#and not even an article a fucking TALE?!?!?

[yannaryartside]

WE NEED 5 SEASONS

Okay I need to vent a little. Please indulge me

This is for this article that says the 5th season is up to Storer.

Storer said they filmed most of season 4, and some things still need to be filmed. So we will have s4 next summer, and we don't know if there will be a 5th one.

I could put my hand on fire to my belief that we will have 5 seasons. Mostly, because regardless of the importance of showing “being trapped in negative patterns” that was s3 for multiple characters, is not gonna be a satisfying conclusion if all those patterns are resolved in one season.

Realistically, i would not make sense.

Even if you think Claire is Carmy’s salvation, this graceful, perfect angel that came to serve Carmy’s redemption, and when they get together, everything will be fine (that narrative sucks ass, by the way, is perpetually insulting to everyone that had ever had a mental illness to suggest them they only need to fall on the hands of someone that ignores all their defects and are determined to please them). You could believe this is all about self-sabotage, and Carmy will wake up next season, apologize to Claire, save the restaurant by ex-maquina magic, and get his happy ending. Yeah, that will be 4 seasons of a conclusive story and an objectively terrible narrative. It is also very insulting to every person who has a romantic partner who struggles with addiction and/or mental illness to tell them they need to be this fairy tale of a person who is Claire to bring "peace" to their partner and basically solve their life. Fuck that. I refuse to believe they are doing that on purpose.

But if they put the “sleigh of hand” and Carmy has to realize that his emotional dependence on Claire is toxic and only contributed to his depression and disassociation, since you spent all S3 pulling him in that direction, making him believe that is what he wanted/needed, you are going to need a whole season for him even to “scape the illusion.” All of this will align with the Bear having to close, Syd potentially leaving, and starting dating Luca. So, S4 is going to be the “wake-up call.”

S5 should be the season of creating new patterns. Carmy will get into therapy. Syd will come back. The two will create new recipes and work on the menu (collaboration, vulnerability). They will realize they have true feelings for one another. Each character will move towards the place they are gonna end up with.

If you created a whole season about "being in the freeze response" and another two previous seasons of extending trauma and bad coping mechanisms, you are gonna need more than one season to fix that; mental wellness is not like that; it should be treated like something that requires more time combined with efforts.

Not to mention, if SydCarmy is indeed happening, you have spent 3 fucking seasons creating distance between them. I also feel like so much of Sydney's life (to her and to us) is trapped around Carmy's issues, and it actually would make more sense for her to realize being with Carmy is too taxing for her, regardless if she had the most realistic tools to actually help him to grow.

You also had not given Sydney a proper arc to grow from her insecurities and follow her dreams. She still seems to be as insecure of her own skills as when she came in, because Carmy insist on creating a menu based on his trauma. Regardless of his good intentions and the beauty of their connection, she will leave the "bear narrative" as if Carmy is the closest thing she had to a chef David, as if Carmy was the monster she needed to endure to "grow" or "decide better." Fuck that.

[edwinspaynes]

I was angry. I'm still angry. But sadness and exhaustion have overtaken that anger, and I have A LOT to say about this.

Dead Boy Detectives is a very special show to me. It occupies a ridiculously large place in my heart, and it's brought me joy in a way that only a few pieces of media ever have. When I watched it for the first time, Edwin Payne had my heart within minutes. By the end of episode one, Charles Rowland did, too.

It meant a lot to me, seeing such wonderful and nuanced queer characters brought to life in the type of paranormal story I have always loved. In these past months, Edwin and Charles have felt like real friends to me, and to never see them again without a satisfying conclusion to their story is something I have not truly processed. Same for Niko and Crystal and The Cat King - they should be back. But I haven't fully processed it yet, that they're not coming back, and yet I am still aggreived.

@netflix is, at this point, so fucking gagged on capitalism's dick that they're not even pretending to care about art anymore. Dead Boy Detectives is genuinely masterfully made on just about every level. The actors did a phenomenal job and I will be following all their careers heavily. Steve, Beth, and the writing team crafted an incredible tale. The sets, the lighting, the props, the effects were all on point. This was a well-constructed program, and you could tell that everyone involved with the project gave it their all because they cared so deeply.

(Also my heart breaks for the whole cast, but it's hardcore hurting for George since this was not only his first screen role but one he clearly thought he would be keeping as of two weeks ago. He seemed so secure. I hate this for him.)

In addition to being a good show, DBDA had good reception. It's got a 92% on Rotten Tomatoes, was on the Top 10 for several weeks, got 4.7 million views within week one, and was getting daily articles posted on various review sites with NOTHING but praise. The fandom is incredibly active. We trend on Tumblr like five times a week and on Twitter regularly as well.

THE. SCRIPT. FOR. SEASON. 2. WAS. WRITTEN.

What the fuck happened?

Idiot executives at @netflix, choking on the dick of capitalism, probably just thought that they wouldn't get new subscribers for a second season of an existing show that didn't rake in Bridgerton-level cash. That's how they work - people who are interested in it are already subscribers, so who the fuck cares about them? Better to make some other shit, hope new people subscribe, and maybe that'll be a Bridgerton-level hit.

But also, Netflix has fun little trends to look into. And, when you look at the lineup of shows Netflix has canceled, they are overwhelmingly queer. The homophobia of @netflix and their operatives is clearly boundless, and it hits here really badly because this show was clearly made with a queer audience in mind. It was one of the most authentic pieces of queer media I have ever experienced, if not THE most authentic pieces of queer media that I have ever experienced.

It's fucking ridiculous that Netflix canceled a show that they commissioned a completed script of months ago. It sucks that they decided that their existing subscribers, their queer subscribers, did not matter.

Edwin and Charles are ours now. Well, of course, they're George's and Jayden's respectively, but the characters are no longer Netflix's to use and throw out. They're ours now, our fandom's, and we all love them so much.

And we deserved to see more of them, and we deserved to see their love story play out onscreen, but I for one am not going anywhere. Let's give Edwin and Charles - and the rest of the gang - millions of versions of the stories and endings that Netflix deprived them of.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Cozened Indigo - Part Three

Pairing: Modern!Aemond Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Mentions of murder, dark themes, smut, dubious consent, allusions to no consent. Dead dove; do not eat. Dear god, please mind the tags. Word count: ~9.6k

Summary: The article goes live and a verdict is delivered. Series masterlist.

Author's note: I have put my journalism degree to use here, to ensure as much accuracy as possible. However, as Westeros is a fictional place, I have warped certain laws and regulations regarding court reporting for the purpose of the story. Please suspend your disbelief for the sake of a fictional tale. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

“Rhaenyra has gotten wind of the fact that Aemond has spoken to the press, so now she’s doing an interview too – with White Knight Magazine.”

Larys’ words play on a loop in her mind as she sits heavily in her office chair, dread forming a pit in her stomach as anxiety flutters unbridled within her chest. Her interviews with Aegon and Helaena are set for tomorrow, she still has to do her background research on them both, alongside transcribing all of her interviews with Aemond. With just two weeks to do it all, and with Rhaenyra’s pending interview looming over it, it feels too huge an obstacle to overcome. She is being set up for failure, made all the more humiliating by the fact that the feature from the opposing side is to be featured in the publication that effectively put an end to her career. It has to be deliberate, there is no way it's a coincidence.

It’s not until she sees the droplet of moisture splatter upon her desk that she realises she’s crying. Burying her face in her hands, she draws in a shuddering breath, attempting to pull herself together.

Not here. Not in the office,

“Everything okay?”

Startled, her head snaps up to look at Royce, his features pinching into a look of concern as she sniffles and hurriedly wipes at her eyes.

“Doesn’t everyone cry at their desk occasionally?” She jokes, attempting to play it off with a watery laugh.

“Let’s step into my office,” he responds softly, not giving her a chance to reply as he turns and walks away.

She sighs, tipping her head back and uttering a quiet “fuck” before following him.

“Want to tell me what’s really going on?” Royce says, perching on the edge of his desk and folding his arms, as she closes the door behind her.

The weariness that has weighed upon her since her discovery of the upcoming Targaryen trial settles over her with a heavy finality, as she meets his gaze with exhausted resignation. 

“I can’t do this, Royce. Put me back on the Flea Bottom curfew piece.”

“What? Why?!” He narrows his eyes, leaning forward slightly.

“Rhaenyra - Aemond’s half sister - is doing an interview of her own.”

“So?”

“With White Knight Magazine.”

“Ah.”

“The deadline is too tight, I’ll never be finished in time.” She sags against the office door, wrapping her arms around herself.

“What’s the hold up?”

Exasperatedly, she drags a hand through her hair. “I have all of my interviews with Aemond to transcribe still, and that’s before I even begin writing the piece. On top of that, I now have to interview Aegon and Helaena, and I–”

“Woah”, Royce interrupts, “the brother and sister have agreed to be interviewed by you?”

“Yes, tomorrow, and I haven’t even started my background research on them yet. What am I going to do?!”

Royce reaches behind him, lifting the box of Kleenex from his desk. He gently tosses it towards her and she catches it, smiling gratefully as she plucks one out to dab at her eyes and nose.

“You’re going to go home, and do your background research, and prepare for your interviews tomorrow. You can leave your transcription with me. I’ll do it for you.”

“You?” She looks at him wide eyed with incredulity, balling the tissue up in her fist. “You didn’t even want me working on this story in the first place, why would you want to help me?”

“It’s not entirely selfless”, he says with a shrug, “this feature will be huge for The Gazette, it’s in my best interests to make sure you get it done.”

“Makes sense,” she admits with a nod. “Thank you.”

“Send me your audio files,” he instructs, pushing himself back into a standing position, “and then go home and get to work. Your runny mascara is bad for office morale.”

Face given a thorough clean with a wet wipe, a few hours later she sits curled up on her sofa, her gaze fixed intently on her laptop. Royce offering to do her transcription for her has shifted some of the burden from her, and she feels lighter as she clicks through each of the articles she finds regarding Helaena and Aegon Targaryen.

Helaena seems like an anomaly within the family, a blinding white beacon of joy within an ocean of misery. She is heavily involved in environmental conservation, an activist for animal rights and has received several awards for her charitable work. If she has anything at all positive to say about her younger brother, then it would be a huge help to the article.

Aegon, on the other hand, is not quite so impressive. There is little to no evidence that she can find which alludes to his morality or personality, though if the photographs splashed across trashy tabloids of him drunkenly falling out of nightclubs, and parading down the street with an ever changing array of women on his arm are anything to go by, then it’s not good. There’s a small article regarding his brief stint in a rehab facility, which offers a glimmer of hope, but only the interview itself will tell for certain.

As her taxi drives slowly up the expansive and seemingly never ending driveway of the Targaryen-Hightower mansion the following morning, she is momentarily stunned by the grandiosity of it all. She had known the family was rich, but this seems obscene. The property is located on a hill in the centre of King’s Landing, which overlooks the city, serving as an unnecessary physical reminder of how far above everyone else the family is, or at least considers themselves to be.

Her driver had been buzzed through the main gate via an intercom on the drive up to the house, so she is surprised to find no one is waiting for her once she steps out of the car. Standing in front of the large, forest green front door she lifts the ring pull of the bronze dragon head knocker and raps it against the wood three times.

She shuffles from foot to foot, anxiously waiting. A full minute passes and she is about to knock again, when the door swings open. A mop of disheveled, wavy, silver blonde hair and tired blue eyes greet her as she looks into the face of Aegon Targaryen.

As her gaze travels downwards she sees he is dressed in only a pair of low riding grey jogging bottoms and a dark green robe, which isn’t tied. She falters, blinking rapidly and clearing her throat, as she looks back at his face. The lazy smirk painted across his features is unnerving.

“Mr. Targaryen?”

“Aegon,” he corrects her. “You the reporter?”

She nods, shifting her bag to the opposite shoulder. “Right…Aegon. Am I too early? Larys said 11am.”

He gives a slight shrug. “I must have gotten carried away with my beauty sleep. Guess you’d better come in.”

Aegon leaves the door open, padding on bare feet through the foyer. She follows him, eyes wide as she takes in the opulence of the high ceilings and expensive art that adorns the walls.

He leads her through to the kitchen, opening the double doors of a large silver refrigerator.

“Get you a beer?” He asks, pulling a bottle out before biting the cap off with his teeth.

She winces. “Not for me, thanks, bit early.”

He takes a drink, nodding as he mulls over her response. “I’d offer you a bloody mary, but we’re out of tomato juice.”

She is about to laugh, until she sees that he’s sincere, so bites back the urge. “Honestly, I’m fine. Got a water bottle in my bag.”

“Fair enough,” he utters, leaning forward on his elbows on the kitchen island as he sets the bottle down. “So, how does this work?”

“I just want to ask a few questions about your brother, Aemond. Have you got a place you’d like to go to do that?”

“Why not right here?”

She raises her eyebrows slightly, taken aback by the informality, before nodding. He watches her intently as she rummages in her bag, taking out her dictaphone and placing it on the granite surface that separates them. “Will we not be interrupted?”

“Nah, mum’s gone with grandad to visit Aemond. That’s why Larys set up the interview for today. They’re pissed off that he’s spoken to the press, so better for you to be here when they aren’t.”

She purses her lips, pushing down her unease, before nodding towards the dictaphone. “I need to record this. That okay?”

His gaze rests upon the recording device for a moment, before he takes another long swig of his beer. “Yeah,” he finally says.

She pulls out a wooden bar stool, sitting upon it before she presses record. “We’ll start with your childhood. What was Aemond like growing up?”

“A twat,” Aegon shoots back quickly, causing the corners of her mouth to turn up into the faintest of smiles.

“Can you elaborate?”

Aegon sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “He just…took everything really seriously. He never had a sense of humour about anything.”

“So, you didn’t like him?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“What are you saying?”

“He’s my brother, I love him, we’re just very different.”

“Different how?”

“Aemond is ambitious, he’s hard working. I’m not, I just want…”

She raises an eyebrow as he trails off. “You just want..?”

“To be happy,” he mutters.

“And are you?”

He scoffs. “I thought this interview was about my brother?”

“Do you think your brother was ever happy growing up?”

“He had his eye carved out of his skull when he was ten, of course he wasn’t!”

“By your nephew, Lucerys?”

Aegon’s brow furrows with anger, his tone dark and clipped. “Little shit got what was coming to him.”

Her breath catches in her throat, her blood turning icy in her veins as she stares at him, wide eyed. Slowly, with a shaky hand she reaches forward to press the stop button on the dictaphone. 

Aegon drains the remnants of his beer, heavily setting the bottle back down and lowering his gaze as he grips the edge of the kitchen island.

When she eventually finds her voice, it comes out as a strained whisper. “Do you think Aemond killed him on purpose?”

His mouth quirks, eyes obscured slightly by the hair that has fallen into his face as he looks slowly back up at her. The air feels thick, and she realises she’s holding her breath as she waits for him to respond.

“Is this the lady that’s here to interview us?” A quiet voice comes from behind her.

She jumps, turning on her stool to look at the woman that hovers in the kitchen entryway, dressed in a white vest top and powder blue harem pants. Her hair falls in soft, loose, silver blonde waves almost to her waist, her eyes hold a faraway, dreamy quality. This must be Helaena.

Aegon nods. “Yeah, she was just interviewing me.”

“Oh…” Helaena deflates slightly, clasping her hands in front of. “I’ve interrupted.”

Her brother shakes his head, pushing away from the counter and walking from the kitchen. “No. No, you didn’t. We’d just finished, all yours.”

She watches him retreat, before turning her focus to his sister.

Well, that’s the end of that then.

“Hi,” Helaena says with a soft smile, extending her hand as she steps forward. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

She takes her hand, feeling the Targaryan woman noticeably flinch at the contact, giving it the briefest of shakes before letting go. “You must be Helaena.”

