#Home study process in Florida

[johnnickwilson]

Navigating Florida Adoption Home Studies: Finding the Best Agency

Introduction:

Embarking on the journey of adoption in Florida is both an exciting and complex process. Among the essential steps is completing an adoption home study, a thorough assessment conducted by a licensed professional or agency to evaluate prospective adoptive parents' suitability and readiness to adopt. Choosing the best adoption home study agency in Florida is crucial to ensure a smooth and successful adoption journey. In this article, we'll explore the significance of adoption home studies in Florida and discuss how to identify the best agency for your needs.

Understanding Florida Adoption Home Studies:

An adoption home study in Florida is a comprehensive evaluation that assesses various aspects of prospective adoptive parents' lives, including their background, home environment, financial stability, and readiness to provide a loving and nurturing environment for a child. This process is designed to ensure that every child placed for adoption is placed in a safe and supportive home.

Key Components of a Florida Adoption Home Study:

Background Checks: Prospective adoptive parents undergo thorough background checks, including criminal history, child abuse clearances, and employment verification. Home Visits: Licensed social workers or adoption professionals conduct in-home visits to assess the safety, cleanliness, and suitability of the prospective adoptive parents' home for raising a child. Interviews and Assessments: Prospective adoptive parents participate in interviews and assessments to evaluate their motivations for adoption, parenting philosophies, support systems, and readiness to adopt.

Choosing the Best Adoption Home Study Agency in Florida:

When selecting an adoption home study agency in Florida, several factors should be considered to ensure the best possible experience:

Licensing and Accreditation: Choose an agency that is licensed and accredited by the appropriate governing bodies. This ensures that they adhere to high standards of professionalism and ethics.

Experience and Expertise: Look for an agency with extensive experience in conducting adoption home studies in Florida. Experienced agencies are familiar with state laws and regulations and can navigate the process efficiently.

Reputation and Reviews: Research the agency's reputation and read reviews from previous clients. Positive testimonials and reviews are indicators of a reputable and reliable agency.

Personalized Support: Select an agency that offers personalized support and guidance throughout the adoption home study process.

A supportive agency will address any concerns or questions you may have and ensure that you feel comfortable and informed.

Cost and Fees: Consider the agency's fees and payment structure. While cost is an important factor, prioritize value and quality of service over price alone.

Conclusion:

Completing an adoption home study is a crucial step in the adoption process in Florida. By choosing the best adoption home study agency in Florida, prospective adoptive parents can ensure a smooth and successful adoption journey. Consider factors such as licensing, experience, reputation, personalized support, and cost when selecting an agency. With the right agency by your side, you can navigate the complexities of the adoption home study process with confidence and peace of mind, knowing that you are one step closer to welcoming a child into your loving home.

[buysomecheese]

I hope that works I hope the social security office in Florida got my faxed information and everything’s alright and they can fix it and the woman here at this NY one can like vouch for my identity and it’s all fine

[sargeteen]

𝒔𝒕. 𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒂 ! ˡˢ²

i ain't never had a doubt inside me 𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋

��ogan sargeant x 𝒓apper!male reader synopsis: reader is an american rapper, one with a loyal, but small, fanbase. despite this, a formula 1 driver can’t help but love his music and pushes for him to visit a grand prix, but forgets to specify how.

genre: smau warnings: i’m using songs sung by black artists for readers album, so the faceclaim for reader in pics are going to be black, but anyone can read this!

requested: yes! author's note: i immediately thought of logan when i saw this request because of his love for eminem. songs used for second wind: squabble up, pride., duckworth, and the prayer by kendrick lamar. mutt by leon thomas. st. chroma, rah tah tah, and wusyaname by tyler, the creator

masterlist.

liked by logansargeant, userone, usertwo, and others

ynsmic second wind out now.

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userone the popularity of y/n needs to be studied this man deserves every single piece of hype he gets and more ⤷ usertwo that's what im saying!! this man has more talent than half of the rappers out on the hot 100

userthree going from squabble up right into mutt is crazy the vibe change was revolutionary

userfour the different vibes of this album is CRAZYYY i love it omg ⤷ userfive right?? like having mutt, squabble up, duckworth, and the prayer all on the same album is insane ⤷ usersix i like how it feels like they don't fit together. like the different vibes of the songs and topics don't fit together, but it feels like he's just having fun and sharing short stories and not only telling one story liked by ynsmic

logansargeant time to change my hype songs from lose yourself to st. chroma ⤷ userseven maybe lose yourself was making you lose yourself in the car that's why you aren't driving good ⤷ logansargeant bro...too far

usereight now what is logan sargeant doing here ⤷ usernine he mentioned y/n’s music like once in an interview back when he was in f2

userten alr now when is tour ⤷ ynsmic when a million+ people stream second wind ⤷ logansargeant i could probably manage that

♫ y/n l/n • st. chroma

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logansargeant baku was good, but next week is when it gets good. going for a logan sweep for the home race. see you in miami.

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usereleven no eminem??

alexalbon a logan sargeant pole is in the near future ⤷ logansargeant please work your beautiful manifestation skills

ynsmic great song choice 🔥 liked by logansargeant

usertwelve RAHHHH WTF IS A KILOMETERRR LETS GO LOGAN 🔥🔥🔥🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸

userthirteen wait this song is like lowkey fire ⤷ userfourteen it really makes me think of logan fr like “promise im gon make it out” just makes me think of he’s gonna make it out of williams 😭😭

williamsracing our favorite american!! ⤷ userfifteen nobody cares ⤷ usersixteen gtfo man

userseventeen now who is y/n ⤷ usereighteen i'm not sure but i like this song

📍 miami, florida

liked by logansargeant, usernineteen, alexalbon, and others

ynsmic played at a local bar last night, met some cool people, got some even cooler news for you guys soon

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usernineteen second wind world tour ⤷ ynsmic not at that stage yet, soon though

usertwenty what is team williams doing here ⤷ usertwone right like ik logan is a fan of y/n but alex what are you doing here ⤷ usertwtwo hear me out, he's in miami, miami grand prix is next week ⤷ usertwone alright grandma lets get you to bed

logansargeant i think second wind is better on a stage ⤷ ynsmic i like your thought process

usertwthree i got a picture with you! it was great to meet you and i can't wait to see you live again soon! liked by ynsmic

f1 👀 ⤷ usertwfour alright what does this mean bro

♫ y/n l/n • MUTT

liked by williamsracing, alexalbon, logansargeant, and others

ynsmic and f1 second wind @ miami grand prix. see you soon.

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logansargeant williamsracing f1 while this isnt what i meant by inviting y/n to a gp but ill take it ⤷ ynsmic thanks for the invite man, even if it wasn't the right one ⤷ alexalbon sorry, logan is freaking out. he says your welcome liked by ynsmic

usertwfive bro this rapper is small as hell what is f1 doing inviting him to perform at a grand prix, the miami one no less 💀 ⤷ ynsmic i ask myself the same thing, but logan and i met at my gig the other night and he was going to invite me to a grand prix, but f1 thought he wanted me to perform, so here we are

usertwsix f1 and y/n fans how are we feeling ⤷ usertwseven im so glad i got tickets to the miami gp now only because of y/n

usertweight miami gp? more like y/n gp ⤷ usertwnine alright lets get you to bed

williamsracing williams is sorry for the mix up ⤷ userthirty nah my team is cooked theyre talking in third point of view ⤷ userthione nah your team is cooked by having logan as a driver this comment has been deleted by ynsmic!

userthitwo i need y/n and logan to interact at the miami gp please

userthithree my little rapper isnt so little anymore

liked by userthifour, userthifive, userthisix, and others

f1gossip before the miami grand prix weekend starts, logan sargeant and oscar piastri are seen on the streets of miami with y/n l/n, an up and coming rapper that is set to perform at the opening ceremony for the miami grand prix

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userthifour i've never heard of y/n before ⤷ userthifive neither have i, but i did look up his music and it's pretty good

userthisix man this dude has like 5k monthly listeners on spotify what is he doing performing at the miami grand prix 💀💀 ⤷ userthiseven y/n said that he was just supposed to visit the williams garage cause of logan, but there was miscommunication and they invited him to perform ⤷ userthieight or it's because nobody wants to perform at the miami gp so they picked out an artist nobody knows

userthinine im like lowkey excited for the opening ceremony

userfourty imagine logan gets pole and p1 because of y/n (his fav artist since f2) being there ⤷ userfourone i would bet real money on that because that's never going to happen ⤷ userfourtwo don't sleep on my boy logan alright ⤷ userfourthree i'll gladly sleep on logan slowgeant

liked by logansargeant, oscarpiastri, lewishamilton, and others

ynsmic what a way to start the weekend. even though many people didn't know who i was, it was still a blast to perform second wind in my hometown on a large stage and spread my music to the world.

let's go logan sargeant sweep for miami.

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userfourfour y/n is a ls2? ⤷ ynsmic he's the reason why i got to perform, so i'm obligated to cheer him on

logansargeant if y/n has one fan, it's me. if y/n has no fans, i'm dead. ⤷ ynsmic my biggest fan

logansargeant i was screaming the lyrics from the williams garage ⤷ alexalbon can confirm this (i even got it on video) ⤷ ynsmic that was you? (send it to me?)

userfourfive i love this friendship that y/n and logan have ⤷ userfoursix the fact that logan was a fan of y/n for years and now he's friends with y/n. logan must fan boy every time they interact

userfourseven who else came here after watching the opening ceremony???? ⤷ userfoureight i did!! ⤷ userfournine me as well! might become a new fan of him...

♫ y/n l/n • squabble up - radio edit

liked by williamsracing, ynsmic, alexalbon, and others

f1 and logansargeant LOGAN SARGEANT TO START IN POLE POSITION TOMORROW IN MIAMI!!!!

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userfifty holy fucking shit

userfifone LOGAN SARGEANT SWEEEEEP IN AMERICAAAAA RAHHHHH

userfiftwo GUYS MY DRIVER DID IT HE DID IT LETS GOOOO

ynsmic am i allowed to take responsibility for this? ⤷ logansargeant maybe.

userfifthree OH MY GOD AMERICAAAAA RAHHH

alexalbon MY SEXY AMERICAN TEAMMATE THATS WHAT IM TALKING ABOUT OH MY GOD MANIFESTATION WORKS!!

♫ y/n l/n • st.chroma - radio edit

liked by ynsmic, lewishamilton, oscarpiastri, and others

f1 and logansargeant LOGAN. SARGEANT. WINS. MIAMI. After a rough rookie year and troubles with his car and races, the only American on the grid has officially done it, and at his home race.

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ynsmic THAT'S MY LOGAN ⤷ userfiffour your logan? ⤷ logansargeant Y/NNNNN LFGGGGG

userfiffive everybody who doubted my boy logan, i expect apologies with tears and a ukelele

userfifsix THATS RIGHTTT!! LOGAN DESERVES TO BE HERE!!

userfifseven OH MY GODDDD THIS IS REVOLUTIONARY HUGE DAY FOR THE LOGANG ⤷ logansargeant that can't be what you guys are called.

alexalbon went to the tom holland school of manifestation

williamsracing LOGAN. SARGEANT.

userfifeight USING Y/N'S SONG I CANTTTTT

liked by ynsmic, alexalbon, charles_leclerc, and others tagged: ynsmic

logansargeant miami 🤍

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userfifnine we get a logan first place and gay hard launch all in one weekend??

usersixty i was NOT expecting this holy shit

ynsmic forever proud of you logan 🤍 ⤷ logansargeant thank you y/n 🤍

usersixone not disappointed not surprised. congrats you two!

alexalbon and what do we say to alex? ⤷ logansargeant are we supposed to say thank you? ⤷ alexalbon who pushed you towards y/n after the podium ceremony?? ⤷ ynsmic thank you ... alex

usersixtwo oh i can tell these two are going to be insufferable

usersixthree imagine logan just gets infinitely better at driving now that he has a boyfriend ⤷ usersixfour the magic of significant others

charles_leclerc can you tell y/n i want to work with him on a song soon ⤷ lewishamilton seconding this ⤷ logansargeant am i just a connection to you now? ⤷ ynsmic ignore him-- i would be honored!

liked by logansargeant, alexalbon, lewishamilton, and others tagged: xnda, charles_leclerc

ynsmic wusyaname (feat. xnda, charles leclerc)

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logansargeant this is going double platinum in my house ⤷ ynsmic glad to hear it lover 🤍

a/n: OKAY! sorry this was so long, but i really hoped it managed expectations @darkestmrhyde !! i had a lot of fun making it :))

tags: @milessunflowers @lokisen @kevinlolwife @op-81-lvr-reblogs @kazanskied @481rosier

[shiyorin]

Slice of life with Rogal Dorn (and Imperial Fists)

It's a sequel to this one. Of course I'm too lazy to write it seriously, but here's basically what happens next if you're curious.

Somehow, three days later, you found yourself at Home Depot, pushing a cart while Rogal filled it with lumber, cement mix, and various tools. You'd called in sick to work, using vacation days you'd been saving for a trip to Florida.

Instead, you were funding the fortification of your modest suburban home by a giant amnesiac with one hand who worked with frightening efficiency.

"The perimeter will be secure by nightfall." Rogal informed you as you loaded supplies into your hatchback. Despite his size, he'd proven surprisingly inconspicuous in public, people seemed to glance at him, then immediately find something else to focus on, as if their brains refused to process his existence.

You nodded, hoping your neighbors wouldn't notice the construction.

By sunset, your backyard had been transformed. What had been a sagging chain-link fence was now a sturdy wooden barrier, reinforced with metal bracing at strategic points. Despite having only one hand, Rogal worked with astonishing speed and precision.

"I appear to possess construction knowledge." he noted, studying his handiwork. "Perhaps I was a builder or engineer before."

"Maybe." you agreed, genuinely impressed. "You built this faster than the contractors who redid my bathroom, and they had two hands each."

For the first time, you caught what might have been the ghost of a smile on Rogal's stern face.

*****

Two weeks into your unexpected roommate situation, you were adapting to the strangeness with surprising ease. Rogal had proven to be a model houseguest, if one ignored his constant structural critiques and predilection for reinforcing random elements of your home.

Your bathroom plumbing now worked better than it ever had. Your kitchen cabinets were reinforced to withstand what Rogal called "orbital bombardment", whatever that meant. Your home security system had been upgraded with parts he'd somehow fashioned from your old DVD player.

You'd settled into an odd routine. You went to work at the graphic design firm while Rogal stayed home, building and planning. You'd stop at Home Depot on your way back, bringing him modest supplies that he somehow stretched into impressive constructions.

"This is my life now," you told your reflection while brushing your teeth one morning. "I have a giant amnesiac handyman living in my spare room. Could be worse, I guess."

That evening, you came home to find Rogal standing in your backyard, staring intently at a man in black armor kneeling on your lawn.

Not a man in black armor, you realized as you approached cautiously. A man who seemed to be black armor, as if it were grafted to his body. His head was shaved, his face severe, and a massive sword was strapped to his back.

"Um, Rogal?" you called. "Who's this?"

Rogal turned to you, his expression thoughtful. "I believe this is Sigismund. Though I cannot explain how I know this."

The armored man rose, towering nearly as tall as Rogal. "Father" he said to Rogal, then looked confused at his own words.

"Oh fuck." you whispered. "There's more of you?"

"I awakened in a field approximately seven kilometers from this position," Sigismund stated. "I was drawn here by… something I cannot explain."

You looked between the two giants, noting the similar stern expressions and military bearing. "Fantastic. Now I have two of you."

Sigismund surveyed the yard, his gaze lingering on Rogal's fortifications. "The perimeter is well-constructed, but lacks depth. A determined assault would breach it within minutes."

"That's what I said" Rogal agreed. "But we have limited materials."

"I have a more pressing question," you interrupted. "Where is he going to sleep? I don't have another spare room."

Both men turned to you with identical blank expressions.

"Sleep is optional." Sigismund stated.

Your headache returned with a vengeance.

*****

One month and three more arrivals later, your modest home had become something unrecognizable. Your backyard now featured what could only be described as a miniature fortress, constructed with materials that should have been insufficient for the task.

Alexis Polux, another giant man, had appeared next, followed by two others who identified themselves as Vladimir Pugh and Halbrecht. All wore the same confused expression upon arrival, all knew Rogal somehow, and all immediately set to improving your home's defenses.

None could explain their presence or past, though they occasionally used terms like "Astartes," "Imperial Fists," "Black Templars" and "Crimson Fists" in their conversations.

You had given up questioning it. Your house now had the most sophisticated security system on the block, plumbing that would survive a nuclear winter, and structural reinforcement that made you wonder if your property taxes would go up.

Your neighbors had started avoiding eye contact when you collected your mail.

"The garage conversion is complete." Alexis reported one evening as you returned from work. "It will accommodate our increased numbers."

You nodded, long past being surprised by anything. "Anyone else show up today?"

"Negative." Rogal answered from where he was modifying your kitchen island. "Though I sense others may yet arrive."

"Of course they will." you sighed, setting down your grocery bags. "Because why wouldn't they?"

You'd taken to buying food in bulk, as your houseguests consumed calories at an alarming rate. Somehow, your grocery bill was offset by the fact that your utility costs had plummeted, Sigismund had reconfigured your HVAC system for "optimal efficiency."

"Your dwelling is becoming more defensible," Rogal noted with what, for him, amounted to enthusiasm. "Though the neighboring structures remain vulnerable."

"Just focus on our place, okay?" you said, unpacking groceries.

Our place. When had you started thinking of it that way?

When you sat on your reinforced back deck, watching Halbrecht and Vladimir construct what appeared to be a guard tower in the corner of your yard, Rogal joined you.

"You have accommodated us without question." he observed, lowering himself carefully onto a bench he'd built. "This is… unexpected."

You shrugged. "What was I supposed to do? Call the authorities? That would have gone well."

"Nevertheless. You have shown remarkable adaptability."

You glanced at him, surprised by what sounded almost like a compliment. "Thanks. You guys aren't so bad yourselves. Apart from the constant construction noise and eating me out of house and home."

"We contribute what we can." Rogal said solemnly. "Though I recognize it is… unconventional."

You nodded, a small smile forming. "But hey, my house has never been in better shape."

Rogal nodded. "The fortress will stand."

"It's a suburban ranch house, Rogal."

"It is whatever we make of it." he replied simply.

Vladimir, who was now visible on your roof positioning what appeared to be gargoyles shaped like eagles, gave you a solemn thumbs up.

"This isn't happening," you muttered. "And why does my ranch house suddenly have castle turrets?"

