gaze fires up like gasoline, but she says nothing at first. Her feet backtrack, like they always do when an argument hits too close, and then she freezes. Ara counts to five, if she doesn't take a second to think, she'll say bad things like she always does. 

Once her heartbeat is regulated she forces out a response. "I can't escape you like I escaped Michael. Helen left Troy but the guilt never left her. My soul has never known peace when it comes to you."

She thinks of her innocent memories with Leo, holding each other close until they couldn't keep their eyes open. She can't stand how much it hurts even while he's still with her, and it scares her to think it'll only get worse once he goes away.

"I've always been on the run, you know that," Leo sounds so serious it makes her skin crawl. "You're also the only person on this ship with whom I can act how I feel, and I need you to let us be ugly for once, or what we have is gonna rot no matter what we choose."

Ara runs her hands over her face. "I don't want this curse to be the thing that gives our relationship meaning—It will ruin it."

"We were never a perfect couple," he walks past her to exit the cabin. "But only you see that as a bad thing."

Ara gets to the Mess Hall and opens her mouth to speak, but a voice screams before she can even utter one word. "PUT SOME CLOTHES ON!"

"Jesus fuck!" The General jumps out of her skin.

"I thought you were getting rid of that stupid hologram." Piper glares at Leo.

"Hey, Buford's just saying good morning," he grins, stuffing his mouth with a brownie. "He loves his hologram! Besides, we all miss the coach. And Frank makes a cute bulldog."

Their friend turns back into a human and scowls. "Just sit down, Leo. We've got stuff to talk about. Ara, ready when you are..."

The girl sits at the head of the table, placing both hands on its surface to gather her thoughts. Leo sits between Jason and Hazel and grabs a bag of fonzies, a healthy breakfast to begin the day.

"How are you feeling, Jason?" Ara asks, trying to ignore how Leo didn't switch seats with Frank to be closer to her.

"I'm still breathing," Jason answers shortly. "So... we're going to stay airborne and drop anchor as close as we can to Olympia. It's further inland than I'd like—about five miles—but we don't have much choice. According to Juno, we have to find the goddess of victory and, um... subdue her."

"Defeat Victory," Ara already hates the idea. "And subdue her?"

"I'm cool with fighting the occasional goddess," Percy shrugs casually, "but isn't Nike one of the good ones? I mean, personally, I like victory. I can't get enough of it."

"It does seem strange," Annabeth agrees, anxiously tapping the table. "I understand why Nike would be in Olympia—home of the Olympics and all that. The contestants sacrificed to her. Greeks and Romans worshipped her there for, like, twelve hundred years, right?"

"Almost to the end of the Roman Empire," Frank nods. "Romans called her Victoria, but same difference. Everybody loved her. Who doesn't like to win? Not sure why we would have to subdue her."

"She's probably going insane over which side should be winning," Ara reasons. "The children of Nike are all competitive and they don't stop at nothing. I'm sure she's ten times worse."

"How do we defeat victory?" Piper asks worryingly. "Sounds like one of those impossible riddles."

"Like making stones fly," Leo retorts, "or eating only one Fonzie."

Ara and Hazel look at him with vastly different expressions. Hazel scoots away. "That stuff is going to kill you."

"You kidding? So many preservatives in these things, I'll live forever."

"That'd be convenient," Ara mumbles, stabbing an apple with Lily's dagger.

No one knows how to reply to that, except Leo. "You think Nike can give us pointers on how to defeat death? 'Cause that'd be promising."

Ara wants to dismiss his comment knowing he's just taunting her, but it makes sense. "That's... not a crazy idea. Desperate times..."

Frank raises a brow. "You think Nike would be willing to fight death?"

Annabeth makes a face. "Her kids never turn down a challenge. They have to be number one at everything—I wouldn't be surprised if she agreed."

"She sounds like Birdy," Percy smirks. "Are we sure you're an Aphrodite?"

Ara cuts a slice of apple with the knife and sends an unamused glance at her brother. Hazel continues. "But we've got to get the Greeks and Romans on the same team, right?"

"Maybe she's the problem," Jason suggests. "If the goddess of victory is running rampant, torn between Greek and Roman, she might make it impossible to bring the two camps together."

"How?" Leo asks. "Start a flame war on Twitter?"

"Maybe she's like Ares," Percy explains. "That guy can spark a fight just by walking into a crowded room. If Nike radiates competitive vibes or something, she could aggravate the whole Greek–Roman rivalry big-time."

Frank points at Ara and Percy with his spoon. "You remember that old sea god in Atlanta—Phorcys? He said that Gaia's plans always have lots of layers. This could be part of the giants' strategy—keep the two camps divided; keep the gods divided. If that's the case, we can't let Nike play us against each other. We should send a landing party of four—two Greeks, two Romans—"

"Ara shouldn't go," Jason says promptly.

The girl cuts another slice of the apple and frowns. "Elaborate?"

"I think—and I say this respectfully—that your fatal flaw would get everyone killed if you were to face Nike."