“I am,” she says nodding, clutching her hands in front of her once more. “Sorry about Aegon, he just has a hangover…he always has a hangover.”

Her gaze turns sad and she looks away. For a few seconds it seems as if she’s not even there anymore, and she wonders where she’s gone, before Helaena returns to the present and smiles once more.

“Shall we go up to my room?”

She trails after her up the stairs, looking at the antiquities that decorate the vast amount of space that makes up the house, until they reach Helaena’s bedroom. Stepping inside she is taken aback by the brightness of it, it feels like she has entered another universe separate from the darkened surrounds of the rest of the mansion.

Floral wallpaper adorns the walls, with a variation of frames containing pin mounted insects and butterflies. She turns to a shelving unit, picking up an expensive looking crystal beetle to examine it as it sparkles in the sunlight.

“This is beautiful,” she muses more to herself than Helaena.

“You like it?” She asks, causing her to look up, suddenly embarrassed at having handled a stranger’s belongings without asking.

“Sorry,” she replies, flustered, placing the beetle back on its shelf. “Never seen anything like it.”

“You can have it if you want,” Helaena quips with an easy shrug.

She blinks rapidly, unsure if she has heard her correctly. “Pardon?”

“If you like it, you should have it,” she tells her, sitting on the edge of her bed.

It’s a sweet gesture that comes from a place of childlike innocence, but is also indicative of how shockingly out of touch wealth makes people. Of course she doesn’t mind if she gives away something so expensive, not when the resource is there to easily replace it.

“That’s very kind, but I couldn’t,” she says, taking out her recorder. “I don’t want to intrude upon too much of your day. Shall we get started?”

Helaena is easier to interview than Aegon had been. She speaks kindly of Aemond, and as she listens she finds herself feeling more and more sad, not just for Aemond but for the entire family. Helaena had always wanted a sisterly relationship with Rhaenyra, but with a seventeen year age gap and Rhaenyra’s apparent resentment at no longer being an only child, it never happened. Where Aegon had often made fun of her, Aemond had been good to Helaena when they were growing up, patient and understanding of her tendency to daydream and fascination with insects.

“I don’t want my brother to go to prison,” she says sadly, “I just want us to be a family.”

“Do you think that that’s what Aemond wants too?”

“I don’t know what my brother wants anymore. I don’t think he knows himself.”

As her taxi drives her back towards home, dread settles in her stomach like a heavy stone. She can’t help but wonder what Aegon would have said if Helaena hadn’t interrupted them. There is no denying that the Targaryens are a family that are steeped in tragedy, but amidst it all something unseen and sinister lurks, looming with the sense that by the time she stumbles upon it, she’ll be too far in to back out.

“For you,” Royce says the following morning, depositing a USB drive onto her desk.

“Are those the transcriptions?” She asks, looking up at him with wide eyed wonder. “That was quick work.”

“It’s a tight deadline”, he replies with a smirk. “How did your interviews go yesterday?”

Little shit got what was coming to him.

She draws in a breath, unsure of what guides her actions. “I only interviewed Helaena in the end. Aegon was too hungover.”

“A shame, but one interview is better than nothing. Send me the audio and I’ll transcribe that for you too, so you can crack on with the writing.”

“You’re a lifesaver, thank you.”

“I know,” Royce says with a wink, before walking away.

She picks up her dictaphone, hovering over the audio file for Aegon’s interview.

Little shit got what was coming to him.

There is no way she can allow Royce to hear that, though she cannot put her finger on why. Before she has a chance to dwell on it further, she erases the recording and gets to work uploading Helaena’s to her computer, then emails it to Royce.

Over the following week, she works hard on the feature, painting a picture of the enigma that is Aemond Targaryen in his own words, as well as his sister’s. It’s a heart wrenching piece, a tale of a misfit little boy, maimed at the age of ten and left to live with the consequences of it. However, instead of collapsing into despair or falling back on a comfortable lifestyle, funded by his family’s fortune, he had studied hard and was an accomplished solicitor within his grandfather’s law firm. He had overcome his disability to train in athletic pursuits such as mixed martial arts and long distance running, and is knowledgeable in the fields of both history and philosophy. There is no denying that Aemond Targaryen is impressive, even without having to navigate the difficulties of losing an eye.

Once the article has been thoroughly vetted by Royce, it goes to print, landing on newsstands the exact same day as Rhaenyra’s interview in White Knight Magazine. Aemond cuts an imposing figure in the photograph used in the double page spread, a sinister presence in direct opposition with the content of the article. And still there is something that niggles at the back of her mind, a stone she has left unturned. Was she right to omit Aegon’s interview? She supposes it is of little consequence, it’s too late now. 

White Knight is a larger publication, so occupies a more prominent shelf space than the Duskendale Gazette. However, upon news spreading that a feature with the elusive Targaryen second son is contained within its pages, it sells out quickly, with an urgent extra print run needing to be made to supply the demand for more copies, despite additional copies having been printed in the first place, in anticipation of the article’s popularity. But they hadn’t anticipated just how popular the feature would be.

As she stands in the newsagents, looking at both publications on the shelf, she is struck by the thought that this presents itself as forcing the public to choose a side, despite neither article making mention of the murder or impending trial.

She reads Rhaenyra’s feature, and cannot help but feel sympathy for her. A young woman whose world was rocked when her best friend had married her father after her mother had died, and then made to feel displaced by the children that that relationship had produced. Already having to deal with the animosity that divides the family in the wake of her father’s death, she now must cope with the grief of losing her son.

Whose side should she choose? She wishes more than anything that Aegon had answered her question, it would doubtless make for an easier decision.

Her phone buzzing in her pocket pulls her out of her reverie and she huffs an irritated sigh as she sees Larys’ name flashing on her screen. She had assumed her dealings with him would be over once the article went to print. It appears she was wrong.

“Nice work,” he drawls into the receiver once she’s answered. “You’ve painted quite the picture.”

“Has he seen it?”

“Aemond? Yes, I ensured he received a copy this morning. He’s pleased with how it’s turned out. That’s why I’m calling, actually.”

“The article’s published, what more is there to say?”

Larys clicks his tongue, his tone dripping with condescension. “Now, now, we did you a favour in letting you run this feature. You’ll have every publication in Westeros beating down your door to commission you after today. Don’t you think a little gratitude is in order?”

“Gratitude?!” She snipes back. “Isn't it enough that I’ve painted a rosy picture of a…”

Murderer.

She can’t bring herself to say the word, there is still a seed of doubt in her mind, yet Larys knows what she means regardless.

“Alleged,” he corrects her. “All Aemond wants to do is say thank you, surely a phone call couldn’t hurt?”

“Do not give him my phone number,” she seethes.

“Very well. But you’ll be at the trial?”

“It’s a closed courtroom.”

“It is. Selected press only, to avoid it becoming a media circus, but I can get you on the list.”

“I’m not supposed to be covering the trial.”

“And you won’t be, don’t worry, I can still get you in.”

“You’ve come this far. May as well see it through to the end.”

Aemond’s words echo in her mind, and she relents with a sigh. It’s not as if she isn’t curious. “Alright, fine.”

“Excellent. See you then.”

The line goes dead.

The trial is to last three days. A day for the prosecution to deliver their testimonies, a day for the defense to present their case, and a day for the jury to deliberate and then pass their verdict, with subsequent sentencing from the judge. Rhaenyra is pushing for a murder sentence, while the other side of the family argue it was an accident.

The tightly wound knots of dread that have made their home inside of her over the last month are prominent as ever as she arrives at the courthouse on the first day. She is ushered in after giving her name, though not towards the sparsely populated press seats as she had assumed she would be.

Bile rises acridly in her throat, her eyes widening in horror as she realises she is being led towards the public gallery to sit with Aemond’s side of the family. Despite wanting to remain neutral, she is being given a side, without the option to choose, though deep down she knows she had subconsciously made her choice the moment she decided to interview Aemond. The idea makes her feel nauseated.

The entire family is tense as she takes a seat next to them. Aegon side eyes her uncomfortably, while Helaena, though she forces a smile, is fidgety and withdrawn. It’s clear she would rather be anywhere but here. Otto bristles at the sight of her, rising slightly from his seat, before Alicent places a hand on his forearm, urging him back down again.

“Aemond wants her here,” she whispers, patting her father’s hand as he sighs and turns his gaze ahead.

Despite defending her presence, the Hightower matriarch doesn’t acknowledge her, keeping her eyes fixed upon her nails, which look red raw around the edges.

An eerie silence falls over the courtroom as Aemond is led out towards the dock, accompanied by a prison officer. He is stony raised as he is seated, keeping his attention fixed on a far point towards the back of the room, though she is certain that for just a second she sees his eye flicker to her, the briefest of smirks tugging at the corners of his mouth. Her stomach somersaults and she forces herself to look away. When she looks back, he’s staring towards the back of the courtroom once more.

“All rise for the honourable Judge Wylde,” a member of staff calls out, and she stands with everyone else, watching as the judge sweeps into the courtroom, taking a seat at the bench, before they are all instructed to sit once more.

Rhaenyra’s solicitor, Erryk Cargyll, delivers the opening statement for the prosecution’s case, claiming that his client has grounds to believe that the death of her son was deliberate and premeditated.

The hours feel as though they drag by as statements are delivered by Rhaenyra, her sons, Jacaerys and Joffrey, and her husband, Laenor. Though all are clearly emotional, and still reeling from the death of Lucerys, none of them actually saw what happened. The evidence is all purely circumstantial, with nothing concrete. Rhaenyra appears visibly distressed, and her heart aches for her knowing that Larys is likely to tear her apart during his questioning.

She isn’t wrong. Larys’ questions hinge upon the fact that her dislike for her half siblings is what guides her judgements and he repeatedly asks if she saw what happened. She appears flustered, stumbling over her words, growing more emotional as the questioning grows more pointed.

Looking over at Alicent, she sees a harrowed look in her eyes, her expression solemn as she stares wide eyed at her former friend from the public gallery, gripping her father’s hand tightly. It is awful to watch, and she is desperate to leave.

Unsurprisingly, Aemond is calm and collected as he is questioned by both Larys and Erryk, keeping his answers clipped and simple. Saying that he had been eager to get away from the family gathering, and had not seen Lucerys as he’d struck him in his haste to drive off. He never falters, even under the heated cross examination from Erryk, asking if he’d been motivated by the injury sustained as a child in his killing of Lucerys. Aemond replies with a simple “no, it was an accident”,

By the time the court is adjourned for the day, she is exhausted both mentally and emotionally. She feels for Rhaenyra, it is clear to see how much she loves her son, and she just wants justice for him. Yet her case is flimsy, and she knows that Aemond’s defense will deal the killing blow tomorrow. On the other hand, Aemond could be telling the truth, in which case, horrible as it is, is it fair that he should be hauled over the coals for an accident? He’ll serve a prison sentence either way.

Despite her tiredness, sleep does not come easy for her that night, knowing she will have to do this all again tomorrow.

The following day, as she’d expected, the defence tears apart Rhaenyra’s case, especially when they call Dr. Orwyle to the witness stand. He is apparently the doctor that had treated Aemond when he initially lost his eye, and had helped him with pain management and rehabilitation in the years that followed.

The doctor’s statement deduces that Aemond’s lack of depth perception means it is not advisable for him to drive at night, due to reduced visibility, so it is entirely plausible he would not have seen Lucerys at all as he’d driven away.

Larys’ closing statement underscores it all; “so, you see your honour, my client was in such emotional distress that evening that he felt he had no choice but to leave. It was an honest accident. Is Aemond Targaryen careless? Yes. But a killer? No.”

“Fucking liar!” Rhaenyra cries out, jumping to her feet, her voice fraught with emotion.

“Order!” Judge Wylde shouts across the courtroom.

She bows her head, drawing in a withering sigh. The trial is over, it’s just the verdict and sentencing to go now.

When she looks back up, a shiver runs the length of her spine; Aemond is staring directly at her. He’s smiling.

She allows her curiosity to get the better of her, once the court is adjourned for the day, catching up to Aegon as he walks from the courtroom. He whips around as she gently grabs his arm, his brows knitting together in confusion as he looks at her.

“I’ll never hear the end of it from Mum, if she sees me talking to you,” he mutters, attempting to pull away.

“I know,” she says, stepping in front of him to block his path, “but I’ll be quick. I just need to know, when I asked you the other day if you thought Aemond had killed Luceys on purpose, what would you have said if Helaena hadn’t interrupted us?”

Aegon sighs, rolling his eyes as he steps around her. “I think you already knew the answer to that when you omitted my interview. It doesn’t matter really though, does it?” He says to her, as he begins walking away. “He’s going to prison either way.”

His words bring her little comfort, and she stands, watching with unease, as he descends the steps at the front of the building. In a sense, he is right, it doesn’t matter now, and her article is already published. She hates herself for it.

She feels sick with nerves the following day, as the final closing statements are read out, and she’s unsure why. Aemond is nothing to her, and yet she feels that she has played a part in this all the same, will somehow be responsible for whatever verdict is reached, whether it’s the right one or not.

 The faces of Rhaenyra, Laenor and Jacaerys are sullen and angry on one side of the courtroom, while Alicent and Helaena look fraught with worry. Otto and Aegon sit stony faced and impassive.

It takes the jury just one hour to reach their verdict.

The clerk of the court calls out, “Will the foreman of the jury please stand? Have you reached a verdict on which you are all agreed?”

When the foreman answers in the affirmative, the clerk continues. “On the first count in the indictment, murder in the first degree, do you find the accused guilty or not guilty?”

“Not guilty.”

Rhaenyra collapses into Laenor’s arms with a sob, as Jacaerys jumps to his feet, shouting obscenities. It’s not until Judge Wylde threatens to have him removed that order is restored in the court, and the verdict can continue.

She looks to Aemond, sitting in the dock, his gaze lowered, the silver strands of his hair obscuring his face, so she’s unable to see his reaction, but she can tell from the movement of his wrists that he’s fiddling with his fingers. Is he nervous? He has been so stoic throughout this entire process, to see him falter is unnerving. She finds herself unable to look away as the final verdict is read out.

“On the second count in the indictment, manslaughter, do you find the accused guilty or not guilty?”

“Guilty.”

Aemond looks to his mother as the verdict is read out, her brown eyes doleful and filled with tears as she gazes back at him. Rhaenyra storms from the courtroom, the heavy wooden double doors flinging wide open as she departs, quickly followed by Laenor and Jacaerys.

“He’s going to prison,” Helaena whispers sadly.

“That was always going to happen,” Aegon retorts with a heavy sigh.

When the judge passes a sentence of ten years, Alicent buries her face in her hands and sobs.

“He’ll be out in five, if he behaves himself”, Otto says quietly, in an attempt to reassure her.

“But our family is torn apart forever,” she whispers tearfully.

She has seen all she needs to see, and cannot stomach watching or hearing anymore. Rising from her seat, she hurries from the courtroom and outside to the top of the steps, sucking in steadying breaths to help calm the rising panic within her.

Her obligation to Aemond is complete, so she doesn’t understand why this has affected her the way it has. Likely the result of being trapped in such a toxic setting for the last three days, which makes her all the more determined to get away.

Pulling out her phone, she is about to open the taxi app, when Larys calls to her from the entryway of the courthouse. “He’d like to see you.”

“What?!” She asks incredulously, turning to look at him with a scowl. “What for?!”

“To say thank you, and goodbye. You rejected the offer of a phone call, perhaps you can give Aemond a few moments of your time to say his piece in person?”

“I’ve just given three days of my life watching a grieving mother be made a mockery of for his benefit, don’t you think he’s had enough from me already?”

“I can get you into the holding room for a few minutes, before his family go to see him, ahead of him being transferred back to Dragonstone. Just a few minutes, and then all of this is behind you. He has asked to see you specifically.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose exasperatedly. “You aren’t going to take no for an answer, are you?”