"Improved sightlines for defensive operations," Sigismund answered, appearing beside you in full black armor. "Also, Vladimir insisted the aesthetic was important."

Alexis approached with blueprints for what appeared to be a moat system that would encircle your entire property.

"We require your approval for the next phase." he said solemnly.

"Is that a moat?" you asked weakly.

"With optional crocodiles." Halbrecht added, nodding seriously. "I have located a supplier."

You looked at your once-normal house, now a bizarre hybrid of suburban ranch and medieval stronghold, surrounded by giant men with amnesia and apparent fortification compulsions.

"No crocodiles." you said firmly. "But I suppose the moat is fine."

"A wise decision." Rogal approved. "Water barriers are highly effective deterrents."

You sank down onto a nearby bench (reinforced, naturally) and started laughing uncontrollably. The giants paused their work, watching you with identical expressions of mild concern.

"Are you experiencing a malfunction?" Rogal inquired.

You wiped tears from your eyes. "No, I'm fine. Just processing that I now live in the most defensible split-level ranch in Ohio history."

"Not yet." Rogal corrected seriously. "But we are making progress."

As if on cue, a large delivery truck appeared at the end of your driveway. The driver stepped out, consulting his clipboard.

"Got a delivery of… sixteen tons of granite and a medieval trebuchet kit for this address?" he called uncertainly.

Vladimir and Halbrecht exchanged what could only be described as excited glances.

"That would be for us." Rogal confirmed, striding toward the truck.

"I didn't order a trebuchet!" you hissed after him.

"Of course not." Rogal replied calmly. "I used your Amazon account. The reviews were quite positive."

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 2: Hera, Goddess Of Childbirth]

A/N: Enjoy Chapter 2 a little early! See you on Sunday for Chapter 3 🥰

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.4k

Tagging: @arcielee @huramuna @glasscandlegrenades @gemmagirlss1 @humanpurposes @mariahossain @marvelescvpe @darkenchantress @aemondssapphirebussy @haslysl @bearwithegg @beautifulsweetschaos @travelingmypassion @althea-tavalas @chucklefak @serving-targaryen-realness @chaoticallywriting @moonfllowerr @rafeism @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @herfantasyworldd @mangosmootji

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

You are buzzed at a private party in the Rainbow Room of Rockefeller Center, Midtown, February 1966, chandeliers and candlelight, pink and red hearts made of paper hanging from shimmering strings and littering the floor. Your roommate Barbara Nassau Astor—yes those Astors, Astor Avenue in the Bronx, Astoria in Queens, “the landlords of New York”—brought you along tonight, and the chance to be swept up into her glittering existence is precisely why your father sent you to a school like Manhattanville College of the Sacred Heart. Barb knows people who know people who know other people and every single individual in that grand design is wealthy and worldly and could possibly lead you into the generous arms of your future husband. You are from Tarpon Springs, Florida, heiress to a sea sponge fortune, and your father nurses powerful ambitions of intermingling his blood with the Northeastern elite.

You scan the selection as you sip your Pink Squirrel. You could marry a doctor and sit in the living room waiting for him to come home at 9 or 10 or 11 p.m., fix him a Whiskey Sour or a Sazerac, listen to him bemoan the complexities of nerves and veins before accompanying him to bed and repeating the whole process the next day. You could marry a lawyer or an advertising executive, and your fate would be much the same. Your own parents are partners in life and business, but you have seen enough to know how rare this is. These men of the Rainbow Room, 65 floors above icy streets radiant with headlights, want a wife whose hands will stay manicured and idle: nannies will tend to the children, maids will clean the house, mistresses will massage the knots out of the muscles of his back. And you—a relative upstart, new money among ancient bloodlines—will have no right to demand otherwise.

A man interrupts your reverie. He wants to know about the pendant you wear around your neck. You sigh before you turn to him; you resist the instinct to roll your eyes. And then you see him. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed, with a curious intensity and a teasing little smirk, an Old Fashioned in his grasp like molten gold. You don’t know it yet, but he is a senator from New Jersey, very recently elected, victorious yet still hungry. He steals the oxygen out of your lungs. He drowns you in the amber-musk warmth of his cologne.

“It’s Athena,” you say, touching your fingertips to the silver medallion self-consciously; and you are rarely self-conscious. The black polish has been scrubbed from your nails and replaced with a soft, shimmering champagne. You spent two hours this afternoon having your hair painfully teased and arranged into a Brigitte Bardot-inspired updo.

“Goddess of wisdom.”

“And war and peace. And math.”

“Math?” He is intrigued.

“That’s what I’m studying at school. Math.”

“And yet you are not disinterested in the humanities. You know Greek mythology.”

“Well, Tarpon Springs has a lot of Greeks, and that’s where I’m from, so.”

“Studies math. From Tarpon Springs, Florida. I’m learning everything about you.” He smiles, this magnetic stranger who has captured you like a moon lured into a planet’s gravity. He swallows a mouthful of his Old Fashioned, moisture glistening on his lips. “Do you like Greek food?”

You can’t seem to follow his words. Blood is rushing into your face, hot and dizzying. “What?”

“Greek food. Have you tried it? Hummus, tzatziki, gyros, spanakopita, horiatiki, baklava.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve had it. It’s great.”

“My family owns a house on Long Beach Island,” he says casually. “We eat a lot of Greek food there. You should join us for dinner sometime soon.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Very soon. Maybe this weekend. Are you free?”

No, you’re not; but you’ll cancel plans until you are. “Um, okay. Sure. And who…sorry, I might have missed it, but…who are you…?”

“Aemond Targaryen.” And he shakes your hand like you’re someone who matters. “I’m a senator. I’m trying to end the war.”

With him, you could be a part of something magnificent. With him, you could help save the world.

~~~~~~~~~~

Asteria is the goddess of falling stars, but the home of rising ones. On the north end of Long Beach Island, New Jersey—only 100 miles south of the sleek bladelike skyscrapers of Manhattan—lies the sprawling Targaryen estate. The nine-acre property features one main house and another three for guests, a swimming pool, a tennis court, a ten-car garage, a boathouse, a pier, and an ample stretch of beach that abuts the Atlantic Ocean, open water with nothing interrupting the infinite, miles-deep blue from the East Coast to the Iberian Peninsula. It is the first week of July, 1968, and your 23rd birthday. You are lazing in a lounge chair on the emerald green lawn and eating your third slice of melopita, a cheesecake-like dessert made with honey and ricotta. It originates from the Greek island of Sifnos.

“You two can’t murder each other while I’m gone,” Aemond says. He’s sitting between you and Aegon. His stitches have healed, the worst of his pain has subsided, his poll numbers have only improved since the assassination attempt. He has a glass eye that he can insert for public appearances, but he dislikes it; at home he wears a leather eyepatch that still unnerves the children. Tomorrow, Aemond is flying to Tacoma to campaign ahead of the Washington State Convention on the 13th. Most of the family will be joining him, with only three Targaryens remaining at Asteria: ailing Viserys, useless Aegon, and you, officially too pregnant to travel by plane. You are wearing a floral, flowing, two-piece swimsuit. The sun is blazing in a clear sky. The record player is piping out Time Of The Season by the Zombies.

Aegon waves a hand flippantly, then adjusts his preposterously large blue-tinted plastic sunglasses; he is shirtless, flabby, very sunburned. “I’ll barely be here.”

Aemond looks over at him, amused. “Oh yeah? And what pressing engagements do you have to attend to? I’d love to know.”

You take a bite of your melopita and scatter crumbs across the swell of your belly: seven and a half months along. “I’m sure the prostitutes miss him.”

“They do,” Aegon snaps. “I’m their favorite customer.”

“Well you’re a reprieve for them. It’s always over so quickly.”

Aemond is snickering. Aegon says to him: “23, huh? A 13-year age difference. She could almost be your daughter.”

“And 17 years younger than you. She could definitely be yours.”

“That’s how Aegon likes his girls,” you say. “Too inexperienced to recognize end-stage degeneracy. Still stumbling their way through Shakespeare for English class.”

“Why can’t she stay at the brownstone?” Aegon asks irritably. Aemond owns a historic townhouse in Georgetown for when Congress is in session, though he’s rarely been there since he announced that he was running for president.

“Because Doxie is here to make sure she’s taken care of,” Aemond replies. Eudoxia has been the head housekeeper of Asteria for decades, a formidable battleaxe of a woman who speaks very little English and has a seemingly endless supply of patterned scarves to wrap around her ink black dyed hair. There currently aren’t any permanent staff stationed at the brownstone, and Aemond does not trust strangers. “And because my future first lady is hosting a tea party on the 10th.”

“A tea party!” Aegon gasps, mocking you. “Surely that will patch the wounds of our troubled nation. She’s an inspiration. She’s motherfucking Gloria Steinem.”

“She’s Aphrodite,” Aemond says, beaming with pride, his remaining eye fixed on your belly. He’s lost one piece of himself, but in a month and a half he’ll gain another. “Goddess of love.”

“There must be a more appropriate mythological character. Medusa, perhaps. Lyssa was the goddess of rabies, Epiales was the goddess of nightmares.”

“Aegon, I had no idea you were so…” You search for the right word. “Literate.”

“Io was turned into a cow.” He grins at you, toothy, malicious.

“She’s also one of Jupiter’s moons,” Aemond muses. He draws invisible orbits in the air with his long, graceful fingers. “Beautiful, celestial, pristine…”

“A satellite,” Aegon says. “Mindless. Aimless. Going wherever she’s told.”

Aemond insists as he twists the bracelet around your right wrist, a delicate gold chain he bought during your honeymoon in Hawaii: “Aphrodite.”

“Didn’t she fuck around with, like, everyone?”

“Maybe you should be Aphrodite,” you tell Aegon.

Mimi appears, tottering across the lawn with the straps of her sundress sliding off her shoulders and her Gimlet sloshing precariously in its glass. The children are playing in the surf with the nannies and Fosco, who is entertaining them by diving for seashells and delivering his treasures into their tiny, grasping palms. Criston is supervising from the sand, though he steals frequent glimpses of Alicent as she feeds a wheelchair-bound Viserys—much diminished after a number of strokes—his own slice of melopita, one careful, patient spoonful at a time. “Can we…” Mimi bursts out laughing and almost falls over. She claws her way upright again using the back of Aegon’s chair. “Um…I was thinking…”

“What?” Aegon asks, annoyed, avoidant. If they’ve ever been happy, it was a transient epoch that came and went long before you joined the family. It was before the asteroid killed the dinosaurs.

“We should go back to Mykonos. We had such a nice time in Mykonos. Didn’t we? Didn’t we just adore Mykonos?”

Aegon sighs, glowering out over the ocean. “Yeah, we sure did. Ten years ago.”

“Exactly!” Mimi gushes, oblivious. “When can we go? Next week? Let’s go next week.”

“Mimi, you and the kids will be in Washington, remember?” Aemond says. Alicent will have to be her handler; usually it’s your job to make sure Mimi is ready for photos, eats enough to stay conscious, doesn’t trip over her own feet, doesn’t talk too much to the press.

“Washington?” Like she’s never heard of it.

“The state. Not the city. For the convention.”

“Oh right. Right.” She gulps her Gimlet. You could set your watch by Mimi’s drinking. Tipsy by lunch, drunk at dinner, crawling on the floor chasing the dogs around by 8 p.m. The Targaryens keep a drove of Alopekis, small and white and foxlike. “Well…maybe some other time.”

“After the election,” Aemond says with an abiding, encouraging smile. He tolerates Mimi because he needs her: happy wholesome family, American Dream. Down at the water’s edge, the nannies are giving towels to Fosco and the children as they scamper out of the frothing waves, Mimi’s five and Helaena’s three: Daphne, Neaera—no one can ever seem to spell her name correctly, least of all the six-year-old girl herself—and Evangelos.

Mimi departs, on the hunt for a fresh Gimlet. Aegon reaches into the pocket of his swim trunks—Hawaiian print, royal blue—and pulls out a joint and a Zippo. He sticks the joint between his teeth and goes to light it.

“No,” Aemond says immediately, yanking the joint out of Aegon’s mouth and stomping it into the earth. Then he points down the beach towards the sand dunes. “You know journalists will sneak around trying to get photos. You know we’re never truly alone out here.”

“They can’t tell what I’m smoking!”

“Don’t argue with me.”

“You know there are teenagers getting their limbs blown off in Vietnam right now? I think society has bigger problems than me smoking grass.”

“And yet to solve those bigger problems, I have to win in November. And the suburban housewives will not vote for me if they think I support legalizing marijuana. Trust me, I know. I’ve met them.”

“I wouldn’t want those people’s votes,” Aegon says derisively.

“You’d rather Nixon get them?”

Aegon doesn’t have a speedy rebuttal this time. He contemplates the Atlantic Ocean, the wind tearing at his hair.

“It’s hot as hell,” Aemond says to you, gathering up the newspapers he’s been leafing through, never not thinking about the election, never not strategizing. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

As you accompany Aemond towards the main house—and of course you follow him, always, anywhere—Alicent waves you over to where she and Viserys are sitting to wish you a happy birthday again. From this vantage point, you can just barely spot Otto and Helaena strolling through her garden, a jungle of butterfly bushes and herbs. The stricken Targaryen patriarch beams at the swell of your belly. Viserys likes you, you are his favorite daughter-in-law, though perhaps this is not so lofty an achievement. Moreover, he likes that you are carrying the child of his decent son. Aemond has already decided on the baby’s name: Aristos Apollo. If it is in fact a boy, you suppose you’ll call him Ari, but he doesn’t feel real to you yet. He belongs to Aemond, to the Targaryens, to the nation, but not quite to you. He is more myth than flesh.

“Nothing is more precious than children,” Viserys tells Aemond, raspy and frail. “I would have had at least five more if I could.” Alicent bows her head, an acknowledgement of her failure in this regard. Viserys expects it. You and Aemond politely avert your gazes.

“Thank God for this baby,” Alicent says. “After the year we’ve had? That the whole world has had? We all need something to be grateful for.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees, smiling. It must be the promise of a son that has made his maiming go down smoother, and maybe it is his soaring poll numbers too, and maybe it is gratitude that he escaped with his life, and maybe it is even the fact that he has you.

But long after dusk when you’re getting ready for bed—slathering yourself in Jergens, stepping into your chiffon nightgown—as you pass through the sliver of light pouring out of the bathroom, you catch a glimpse of something that stops you. Aemond is standing in front of the mirror with his hands on the rim of the sink, his eyepatch slung over the towel rack, his voided eye socket exposed and gory and irreparably wounded. There’s something in his scarred face that you can’t recall ever seeing before. There is a seething, secret, animal rage. There is fury for everyone who has ever denied him anything.

You remember who you were before you met Aemond at the Rainbow Room in Manhattan at a party you were almost not illustrious enough to attend. You wore your hair long and loose, you downed shots, you smoked, you swore, you slept through class almost every Monday; and then you packed all of this away in your allegorical attic and became someone who could stand beside a senator, and then a candidate, and then a president, someone who could tip the scales of fate.

And you think as you lurk unnoticed in the doorway: Maybe he’s been hiding parts of himself too.

~~~~~~~~~~

July 10th, 10 a.m. He’s snoring on a couch in the living room, the one patterned with sailboats. He’s hugging his acoustic guitar like a child clinging to a teddy bear. Sometimes he plays it for the kids: Get Rhythm, Twist And Shout, Stand By Me, You Can’t Hurry Love. That’s about the extent of his involvement in their lives. He has a law degree from Columbia that his father bought for him. Aside from a brief and disastrous stint as the mayor of Trenton, he has never been gainfully employed. You pour the cupful of ice cubes you collected from the freezer all over his bare chest.

“What the fuck!” Aegon screams as he startles awake. “What is wrong with you?!”

“The guests are arriving in two hours. And you’re going to help me host.”

“I’m not slobbering at the feet of those manicured elitists.”

“It’s easy to say ‘vive la révolution’ from your family’s mansion that you reside in as a professional failure.”

“Yeah, you’re right, I’m so worthless. If only I spent more time hosting tea parties.”

“I can’t small talk with governors and congressmen, so I have to charm their wives instead. That’s how it works, you idiot.”

Aegon rolls off the couch and rubs his forehead, wincing, hungover. In the dining room, Eudoxia is readying cups and plates, polishing silverware, folding napkins. The caterers will be here soon, and there are also three dishes that you made yourself: stafidopsomo, a bread with raisins and cinnamon; rizogalo, Greek-style rice pudding; and baklava you spent hours chopping walnuts for. At least one show of domestic prowess is an expectation, two is impressive, three is above and beyond, something for the other political wives to chatter about. You know the importance of making a good impression on them. They are as much a part of their husbands’ careers as the speech writers, communication directors, fundraisers. “I need a Bloody Mary,” Aegon groans.

“You need to pull your goddamn weight. Everyone else is working to get Aemond elected. Your five-year-old kid is out on the campaign trail and you can’t walk around with a tray of hummus and mini spanakopitas? Are you serious?”

“I’m dead serious,” he says, standing with some difficulty and then shoving by you. “Fuck off, Miss America.”

“Aegon!”

But he’s padding off towards the kitchen with his bare feet, tiki print boxer shorts, bedraggled hair. You follow after him in your spotless white heels and sundress patterned with common blue violets. Your earrings are pearls. You’ve wrangled your hair into a tidy French twist. Aegon is getting a pitcher of tomato juice out of the refrigerator, a bottle of vodka from a cardboard Apple Jacks box. He keeps booze and pills hidden everywhere; you’re always stumbling across his caches.

You open your mouth to unleash something hurtful, something hateful, but then you feel the cold flare of liquid on your thighs as the ocean breeze gusts in through the windows. My dress, you think, alarmed. What did I spill on it? One of the ice cubes you threw at Aegon must have caught on the skirt somehow and melted. That’s your first guess, and it is welcome; water doesn’t stain, and you aren’t sure if you have another outfit that is both formal enough and will still fit you. But when you reach down to touch your leg—now the liquid reaches your knees—your hand comes away red.

You look up at Aegon. He’s staring back at you, thunderstruck, horrified. His Bloody Mary ingredients are now forgotten on the countertop. He shouts for the housekeeper: “Doxie?!”

There is indistinct, cantankerous Greek grumbling in return.

“Doxie! Call an ambulance!”

“I don’t understand,” you say to Aegon, bright clotless blood dyeing the whirls of your fingerprints. I ruined my dress, you think nonsensically. “It doesn’t hurt. Shouldn’t it hurt?”