"Ambition and victory don't mix," Percy nods in agreement. "You should sit this one out."

Ara leans back, popping the slice into her mouth. "First of all, I never said I should go. Second, I never said I wanted to go. We should be careful to send a group that doesn't clash, so if I were you, I wouldn't send those two either," she points at Annabeth and Percy.

"Hey!"

"No, she's right," Annabeth sighs. "Athena and Poseidon have a rivalry, we don't know if Nike can use that on us, Percy. We don't want to do anything that might make the goddess, um, more unstable."

"I'll go," Piper offers. "I can try charmspeaking."

"Not this time, Piper," Annabeth shakes her head gravely. "Nike is all about competition. Aphrodite... well, she is too, in her own way. That's why Ara is so alike."

"I love being present for these conversations," Ara says sarcastically, driving another slice into her mouth.

"Who should go, then?" Piper insists.

"Jason and Percy shouldn't go together," Annabeth continues. "Jupiter and Poseidon—bad combination. Nike could start you two fighting easily."

Percy gave her a sideways smile. "Yeah, we can't have another incident like in Kansas. I might kill my bro Jason."

"Or I might kill my bro Percy," Jason replies.

"Which proves my point," Annabeth sends an annoyed glance their way. "We also shouldn't send Frank and me together. Mars and Athena—that would be just as bad."

"Okay," Leo sighs. "So Percy and me for the Greeks. Frank and Hazel for the Romans. Is that the ultimate non-competitive dream team or what?"

"It could work," Frank looks at Ara for approval. "I mean, no combination is going to be perfect, but Poseidon, Hephaestus, Pluto, Mars... I don't see any huge antagonism there."

Annabeth is waiting for her response too. Ara shrugs. "Well, if it were Hephaestus and Ares maybe there'd be a problem, but let's hope Roman and Greek don't click like that."

"I still wish we could've gone through the Gulf of Corinth," Hazel sighs. "I was hoping we could visit Delphi, maybe get some advice. Plus it's such a long way around the Peloponnese."

"Yeah." Leo's shoulders fall. "It's July twenty-second already. Counting today, only ten days until—"

"I know," Jason says defensively. "But Juno was clear. The shorter way would have been suicide."

Leo opens his mouth probably to joke about how he's doing that either way but his eyes find Ara's and his statement dies before it can even reach his vocal cords.

"No one is blaming you, Jason," Ara stares at her partially eaten apple. "Delphi wouldn't've been of any help. Something's going on, I think Apollo messed up one too many times."

"Juno said the twins might be willing to help us," Jason reminds her. "Perhaps that's what she meant. We help Apollo and he'll help us in return."

"A lot of unanswered questions," Frank mumbles. "A lot of miles to cover before we get to Athens."

"First things first," Annabeth's posture changes to one more energetic. "You guys have to find Nike and figure out how to subdue her... whatever Juno meant by that. I still don't understand how you defeat a goddess who controls victory. Seems impossible."

Ara and Leo lock eyes immediately. The masters of unlikely smile at each other, and Ara's expression is enough to lift Leo's spirits in a way no amount of good fortune could.

"We'll see about that." The boy winks at her before leaving the Mess Hall. "Let me get my collection of grenades and I'll meet you guys on deck!"

Next Chapter –>

Taglist.

@siriuslysirius1107 @ask-giggles1303 @im-planning-something-look @bandshirts-andbooks @coolninjapaper @thewaterlily @whenisthefall @1randomcomic @you-bloody-shank @sunflowergraves @owlalex44 @taylordaughter @typicalsolangelolover @writingmia @espressopatronum454 @slytherinnqueen @orbitingpolaris @obxstiles @ellipsisspelled @thepixiechicksh @ebony-reine-vibes

#twoidiots writing #pjo fanfic #leo valdez fanfic #doo #leo valdez x oc #heroes of olympus #percy jackson and the olympians

[thevoidscreamer]

Stop Talking About "Proportional Responses" and Read This.

Okay. So as an Intelligence Studies student who has had a longstanding special interest in the Middle East, I feel a little bit compelled to talk about the Israel-Hamas-Palestine situation going on right now.

First off, there are tons of great resources to learn about the history that pertains to this conflict. I highly recommend the book The Contemporary Middle East, 3rd edition, for a good start, but for those of you who don't learn well through reading, Warographics has a great short video that can help you get the bare minimum bit of context necessary to understanding what's going on.

Secondly, it is paramount to note that there are no good guys in this situation aside from the civilians and non-combatants whose lives are being horrendously upended (again) by this conflict. Anyone who tells you that either Israel or Hamas is the sole hero or the sole victim in this story is not looking at the full picture. The world is made up of shades of gray, and there is no truthful black-and-white view of this situation. I caution anyone against listening to those who make statements that glorify the actions of either party or who refuse to accept that both have committed atrocities over the past decades preceding this particular event and the days containing it or who equivocate Palestine with Hamas.