Aemond would look handsome in the all black, expensively tailored suit he’d worn for court, were it not for the handcuffs that bind his wrists together, reminding her that he’s a convicted criminal.

“Speak then,” she says, as she sits down opposite him.

“I just wanted to say thank you, truly, for the article you wrote. You really are a talented writer, and I’m sure great things are in store for you.”

She purses her lips, humming in acknowledgement, uncomfortable with the compliment. “That’s quite alright.”

“I really enjoyed our chats together. I’m going to miss them.”

She frowns, not at the words themselves, but the fact that they are sincere. He means what he’s saying. “It was for a professional purpose,” she insists.

He shakes his head, leaning forward against the table. “I know you enjoyed them too.”

She shifts uncomfortably in her chair. “Well, they’re over now.”

“They don’t have to be,” he says with a shrug, “ten years is a long time, plenty of time for us to chat.”

She leans back, away from him, the familiar weight of dread settling over her once more. “Aemond, I don’t think that’s a–”

He lurches forward across the table, grabbing her forearm, almost painfully so, his tone desperate and pleading. “Say you’ll come to visit me!”

She is unsure of whether it’s because there’s a part of her that secretly wants to, because she can’t bear to see the look of anguish in his eye any longer, or if she just wants him to let go of her so she can leave, but she finds herself whispering back in a trembling voice “okay, I will”.

It is not a promise she keeps.

Larys had been right, her article about Aemond is the spark that reignites her career. In the weeks following the publication of the feature, her email inbox had been inundated with offers of work from editors across a variety of different media outlets.

She had spent a long time chained to a desk at “The Wall” of the Duskendale Gazette, she did not much fancy swapping one static position for another. Eager to spread her wings, she had handed in her notice, despite Royce’s offer of a promotion. She craved freedom, and with her pick of what publications to write for, she made a successful career of freelancing. Over the next few years she had articles published in broadsheet newspapers and glossy, high end magazines alike, covering current events and interviewing high profile public figures. She made a comfortable living, until eventually she accepted the job of commissioning editor at Gold Cloak, a fashion and lifestyle magazine with a huge circulation and an even larger salary. She is almost able to put to the back of her mind the person who put her there in the first place. Almost.

In the months following Aemond’s sentencing, she had received several calls from an unknown number. On the one occasion she had picked up, it had begun with the automated message “an inmate from Dragonstone Prison is trying to reach you…” She had hung up immediately, her heart lurching, remembering she had said she would visit him, but knowing full well she couldn't. Not because of the morality of the situation, but because of how strong her desire to go actually was. That was a part of her she was eager to suppress. As the calls had continued, she had eventually opted to change her number, and after that they had stopped.

Aemond Targaryen is no more than a meager itch at the back of her mind now. It has been five years since she last spoke to him.

The sunshine warms her skin through the glass of the café window as she sits at the rounded wooden table, leaning back in her chair as her eyes scan over the article she has just had emailed to her. Deadline day is approaching for Gold Cloak, as they gear up to go to print with their next issue, and the last few stragglers are finally submitting their copy. It’s an odd sensation to be appraising the words of others, instead of writing her own, but she’s worked hard to get to this point, and it’s satisfying to be in a position where she is considered senior enough to dictate the contents of a major publication, not just contribute towards it.

Making the most of a work from home day, she has elected to visit her local coffee shop, watching the world pass by on a busy side street of King’s Landing, while the spicy aroma of her chai latte comforts her as she works.

She frowns when the sunlight she had been enjoying morphs into muted darkness. Her breath hitches, and she lets out a frightened gasp as she looks up to see Aemond standing over her.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says softly, “I saw you as I was passing and I wanted to say hello.”

His words do little to comfort her, and her eyes desperately scan the coffee shop. It’s relatively busy, with lots of people, witnesses. Good.

He smirks. “I’m not here to hurt you, don’t worry.”

She swallows thickly, shifting to sit fully upright in her seat. “What are you–”

“I only served half my sentence, I was let out on good behaviour. I’m not an escapee, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

“Right, right…” she mutters, attempting to get her thoughts in order as her heart feels like it’s set upon hammering its way out of her chest.

“Mind if I sit?” Aemond says, gesturing to the empty seat opposite hers. “Might make you feel better if I’m not looming over you.”

What can she say? She looks around the café again, deciding she doesn’t want to cause a scene. “Yeah, sure.”

He pulls out the chair, sitting opposite her. Aemond is not quite as intimidating as she remembers him, though she supposes the only time she’d ever seen him before was in prison sweats or dressed for court. Today, as the sun dapples across his pale skin, he looks softer somehow, not nearly as scary as she’d once thought. His long silver blonde hair is pulled up into a low bun, and he’s dressed casually in a black leather jacket, a dark green henley and black slacks tucked into black Doc Martens.

She closes her laptop, perching her elbows on the edge of the table and resting her chin on her hands as she looks at him.

“I’m sorry I never–”

“So what are you–”

They both pause, smiling awkwardly as they begin to talk over each other, before Aemond gestures towards her. “You first.”

She nods, leaning back again, drumming her fingers softly on the table. “I never did come to visit you. I’m sorry.”

He shrugs out of his jacket, letting it drape across the back of the chair. “It was wrong of me to ask you, to be honest,” he admits, “I’d just never opened up to anyone like that before, and though I knew the consequences of the accident, none of it really felt like it was happening until it did. I panicked.”

The accident.

She finds it odd that he refers to in such a way, but he seems so different now, less tense, and she feels herself beginning to relax. Perhaps it really was an accident?

Wrapping her hands around her cup in a bid to ground herself, she nods. “So how long have you been out?”

“A few weeks,” he tells her, his hands coming to rest upon the table as he turns a stray sugar packet around in his fingers. “It’s been a bit of an adjustment.”

“You’re looking well through,” she blurts, before she has time to stop herself.

He smirks and she feels her skin grow hot as he retorts “I could say the same about you.”

She clears her throat, eager to switch gears in the conversation. “So, are you gonna grab a coffee, or are you just passing through?”

“Well, actually, since I’ve run into you, I wondered if perhaps you’d like to join me for something stronger?”

She raises her eyebrows. She knows it’s a bad idea, the trouble is the voice telling her that is not as loud as the one screaming at her to say yes.

“What are you having?” Aemond asks as they stand at the bar of Maegor’s Holdfast.

“Glass of Rioja, please.”

Aemond nods, turning to the bartender. “Bottle of Rioja and two glasses, please.”

“A whole bottle?!” She hisses, as the bartender moves away to fetch their order.

Aemond gives an easy shrug. “We’re both having the same thing, it makes more sense to share a bottle, than two separate glasses.”

“So, what are you doing with yourself these days?” Aemond asks, as they sit in a cosy corner of the pub, sipping their wine.

“Working, mostly,” she tells him, “I’m commissioning editor for Gold Cloak Magazine.”

“Impressive,” he says, raising his glass to her. “You’ve done well for yourself.”

“Thanks to you,” she replies quietly, a heated feeling of shame feeling as though it envelopes her. She’s keen to change the subject. “So, what’s going on with you?”

“I can’t return to Red Keep Legal, I’m no longer allowed to practice law. I figured I’d study in another field, maybe history or philosophy, see where that takes me. I’m living back with my mother until I get back on my feet.”

“How’s the family?”

“Mother is okay. Fussing over me far too much now that I’m back. Grandfather has retired, he’s gone back to Oldtown, got himself a nice little cottage. It’s fairly quiet at the house, feels empty.”

“Are Helaena and Aegon not there anymore?”

Aemond shakes his head, taking a long sip of wine before speaking again. “Helaena’s currently overseas in Qarth, doing a conservation study on some sort of beetle. Aegon’s gone to Braavos, he’s decided a life by the sea suits him better now that he’s sober.”

“Aegon’s sober?!”

“Yeah, it surprised me too. Apparently his drinking got quite a lot worse after I was put away. Mother finally had enough and forced him back to rehab. It stuck this time.”

“Good for him. I’m pleased.”

“Hmm. Enough about my family, I want to know all about your new job. Tell me everything.”

Over the next few hours, they fall into effortless conversation, and as one bottle of wine turns into two, it’s easy to forget the nature of their unusual relationship, it feels as though she’s chatting with an old friend.

She tells him all about the freelance work she’s undertaken over the last few years, as well as how she found herself with a job offer from Gold Cloak. They chat about music, films, share jokes and anecdotes, though always careful to avoid mention of Aemond’s incarceration or anything related to it. Aemond is witty, oddly charming and fiercely intelligent, if she hadn't interviewed him in the wake of his nephew’s murder then she could definitely see him as someone she’d be attracted to.

As she drains her final glass of wine, the second empty bottle calling out like a beacon that it’s time to go home, she feels fuzzy headed, her eyes and limbs heavy.

Oh shit, I’m drunk.

She stumbles as she rises from her seat, and Aemond places a steadying hand on her arm, the warmth she sees in his smile as he looks down at her taking her breath away. He looks nothing like a killer, just an ordinary man.

“Come on,” he says, offering her his arm, “I’ll walk you home.”

It doesn’t occur to her to ask how he knows where she lives as he walks her back to her block of flats. Her mind feeling thick from the effects of the wine, she doesn’t resist when he leans down, his lips pressing against hers as he steps her backwards over the threshold of her front door.

He dominates the kiss, the taste of red wine upon his lips potent and sweet. He holds her tight against him, his mouth devouring hers. Their movements are needy and desperate as her hands help to push his jacket from his shoulders and it drops to the floor, along with her laptop bag, with a soft thump. It’s enough to temporarily break her out of her passionate haze and she pulls back reluctantly, her voice a shaky whisper.

“We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Hmmm, and yet it’s happening anyway,” he replies huskily, his hand coming to rest at the back of her neck as he kisses her hungrily once more, his tongue licking greedily at hers.

Every part of her mind that is screaming at her to stop is silenced by his lips, all sense and inhibitions dulled by alcohol. Having been career focused for so long, her love life has taken a backseat, she can’t remember the last time anyone touched her like this. It’s exhilarating to feel wanted, desired, and so she loses herself in the sensation, her mouth moving against his with equal enthusiasm as they stumble back towards the sofa.

He presses her into the plushness of the cushions, the pair of them hastily kicking off their shoes, before he settles on top of her. He trails hot, open mouthed kisses over her jaw and neck, before bringing a hand to the front of her blouse, a quick flick of his wrist tears it open, sending buttons clattering onto the glass top surface of the nearby coffee table.

Before she is able to protest, she is silenced once more by the feel of his mouth upon her, lavishing attention to the swell of her breasts, visible over the tops of the cups of her bra. How is he able to do that, to obliterate all of her thoughts through mere touch alone? It’s dizzying, and her breaths quicken, turning to soft pants as his path continues downwards, leaving a blazing trail in its wake as he shifts his lips to her stomach. His hands roughly tug down her leggings, as he pulls away, tossing them carelessly over his shoulder once they’re all the way off.

As he rests on his haunches over her, she is painfully aware of the imbalance; he kneels before her, fully dressed, while she is beneath him in just her underwear. She squirms slightly in embarrassment, feeling her skin grow heated.

It’s as if he’s able to read her mind, his lips twitching with the ghost of a smirk as his seeing eye stares her down, darkened with arousal. Grabbing the hem of his shirt he tugs it up over his head, allowing it to follow the same path her leggings had.

She feels her core throb with want as her gaze travels down his bare torso. Lean, lithe hardened muscle defines his chest and abdomen in a way that she has only ever seen before in Grecian statues. He descends upon her again, not giving her the opportunity to admire him for long, covering her body with his own as he captures her lips again, his teeth nipping delicately at her bottom lip.

His knee nudges its way between her legs, pushing against her through the lace of her knickers, and she whines into the kiss, her mind immediately racing back to all the times his knee had bumped hers during their interviews. Is this what he’d wanted all along? The idea makes her pulse thrum and her blood run hot. It’s sick and twisted, but she can’t find herself to care, not when the friction of his actions feels so agonisingly addictive. 

His lips pull away from hers, and his hand snakes between their bodies, taking up the space his knee had occupied until just a moment ago. He cups her mound through the fabric of her underwear, humming in satisfaction as she bucks her hips against his palm, chasing the pressure his knee had given her.

“Eager little thing,” he whispers darkly, hooking a finger into the elastic of her gusset and tugging it to one side.

It isn’t until the coolness of the air hits her bare flesh that she realises just how wet she is, and she’d feel ashamed were it not for the fact she can see Aemond’s pupil dilate at the sight of it.

He teases the pads of his fingers through her folds, spreading the stickiness of her arousal from her sensitive bud to her opening and back again. Her breath hitches at the sensation, every nerve ending in her body feeling as though it’s aflame.

“You’re soaking,” he murmurs, eye flickering up to meet hers.

She opens her mouth to respond, but before she can get the words out, he’s bringing his fingers away from her core and pushing them past her lips and into her mouth. She mewls around his digits at the tart taste of herself upon her tongue, and as he takes her hand, bringing it forward to cup the hardness of him through his trousers, she finds herself sucking on them, palming at him eagerly simultaneously.

He groans quietly, pressing himself against her touch. “Good girl.”

Withdrawing his fingers from her mouth and swatting her hand away gently, he unbuckles his belt, leaning back over her as he unbuttons and unzips his trousers, pushing them down along with his boxers just enough to free his erection.

She cannot see it, but the feel of it, heavy and leaking, pressing against her entrance is enough to have her walls clenching, eager to take him inside. The initial stretch to accommodate him as he presses forward causes them both to sigh softly in unison, his brows furrowing with exertion as he pushes all the way in to the hilt. The fullness of it makes her ache, and she rolls her hips impatiently, desperate for him to move.

“So needy,” he chastises quietly.

“Please,” is all she’s able to whimper in response.

His hand moves to the back of her head, grabbing a fistful of her hair and gripping it tightly. He holds her in place, so she has no choice but to look at him as he drags his hips back before snapping them forward again.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

She should stop this, they’ve gone too far already, but the buzz of the wine is still coursing its way through her, and with every brush of the head of his cock against the sensitive spot deep inside of her, the urge to put an end to what’s happening rapidly fades.

Her legs tangle with his, as she meets him thrust for thrust. He is slow to withdraw, but quick to slam forward again, driving him impossibly deep into her. His grip on her hair and the forced eye contact make it almost too much to bear. The intensity with which he looks at her, studies the contortions of pleasure her features morph into, is torturous, yet she never wants it to end.

Clinging to him tightly, her fingernails dig crescent moons into the flesh of his shoulder blades, his jaw beginning to slacken as with every push forward she feels him pulsate. He’s getting close, and she is too, the tell tale tensing of her thighs and quivering inside of her letting her know she’s edging closer to her peak.

She is desperate to turn her face away, not wanting to be staring directly into his eye as she falls apart, but Aemond’s grip on her hair is iron clad, she cannot move her head. With one last push forward, she tightens and spasms around him, a broken cry escaping her as she stares at him, eyes wide and brows knitted together as warm waves of pleasure ripple through her.

Something akin to a growl rumbles in Aemond’s throat, and she feels him still, knowing he’s about to reach his own end. Not wanting her own ecstasy to be short lived by him pulling out, she is quick to reassure him in a breathy whisper.

“I’m on the pill.”

“I know,” he groans, before letting go, spilling himself inside of her with a grunt. He lets go of her hair, burying his face into the crook of her neck as his body shudders, his length twitching and pulsing within her sensitive heat.

They remain tangled together for a few moments, both breathing heavily as they attempt to recover and slowly come back down to earth. As the blissful fog begins to lift, she is struck by a realisation.

I know.

“How do you know I’m on the pill?” She asks, her voice quiet and hoarse.