“Don’t move, don’t do anything, just wait for the paramedics.”

But the edges of your vision are going dark and hazy, and the room spins like a flipped coin. Your knees and ankles fold, bones turned to paper. As you drop, Aegon dives for you. You clutch at him, but there’s nothing to grab onto, no suit jacket, no tie, only skin that glows with sunburn. “If I don’t wake up, tell Aemond—”

“You’re not dying, bitch. My luck’s not that good.”

But his eyes are panicked; and they are the last thing you see before you black out.

~~~~~~~~~~

Arteries of cement, bones like lead, heavy eyelids opening to reveal strange white walls.

Am I dead?

But no: you hurt all over. Heaven isn’t supposed to hurt. There are needles pierced through the backs of your hands, a splitting rawness in your throat.

Was I intubated? Did I have surgery…?

You try to sit up. The pain is blinding; the severed and sutured latticework of your abdominal muscles is a pit of glass. You gasp, moan plaintively, fumble for the nurse call button on the wooden nightstand.

“Will you stop moving?” Aegon says as he walks into the room. He’s slurping on a straw that pokes out from a Dairy Queen cup. The fluid inside is clumpy and red. Instantly, you think of blood, and a wave of nausea punches through the shredded gore that was once your belly. Aegon flops down into the salmon pink armchair beside the bed and props his combat boots up on the ottoman. “They sliced you up like the Black Dahlia. You’re gonna rip your stitches.”

“They did a c-section…?”

“Yeah, you had some kind of uterus…thing. I don’t remember.”

The baby?? Is the baby alright?? “An abruption?”

More slurping. “No…I think it started with a P.”

“Previa?”

“Yeah, that one.”

You remember waking up a few times: on the kitchen floor as men were lifting you, in an ambulance as the siren shrieked. Someone said you were being taken to Mount Sinai in Manhattan. And that makes sense, that would have been Criston’s plan. Mount Sinai is one of the best hospitals in the country. You look around the room for a bassinet or a crib. Instead you see a wheelchair and a myriad of flower bouquets; word has already gotten out, and so the customary well wishes are pouring in. Lady Bird Johnson sent bluebonnets, the state flower of Texas; Abigail McCarthy sent lilies of the valley; Muriel Humphrey sent roses, traditional, safe, uninspiring; Pat Nixon sent blood orange gladioli. Mrs. Wallace, newly deceased, neglected to call a florist. “Where’s the baby?”

“He’s fine. He’s downstairs in an incubator.”

Ari, you think, though he still doesn’t seem real yet. “What…?”

“His lungs are underdeveloped. But the doctors think he’ll be alright. You want a Mr. Misty? There’s a Dairy Queen like two blocks from here.”

“No, I don’t want a Mr. Misty,” you say, incredulous. “I want to see the baby.”

“Well they can’t move him and they can’t move you, so you’ll have to wait.”

“I’m going to see him—” You swing your feet off the bed and feel daggers, fire, a splintering like someone has taken a hammer to your bones. You almost scream; it takes everything in you to choke it down and only gasp as your flesh becomes an inferno. I want a joint, you think randomly, an urge you’d believed you had exorcised from yourself, an archaic relic of a past life.

“Told you,” Aegon says smugly.

You lie panting, helpless, glancing at the phone on the nightstand. “Aemond knows?”

“Oh yeah, I’ve called everyone. He knows.”

“Good. So he’ll be here soon.”

“Sure,” Aegon says, perhaps a tad noncommittally.

“Okay.” You’re still trying to catch your breath. Tacoma is a six hour flight away. Even if Aemond doesn’t leave until morning, he’ll be here by sundown tomorrow. “You can go now.”

“Go?!” Aegon exclaims, then laughs, one of his reckless, taunting cackles. “Oh no. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You definitely are.”

“No, I’m not,” he insists, grinning. “For once in my life, I’m the person who’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. I’m the honorable one. The sacred heir of the favorite son has just been born, and the blessed mother has been sawed in half like Saint Simon the Zealot, and where is Aemond? Where is literally everyone else? Across the continent shaking hands and forcing smiles to win him the great state of Washington. I’m not going home. I’m collecting every second I spend here like coins from a slot machine. I won the jackpot, babe. No one is ever going to be able to call me the family fuckup after this.”

The pain is horrible, insurmountable; you can’t think through it. You close your eyes and try not to sob, to wail, to split yourself open in body and soul. I can’t let him see me break down.

“What’s up?” Aegon asks. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I want a Mr. Misty. Go get me a Mr. Misty.”

“Okay,” Aegon says doubtfully. “What flavor?”

“I don’t care. Not red.”

“They have orange, lemon-lime, grape—”

“Just pick one!” you shout, tears brimming in your eyes. Get out, get out, get out.

“Calm down, psycho!” he yells back, heading for the door.

As soon as he crosses the threshold, you snatch the call button off the nightstand and press it frantically until a nurse arrives. You get more morphine and sink into a stillness like deep water, down, down, down.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s dark outside, stars and a crescent moon. On the television is grainy footage from the Battle of Khe Sanh. American soldiers younger than you are dragging their wounded brethren to a Chinook helicopter for evacuation: bandages, burns, missing limbs and faces. Aegon had dozed off in his chair—assisted by an ample amount of Vicodin, surely—but is stirring awake now. He blinks groggily at the screen.

“It’s so fucking awful,” you say, and Aegon’s eyebrows shoot up; it’s the first time you’ve ever sworn in front of him. You trained yourself to stop when you met Aemond. “30,000 Americans dead, God knows how many Vietnamese peasants, Buddhist monks setting themselves on fire, and for what? So we can say we did everything we could to stop communism? So we can humiliate the Russians? There is no liberation of Vietnam. All we’re doing is making those people hate us. And we’re destroying ourselves too.”

“I didn’t know you cared about the war.”

You look at him, mystified. “Everything I do is about the war.”

“But you never really talk about it.” Aegon yawns and stretches, reaching up towards the ceiling. “You talk about Chanel dresses and tea parties.”

“Well yeah, because it’s…it’s unseemly, I guess. For me to speak on the war. Me specifically.”

He snorts. “Because you’re a woman? Who told you that? Aemond?”

You hesitate, watching the television again. Now there are napalm bombs incinerating villages and rice paddies. “I had a boyfriend before Aemond, you know.”

“What, in kindergarten? Chasing each other around the playground? Illicit snuggles beneath the slide?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “A real boyfriend.”

“No way. You did not.”

“I did,” you insist, smiling a little. “We met at a party my freshman year of college. He was at NYU studying…oh, I always forgot, that was one of our jokes. It was either archaeology or anthropology. I actually thought I was going to marry him for a minute there.”

“Scandalous.” Aegon is gazing at you with his murky blue eyes, grinning, playful. “What happened?”

“He had a moral crisis about poor kids getting shipped off to Vietnam to be slaughtered while he was tucked safely away in his ivory tower. So he enlisted, and honestly it was shocking how quickly I started to forget about him. We exchanged a few letters, it didn’t last long, I think he was forgetting about me too. But he ended up getting killed in action in October, 1965. His old roommate told me.”

Now Aegon is thoughtful. His crooked grin dies. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s his parents I feel bad for. He was an only child. I heard his father drank himself to death.”

“You’ve been carrying a story like that around with you and you never used it? Not in an interview or an article, not at one of your asinine little tea parties?”

“I can’t,” you confess. “Aemond doesn’t want me to. He doesn’t like to be reminded about…you know. That there was someone else before.”

Aegon throws his head back and cackles, combing his fingers through his disheveled blonde hair. “As if Aemond was a virgin when you met him.”

But it’s not the same. It isn’t to Aemond, and it wouldn’t be to the rest of the world either. It is your eternal disgrace. It is something you will be expected to atone for until you’re in the grave. “Give me a joint.”

Aegon is amazed. “What?”

“I know you have some, you always do. I want one. Give it to me.”

“You smoke grass?”

“I used to. Then I gave it up. But I’m making an exception.”

He gawks at you for a while, then slips a joint out of one of the front pockets of his green army jacket. He places it between his lips, lights it with his little chrome Zippo, and inhales deep and slow. Then he offers it to you.

“I don’t want herpes.”

Aegon laughs. “I don’t have herpes. I swear.”

“Not yet, maybe. Give it time.”

“Are you gonna smoke or not?”

You take the joint and fill your lungs with earth, floral notes, a tinge of spice. It’s been years, but it comes rushing back in an instant as the high hits your bloodstream: calm quiet weightlessness, a sense of wellbeing that fills the honeycomb hollows of your bones. “I need to see the baby.”

Aegon stalls. “The doctors were really insistent that you stay here.”

“And all the sudden you care about rules.”

He considers this, drumming his palms on his thighs. His jeans are ripped; he’s biting his lower lip. Then abruptly, he stands. “Alright.” He grabs the wheelchair and pushes it up against the bed. “Let’s go.”

You take another drag and then discard the joint in your empty Dairy Queen cup. You throw off your blanket and try to touch your bare feet to the cool linoleum floor. It hurts, it feels like razor blades, but you keep going. Then you remember you still have one IV in the back of your left hand. “Wait, how am I going to…?”

“You’re in luck. I am well-versed in needles.” Aegon holds out a palm. Nervously, you give him your hand. He peels off the medical tape, takes a moment to examine the vein, then slides out the needle so smoothly you don’t feel it at all; it barely even bleeds. He balls up a Kleenex from the box on your nightstand and secures it to the wound with the same strip of tape. “You’re welcome.”

“Junkie.” You try to lower yourself into the wheelchair and a yelp rips from your throat.

“Oh, this is pathetic,” Aegon says, but not quite unkindly. “Here.” He leans down in front of you. Too desperate to be prideful, you link your arms around the back of his neck. Aegon’s shaggy blonde hair tickles your cheek; his hands skim gingerly to settle on your waist, steadying you without too much pressure. He helps you into the wheelchair, where you collapse gasping and sweating bullets.

“If you ever mention this again, I will guillotine you.”

He winks. “Relax, little Io. I never kiss and tell.”

“I’d assume you’re usually too plastered to remember the details.”

“Be nice. I could roll you down a staircase.” But he doesn’t; he rolls you into the hallway instead.

The lights in the corridor are dim for night, for dreams. You see a few nurses shuttling in and out of other rooms from a distance, but none seem to notice you and Aegon. He steers the wheelchair into the elevator and you ride it down two floors, then cross another hallway and pass through a set of doors. There must be a dozen incubators, half of them occupied. The nurse on duty—currently cradling a tiny infant in her arms, a girl judging by the pink hat, and feeding her from a bottle of formula—gapes at you.

“Ma’am? You aren’t supposed to be—”

“Shut up,” Aegon tells her, and the nurse doesn’t say another word.

Aegon pushes the wheelchair down the line of incubators until you reach the one with a name card labelled Targaryen, Aristos Apollo. And there he is: unmistakably fragile, impossibly small, blue veins like a roadmap beneath translucent skin, tangled in tubes and wires. In his sleeping face you don’t see Aemond or even yourself, but rather an inexplicable familiarity. You feel like you’ve met him before. You feel like you’ve known him all your life.

You press your hand to the clear, domed wall of the incubator; shadows in the shape of your outstretched fingers fall over Ari’s face. “He’s real.”

“Of course he is.” Aegon is watching you; you can see him on the periphery of your vision, a blur of blonde hair and high cheekbones. When you turn to him, he immediately looks away.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing.” But his voice is distracted, bewildered, like someone fumbling for a light switch in a dark room.

[viperfang254]

Bob Reynolds is a Florida Man

I just found out that Bob Reynolds is from Florida, SPECIFICALLY JACKSONVILLE—and not to perpetuate, but it makes so much fuckin’ sense. THIS IS COMING FROM A FLORIDIAN FYI (and no, I’m not in the panhandle, those mfers are basically Alabama). So here’s my list explaining how Bob is a Florida man and why it makes sense, delivered by your local Floridian: 1. Even before he knew he had powers, he was willing to let a BUNCH OF ARMY PEOPLE shoot him and sacrifice himself for the team, us Floridians are sort of patriotic and we stand up for each other. 2. ALONG WITH THIS, BEFORE THAT, HE INSISTED HE COULD HELP WHILST BARELY KNOWING HOW TO FIRE A GUN. WE LOVE FIREARMS HERE. 3. He is/was addicted to meth. A lot of the crazy “Florida man” stories you see are often the result of hard drugs, unfortunately. 4. Florida ranks 49th out of the 50 states in terms of mental health resources. Bob has pretty shit mental health and has never seemed to “seek out” help for it. Mental healthcare here is hard to access, especially if you’re on a budget. 5. Although we don’t have the largest poverty rates, we have large wealth income gaps, especially between classes. Bob and his family were very poor, as we’ve seen. 6. Sentry and Void representing his highs and lows not only represent his mental health, but also how you feel taking drugs. Again, tying back to 3. 7. The “I WAS ON METH” chicken scene. I don’t care if it’s just a meme, look at that scenario and tell me what other state that shit could occur in (and don’t answer with Ohio, plebs). 8. Let me reiterate what this man fuckin’ did to get here. He WENT TO MALAYSIA, heard of a medical study, and WENT THERE WITH NO HESITATION because of how horrible he felt about himself. I’m sorry, but that’s the Florida spirit for you—can’t find something in your life? Search harder! 9. He had an attic. Now, you may be wondering, why am I putting this here? Floridians usually don’t HAVE attics (or big ones, anyway) due to insulation issues. However, in the short time we’re there, we observe that due to his parents’ financial situation, the house is most likely very old. Attics in Florida generally became less common over the years due to construction processes. Since an older, more degraded home was probably all they could afford, him having a decent-sized attic makes sense. Also, Jacksonville’s very far north, close to Georgia, so it does get colder there than where I’m from. 10. I want you to look up what the worst houses in Jacksonville look like—the worst areas. It looks pretty similar to what Bob was living in, sometimes even smaller. 11. Sort of tying back to 3 and 8, healthcare here (especially in Florida, California, New York, Texas etc.) is pretty expensive, and if you’re in Florida, DEPENDING ON THE PLACE, it can be expensive AND shitty. So going to Malaysia for any healthcare reason probably would be beneficial.

Conclusion: Bob being a Florida Man makes 100% sense because he exhibits characteristics of a Florida Man from Jacksonville.

TL;DR: Bob Reynolds is the perfect Florida Man because he’s a self-sacrificing gun-wielding meth-smoking poor mental-heath and money-having dude, which is much more common here than you think. Also him having an attic and going to Malaysia and his “I WAS ON METH” scene makes sense because of his poor financial situation.

[theclairvoyage]

Mermaid Purse - Part 1 of 3

AO3 | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Marine Biologist!Reader x Joel Miller

Summary: Summertime in Clearwater, Florida means no school, which means instead of teaching Marine Biology at a local university, you're bartending at The Rusty Sawfish, a bar located on the marina of Clearwater Beach. The owner's friend, who happens to be a sexy, suarthy Texan contractor, moves to town to start over and help his friend with a project, stumbling across you in the process... and you thought summer in Florida couldn't get hotter.

Warnings for Part 1: Minors DNI! adult language, alcohol consumption, sexual tension, reader is female, reader is able-bodied, unspecified age gap, allusions to smut, kissing, groping, mentions of threesomes. Please lmk if I missed anything!

WC: 9k

If Florida was good at one thing besides starring in strange headlines, it was bringing the heat.

Summer had its bags packed and was ready to leave Clearwater Beach. Not soon enough, you thought, as the humid, subtropical heat of late July in Southern Florida drenched your skin in sticky sweat. The salty breeze from the Gulf of Mexico made it bearable, as did the marine life.

You had loved animals as long as you can remember.  Growing up in the Midwest, you became acclimated to the four-legged ruminates and vast birds of the region. The closest thing you had to the ocean were stinky, dirt-sand beaches tucked away near state parks and curled highways. Oh, and the occasional zoo. Then grew your zeal for the ocean and the creatures that called it home.

That is, until you moved to Florida to study marine biology at the University of Florida, when that zeal exploded into full-on wonderment.

Some of your fondest memories of university were spending innumerable mornings out on the open sea, tagging sharks, rays, and skates for research. As you learned more about these gorgeous creatures, known in the scholarly world as the elasmobranchs, a feeling of protection grew.

And as always, the more you learned about animals, the more you learned about humans.  Some species of sharks have been fished to near-extinction, and over the course of your four years in undergrad, you bore witness to and swore to change that.

Now, as a Professor of Marine Biology at a new college in Clearwater devoted exclusively to the study of marine life, you do your best to imprint that mindset in your students.  Though in summertime, when the students are absent, you’re a full-time bartender at a local marina.  The double income in the summer is cushy, and it’s a nice change from teaching—not to mention the people watching.

That’s where you’re headed now, at 3:00 PM on a Friday—The Rusty Sawfish.  The name is what drew you in, obviously, but the ease and satisfaction of the job are what keep you.  The owner, Gil—another marine pun-slash-name—loves having you around, even if it’s only in the summertime.  He calls you during the school year to see how life is, and if you can pick up a random shift here and there.  A former Air Force pilot from Chicago, Gil spent a good chunk of his midlife in Southern Florida and opened The Rusty Sawfish after retired life bored him.

You turn onto Clearwater Memorial Causeway, a long bridge that connects mainland Florida to Clearwater Beach Island, where the bar is located.  You’ve not once grown tired of the view—beautiful, blue-green waters, white sand beaches, swaying palm trees, and endless sunshine.  Sometimes, you’ll catch an occasional shark dorsal fin cruising along calmer waters or a bottlenose dolphin breaching at the surface.

The Rusty Sawfish lies in Clearwater Municipal Marina, surrounded by several restaurants, hotels, other bars, and tourist spots.  Like many Southern Florida beach cities, the population is a revolving door.  You don’t mind it, though it’s not the same close-knit community as your hometown in Nebraska.

You park on the street and stroll up to the bar, shooing some laughing gulls from the sidewalk.  The tourists here love to feed them, and they feel comfortable in human spaces.  You check your watch—two minutes to spare before you’re “late”, though Gil would never call you out.  He’s just happy you’re there.

The bar is one of the few out here that has large, glass garage doors that can open and enclose the place, which gives it an advantage in case of bad weather.  The inside is modern, unlike many marina bars that are filled with worn wooden floors and hut-like roofs.  The natural lighting inside is beautiful, no thanks to the big windows flanking the front.  The long u-shaped bar has enough comfortable space for 4-5 bartenders at once, which is sometimes doubled on busy summer days.

You step in and walk directly to the back office to drop your purse and clock in.  Gil, perched in his old desk chair and staring at his ancient computer in the stuffy office, looks up from the screen, readers glasses threatening to slip from the edge of his nose.  You chuckle.

“Afternoon, kiddo,” he greets you, smile crinkling his tan, leathery face.

“Afternoon, Gil.  How’s it been today?”

“Same shit.  Big group of fishermen stopped here earlier and are still here.  May need to cut ‘em off soon if they haven’t started laying off the booze,” he groans, scribbling something on his legal pad.  A pencil and paper guy, Gil would still be using an old-fashioned book balance if it weren’t for you.  Though he understands that electronic bookkeeping is a lifesaver, he’s skeptical of computers—and terrible at using them.

