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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 5 months

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1968 [Chapter 5: Artemis, Goddess Of The Hunt]

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: 6.6k

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“So you smoked grass in college,” Aegon says, pondering you with glazed eyes as he slurps his cherry-flavored Mr. Misty. You’re in Biloxi, Mississippi where Aemond is making speeches and meeting with locals to commemorate the first summer of the beaches being desegregated after a decade of peaceful protests and violent white supremacist backlash. Route 90 runs right along the sand dunes. If you walked out of this Dairy Queen, you could look south and see the Gulf of Mexico, placid dark ripples gleaming with moonshine. “And swore, and had a boyfriend, and presumably, what, did shots? Skipped class on occasion?”

“Yeah,” you admit, smiling sheepishly, remembering. You stretch out your fingers. “I chewed gum, I talked during mass. And I loved black nail polish. The nuns would beat my knuckles with rulers, I always had bruises. I wore these flowing skirts down to my ankles and knee-high boots. My hair was a mess, long and blowing around everywhere. My friends and I would do each other’s makeup, silver glitter and purple shadow, pencil on a ridiculous amount of eyeliner and then smudge it out. If you saw a photo you wouldn’t recognize me.”

Aegon takes a drag on his Lucky Strike cigarette, weightless smoke and the tired yellowish haze of florescent lights. Buffalo Springfield’s For What It’s Worth is playing from the Zenith radio on the counter by the cash register. “I’d recognize you.”

“I used to skip this one class all the time. The professor was a demon. I could do the math, but not the way he wanted me to. Right solution, wrong steps, I don’t know. I learned it differently in high school, and I couldn’t figure out the formula he wanted me to use. So he’d mark everything a zero even if my answer was correct. I couldn’t stand that bastard. Then the nuns kept catching me sunbathing on the quad when I was supposed to be in Matrices and Vector Spaces. I racked up so many demerits they were going to revoke my weekend pass, and then I wouldn’t be able to go into the city with my friends. So I stole the demerit book and burned it up on the stove in my dorm. Almost set the whole building on fire.”

Aegon is laughing. “You did not. Not you, not perfect ever-obedient Miss America!”

“I did. I really did.” You sip your own Mr. Misty, lemon-lime. Across the restaurant, Criston and Fosco are eating banana splits—dripping chocolate syrup and melted ice cream all over their table—and passionately debating who is going to end up in the World Series; Criston favors the Cardinals and the Orioles, Fosco says the Red Sox and the Cubs. The rest of the Targaryen family is back at the hotel watching news coverage of the Republican National Convention, something you can only stomach so much of, Otto’s cynical commentary, Aemond’s remaining eye fixed fiercely on the screen as he nips at an Old Fashioned. “I was wild back then.”

“And you gave it all up to be Aemond’s first lady.”

You think back to where it started: palm trees, salt water, alligators in drainage ditches. “My father grew up in a shack outside of Tallahassee. No electricity, no running water, he dropped out of school in eighth grade to help take care of his siblings when his mom died. They moved south to live with their aunt in Tampa, and my father wound up in Tarpon Springs working as a sea sponge diver.”

Aegon’s eyebrows rise, like he thinks you’re teasing him. “Sea sponges…?”

“I’m serious! It paid better than picking oranges or sweeping up in a factory. It’s dangerous. You have to wear this heavy rubber suit and walk around on the ocean floor, sometimes 50 feet or more below the surface.”

“What do people do with sea sponges?”

“Oh right, you would be unfamiliar. You’re supposed to clean yourself with them, like a loofah. Soap? Water? Ringing any bells?”

He chuckles and rolls his eyes. “You’re a very mean person. Aren’t you supposed to be setting an example for the merciful wives and daughters of this great nation?”

“Painters and potters buy sponges too. And some women use them as contraceptives. You can soak them in lemon juice and then shove them up there and it kills sperm.”

“I suddenly have great appreciation for the sea sponge industry. God bless the sea sponges.”

“So my father spent a few years diving, and he fell in love with a girl who worked at one of the shops he sold sponges to. That was my mother. They got married when he had absolutely nothing, and by their fifth anniversary he had his own fleet of boats, a gift shop, and a processing and shipping facility, all of which they owned jointly. They just opened the Spongeorama Sponge Factory this past April, a cute little tourist trap. But my point is that they were partners from the start. My father listens to my mother, and she works alongside him, and it was never like what I’ve seen from my friends’ parents: dad at the office 80 hours a week, mom at home strung out on Valium, just these…deeply separate, cold planets locked in orbit but never touching each other. I knew I didn’t want that. I wanted a husband who was building something I could be a part of. I wanted a man who respected me.”

Aegon watches you as he lights a fresh cigarette, not saying what you imagine he wants to: And how is that working out? He puffs on his Lucky Strike a few times and then offers it to you. You aren’t supposed to smoke, not even tobacco—it’s not ladylike, it’s masculine, it’s subversive—but you take it and hold it between your index and middle fingers, inhaling an ashy bitterness that blood learns to crave. The bracelets on your wrist jangle, thin silver chains that match the diamonds in your ears. Your dress is mint green, your hair in your signature Brigitte Bardot-inspired updo. Aegon is wearing a black t-shirt with The Who stamped across the front. When you pass the cigarette back to him, Aegon asks: “What music did you listen to? The Stones, The Animals?”

“Yeah. And Hendrix, The Kinks, Aretha Franklin…”

“Phil Ochs?”

“I love him. He’s got a song about Mississippi, you know.”

“Oh, I’m aware. It’s one of my favorites.”

“And I’m currently getting a little obsessed with Loretta Lynn. She’s so angry!”

“She’s sanctimonious, that’s what she is. Always bitching about men.”

“Six kids and an alcoholic husband will do that to someone.”

Aegon winces, and then you realize what you’ve said. Loretta Lynn sounds a lot like Mimi. He finishes his Mr. Misty and then fidgets restlessly with his white cardboard cup, spinning it around by the straw. You feel bad, though you shouldn’t. You wouldn’t have a month ago.

“Aegon,” you say gently, and he reluctantly looks up at you, sunburned cheeks, blonde hair shagging over his eyes. “Why do you ignore your children? They’re interesting, they’re fun. Violeta invited me to help her make cakes with her Easy-Bake Oven last week. And Cosmo…he’s so clever. But it’s like he doesn’t know who you are. He might actually think Fosco’s his dad.”

Aegon takes one last drag off his cigarette and discards the end of it in his Mr. Misty cup. Now he’s fiddling with it again, avoiding your gaze. “I don’t have much to offer them.”

“I think you do.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do,” you insist. “You can be kind of nice sometimes.”

He frowns, staring out the window. You know he can’t see anything but darkness and streetlights. “I should have been the one to go to Vietnam. If somebody had to get shot at so Aemond could be president, I was the right choice. No one would miss me. No one would mourn me. Daeron didn’t deserve that. But I was too old, so Otto and my father got him to enlist. Now he’s in the jungle and my mother has nightmares about Western Union telegrams. If I was the son over there, I think she’d sleep easier.”

I’m glad you’re still here, you think. Instead you say: “Your children need you.”

“No they don’t. Between me and Mimi, they’re better off as orphans. Helaena and Fosco can be their parents. Maybe they’ll have a fighting chance.”

The glass door opens, and a man walks into the Dairy Queen with his two sons scampering behind him, all with sandy flip flops and carrying fishing rods. The dad is at least six feet tall and brawny, and wearing a Wallace For President baseball cap. You and Aegon both notice it, then share an amused, disparaging glance. You mouth: Imbecile bigot. The man continues to the cash register and orders two chocolate shakes and a root beer float. At their own table, Criston is mopping up melted ice cream with napkins and telling Fosco to stop being such a pig.

“Me?!” Fosco says. “You are the pig, that spot there is your ice cream, do not blame your failings on poor Fosco. I have already let you drag me to this terrible state and never once complained about the fried food or the mosquitos. And that thing out there is not a real beach. The water is still and brown, brown!”

“For once in your life, pretend you have a work ethic and help me clean up the table.”

“You are being very anti-immigrant right now, do you know that?”

Aegon begins singing, ostensibly to himself. “Here’s to the state of Mississippi, for underneath her borders, the devil draws no lines.”

“Aegon, no,” you whisper, petrified. You know this song. You know where he’s going.