Third, my personal bias is against the use of egregious violence, shock tactics, and ethnic cleansing in any efforts to effect lasting change. I am also against the apartheid state model, the definition of which can be found at this hyperlink. I stand against any form of extremism and terrorism, be they enacted on behalf of an individual, a group, or a recognized state. If you are a proponent of these things, you will not like my analysis. I also assert that LOAC should be staunchly adhered to, not just in letter but also in intent. If you think that exceptions to LOAC should be made to religious or ethnic groups, you will not like my analysis. I do not believe in making exceptions for "divinely inspired" behaviors and I harshly disagree with the assertion of some Christians that Israel reserves the right to reign unfettered damage on any and all others because they are the "apple of G-d's eye."

Fourth, I don't believe in the principle of "reciprocal action" for nations that are actually seeking peace. Responses to terrorist behavior should not be met with equal terrorist behavior. War should not be an avenging action, it should be an procedure that seeks to end the conflict with as little collateral damage as possible. Counter to what most US Americans seem to believe, war is not just bombs and guns. It is ISR, agreements, support, appeals to other countries for aid, international propaganda campaigns, cybersecurity efforts, counterintelligence, economic shifts, and a lot more, all of which has become tremendously more accessible (and impactful) thanks to technological advances. Throwing bodies at the problem and throwing bombs at the bodies until enough people die that it slows down or stops is not our only option anymore, and it hasn't been for a long time.

Finally, I strongly believe in the responsibility that journalists and reporters bear to inform their viewers. Does the average US American news viewer understand Israel's defense capabilities? No, and I wouldn't expect them to. But it's helpful for them to know, when forming their opinions about the conflict. Instead of only showing the tragic final moments of Palestinian and Israeli civilians on loop for the entire 24 hour news cycle, why not dedicate some of that time to discussing the armaments and capabilities of each side of the conflict? What missiles are being used in the air strikes? What about the aircraft? What is the method that the IDF is using to decide where to strike? It's not sensational, but it is important.

Okay so now that that's all out of the way, let's talk specifically about Israel's response to Hamas' coordinated attack on its citizens on 7 October 2023.

My thesis statement here is this: Israel has the knowledge and means to locate and deal with the most important/influential members of Hamas who reside in Gaza while sustaining minimal collateral damage to buildings and civilians, but they have chosen instead to inflict a moderate amount of collateral damage -- more than they have in the past, but less than they are capable of. To what end? That is yet to be seen, though inferences can be made.

In my opinion, this is reckless and will only serve to stoke the flames of anti-Israel sentiment in Palestine and around the world while appealing to the radicalized far-right fringe groups Netanyahu is beholden to, as well as radical Christians, Messianics, and Zionists in the United States. It will not result in peace and will further divide the Middle East and the US along archaic religious extremist lines.

The following post will provide the puzzle pieces that support this hypothesis, and bring them all together in a conclusion.

Let's start by talking about Israel's intelligence apparatus, Mossad. Background on Mossad here for those who need it.

Why is everyone upset with Mossad? Mossad is actually one of the most effective intelligence agencies in the world. The fact that they didn't catch this before it happened comes as such a shock to me as an analyst-in-training that I actually think they may have allowed it to happen in order to enact a war on Palestine. That's simply my impression, but we have yet to see evidence of why this attack was not caught and stopped. The IDF's actions seem to back my hypothesis, but we won't know for sure until the dust settles years from now. At this point, I don't feel speculation is particularly useful.

What benefit does Mossad have to offer now that the conflict has popped off? Hamas is a large organization, estimated at around 20,000 individuals. However, Mossad likely has profiles (and possibly even patterns-of-life) on the high ranking and influential members of Hamas who reside in Gaza. This is because Mossad is a highly adept, globally notable intelligence service, and Hamas is a well-known enemy. Even if Mossad does not have profiles on those individuals, it would only take some patience on Israel's part to locate and identify them and their patterns of life, especially given Israel’s UAV capabilities.

What are Israel's UAV capabilities?

Israel's use of UAVs is not publicly acknowledged, but it is well known that they not only use but manufacture three specific UAVs. In fact, they are one of the world's foremost suppliers of UAV technology.

Of these, the Hermes 900 and Heron TP most resemble the MQ-9 Reaper. Why is this important? Comparison. The MQ-9 Reaper has hella capabilities I won't go into here, but follow this link if you'd like to learn more about the technological marvel that is General Atomics' MQ-9B. What you need to know for this comparison is that the MQ-9 can surveil and destroy a target without that target even knowing the MQ-9 was there. It's stealthy and incredibly precise. The US DOD version has a suite of sensors for all kinds of tasks, and it can carry a decent payload, which is addressed in the next bullet.