“Sounds good.  Just me for a while?” You ask, setting your things in one of the desk drawers and punching in on the time clock.  You can’t remember who was at the bar when you walked in.

“Georgia is here, and we got 2 more coming in for the evening.  Shaping up to be a great night,” he says, returning to stare dead-faced at the computer.  Stifling a chuckle, you nod and exit the office.

Georgia, the lone bartender, is quite happy to see you as she wipes off the countertop of the bar.  She’s a close friend of yours—you two met here at the bar several years ago and share a love for the ocean and its creatures.  She’s a fresh college graduate and a few years your junior.

“Hey! So glad you’re here!” She squeaks, giving you a quick hug.  She’s always been a touchy-feely girl, unlike you—though it doesn’t bother you.

“Rough lunch shift?” You tease, checking the ice bins and refrigerators for stock.  She comes up close to your ear and lowers her voice.

“Those fucking old men have been ruthless.  I made Gil take care of their last couple rounds because I can’t deal with the catcalling,” she hisses.  Before you can scan the bar to eye the table, she stops you.

“Don’t,” she warns, “They had a field day when you walked in.  I’m shocked you didn’t notice!”

Curbing the urge to roll your eyes, you nod.  “Where are they seated?  Maybe we should just give Gil the entire table,” you suggest.

“Underneath the big TV.  They insisted on sitting there so they could play Keno and watch baseball,” she groans.

“Ah, yes.  America’s favorite pastimes,” you quip.  Georgia cackles.

“I’ll stock quick.  Need any of the taps changed?” you ask her, grabbing a sticky note and pen by the POS system.  Bar preference is to have each new shift stock everything once they clock in, which makes the rest of the day a breeze.  Georgia nods.

“I know we’re running low on Miller—that damn table has been guzzling it all day,” she gripes.  You giggle.

“I’ll be back shortly,” you say, heading to the back to grab bottles, cans, and change the Miller tap.  It’s quick work for you and you’re back behind the counter in ten minutes.

“You ready for a break, Georg?” You ask her, preparing your side of the bar with clean glasses and towels.

“Not yet, maybe in about an hour once Gil is done trying to fill a single spreadsheet on Excel,” she jokes, making both of you laugh.  “Plus, I am not leaving you out here alone with those weirdos.”

“Is that one coming up here now?” You tilt your head toward a pudgy, middle-aged, sunburnt man with a ratty Budweiser shirt and an awful sunglasses tan approaching the bar.  He’s not stumbling, but the dumb grin on his face indicates that he’s feeling pretty good.  Georgia confirms with an annoyed grunt.

“Lovely ladies, can I get a refill of Miller?” He chirps, leaning against the bar countertop and propping his glass up.

“Sure.  I’m gonna give you a new glass, though,” Georgia responds, taking the dirty one and putting it in the black bin for used dishes.  Budweiser Man groans.

“Aw, I was tryin’ to help you, sweetie,” he says, loud voice enough to curdle cold milk.  He snaps his eyes to you.

“Wow.  Two gorgeous girls running the bar?  I think we’re in trouble,” he jokes, punctuating his sentence with a belly laugh.  The urge to rip his ratty shirt off his potbelly and embarrass him floods your system momentarily.  You settle for a fake smile instead.

“Sounds like you could use some water,” you joke, still fake smiling at him.  Languidly, he tries to pout at you, but the buzz makes the shift in facial expressions difficult.

“Trust me, sir—a day out in this sun, you’ll want water with each drink,” you add, getting a glass ready for him.

“Then what’s the point of the beer, hunny?” he whines.  Pet names drive you mad, especially from drunk old men.  Patience diminishing by the second, you inhale deeply and fill the glass with water with the soda gun.

“Just making sure our patrons are safe, sir.  Want to make sure you’re able to come back,” you respond, handing him a water as Georgia hands him a full pint of Miller.

“Sure thing, gorgeous,” he says, winking at you.  Gross.  The number of middle-aged men that have flirted with Georgia and you from the other side of the bar is probably pretty high, but most don’t give you the creeps.  Georgia waits until he’s back at the table before sneering.

“Jesus, what a fucking creep,” she seethes.  “I’d love to spit in his drink.”

“Easy, Georg.  Don’t lose it over Porky Pig,” you quip, followed by a boisterous laugh from her.

The night is busy, but smooth.  A weekend fishing tournament at the beach brings in tons of salty, sunburnt folks.  Two other bartenders, Mike and Rand, come in around 7:00 PM to help with the dinner rush.  They’re college kids that double as bouncers, which would’ve been helpful earlier.  The annoying table of anglers left around 5:00 PM after Gil warned them that he’d give them the boot if they didn’t start drinking water.  Porky and his crew left reluctantly, though not before coming up to give you and Georgia big tips and his phone number scrawled on a receipt.

Just in case you two like to tag team, it said.  Both of you suppressed a wave of nausea after reading that.

The bar closes at 2:00 AM most nights during the summer, and from 10 PM-1:30 AM, the bar is hopping.  Lots of anglers and tourists flock to the bar for the big TVs and fancy drinks, many of which you helped Gil curate.  Around 11:00, you finally get a chance to take a break.  Feeling sluggish, you walk over to the nearby convenience store to grab a coffee—caffeine doesn’t do much for you, but it’ll give you the boost you need to reach close.

A can of double shot espresso with cream calls your name, and you’re eager to crack it open.  Forgetting to look before leaving the aisle, you bump into something tall and hard.  The can falls and busts open on the floor, spraying coffee everywhere.  Fuck.

“Oh shit,” you say, realizing that you slammed into some guy.  “I’m so sorry!”  Quickly, you crouch to pick up the fallen can from the cold linoleum floor.

The voice that responds wakes you up more than any espresso could.  “S’alright, miss.  You alright?”

You look up from the puddle of coffee and see a good-sized, handsome-as-fuck stranger standing above you.  Middle-aged; curly, brown hair with flecks of gray; tan, muscled arms; big hands; warm, calming chocolate eyes.  He looks so good that you’re frozen, unable to reply.  He cocks an eyebrow at you before a small grin etches his face.

“Uh, yeah—sorry.  I’m in a hurry, I didn’t mean to bump into you.  I should’ve paid attention,” you respond, panicked.  You scan the aisle for paper towels or something to clean up the mess.

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll go get an employee to clean this up,” the man assures you, his silky, Southern voice placating you.  You stand slowly, too embarrassed to meet his eyes.  A slow burn creeps up your neck and cheeks as his gaze sweeps over you.

“I’ll be right back,” he promises, and you look up at him just before he turns away.  Fuck, he’s gorgeous.  His irises are lined with specks of amber, like gold flakes.  He almost looks worried.

A few moments later, he returns with an older lady dressed in a convenience store uniform, sporting a fluffy white towel.  She smiles warmly at you.  Hyper focused on not looking at the handsome stranger, you smile back at her and hold your hand out.

“I’ll clean it, I made the mess.  I’d want the same if someone made a mess where I worked,” you offer.  Both the employee and the man laugh.  She tilts her head at you as if she’s trying to recognize you.

“You work at The Rusty Sawfish, don’t you?” She asks, watching you wipe up the puddle of coffee.

“Guilty.  I’m on my break right now, though I seem to have wasted it being an idiot,” you say, and the two strangers chuckle again.  The man’s deep, rumbly laugh makes your stomach flip.

“Oh, don’t worry about it, sweetie.  You deserve a break!  Let me finish and take a can on the house,” she says.  Her kindness mirrors that of most residents here—always helping others, stranger or not.

“Oh, I couldn’t.  Unless you came to the bar for a free drink.  Both of you,” you add, forcing yourself to make eye contact with the handsome stranger.

The way he stares at you makes you writhe.  His gaze is captivating.  His eyes circle around your eyes and your lips, unmoving—like you’re the only person in the room.  Time pauses as you both exchange stares.  He’s the first to speak.

“I’ll be there,” he says, half-smirking at you.  You forgot about the convenience store employee until she speaks again.

“Late night here for me, but I’ll stop by this weekend!  Have a great night, sweetie!”

“Thank you both,” you say, grabbing a new can and waving as you walk backward toward the exit.  You don’t miss the way Sexy Stranger watches you leave, but you miss the way his eyes traverse your frame when you turn around.

Shivers blitz your spine as you walk back to work, thinking of how he looked at you.  He was one of the most attractive men you’d seen here, which says a lot.  Southern Florida beach cities are ripe with hot men from all walks of life.  His accent was Southern, but not Floridian—more mainland, like Oklahoma or Texas.  Before you can think on it further, you trot back into the bar.

Thankfully, there isn’t a huge rush of patrons.  Georgia, Mike, and Rand are moving around behind the bar.  You hurry and step behind the u-shaped area, smoothing your hair out of your face.  Georgia approaches you, grinning.

“Sorry—I made a complete fool of myself at the convenience store and spilled coffee everywhere, even ran into this sexy guy in the aisle,” You lament, redoing your now sweaty and frizzy updo. She laughs.

“Did you get his number, though?” Georgia asks. “Also, how sexy are we talking?”

You widen your eyes and whistle lowly.  “Georg—I’m telling you, he was sexy as fuck.  Southern type—tall, dark, and handsome.  He said he was coming here.”

She claps her hands together giddily.  “Hell yes.  Surprised he didn’t follow you right then and there,” she adds with a wink.  You roll your eyes.

“Nah, but I’m sure he’ll do that to you when he sees you,” you hypothesize.  Georgia is beautiful—typical tan, blonde Florida beach babe with a killer body.  She’s bubbly, too, with a personality that matches the Clearwater sunshine, and she’s smart.  She shushes you, frowning.

“Um… have you seen yourself?  You’re a fucking knockout. How many guys have tried to get us to do a threesome with them? That should tell you everything,” Georgia reminds you. You shrug, unsure how to answer—she’s right.

“That’s what I thought, Miss I Don’t Know I’m Beautiful.  Now shut up and help me get the drinks ready for this table,” she says, giving you an air kiss on the cheek.  Georg knows how to cheer you up—her sunshine personality is contagious.

Several cocktails and minutes later, you head back to the cooler to restock the bar fridges.  When you return, a seat at the bar is occupied with a familiar curly-haired man peering up at the television behind the bar.  He’s not facing you, thankfully—the way you froze was embarrassing enough.  Coolly, you hoist the bin of alcohol on your shoulder and stride toward the bar.  The fridge you need to restock doesn’t face him, so you have some time to plan a greeting while you refill the beers.  Georgia pokes your side as she walks up to him, informing you that she knows it’s your sexy mystery man.

“Welcome in!  Have you been here before?” She chirps, handing him a menu.  He shakes his head and scans the sheets quickly before folding it up and handing it back to her.

“No, ma’am.  Was advised to come here by one of the employees,” he croons.  You feel his stare boring a hole in your head and decide it’s time to acknowledge him.

Standing up, you face him and hope your cheeks don’t burn bright red.  He’s smiling at you, and fuck, that smile is something you won’t forget.  Pearly whites on full display, crinkled but twinkling eyes, a salt and pepper beard, and tan skin complement the face staring at yours.

Speak, you idiot.

“Hi again.  Glad you made it.  I wondered where the coffee smell came from.”  Your wit pulls a boisterous laugh from him, one that does something tingly to your insides.  Georgia interrupts.

“I’ll take over the stocking while you help this gentleman,” she says, pinching your side as she walks away.  The man’s eyes don’t follow her, which surprises you—they’re glued to you.  Words exit your mouth before you can ruminate further.

“What can I get you? I take it you’re not a fruity cocktail kind of guy,” you tease, smirking at him.  He shakes his head and chuckles.

“Correct, ma’am.  Is the whiskey here all you’ve got?” He nods to the shelves behind you.

“Not quite.  The owner is a whiskey aficionado and has some reserve bottles in the back that he saves for special customers,” you say, putting a hand next to your mouth as you fake whisper.  The lopsided grin returns on his face, sending your pulse into overdrive.

“Would gettin’ spilled on by an employee qualify me as a special customer?” He wisecracks, arching a brow at you.  You slump your shoulders in mock defeat.

“I suppose. What’s your favorite?” His jaw ticks back and forth as he ponders.

“Too hard to say.  Not a picky guy. Been cravin’ some Eagle Rare,” his velvet voice replies, the soundwaves tickling the hair on your ears.

“I’ll go ask the boss.  Be right back.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sexy Stranger replies, watching you leave.  Undiscovered by you, he’s turned to watch you walk to Gil’s office, his pulse picking up at what he sees.

He won’t lie to himself—he’s drabbled in some younger women over the years, many of whom were nothing but a one-night stand, a pretty young thing to slip inside and make him feel younger for a few hours.  But you’re different.  Stunning, yes.  Charming, funny, and mysterious, too—like you’re looking at the world from a different dimension.  He senses a force field around you, though, one he worries you won’t let him invade.

You step out of Gil’s office with a dusty bottle of Eagle Rare, aged ten years.  Gil was astounded that someone requested this, and had he not been contemplating ways to destroy his computer, he’d have joined the Sexy Stranger for a glass.

As you return to the bar, you admire the man’s full head of brunette curls, and the random spots kissed with gray locks.  His shoulders are brawny and expansive, pulling taut the flannel fabric between his scapulas.  Atop them is a thick, ropy neck, with a jutting Adam’s apple and tan flesh you’d like to sink your teeth into.  He was tall, but not overtly so—just enough to complement his muscly build.

The way he leans back in the chair and sees his surroundings exudes a calm tenacity, but the way his eyes smolder suggests a tendency to be ravenous.  You wonder if that duality is something he wants to show you.  Warmth surges through your veins as you fantasize about a complete stranger, wracking your core and igniting thoughts and feelings you haven’t had in a long time.

Certainly, you’d been with men since moving to Clearwater, and though the options were vast, the likelihood of something lasting was minimal.  Thus, you chose to keep interactions with men somewhat superficial, an imaginary arm constantly protruding from you to forbid anything further than flirtatious banter.  This attractive, swarthy man, however, had his wrist wrapped around that arm and was threatening to rip it from you—the thought frightened and excited you.

Momentarily, you ignore the rush of adrenaline as you return behind the bar and into his view.  Like  a magnet, he latches onto you at once, eyes burning your face and figure.  Using a damp towel behind the counter, you swipe dust off the bottle and set it in front of him.

“Here you are, sir.  One dusty bottle of Eagle Rare.”  Sexy Stranger smiles at the bottle, wrapping a large hand around the base and examining the label.

“’S the good stuff,” he murmurs, voice dropping deeper than you thought possible. The pitch twists your insides.  In an effort to subdue your racing mind and pulse, you force a smirk and start wiping off the counter.

You feel the man’s eyes snap to you, melting your resolve with a fiery intensity.  Suddenly, you’re unable to continue moving the towel, and resign to meeting his eyes.  Smoldering is the only way to describe the way he’s looking at you.

That familiar rush of heat wraps around the base of your throat and underneath the fabric of your now-suffocating, loose tee shirt.  Instinctively, you fiddle with the collar and pull it down slightly, trying to let out some of the hot air trapped inside, unaware of the fact that you’ve exposed some skin to him.  In any other situation, it would’ve been a harmless gesture, but here, it only spurs on his imagination.  His pupils dilate ever so slightly at the sight of your collarbone, complemented with a silver pendant necklace.

“What’s that necklace you got there?” Sexy Stranger asks.  Involuntarily, your fingers latch onto the shark charm and twiddle it back and forth.  He’s still watching.

“Oh, it’s a shark.  Can’t remember the last time I took this thing off—I forget about it,” you say, surprised that you can form coherent sentences right now under his hot gaze.

He makes eye contact with you and raises an eyebrow.  “Why a shark?”

“The short version is that it’s my favorite animal.”

He tilts his head at you, jaw ticking again.  Your eyes latch onto the strong muscles moving it back and forth, flexing underneath his temples.

“And the long version?”

You cock an eyebrow, mirroring him, and grab a short glass, placing it on a coaster in front of him.  “Before I delve into that, how do you like your whiskey?”

He chuckles, deep and rumbly.  “Neat, sweetheart.”

The pet name eviscerates your stomach.  You gulp without meeting his gaze, aware that he’s staring at you still.  You pour him a perfect glass of bourbon neat and push the coaster toward him.  As you let go, he reaches for the glass, fingertips brushing the tops of your fingers.

As if you touched the metal prongs of a plug, you whip your hand back.  The feeling of his skin on yours was nothing short of electric.  He misreads your reaction.

“Sorry ‘bout that, didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he says, brown eyes no longer smoldering but concerned.

“Oh no, it’s not that, just wasn’t expecting it,” you stammer, not wanting to give him the wrong idea.  Ironic.  He lets it pass, for now.

“So—the long story?” He takes a generous sip of the amber liquid, swishing it around his mouth as he watches you.  You place your palms down on the counter and smile at him.

“Long story is I’m a Professor of Marine Biology at a local university here.  I’ve been studying sharks for a long time now.  They are beautiful, brilliant creatures that have evolved to near perfection.  I do what I can to protect them—they have been fished relentlessly.”

Sexy Stranger is in awe of you, struck by your eloquence, intelligence, and beauty.  He takes another sip, never dragging his eyes from yours.

“Wow,” he says, raising both eyebrows as he sets the glass down.  “Just one question.”

You raise an eyebrow at him.  The two of you are getting good at this nonverbal communication.

“You consider that the long version?”

His humor catches you off guard and a goofy, boisterous laugh escapes you.  For the second time now, he flashes a full smile at you.  He likes that sound.

Suddenly, a phone rings nearby.  He frowns and fishes a small, old iPhone from his front jeans pocket and squints at the screen.  He grimaces as he stuffs it back, shifting uncomfortably in the chair to make it fit.

“Sweetheart, I need to run.  Lemme settle up for the glass,” he says, the pet name stimulating your pulse again.

“Sure thing.  Gil said to come back any time—the bottle is basically yours,” you say, winking at him as you print his receipt.  His heartbeat does some racing of its own at the gesture.  He tears his eyes from you to fish for his wallet and throw some bills on top of the receipt.

“Will do.  I’ll see you around, darlin’,” Sexy Stranger says as he stands, giving you a small wink as he leaves.  You watch him leave before realizing you didn’t cash him out.  You grab the cash and receipt, noticing what looks like writing on the back side.

A phone number is scrawled on the back.  Underneath is his name.  Joel.

Your heart stops as you stare at the small white paper.  When did I even give him a pen?  I didn’t notice him writing.  Georgia startles you with an elbow to the side.

“That was quick,” she teases.  Bashful, you fold the receipt up and shove it in the pocket of your jean shorts.

“Shut up, Georg.  He was just being nice. Probably wants tips for shark watching or something.”

She stares at you incredulously.  “Girl… he’s so fucking into you.  Everybody in this building felt that tension.”

Heat creeps up your spine once again.  You check the POS system for the time and see that it’s almost 2:00 AM.  Time to close and do it all again tomorrow.

“Let’s get something to eat.  Wanna crash at my place?” Georgia asks.  You nod, finding that you’re hungry—but something tells you it’s not food you’re craving.

Sunlight bounces off the white walls of Georgia’s apartment just before 7:00 AM.  A light groan escapes you as you stretch out on the plush sectional in her living room before settling back into the burrow of blankets.