Aemond lays quiet for a moment, his breaths warm and moist against the flesh of her neck as they calm. When he eventually pulls back and looks at her, there’s something different in the way he looks at her. His stare is cold, almost crazed, similar to what she had seen the day they’d first met in the visitors room of Dragonstone Prison.

“I know everything about you,” he says with a soft smile, that doesn’t play upon the rest of his features.

Her heart lurches in her chest, fear turning her blood icy, the effects of the wine disappearing entirely as she’s left starkly sobered.

“What do you mean?” She asks quietly.

He hums thoughtfully, brushing her hair away from her face in a gesture that could be considered affectionate, were it not for the sudden change in atmosphere.

“I suppose there’s no point in keeping secrets, not now we know each other so…intimately,” he muses. “I enjoyed our talks together, I wanted them to continue, but when it became clear to me that that wasn’t reciprocated, I needed a way to continue to keep in touch. So I had you watched, followed, everything you did was reported back to me. It’s made the last five years more bearable still having a connection to you. It’s been better still being able to keep tabs myself over the last few weeks.”

Tears prickle her eyes, a wave of nausea sweeping over her. “You’re sick!”

“Am I?” He asks, cocking his head as he strokes her hair absentmindedly. “Or is that you? Because for me, our little tryst seems perfectly normal, an inevitability, considering my interest in you. However, for you, you barely know me. I’m someone you interviewed half a decade ago, and you opened your legs for me the very same day I happened to make you aware I was back in your life. I’d say that makes you a whore.”

“Get off!” She cries, squirming beneath him, attempting to push him off. The thought that his softening member is still nestled within her has her reeling with disgust. He is stronger than she is though, and refuses to budge, keeping her right where she is, as he grips her jaw tightly, forcing her to look at him.

“Behave,” he hisses, “you’ve seen what happens to people who anger me. You sat through an entire trial for it.”

“That was manslaughter,” she says in a trembling voice, a tear trickling down her cheek.

“That’s what I was sentenced for, yes, but I’ll tell you a secret…I saw Lucerys, and I drove my car towards him anyway.”

He laughs softly, as he gazes down at her, her eyes widened in horror, as her chest heaves. “His expression was rather similar to yours, actually, when he realised what was about to happen.”

“You’re a murderer,” she sobs, frantically trying to push him off of her.

“Oh, darling,” he soothes mockingly, “but you did such a wonderful job of portraying me as otherwise.”

“What are you going to do to me?!” She asks, panic fluttering acridly up from her chest and into her throat.

“Nothing at all, if you don’t overreact. Don’t get any funny ideas about going to the police either.”

“What?!”

“I don’t think your career could withstand such an enormous blunder, not a second time anyway. Imagine how that would look, the second time you’ve painted a criminal as a saint, and not only that but this time you’ve slept with him. That would be quite the fall from grace.”

He pins her wrists above her head, though all the fight has left her, she sags beneath him, hot tears flowing freely down her cheeks. “I can’t believe this…”

“Believe it,” he hisses. “You’ve built your career on the back of me, and I think it’s about time you repay the favour. For five years you’ve enjoyed success, all thanks to me, while I rotted in prison. You owe me.”

“What do you want from me?” She asks weakly.

“Nothing I haven’t had already,” he tells her, leaning down to run the tip of her nose against her cheek. “Be sweet to me, and I’ll be sweet to you, because if you try to take me down over this, I can guarantee you have much more to lose than I do.”

Her stomach turns, her eyes closing in defeat. There is no escape from this, she simply has to accept her fate or endure mutually assured destruction.

Aemond’s expression has softened when she opens her eyes again. His hands move from her wrists to her hands, entwining their fingers. “There she is,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “No more tears now, you’ll spoil all the fun we’re going to have together.”

This is a nightmare, This is a nightmare. Wake up.

As she feels him harden inside of her once more, the heartbreaking realisation that she’s not dreaming settles over her. This is a waking nightmare, and it’s only just beginning.

[roosterforme]

How You Play the Game Part 4 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley is torn between hoping for more nights with you and calling it quits now. But he feels too good when he's around you. When he takes you on a late night date after the game, he's convinced you have the same mixed up feelings he does. But neither of you can seem to explain it. 

Warnings: Swearing, fluff, angst, and smut (18+)

Length: 4700 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x female reader

Check out my masterlist for more! How You Play the Game masterlist. Banner by @thedroneranger

When Bradley left your hotel room at five in the morning, you were still sound asleep. It took every bit of his willpower to carefully extract himself from the warmth of the bed and your body. The room was dark, but he could still see the outline of your profile as you stirred slightly, and he ran his mustache along your cheek. 

The sentiments that flooded his brain and almost escaped his lips were startling, and he rolled slowly away from you, his heart beating a little erratically. He needed to get on the road before the Los Angeles rush hour traffic picked up, but he found himself moving without hurry as he located his keys and wallet. 

Why was he doing this? He had two more mornings like this, maybe more if he was lucky. But he should have been doing a better job of keeping his feelings in check. He told himself not to do it, but it was like he had no control at this point, so Bradley walked around the bed and kissed your forehead. "See ya, Ace."

He listened to the sports radio show he normally enjoyed on his drive, but he wasn't really absorbing any of it. Your article and insights were better than this. And when he made it to work, he read your game three article on the New York Times app several times when he had breaks and while he ate lunch. It was no wonder every media outlet wanted to have you writing for them. Your style and like no other, and everyone seemed to see that. Bradley wished your boss acknowledged what an asset you are instead of screaming at you for literally nothing. 

Ace: You made it to work on time? Miss you.

"Fuck," he gasped, feeling like someone had hit him in the gut as he stood to throw his trash away after lunch. If he believed this was one sided, it wouldn't have been so bad. If he wasn't getting messages like Miss you as soon as he wasn't with you, he would have probably been dealing with this better.

He knew there were sixteen condoms left. He knew you were as keen to take things to bed as he was. Miss you. But that just didn't seem like all there was, and he already knew there wouldn't be enough time to find out for sure. 

Yeah, I made it on time. I miss you too. I'll be back up as soon as I get out of work.

This was going to hurt pretty soon. He should be planning to head back to Anaheim tonight to end things with you. But keeping this entanglement going for the duration of the World Series had been his idea to begin with, and the thought of ending up anywhere except with you when he was falling asleep made him feel uncomfortable. 

Ace: My room smells like you again. And I can practically still feel your arm wrapped around me.

And now Bradley was looking at tickets for the game even though it started at five. He would miss the first few innings, but at least he'd be able to get his arm around you again. 

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

Your skin was tingling with anticipation, and no matter what you did, you couldn't distract yourself. Bradley was on his way up from San Diego again. He was fighting through traffic to get to you like you were living in some sort of fairy tale with an expiration date. Like he was the handsome prince and the press box was your tower. You snorted as you sat down with your computer and your stat sheet.

It had barely been half a day since he was tangled up in your hotel room bed with you, keeping you warm and secure with his body pressed to the back of yours. It was so easy to slip into a daydream about him, but just as easily you remembered you'd be leaving for Boston and then probably seven more cities before you made your way back to your apartment in New York for a day off. 

You just missed a pitch. Bradley wasn't even here yet and you were having a hard time focusing on the game. Everyone else around you was writing and typing away, but you found yourself missing him too much. Then your phone started to vibrate, and a smile spread across your face. 

"Hi Bradley," you whispered when you answered between pitches. 

"Ace, Baby." He sounded out of breath as if he was trying to get to you as quickly as he could. Butterflies lifted off in your tummy as he said, "I just bought a ticket from a scalper in the parking lot for a hundred bucks since it's already the fourth inning. But now the security guards are looking at me like I'm highly suspicious."

You had to stifle your laughter as you stood. "Where are you?"

"Almost to the green door. Almost to you."

Without another word, you ended the call and grabbed your lanyard. And when you opened the heavy door and saw him walking so fast he was practically running, your laughter bubbled over. 

"Ace," he called out breathlessly. "I had to park so far away." Before you could even respond, he had you in his arms, lifting you off the ground. "Worth it," he murmured as his lips met yours. 

You wanted to tell him how much you missed him. You wanted him to know how happy you were that he came all the way back up here to you. He kissed you so well, you wanted to tell him you wouldn't stop thinking about him for a minute. But instead you said, "Let's get you inside before you get kicked out of here."

As he carried you into the press box, you could feel the thudding of his heart beneath your palm. You kissed his cheek a dozen times before he set you down. "You better get to work, Ace. The best articles around aren't going to write themselves."

"I'll have an easier time of it with you here," you told him as he grabbed one of the folding chairs and settled in. 

"Really? How so?"

"I'll have someone to fetch me food and tell me I look pretty."

"I mean, you do look pretty. You hungry?" he asked as you tried to decipher how many outs you had missed. 

"No," you replied, immediately putting your hand on his thigh to keep him in his seat. You didn't want him going anywhere at the moment. 

"Alright," he rasped next to your ear. "I'll just be your cheerleader then. You're doing great, Baby. Keep going. Your article is going to be perfect."

You were smiling as he let his arm settle across your back, and the occasional words of encouragement kept a smile on your face. You laughed when he said something completely ridiculous like, "All the old, fat dudes are so jealous of you," as he gestured to Quincy who was sitting across the aisle glaring at you.

"Maybe he thinks you're pretty," you whispered.

Bradley just scoffed. "Not my type. He doesn't have any blue feathers at all."

And when the Padres scored a run, you could tell he wanted to cheer as he bit his knuckle. "Do you absolutely hate that nobody cheers in the press box?" you asked him with a laugh as you recorded the run.

"I think I'm actually getting used to it now. But I'm annoyed as hell that the Padres are winning. If the Angels can even out the series to 2-2, I'll get to spend more time with you."

You looked at him with what you just knew was a giddy grin. "You're annoyed that your favorite team is winning?" you asked as you ran your fingers along his Padres shirt.

"Yeah. Kind of. I'd rather spend time with you than anything else."

You kissed him softly and then whispered, "Stop being sweet. I'm trying to work here."

"You're not trying very hard."

Then you nipped at his lip before settling back against his arm. You wrote a quick paragraph about the Padres' relief pitcher throwing a temper tantrum while Bradley proofread it for you. And then you started to add your stats into the article during the seventh inning stretch when Bradley went to get you a water bottle. He kissed the back of your neck as he eased himself back down into his folding chair. 

"I have an idea," he whispered. "Might be silly."

"What is it?" you murmured as you scrawled down a note for later. 

He was quiet for a beat, and when he spoke, he sounded much less self assured than he usually did. "What if we stay here after the game ends and you finish your article early? Then I can take you on a date?"

His fingers had stilled on your back as you processed his words. "I've kind of been tricking myself into thinking all the baseball games and nights back at my hotel were dates," you said softly, unable to look at him. It was really easy to get lonely in your line of work, and if you let yourself dwell on it too long, you started to feel like it would swallow you whole. You couldn't have a pet or even any houseplants, much less a relationship. There was no time leftover for dates or falling in love.

But Bradley was making you feel two very different things at the same time. He made you wish you had time for these feelings that were creeping in. And he also made you certain that you'd never feel them again after you left for Boston, so what was the point? You shouldn't be encouraging this. But then you looked at his face. 

"Yes. Those absolutely were dates," he confirmed. "And this is one right now. But we could go the traditional route for a few hours? Mini golf and a diner?"

If you were supposed to say no right now, you weren't sure how to manage it. "Okay."

And then he settled back with a satisfied grin, and his fingers started drawing those delicious shapes on your back once again. You couldn't remember the last time you'd been on an actual date, but you were sure after tonight, this one would be the benchmark.

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

"You're a sports writer. Golf is a sport. How are you this bad at it?"

"This is mini golf!" you argued. "It's not real golf! And I'm only doing so poorly because you keep touching me."

Bradley was wrapping his arms around you from behind again, trying to help you line up your shot on the seventh hole, but it was such a lost cause. "Just like that. Don't hit it too hard." As soon as he released you, he could tell it was going to be another awful shot. He watched your neon blue ball soar over to the eighth hole. "You know what? Fine, I'll stop touching you, Ace. You go ahead and show me how good you are," he told you as he went to retrieve your ball for probably the tenth time.

When he carried it back over to you, Bradley grinned at your laughter. The two of you were on a rooftop halfway between Anaheim and Los Angeles, and the night air was just starting to cool things off. After the game ended with an Angels victory, you scooted over to sit on Bradley's lap and he watched you work, offering help as you went. You'd finished your article around 9:30 and submitted it to be published, and then you and he had raced out to his Bronco.

You lined up your shot to try again without Bradley's help, and you hit it too hard again, sending it right back to the eighth hole again. "Okay, fine! I'm bad at mini golf!"

He planted his hands on his hips and turned to get the ball again. "You may as well just let me touch you then, yeah?"

"Yes," you replied, bending to set up your shot one more time. "Just touch me. I like it better when you do."

This time Bradley wrapped your hands around the club and covered them with his. "I like it better, too." He kissed your cheek and helped you check your swing with a long fluid motion, and you both watched the ball roll straight as an arrow until it sank into the cup. 

"Hole in one!" you said, jumping up and down and thrusting your club up in the air. "I got a hole in one!"

"It was at least half me," Bradley grumbled as he set his red ball down and sank another one. "See? I'm the hole in one master."

"Sure, Bradley," you said sweetly, and he spent a minute kissing the smirk off your face before someone in the group behind you started to clear their throat.

"We're holding people up," he murmured, and then you tucked your fingers into his jeans pocket and led him to collect both balls. 

"Help me get another hole in one, and I'll let you get lucky later," you told him as he dipped down to grab the golf balls. You laughed when he promptly dropped both of them and had to recollect them. 

Bradley chased you to the next hole and wrapped his arms around you again, chanting, "Come on, come on, I wanna get lucky." When the shot narrowly missed going into the hole, Bradley kissed your neck and whispered, "It's okay. I'm already getting lucky."

By the last hole, you and he had managed to get three more hole in one shots, and you had your arms around his neck and your lips on his. The city skyline was lit up in the background, and the sounds of traffic even this late were permeating the air around you. But Bradley was absorbed in your body pressed to his and your hips beneath his hands. 

"I had fun," you said between heated kisses. "You're going to get so lucky."

Bradley laughed as his hands moved to your ass, and he pushed the apprehension from his mind. Why couldn't he find a girl like this in San Diego? Why couldn't you live in San Diego? You were perfect. 

"Didn't you mention a diner that's open all night?" you whispered.

"Let's go."

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

"Apparently it's built out of an old train car," Bradley was saying about the diner as he laced his fingers with yours on the drive there. "Supposed to be good."

You didn't care where he was taking you, because you were having the best night you could remember having in so long. You almost forgot you were on assignment. It was hard for you to acknowledge that you were lonely, but now that you had, you weren't sure how to make it better. Everything was temporary. But that didn't dispute the fact that you and Bradley were in the middle of something, and that this was not anything you normally did. You never, ever told anyone else that your favorite team is the Blue Jays. You never allowed anyone to look at your articles before they were published, let alone help you add notes and proofread them. And that wasn't even touching on the physical aspect of things.

"I think that's it," he said, removing his hand from yours to make the turn into the parking lot. You missed his warmth immediately, but your phone was ringing in your pocket anyway.

Bradley glanced at you as you looked at the screen. "It's Greg. My boss. Should be quick," you assured him. When you answered, you didn't have to say more than his name before he started unloading.

"If this thing goes to seven games, we are likely to lose the exclusives in Boston!" he ranted loudly. "I want you on a flight as soon as you can get out of California."

"Understood, Greg," you said, giving Bradley an apologetic look. But his eyes were wide, and the look he was giving you had your insides in knots. He didn't like when Greg yelled. But he just kept on going.

"I'm just trying to head off a disaster, because if one of these fully online platforms snatches up our exclusive, it will be a fucking nightmare! I'm weighing my options here. I may send Winston out to replace you for the remainder of the World Series so you can start heading east sooner."