The missile we'll be talking about today is the November-class Hellfire. These 104 lb missiles have a unique capability. They are often called a zero-collateral weapon, because they eliminate their target(s) and nothing else. The short of how this missile works is by pressurizing an enclosed space and liquifying what's inside it. This missile does not explode because it has no explosive material. That means no shrapnel, no molten metal, nothing. And, its effects are confined to the four walls, floor, and ceiling of the room it "detonates" in. People in the next room? Unharmed. And it will not pressurize an open space. Which means, by using the laser guided air-to-ground missile system mounted on an aircraft like the MQ-9 or similar, this missile can be deployed to hit one target in an open space and impact no one else. Once deployed, the missile will make impact with the target, destroying it via sheer velocity, bury itself in the ground, and detonate without harming any other people or structures.

So how would Israel get their hands on something like that?

Prior to the Hamas attacks, the Biden administration requested Israel receive $3.3 billion in foreign military financing for the upcoming fiscal year -- the same as the past three years. For comparison, $2.8 billion is going to Europe and Eurasia aid, with an additional $1 billion earmarked specifically for Ukraine. The DOD version of the MQ-9 Reaper costs about $32 million, and Hellfire missiles cost around $120,000 per, including costs for technical support and training -- and its many variants are compatible with multiple platforms, not just the MQ-9.

For context, the Hellfire missile was initially developed in the late 70's. Its newer iterations are much more elegant and efficient, but the point still stands that Israel has had access to the same technology for just as long as everyone else. So even if they were not receiving funding from the US, Israel likely already has figured out an equivalent tool.

Now that we know what the most effective, least damaging option is... what kinds of missiles is Israel using?

Right now, since explosives are still flying, we won't have that information. But we do have information about the last big barrage of missiles and bombs used by Israel on Gaza, back in 2021.

Gravity bombs (mark 82, 83, and 84) fitted with JDAM guidance kits (GBU-38, GBU-32, and GBU-31 respectively) giving the weapon the capability to hit a designated GPS coordinate. These are general purpose bombs built to penetrate concrete and then explode, spreading lethal shrapnel. Lethal area: 2,400 m2

2,000 lb GBU-31 (V)4/B (bunker-buster subvariant), used to level high-rise buildings in Gaza.

500 lb GBU-54 'laser-guided JDAM.'

Semi-active laser-guided Mikholit missile (ATGM). These small missiles can be carried by the smallest of the UAV, but are often deployed by helicopter.

"Spike" or Tammuz NLOS anti-tank missile, which in some models has a staggering range of 16 miles, features a built-in video feed, and can be controlled like a drone.

So... they don't seem to have a track record for using precision missiles that cause minimal collateral damage. Okay, well maybe they have a reason.

So where is Israel sending its explosives?

Gaza is the world's third most densely populated polity, with a population of over 2 million Palestinians -- 70% of those being refugees from other parts of Israel. Below are two maps. The first one shows the population density using dots to depict the general clustering of humans in Gaza. The second one shows the IDF airstrike locations. There is a citation in the image itself, but the hyperlinks in this paragraph take you to the same places. I will let you draw your own conclusions regarding the impact the bombs will have on the Gaza Strip populous, based on the impact locations and population clustering.

From here, it is important to address the considerations that go into what missile to use on a target.

There is generally a three-point system that helps determine which munition is necessitated by which mission and which targets.

Value of target

Missile capability

Estimated collateral deaths

These are all important because of the Law of Armed Combat, sometimes called the International Humanitarian Law, or the Law of War, which is backed by both the Geneva Convention and the Hague Convention. The intention of the LOAC is to minimize collateral damage and unnecessary death, especially to that of non-combatants. And yes, it does apply to "non-international conflict" i.e. engaging in conflict with non-State armed groups -- but it offers a unique exception. "Leaders of non-State armed groups are also subject to attack on the same basis as other members of the group." See subsection 5.7.4 of the DOD Law of War Manual. But that's a rabbit hole for a different day.

How effective was the 2021 bombardment on damaging or destroying Hamas assets?

This is important because the current bombardment is on trajectory to be much more deadly and costly than any IDF bombardment in the past. If the goal of Israel's bombardments is to stop Hamas, then the damage to Hamas should outweigh the damage to the civil Palestinian population. When reading these records, remember that Hamas has controversial political control over Gaza -- many Palestinians do not want Hamas as their governing body, but Hamas enacts legal power there anyway.

Most of the boats and many of the personnel of Hamas' naval cammando force were destroyed

10 Hamas government buildings, including its Interior Ministry, were destroyed

11 military buildings, including one housing Hamas' cyber branch, were destroyed

Five banks that were allegedly linked to Hamas were destroyed

"Nearly 30" (yes, that's the quote) senior commanders and one rocket engineer expert were allegedly killed

The family homes of at least 15 Hamas leaders were destroyed, some including the families inside

Over 60 miles or roughly 20-25% of Hamas' estimated 250-310 mile "Metro," which is an underground tunnel system -- the demolished area included 15 cross-border strike tunnels

Let's compare that to the impact of those same strikes on Gazan infrastructure and non-combatants.