Georgia lives a quick five-minute drive from the marina, in a lofty one-bedroom apartment with an ocean view.  Her family is generationally wealthy and based in Sarasota, Florida—hence the high-rise apartment and a nice Mercedes SUV.  She escaped the clutches of her uptight family to explore her passion—surfing.  She got a job at The Rusty Sawfish to supplement her allowance and pay for surfing gear and tournaments, something her parents refused to do.  You two clicked immediately and have been friends since.

Pulling your hoodie up over your head, you check your phone quickly before deciding whether to go back to sleep.  It’s still early, and you didn’t get to sleep until after 3:00 AM.  Your stomach backflips when you see a message from an unknown number pop up.  The nerves turn to giddiness as you remember that the number belongs to Joel, the sexy stranger you met at the convenience store last night.  You messaged him when you got to Georgia’s apartment last night asking if he made it home alright, certain he wouldn’t be awake to respond.  You swipe down to read the message.

Joel: Morning sweetheart.  I made it home just fine.  Was hoping you’d text sooner so I could ask the same.  :)

Kicking your feet like a child, you contemplate a response.

You: Sorry I texted so late!  I didn’t make it back to my friend’s place until close to 3.

Joel is quick to respond.

Joel: Surprised you’re up.  Figured someone as pretty as you would need at least 8 hours of beauty sleep.  By the way—your friend told me your name.  I hope that’s OK.

Grinning at your phone, you shake your head slowly.  The man is as charming over text as he is in person.

You: You flatter me.  I was just going to go back to sleep given that I currently look like a hobbit—guess 8 hours is exactly what I need ;)

You: And yes, that’s okay.  Sounds a lot like my friend.  She’s a good wingman.

Joel: I highly doubt you look anything less than gorgeous.  Get some rest.  We’ll talk later today.

Pretty.  Gorgeous.

The grin doesn’t leave your face as you drift back to sleep.

Later that evening, you’re behind the familiar u-shaped counter of the bar with paper-thin patience and a penchant for kicking out a rowdy group of college age anglers from the tournament.

“Look, I have a legit ID and I’m an adult, I can drink however many beers I want!” A gangly blonde trust fund-looking kid from the group whines at you.  You narrow your eyes at him briefly before responding, like a snake ready to strike its prey.

“Not how it works.  It’s the bar’s best practice to avoid overserving and keep this a safe place for everybody.  Drink some water and we’ll revisit,” you reply, voice stern.  You squeeze the towel in your hand for stress relief.

Though Florida has a dram shop law that prevents bars from being sued by an intoxicated patron that ends up drunk driving and getting hurt, Gil has always mandated a no overserving policy.  Spending all day out in the ocean and then drinking heavily is a dangerous combo.  The older patrons have no qualms about it, but the younger, rowdier crowds differ.  Blonde kid sticks his index finger on the counter and leans in close to you, bloodshot eyes fixated on yours.

“I want your manager,” he spits, breath reeking of booze.  Still somewhat level-headed, you stare directly in his eyes.

“You got it,” you respond, emotionless.  Gil’s not one for overserving, and he’s not one for rude patrons harassing his bartenders.  This dumb kid has a lesson coming.

Stone faced, you drop your towel and tell Georgia you’ll be right back before cruising to Gil’s office.  The door is wide open, and to your surprise, Joel’s sitting in the chair next to Gil, the two of them chuckling and conversing.  Your heart falters momentarily before you remember why you came back here.  You knock lightly on the open door and both men look up at you.

Gil frowns immediately.  He’s seen that look before.

“Not a good sign when my best employee has that look on her face.  Where is he?” Gil asks, standing and removing his readers.  Feeling Joel’s eyes burning holes in you, you do your best to ignore them right now.

“Up front.  Blonde kid with the frat group.  Pissed off that I won’t pour him a 5th vodka red bull.  I told him about our policy, and he asked for the manager,” you recite, tight-lipped.  Gil nods, squeezing your shoulder lightly as he walks past you to the bar.

Thankful that Gil is handling it, you close your eyes and exhale heavily before remembering you’re not alone.  Your eyes open quickly to find Joel staring at you.  His eyes look concerned, though there’s that damned lopsided smile on his face.

“Guy’s got some balls on him,” he jokes, standing and taking a step closer to you.  Your pulse quickens.  Laughing, you roll your eyes and wave him off.

“Everybody does when they’re drunk.”

Joel rakes a hand through his stubble and nods, studying your face.

“I reckon I wasn’t totally honest with you last night,” he says, face falling slightly.  Raising an eyebrow, you try to quiet the thousand thoughts that rush through your mind—is he going to say that he’s married?  Fresh out of prison?  Gay?  Well… the last one is unlikely.  He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck as he continues.

“I’ve known Gil for a long, long time.  S’why I knew there’d be Eagle Rare here,” he says.

Relief rushes through you.  “Jesus, Joel.  I thought you were gonna tell me you were married.”

A hearty laugh escapes him as he shakes his head fervently, throwing his hands up in surrender.  “Hell no.  Haven’t been married since I was in my early 20s, which was about a million years ago.”

You wipe your brow exaggeratedly, signaling your relief.  Joel chuckles again.

“So, what brings you to Clearwater, then?  Or have you always been here?”

“No, no.  I’m from Texas.  Been here several times but moved here last month.  I’m a contractor and Gil and I have worked on some projects together.  He wants my help f’another one.”

It all makes sense—the flannel shirt, the muscles, the demeanor, the accent.  A question pops up in your mind.

“Does he know you gave me your number last night?” You ask him, tilting your head inquisitively.

“Yes, ma’am.  We’re good friends.  He’s protective of you, but I made it clear t’him that I ain’t tryin’ any funny business with you,” he admits, smoldering eyes affixed to yours.  His expression and tone gives you the impression that he’s telling the truth, like lying to you would be worse than anything.

“Are you saying… you don’t often give your number to bartenders that spill coffee all over you?” You chide, flashing a smile at him.  His pupils dilate imperceptibly.

“No, ma’am.  Don’t make that kinda thing a habit,” he responds, taking a step closer to you.  Your breath catches in your throat at his proximity.  He’s within arm’s reach, and the magnetic field between the two of you is sending your internal compass off the rails.  He opens his mouth to say something, but Gil interrupts the moment, oblivious to the two of you.

“He’s taken care of.  Thanks for dealing with him,” he sing-songs, saying your name warmly.

Still staring at Joel, you reply to Gil.  “Appreciate it, Gil.  I’ll return to my post.”

Joel laughs quietly, eyes twinkling at you.  You smile coyly at him before leaving the office, needing to cool off before you explode internally.  The sexual tension between the two of you is almost too much to handle.

Before you can check if he’s following you, Georgia flags you down behind the bar.  A devilish smile plays on her tan, freckled face.

“So… he’s back,” she teases, waggling her eyebrows. “You taking him home tonight or what?”

Jaw dropping in mock shock, you tilt your head at her.

“Are you suggesting that I sleep with him?  Georg—I don’t know him!”

She guffaws.  “Gil knows him very well, though.  Isn’t that enough to tell you he’s safe? I bet they watch boring carpenter shows together and spend all their money on fancy old man bourbon.”

Good point.  Joel seems safe—for now.  But you’ve been out of the game far too long to half-ass a night with a man like him.  He seems… experienced.  And the glint in his eyes when he sees you is enough to make your heart jump out of your chest.

“I don’t know.  I’m interested.  I’ll keep an open mind.  Sounds like he’s in Clearwater for good… plenty of old beach babes to take him on,” you joke, winking at her.  She punches your arm.

“He doesn’t even look at anybody but you, dipshit.  If you say something like that one more time, I’m gonna tell him,” she threatens half-jokingly, pointing a polished finger in your face.

“Fine.  We’ll see where it ends up,” you surrender, checking the fridges for a routine restock.

The remainder of Saturday night at The Rusty Sawfish is busy, but not overwhelmingly so.

Georgia, Mike, Rand, and you man the bar, which had no empty chairs the entire evening.  Business was booming from the fishing tournament, and even Gil stepped out of the office to pour some drinks.

Joel made himself comfortable at the end of the bar.  Gil dumped stacks of blueprints in front of him, and he got busy reviewing them while nursing glasses of neat bourbon.  You couldn’t count the number of times you two exchanged glances and shy smiles, and he couldn’t count the number of times he caught himself staring at you.  He was entranced by the way you moved at the bar—commanding the flow of customers, making drinks at lightning speed, being friendly with the customers, and looking damn good while you do it.

Closing time rolls around yet again, and he’s still scanning blueprints, sketching on pages here and there with his carpenter’s pencil.  Every so often, he’d tuck it behind one of his ears, mussing some of his curls in the process.  You found yourself studying his mannerisms, trying to get to know him without speaking.  He’d tick his jaw back and forth as he read, and the corner of his lips would twitch each time he marked the page with his pencil, salt and pepper mustache hairs grooving along with them.

You learn from the way he holds the page out three feet in front of him to read small text, brow furrowing as he deciphers the letters, that he’s stubborn and not ready to buy reader’s glasses.  You catch yourself giggling at it, making damn sure he doesn’t see.

You learn that he was likely a former athlete by the way his hips sway when he walks to the bathroom, his gait controlled yet energetic and limber, the denim of his very-worn jeans hugging his strong legs.  The jeans indicate that he’s not much of a shopper and is loyal to what makes him feel comfortable, like a pair of faded, almost-torn bootcut Wranglers molded to his frame and creased leather cowboy boots.

You learn that his body is still in wonderful shape as he folds his arms behind his head and arches his back to stretch his aching body, revealing a sliver of soft-looking skin above the denim waistband and a trail of dark hair leading from his belly button down beneath.

You learn that he enjoys hearing your laugh with each time he tries to prod it out of you with a silly joke or a wisecrack about one of the customers.  Given the manner and frequency with which his eyes travel up and down your frame, he also likes your body—from the subtle shelf of your breasts underneath your tank top, to the shape of your ass in your frayed jean shorts, to your smooth legs.  But he likes your face, too—evident by the way his amber eyes travel over your features, landing frequently at your eyes and lips.

Now, you can tell Georgia she’s right—that he fancies you, more so than any other woman that glanced at him twice during the night.  And boy, there were plenty.

Most of all, though—you learn how much you want him.  If not obvious by the butterflies bouncing off the walls of your abdomen and chest as he speaks to you, it is clear when you take a bathroom break of your own and find dampness in your panties.  Your nerves are in overdrive at the possibility of finding out what his hands feel like on your skin, what his lips feel like meshed with yours, what his strong frame feels like flush against yours.

Needing cool relief, you soak a paper towel in cold water and place it on the back of your neck, shivering at the stray droplets that roll down your spine.  You stare at yourself in the mirror and start to realize that maybe Georgia is right about you, that you are beautiful and worthy of feeling that way.

You exit the bathroom to find that it’s now past 2:00 AM, and customers have left—all but Joel.  He’s standing now, elbows leaning against the counter.  He notices the air pressure change from the bathroom door opening and turns to stare at you as you approach him, eyes sweeping up and down your figure once again.

“Sir, we’re closed.  Have you paid your tab?” You ask, half-smiling at him.  He laughs as he fishes his wallet out of his jeans pocket.

“Gettin’ there, sweetheart,” he says, grunting as it finally comes out of its enclosure.  The wallet is about as worn as the jeans, faded and bent at the corners.  He hands you several twenty-dollar bills, a few too many for his sixty-dollar tab.

“I’ll get your change,” you say, muscle memory taking over.  He puts a hand up.

“No, keep it.  You deserve it,” he murmurs, tucking the wallet back in his pocket and gathering the blueprints for Gil.

“Joel, it’s too much for what little work I did tonight,” you protest.  He looks at you, eyes smoldering once again.

“No, darlin’—you did a lot more than you think.”  The tone suggests he’d been imagining you the same way you did him, sending a zing of shivers up your spine.  You know your cheeks are reddening, but you ignore it as you balance the drawer for the evening.  Joel trots back to Gil’s office to return the papers, resurfacing after a few minutes.

Georgia, Mike, and Rand have finished cleaning and their closing duties.  They stop by the register to check in on you.

“Hey—there’s a party at Mike’s neighbor’s house.  You in?” Georgia asks, knowing full well you’re not going to agree.  You can tell she’s trying not to smirk.

“No, thanks.  I’m exhausted,” you reply, dividing up the tips.  “Here you go, tips for tonight.  Great job.”

“Well, you better come to the one next week—you can’t use this excuse again,” Mike teases you, elbowing you lightly.

“I’ll be there, just not feeling it tonight.  Thanks, guys,” you say warmly, hugging Georgia as they prepare to leave.

“Oh, we rode together—are you good taking an Uber?  I was going to ride with these guys,” she asks, loud enough for Joel to hear.

“I can walk to my car.  It’s only a few minutes.”

Joel interrupts.  “I’ll take ya.  I’m sure y’feel safe out here, but it’s late and dark.”

Georgia takes this as her cue to leave.  “See you tomorrow, love!”  You wave as the three exit, leaving Joel, you, and the magnetic sexual tension between you.

“You sure about this?  Really, it’s not that bad of a trek,” you ask him, not wanting to be a bother.  He raises an eyebrow at you.

“I’d feel better f’you let me make sure you’re safe, and y’just said y’were tired,” he says lowly, voice dropping in decibels to match the now-quiet atmosphere of the bar.

“If it helps you sleep at night, sure,” you joke, winking at him.  A yawn interrupts your comedic routine, to which Joel raises his eyebrows.

“How ‘bout I just drive you home, sweetheart?” He suggests.  A wave of fatigue hits you as you finish yawning, and you surrender.

“Good idea.  Let me get my stuff.”

You emerge from the office after retrieving your purse and saying goodbye to Gil, who has resumed trying to figure out Excel.  Joel watches you approach him, rubbing his beard distractedly.

You lead him out of the bar, the nervous energy between you making your legs feel restless.  Joel places a hand on your lower back as you push the doors open.  Once outside, you expect him to move it, but he doesn’t.  It stays warm and firm on your back as you two walk down the marina to the street parking area.

The sound of the waves crashing into the shore placates your nerves a bit.  You peer at them as you walk, bewitched by the rays of moonlight dancing on the subtle peaks.

“S’a beautiful night,” Joel murmurs, closer to your ear than you realized.  You jump a bit, and he chuckles quietly, rubbing his hand softly on your lower back.

“Sorry, didn’t mean t’scare ya,” he apologizes.  The cool beach breeze blows by, and goosebumps grow on your bare skin.  You rub your arms instinctively.  A few moments later, Joel places his flannel over your shoulders, squeezing the tops lightly before letting go.  The warm gesture makes those butterflies in your stomach ricochet like pinballs.

“Thanks.  It’s cooler than normal this evening,” you say, watching your feet as you continue walking.  The scent of his shirt engulfs your senses, slowing your pace momentarily.  It’s an alluring mix of earthy and musky, like sandalwood, pine, and sweet bourbon.

“This is me,” Joel says, stopping next to an older, beatdown Chevy truck.  He opens the passenger door for you.

“Didn’t realize you were such a gentleman, Joel,” you tease him.  He shuts the door lightly, smirking and shaking his head at you through the window.  You glance at your surroundings.

His truck is spotless, save for some stains on the floor.  There’s a cup of carpenter’s pencils in one of the cupholders, which makes you smile.  The radio is ancient, with a small, thin screen for the time and big black buttons, which are a bit dusty.  The only button that’s clean is the power button/volume knob duo.  Not much of a music guy, you think.

The driver’s door squeaks open, and Joel plops down on the seat with a grunt. He shoves the key in the ignition and turns it over a few times before the engine roars on.

“Where to?” he asks, cranking the truck into reverse and pulling out of the spot.  You direct him to your apartment, which is 10 minutes from the marina.

The ride to your place is quiet, but not awkwardly so.  Joel turned on the music and kept the volume low, asking you questions here and there about Clearwater and you.

“Your family here?”

“Nope.  I’m from the Midwest.  They’re all in Nebraska and Iowa.”  He whistles lowly.

“Bit of a drive.  Why Florida?  Lemme guess—the ocean?”

“That’s part of it,” you reply, staring out the window, watching the palm trees flash by.

“Take it y’also wanted to get away from your family,” he says, tone rhetorical.  You snort and turn to face him.  He’s got one hand on the wheel, the other perched on the back of your seat.  There’s a half-smirk on his moonlight-painted face.

“Am I that obvious?” Your tone is half-incredulous, half-rhetorical. He chuckles in place of responding.

Soon, you arrive at your apartment complex.  Joel opens your door and follows you to the building.  Hesitant, you stop just before entering and turn to him.  The tension is thick, like a hazy cloud between the two of you.

“Do you want to come inside?”

He clenches his jaw, staring at you before replying.

“Sure.  Y’gonna take advantage of me?” The witty remark catches you off guard.  You burst out laughing and the contagious, melodic sound makes him laugh.

“Only if you want me to,” you reply, holding your keys up to the pad and opening the door.  You swear you hear him growl behind you, but he doesn’t reply.

Luckily, you’re on the first floor.  You don’t think you could stomach walking up the stairs in your daisy dukes with Joel behind you.

Once inside your place, you open the fridge and grab two bottles of beer as Joel surveys the apartment.  You place one on his bare forearm, the sudden chill startling him.  He swipes the bottle from your hand as you giggle, giving you a threatening look.

“Want to sit outside?  I have a little futon out there,” you offer, realizing you still have his flannel on.  The sleeves are a little long, touching the base of your knuckles.  He nods.  You grab a blanket from the couch and lead him to the sliding glass door in the kitchen.

Your patio is small, but it’s your favorite spot, overlooking the beach.  The apartment building is on a small hill, which is great for days when the sea level rises.  The waves are still crashing quietly onto the shore, bathed in silky moonlight.

You sit first, crossing your legs underneath the warm blanket.  It’s chilly without it.  Joel sits next to you with what you now know is his trademark old man grunt, denim-clad leg touching your knee.  He takes a swig and brings the base of the bottle to eye level to study the label.

“Sorry—no bourbon,” you lament jokingly, taking a swig of your own.  He smirks and takes another sip.

“Didn’t strike you as the type, anyway.”

“Is it the lack of facial hair?” Joel spits out his beer laughing.

“Jesus, you’re somethin’ else,” he coughs, wiping his mouth and beard with the back of his hand.

“In Joel speak, I think that’s a compliment, yes?”

He laughs again, staring at you as you watch the ocean.  His hand moves to rest on your kneecap, thumb circling the soft skin lightly.  Your heartbeat picks up twofold.

“Gil was right about you,” he murmurs.  Confused, you look at him, surprised to see a wanton expression on his face.

“What about me?”

He scoots closer.  Your hands squeeze the beer bottle nervously.

“Don’t remember exactly what he said,” he croons, face getting closer to yours, “somethin’ about you bein’ a special person.”

The sexual tension between the two of you has reached a new level of heavy, sucking the air out of your lungs and igniting your core.  Joel grabs your beer from your hand, setting it and his down on the concrete floor of the patio.  He stares into your eyes, looking for hesitation as he leans closer to you.

Clearly, he finds none, because his lips are on yours, light and soft.  The hand that was on your knee is on the back of your neck, thumb pressed against your cheek.  His other hand grips your hip and pulls you closer to him.  You take the opportunity to climb on his lap, pulling a surprised yet satisfied grunt from him.