"No!" you replied quickly before he could expand on that idea. You were looking at Bradley, heart pounding as you asked Greg, "Aren't my articles doing well? You know my baseball related content always does well."

"Your articles are doing great! They always do great! That's why I need you in fucking Boston!"

You pressed your lips together as Bradley let his hand rest on your knee. "Do not send Winston. I'll see this to the end and then head out."

"First flight you can get! And you better hope this only goes six games, because after Boston, you're going international for a few weeks."

Your stomach lurched as he ended the call. "Why does he have to scream at you?" Bradley asked, looking distraught. He was reaching for you and pulling you onto his lap. "Your work is immaculate."

For a split second, you could picture all of the recruitment emails in your inbox. More piled in every day. "It's just how he works. He's this way with everyone."

"I don't like it at all," he whispered as you came to rest on his lap in his vintage Bronco. Bradley made you feel warm and safe. His mustache brushed along your cheek as he added, "If he thinks you're the best person on his roster to go to Boston for another exclusive and then out of the country, then he should be treating you with respect."

"You heard what he said?" you asked, suddenly clinging to his shirt like he was about to be taken away from you.

"Yeah, Ace. He was screaming at you, Baby. I could hear the whole thing."

You wanted to just curl up right here and go to sleep for the night in this dark parking lot with Bradley's body heat and the steady rhythm of his heart against your palm. Because as soon as he left you at your hotel in a few hours and went back to San Diego so he could go to work tomorrow, you knew you'd miss him terribly. 

You forced yourself to say, "I'm hungry." You needed to get out of his car and away from his embrace before you started to cry.

"I'm starving," he said with a soft laugh as he popped his door open and let you climb down. As you and he headed across the parking lot, he reached for your hand and said, "Just know that I think you're better than having to deal with a boss who yells like an asshole for no reason."

You swallowed hard as the two of you were led to a cute booth inside the retro diner. Somehow you just knew this place suited Bradley, and now this aesthetic was going to remind you of him forever. When you slid down into the booth, he went to release your hand, presumably to sit across from you. But you shook your head and pulled him in next to you instead. 

When the two of you were left alone with some menus, he wrapped his arm around you. "I always thought people who sat next to each other in a booth looked like idiots," you told him with a grin. "But for some reason I just wanted you over here."

He didn't respond verbally, he just kissed your forehead. And then you listened to him ask the waitress which menu items were the best, and he ordered them all. "I'm hungry. You're hungry. We'll try everything," he whispered. 

And then you just settled in. He didn't pull his arm away from you as you told him all about your favorite writing assignments in your surprisingly illustrious career for how young you are. And you learned more about him, too. He waited until a plethora of food was delivered to the table around midnight to carefully slip his arm away from you. 

"I really like this," you said softly, unsure if he heard you at first. You were only a little embarrassed by the way your voice shook. 

"Me too, Ace."

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

It was one in the morning. Bradley's belly was filled with one of the most delicious meals he'd ever had as he walked you back to your hotel room with his arm draped across your shoulders. When you got to your door, he watched you open up your bag to locate your room key, and his eyes caught on something blue.

"Did you steal the golf ball?" he asked softly, and you looked up at him right away. "Gonna use it to practice in your hotel room?"

But your eyes weren't teasing as you shook your head slightly. "It's my souvenir. From this trip. Something I can take back to New York."

And now Bradley wasn't teasing either. "I wish you could take me back."

You pressed your lips together, and your eyes fluttered close. "Don't, okay? Please."

He took a deep breath and swallowed hard. "Okay."

Without another word, you unlocked the door and walked over to the desk chair and set your bag down. Bradley let the door close behind him as you turned on the lamp. Your skin looked pretty in the soft, orange light as you started to unbutton your blouse. His lips parted as you bared yourself to him, letting your top fall to the floor along with your bra. 

He started to stir as he took a step in your direction. You were feeling the same way he was. You didn't want this to end either. You had that golf ball, and Bradley already had his ticket from game one taped up on his mirror. When you met his eyes, he found himself ready to bare his feelings to you. 

"Let's fuck," you announced, your fingers on the fly of your jeans. "You wanna?"

He didn't know what to say as he watched you shimmy out of your pants and approach him in just your underwear. "Ace."

You took him by the hand and started to lead him to bed. Then you were yanking his shirt off and working on his pants, but you didn't meet his eyes. And your usual smile was missing. "Let's do this."

"Ace," he repeated, a little softer this time as he gently wrapped his hands around your wrists and stilled your movements. "I don't want to just fuck. I want to do what we've been doing."

You finally met his eyes. "That is what we've been doing. Just fucking."

"No," Bradley replied, pulling your hands away from his body. "That's not it. There's... more."

He watched you cross your arms over your chest, and your voice broke when you said, "No, Bradley, there's not more. Because there can't be more."

You turned your back to him. He waited a beat and then ran his right hand up your arm to your shoulder. When you shivered for him, he whispered, "You react to me. And I react to you. I miss you when I'm at work. I think about you all day long. Maybe you won't acknowledge it out loud, but please, don't say it's just fucking." 

You spun around and buried your face against his neck and chest, and he held you tight. "It's not just fucking," you agreed, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry I said that."

Bradley kissed the top of your head. "You're not the only one who wishes things could be different." He coaxed your chin up with his fingers so you were looking at him. "You're not the only one, Ace."

And then you kissed him, and this time when you tugged Bradley closer to the bed, he went with you. Even if you wouldn't say anything else to him, you were showing him with everything you did. Your hands were soft on his face, and your fingers wound slowly through his hair. Your lips were on his cheeks and his ears and his forehead. And Bradley knew he only had a few more of these perfect minutes with you, but he didn't want the desperation to cloud the sweetness. Not tonight. 

"Come here, Baby," he murmured, his hands on your hips as you leaned back against the pillows. But you pulled him closer for more sweet kisses, his hands returning to your face. 

"No, you come here," you coaxed, and that pretty smile that he missed was back on your face now. 

"Here I am," he replied with a grin as you wrapped your leg around his and tried to push his jeans down with your foot. When you giggled he peppered kisses all over your face. "You want a hand with that?" he asked as you continued to struggle with his pants. 

"No, I got it," you whispered, reaching down to push them down, and then he pulled them all the way off. Your hands trailed back up along his body, and now Bradley was the one shivering. "I got it," you repeated, looking up at him. 

You stole the golf ball. And you let Bradley help with your articles. And he knew your secrets. His thumb trailed along your cheek, and he couldn't stop grinning. "I'm going to call in sick tomorrow."

"Bradley," you whined as his thumb trailed along your neck. "You said the planes wouldn't fly themselves."

He shrugged and kissed your skin where his thumb had been. "I'll let somebody else worry about it tomorrow. I'd rather spend the day with you. If you'll let me."

"Yes," you agreed immediately. "Stay with me."

He sighed against your skin. That's all he wanted to hear right now. "I will. Do you want me to get one of the sixteen condoms, Baby?" he asked softly. 

You just moaned his name and ran your fingers along his abs, and eventually Bradley extracted himself from your hands and went to dig around in your suitcase just like last night. When he stepped out of his underwear, he watched you pull yours off as well. Then you sat up and looked at him, the soft light catching on your features as you curled your legs to the side. And it was so much more than just fucking. And maybe part of Bradley wished it wasn't, because it was going to be too hard to face later.  

But when you smiled at him, he crawled across the bed and into your arms. And it was a long time before he put the condom on, focusing on his lips on your body and your words in his ears. Then he went slowly, rocking into you at a tempo he hoped conveyed just how fucking much he cared for you. 

Your back was arched, chest pressed to him as he held your hands over your head. You laced your fingers with his, squeezing them as you repeated his name over and over. Bradley's body covered yours as he moved in time with you, and he watched you come undone as you came for him. 

"It's so much more, Ace," he rasped, his voice broken as you squeezed him. You nodded as you whined his name louder, and Bradley came, too. 

Neither of you moved for a long time as he let his cheek rest on your shoulder while you played with his hair. Not many words were exchanged, but the two of you barely went more than a minute without touching each other in some way. When you returned from the bathroom in his Padres jersey, Bradley wrapped you up in his arms, and you let him. 

"You're really staying?" you asked quietly.

He kissed you as you settled in bed next to him. "Yeah, I'm staying. I'm yours all day tomorrow."

"Good."

Neither of you set an alarm, and neither of you said anything else. But once again, Bradley fell into the most comfortable sleep with his arms around you and his lips on the back of your neck. 

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

I don't want them to hurt. I want them to have fun together while they can. Thanks to @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 5

@hotch-meeeeeuppppp

@chassy21

@solacestyles

@avoirlecoupdefoudre

@daisyhollyxox

@awesomebooklover17

@wintercap89

@whosyourgnomie4

@rosesinmars

@blog-name6996

@bcon24

@wishfulwithwine

@backinwonderl4nd

@tetragonia

@gingerbreadandpaper

@emptyloverofmine

@chaoticassidy

@missmirandafe

@changlingkhat

@sugarcoated-lame

@avada-kedavra-bitch-187

@katiebby04

@marantha

@averyhotchner

@abaker74

@heli991113

@k-k0129

@noz4a2

@tallyovie

@shanimallina87

@teddyluvs2sing

@little-wiseone

@ccbb2222

@lilyevanswhore

@o-the-o-grim-o-reaper-o

@xoxabs88xox

@thedroneranger

@bradshawsbitch

@cherrycola27

@fanboyswhore9

@xomrsalliej4787xo

@desert-fern

@sylviebell

@wkndwlff

@horseslovers2016

[frvnkcastles]

A MAN WITH A BLACK HEART OF GOLD ➵ F. CASTLE

Summary: When there’s a death in the neighborhood, you call Frank for comfort and protection.

Warnings: Mentions of death, anxiety, fluff mostly!

Word count: 2.1k

Author’s note: Taking a quick break from requests for this little thing I whipped up after experiencing this very thing myself. A dead body was found in my neighborhood and it freaked me out, but thankfully it was updated on the news that a crime wasn’t involved. Still, I wouldn’t mind if I had Frank next to me tonight!

The last thing you expected coming home from getting the groceries for next week was a bunch of police cars and an ambulance on your street. The sight instantly made you nervous, your grip on the bag of food tightening as you walked through the crowd to get to your door. The police were swarmed by the building across the street, giving you access to your own home, but before you made your way inside, your neighbor caught your eye.

”What’s going on?” you queried with both curiosity and dread. You knew there was plenty of crime in the city — if not through reading the news, then through knowing Frank. You had befriended the Punisher himself a few weeks back, and he had already taught you a lot about staying safe and protected, but even with everything he had shared with you, you felt uneasy that something had happened so close to your doorstep. You were used to hearing about what went down at night from him, but right now, it was barely evening and whatever had happened, it was right across the street from you.

”Apparently they found a dead body in one of the apartments”, your neighbor whispered, and with shock punching you in the gut, you swallowed. ”They won’t say what happened, though. Maybe it was natural causes”, she continued, and weakly, you nodded. Maybe she was right. But you had heard enough from Frank to know that there was some seriously fucked up stuff happening in your city, and it made you sick to think something like that had happened in your neighborhood.

You headed inside, working completely on autopilot as you got in your apartment and started unloading the groceries. You enjoyed every second you spent with Frank, in fact, you had gotten quite attached to him, but right now, you regretted ever listening to his haunting tales of criminals and crooks. All it did was make you overthink, your brain going in evil loops as you wondered if there was a murderer on the loose — maybe a serial killer, even? Maybe he was targeting people in your area. Maybe you were next.

You spent the evening refreshing the website of the local news, waiting for something to pop up. When it finally did, all the article said was that a corpse had been discovered and the police was still investigating whether or not it had been a crime. You gnawed on your nails anxiously. How hard could it be to tell if someone had murdered them? Even you knew there would have to be signs of a break-in or a struggle or something. Or maybe you had just watched too much TV.

Either way, it was driving you mad. And you knew what could make you feel better — calling Frank. You just didn’t know if you were in the stage of your relationship where it would be okay to do. Your encounters tended to be initiated by him, as he would either show up on your doorstep or behind your window unannounced, or you’d run into him at a coffee shop or a diner in a way that you suspected wasn’t random. You knew he was a busy man, and the last thing you wanted was to scare him off by being clingy, or worst case scenario, to endanger his life by calling him at the wrong time.

But it was Frank. Frank, who was always so good to you, Frank, who was way more talented at giving support and comfort than he gave himself credit for, Frank, who never judged or laughed at you if it wasn’t meant to be laughed at. God, it was no wonder you were already falling for him, when he was such a perfect gentleman every time you saw him.

A little embarrassed but hopeful that he’d be understanding, you decided to call him. You paced back and forth in your apartment while the phone rang, your nail between your teeth and your feet shuffling anxiously. It felt kind of awkward, too trivial to actually be worth Frank’s time, but the fear of what had happened beat the shame in you. You were growing more terrified by the minute, and you knew it was something only he could alleviate.

”Hey, sweetheart. What’s up?” Frank’s voice hit you through the phone, and gulping at the thickness of his voice, you shook yourself out of the daze you had fallen into while waiting for him to pick up.

”Hi, Frank. This is kinda embarrassing, but, uh… if you have the time—I understand if you don’t, would you maybe mind visiting? And… maybe even spending the night? The police found a dead body across the street and I’m just a little freaked out”, you rambled, your nerves getting the best of you, but Frank listened patiently instead of interrupting you.

For a beat, he was silent, and it was enough time for you to start wondering if you had made a mistake calling him. But finally, he spoke up. ”Yeah, darlin’, I’ll be there. Hang on f’me, yeah?” he answered, and with a weight rolling off of your chest, you sighed.

”Thank you, Frank.” You hung up the phone and threw yourself onto the couch, burying your face in your hands as you groaned. This was very much not what you had expected from your night, but maybe, it was a blessing in disguise. After all, you were officially signed up for some more time in Frank’s company, and the mere thought got you to smile to yourself. He had stolen your heart so effortlessly, it was ridiculous.

You didn’t know when to expect him, as you obviously couldn’t make him drop everything just for you, but when it started to get dark, you grew anxious again. He was taking his sweet time and being alone in the apartment made you uncomfortable, with every sound from outside your little bubble making you alert.

Finally, though, there was a knock on your door, and you jumped with your hand on your chest. You tiptoed to the front door and stole a glimpse through the peephole just to be safe, feeling calmer when you saw Frank standing there with his head hung low and his hands folded in front of him. You opened the door, and despite the worry inside your soul, the sight of him brought a smile on your face. He looked too good to be true, his sleeves rolled up and his dark hair covered in rain droplets.

”Sorry it took me a while. I made a pitstop”, he announced, gesturing at the bag in his hands. He walked inside, gently kicking the door shut behind him, and leaning down to briefly kiss your cheek before making his way to the kitchen. The casual gesture made your face hot and your heart skip a beat, but you followed him to the kitchen without commenting on it.

”What’s all this?” you asked as he began taking things out of the bag — chips, food containers, a bottle of beer for him and your favorite soda for you.

”Figured you ain’t gonna be able to sleep, anyway. We might as well make a night out of it. Watch a movie or somethin’, whatever you want”, he shrugged like it was the most normal thing ever for him to show up with everything thought of. You felt giddy, unable to believe he would do all this for you, and you did the only thing you could think of and stepped in to hug him.

He didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around you, looking down at your face, painted with all kinds of heavy emotions. ”You must have been real scared, huh?” he muttered, and shyly, you nodded. ”It’s aight. ’M here now and I’mma make sure you’re safe”, Frank reassured you, just his words enough to console you. All it took was his presence to make you feel protected, and you appreciated it deeply.