Gaza's only COVID testing and vaccination center was destroyed

Gaza's largest bookstore was destroyed

A critical desalinization plant was disabled

The sewer system was rendered unusable -- reportedly 50% of the water pipeline network was destroyed

53 school buildings were damaged

11 health centers and 6 hospitals were damaged

17,000 residential and commercial units were damaged, including 5 residential towers

An estimated 72,000 Palestinians were rendered homeless

800,000 Gazans lacked access to clean drinking water and were receiving 5 hours of electricity per day, down from 12

At least 243 Gazans were killed, including over 100 women and children

So how is this current conflict shaping up, just five days after it's begun?

Let's look only at total reported deaths so far, because the damage and bombings are still happening and it is not easy to project the impact of something like this.

Gaza: 680, plus 1500 militants reported found dead by Israel

Israel: 900

Hamas Leaders: 3

US: 11

Note: this data is from 10 October, because I could not find a reliable source for reported deaths more recently. However for the curious reader, of the many projected death counts available, I felt AlJazeera would be most accurate.

So what does this all mean?

The current scenario unfolding showcases Israel's prowess in defense and the capabilities they hold, with potential access to precision weapons that minimize collateral damage. However, their choice to utilize munitions that cause significant collateral harm raises pertinent questions about their objectives. Israel's historical actions, while crippling to some of Hamas's assets, have also disproportionately affected Palestinian civilians, disrupting their infrastructure and causing substantial loss of life. It's evident that conflict responses shouldn't be retaliatory actions but must aim for lasting peace.

Israel's approach to the conflict manifests a concerning disregard for the safety of Palestinian civilians residing in Gaza. The destruction of essential infrastructure in 2021, show a pattern of excessive force that suggests a stubbornness against employing more efficient, precise methods of eliminating targets. Instead, their recent actions in the 2023 conflict will inevitably lead to devastating collateral damage that affects non-combatants more than the intended targets. Moreover, these tactics will serve to further tarnish Israel's international image. The global community is increasingly conscious of human rights and the usefulness of discrimination in warfare. Israel’s actions, therefore, risk isolating them in the global theater and could potentially invite international sanctions or legal action, as well as continued aggression from Palestine and its sympathizers. These factors all combine to indicate a blatant disregard for Palestinian civilian lives and a lack of foresight in their strategic actions and international relations.

With technological advancements, nations no longer have to resort to conventional warfare tactics. As the current conflict unfolds, it becomes even more critical to highlight the importance of a balanced approach and the dire need for solutions that prioritize humanity over political or religious objectives. However, Israel and Hamas have both made their positions clear, and neither of those positions reflects the idea of regional security.

Tl;dr ... Israel could have chosen to do better, but they didn't. And that's not okay.

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

Note about the author: I grew up in a radicalized far right evangelical household, and at least one of my parents is still radicalized. I did a brief foray into the radicalized far left side of US politics before settling into my current moderate position. As a white, atheist, transgender individual who has experienced homelessness and chronic illness, and who has been a victim of sex trafficking, but who now lives a stable and solidly middle class life with a bachelor's level education and a partner in the military, I recognize that my moderate political position is a privileged one.

I acknowledge that the unfortunate truth is that often the only option left to oppressed groups seeking change is violence, especially provided there is no substantial humanitarian intervention available to them. I believe that Israel's actions will further that sense of no-other-way-out for Palestinians, especially those not affiliated with Hamas.

#israel #gaza #palestine #hamas #netanyahu #extremism is never okay #religion is not an excuse to be shitty #the contemporary middle east #intelligence analysis #intelligence analyst #american public university #american military university #israel-palestine conflict #israel-hamas conflict #israel's war on palestine #airstrikes #law of armed combat #mq-9 #hellfire missile #proportional responses #peace in the middle east

[14thcommander]

she lives in daydreams with me | chapter two

summary: A flashback to what life is like in Trost, and why you have been avoiding your friends in the first place. Mikasa flies too close to the sun, and might just burn herself in the process.

cw: 18 PLUS ONLY! internalized homophobia, queer angst, mutual pining, break ups, mentions of sex and jealousy.

author's note: hi everyone! this chapter is basically to give context and answer to a few questions from chapter one: what reader was up to in college and why they became distant in the first place. i hope you enjoy it, please don't forget to leave feedback

chapter one

Trost, a year before. 

Everything seems pointless.

Your world is blurry, a variation of shades of gray — the floor against your bare feet is cold and the windows aren’t even open.

You’re making no sense, you think. Somewhere in your apartment, your phone – that you once thought was long gone – vibrates relentlessly, most likely with the calls of your friends and loved ones — even though you can’t help but wish it was Pieck Finger.

Hopelessly, you drag your feet down the hallway, towards your small kitchen. What were you about to do, again? Right, coffee… black, no sugar. It’s time to aspire to new things, you figure. It’s time to explore the world around you a little bit more.

The boiling water stares at you in a funny way. Perhaps you should get a coffee making machine soon, given the fact your ex girlfriend wouldn’t be a part of your everyday life anymore.