He’s beaming as he continues: “If you drag her muddy rivers, nameless bodies you will find.”

Now the man in the Wallace hat is looking at Aegon. His sons are happily gulping down their chocolate shakes. Criston and Fosco, still bickering, haven’t noticed yet.

“Oh, the fat trees of the forest have hid a thousand crimes.”

“Aegon, don’t,” you plead quietly. “He’ll murder you.”

“The calendar is lyin’ when it reads the present time.”

“Hey,” calls the man in the Wallace For President hat. “You got a problem, boy?”

Aegon drums his palms on the tabletop as he sings, loudly now: “Oh, here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of, Mississippi find yourself another country to be part of!”

In seconds, the man has crossed the room, grabbed Aegon by the collar of his t-shirt, yanked him out of his chair and struck him across the face: closed fist, lethal intent, the sick wet sound of bones on flesh. Aegon’s nose gushes, his lip splits open, but he isn’t flinching away, he isn’t afraid. He’s yowling like a rabid animal and clawing, kicking, swinging at the giant who’s ensnared him. You are screaming as you leap to your feet, your chair falling over and clattering on the floor behind you. The man’s sons are hooting joyously. “Git him, Paw!” one of them shouts.

“Criston?!” you shriek, but he and Fosco are already here, tugging at the man’s massive arms and beating on his back, trying to untangle him from Aegon.

“Stop!” Criston roars. “You don’t want to hurt him! He’s a Targaryen!”

“A Targaryen, huh?” the man says as he steps away, wiping the blood from his knuckles on his tattered white t-shirt, stained with fish guts. “All the better. I wish that bullet they put in Aemond woulda been just another inch to the left. Directly through the aorta.”

Aegon lunges at the man again, hissing, fists swinging. Fosco yanks him back.

“Are you gonna call someone or not?!” Criston snaps at the girl behind the cash register, but she only gives him a steely glare in return. This is Wallace country. There’s a reason why it took four years after the Civil Rights Act of 1964 to finally desegregate the beaches.

“We should go,” you tell Criston softly.

“Yes, we will leave now,” Fosco says, hauling Aegon towards the front door. Then, to the cashier: “Thank you for the ice cream, but it was not very good. If you are ever in Italy, try the gelato. You will learn so much.”

“I can’t wait ‘til November,” the man gloats, ominous, threatening. His sons are standing tall and proud beside him. “When Aemond loses, you can all cart your asses back to Europe. We don’t want you here. America ain’t for people like you.”

“It literally is,” you say, unable to stop yourself. “It’s on the Statue of Liberty.”

“Yeah, where do you think your ancestors came from?!” Aegon yells at the man. “Are you a Seminole, pal? I didn’t think so—!” Fosco and Criston lug him through the doorway before more punches can be thrown.

Outside—under stars and streetlights and a full moon—Aegon burst out laughing. This is when he feels alive; this is when the blood in his veins turns to wave and riptides. You didn’t think to grab napkins from the table, so you wipe the blood off his face with your bare hand, assessing the damage. He’ll be fine; swollen and sore, but fine.

“You’re insane, you know that?” you say. “You could have been killed.”