”If it makes you feel any better, I haven’t heard of anythin’ goin’ down over here and I’m always on top of these things. I’m sure it was just a one-time thing”, he went on, and nodding, you pulled back from him and grabbed the soda can from the counter.

”I hope so. I kind of just wanna think about something else, so… how about that movie?” you suggested, drawing a sip from your drink.

Frank agreed quickly, and you two huddled up on your couch with the food and the snacks. Time passed in a blink of an eye, with midnight rolling around by the time you were finished with the first movie, but as Frank had suspected, you weren’t exactly eager to go to sleep. Sleeping made you vulnerable, and it scared you — so, you watched another movie.

You ended up migrating from your end of the couch to Frank’s arms. Totally platonic, you told yourself. He was sweet with you, surprisingly affectionate too, but you weren’t sure he felt the same way that you did. At least, you didn’t think he was ready to. He hadn’t told you everything, but you had read the news enough to know what he had gone through and what he had lost, so you doubted he was looking for a relationship. It stung, you had to admit that much, but you found a small consolation in the fact that it wasn’t anything personal.

A yawn slipped from you, and Frank noticed, perceptive as always. ”You should get some rest, sweetheart”, he pointed out, and begrudgingly, you supposed he was right.

”I don’t mean to push but… will you stay in the bed with me?” you asked carefully, hoping you weren’t crossing a boundary, but he didn’t seem to have any hesitation regarding the matter.

”Sure thing.”

With that, he helped you up from the couch, and you went ahead with your nightly routine of washing your face, brushing your teeth and changing into your PJs. When you stepped into the bedroom, Frank was already lying on your bed, his arms behind his head as he waited for you. Seeing him like that, it made your chest tighten and your stomach do a backflip. You had imagined this exact situation countless times, though you suspected your daydreams ended very differently than what reality had in store for you.

You settled under the covers, sighing deeply as you rubbed your tired eyes and felt the stress of the day weigh you down. Frank observed you closely, a small smile on his lips, and it made you chuckle nervously.

”What?” you questioned, earning a shrug from him.

”You just look real pretty, ’s all”, he revealed, and with your eyes widening, you stared at him, trying to find any hint of joke on his face. There was none.

”Thanks, Frankie”, you replied sheepishly, tucking your hair behind your ear. ”And thanks for the food and for staying with me. I really appreciate it”, you added, and with a soft nod, he dropped his hands to his lap and shifted deeper into the mattress.

”I know it ain’t a permanent solution, but I want ya to know I’mma keep an eye on this place. I’ll make sure nothin’ happens to you”, he promised, and surprised, you lifted yourself up to rest on your elbow, your gaze meeting his.

”You’d do that?” you spoke in disbelief, and with a completely serious look, he nodded once again.

”Course, I would, sweetheart. I never wanna see you in harm’s way. I know this is still pretty new, but I, uh, I like you”, he confessed, his voice almost nervous. You couldn’t imagine him ever being nervous, but as you both sat in his admission, the air growing hot between you, that was exactly how he felt.

Feeling impulsive, you closed the space between you and kissed him. He melted into it immediately, his big hand reaching up to cradle your face, his lips moving against yours in a way that was thrilling and enchanting. He took your breath away, kissing you with passion but sweetness, and it was even better than you had imagined.

Breathless, you broke the kiss, and he dropped his forehead to yours. ”I like you, too”, you returned the favor, and breaking into a grin, Frank kissed you again, shorter this time but equally delicious.

In hindsight, you were beyond glad you had called him, and he felt the same way. And for you, he was going to get to the bottom of what had happened.

[ihavemanyhusbands]

🔪 with Hannibal ?

Yes yes yessss perfect fit!!

——

You knocked on the door to Hannibal’s office, opening up as you heard his faint voice granting you access.

He sat at his desk, reading something on his ipad. His brow was furrowed in displeasure, his posture tense. He sniffed in that way you’d seen him do when he was furious, nose scrunching slightly in what looked like a snarl.

You stopped by one of the armchairs, unsure if you should approach.

“Bad time to visit?” You asked, sitting down.

He glanced up at you. “Freddie Lounds is up to her usual antics. This new article on Tattle Crime is… particularly scalding.”

“You know she likes to get under your skin,” you said, mouth twisting to one side with distaste. “She knows just which buttons to press.”

“Will and I are certainly her favorite subjects,” he sighed, setting down his tablet. “I have been kind before by warning her, but I’m not sure if I can spare any more kindness.”

“Especially not when she’s been so rude,” you added slowly, your words holding the weight of secret meaning.

He pushed his chair away from his desk and opened his arms in a gesture for you to approach. You got up and stepped into his embrace, his hands settling on your hips.

You cupped his face gently, scanning his features. The planes of his handsome face always seemed more severe when he was disquieted. His eyes were unfathomable, too, so searching them wouldn’t prove very fruitful.

You wondered how many had looked into that flat gaze and lived to tell the tale.

“You look like you want to kill me… or maybe fuck me,” you said, the softness of your voice constrasting your words. You tilted your head to the side in curiosity. “Or maybe even both.”

He let out a slight huff of amusement. “Pain and pleasure war inside me. Pleasure at seeing you, and pain… at the consequences of my being merciful with someone undeserving. Perhaps I should go back to listening to my instincts.”

“And what do your instincts tell you now?”

“That I definitely do not want to kill you right now. Or ever, for that matter. I should always make that abundantly clear.”

You smiled, but raised an eyebrow. “What about the other option?”

“That can definitely be arranged,” he smirked, hands squeezing your hips. “And that’s more than my instincts guiding me.”

———

[catboygretzky]

Do I even want to know what happened in the last 24 hours 😭 I'm almost afraid to ask but I'm also insanely curious

You probably don't want to know but I'll tell you because you have no choice. This will be long and...awful. But there are sources so that's fun! Please keep in mind that this was all released within 24 hours on Thursday, September 20th, 2024 and that, unfortunately, I haven't mentioned everything.

But! The GOP was certainly having a wild one yesterday.

To start things off:

The first 'Big News' to break was about Mark Robinson.

For those saying 'who the fuck is Mark Robinson', he's the current (R) Lt. Gov of North Carolina that is running for Gov. Before yesterday, he was best known for openly hating LGBT+ and Jewish folks, being a Holocaust denier, being (forcefully) anti abortion, saying it was better when women couldn't vote, anti immigrant, hating the civil rights movement, etc, just being a hateful Evangelical nasty fascist. MAGA to his core. Trump has endorsed him, saying he should be cherished and calling him "MLK on steroids". (Robinson is Black).

So, yeah, that's bad enough right? Yesterday it got even worse. CNN released a report about some comments he made on a porn site forum 12 years ago, the most prominent being 'i'm a black NAZI'. He also commented that he wished slavery was legal and that he'd own a few, and called himself a 'perv' that used to 'peep' on women in public locker rooms when he was a teenager.

Also the tale as old as time that I'm sure you could guess when I mentioned 'GOP' 'loudly transphobic' and 'porn site scandal' - trans porn was a favourite of his. Because of course.

Also of course - the GOP hasn't taken him off the ticket, and he will continue to be the nominee for governor in North Carolina!

Read the article, there's more about him and the situation in general. Mind the warnings.

-

Now on to our favourite worm brained bear eating anti vaxxer conspiracy theorist, Robert F. Kennedy Junior! I'm putting this under a read more now.

The first thing to drop about him yesterday was the news of an investigation after he allegedly cut off the head of a dead whale and took it home 20 years ago. Now I bet you're thinking, wow that's bad! Unfortunately for RFK Jr yesterday got worse. It was then revealed that he (70) was having an affair with right wing journalist Olivia Nuzzi (31) after New York Magazine suspended her.

Everything I learn about RFK Jr I learn against my own will.

-

Saying goodbye to RFK for now, let's move on to Rep. Matt Gaetz of Florida! This Matt Gaetz, with the botox if you didn't recognise him.

Scary lookin, right?

This isn't a completely new story (here's an article about how he alledgedly paid for sex with a minor) but new court filings were released yesterday alledging that he attended a drug-fueled sex party in 2017 with the 17-year-old girl at the center of the alleged sex trafficking scandal.

Sure is great to have such trustworthy men representing this country!

OKAY, on to the next.

-

This wasn't really breaking news because this is just Trump being Trump but he gave a speech at an ANTI ANTISEMITISM EVENT where he preemptively blamed the Jews for being the reason he'll lose this election, telling them they need to get their head checked if they vote for Harris (that's pretty much part of his stump speech by now though) and saying he'll reinstate his Muslim ban. White fascist blaming Jews? Wow, I did Nazi that coming.

-

I genuinely could go on, I really truly could.

Oh! Kamala Harris went on Oprah and it was really nice and not at all insane and she talked to the family of the first known victim of Trump's abortion ban and it was very touching. Trump's official social media then posted a clip of her talking about her gun and saying 'If somebody breaks into my house, they're getting shot' like it was a snatch when in reality Republicans in the comments are saying 'actually, this would make me vote for her'. Thanks, Trump Team for the free advertising!

Misc:

Chris Rufo (known racist and anti immigration right wing activist) got revealed to have an illegal immigrant wife, and then got revealed to be a user of Ashley Madison (database where people go to cheat on their partners)(Robinson was also on Ashley Madison).

Jasmine Crockett during her thing and ripping white republicans to shreds. (idk this was just fun to me)

Actually Republicans and Project 2025 got ripped to shreds and shut down in general by multiple Congress members.

GOP is on the brink of causing a government shutdown, because of COURSE they are.

Cards Against Humanity sues SpaceX over “invasion” of land on US/Mexico border.

Anyway there's actually MORE believe it or not but I can't remember if it happened yesterday. Thank you for reading, I'm always open to discussing current events. I don't think it's a well known fact that I'm into politics because I don't talk about it on tumblr because people are kinda stupid. Anyway!

[wynnyfryd]

UPDATE: FINISHED IT!!

you can read the full fic here:

preview of my new fic Monsoon Season (in which i saw this tweet and immediately took it so, so personally)

“Harrington, are you fucking kidding me?” Eddie asks as he slams a magazine down in front of Steve, rattling the coffee cup perched on the edge of the little round table.

Monsoon Season, the headline reads. Just who is the man behind America’s hottest new book series?

Steve’s eyes are far too full of mirth for Eddie’s liking. “They think it’s you, don’t they?”

“Of course they think it’s me, you jackass.” Eddie snatches the magazine back, sniffing indignantly as Steve openly laughs at him.

Eddie doesn’t have a workplace nemesis — does his best not to participate in all the petty office politics that go on in the publishing world, thank you very much — but ohhh, boy. If he did. If he did have one, it would be this fucking guy.

Steve fucking Harrington. Former King of Hawkins High, Current Pain in Eddie’s Ass, and not even in the fun way.

See, three years ago Eddie finally got his first big break — topped charts, stole hearts, and broke records with his swashbuckling adventure series aimed at the 10-13 year old crowd. He hadn’t ever really planned to become a children’s author, but hey, turns out he’s great at spinning a tale that a fifth grader can’t put down. Kids love him, parents love him, and now—

Well, now, parents hate him. Are two seconds away from calling for his fucking head. And that’s the whole problem, isn’t it?

One group of ravenous mommy blogger watchdogs becomes unwaveringly convinced that beloved children’s author Eddie Munson is secretly writing filthy gay erotica under the pen name Freddie Monsoon, and now his whole career is in jeopardy.

It’s not even a good pen name.

“A source close to Munson assures us this scorching erotica can’t be his doing,” the article in Eddie’s claw-like grip reads. “‘He’s stupid,’ our source tells us with a bright laugh and a wink, ‘but not that stupid.’”

You know who is that fucking stupid, though?

“You’re still here?” Steve asks mildly while Eddie glares some more.

He knows the pen name belongs to Steve, because one, Chrissy’s a gossip and told him the second she found out, and two, King Shithead himself told Eddie to his face. Gloated about it in this very coffee shop, actually; smirked over the lip of a chai latte while angry mothers protested with homemade signs on the sidewalk outside of the building.

“Yes, I’m still here! Why the hell are you doing this to me, man?”

Does he know how many angry emails Eddie’s gotten in the last hour alone? Seriously, what the fuck?

Steve slides another glance his way — sideways through hooded lids, some sadistic delight gleaming just below the veneer. “Because I like it when you’re flustered,” he smirks, and then he stands to collect his things. “See you tomorrow, Munson.”

[thebaldursmouthgazette]

Mythal is Dumat (and also Andraste) and Dirthamen is Missing

I have connected the fucking dots.

This is a kinda long post, and it includes theories I’ve discussed in other posts put together in a more orderly way, as well expanding on some points based on the recent information from the article. I’m putting it under a read more to not clog up anyone’s dash.

So I think it’s a pretty common, and extremely likely, theory that the Tevinter Old Gods are, in fact, the evanuris. It is also all but canon that the evanuris created the blight and then became infected with it (actually the recent article confirms that they’re blighted), and thus the evanuris and the golden city are tainted. However that raises the matter of which is which.

Some are pretty obvious. Dirthamen is almost certainly Razikale, Elgar’nan is probably Lusacan due to tales of him burying the sun and Toth is most likely Sylaise due to her association with fire. Some of the others though are kinda difficult. Which one is Ghilan’nain? Who is Dumat?

Well if you look into Dumat, you’ll find that his associated constellation is Silentir, which is also associated with Mythal. You’ll also find that he was defeated the same year Andraste was born, and that Andraste’s mother was part of a tribe that helped the wardens defeat him. It could never be confirmed which grey warden killed him and consumed his soul, as he killed several while he was dying just from thrashing. Andraste was born later that year and grew up to behave in strange ways, having strange dreams and seeing strange auras.

I think it’s pretty clear that Andraste contains the soul of Dumat in a similar way to how Kieran contains the soul of Urthemiel, which is in itself another point towards Mythal. It would make sense for her to develop a ritual to cleanse the other evanuris of the blight the same way she ended up being cleansed of it. But it doesn’t stop there. Andraste adopted three sons but gave birth to two daughters only, who then went on to have only daughters who had only daughters and so on and the line was lost.

Which sounds an awful lot like Flemeth. Then there’s the Chant of Light. Most can’t actually be tied back to Andraste, however if you look at the verses that describe her meeting with the Maker, and you look carefully at what “the Maker” actually said, you’ll see that what the maker says is that his children are to blame for the golden city becoming tainted.

Mythal is the mother of most of the elven pantheon. Even if this is in a metaphorical sense, she did refer to them as her children. Many assume the maker is using the term children to refer to everyone in a creator god sense, but it’s actually Mythal talking about the rest of the pantheon. Then, of course, there’s the fact that her crown is very similar to Andraste’s.

I think that when Solas was locking the other Evanuris in the Black City, Mythal was locked in there as well. Perhaps by accident, with Solas wrongfully assuming she was fully dead, or perhaps the murder was simply infecting her with the blight, and murder is the way Solas deals with the idea of his friend being tainted by the blight. Keep in mind that the stories do say that Mythal was also trapped in the beyond by Fen’harel.

But the thing is, there’s 7 old gods and 9 evanuris. The numbers add up perfectly if you take away Mythal and Solas, but with Mythal in there there would have to be 8 old gods. Well good news (or terrible news, depending on your point of view), there might be 8 old gods.

There is a constellation that contains dragon imagery, but is not related to any of the 7 old gods. This is odd, as the tevinter imperium considered dragon imagery to be very sacred and reserved for the gods. Scholars theorise that this is evidence of an 8th old god, struck from the record for whatever reason (there is not much to go on, but this is a story, and in a story details like this are included by choice). Drawings referencing this constellation have imagery related to sea monster type dragons.

Do we have an evanuris connected to sea monsters? Yes we do. Ghilan’nain is said to have created many creatures, and in one story she is mentioned to have destroyed most of her creations, “except those in deep waters, for they were too well-wrought, and Pride stopped her hand” (with a very sneaky capital P there).