You’ll attempt to forget her, yet you’re not fully convinced it’ll work. Eventually, you’ll go to clubs and kiss a girl who has a similar hairstyle to Pieck, and perhaps even the same eye as hers. You’ll forget what she sounds like, yet you won’t forget how she likes her coffee — a short espresso with cream on the side. Life will go on, with new endings and new beginnings.

Yet it still feels like the end of the world, like nothing will matter anymore — not that it ever did, honestly. 

-

“Are you seriously watching a crappy tv show again?”

Reiner’s annoyed tone seems to fall upon deaf ears, as you barely grumble a response. 

You’re laying on a beatdown sofa that you and your roommate Petra picked at a local vintage store when you first moved. There’s a hideous green blanket wrapped around your body, and a sock covered foot peaks through it. 

The coffee table in front of you looks like a disaster – paper plates long discarded, as well as one or two empty ice cream boxes. Your phone buzzes, vibrating against the table, yet you still ignore it. 

You should have put it on do not disturb mode, anyway. 

“You can’t keep doing this.” The blond walks in front of the television, blocking your view – it’s whatever, really. You’ve been binge watching this show for the second time in a single week. “It’s been two weeks.”

Braun’s voice sounds more annoying than usually, and you roll your eyes at his words.

“It’s been 10 days, to be exact.”

He huffs in response, placenta a large hand on his hip. 

“It’s a breakup, not the end of the world.”

Your eyes shut, and you take a deep breath. This whole thing is a lot more complicated than it seems, which Reiner doesn’t understand – not fully, at least. 

“I know, I know. Just feels like it, though.”

Sighing for the thor time in a row, your friend approaches your sulky frame on the sofa. He takes a seat on the arm rest, allowing you to remain in your comfortable position. For some reason, it reminds you of what it was like back then – attending high school in Shiganshina felt like a nightmare, long forgotten. You still have night terrors, though. 

“Listen, I know it’s terrible. All of it.” His gaze falls upon the wacky medical TV show playing on the outdated television. “I, uh, I had a boyfriend, you know. Before moving to Shiganshina.”

You know the basics of Reiner’s story: moved to your hometown from Marley, during freshman year. He was big, broad – even more so now – which helped him fall into sports. A good tactic to remain unnoticed, you believe. A mere acquaintance – that is, until you ran into him at a gay bar, near Trost University. Despite the initial shock, it made sense. You became friends not long after that. 

“It’s not the same thing, I think. Quite the opposite actually, but the feeling of having something and then losing it all of a sudden… yeah. I know what it feels like.”

Pieck was a friend of a friend, who you met at a house party. She was shorter than you, with dark hair beautifully framing her face, pale skin often becoming rosy at your touch, and big brown eyes looking at you like you hung the moon. 

She reminds you of somebody else. 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Is all you can come up with, your brain feels foggy from thinking too much. The last few weeks have been hell. 

“It mostly sucks cause you can’t ask your friends for support, right?” He says between what sounds like a huff and a chuckle, hazel eyes still glued to the television.

“Yeah I can. You’re my friend, Reiner.” Your words sound silly as you yawn, mismatched sock covered feet poking through the blanket covering your frame. 

“You know what I mean.”

You do. 

“I guess.”

There’s a lot that goes unsaid between you and your new friend: the hiding, the pretending and the masks you use on a daily basis are not part of the unspoken truths. Reiner is, at the end of the day, the same as you. 

“I can’t just call home and tell them I’m queer, can I?” You say, as a joyless laugh. “Can you imagine how that conversation would go? ‘Hey guys, yeah sorry I haven’t reached out. Like, I realized I’ve been pretending to be straight for my whole life, even got a girlfriend and all that. Yeah, we were together for six months, the exact amount of time I’ve been ghosting y’all’”

Truth is, rust was growing on your telephone from the lack of getting in touch with your friends. At first, it was accidental – a mere need to focus on school and your life in Trost. After you started seeing Pieck, you realize they couldn’t ever meet who you became (or who you have always been). There’s something in your chest, deep and ugly, that claws mercilessly at your broken heart. Tears stream down your face, repeatedly painting your cheeks in a glowy light. The blond’s gaze softens, and he realizes he got it all wrong.

It wasn’t just a breakup. 

A sob leaves your lips, as your head hangs low in between your hands. Your brain is clogged with memories: scenes of Pieck making small talk with you for the first time, or how her lips felt against yours when you grabbed coffee together later that week, the sounds she made when you kissed the sweet spot on her neck, how her voice dripped with sorrow when she finally stated “this isn’t working.”

Even if she was the one to break up the relationship, you couldn’t bring yourself to be mad at her: perhaps this is what hurts the most. It was all your fault. 

Reiner’s arms snake around your frame, as gentle as he could be. The silence that falls upon you isn’t uncomfortable, or filled with facts you wouldn’t like to address at the moment. No, it feels familiar – it almost feels like home, even though you don’t know what that word means yet.

-

There wasn’t a specific moment you realized you are attracted to girls. There was, though, a specific moment when you realized you are different from those around you. 