Aegon pats your cheek twice and grins, blood on his teeth. “The world would keep spinning, little Io.” Then he starts walking back towards the White House Hotel.

~~~~~~~~~~

When the four of you arrive at your suite, Aemond, Otto, Ludwika, and Alicent are still gathered around the television. The nannies have taken the children to bed. Helaena is reading The Bell Jar in an armchair in the corner of the room. Mimi is passed out on the couch, several empty glasses on the coffee table. ABC is showing a clip they recorded earlier today of Ludwika travelling with Aemond’s retinue after he made an impassioned speech condemning the lack of recognition of the evils of slavery at Beauvoir, the historic home of former Confederate president Jefferson Davis. The reporter is asking Ludwika what she thinks makes Aemond a better presidential candidate than Eugene McCarthy, as McCarthy shares many of the same policy positions and has an additional 15 years of political experience.

“This McCarthy is not a real man,” Ludwika responds, her face stony and mistrustful. “He reminds me of the communists back in my country. Did you know he met with Che Guevara in New York City a few years ago? Why would he do such a thing?”

Now, Otto turns to her in this hotel room. “I love you.”

Ludwika takes a sip of her martini. “I want another Gucci bag.”

“Yes, yes. Tomorrow, my dear.”

“What happened to you?” Aemond asks his brother, half-exasperated and half-concerned. Criston has fetched a washcloth from the bathroom for Aegon to hold against his bleeding lip and nose. Aemond is still wearing his blue suit from a long day of campaigning, but he’s taken out his eye and put on his eyepatch. His gaze flicks from Aegon’s face to the blood still coating your left hand. On the couch, Mimi’s bare foot twitches but she doesn’t wake up.

“There was a Wallace supporter at the Dairy Queen,” you say. “Aegon felt inspired to defend you.”

Aemond chuckles. “Did you win?” he asks Aegon.

“I would have if the guy wasn’t two of me.”

On the television screen, Richard Nixon is accepting his party’s nomination for president at the Republican National Convention in Miami, Florida.

“He’s a buffoon,” Otto sneers. “So awkward and undignified. Look at him sweating! Look at those ridiculous jowls! And he comes from nothing. His family is trash.”

“Americans love a rags to riches story,” you say. And then, somewhat randomly: “He loves his wife. He proposed to Pat on their very first date, and she said no. So he drove her to dates with other men for years until she finally reconsidered. He said it was love at first sight. He’s never had a mistress. And jowls or no jowls, his family adores him.”

Aegon turns to you, still clutching the washcloth against his face. “Really?”

You nod. “That’s the sort of thing the women talk about.”

There’s a knock at the door. You all look at each other, confounded; no one has ordered room service, no one is expecting any visitors, and the nannies have keys in the event of an emergency. Fosco is closest to the door, so he opens it. A man in uniform is standing there with a golden Western Union telegram in his hands. Alicent screams and collapses. Criston bolts to her.

“It’s okay,” you say. “He’s not dead. Whatever happened, Daeron’s not dead.”

Otto crinkles his brow at you. “How do you know?”

“Because if he was killed, there would be a priest here too.” They always send a priest when the boy is dead. Aegon glances at you, eyes wet and fearful.

“Ma’am,” the soldier—a major you see now, spotting the golden oak leaves—says to Alicent as he removes his cap. “I regret to inform you that your son Daeron was missing in action for several weeks, and we’ve just received confirmation that he’s being held as a prisoner of war in Hỏa Lò Prison.”

“He’s in the Hanoi Hilton?!” Otto exclaims. “Oh, fuck those people and their swamp, how did Kennedy ever think we had something to gain from getting tangled up in that mess?”

“But he’s alive?” Aemond says. “He’s unharmed?”

“Yes sir,” the captain replies. “It is our understanding that he is in good condition. The North Vietnamese are aware that he is a very valuable prisoner, like Admiral McCain’s son John. He’ll be used in negotiations. He is of far more use to them alive than dead.”

“So we can get Daeron back,” Aegon says. “I mean, we have to be able to, right? Aemond’s running for president, he’ll probably win in November, we have millions of dollars, we can spring one man out of some third-world jail, right?”

The captain continues: “Tomorrow when your family returns to New Jersey, the Joint Chiefs of Staff will be there to discuss next steps with you. I’m afraid I’m only authorized to give you the news as it was relayed to me.” He entrusts the telegram to Otto, who rapidly opens it and stares down at the mechanical typewriter words.

“I have to pray,” Alicent says suddenly. “Helaena, will you pray with me? There’s a Greek church down the road. Holy Trinity, I think it’s called.”

Obediently, Helaena joins her mother and follows her to the doorway. Criston leaves with them. Otto gives his new wife a harsh, meaningful stare. Ludwika, an ardent yet covert atheist, sighs irritably. “Wait. I want to pray too,” she says, and vanishes with them into the hall.

As the captain departs, Mimi sits up on the couch, blinking, groggy. “What? What happened?”

“Go with Alicent,” Otto tells her. “She’s headed downstairs.”

“What? Why…?”

“Just go!” he barks.

Mimi staggers to her feet and hobbles out of the hotel room, her sundress—patterned with forget-me-nots—billowing around her. The only people left are Otto, Aemond, Fosco, Aegon, and you. The fact that you are the sole woman permitted to remain here feels intentional.

After a moment, Otto speaks. “You know, John McCain has famously refused to be released from the Hanoi Hilton until all the men imprisoned before him have been freed. He doesn’t want special treatment. And that’s a very noble thing to do, don’t you think? It has endeared him and the McCains to the public.”

Aemond and Otto are looking at each other, communicating in a silent language not of letters or accents but colors: red ambition, green hunger, grey impassionate morality. Fosco is observing them uneasily. Aemond says at last: “Daeron wants to help this family.”

“You’re not going to try to get him out.” Aegon realizes.

Aemond turns to him, businesslike, vague distant sympathy. “It’s only until November.”

“No, you know people!” Aegon explodes. “You pick up the phone, you call in every favor, you get him out of there now! You have no idea if he has another three months, you don’t know what kind of shape he’s in! They could be dislocating his arms or chopping off his fingers right now, they could be starving him, they could be beating him, you can’t just leave him there!”

“It’s not your decision. It could have been, had you accepted your role as the eldest son. But you didn’t. So it’s my job to handle these things. You don’t get to hate me for making choices you were too cowardly too take responsibility for.”

“But Daeron could die,” Aegon says, his voice going brittle.

“Any of us could die. We’re in a very dangerous line of work. Greatness killed Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, Huey Long, Medgar Evers, John F. Kennedy, Malcolm X, Vernon Dahmer, Martin Luther King Jr., does that mean we should all give up the fight? Of course not. The work isn’t finished. We have to keep going.”

“Will you stop pretending this is about America?! This is about you wanting to be president, and everything you’ve ever done has been in pursuit of that trophy, and you keep shoving new people into the line of fire and it’s not right!”

“Aegon,” Otto says calmly. “It’s unlikely we’d be able to get him out before the election anyway. Negotiations take time. But if Aemond wins in November, he’ll be in a very advantageous position. The North Vietnamese aren’t stupid. They wouldn’t kill the brother of a U.S. president. They don’t want their vile little corner of the world flattened by nukes.”

“Still, it feels so wrong to leave a brother in peril,” Fosco says. “It is unnatural. Of course Aegon will be upset. We could at least see what a deal to get Daeron released would entail, maybe his arrival home would be a good headline—”

“And who the fuck asked you?” Otto demands, and Fosco goes quiet.

“Okay, then tell Mom,” Aegon says to Aemond. “Tell her you’re going to pretend Daeron made some self-sacrificial vow not to come home until all the other POWs can too. Tell her you’re going to let him get tortured for a few months before you take this seriously.”

Aemond replies cooly: “Why would you want to upset her? She can’t change it. You’ll only make her suffering worse.”

“What do you think?” Otto asks you, and you know that he isn’t seeking counsel. He’s summoning you like a dog to perform a trick, like an actor to recite a line. He’s waiting for you to say that it’s a smart strategy, because it is. He’s waiting for you to bend to Aemond’s will as your station requires you to, as moons are bound to their planets.

“I think it’s wrong,” you murmur; and Aemond is thunderstruck by your treason.

Without another word, you walk into the bathroom, turn on the sink, and gaze down at Aegon’s blood on your palm. For some reason, it’s very difficult to bring yourself to wash it away.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s mid-August now, the world painted in goldenrod yellow and sky blue. The Democratic National Convention is in two weeks. You and Aemond are posing on the beach at Asteria, surrounded by an adoring gaggle of journalists who are snapping photographs and jotting down quotes on their notepads. You’re sitting demurely on a sand dune, you’re building sandcastles with the children you borrowed from Aegon and Helaena, you’re flying kites, you’re gazing confidently into the sunlit horizon where a glorious new age is surely dawning.

“Mr. Targaryen, what is it that makes your partnership so successful?” a journalist asks as flashbulbs pulse like lightning. “What do you think is the most crucial characteristic to have in a wife?”

Aemond doesn’t need to consider this before he answers. He always has his compliment picked out. “Loyalty,” your husband says. “Not just to me or to the Targaryen family, but to our shared cause. This year has been indescribably difficult for me and my wife. I announced my candidacy, we embarked on a strenuous national campaign that we’re currently only halfway through, I barely survived a brutal assassination attempt in May, in July we lost our first child to hyaline membrane disease after he was born six weeks prematurely, and at the beginning of this month we learned that my youngest brother Daeron was taken by the North Vietnamese as a prisoner of war. To find the strength not just to get out of bed in the morning, not just to be there for me and this family in our personal lives, but to tirelessly traverse the country with me inspiring Americans to believe in a better future…it’s absolutely remarkable. I’m in awe of her. And when she is the first lady of the United States, she will continue to amaze us all with her unwavering faith and dedication.”

There are whistles and cheers and strobing flashbulbs. You smile—elegant, soft, practiced—as Aemond rests a hand firmly on your waist. You lean into him, feeling out-of-place, bewildered that you’ve ever slept with him, full of dull panic that soon you’ll have to again.

“How about you, Mrs. Targaryen?” another reporter asks. “Same question, essentially. What is the trait that you most admire in your husband?”