Ghilan’nain was also the youngest of the evanuris, and the latest addition, so if any were to later not be considered gods, it does make sense for it to be her.

So we have 8 old gods. The numbers add up there. But the thing is, there’s been five blights, but only two are left in their prison to be released in Veilguard. There should be three. Well let’s see who’s left. The old gods who have not become archdemons and been defeated (or at least, presumed defeated) are Razikale, Lusacan, and the secret 8th old god. These are most likely to be Dirthamen, Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain, respectively. The recent article confirmed that the two we see in game are Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain, which means our missing Evanuris is Dirthamen, also known as Razikale.

So, where did he go? Well in the frostback basin we go to tevinter ruins associated with Razikale and find several notes and inscriptions. These inscriptions tell of how, after the Old Gods went silent, Razikale’s worshippers decided to do a ritual in a place where the veil was thin to bring her out, so that they could talk to her again. Later notes talk of madness running through the halls. It’s unclear when this happened, but mentions of the gods going silent and the fall of the tevinter imperium put it most likely between -395 to -180, which is unfortunately not very specific.

Later (between the early divine age and the present, likely earlier in that range), the explorer Ser Nigel mentions stories of something terrible happening at the temple in the past, and describes seeing an amber light.

Interestingly we also go to a temple of Dirthamen, where it seems that worshippers of Dirthamen reacted to the elven gods going silent in an equally reasonable way, by dismembering the high priest. In my mind the similar reactions from followers cements the idea that Razikale is Dirthamen, though it wasn’t really a question since it’s the most obvious match between the two groups.

So it seems that Dirthamen is missing from his prison because worshipers of Razikale may have released him. I’m not sure what happened next, but I think it’s clear that something did.

[tacitoru]

Satoru had quickly gotten sick of being referred to by his given name. Satoru, Satoru, Satoru. It wasn’t that he wasn’t used to it - his childhood years in the States had desensitized the shock and indignation at such familiarity right out of him. It was times like after a game, when everybody wanted to chatshit and talk his ear off, or during a press stop, when interviewers led with questions that fueled their preexisting assumptions - it was times like those  when he yearned for the staunch politeness of the Japanese language. Longed for the way you could innately  keep people at arms length and save face at the same time. That was a luxury he hadn’t realized he had until recently.

Now though, he loves the way his name sounds out of your mouth. Obsessed with it, actually. That, and the punchy little gasp you make every time he slips his cock inside you, never gets old. Satoru cherishes it even more now that you’ve spent so much time apart. It’s been five long years since he’s seen you - you, corporeal, in the flesh and solid beneath his fingertips that itch for their rightful place on your skin each time you pop up in the occasional news article or an errant gossip column. 

There was a time, in what seems like a lifetime ago, when you would call out for him in soft, demure tones. Sometimes he misses that immiscible mixture of fear and awe in your voice. Sweet little college student you who trailed after him on hand and foot until he effectively destroyed the pedestal you put him on with both hands. Listening to you now though, the venom laced through each syllable of his name sounds just as sweet as the former - at the very least, you’re saying it.

“Satoru,” you implore, breathless, like using his first name for the first time in years physically takes the wind out of you. That, and you’re still trying to pry off the hand braced against your lower abdomen, only managing to bend his thumb and pinky back with both hands. He can feel the way your stomach expands and contracts beneath his palm with each deep breath you take. “I’m being serious, this isn’t fucking funny.”

“Neither are my feelings,” he pouts, pressing down, adding pressure. 

You lock up against the wall of the bathroom stall, silently praying you could morph through the material. The broad expanse of his shoulders and the wide stance of his legs trap you from wiggling too far out of his hold. You avoid eye contact in favor of glaring at the closed toilet lid even as he looms over you, leers down at you. Tell-tale bubbles roll through your stomach. “What happened to a truce?” you ask weakly.

“I got impatient,” he shrugs like he’s talking about a change in the weather and not a last-minute decision to hold you hostage in the bathroom at a friend’s wedding rehearsal. “Besides, isn’t that the best part of being a guest at a wedding? Fucking the other guests?”

You’ve got half a mind to roll your eyes until your captor’s hand on your stomach presses more insistently. “I am not fucking you at Utahime’s wedding.”

“So after the wedding?” he hums, scratching his chin with his free hand. “Technically this is the wedding rehearsal so we could consider this practice for the real thing if you want -,”

“- Satoru -! “

“What? I won’t even put it in all the way, I swear. I’m halfway there just being this close to you again if we’re being honest. Really, I thought I could hold it together at least for tonight, but then the way you were talking to me outside, just - wow, I chubbed up a little when you called me Gojo-san-,”

“Oh, no, fuck!” your groan is about as much as a warning as he gets when you suddenly lurch, keeling over his forearm to flip the toilet lid and wretch into the basin.

fic: pleaser

[cleolinda]

(For our purposes, listen to it without the visuals first.)

I wasn't going to keep posting about Unreal Unearth, but something happened yesterday.

It's been five months since I first heard this song, and I'm still astonished by it. You know the tiktok skit about the Star Wars wedding music, and the guy is grooving along until the Imperial Death March filters in, and then he's kind of alarmed, like, wha—? And then he realizes it slaps anyway and he keeps dancing? That is "Eat Your Young."

It's the morning of March 17th. The EP with the first three singles from the new album has dropped. I've got my phone blasting the song on the bathroom counter, I don't understand half what the man is saying nor did I expect to, I'm cheerfully mumbling along in the shower, grooving along,

wait they did what for a war drum

Get some Pull up the ladder when the flood comes Throw enough rope until the legs have swung Seven new ways that you can eat your young Come and get some Skinning the children for a war drum Putting food on the table selling bombs and guns It's quicker and easier to eat your young

What the fuck, this song goes so hard. That's the chorus. The conceit of the whole album is that it loosely follows Dante's Inferno, so this is the third circle of hell, gluttony. Hozier himself says that he wasn't specifically thinking of Jonathan Swift's A Modest Proposal—

“I don’t know how intentional the reference to Jonathan Swift was in this. That essay [Swift’s 1729 satirical essay A Modest Proposal in which he suggests the Irish poor sell their children as food] is such a cultural landmark that it’s just hanging in the air. I was more reflecting on what I felt now in this spirit of the times of perpetual short-term gain and a long-term blindness. The increasing levels of precarious living, poverty, job insecurity, rental crisis, property crisis, climate crisis, and a generation that’s inheriting all of that and one generation that’s enjoyed the spoils of it. The lyrics are direct, but the voice is playful. There’s this unreliable narrator who relishes in this thing which was fun to write.” [Apple Music album notes]

—and I believe him. The song's not a suggestion, a proposal; it's an invitation to atrocity in progress. I also believe he probably wasn't thinking of Greta Thunberg's iconic speech at the UN Climate Action Summit, not specifically, but that's what I hear in the song, like the flip side of a coin:

You have stolen my dreams and my childhood with your empty words. And yet I'm one of the lucky ones. People are suffering. People are dying. Entire ecosystems are collapsing. We are in the beginning of a mass extinction, and all you can talk about is money and fairy tales of eternal economic growth. How dare you! [...] You say you hear us and that you understand the urgency. But no matter how sad and angry I am, I do not want to believe that. Because if you really understood the situation and still kept on failing to act, then you would be evil.

I feel like on some level, even coincidentally, "Eat Your Young" is the answer to the question, what would you sound like if you were that evil? Who would you be? I can think of a dozen possibilities just off the top of my head or looking around my blog, from something as petty as studio executives mangling trees to deprive striking workers of shade (while hoping they lose their homes), all the way up to the US school-to-prison pipeline. The National Rifle Association keeps politicians in its pocket while the US has more mass shootings than days in a year, Nestlé fucks shit up around the world as a way of life, even ChatGPT sucks up water while threatening jobs—and for what? And yet, I promise you most of these things weren't the inspiration for an Irishman’s song—some of them hadn't even happened yet. There's just that much fresh You Would Be Evil to go around. I am certain that Hozier wrote the song partly about (as one article puts it) "Ireland's housing crisis: Millennials, a generation sacrificed," given that time back in the day when he helped occupy a building—a housing crisis happening in multiple countries. There's so much of the world I'm not touching on. I can stuff a paragraph with links and it's utterly inadequate.

I haven't even mentioned war.

There's an overwhelming sense this decade of the future being fed into a meat grinder. That sense is in this song. What would it sound like to be in the head of someone who didn't give a shit about anything but profit? Well, it might sound like this.

And if you haven't heard it, well—I'm going to sound absolutely out of my mind after saying all that, but "Eat Your Young" has a beat and you can dance to it. It's sexy. And I'm certain that's on purpose. You get seduced into the sound of it, as if by something demonic, something that enjoys sucking down the future and is not going to stop. And the sheer fucking catchiness of the song keeps you listening to it—thinking about it—when maybe you push away the dry headlines we get everyday. If you let this song stay in your head, it becomes a lens. Five months later, I still think about it when I read the news. Maui was on fire and tourists stayed. Within days, the prospect of developers swooping in to buy up land reared its head. If there's something still to take, there is ground to break, whatever's still to come. Get some.

I was born in 1978 —I'm late Gen X. In my forties, I'm young enough to worry about the future still; I’m neither so rich that I can just plan to retire to Mars, nor so old that I can know I'll be safely gone before the world might go up in flames. But I'm also not my nephew, whose school year just started back up, or the neighborhood kids who race him home down the sidewalk in the afternoons. Yesterday, he had his very first mass-shooter lockdown drill. He’s six.

I think music can put the feeling back into numb fingers, and I think that's why "Eat Your Young" works so well—Hozier calls the song fun and playful, and I think you have to have that, something you can live with rather than just switch off for your own mental survival. We need music to feed spirit at protests; we need something to keep our feet moving. Don’t give up, don't close your eyes and slip away. Those kids, they have dreams we could try to steal back for them.

Since I mentioned Maui:

Why Hawaiian sovereignty has undeniable context for the Maui fires

The Climate Crisis and Colonialism Destroyed My Maui Home. Where We Must Go From Here

How You Can Donate and Help Support Maui Communities Right Now

The Maui Strong Fund

[trans-cuchulainn]

unfortunately i think my discovery of a 17th century reference to an 18th century story might actually be significant for the relative dating of them both and. sigh. I really don't want to have to do actual academic work about this but SOMEBODY'S gotta

the thing is. this edition was done in 2008 but it's an unpublished thesis. it doesn't reference that story at all. the most recent thing written about that story was published in 2009, by somebody who did know about this thesis (he's mentioned in several footnotes) but who didn't cite it in that article and who wasn't really focused on the aspect of the story that corresponds with this other text. so. essentially the scholarship on these two texts has not yet overlapped

which means i might be the only person to have noticed that it is very specifically referencing events that only happen in that story

and either this editor fucked up and got the manuscript date wrong by a century... or i'm about to fuck everybody's established dating of that other story. woohoo. which means fucking the dating of another story also since it's been demonstrated they're by the same author. lol whoops.

the GOOD news though is that this text is also written in ulster, like that one, so it is clearly a northern tradition they're drawing on (and arguably could be a ref to some local oral tales that hadn't been written yet so the story could be later even if this is referencing its contents)

[in-death-we-fall]

Out Of The Shadows

Since his shock exit from Slipknot, Joey Jordison has remained silent. For the first time, he opens up about the split, the debilitating condition that left him unable to walk, and how he's been reborn anew

Words: Dom Lawson • Pics: Travis Shinn

Metal Hammer 285 - August 2016 (google drive link) Full disclosure I pasted the main article from Metal Hammer's awful awful website because my hands are sad (from doing things like this, yes. Don't keep doing things if they hurt, yes even if you're super super excited about a guy.)

There is life after death. First, there’s Hell.

When the news first broke that Joey Jordison was no longer in Slipknot, it sent shockwaves around the world. Here was this icon of our world and one of the founding members of one of the greatest bands to emerge in all of 30 years suddenly, inexplicably gone. In the heavy wake of Paul Gray’s passing it seemed almost too great a blow for any band, even one with nine members. Anyone who knows their travails understands that they’re less a band and more like a dysfunctional family – had their problems caught up with them? But reappear they did, to the sound of a rapturously received album, and the three-ring circus of Knotfest, and yet still questions remained about the circumstances of Joey’s departure. Slipknot were tightlipped, and Joey? It was anyone’s guess.

I’m humbled to say that we now have Joey’s side of the story, and this month’s world-exclusive journey to Des Moines is one of the most powerful, saddening and inspirational stories you’ll read in these pages. Sure, there are the new records – Vimic and Sinsaeneum (sic) herald one of our world’s greatest musicians returning to the fold and from the sound of things we’ve some tremendous records ahead of us.

More importantly though, we have one of metal’s greatest figures back, and we couldn’t be more delighted to see him back on his feet – literally. To read Dom Lawson’s tale of a man who’s truly been there and back again, see p.38. Make sure you’re sitting down, because Travis Shinn’s remarkable photography is as stark as it it worth not one, but over 3,000 words.

Thank you for reading, and… Stay metal! Alex, Editör-In-Chief

Out Of The Shadows

Since his shock exit from Slipknot, Joey Jordison has remained silent. For the first time, he opens up about the split, the debilitating condition that left him unable to walk, and how he's been reborn anew

Words: Dom Lawson • Pics: Travis Shinn

Joey Jordison unmasked: the ultimate interview

Part One - Revelation

“This is very important to me. You’re getting something that I have not told anyone. It’s very emotional. It’s fucking hardcore, man.”

Joey Jordison has got a few things to get off his chest. More importantly, the world has got a few questions for the erstwhile Slipknot alumnus and the 21st century’s most celebrated percussive polymath, not least because he has been resolutely off the radar for the last few years.

The last time Metal Hammer spoke directly to Joey, he was promoting his then-newly-formed band Scar The Martyr, who released their self-titled debut album in September 2013. Three months later, he was seemingly dismissed from Slipknot, the band he had enjoyed huge global success with ever since they exploded into our world back in 1999.

Since that startling news broke in December 2013, Joey has been conspicuous by his absence from our ears, eyes and screens. This being the age of endless social media speculation, his disappearance and departure from Slipknot have been widely discussed online, one commonly espoused theory being that the diminutive drummer had gone spectacularly off the rails and was simply unable to fulfill his usual duties, thus prompting his bandmates’ decision to effect an unexpected lineup change.

In truth, only Joey’s closest friends and business associates know what he’s been up to for the last couple of years, but as he warmly greets Hammer at the door of the house he shares with girlfriend Amanda in Des Moines, it’s immediately apparent that today’s interview is much more than just an opportunity to herald the arrival of not one, but two new bands and Joey’s wholesale return to action. Instead, this is what he describes as “an opportunity to tell everyone what the fuck has been going on”. And it’s almost certainly not what anyone is expecting.

“It was at the end of the memorial shows we did for Paul,” Joey begins, referencing the death of bandmate Paul Gray and the subsequent world tour that began in the summer of 2011 and continued until August 2012. “We were in Canada, at the end of my last run of shows with Slipknot, and something happened to me but I didn’t know what it was. I was super ill. You can be sick and still play, but this was something I’d never felt in my life before.

“We found out that what I have is acute transverse myelitis. It’s a neurological condition that hits your spinal cord and it wiped my legs out completely. It’s like having your legs cut off, basically. I played those last couple of shows and it scared the living shit out of me. I didn’t know what it was. Everyone thought I was fucked up, but it wasn’t the case. I wasn’t even drinking. Everything was straight-laced and fucking perfect. Everything was on point. But I had to be carried to the stage…”

Joey pauses, wincing at the memory. “The pain was something I’d never experienced in my life before, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”

When he arrived home from the Slipknot tour, Joey could barely walk. On August 21, 2012, he was admitted to Mercy West hospital in Des Moines, diagnosed with some form of leg paralysis but unaware of exactly how or why this was happening to him. Ten days later, he was transferred to the neurological unit at University Of Iowa Hospital in Iowa City, understandably terrified and extremely confused about his physical deterioration.