His lips move slowly, gently against yours.  Rough, warm hands caress the tops of your thighs, leaving goosebumps in their path.  He tastes smooth, like the Eagle Rare he sipped on this evening, a rich contrast from the rough scratch of his mustache and beard against your face.  You comb fingers through his thick curls, tugging lightly at the base of his head. Another satisfied grunt travels from his throat to your mouth.

The passion overheats you, and like he’s reading your mind, he pushes his shirt off your shoulders, mouth still latched to yours.  His hands slip under your tank top and caress your abdomen, fingertips dancing along the underside of your breast.  He groans again when he realizes you don’t have a bra on.  You tilt your head back and his lips caress your neck, nipping softly at your pulse.  The soft moan that leaves your lips spurs him on, and his teeth move higher, tugging on the flesh of your earlobe.

He reaches for the hem of your tank top and slowly lifts the fabric over your head.  His eyes burn holes in your skin, pupils dilated so much so that his eyes look black.  He reaches up and palms both of your breasts, kneading the flesh and rolling your nipples between his fingertips as he admires your body.

“Christ, you’re perfect,” he breathes before sucking a nipple into his mouth.  You wrap your arms around his strong neck and tug his curls back to envelope his mouth with yours.  He lifts you from his lap effortlessly and stands, murmuring something about going back inside into your mouth.

Still kissing you, he carries you to your bedroom and tosses you on the bed before caging you in his arms, continuing what you started on the patio as the sound of the ocean and the cicadas fill the background.

Taglist: @burntheedges, @tuquoquebrute, @syd-djarin, @danaispunk, @anoverwhelmingdin

Read Part 2 here!

[illuminatedquill]

Story Summary: Preparing for their imminent departure from Peridea, MORGAN ELSBETH arrives at the personal quarters of GRAND ADMIRAL THRAWN to give him an update - only to find the Imperial warlord deeply immersed in the study of a subject that has captured his attention: SABINE WREN.

Happy belated birthday to @jedi-nurse and @dreams-are-paper-thin! I haven't forgotten the Florida man and Camp Rock slander on our Discord server and promise that the next one will be full of pain and misery. Buckle up. I'm coming for you two.

"Enter."

At the spoken command, the doors slid open with a barely perceptible hiss as Morgan Elsbeth stepped into the private quarters of Grand Admiral Thrawn. It was somewhat of a miracle really, considering the Chimaera's state, that the doors worked at all; the once formidable Star Destroyer had taken a vicious beating on its voyage to another galaxy, courtesy of those wretched star whales. Thrawn and what remained of his crew had gone to great lengths to keep his ship flying, patching over all the damages with whatever could be spared, salvaged, or harvested from their new home - which wasn't much, looking at the desolate waste of Peridea.

Large areas of the ship were simply unusable or shut down to either conserve power or because it was rendered uninhabitable because of machinery stripped down to the bare bones of the ship to keep other vital systems functional. The ship's outer hull appeared skeletal in some places, the inner framework peeking through exposed sections like a rib cage. To Morgan, it served to give Thrawn's personal flagship a meaner, ragged edge; like the face of some giant, undead bird of myth that continued to haunt the skies of Peridea. The Grand Admiral had prioritized function over everything else - except, it seemed, when it came to his personal quarters.

But, then again, the Imperial warlord was the only reason for the continued survival of his crew - and, if luck held their way, the survival of the Empire. It made sense that no expense was spared to ensure his room was exempt from the draconian rules that kept the rest of the Chimaera up and running.

Once inside, Morgan felt as though she were in another ship entirely, fresh from the Imperial shipyards.

It was immaculate, to say the least. Grandiose, but not in the way most Imperials would associate with the word.

To those unfamiliar with the Grand Admiral, they would remark that it seemed spartan and minimalistic, at least in comparison to some of the other offices they had seen. Most Imperial officers had been to the Emperor's Palace; seen his lavish displays of wealth and power and artifacts from the Old Republic days. Morgan had found such exhibits to be boastful, and she could rarely hide her distaste on the few occasions she visited the Palace.

Thrawn's personal suite provided a far more different experience than the Emperor's. Everything inside was chosen and placed with the utmost thought for efficiency and functionality. Handmade furniture, art, and decor - not the usual Imperial standard - that were token "gifts" from conquered worlds, each one with a personal wealth of artistry and history native to each culture. It felt almost more like someone's personal living room, rather than the office of an Imperial Grand Admiral. A huge library of data cards and printed history books, all from a hundred different worlds, spanned an entire wall on both sides of the room. In the center, a lowered sitting area within a rounded enclosure, complete with a miniature command table set in the center.

Behind this enclosure was the Grand Admiral's work desk with three different viewscreens all around it, each displaying a dozen different datapoints of information flitting across each screen. Morgan could see Thrawn sitting there now, his eyes taking each new update with ease; the alien's mind was a strange and wondrous machine, capable of absorbing vast amounts of data seemingly like the process of osmosis. It would normally take a full dedicated team of analysts a solid week to work through and make sense of the amount of data that Thrawn consumed in an hour.

Where the Emperor took trophies of his victories, so did Thrawn - in that sort of thinking, the two were similar. But the nature of their prizes was different; Thrawn boasted his fierce intellect, versus Palpatine's lust for power. His trophies, so to speak, was knowledge of his enemies: their history, their culture, their very souls. The Grand Admiral prized knowledge over everything else and the cold, logical rationale to use it as an effective weapon against all those who would dare stand in his way.

Were it not for the Jedi Ezra Bridger's duplicitous tactics during the Siege of Lothal, Thrawn's presence during the main Imperial-Rebellion conflict could have changed the outcome of the war. Morgan was sure of that, at least. The Empire's loss of its greatest tactician forced the Imperial navy to rely on ever-increasing brute force and an over-reliance on superweapons, such as the failed Death Stars.

But the Jedi and their mysterious ways had an irritating ability to defy logic and reason. She knew that first-hand - as did the Grand Admiral. It was not a mistake he would repeat again, underestimating a Jedi and their connection to the cosmic phenomenon they worshipped known as the Force. It was why he had struck a deal with the Great Mothers - who then reached out to her. The witches were familiar with Jedi and their tactics. They would make formidable allies and be an effective deterrence to Jedi sorcery when Thrawn returned to make war against the New Republic.

Morgan felt pride swell inside her chest at the thought; the rise of her people once again, with Grand Admiral Thrawn leading the resurgence of a new Empire. Everything she had sacrificed for, so close at hand.

All because of me, she thought, feeling a little smug. And no one else.

Approaching the desk, the Grand Admiral looked up from his personal computer to greet her. "Lady Elsbeth," he said. "How may I be of service?"

She handed him a data-pad, containing all the latest updates. "The latest numbers, Grand Admiral," she said. "Everything is going according to your wishes."

Thrawn's red eyes flicked through the data-pad's rolling screen of information, not missing a single line. She knew what he was reading; the loading of their cargo was almost complete. Soon they would be ready to be leave this wretched planet and head home to begin the great work of restoring what had been lost -

Thrawn sighed.

Morgan frowned. "Is there something wrong?" she asked, suddenly aware of the Grand Admiral's strange mood.

Smiling faintly, he set down the data-pad and replied, "It has nothing to do with you, rest assured. The work you have accomplished is tremendous and must be commended."

Some of the tension went out of Morgan's shoulders at that statement. Thrawn was no Vader, but he did not tolerate incompetency among his subordinates. "Thank you. Then is there something else, Grand Admiral?"

The warlord pressed a button on his computer. The viewscreens surrounding his desk lit up with a series of images. Morgan peered at the visuals scrolling across the screens, arching a befuddled eyebrow at the Grand Admiral.

"Sabine Wren?" she asked. Different images of the Mandalorian were displayed on the viewscreens, showing the young woman at different stages of her life - a myriad of Sabine Wrens, with different armor styles, hair styles, and colorful looks, all up to her current outfit. But the constant throughline throughout the Mandalorian's life was the fierce look of defiance burning in her eyes and the mischievous ever-present smirk.

Thrawn nodded. "Indeed. She has proven to be quite . . . vexing, of late."

Now Morgan was surprised. Very little confused the Grand Admiral - she would never have suspected that the Mandalorian would prove to be one of those things.

"How so?"

He stood up smoothly from his desk and walked over to one of the images of Sabine Wren that was displayed. "Tell me, Morgan," he murmured, pointing at the image - Wren's present-day look. "What is missing from this version of Wren that the others have?"

Morgan wandered over, staring intently at the image of current day Sabine Wren. She took her time, studying the details of the armor until sure that it had been memorized. The Grand Admiral watched her closely, his face unreadable. Morgan did not want to disappoint him; he expected his subordinates, carefully chosen, to keep up with his line of thinking, no matter how winding or ambitious it appeared.

She moved to the other images of Wren, studying the Mandalorian's appearance in each of them - in her mind, she was analyzing, comparing, and contrasting, finding the similarities and, more importantly, the differences between them and the present outfit.

Finally, she turned towards the expectant Thrawn, certain of the answer she had. "Yes?" he prompted, calmly waiting her response.

She cleared her throat, ignoring the sudden spike of nervousness that threatened to scramble her words. Speaking to Thrawn at times was more nerve-wracking than giving a speech to an audience of thousands.

With a (thankfully) steady hand, she pointed at the images of the younger Wren, one after the other - more specifically, she pointed at the peculiar symbol emblazoned on the upper portion of the Mandalorian's chest armor.

The very same symbol that was missing from the current iteration of Wren's armor.

"This - bird symbol, Grand Admiral," she said. "That is what's missing from Wren's current armor."

Those red eyes glowed with approval. She felt a thrill of satisfaction at seeing it. "Well observed," he replied. "The symbol is that of Wren's own design: her unique take on a Mandalorian creature of myth, the Starbird."

"it looks like the New Republic symbol," Morgan started to remark - and then winced.

Thrawn's look of approval vanished and was replaced instantly with an icy stare. "There is no New Republic, Morgan," he said quietly. "There is simply the Rebellion and their false government that has been propped up for far too long."

She swallowed. "My apologies," she murmured. "I misspoke."

"No," said Thrawn flatly. "You didn't."

For a moment, black terror spiked within her - and then he suddenly smiled reassuringly. The menace in those red eyes receded, like the fading afterglow of an explosion.

"You needn't worry," he said. "It is a mistake that we will soon rectify once we return to our home galaxy."

Relief flooded through her. "Thank you," she said gratefully.

He acknowledged her gratitude with a dismissive wave, turning back to the viewscreen. "So," he said, "Wren's custom starbird is missing from her current armor. Why is that?"

Morgan was still reeling from Thrawn's sudden change in mood. More questions, she bemoaned in her head.

"Erm - I'm not sure, Grand Admiral," she admitted. "There was a change, I suppose. Something in her personal life. I know her family died on Mandalore shortly before the war ended."

The Imperial warlord smiled faintly at her. "You're more correct than you know, Morgan," he said seriously. He cocked his head at her, his red eyes flashing with something approximating curiosity. She felt like an insect being studied by clinical, detached eyes.

"Yes?" she asked, feeling wary of his next question.

"Have you ever been in love, Lady Elsbeth?"

She went slack jawed at the question. Never in a hundred years would she have ever anticipated Grand Admiral Thrawn asking her a question like that. Never.

After taking a few moments to regain her composure, she finally stammered a response. "I - er - well, not really," she admitted, a faint blush coming to her cheeks. "There was one brief dalliance I had in my youth on Dathomir but . . . I'm not sure it would qualify as being in love."

Thrawn motioned at her to continue. Morgan felt the blush coming on more strongly now, forcing herself to dig deeper into old memories that had lain long buried. At least the Grand Admiral had the care to not call her out on her embarrassment, she thought. Or, more likely, he simply did not care.

"It was a short-lived fling," she recalled. "There was a girl in my village - her name was Dalia - that I was sweet on. I made her candles that gave off her favorite flowery scent. Every night, before going to bed, she would light the candle and place it in her window. I was downwind from her home - I could smell the fragrance on the evening breeze and knew that she was thinking of me."

"You did not love her?" asked Thrawn.

"I . . . it's complicated for me to explain," Morgan said. "We were young. What we felt for each other could be written off as the passions of youth . . . or it could have been love, yes, thinking about it now. I honestly don't know."

"She must have been extraordinary," noted Thrawn. "For someone like you to have liked her so strongly. The memory you have of her is still strong, after so many years."

"Yes . . . " Despite the many years that had passed since she had last thought of Dalia, the memories resurfaced without much struggle now. Like flowers that had been waiting to bloom at the slightest touch of daylight. The image of Dalia burst forth so clearly now; a young woman, tall and wiry with muscle, with an explosion of freckles across her face and long, flowing raven-black hair that poured like a river down her shoulders. Her eyes were the color of moss, and her laughter was bright and vivid. Even now, Morgan could still hear it ringing in her eyes, prompting a wistful smile to crease her face.

"She was extraordinary. No one could notch a bow like her in our entire clan. Dalia could shoot an arrow through twelve axes cleanly."

"What happened to her?"

A darkness fell upon the bright memories then, like a funeral shroud. Images sparked through her mind; the endless metallic crunching footsteps of droids, the sharp, barking sounds of blaster fire, and a sickly green fog that smothered the landscape. Her sisters, screaming and dying at the hands of a mechanical monster.

"The Separatists came," Morgan whispered bitterly. "Dalia was the first to stand against them."

"And the first to fall," Thrawn said.

"Yes." With a herculean effort, Morgan shook herself free of the accursed memories. "Why are you asking me this, Grand Admiral?" she asked, her tone frank but just a few shades shy of being accusatory. She had not enjoyed that trip down memory lane.

As if sensing her annoyance, Thrawn held up his hands in a placating gesture. "A few more minutes of your time," he explained. "All will be clear soon enough."

He walked back to his desk and slid open a drawer, pulling something out from him. With surprising swiftness, he tossed the unknown object to Morgan; she caught it deftly, her reflexes kicking in. She ran an inquisitive thumb over the unknown object - a roughly carved wooden medallion with a familiar symbol painted on it in fading colors.

Morgan looked up at Thrawn. "Is this - ?"

"Taken from a raid on an abandoned village once inhabited strange crab-like creatures that call this wretched planet their home," the Grand Admiral elaborated. "I had a squad of troopers investigate one of these places, searching for resources some time ago. They returned with nothing much of value - save for this trinket."

Morgan studied the strange medallion more. "The symbol looks like the Rebellion's. Crude."

"Your initial assessment is understandable, but incorrect. I believe it was made by the Jedi Ezra Bridger, during his extended stay here."

"Why?" asked Morgan. "If the symbol is not the Rebellion's, then what - "

Her eyes widened with understanding. Thrawn nodded, his red eyes flashing. "Indeed. The Rebellion symbol was not widely in use during Bridger's time. This one is something similar - some sources would say was the inspiration for the Rebellion's version later on."

Wren's Starbird. "The missing starbird," said Morgan. "There's a kind of poetry that he had it, all this time."

"Yes," said Thrawn. He sounded almost . . . impressed. "I do love the poetry of it all. It's almost mythical how these two wound up together after so long and against such impossible odds."

He pointed at the pictures displayed on the viewscreen of the younger Sabine Wren. "Note the location of the starbird in each of these armors."

Morgan moved closer to see. "It's . . . upper left side of her chest. Where her heart is."

She blinked. Where her heart is . . .

Bridger had it all this time. Her heart.

The Jedi took it with him when he left.

"And it is now absent in her current design," Thrawn murmured.

Now it was starting to make sense. "You asked me about love," said Morgan, turning to stare at the Grand Admiral.

"I wanted you to have context for why Wren is so surprising to me this time around," Thrawn explained. "It is better for you to understand what drove her so far - and why."

He gestured at the images of Sabine Wren. "You see, Lady Elsbeth, I know Wren and her motley crew of rebels very well. Before my untimely expulsion from our home galaxy, they were a constant thorn in my side. Ultimately, their bonds and the Jedi's abominable connection to the Force are what led to my defeat at Lothal."

His voice was measured but there was no mistaking the undercurrent of barely restrained rage coursing underneath his words. Something in the pinched look around his eyes gave away the seething anger boiling underneath the Grand Admiral's stoic exterior. It was like watching magma flow through deep cracks in a planet's crust.

Volatile, thought Morgan. I must tread carefully here.

"And something was different about her this time," he continued. "I even said so to her face; she utterly confused me with her actions. Much had been sacrificed to allow the Spectres to triumph over me. But her recent actions on the planet Seatos threaten to undo all of it. Our little reunion revealed something to me - something unfathomable."

"She was in love," Morgan concluded. "With Ezra Bridger."

"A strength more unknowable and more unpredictable than the Jedi's cosmic abilities," Thrawn sighed, shaking his head. He glanced at her. "If there was a way to save Dalia on the night she died from Separatist forces, would you do it?"

Morgan thought about it. "Yes," she said. "I would."

"Even if the cost came at the undoing of all your life's work?" asked Thrawn.

She recoiled - and felt a mild pang of shame at doing so. I'm sorry, Dalia. You are long dead. I owe you no fealty.

"Of course not," she retorted. "Never at such a high cost."

The Grand Admiral threw up his hands in dismay. "You see? Unfathomable. Unknowable. Unpredictable. We both understand that. Yet Wren, with so much at stake, chose war over the hard-won peace."

He swiped the images of Sabine Wren aside on the viewscreen to reveal a new one - this one more recent. The image was hazy, flickering with distortion; the equipment used to take the snapshot was not up to date and in need of repair it seemed. But the figures in the photo were unmistakable: Wren, in the Peridea landscape surrounded by unfamiliar dome-like structures, hugging an older Ezra Bridger, garbed in strange robes.

Their embrace was achingly close, their figures locked together in a way that screamed an intimate familiarity that went beyond friendship. Morgan felt an uncomfortable sense that she was intruding on something confidential, that should only be seen and experienced by Bridger and Wren.

She inhaled sharply. "She found him."

"Yes," Thrawn said simply. "She did. I thought him long dead, truth be told."

Morgan glanced at him, expecting the Imperial warlord's face to be stormy, full of loathing at this reunion between two of his mortal enemies - but she was surprised to see only grim amusement there.