It started innocently enough: first, you realized how the boys are gross phase took longer than usual for you to grow out of. Then, friendships with other girls grew into this intense, homoerotic thing you can’t quite name – it took you years to be able to talk to Mina Carolina after a fall out due to her getting a boyfriend. 

And then, after coming to terms with the fact that you’re queer, you decided to move away – far from Shiganshina, where you would be doomed to pretend to be someone else for the rest of your life. You have heard the stories of those, just like you, who could never come to terms with what they were. 

“Ready to order?” A nameless waiter approached your table, menu in hands and a nice smile plastered around his face. His voice snaps you out of your thoughts. Bertholdt kindly dismissed him, saying you needed more time to think.

Reiner took his lover’s hand, fingers intertwining in each others’. A kind smile bloomed on the brunet’s lips, as he placed a kiss on his partner’s face. No one batted an eye, as this is Upper Side Trost, surrounded by diversity and freedom – lots of it. 

“Sorry again for crashing on your date, guys.” You sheepishly said, feeling like sinking on your chair. In reality, Braun was the one to force you out of your apartment.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, it’s nice to have you here.” Hoover stated, flashing you a grin. 

“Yeah, we’re just glad you finally left that rat’s nest you dare to call an apartment.” Reiner stated, gently raising his hand to call the waiter back to your table – he was the last one to order, as indecisive as ever. “Seriously, you need more gay friends.”

At that, you sighed. It was true, but not for style reasons.

“I know.”

Bertholdt took a swing of his beer, eyes still glued to your face. He’s always been quiet, according to Reiner. The perfect combination with his boyfriend’s talkative self.

You felt like dying.

It’s been a month since you and Pieck broke up, and although it doesn’t hurt that much anymore, it still sucks. You miss falling asleep next to her, cuddling against her warm body, being fingered by her at a movie theater-

“A fuck buddy, too.”

“Oh, shut up Braun.” You groaned, hiding a smile from him. At least he made you laugh. 

“Actually, I take back what I said. You don’t have a single casual bone in your body.” The blonde pointed out.

“That’s true.” Bertholdt agreed. 

“I thought you guys invited me for dinner, not a roasting session.” Your words are dripping with fake venom, playfulness clear in your voice. Rolling your eyes, you scoff as Bertholdt makes a heart symbol with his hands. “...it is true, though.”

As your food arrives, and you eat in mostly silence, your mind is filled with mixed thoughts – memories or the past and fantasies of the future, realizing how lonely it is to exist as a twenty something year old, queer nonetheless. And, at the end of the day, that’s the exact reason why Reiner made sure to spend time with you after the break up: naturally, you shared some friends with Pieck, however they met her before you did. It was only natural they would rather hang out with your ex, instead of you.

Reiner and Bertholdt were good company, though.

-

On the train ride home, your headphones keep you company. 

Soft, slow music plays. It’s shortly after ten, but the city is still alive – from your seat by the window, you can see couples returning from dates, families coming back from their daily outings… but mostly, you can see people like you. 

“Nice badge.” A girl says when walking past you, towards the end of the train wagon. You look down at your bag, confused, and realize what she was talking about. 

Wearing a pride flag on your bag has been a silly, tiny dream from when you were in high school. The dream meant something bigger than just a badge, of course: wearing your heart on full exposal meant freedom, even if it meant to merely exist in a city like this. 

“Thanks.” You offer her a smile, noticing a similar pattern on the material of her jacket. “I like yours too.” 

A soft smile blooms on her lips, as she nods and silently moves towards the end of the wagon, looking for an empty space to sit. You turn your head back to the window, watching as the city comes alive before you once again.

Armin Arlert was your first kiss. In the summer between seventh and eighth grade, you went to the movies together along with your friend group, who meticulously architected a plan in which you would sit by the blond boy. It worked perfectly: you got your first kiss, and your friends had enough gossip for a week or so.

Although you wished it was someone else, something else. When you closed your eyes, and your lips touched, you couldn’t help but wonder where were the fireworks people told you about. You thought to yourself, this couldn’t be the reason why people wrote love songs and poems. There was this sinking, aching feeling that there was something wrong with you – you were broken, doomed, ever since you were born. 

It wasn’t until, in your freshman year of college, that you discovered the expression compulsory heteronormativity. 

You hate feeling like this, till this day. It’s not as intense as it used to be, but the claws of self hate still manage to rip your heart apart every once in a while. Truth be told, you’re doing your part, actively trying to get better: therapy, gym, medicine. Still, it seemed like nothing could mend a permanent broken heart. 

The train is quiet, and you think about your past – about your hometown, your former friends, and your family. What were they doing on a Saturday night?

And, for some reason, you think of Mikasa Ackerman. -

A few cities away, surrounded by imaginary walls and constant judging stares, Mikasa stares at her phone. 