And in the cascading clicks of photographs being captured, your mind goes entirely blank. You can think of so many other people—Aegon, Ari, Alicent, Daeron, Fosco, Cosmo—but not Aemond. It’s like you’ve blocked him out somehow, like he’s a sketch you erased. But you can’t hesitate. You can’t let the uncertainty read on your face. You begin speaking without knowing where you’re going, something that is rare for you. “Aemond is the most tenacious person I’ve ever met. When he has a goal in mind, nothing can stop him.” You pause, and there are a few awkward chuckles from the journalists. You swiftly recover. “He never stops learning. He always knows the right thing to do or say. And what he wants more than anything is to serve the American people. Aemond won’t disappoint you. He’s not capable of it. He will do whatever it takes to make this country more prosperous, more peaceful, and more free.”

There are applause and gracious thank yous, but Aemond gives you a look—just for a second, just long enough that you can catch it—that warns you to get it together. Fifteen minutes later, he and the flock of reporters are headed to one of the guest houses to conduct a long-form interview. This will be the bulk of the article; you will appear in one or two photos, you will supply a few quotes. The rest of the story is Aemond. You are an accessory, like a belt or a bracelet. He’s the person who picks you out of a drawer each morning and wears you until you go out of fashion.

Released from your obligations, you return to the main house and disappear into your upstairs bathroom. You are there for fifteen minutes and emerge rattled, routed. You pace aimlessly around your bedroom for a while, then try again; still no luck. You go back outside and stare blankly at the ocean, wondering what you’re going to do. Down on the beach, Fosco is teaching the kids how to yo-yo. Ludwika is sunbathing in a bikini.

“What’s wrong with you?”

You whirl to see Aegon, popping a Valium into his mouth and washing it down with a splash of straight rum from a coffee mug. “Huh? Nothing. I’m great.”

“No, something’s wrong. You look lost. You look like me.”

You gaze out over the ocean again, chewing your lower lip.

Aegon snickers, fascinated, sensing a scandal. “What did you do?”

Your eyes drift to him. “You can’t make fun of me.”

“Okay. I won’t.”

There is a long, heavy lull before you answer. When you speak, it’s all in a rush, like you can’t unburden yourself of the words fast enough. “I put a tampon in and I can’t get it out.”

Aegon immediately breaks his promise and cackles. “You did what?!” Then he tries to be serious. “Wait. Sorry. Uh, really?”

You’re on the verge of tears. “I’ve been bleeding since I had the baby, and I hate using tampons, I almost never do, but Aemond wanted me to wear this dress for the photoshoot and it’s super gauzy and from certain angles I felt like I could see the pad bulge when I checked in the mirror, so I put a tampon in for the first time in probably a year. I’m not even supposed to be using them for another few weeks because my uterus isn’t healed all the way or whatever. And now I can’t get it out and it’s been in there for like six hours and I’m scared I’m going to get an infection and die in the most pointless, humiliating way imaginable.”

“Okay, calm down, calm down,” Aegon says. “There’s no string?”

“No, I’ve checked multiple times. It must be a defective one and they forgot to put a string in it at the factory and I didn’t notice, or the string somehow got tucked under it, I don’t know, but I can’t get it out, it’s like…the angle isn’t right. I can just barely feel it with my fingertips, but I can’t grab it. I’m going to have to go to the hospital to get it taken out, but I’m scared word will spread and journalists will show up to get photos when I leave and then everyone will be asking me why I was at the emergency room to begin with and I’m going to have to make up something and…and…” You can’t talk anymore. There are other reasons why you don’t want to go to the hospital. You haven’t stepped foot in one since Ari died; the thought makes you feel like you are looking down to see blood on your thighs all over again, like you’ll never have enough air in your lungs.

“Did you bleed through it? Because that should help it slide out easier.”

“I don’t know,” you moan miserably. “I mean, I guess I did, because there was blood when I checked a few minutes ago. I had to stuff my underwear with toilet paper.”

“Why didn’t you just tell Aemond you couldn’t wear this dress?”

You give him an impatient glance. “I’m tired of having the same conversation.” When do you think you’ll be done bleeding? When do you think it’ll be time to start trying again?

Aegon sighs. “Do you want me to get it out for you?”

“Please stop. I’m really panicking here.”

“I’m not joking.”

You stare at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I have fished many objects out of many orifices, you cannot shock me. I am unshockable.”

“I’d rather walk down to the sand right now and strangle myself with Fosco’s yo-yo.”

“Okay. So who are you gonna ask to drive you to the hospital?”

You hesitate.

“I’d offer to do it,” Aegon says, grinning, holding up his mug. “But I’m in no condition to drive.”

“But you are in the proper condition to extract a rogue tampon, huh?”

“Two minutes tops. That’s a guarantee. My personal best is fifteen seconds. And that was for a lost condom, much trickier to locate than a tampon.”

Perhaps paradoxically, the more you consider his offer, the more tempting it seems. No complicated trip and cover story? Over in just a few minutes? “If you ever tell anyone about this, I will never forgive you. I will hate you forever.”

Aegon taunts: “I thought you already hated me.”

You aren’t sure what you feel for him, but it’s certainly not hate. Not anymore. “Where would we do it?”

“In my office. And by that I mean my basement.”

“Your filthy, disease-ridden basement? On your shag carpet full of crabs?”

“You’re in luck,” he jokes. “My crab exterminator service just came by yesterday.”

You exhale in a low, despairing groan.

“Hey, would you rather do it on the dining room table? I’m game. Your choice.”

You watch the seagulls swooping in the afternoon air, the banners of sailboats on the glittering water. “Okay. The basement.”

You walk with Aegon to the house and—after ensuring that no one is around to notice—sneak with him down the creaking basement steps, the door locked behind you. Aegon is darting around; he sets a small trashcan by the carpet and tosses you two towels, then goes to wash his hands in his tiny bathroom, not nearly enough room for someone to stretch out across the linoleum floor.

You’re surveying the scene nervously. “I don’t want to get blood all over your stuff.”

“You’re the cleanest thing that’s ever been on that carpet. Lie down.”

You place one towel on the green shag carpet, then whisk off your panties, discard the bloody knot of toilet paper in the trashcan, and pull the skirt of your dress up around your waist so it’s out of the way. Then you sit down and drape the second towel over your thighs so you’re hidden from him, like you’re about to be examined by a doctor. Your heart is thumping, but you don’t exactly feel like you want to stop. It’s more exhilarating than fear, you think; it is forbidden, it is shameful, it is a microscopic betrayal of Aemond that he’ll never know about.

Aegon moseys out of the bathroom, flicking drops of water from his hands. He wears one of his usual counterculture uniforms: a frayed green army jacket with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, khaki shorts, tan moccasins. He kicks them off before he kneels on the shag carpet. He checks the clock on the wall. “2:07. I promised two minutes max. Let’s see how I do. Ready?”

You rest the back of your head on your linked hands, raise your knees, take a deep and unsteady breath. “Ready.”

But he can see that you’re shaking. “Hey,” Aegon says kindly, pressing his hand down on the towel so you’re covered. “Do you want me to go to the hospital with you? I’ll try to distract people. I’ll pretend I’m having a seizure or something.”

“No, I’m okay,” you insist. “I just want it out. I want this over with.”

“Got it.” And then he begins. He stares at the wall to his left, not looking at you, navigating by feel. You feel the pressure of two fingers, a stretching that is not entirely unpleasant. He’s warm and careful, strangely unobtrusive. Still, you suck in a breath and shift on the carpet. “Shh, shh, shh,” Aegon whispers, skimming his other hand up and down the inside of your thigh, and shiver like you’ve never felt before rolls backwards up the length of your spine. “Relax. You alright?”

“Fine. Totally fine.”

“Oh yeah, it’s definitely in there,” Aegon says. His brow is creased with comprehension. “No string…you’re right, it must either be tangled up somehow or it never had one to begin with. Maybe you accidentally inserted it upside down.”

“Now you insult my intelligence. As if I’m not embarrassed enough.”

“I should have put on a record to set the mood. What gets you going, Marvin Gaye? Elvis?”

“The seductive voice of Richard Milhous Nixon. Maybe you can get him on the phone.”

Aegon laughs hysterically. His fingertips push the tampon against your cervix and you yelp. “Sorry, sorry, my mistake,” Aegon says. There are beads of sweat on his forehead, on his temples; now his eyes are squeezed shut. “I’m gonna try to wiggle it out…”

As he works, there are sensations you can’t quite explain: a very slow-building indistinct desire, a loosening, a readying, a drop in your belly when you think about the fact that he’s the one touching you. Then he happens to press in just the right spot and there is a sudden pang of real pleasure—craving, aching, a deep red flare of previously unfathomable temptation—and you instinctively reach for him. You hand meets his forearm, and for the first time since he started Aegon looks at your face, alarmed, afraid that he’s hurt you again. But once your eyes meet you’re both trapped there, and you can’t pretend you’re not, his fingers still inside you, his pulse racing, a rivulet of sweat snaking down the side of his face, his eyes an opaque murky blue like water you’re desperate to claw your way into. You know what you want to tell him, but the words are impossible. Don’t stop. Come closer.

Aegon clears his throat, forces himself to look away, and at last dislodges the tampon. It appears dark and bloody in his grasp. “No string,” he confirms, holding it up and turning it so you can see. “Factory reject.”

“Just like you.”

He glances at the clock. “2:09. I delivered precisely what was promised.” He chucks the tampon into the trashcan and then grins as he helps pull you upright with his clean hand. “So do you like to cuddle afterwards, or…?”

You’re giggling, covering your flushed face. “Shut up.”

“Personally, I enjoy being ridden into the ground and then called a good boy.”

“Go away.” You nod to where he disposed of the tampon and say before stopping to think: “You’re not going to keep that under your ashtray too?”

Aegon freezes and blinks at you. He smiles slowly, cautiously. “No, I think that would be a little unorthodox, even for me.” He pitches you a clean washcloth from the bathroom closet. “That should get you upstairs.”

“Thanks.” You shove it between your legs and rise to your feet, smoothing the skirt of your dress. “I owe you something. I’m not sure what, but I’ll figure it out.”

“Hey,” Aegon says, and waits for you to turn to him. “Maybe I’m not that bad.”

“Maybe,” you agree thoughtfully.

Just before you hurry upstairs, you steal a glimpse of Aegon in the bathroom, the door kicked only half-closed. He has turned on the water, but he’s not using it yet. Aegon is staring down at the blood on his hand, half-dried scarlet impermanent ink.