He caught her look. "Have you heard the story about 'The Starbird and the Void Dragon'?"

She blinked, taken aback by another about turn in his questions. "Erm - no," she confessed. "Should I?"

"It's an obscure fairytale from the early days of Mandalore," explained Thrawn. He resumed his gaze at the stolen picture of Wren and Bridger's embrace.

"Once, there was a starbird that travelled far and wide, searching for a companion. It found one on a distant world - Lothal."

Morgan's eyebrows rocketed up her forehead in shock. Lothal was the home world of Ezra Bridger. She stared at the picture of the Mandalorian and the Jedi. Forces of destiny, she thought.

"Yes," said Thrawn, seeing her expression. "A curious coincidence, so it would seem. Or perhaps, tidings of something far more mysterious. The starbird fell in love with the world and its only inhabitants at the time: the loth wolves. One of them grew especially close to the starbird and, at last, the mythical bird rejoiced in finally finding a companion to call its own."

"What happened then?" Morgan asked, wondering where this was going.

Thrawn waved his hand for dramatic effect. She found it amusing that the Grand Admiral was playing up the fairytale so much . . . not that she would ever tell him.

"After a time, a void dragon with red eyes fell from the stars. It burned a path through Lothal's skies. The leader - the starbird's beloved friend - led a pack to fight against the new threat, which sought to plunder the planet's forests - home to the loth wolves - of all its treasures to add to the dragon's hoard."

Thrawn's red eyes glowed with fervor as he continued the tale. Even Morgan was beginning to get enraptured in the story.

"The battle lasted many days and sundered the land and sky. Finally, the only combatants remaining were the starbird's companion wolf and the void dragon itself. The great beast had been beaten, it knew, having taken many grievous blows - but it was filled with spite and fury. In a final, desperate move it took the starbird's friend deep into the heart of Lothal's forest and bade it to follow them to save its friend. The loth wolf begged its friend not to do so, for it knew that in doing so, their forest home would burn from the starbird's presence."

The Imperial warlord left the story there, letting the silence sit thicker and thicker between them. Finally, Morgan asked, desperate to know: "Were they reunited? The starbird and it's loth wolf?"

Thrawn stared at the image of Wren and Bridger for a long moment. Then he said, without drama, "Yes. They were reunited."

"How? Did the starbird trick the dragon?"

"No," he replied softly. "It burned the forest down."

He pivoted to her then, his stance rigid, red eyes flashing with authority. "I want our exit strategy accelerated by an hour. No excuses. See it done, Lady Elsbeth."

Morgan was aghast. Running the numbers in her head, what the Grand Admiral was asking was not unreasonable but seemed . . .

Was he afraid?

"I don't understand the point of this whole exercise," she said, frustrated. "Wren being reunited with Bridger worries you?"

"It does," said the Imperial warlord. "And it should worry you, too. It all connects. Everything we have talked about in the past several minutes."

"It's just a story," she said, confused. "A fairy-tale."

Thrawn looked at her coldly. "Perhaps. But the accomplishments of Sabine Wren and Ezra Bridger are very real, Morgan Elsbeth. Generations from now, some would even say they sound like a myth. Sabine Wren has lived up to her symbol of the Starbird in ways that are immensely worrisome. Remember the story."

Understanding dawned on her in that moment. "The starbird burned the forest down. Wren gave up the map to find you - "

" - in exchange for a small, miniscule chance at finding her lost Jedi," finished Thrawn. "She helped me. Despite knowing all it would cost her - and the people she fought alongside back in our home galaxy."

"My mercenaries will handle them," Morgan argued. "They are more than capable."

"Your faith in them is misplaced," Thrawn replied in an icy tone. "But they will be useful in slowing them down long enough for us to make our escape."

He glared at her. She wilted under the full force of his anger, restrained as it was.

"Wren has already burned one forest down to find her Jedi. And now she has her prize. We are all that stands in her way to get him home. I will not risk our plan so close to fruition at the whims of fate."

Morgan pursed her lips - but bowed in deference to him. "As you wish, Grand Admiral," she said.

"Thank you," he replied.

On the way out, she couldn't help herself and paused at the door. Thrawn noted her pause. "What is it?" he asked, sounding impatient.

"You know it's just a fairy-tale, right?" she asked. "It's not real."

The Imperial warlord shook his head. "I'm afraid it is very real, Lady Elsbeth," he said.

"How do you know?"

He stared at her, his red eyes glowing like embers. "Because there are no more forests on Lothal," he said quietly. "They do not grow there anymore. And the loth wolves howl to the night sky in remembrance of their lost home, forced to roam the endless plains and fields."

Morgan nodded. "I see."

Later, it occurred to her what about that whole conversation disturbed her so much. When Thrawn studied his adversary, he always found a way to exploit a revealed weakness. He was never afraid of the foes he faced afterwards.

But this time . . . this time, he had studied the enemy.

And yet, the fear remained.

[rafeandonlyrafe]

second chance

words: 800

“y/n?” your name brings your nose out of your book, popping your head up to scan the beach, seeing who might have called your name. your eyes stop on a familiar face.

“rafe?” you are surprised to see him for sure. it’s been almost three years. you set your book down on your towel, standing up to meet him halfway. “hey.” you’re not sure if he’s okay with it, but you can’t resist it, you throw your arms around his shoulders in a hug.

you’re relieved when he hugs back. “hey.” he pulls away, taking a good look at your face, giving you time to study his. he’s matured a lot since you last saw him, and he looks more like a man now than the boy that you had a summer fling with.

“how have you been?” you ask. you assume he still lives here in the outer banks, but maybe he’s just home for college. you haven’t had any contact since you left.

“good, good.” he nods, ��just helping my dad with the business.” “oh, nice.” you nod. you don’t have many memories of his dad other than that he intimidated you. “i’m back here on vacation, obviously.” 

“yeah, i looked for you the past two summers but…”

you duck your head in embarrassment. “we went to um, florida instead.” you’re from michigan, but you spend all summer with your dad, wherever he feels like going that year. it’s always been like that since your parents divorced.

rafe is about to respond when a petite brunette stalks up to you, flinging sand with her stomps. she looks pissed at rafe, and your stomach instantly drops when you realize what was going on.

“rafe, who is this? did you forget you’re supposed to go swimming with your girlfriend?” she asks.

“oh, i’m just an old friend. we were done talking anyways. see you later rafe.” you wave and return to your towel, not wanting to get him in trouble with his girl, even as he sends you multiple glances as he heads towards the water.

--

you aren’t surprised by the knock on your door later that day. you take a deep breath before opening it. “hey rafe.” “can i come in?” he asks. you nod, letting him into your dads rental home, not that he’s ever actually here. since you turned 16 he took his summers with you as an excuse to let you do whatever you want while he does the same. 

you follow him towards the living room, rafe remembering the way from when he spent all of the rainy days that summer inside with you. “i’ve missed you.” he says, sitting down on the couch.

you join him, but put a cushion of space in between you. “missed you too.”

“why didn’t you say goodbye?” rafe asks, hurt flashing over his face before he gets control of his emotions again.

“i just…” you wring your hands out. “it was just a summer fling, right?” you let out a laugh that sounds fake even to your ears.

“was that what it was to you?” rafe asks. when you don’t answer rafe closes the distance, moving closer and taking your hand in his. “because that’s not what it was to me.” “i’m sorry.” you whisper. “i just thought it would be less painful. since we never would have worked.” “why?” rafe presses, “why wouldn’t we have worked?” “because i left to go back to michigan, and we were kids, long distance wouldn’t have worked.”

“i would have been willing to try for you.” rafe says, and it’s all too much. you stand up, needing to put some distance between you again.

“you have a girlfriend.” you remind rafe.

“she means nothing to me.” rafe says, and you snap your head to him.

“you can’t say that.” 

“i can if its true. i broke up with her before coming over. i want to try to make this work, please.”

“i’ll just have to leave again at the end of the summer.”

“but you don’t, do you? you’re an adult, you can choose where you live.” it’s crazy. you can’t just move across the summer for a guy you had a brief romance with three years ago. but for once in your life, you feel like indulging in the craziness.

“kiss me.”

rafe looks up at your words. he didn’t expect them, but he moves quickly once they process, cupping his hand around your face as your lips connect, gentle at first before he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you into his body, deepening the kiss.

you pull away with a smile, having missed the feeling of rightness when you kiss rafe. 

“i don’t know what our future looks like, but i’m willing to take this chance with you.”

[c41nc0r3]

i wrote two essays about how preacher’s daughter impacted my life for someone’s school study (while i was 🍃) and there was so much oversharing (because it’s anonymous & i’m unstoppable) so i want to post them here to feel better

To properly describe the way Preacher’s Daughter has been imprinted into my heart, I can only begin by explaining the things that I’ve experienced in my lifetime that Hayden’s music has immensely helped me grieve and process. To give you the rundown on who I am, I’m a gay, neurodivergent, and ex-Christian teenage boy, who was raised in an Evangelical Christian family in absolutely-nowhere, Florida. The dots connect themselves, but nothing has ever encapsulated this niche of my life like Hayden’s work on Preacher’s Daughter has. The first time I resonated with her music was just last autumn, when I had left my home to live with my father. I was fighting with my mother, to the point of severe mental dysfunction, and I had listened to Family Tree (Intro) for the first time. Hayden sings, “Jesus can always reject his father— but he cannot escape his mother’s blood”. I was left in complete awe. I had found an album that would change my life, with songs that would help me to put my experiences into words as haunting as my memories.

Not to mention, the storytelling of Ethel’s life is outstanding. The complexity of an album about parent failures and unreliable narratives and religious trauma woven into a twisted story of a young girl groomed into carnage is unmatched. Ethel Cain is brought to life and portrayed so personally that a listener can’t help but relate to her. Of course, not *every* listener is going to relate, as there is still extremely sensitive subject matter, which Hayden worked on with an impressive amount of respect and nuance.

I think one of the most underrated songs on the album is Hard Times. Not only is it a vulnerable look into the troubles of Ethel Cain, but it’s a relatable highlight to a core childhood wound of hers. Something about the acoustic strumming and Hayden’s strong humming feels like the burning pain of missing the “good” version of somebody. While there are multiple people this song has helped me grieve, I’ll talk about how I can relate to Ethel herself. As I previously mentioned, I lived with my father for a couple months. For most of my life, I strongly disliked my father. On my middle school graduation day, years ago, he had told me that he knew I was gay, and that he accepted and supported me. My entire relationship with him changed. Over 2 years later, I moved in with him, he became him again, and it wasn’t meant to be. I’m safe, and I’ve moved, but ever since I left I’ve had this burning sense of infancy that comes and goes—remembering what it felt like to hate my father during my childhood.

As one does, I grieve through music. Hayden sings, “I’m tired of you, still tied to me”, in a way that grasps my heart like the unbudging tether between father and child. She disappears into character and the song turns into another teenager my age, singing words we both know by heart.

that was the essay about the album in general…kind of just like a part 1 though.

this next essay is about televangelism but ties off the responses as a pair as well

Televangelism. With 11/13 tracks of an album packed with haunting lyrics like “Freezer bride, your sweet divine / You devour like smoked bovine hide / How funny, I never considered myself tough” (Strangers), & “Don’t worry ‘bout it too hard or you’ll never sleep a wink at night again / Don’t worry ‘bout me and these green eyes / Mama just know that I love you / I’ll see you when you get here” (also Strangers), it’s shocking to say I’m going with an instrumental track. . There is just something so deeply somatic about Hayden’s music. I can recall in my darkest moments in my time living at my father’s, laying in my bed with my headphones on listening to Televangelism, disassociating to the lights on my ceiling. I remember, it was a lot colder because my bedroom was in the garage and it was the middle of winter. I liked it cold, though. I would put on my headphones and listen to Televangelism on loop, feeling the warmth of Ethel’s ascension to Heaven fill my ears and radiate down my spine. It was escapism, survival even. It took my mind off of where I was and reminded me there was better days ahead.

To fully communicate the extent of Televangelism’s impact on me, I want to be very vulnerable about some of the things I have went through. If religious trauma is a sensitive subject I apologize in advance.

I grew up having nearly-daily panic attacks because of the things I had been taught about the Christian God. From 9 years old up to around this time last year, I would go in and out of having major panic attacks about going to hell or being left behind in the rapture. After the resolution of a religious psychosis episode in summer of last year, I had discovered information that had broken the hold that the Christian religion had on me, and I began to heal from my religious trauma.

While “Preacher’s Daughter” as a whole has played a role in my healing process, Televangelism stands out above all tracks. A song composed so beautifully it mimics the sensation of ascending to Heaven, signifying the end of Ethel Cain’s suffering on Earth. It is identical to the feeling of being without extreme fear and anxiety that I discovered for the first time last year. Every time I listen to Televangelism, I get to remember how it felt to discover that my existential worst fear was made up all over again. It was bliss. It was grief. It was heartbreaking, and it was life-changing. This album, while thematically centered around death, symbolizes the magnificence of creation, and how awesome it is to have the ability to bring the story of a character like Ethel Cain to life. I believe that if there is a God out there, “Preacher’s Daughter” was the apology for everything I’ve ever had to grow through.

okay thank you i hope nobody sees this

[taylorswiftschoolofsongwriting]

"what song are you claiming?" NAH BITCH

WHAT SONG IS CLAIMING YOU

Fortnight

where my renfaire bitches at?

2. The Tortured Poets Department

english major swifties unite

3. My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys

its me! hi! im his favorite toy! (why does this remind me of so many harry styles songs?? yeah this is for all of you who still think that boy is not a huge red flag)

4. Down Bad

this is for the girlies who worship don't blame me and feel like a glorious badass but then go home and cry

5. So Long London

if you studied abroad and thought you would find a spouse while you were there but fell in love with the country instead and got shipped home anyways (i am definitely not speaking from personal experience) this is coming for the chokehold

6. But Daddy I Love Him

youre a mermaid

7. Fresh Out The Slammer

'and by the way im going out tonight but not in a glitter sparkle bejeweled way....more in a smudged eyeliner and showing off new tattoos way'

8. Florida!!!

you still think spring break is the time of your life

9. Guilty as Sin?

The girlies still processing the Catholic guilt instilled in them growing up

10. Who's Afraid of Little Old Me?

the ones who think they are reputation snake queens but are really too soft for all of it

11. I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can)

I swear if you still think Pride and Prejudice is the greatest love story ever told.....i have news for you

12. loml

you laugh while you cry

13. I Can Do It With A Broken Heart

you cry in inconvenient places, especially grocery store check out lines

14. The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived

im 90% sure this is for all of you who love fae romance books, yes i know they are like human sized fae, but emotionally? tinkerbelles

15. The Alchemy

sorry but all i know is that alchemy is a huge metaphorical theme in romeo and juliet and if she mentions anything about turning lead into gold i will melt into a shakespearean puddle, pretty sure this one is for me alone sorry y'all

16. Clara Bow

if you love black and white films im pretty sure this song is gonna be the death of you

17. Bonus Track: The Manuscript

"i'm a writer" says the writer who has had writers block for five and a half years

18. Bonus Track: The Bolter

you're a doomsday prepper

[johnnickwilson]

Exploring the Home Study Process for Adoption in Florida

The home study process in Florida encompasses several key steps, each essential for evaluating prospective adoptive parents' suitability and readiness for adoption.Prospective adoptive parents begin their journey by attending orientation sessions, where they receive guidance on the adoption process, requirements, and expectations. They also complete necessary paperwork and prepare for the comprehensive assessment ahead.

[blindchandelure]

The Brave Way Out: Part Two

You can read part one of this autobiographical series here. In this series, I’ll be recounting how I left my abusive family’s home in my early twenties, and became an independent adult!

TW: threats of violence, homophobic language

December 2014. Young Harris, GA.

It’s about six o clock in the morning when my mother calls. The last thing I wanted, was to start the day listening to her scream.

“Why the hell would you tell your father that you’re not coming home for Christmas?!” she demanded.

I’m determined to stand up for myself, for once in my life.

“Because I’m n-not,” I insist, in a quiet whisper, trying not to wake Gillian, who’s sleeping in the other bed, a few feet away. “I’m going to spend winter break at Julie’s house.”

“You’d rather be with that bitch, than your own flesh and blood?” she cries.

“She’s not a bitch,” I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t call her that.”

“I’ll call her whatever I feel like,” my mother scoffed. “Your father is already in the car, driving up to Georgia. And when he gets there, you’re getting in the car with him, and coming home!”

“No,” I stood my ground. “I’m not.”

“Your father spends $35,000 a year, so you can go to college, and this is how you repay him?!” she asked, incredulous.

“Technically,” I argued, being pedantic, “my student loans cover $15,000 a year, and he pays the remaining $20,000.”

“He doesn’t have to keep doing that, you know!” my mother threatened.

“What?” I blink, my certainty faltering. I asked myself for a moment, if I was being a spoiled brat.

“If you want to be disobedient,” she cackled, “he could just decide to stop paying for your college. What are you gonna do? Come up with the $20,000 by yourself?”

Of course I can’t do that, I thought nervously. I don’t have a job.

They specifically asked me not to get one. In their opinion, a part time job, just like anime club, would be an unnecessary distraction from my studies.

“Dad wouldn’t do that to me,” I said confidently. “I’m in the third year, of a four year degree program. He wouldn’t cut me off, when I’m practically at the finish line. He loves me.”

“We’ll see about that,” my mother said smugly, and hung up.

%%%%%%%%%%

An hour later, at 7:00, I got a text from my dad:

I will be there at 7:30 to help you pack.

I’m not going back to Florida with you, I texted back.

Yes, you are, he replied simply. Or you can kiss your tuition goodbye.

“You’re bluffing,” I whispered, in the quiet darkness of the dorm room.

“Huh?” Gillian murmured sleepily.

“Nothing,” I shook my head. “Go back to sleep.”

Even if I were going with you, I texted, my brow furrowing in concentration, I can pack by myself.

I don’t trust you to pack correctly, my father answered quickly, despite the fact that he was supposedly driving. You will let me inside your dorm room, so that I can assist with the packing process.