Her hair is wet, sloppily wrapped in a towel. She lit up a candle, not even ten minutes ago. Levi had left for the night, probably spending the weekend at Erwin’s place. There’s a rolled joint in between her fingers, already lit up as she brings it to her mouth. The window is slightly opened, welcoming the wind inside of her small room. Ever since joining Shiganshina Community College, the Ackerman girl got a part time job that, believe it or not, helped her rent this place with her cousin Levi. 

Her finger touches one of Reiner Braun’s highlights on social media, on his private account nonetheless – the title of said highlight was just an aesthetic emoji, and Mikasa wonders what the fuck is she doing. It’s a Saturday night, and she is lying in bed all alone, checking one of her acquaintances' social media.  

“No way.” She whispers to herself, finger forcefully pressed against the cracked glass of her cellphone. “No fucking way.”

Behind Reiner and Bertholdt, you could be seen with an arm wrapped around the waist of a really pretty girl – you were both laughing, foreheads pressed against one another’s. Mikasa notices a few things: this story was posted 20 weeks ago, she doesn’t know who that girl is, and you’re definitely too close to be just friends.

Taking another hit from her joint, Ackerman digs a bit more, chipped nails rapidly working against the screen of her cellphone, and she eventually finds out who the mystery girl is: Pieck Finger, gymnastics athlete and chemistry student at Trost U, bisexual and plant lover-

Mikasa throws her phone to the other end of the bed, shutting her eyes and taking a deep breath. From her social media bio, she seems like a nice girl. It wouldn’t take much digging to find out who she is, and that you follow each other. Hell, there was even a story highlight in which you were making a kissy face towards the camera. She shoves what’s left of her smoke in the ashtray, watching it burn along the ashes.

Her insides burn, with a sick feeling she hasn’t felt before – not when she broke up with Eren, not when her cat passed away, and not even after prom.

Mikasa Ackerman falls asleep, and for some reason, she dreams of you.

#mikasa ackerman x reader #mikasa ackerman x you #mikasa x you #mikasa x reader #mikasa aot

[doequccn]

Hazbin Hotel Lyrics (part three)

I couldn't find anything on tumblr, so i decided to make my own little meme; the following are lyrics from hazbin hotel songs that can work well with dialogue / interactions - feel free to change pronouns as needed!

LOSER, BABY

❛ So things look bad. ❜   ❛ Your whole existence seems fuckin' hopeless. ❜   ❛ You've lost your way. ❜   ❛ You think your life is wrecked. ❜   ❛ Well, let me just say you're correct. ❜  ❛ Wait, what? ❜  ❛ Your a fucked up little whiny bitch. ❜   ❛ You're a power bottom at rock bottom. ❜   ❛ You've got company. ❜   ❛ We're all livin' in the same shit sandwich. ❜   ❛ I sold my soul to a psychopathic freak. ❜   ❛ You think that makes you unique? ❜   ❛ I got an appetite for gambling. ❜   ❛ Now I'm on that demon's leash. ❜   ❛ Excuse yourself, let hope in, baby. ❜  

HELLS GREATEST DAD

❛ Looks like you could use some help. ❜   ❛ Usually i charge a sacrificial lamb. ❜   ❛ You get the family rate. ❜   ❛ I'll rig the game for you because I'm the ref. ❜   ❛ Who's been here since day one? ❜  ❛ Who's been faithful as a nun? ❜  ❛ I'm truly honoured that we've built such a bond. ❜   ❛ You're like the child I wish that I had. ❜   ❛ It's funny, you could almost call me dad. ❜   ❛ It's smart to pick the path of least resistance. ❜   ❛ There's no substitute for angelic power!. ❜   ❛ Sadly, there are times a birth parent is a dud. ❜   ❛ They say the family you chose is better. ❜   ❛ Who? ❜  

MORE THAN ANYTHING

❛ You don't understand! ❜   ❛ They didn't listen to me, they won't listen to you. ❜   ❛ You're the only thing worth fighting for. ❜   ❛ I'll shelter and adore you more than anything. ❜   ❛ I don't need you to protect me from this. ❜  ❛ I always felt so small. ❜  ❛ I heard your stories and was enthralled. ❜   ❛ I've been dying to find out who you are. ❜  

YOU DIDN'T KNOW?

❛ It's not as simple as you think. ❜   ❛ It's not fair. ❜   ❛ Careful, keep a cool head. ❜   ❛ There's a lot that you don't know. ❜   ❛ What are we even talking about? ❜  ❛ He blew his shot. ❜  ❛ This discussion is senseless and petty. ❜   ❛ He's unholy, case closed. ❜   ❛ A man only lives once. ❜   ❛ What are you saying? ❜   ❛ Guess the cat's out of the bag. ❜   ❛ Tell me that you didn't know. ❜   ❛ It's my load to shoulder. ❜   ❛ I wanted to save you the anguish. ❜   ❛ To think that I admired you. ❜   ❛ I don't need your condescension . ❜   ❛ I'm not a child to protect. ❜  ❛ That's what the fuck I've been saying. ❜  ❛ The rules are shades of gray when you don't do as you say. ❜   ❛ Don't you act all high and mighty. ❜  

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