~~~~~~~~~~

Hi, it’s me again. I’m in solitary confinement. There’s a guy in the cell next to mine; we talk to each other with a modified version of Morse code. Tap tap tap on the wall, he taps back, etcetera etcetera, you get the idea. You’re not going to believe this, but he says his name is John McCain. Well, actually, he told me his name is Jobm McCbin, but I think that’s because I translated the taps wrong. I might be in the Hanoi Hilton, but at least they have me in the VIP section! Hahaha.

Every few hours the guards show up to do a very impressive magic trick: they wave their batons like wands, I turn black and blue. Sometimes one of my teeth even disappears. Isn’t that something? Houdini would love it. There’s a rat that I’m making friends with. I give her nibbles of my stale bread, she gives me someone to talk to. She’s good company. I’ve named her Tessarion.

Allow me to make something absolutely fucking clear.

I would very much like to be rescued.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon x y/n #aegon x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon targaryen x you

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angelkissiies · 1 year

Text

brute

abby anderson x reader

cw : hockey!abby , cheerleader!reader , modern!au , m*n , bigotry , usage of slurs ( fag ) , incel , alluded frat tactics ( roof*es ) , violence .

wc : 2.4K

a / n : if you see any grammatical issues , SQUINT , ive never proofread a single thing in my entire life

You shuffled into your seat, letting your bag drop onto the floor next to your feet. It was pretty quiet in the rink, the soft sound of chattering coming from the locker rooms as you settled in– fishing around in your stuff for your laptop. It was a slow day for you, only a couple classes worth of homework to complete, so you’d decided to tag along with Abby to practice for a show while you fought your calculus assignments. Since it was the start of the season, new kids had been brought onto the team which made a ton of sense as a gaggle of 19 year olds raced down the aisles toward the ice– just barely missing your water bottle. “Jeez.” You huffed, pulling your stuff further from the walkway, not willing to risk the ridiculously expensive tumbler Abby had gotten you.

It wasn’t unusual for you to accompany her, seeing as the rink was like a second home to you, the team not minding for the most part– Abby had joked before that the judgment of a pretty girl whipped them more into shape, their plays being better when you were around compared to when you werent.

Abby was beyond annoyed already, following behind the newbies with a scowl. This was the worst part of a new season, given that these kids didn’t know the ways of the team, not that she fully blamed them. She just hated the prospect of dealing with multiple egotistical freshmen in such a small place, their voices managing to carry throughout the entire rink. She held her skates close to her side, nudging the rink door open with the tip of her toes, settling onto one of the benches to finish gearing up for practice. Her nerves were already shot, having the captain of the men's team call up to the rink saying that he’d managed to get sick– meaning she’d be taking on both teams for drills. She’d debated calling the whole thing off, not wanting a repeat of the fiasco last year.

“You gonna make it?” A voice called from behind her, making her crane her neck as she shoved her feet into the skates, the owner of said voice making her roll her eyes. Nora and Mel were walking together just a ways behind her, sliding into the box before the door shut, their helmets and skates hitting the floor as they sat on either side of the girl. “How much do you wanna bet she bites one of their heads off before practice ends?” The two girls had a habit of betting on her downfall and whilst she knew it was all in good fun, seeing as they held some responsibility as co-captains, it still made her heart jump.

The blonde clicked her tongue against her teeth, shaking her head. “Don’t start this again.”

Mel laughed, glancing down to mess with the strap on her gloves. “I got fifty on it being that guy,” She began, using her head to nod towards a dark haired guy on the ice. He was laughing loud enough to fill the entire rink, the sound piercing her ears as she shook her head slightly. “That might end up being me though, super annoying.”

Abby chuckled, easing the helmet over her braid, making sure to tuck the end into the back of her jersey. “He is really annoying, I think that’s the same guy that transferred from UW.” She added, “I heard he made a big deal out of practicing co-ed.” She slid her gloves over her chilly fingers, eying the boy for a second before bringing her gaze up to the benches around the rink– like she always did, searching for you. It didn’t take long, seeing as you always sat in the same place, her heart squeezing slightly at the sight. You were cross-legged on the bench, her massive varsity jacket swallowing you whole as you tapped away on your computer– a frown etched into your sweet face. She knew how much you hated math, so it didn’t take her long to figure out what you were doing, a smile tugging at her lips as she tore her eyes from you.

“Let's hope he behaves, hm?” Nora sighed, pulling open the second door to step out onto the ice– holding it open for the other two. “If not, god, I don’t even wanna know.”

The girl nodded, standing up as she double checked her mouth guard. It was especially cold, as she made her way onto the ice, a chill biting at her exposed cheeks. Her time away from the sport had reflected on her temperature gauge more than anything, making her shudder slightly. “Is everyone here?” She spoke up, coming to a stop in the middle of the rink, tapping her skate slightly on the ice. It was a habit she’d managed to pick up from you, seeing as you prefaced all of your jumps with the tinestest of taps, she carried it like a piece of you on every rink she played on.

One of the boys shrugged, looking to the group behind him before nodding out of the rink, trading her attention for another. Their conversations were low and muffled, only a stray chortle echoing as they found a way to quiet down. She was equally grateful and annoyed.

Abby brushed it off, doing a quick headcount as she tried to figure out how many they’d be down, her patience wearing even thinner as she tried to focus over the bickering from the group in front of her. They had a nasty habit of not coexisting on the best terms, their compliance contractual. She dropped her attention from the teams as she saw Nora waving from the side, her feet propelling her forward to meet the girl in the middle– fingers still toying with the thick mouthguard in her hand. “What’s up?” It was unlike Nora to look so nervous, setting her brow into a downturn as she bent slightly to level with the girl. “Nora, what is it?”

“We might have a problem, I'm not sure, but it definitely sounds like a problem.”

You groaned as you snapped the computer shut, moving your now free hand to rub your temple, there was nothing less enthusing than math. The worksheets you’d been assigned were incomplete, and you only figured that out once you were pretty much done, so all of your work was for nothing– seeing as when you checked your email an entirely new set had been assigned. It was enough to make you want to drop out, the prospect of doing anymore work sending a pang into your head. You shoved the laptop back into its sleeve before tucking it back into your bag, leaning back to rest against the row of seats just above you. You pulled your wrist up to hover above you, eyes locking onto the time. You made a small noise of confusion, sitting up on your elbows to look into the rink– they all were just standing around, Abby and Nora tucked away near the middle with their backs turned to you. They should’ve already started by now.

“Weird.” You muttered, to no one but yourself, as you picked yourself up off of the bench. You grabbed your phone from your stuff and tucked it into your oversized pocket, stepping down the rows until you were right in front of the plexi-glass– breath creating a thick haze on the chilled material. You settled into one of the rink-side seats, just simply glazing over the players before your attention was caught by a couple freshmen. They were standing just outside of a group, their conversation too far for you to hear, but their stares were hard to miss. It made your stomach churn, prompting you to sink lower into your seat as you pulled your phone out to distract yourself. You weren’t not used to men staring, it was just something that came with being a girl, though you could seem to shake the feeling of dread that had lit in your stomach as you scrolled mindlessly through your feed.

Abby’s heart was pounding in her chest, mouth set into a harsh line as she followed Nora’s hushed whispers. Internally, there were alot of things she’d considered doing. Externally, she kept her feet steady on the ice. She had to give him a chance, right? There was some underlying theme of second chances at play, there had to be– but from the grim expression on Nora’s face, she doubted it. The blood had begun to rush to her head, a loud beating in her ears pulling her from the conversation at hand, hand coming up to stop the girl in front of her. “Let me handle this–,” She began, being cut off promptly.

“You can’t hit him, Abby.” The girl sighed, crossing her arms over her stomach as she glanced warily between the boy and Abby. “He’s just a freshman, just go– I dunno, knock him down a peg.”

She nodded, pulling her helmet off and handing it over to Nora. “I won’t hit him, promise.” She toyed with the straps on her gloves for a moment before, also, pulling them off and tucking them into her now empty helmet. While, yes, she had no real plans to hit him– she wasn’t ruling it out. Her feet dug into the ice, pushing off into his direction, a thousand different approaches coming to mind. She couldn’t deny the anger she felt, some of the comments Nora repeated making her nauseous, though in some fucked way– that’s just the way the wold had come to be. Boys said things about you more often than not, they always had innocent intent though– something these seemed to be lacking in their grotesque banter. Abby wasn’t one to let things like this slide, everyone knew that.

Everyone but them, as they missed her overwhelming presence behind them– still snickering behind locked arms. “The things I'd do to get her, I mean come on! Look at her.” The blonde spoke, nudging the brunette with his elbow.

“I know, I know. Imagine finding her at a frat party, I’d like to get her a drink– if you catch my drift.”

Abby’s jaw tensed, a heavy hand coming to lock onto the boy's shoulder. With ease, she spun him around on his skates, his lanky frame wobbling from the sudden change in motion. “Don’t speak. I don’t care what you’re getting at or what your excuse is. That girl you’re talking about isn’t available, nor would she be interested, not that it seems you’d care. Keep your rapist comments to yourself or find the door.” Her voice was low, fingers now digging into the clothed flesh of his shoulder, face a couple shades paler from the adrenaline pumping through her veins. She wanted to hit him, god so bad, but she resisted– her resolve holding for the moment being. There was nothing she hated more than the audacity of men, her spine straightening as she stood to her full height– peering down at him, hoping that he would catch her drift and fuck off.