No, I insisted. If you walk into my suite, you’re going to wake up the whole house. Let Gillian, Julie, and Tara sleep. I’ll meet you downstairs.

You don’t dictate to me where I’m allowed to walk! he replied angrily.

This is my home, I pleaded. Please respect that.

You don’t pay for your room and board, he reminded me. I do. So it’s not your home. And I’ll do whatever I want with it.

%%%%%

I packed as quietly as possible. Gillian was still sleeping, when I creep into the kitchenette, to make myself breakfast. I found Julie sitting at the table, drinking her coffee.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she confessed. “I was too worried about you.”

I showed her the texts. She looked immediately anxious.

“Is he implying that if we don’t let him in, he’ll break in?” she asked, incredulous.

“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “Maybe?”

“Fuck that,” Julie hissed.

“It’s fine,” I insisted, with more certainty than I felt. “When he gets here, I’ll go downstairs, and I’ll talk to him. I’m going to tell him again, that I’m not going home with him, and that he needs to leave.”

“No,” Julie shook her head. “I don’t want you to go downstairs. What if he…what if he gets violent with you?”

“He wouldn’t do that,” I assure her.

“He’s never hit you?” Julie asked.

I took a bite of my Pop Tart, not wanting to answer this question. She waited expectantly as I chewed through the strawberry filling.

“It’s been, like, ten years since the last time he slapped me,” I said, swallowing. “So, I’ll be fine.”

“That means he hit you when you were eleven?” Julie calculated.

“Yeah. It was forever ago.”

“Kelley, that doesn’t make me feel better,” Julie said nervously. “Text him again, and tell him not to come to this campus at all. If he shows up, I’m calling the police.”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit overdramatic?” I asked.

“No,” Julie said, looking horrified. “I think you’re being under dramatic.”

%%%%%

Predictably, my father reacted poorly, when I texted him again.

Gillian was up late last night, working on her art project, I told him. Please don’t wake her up, by coming up here, and trying to bang our door down.

I know how to wake that bitch up, my father replied coldly. Lesbians don’t scare me.

(Some of the conversations in this story are paraphrased. But that text was his exact words. They’re still ringing in my head, over a decade later.)

“Is that supposed to be a threat of sexual violence?” Tara asked, reading over my shoulder.

“No,” I shook my head. “Of course not. If anything, it’s a threat of, like, regular violence. But it’s fine. He can’t get through a locked door.”

“I feel unsafe,” Julie said, pacing around the tiny kitchen. “I really want to call the police.”

“Don’t,” I said. “He’s not even here yet.”

%%%%%%

Gillian woke up at last, after hearing us in the kitchen, talking.

“I don’t want to call the police,” I said again.

“Well, if you won’t call them, then I’ll call them for you!” Gillian said angrily. “I’m being threatened. We have to do something about it.”

“….Fine,” I relent. “I’ll call them.”

I dialed the non emergency number for the campus police.

“Hi,” I said to the officer who answered my call. “I live in the Enotah building. My dad says he’s coming to the campus to take me home. But, I, um, I don’t want to go with him.”

I feel stupid saying this. Like I’m wasting police resources.

“We’re afraid he might get violent,” Gillian says, snatching the phone from my hand. “So, if he tries to enter our building, can you please stop him, and ask him to leave?”

“Yes ma’am,” the officer replied. “We can do that.”

%%%%%%

It’s 8:00, when my mother calls again.

“You called the police on your own father?!” she screams, disgusted, as soon as I answer the call.

“How…,” I stammer, “How did you know that I called them?”

“Because your father just called me,” she explained. “He walked up to your building, and there was some cop standing next to the door, waiting for him. They told him that he had to leave.”

“Did he leave?” I asked, amazed that this had ended so peacefully, without any of us even hearing the commotion downstairs.

“He argued with them, and told them he was just there to see his child,” my mom replied. “He’s not some stalker. But they still said he would be arrested if he didn’t leave. So, he left.”

“Good,” I said, before I could stop myself.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” my mother snapped. “Your father drove ten hours just to come get you, and you aren’t even grateful! You don’t deserve a thing from us! I’m throwing your Christmas presents straight in the garbage!”

“Okay,” I shrugged. I was still just amazed that this had worked. He hadn’t been able to walk into my dorm. He hadn’t been able to force me into his car, or hurt my friends. I was free to go to Julie’s now, and spend the break doing whatever I wanted. I felt so hopeful and happy, as I hung up on her mid-sentence.

Then, I got another text from my father:

I can’t believe you chose those girls over your own family. Is Julie going to pay your tuition for you??

I remembered suddenly, that winter break was also the end of the semester. Dad had already paid $10,000, for the first half of the school year (August to December). But, tuition for the second semester (January to May), was due in the next few weeks.

You don’t deserve a damn thing from me, after the stunt you just pulled, he said ominously. Enjoy your life with those lesbian bitches.

[nerdygaymormon]

This Tumblr Ask is mostly an excuse to interact with another human. I hope you don’t mind.

Would you say Mormonism has a better history of changing entrenched stances than other religions?

Of the religions which don’t currently perform same sex marriages, which do you think will start in the next 100 years?

Who would you guess is going to be the central orbit in your afterlife: you or your husband?

Over the past 20 years, Salt Lake City Utah has had some of the best numbers regarding changes in racial diversity and home prices in the nation. A generation ago this relationship (then known as “White Flight”) was a major and very sad problem many municipalities faced. Is Mormonism in Florida making lives better for Black people?

These are interesting questions.

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Would you say Mormonism has a better history of changing entrenched stances than other religions?

Mormonism believes in on-going revelation, and its top leader is considered to be a prophet and we also have apostles. In other words, the structure is one which suggests change is an ongoing feature of this church. Compared to where the LDS Church was in 1830 or even 1960, much has changed.

Despite this, it seems to me to be slower than others when it comes to reconsidering "entrenched stances." It didn't allow full participation by Black members until 1978. Every few years it seems to take another small step or two towards equality for women, but the slow pace of change makes it feel like it's falling further behind much of Christendom.

I think the reason for this church being slow to progress forward is that it raises questions about the role of the prophet and apostles. If the past leaders were wrong about race or the inclusion of women, what might the current leaders be wrong about? Undermining the authority & teachings of past leaders calls into question the authority & teachings of the current leaders. Can I disregard what they're saying on LGBTQ+ topics because I believe there'll be further revelation and change, even if the current leaders say that the current teachings won't change, just like the past leaders said there wouldn't be change?

The current workaround is that doctrine doesn't change, but policies do. While I know many consider the LDS Church's teachings on gender and marriage to be doctrine, they have changed many times and therefore I think of them as policies.

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Of the religions which don’t currently perform same sex marriages, which do you think will start in the next 100 years?

One of the ways churches create an identity for themselves is by what they stand for. They also can define themselves by what they are against. Unfortunately, for hundreds of years Christianity has adopted being anti-gay/anti-queer as part of the definition of what it means to be Christian. Changing this identity is difficult.

There are Christian denominations wrestling with accepting same-sex marriages. Changing their stance has roiled their denominations. While many are thrilled, some traditionalists are alarmed & dismayed and whole congregations vote to leave that particular denomination.

I think this study showing the changing acceptance of gay marriage by religions in the United States is fascinating. I think it predicts most religions in the United States will ultimately accept queer people and same-sex marriages.

This chart shows that the Latter-day Saints moved the most in the past 8 years, from 27% to 50%. This is very much related to LGBTQ+ members coming out, especially teenagers and those in their 20's. Also, we have had a wave of adults who came out & left their mixed-orientation marriages. It's been a big, messy process, but now it seems most everyone knows or is related to a Mormon/ex-Mormon who is out as LGBTQ+. Which underlines that when people actually know queer folks and hear our stories, it changes hearts.

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Who would you guess is going to be the central orbit in your afterlife: you or your husband?

Gosh, I don't know how to answer this. I'm not sure what this means to be the "central orbit" of my afterlife.

Considering I'm single and don't have a husband, I will have to say that it won't be my husband. Although, if I'm lucky, maybe one day my marriage status will change

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Over the past 20 years, Salt Lake City Utah has had some of the best numbers regarding changes in racial diversity and home prices in the nation. A generation ago this relationship (then known as “White Flight”) was a major and very sad problem many municipalities faced. Is Mormonism in Florida making lives better for Black people?

It's interesting you speak of Salt Lake City as racially diverse. When I visit, I notice the lack of such diversity. I suppose compared to where it was, it is becoming more diverse, but so is the United States.

Utah is the 34th most racially and ethnically diverse state in the nation, putting it in the bottom half of states. Forty percent of the state’s growth since 2010 has come from racial and ethnic minority populations, who are expected to account for one in three Utahns by 2060. In contrast, it is projected by 2040 that the United States is expected to have no race or ethnic demographic which is more than 50% of the population, making us a majority minority nation.

So yes, Salt Lake City and Utah are becoming more diverse, but still lags far behind the United States as a whole.

As for your question whether Mormonism in Florida is making lives better for Black people, I don't think so. I also wouldn't say we're making life worse.

I know we have talked about being more welcoming of Black people and have had some committees in my local area to discuss what changes we can make in our congregations or what contribution we can make to the Black community in the area. I'm not aware of any sustained efforts to make changes or to partner with local organizations.

Our congregations in Florida may look more diverse than the average congregation in Utah, but typically they're not as diverse as the neighborhoods where we are located. We have much room for improvement in making a space where all feel welcome and that this is their spiritual home.

[cigarettesandcoffee1904]

Robert & Charlotte.

 

In 1922 a young German woman named Charlotte Riefenstahl started studying natural sciences and mathematics in Georg-August University of Göttingen after two years of teaching in a private school in Lauenförde, Charlotte was a bright young woman often referred to by her peers as the most attractive woman on campus. On the 20th of November 1927 at the age of 28, she obtained her PhD under Gustav Tammann Thesis about the rolling process and recrystallization of silver and gold. The change in electrical resistance in the self-hardening lead-mercury and lead-sodium alloys.

University of Göttingen.

That same year she met Robert, they had met on a student overnight trip to Hamburg standing at a train platform Charlotte noticed a unique beautiful suitcase made of pigskin not the usual cardboard cheap suitcases that you would normally come across, She pointed at the suitcase saying “What a beautiful thing, whose is it?” to which Professor Franck replied “Who else but Oppenheimer’s” he shrugged. Charlotte then got on the train back to Göttingen asking where this Oppenheimer was she then sat down beside him clearly interested to know more about the man with the beautiful suitcase, on the train Robert was sitting down reading a novel by the French author André Gide known for (the counterfeiters) Charlotte aware of the author began to speak to Robert about his work, Robert was impressed this woman knew about the work of André Gide he sat with her talking about the author throughout the train ride back to Göttingen, as they arrived to their destination Charlotte complimented his luggage and expressed how she admired how nice the bag was.

A pigskin suitcase from the 1920s similar to the description of Robert's.

Later, speaking to another student about her encounter with Robert, they predicted that Robert would try to give over this suitcase of his to her as Robert was known for giving away his possessions to anyone who admired them, Robert was very smitten with Riefenstahl he tried to court her the best he could but so did Friedrich Georg “fritz" Houtermans a Dutch-Austrian-German 24 year old, A fellow physics student who had already made a name for himself writing a paper on the energy production of stars, Houtermans was known for his quite self-assured attitude being the son of a Dutch banker and would make cocky comments like “When your ancestors were still living in trees, mine were already forging checks!” both Robert and Friedrich received their doctorates that year in 1927.

Friedrich Georg Houtermans 1927 at the University of Göttingen.

At the end of Robert’s year at Göttingen University Charlotte came to say her goodbyes at his leaving party,  Robert as the student that conversed with Charlotte earlier that year predicted made a point by giving her his pigskin bag which Riefenstahl kept for the next 3 decades calling it “the Oppenheimer”

Max Born (seated) at his home in Göttingen. Paul Dirac is in the front row, second from right. Yoshikatsu Sugiura is sitting to the right of Born on the ground. J. Robert Oppenheimer is third from left. 1927. (Image courtesy of Florida State University Library)

Later when Robert was back in the states he had word that miss Riefenstahl had accepted a teaching post at Vassar College, pleased in September he went to the dockside to meet her she was accompanied by fellow physicists Samuel Goudsmit and George Uhlenbeck and Uhlenbeck's new wife, Samuel recalled “We all got the real Oppenheimer treatment—but it was for Charlottes benefit really. He met us in this great chauffeur-driven limousine, and took us downtown to a hotel he had selected in Greenwich Village.”

George Uhlenbeck, Hendrik Kramers and Samuel Goudsmit. circa 1928 at the University of Michigan.

Robert was infatuated with Charlotte taking her around New York and all different places he had been such as art galleries to taking her on dates to the most expensive restaurants, he even went to the extent of introducing her to his parents showing how committed he was to her however although Charlotte admired his attention and care he gave to her she also felt that Robert was emotionally unavailable, When she asked about his past he would often dismiss any attempts to talk about it, She also felt that the Oppenheimer household was too “overprotective” unfortunately their love affair didn’t last and they drifted apart, Later Charlotte would leave her job at Vassar returning home to Göttingen in 1930 and she would marry Roberts former classmate Friedrich Georg Houtermans in August of 1931 with Wolfgang Pauli a Austrian-born Theoretical physicist and Rudolf Peierls a German-born physicist (A future key player in Tube alloys as well as the Manhattan Project) being witnesses to the ceremony, they later went on to have two children Giovanna and Jan.

 Friedrich, Charlotte and Giovanna in Berlin, 1932.

[rabbitcruiser]

Color the World Orange Day

The first Monday of November is Color the World Orange Day, on November 4 this year. This day is dedicated to creating awareness for an illness that is still poorly misunderstood, providing support to those affected, and educating the world about its existence.

History of Color the World Orange Day

Color the World Orange Day stands at the front of creating awareness and educating the larger population about a rare condition, but not uncommon, primarily among society’s middle-aged members of society. On this day, the medical profession stands with the people affected, and the day pushes the whole world to understand, sympathize, and take action where possible.

Complex Regional Pain Syndrome, also classified as Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy (RSD), is a neurological discomfort that includes heightened nerve impulses in a specific body site. Medical specialists speculate that the condition is a result of a dysfunction in the central nervous system. An injury to the leg or hand can also bring on the syndrome. A triggering of the immune response can cause injury-related CRPS, which may lead to symptoms such as redness and swelling in the affected area. It is thus believed that this may represent a disruption of the healing process.

In history, several medical bodies and independent doctors have tasked themselves with understanding the causes and treatment for this syndrome. Presently, there is no cure for this disorder, so the goal is to relieve painful symptoms associated with the disorder. Methods include psychotherapy, physical therapy, and drug treatment.

Color the World Orange Day timeline

1812First Known Situation

A British surgeon publishes a case report of a soldier wounded by a bullet on his upper arm.

1864“Gunshot Wounds and Other Injuries”

During WWI, three doctors highlight a diagnosis and treatment of nerve damage.

1973International Association for the Study of Pain

This year marks the creation of an international system focusing on the different aspects of pain.

1993Better Nomenclature

A consensus in Florida coins the name Complex Regional Pain Syndrome to avoid misuse of previous terms and underlying symptoms.

Color the World Orange Day FAQs

Is CRPS a lifelong impairment?

Complex Regional Pain Syndrome currently has no cure. Still, with the right medication and counseling, most patients experience improved symptoms and better conditions. However, in some patients, the symptoms can last for years and even get worse.

What causes CRPS?

This syndrome is still being researched as it is uncommon. The major stressors are injury, surgery, heart attack, or a stroke, and the major symptoms are swelling of the arm or leg.

Will CRPS spread to other parts of the body?

It is common for the swelling and pain to transfer to other body parts but usually to nearby areas. For example, CRPS on the arm can spread to the hand or shoulders.

How to Celebrate Color the World Orange Day

Wear orange

Read about CRPS

Donate

Celebrate this day by simply wearing orange. Take a picture and upload it, tell people why you are wearing orange, and include the official hashtags for the day to create as much engagement as possible.

Use this day to learn about the symptoms and treatments of CRPS, find out more about the topic, and engage others online, at home, or in school. You will learn a lot and also convey information to others.

You can donate to any fundraising for research on CRPS by either purchasing something from any affiliate of Color the World Orange website or by donating directly.

Important Facts About Complex Regional Pain Syndrome

CRPS affects the middle-aged

Long-term signs

CRPS and women

Rumored to cause permanent disability

Early treatment

Contrary to popular belief, it does not affect the elderly.

Symptoms of this syndrome can last for months or years if not identified.

Statistically, women are more affected by this than men.

Untreated symptoms that last up to a year can cause impairments.

Treatment is likely to be effective if started early in the course of the illness.

Why Color the World Orange Day is Important

Provide support

Create and increase awareness

An opportunity to raise funds

This day allows us to support those with CRPS, reminding them that they are not alone. It provides comfort, encouragement, and financial assistance. We can listen to their stories, even if we do not quite understand the pain they experience.

With various activities like fundraising, educational events, walks, and much more, the day strives to create and increase awareness on all levels and call for action.

We love the opportunity to donate to further research on CRPS. Funds raised are also sometimes used for patients who are financially unable to afford medication and physiotherapy.

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