The brunette snorted, shrugging her hold off with a cocky smile, other boy suddenly uninterested in ‘locker room’ talk. He shook his head, throwing up his hands in a mock gesture. “You feminists and calling all men ‘rapists’, you’re the real problem with society.” He jeered, looking around as if someone else would agree with him. “That girl isn’t even your problem, so why do you care?”

An incredulous smile graced her lips as she let her arms come to rest intertwined against her tense stomach, nodding slowly. “‘That girl’ as you call her, is my business. You see that jacket she’s wearing?” She asked, taking a tiny step forward. “It’s mine. She’s mine.” It was clear, to anyone who had begun to tune into the conversation, that the last piece of self-control she had was breaking. She was pretty good about keeping her cool, usually, seeing as she wasn’t banned from the rink yet– but the look on his face made her rage double, making violence seem like the better option than just letting him go with a warning.

“Oh, I get it. You’re a fag–,”

You’d come out of your seat, phone angled towards the rink with the intention to snap a couple of pictures of Abby. It was something you’d taken to doing during games, a folder now dedicated in your phone to the candids. You clicked the button to snap the picture, instead hovering too long and starting up a video, making you groan slightly before peering into the screen for a moment– seeing the moment Abby’s fist collided with the boy's nose, a sickening crack filling the rink. ”Oh my god.” You breathed, glancing around to the observing parties– seeing them do next to nothing to stop the brawl.

The boy managed to hit her once before becoming subdued by the girl, subdued meaning crumpled onto the ice in the fetal position, his hands now clasping the crooked bone protruding from the flesh. His friends had knelt down around him, hands poking around at his face in attempts to help. “You fucking bitch!” He groaned, blood leaking down his hands and seeping into the fabric of his uniform.

“Yeah, I’m the bitch.” Abby sneered, tongue gliding over her teeth before she spat a mouth full of blood onto the ice beside him. “You’re off the team. Don’t bother coming back.” She hummed, turning on her heel to glide towards the door closest to her– your petrified face coming into view as she did so. “Practice is canceled. Go home.” She said finally, pulling the door open.

You stared up at her, mouth opening and closing for a second before you settled on a question. “What happened?”

The blonde glanced back behind her, the eyes of the team lingering on her, before she dipped down to press a gentle kiss to your lips. The contrast between her bloody lips and the soft cushion of her hand coming to rest on the back of your head was dizzying– but you didn’t complain, the metallic taste seeping into your mouth as you chased her lips. When she finally managed to pull away, there was a smear of blood on the flesh of your bottom lip– making her chuckle.

“Nothing you need to worry your pretty little head about.”

#hockey!abby #hockey!au #hockey!abby x reader #abby anderson x you #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson #abby the last of us #abbyanderson #tlou #tlou2 #the last of us fanfic #the last of us #tlou hbo #hockey abby my beloved

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becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys · 5 months

Note

Odd question but - I'm looking to study in the UK this fall, and I'm trying to get to grips with the grading system. Could you explain the grading boundaries to me please? It's different from the US, as far as I can see!

I found this handy table which you might find useful - I don't really understand the US system either lol.

Here's what I will say though - I have many times before seen Americans online seeing the percentages for the UK grade boundaries and immediately wax lyrical about how EASY and SIMPLE it must be to do well in the UK because OH MY GOD I could tooootally get 70%!!! In the US that's barely a C!!! Wow education must be soooo simple in the UK -

And uh. I have seen very few Americans in those discussions stop and ask themselves how much harder it might be to hit 70% in the UK. Which, as the international academic office in every university will tell you, is the crucial question you absolutely should be asking. Does an American 70% look the same as a UK 70%?

(It Does Not.)

So don't be fooled by that! Over here, at undergrad the pass mark is 40%. 40-49% gets you a third; 50-59% gets you what's varyingly known as a lower second (formally), a 2:2 (most commonly), or a Desmond (by sad people. It's a reference to Desmond Tutu - two two). A 2:2 is also the most commonly awarded degree classification over here.

60-69% is a 2:1, or upper second class honours. And then the top level is the first - 70% and up. The vast majority of firsts are earned by students who got 70-79%. Exceptional work pushes into the 80s. It is incredibly rare that you ever see a mark in the 90s, and when you do, it's almost always on maths papers where there are right or wrong answers and that's it.

I can't remember how the US's summa cum laude etc stuff maps onto that, though you could probably find that on Google as well. But as a rule of thumb, think first = excellent, 2:1 = good, 2:2 = fair, and third = you need to be careful and see what you can do to improve (although that is still a pass at university and that is not to be sniffed at).

Ooh, as a final point, though, there's also how assessment works, which again, I know is very different over here (again I don't really understand it in the US). Your lecturer cannot set random work here and there to count as summative assessment. Every module is different in how it's set up, but let's give an example:

Module: Coastal and Marine Conservation Two assessments, each worth 50% of the final grade. Assessment 1: A report on the biodiversity of Ramsey Island in the Pembrokeshire Coast National Park. Explore the cause of the lower biodiversity there than nearby Skomer/Skokholm; how was this challenged/rectified? How have species recovered since? What should be done into the future? Assessment 2: A two-hour closed book exam. Half of this exam (50 marks) will be a mix of short and medium length questions; things like "Define these five terms (two marks each)", or "Describe the process of longshore drift and its impact on sedimentation patterns (15 marks)" or what have you. The second half is a 50 mark essay - pick one of three essay questions offered, and off you go. (Essay questions are a staple feature of exams over here, and multiple choice questions are extremely rare and generally frowned on as being Not Sufficiently Academic.)

Now, in the case of this module, these are the only two assessment points. Both the report brief and the exam paper are registered with the academic office in the summer before the academic year even starts, and both are triple verified - by the lecturer who writes/sets them, by an internal verifier in the department, and an external verifier from another university. This is part of quality control.

If, for some reason, you fail one of these, or cannot submit them by their due date, or what have you, you still have to do them. If you claim for Extenuating Circumstances (e.g. "I was made homeless and my cat blew up, so I couldn't do it in time") then you get an extension on it; as long as you submit by the end of the academic period, you're fine. If you don't, you need to resit it. This normally means over the summer after the main term ends.

But, in the UK system what we can't do is go "Okay never mind, how about you submit a write-up of the volunteering you're currently doing with SeaLife instead and we'll count that?" The reason being, under the UK system that is not a quality-controlled solution. That has not been checked and verified as an equivalent assessment to what the rest of the class has done; so if you do that and get a 2:1, there is no assurance that you are actually of the same academic quality as one of your peers who got a 2:1 for that research report on Ramsey's biodiversity.

Which... don't let it scare you! As I say, there are a LOT of systems that can help you if things start going wrong (always, always, always keep Student Support and your lecturers in the loop). But that is a different system from what I understand you might be used to, so heads up on that.

(I am not arguing that one is better than the other, by the way. Last time I explained a difference in the UK university system I got a very hostile and aggressive American in the notes throwing a right strop over how terrible the UK system clearly is because XYZ, right up until I had to actually say "I am literally just describing how it's different, not claiming superiority," and then they went mysteriously quiet and stopped replying. So to forestall that, I am only describing the differences. There are advantages and disadvantages to each.

The UK system is certainly more inflexible. But it does, incidentally, at least free you from the tyranny I see reported so often by US students of the dreaded Tenured Professor who deliberately as a matter of pride sets impossible exams that everyone fails. Over here, that shit Does Not Fly. So there's that.)

Anyway - hopefully that answers your question! Any others, hit me up. Good luck, and enjoy your studies!

#asks #the professional world of careers and tasks

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wonbin-truther · 5 months

Text

i will

bf! mark x reader - 715 words

hurt/comfort , non idol au

"its always you" mark whispers, hands cupping your cheeks as if you were made of glass as tears fell from his eyes.

it seemed like everything had been going wrong recently. your car had broken down, you misplaced your house keys, you and your best friend got into an argument, and other things that had been building up as the days continued. you could feel yourself slipping into the dark hole you had once pulled yourself out of by the skin of your teeth.

everything boiled over today. first you overslept, curled up in your boyfriends arms so comfortably you missed all your alarms. you showed up to class 15 min late, causing the professor to kick you out. next, you had studied weeks for an exam worth 75% of your grade and failed it horribly. the final thing was your car breaking down for the 3rd time, leaving you to walk back to your small apartment.

you could already feel tears picking your eyes as you kicked off your shoes and collapsed onto the couch. the pounding headache making it hard to gain the strength to get up and finish the housework and classwork that had to get done. you sighed, pushing yourself up to take care of the pilled up responsibilities.

at some point into your now 4 hour studying session your boyfriend mark let himself into your place. "hey babe?" his voice rang through the silence. you didnt respond, focused on the math problem that had your head in your hands. you heard the footsteps get louder as he found his way to your room, pushing open the door. he walked over to your place at the desk and kissed the top of your head. he knew better to interrupt when you were focused.

it had now been 7 hours since you started studying. mark noted how you havent moved from that position despite him trying to get you to eat and drink water for the last 3 hours he was there. he stood up from your bed, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pressing a kiss to your temple.

"babe dont you think its time for a break"

"not now"

"lets just get dinner quickly"

everything was starting to bubble over and you could feel the stress getting to you. without thinking you yelled out, "jesus fucking christ mark leave me alone!" you didnt have time to realize what you said until mark let go of you, walking out the door wordlessly. you let the tears fall down your face as you buried your face in your hands. to add on top of the shitty weak, you can put losing your boyfriend.

little did you know mark hadn't gone very far, standing just outside your room so he could take a breather. he heard your muffled sobs and spun on his heel, pushing open your door and making his way to your shaking figure. he turned your chair around so that he had room to kneel in front of you, moving your hands out of your face so he could get a better look at you. you stared at him through wet eyelashes and jumped to hug him, knocking him to the floor and burying your face in his shoulder as you sobbed harder.

he held you close, rubbing circles into your back.

"my love its okay. what happened?" he spoke softly, holding you as close to himself as he could.

"i dont deserve you," he made out between your sobs.

"what do you mean?"

"you're too good for me. i dont deserve it"

his heart broke into a million pieces as he felt tears prick his eyes. he pulled you away from his shoulder, cupping your face in his hands. he left kisses all over your face, making you scrunch your nose and let out a small giggle as he continued to pepper them around your face. as he pulled away, you caught a tear slip down his cheek.

"why are you crying?" you stared at him, placing your hands over his.

"i hate when you cry. you deserve more than the universe could ever give you. it'll always be you my pretty girl," he left a gentle kiss on your lips and you happily kissed back. he pulled away and rubbed the stray tears from your cheeks.

"cuddle and watch a movie?" you asked

"whatever my girl wants to do"

a/n not proofread so idk if theres mistakes here 😭

#mark lee #mark #nct dream imagines #nct 127 x reader #nct 127 imagines #mark lee nct #mark lee nct 127 #mark lee nct dream #nct x reader #nct scenarios #nct imagines #nct dream x reader #nct dream #nct 127 #nct

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yokohamapound · 1 month

Note

how ab head cannons of how good bsd men are at taking bras off like kinda ranking them ig

i have my own theories ab it so maybe we can compare them?

My magnificent friend, @amostimprobabledream, is guest-posting on this one! She's the one who got me into BSD, so this blog is entirely her fault!

Characters: Dazai Osamu, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Edogawa Ranpo, Tanizaki Jun'ichiro, Kunikida Doppo, Akutagawa Ryunosuke, Nakajima Atsushi, Edgar Allan Poe

Contents: Yiddies

Dazai Osamu

The obvious winner here. The Pro. The champ.

Dazai is a slut, and when they aren't threatening him for not paying back his tab, he's perfectly able to have the ladies falling at his feet. He's definitely got plenty of experience with getting a lady out of her clothing and scoffs at pitiful men who can't figure out how to unhook simple clasps. Fools! Barbarians!

He can do it one-handed. He prefers it when you wear front-clasp bras because he takes it as a sign you're just as eager for him to get at your boobs as he is. Imagine those pretty fingers easily working the little hooks~

He does sometimes wear your bra on his head as a joke. So you know, that's a risk you run.

Fyodor Dostoevsky

Listen this man has been around, okay? He almost single-handedly toppled the Port Mafia and Armed Detective Agency, he can handle a silly contraption of cotton and underwiring.

Fyodor doesn't like to tear at your clothing like a beast. He has class, okay? Instead he might as you to strip for him - just picture him lounging back in his seat, wineglass in hand while he watches you with those hungry, purple eyes of his. It's worth it just for that to put on a little show for him.

He likes to kiss you as he does it, distracting you as his nimble, pale fingers get to work. He's so skilled that he can actually unhook your bra without you even noticing and you'll find it discarded on a chair or the floor like a magic trick.

Edogawa Ranpo

Hmph, of course he can take off a bra! Don't be silly!

Ranpo is the ultimate detective, after all. A silly little hook in a piece of clothing isn't going to stump him. However, Ranpo is also lazy when he isn't motivated and while if he's focused on getting you naked, he'll probably whine for you to just take the bra off yourself - you're faster at it, he's seen the way you fling the thing off after a long day like it's a snake, so why not? He just wants to see your boobs!

Don't worry, he more than makes up for it once your bra hits the ground. He's very good with that mouth of his.

Tanizaki Juni'ichiro

Yes, he is good at taking off bras… No, I will not elaborate.

Kunikida Doppo

Yes, he does know how to take off a bra. The problem is that Kunikida rarely gets to practise on actual, living women - he's only done it on a bra just lying limp in his hand or on a mannequin. Doing it while in the throes of a heated makeout session is quite different.

You'll be there, getting all hot and heavy, and suddenly feel a tugging at your bra and a lot of frustrated huffing and puffing. He'll bark at you to hold still - not in a sexy way but in that "maths teacher" voice he still has buried deep. It's rather a mood-killer.

He's also one of those irritating people who won't let you just take the damn thing off yourself - he feels like he has to prove he's worth of touching your boobs by conquering the bra. Also, Dazai would never let him live it down if he couldn't do it.

Akutagawa Ryuunosuke

Not only does Akutagawa not know how to take off a bra, but he's too prideful to ask you to do it. Instead he has a very impractical solution of just using Rashomon to slice it off you. He's too impatient to bother with fiddling around with it - remember this is a man who doesn't even know the name of the frilly thing he wears on his neck.

Don't wear your nice bras around Akutagawa, or just go for a sports bra you can pull off over your heard. Nothing is worth your fancy, expensive new lingerie being ruined by a horny goth boy.

Nakajima Atsushi

I don't even think Atsushi has been near a bra before, let alone touched one. He has no idea how they work - he actually thought it was held together by little magnets. He'll try but he gets nervous and will tug at the material, scared of accidentally tearing it. He knows bras are expensive, he's heard Yosano and Lucy complain about it enough times.

He'll be astonished if you can do it without even looking.

Edgar Allen Poe:

Faints if you even mention the word 'bra'. You'll have to fan him awake or fetch the smelling salts.

#yokohamapound #bsd #bungo stray dogs #bsd headcanons #bsd imagines #Dazai Osamu #Fyodor Dostoevsky #Nakajima Atsushi #Edgar Allan Poe bsd #Akutagawa Ryuunosuke #kunikida doppo #tanizaki junichirou #edogawa ranpo #amostimprobabledream

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hi there, hope you're doing well! do you have any survival tips for freshmen starting their first semester at college? thanks!

Hello! Yes I do! Up until this Tuesday, all of my experience has been at a community college, but I have some universal advice!

Sage's supercool freshman survival guide:

You don't need expensive and a wide variety of school supplies. Here is a list of what you need:

A notebook for each class

A good pack of pens (i like gel pens)

A pack of pencils (+ sharpener) or mechanical pencils

Either colored pens, thin tip markers, or highlighters for notes

Ruler and calculator if you are taking math/science classes

A binder or folder for loose papers

GRAPH PAPER. Even just a pack of loose graph paper. It sucks when you need it and don't have it

2. it's better to take notes on paper vs on a computer unless you have some sort of reason (like dyslexia, visual impairment, or other physical disability etc) Taking paper notes forces your brain to pay attention better, and you can reference them easier than if you take them on a computer. (plus a lot of professors don't allow laptops in lectures unless you have an accommodation with the school)

3. GET A PLANNER! A PHYSICAL ONE!!!! Online calendars and planners are okay, but it is MUCH easier to forget assignments if they're out of sight. Get a paper planner, fill it out each week so you know what you're doing, and keep it opened on the current week somewhere you can see it. I personally like the planners intended for teachers because it divides the days up with individual subjects! This is the one I got for this school year

4. Get a giant ass water bottle. If you are going from class to class, you most likely won't have time to refill your water bottle. Get a huge one, fill it up at home or at your dorm or whatever, and carry it with you. I promise you it is worth adding an extra thing to carry (mine is a 1/2 gallon)

5. No one at college cares about stuff like in high school. No one cares what you're wearing or how you're doing your hair. In fact, individuality is ENCOURAGED. Wear bright colorful makeup or weird earrings. Do what makes you happy.

6. Pack yourself lunches and snacks that you can easily stuff in your face while walking to your next class. I'm a big fan of protein shakes and granola bars.

7. Ask questions! No one will think you're annoying for asking "too many" questions. It's better to over ask than under ask and not understand the topic. Chances are, at least one other person in the room has the same question as you.

8. Similar to number 7, most professors will gladly go back and explain a topic again or in a different way! Just politely and respectfully ask for them to briefly go over it again, or define a word you don't understand.

9. Unlike high school, most professors don't care, and will actually get annoyed if you interrupt their lesson to ask to go to the bathroom or take a phone call or even leave class early. Unless they explicitly say you can't leave (like during a test) you can just walk out, no questions asked.

10. Do every extra credit assignment you can. Even if you have a good grade in the class. You never know when you'll forget an assignment or lose points for something small. It's good to have backup.

11. Just like in a good relationship, communication with professors is everything.

12. Make connections with people in your classes. You don't have to be besties, but introduce yourself to a few people in class, make small talk, and get their phone numbers. That way you can discuss assignments or get notes if you miss a class.

13. DO NOT slack on first week assignments. Most professors WILL drop you if you A. Don't attend the first week of classes and/or B. Don't turn in the first few assignments.

14. Register for classes as soon as you possibly can. Like if your group is able to register at 9am, be in front of your computer with the registration site open at 8:55am, just to be ready.

15. ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS CHECK RATEMYPROFESSOR BEFORE REGISTERING FOR CLASSES!!! NEVER IN YOUR LIFE REGISTER WITHOUT CHECKING. IF YOU ARE LATE TO REGISTER AND A GENERAL EDUCATION CLASS AT THE PERFECT TIME SLOT IS COMPLETLEY OPEN, IT IS FOR A FUCKING REASON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Rate my professor is really accurate because people are able to submit honest reviews anonymously after the class is over. If someone says the teacher is a hard ass who is flakey and assigns a lot of reading, BELIEVE IT. Ideally you want a professor that has above a 3.5/5 rating.

16. There is no shame in needing accommodations for a disability, and getting accommodations in college is a lot easier than in k-12 school. You just need to make a request and submit proof of disability, and you'll meet with someone to give you accommodations.

17. DO NOT buy textbooks until the first week of class is over. This is for 2 reasons. 1. you might need to drop the class and 2. most professors will just give you a link to the textbook for free or post individual chapters every week. There is no point in spending $200 for a textbook you might not even use.

18. I think at every college, you can drop a class with no consequences or anything on your record as long as you drop it within the first week or so (the exact time differs depending on the college, but it's always on their website)

19. Colleges very often have events with free food or free merch. Even if you have no interest in the event, a free hot dog is a free hot dog yk?

20. If you're a freshman, literally no one knows each other and everyone is worrying about making new friends. Literally everyone. Find someone who seems cool, compliment their outfit or say something about the class/the college, and boom. New friend.

21. If you have time, join a club! Colleges have clubs for EVERYTHING and it's an easy way to connect with people who have the same interests.

22. Before your first day of class, if you're neurotic like me, take time to think of a few things: 2 truths and a lie, 3 fun facts about yourself, your favorite __, etc. Just so you can be ready for icebreakers (I actually don't know if other people are as scared of first day icebreakers as me.... Every semester I prepare 2 truths and a lie and fun facts about me so I'm ready. Just in case. This just might be my specific flavor of autism though...)

23. Colleges are big, even community colleges. Make yourself a playlist and bring headphones for walking from class to class

24. Jumping off 23, when you're choosing your classes, pull up a map of your campus. Learn how long of a walk it is from building to building, so you can make sure you have enough time to walk to your next class. This goes double if you have a physical disability. I personally need some extra time so I can drink water and walk slowly.

25. Prioritize comfort over style. Most people by the third week will just be wearing tshirts/sweaters with jeans/sweatpants. There also usually isn't a super strict dress code at college. I had a girl in my astronomy class that exclusively wore bikini tops and booty shorts, and she never had any problems.

26. It's easy to tunnel vision and schedule your classes back to back, but try to give yourself at least one gap for lunch, to stretch, or to just hang out. I have 3 on campus classes this semester and my morning class ends at 11:45am and my second class doesn't start until 1:00pm. You're (most likely) an adult, close to an adult, or have adult responsibilities. One of those responsibilities is to take initiative to take care of yourself.

27. College professors, unless they're abnormally strict, literally don't care about anything, as long as your ass is in the chair and you're not being disruptive to others. Drinking water in class? Fine. Doodling on your notes? Fine. Doing homework for another class? Fine, as long as you look up like you're paying attention occasionally. I wrote amphibia fanfiction in my classes, and I had a girl in my public speaking class who literally brought yarn and a crochet hook and crocheted stuff in class.

28. OH that's another thing! Literally no one cares about your public speaking skills. In college, it is inevitable that you'll have to take one class with speeches. People aren't waiting for you to slip up to mock you. Most people are too focused on their own speeches. I took a public speaking class last year, and I genuinely could not tell you the topic of even ONE other student's speech. It is very likely that 90% of the people won't even be paying attention to your presentation because they're worrying about if they're next.

29. In group projects, be a bitch. I'm serious. DO NOT do all the work. If people in your group aren't moving, assign them their share of work. If they still don't participate, threaten to leave. If they still don't, ask the teacher to work alone. You NEED to stand up for yourself.

30. Most colleges have a lot of services for free (or included in tuition) you should use. The library is a great resource, I'm typing this on the laptop I rented for free from my school, and I believe my college has completely free STD checks and birth control options available through their health services.

31. Expand your horizons! In college, you get a LOT of options for electives and classes. Take the fun classes or a topic you've never heard of! I'm taking a philosophy of disability class this semester for my extra humanities credit.

32. Build a good relationship with your professors. It never hurts to go up to them before or after the first class and introduce yourself.

33. DO NOT leave things for the last minute. I like to write down all my assignments for the week in my planner, sorted by due date, color coded, and plan which assignments I'm going to do on what days.

34. Take advantage of professor's office hours, especially if it's a subject you're not strong in. Personally, I'm not the best at math, and the summer I took statistics for psych, I was at my professor's office hours every single Tuesday. Even if you think you understand the subject perfectly, you never know when you're making a mistake without realizing it. It can just be a less than 5 minute zoom visit of like "hey, this is my answer to question 5 and here's my work/process. Is this correct? Yes? Okay thanks see you in class"

35. Summer classes, especially in community colleges, are a great way to get extra credits and make it so you don't have such a heavy load during the regular school year. A lot of summer classes are online, so it's really easy to do at home. But.....

36. ...NEVER IN YOUR LIFE TAKE A SUBJECT YOU ARE NOT STRONG IN OR A SUBJECT WITH A LOT OF WORK IN A CONDENSED SUMMER CLASS. Summer classes are always more work per week because you have less time to go through the curriculum, so be sure it's a light class. I took my world religions class as an 8 week summer class and oh my god.... I am being 100% serious and not exaggerating when I say I had to read 500-750+ pages a week......... be careful

37. Make time for other things! Even if you're full time school and work, let yourself watch an episode of your favorite show after homework or during a break. Rest and recreation is important too.

38. Treat yourself! When I was a kid, my mom would let me and my brother pick out a little candy at the grocery store for a "friday treat" during the school year. I still do that. It can be as simple as buying a $2 chocolate bar or finally trying that bath bomb you got as a gift.

39. You are inevitably going to get a low grade on something. You're going to struggle with a subject or misunderstand an instruction. Not one single person has made it through all of college without getting anything less than a 100%. Ask for feedback from your professors. Don't beat yourself up.

40. You don't have to have a backpack. I use a green messenger bag with embroidered mushrooms on it :3

Hope this helps!

#asks #anon #college #student #studyblr

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