“It was fucking bad, dude,” he recalls. “My lady has everything documented. I got struck with this fucking thing that I couldn’t control. The doctors said I might not be able to walk again. Today, I can almost run, but back then I couldn’t even stand up. I was bed-ridden. If I wanted to turn over in bed, I had to move my legs with my hands. I was in and out of the hospital for months.

“Some beautiful people have helped me out and got me back stronger and taught me how to walk again, but at that moment my whole life was screwed, man. Acute transverse myelitis is a fucked-up disease and a lot of people don’t recover from it and they’re paralysed forever.”

After having braces fitted to prevent his weakened legs from buckling, Joey was finally discharged from hospital in October 2012. Thus began an extremely lengthy, challenging and physically exhausting regime of physical and occupational therapy, as Joey tried to summon the energy and determination to beat the bizarre neurological condition that had wrenched the carpet from under his feet and left him both horribly vulnerable and understandably bewildered.

Early in 2013, work began on Scar The Martyr’s debut album, as a further batch of Slipknot shows in Japan and Europe – including a headline slot at Download – loomed over the horizon. Still recovering from the worst of his illness, Joey somehow managed to recover to the point where he was able to perform at those gigs, after which he threw himself wholeheartedly into launching Scar The Martyr by hitting the road as main support to Danzig in the US.

All the while, of course, his global army of admirers remained entirely in the dark about the turmoil and trials going on behind the scenes. It was widely noted that Joey was looking overweight and far from healthy during Scar The Martyr’s debut UK tour, but the conclusions that most people were jumping to – in essence, that he had a problem with drugs and/or drink – were completely off target. Unfortunately, when Slipknot announced on December 12, 2013, that they were to forge ahead without their talismanic drummer, those rumours seemed to gain a little extra momentum.

“Yeah, and that’s why I love being able to do this interview, because finally I get to tell the fucking truth!” Joey declares. “It’s been really frustrating, but I can only bless the people that have been around me and helped me to get back to this point. And this is what I want to clarify for my fans…” – he punches his hand to emphasise the importance of this statement – “…it had nothing to do with fucking drugs or fucking alcohol!”

Several times during our interview, Joey’s eyes fill with tears. It’s abundantly clear that the extraordinary effort required to confront acute transverse myelitis and doggedly chase a light at the end of a seriously dark and bleak tunnel has taken a lot out of him, particularly on an emotional level. But now that he is about to click into top gear once again, via new bands Vimic and Sinsaenum, Joey is channeling his energies towards a cathartic clearing of the decks, and setting people straight about his life over the last five years is top of the agenda.

“Life takes you on weird trips and you just have to hold on, ride the wave and be as strong as you fucking can,” he shrugs. “I’ve been through so much fucking shit over the last few years and people just don’t know.”

Part Two - Struggle

The news that Joey had seemingly been sacked from Slipknot came as a huge shock to everyone, even without the additional knowledge of his devastating health problems. From the band’s enormous fanbase, through to many of us in the metal world that have always known him to be, at the very least, a wholly dedicated and passionate member of that 18-legged, arena-smashing entity, it was a wildly unexpected turn of events.

The band’s own public statements at the time took a predictably passive course, the relatively benign implication being that Joey and his former comrades were simply heading in different creative directions and could no longer work together effectively.

On January 2, 2014, he made his own statement on Facebook, making it plain that as far as he was concerned, there was no mutual agreement and he had been fired from Slipknot for reasons unknown.

“I was laying in bed with my lady, I’d been in rehabilitation for my health issues but everything was good, and the next thing I know…” he pauses, visibly upset. “No band meeting? None. Anything from management? No, nothing. All I got was a stupid fucking email saying that I was out of the band that I busted my ass my whole life to fucking create, you know?

“It was the weirdest fucking thing. I can’t imagine just sending Corey or Shawn or Mick a fucking letter, without a band meeting. We’re friends and we’ve been through so much shit together, but that was all it was, a fucking letter. That’s exactly what happened and it was hurtful, man. I didn’t deserve that shit after what I’d done and everything I’d been through.”

In light of revelations about his state of health at the time, it does seem an unusually abrupt way to bring such a longstanding partnership to an end. Joey even claims to have written and demoed a batch of new material, aided by Slipknot’s then-touring bassist Donnie Steele, and circulated it among his bandmates in an attempt to get the compositional ball rolling. But, according to the drummer, no one got back to him to discuss the new songs: subtle evidence, perhaps, that wires were distinctly crossed.

“They got confused about my health issues, and obviously even I didn’t know what it was at first,” Joey sighs. “They thought I was fucked-up on drugs, which I wasn’t at all. I don’t blame them for being concerned, but when you’re friends and you’ve been through so much stuff, you fucking talk to each other. But I harbour no bad feelings toward them at all, because I’ve moved on with my life. I’m happier than I’ve been in years. You need to move on, close the fucking chapter and, in the end, it is what it is.”

It is a testament to the positive way Joey has endeavoured to overcome his severe health problems that today, even after having been unceremoniously ejected from one of the biggest metal bands on the planet, he is hearteningly sanguine about the way things have turned out.

During our conversation, he repeatedly declares how grateful he is for the friends, family and life that he has, and even when discussing the end of his tenure as Slipknot’s drummer, he is eager to state how much he still loves and admires his former bandmates. What is perhaps more surprising is that Joey not only made a point of checking out .5: The Gray Chapter, the album Slipknot made without him and released in 2014, but is also effusive in his praise for it.

“Honestly, I have a long history with those guys, so I give them the respect they deserve and I listened to the whole record multiple times,” he smiles. “And I think it’s great! It’s fucking cool and I’m glad they moved on. I’m not like, ‘I’m not gonna give them respect!’ – I’m not a coward like that. I’m glad they’re carrying on the name, because what’s important is the fans. There’s no stupid battle going on. There’s no point in saying, ‘Fuck them!’

“No, I’ve been through so many things with those guys and I love them very much. What’s hurtful is that the way it [being fired] went down was not fucking right. That’s all I want to say. The way they did it was fucking cowardly. It was fucked up. But the love in my heart for those guys, that stays the same.”

It is at this point that Metal Hammer asks the inevitable and unavoidable question: despite everything that has happened, would Joey be willing to rejoin Slipknot further down the line? As much as his successor, Jay Weinberg, has acquitted himself brilliantly while filling the shoes of a contemporary drumming legend, it’s hard to deny that most Slipknot fans would be beside themselves with joy if Joey were to return to the fold. He takes a deep, measured inward breath and fixes us with a stern stare…

“Let me think about how to answer that, because it’s a big one,” he nods. “Honestly, I’m not trying to be dramatic, but if that was brought up, what I’d want to do would be to get together. Not just have a phone call or some stupid email. I’d want to see them, just hug it out and feel that energy that we had when we were fucking young and hungry and all that shit. They’re my brothers. We’d hug and talk and do shit like we used to do. We used to sit up all night long planning this shit and what we wanted to do. So that’s how I’d wanna do it. It’d have to be in person. If it happened, that would be fucking awesome, but only time will tell.”

Part Three - Rebirth

Back in the here and now, Joey Jordison is well on his way to being fighting fit once again. His recovery is still ongoing, of course, and daily trips to see his trainer at the local gym have now become an essential part of his day-to-day schedule, but as he speaks, he radiates sincere positivity. That said, the effort it has taken Joey to get from suddenly and horrifyingly being robbed of the use of his legs to a point where he is able to unveil two brand new albums with different bands is etched into his subtly expressive face.

He and better half Amanda have kept a detailed scrapbook of photos and other memorabilia from the long, hard road back from the onset of transverse myelitis. They allow us to leaf through it, and it brings the jarring reality of Joey’s last few years vividly to life. It’s a litany of woes, pain and frustration that many of us would regard as insurmountable, but even when faced with yet another grim obstacle, when he fell and broke his leg while in the studio recording Vimic’s debut album in the autumn of 2014, leading to his leg being cut in half and the insertion of steel rods and bolts, Joey’s determination to prevail and come back stronger than ever has been unwavering.

“I did question everything, like, ‘What am I going to do?’, not knowing if I was going to recover,” he admits. “It hurt a lot. It was a big question. But there was a definite point where I thought about all the blessings I’ve been given in life, being part of Slipknot and playing with Korn and Ministry and Rob Zombie and doing Roadrunner United and all those things, and you look at that and you’re grateful, and so you bust your ass to get back. I didn’t feel sorry for myself. I do not quit. I’ve got fans I’ve got to take care of, you know? So there’s no hiding right now.”

If you want to know what the opposite of hiding sounds like, you need only lend an ear to either or both of the new records that Joey is releasing this summer. The first is Echoes Of The Tortured, the debut album from Sinsaenum, Joey’s collaboration with Dragonforce’s Frédéric Leclercq and a host of underground luminaries. A monstrous but eminently accessible death metal record, its jaw-shattering eruptions of blastbeats and epic fury showcase the full extent of Joey’s physical recovery in no uncertain terms.

The second is Open Your Omen, the first album from Vimic, which is essentially Scar The Martyr with a new vocalist, former Korn percussionist and back-up singer Kalen Chase. It’s a sharper, more focused record than its (sort of) predecessor, planting Joey firmly back in belligerent mainstream metal territory, with plenty of the huge hooks and irresistible riffs that his loyal fans will be feverishly anticipating. But beyond the new music itself, Joey’s true focus is on the unparalleled joy he is currently experiencing as he escapes the nightmare of the last few years and returns to what he does best.

“This is a rebirth, and reaching this point is the ultimate reward,” he states. “It’s like having the ultimate trophies, having these two bands. These opportunities are coming back to me and it feels like a complete renewal. These are real bands, not side-projects. Everything I do goes at 100%… maybe even 666%, ha ha!

“At a certain age, a lot of people] become vegetarians or they find religion, but I’m never gonna stop being a fucking weirdo and a fucking metalhead! You wake up one day and you realise that nothing’s ever gonna change and you’re fucking committed. I’ve been like that since I was five years old, man.

“Right now, I just want to keep creating. These bands are two huge fucking journeys for me. It’s like when you see a rollercoaster that you’ve never ridden before, and you’re fucking scared, but you’re in line and waiting, like I am now, and then once you step on? You’re in!”

There are a few lessons to be learned from the story of Joey Jordison’s last few traumatic years. Firstly, maybe we should all be slightly less eager to jump to hasty conclusions when faced with only one side of a story (or, indeed, no verified information whatsoever). Secondly, never underestimate the strength, persistence, passion and potential of the human spirit.

“The most pertinent lesson of all, however, is one we all should have learned a long time ago: Joey Jordison is an unstoppable force of nature and, after fighting the toughest battle of his entire life, he’s primed and ready to make up for lost time and to remind the world that loud, angry, fucked up and furious music remains the best medicine of all.

“I have this weird-ass condition, but it doesn’t limit me and I’m getting better all the time,” he concludes with a confident grin. “I can play just as fast, or faster, than I ever have. Everything is fucking cool and I’m at the gym every day and it’s all going well. That helps me out so much.

“I went through some serious fucking shit. People didn’t know and I can’t blame them for that. But the thing is, you get up in the morning and you look in the mirror, and then you go off and fucking do it. You live your life the way you want to, and get the work done! What else can I say, dude? It’s good to tell my story. I’m fucking back and I’m ready to go full force. This is the best fucking job in the world. I’m never gonna stop.”

What Is Transverse Myelitis?

We spoke to Lew Gray, secretary of UK charity the Transverse Myelitis Society, to understand what Joey’s batling…

Can you explain what the condition means? Lew: “Transverse myelitis is an inflammation of the spinal cord. You have a lot of nerves doing different things in your spinal cord, so the facts of each case depend on which part of the spinal cord is affected. It can be high in the spinal cord affecting the arms, or you may struggle to breathe because the muscles in your lungs don’t work. It could be lower, affecting different sensory nerves. Some people with transverse myelitis can walk but can’t feel the floor beneath their feet, or they can’t feel hot and cold or pain. We think there are about 250 cases a year in the UK.”

Does it typically come on quickly or is it more of a gradual process? “It can be either. A lot of people are paralysed within an hour or two. But then for other people it can be very gradual and come and go over a period of months. It takes some people years to get a diagnosis.”

What treatment is available? “Really, the only treatment is to dose you with steroids. They will reduce the inflammation, and therefore you’re not curing it, you’re minimising the damage until it goes away by itself. Physiotherapy is very important. Almost everyone gets some spontaneous recovery over time after transverse myelitis, but the body and mind ‘forget’ how to use muscles and nerves that are not working, so the purpose of neurophysiotherapy is to ‘guide’ the recovery.”

What is the long-term prognosis for someone with transverse myelitis? “The nerves are capable of regenerating themselves. Nobody can predict though how well they will regenerate, how long it will take, or if they will at all. The majority of people get improvement, but there is no cast-iron guarantee.”

How common are relapses? “We do know people who have had recurrences, however that is rare. Sometimes a reoccurrence of transverse myelitis leads to a diagnosis of MS [multiple sclerosis].”

For more on the Transverse Myelitis Society, visit www.myelitis.org.uk

Beating The Odds

How Joey Jordison fought his way back from paralysis to prosperity

The full extent of Joey’s arduous battle with acute transverse myelitis is brought into sharp focus when we visit Absolute Performance Therapy in Waukee, Des Moines. Joey spent months here, working on his recovery, and the mere fact that today he is able to walk through the front door without assistance speaks volumes about what he has achieved. His therapist, Alyssa Subbert, has nothing but praise for his determined approach.

“Being stubborn helped the most!” she laughs. “To go from being someone who could do anything to not being able to get out of a chair, then to get back to being able to do everything again, it was a huge process. He wanted to drum again so bad, and as long as we made every exercise about drumming, he’d do it. He was very stubborn and very ornery, but he’d work and work until his body was too sore.”

Gruelling physical work aside, it is obvious that Joey’s time at APT was also hugely emotional. He hasn’t been back since finishing his treatment, and there are tears as he and Alyssa recall the intense therapy sessions and ferocious perseverance and teamwork that were needed to make each successive triumph a reality along the way.

“This was a huge wake-up call to Joey’s health and lifestyle, and how physical his job is,” Alyssa states. “When you’ve done something like that forever, you have no concept of it. He has to play in a drum set that rotates and goes upside down?! It’s not a regular job, sitting at a computer. We even practised mobbing him! Does he have balance when a whole bunch of people mob him, you know? It’s a whole different life, and very physical. So this was a completely unique process we went through.”

Joey’s physical therapy may be over, but his daily trips to local gym Life Time Athletic are an essential part of his recovery, not to mention his ability to play drums with the power and skill that fans have come to expect. His personal trainer, Caleb Herman, is a Slipknot fan who’s full of admiration for his client’s dedication.

“When Joey came in, he could hardly walk,” Caleb recalls. “Now he’s pressing 700lbs and he can do a step above what most people can do. He’s got one of the strongest back muscle groups I’ve ever seen. He couldn’t stand without help, but now he can stand up by himself, so his progress has been awesome. When he sees progress, he becomes motivated, and he tells me he gets the chills, and that gives me the chills. It’s really exciting to see him get to this point.”

Battle Of The Bands

After a long absence from our world, Joey’s returning with two new projects. But how do Vimic and Sinsaenum stack up against each other?

Vimic

Members: Joey Jordison (drums), Kalen Chase (vocals), Matt Tarach (keyboards), Jed Simon (guitar), Kyle Konkiel (bass). Sound: Crunchy, state-of-the-art modern metal with big, anthemic melodies and plenty of snotty aggression. Image: Lots of black leather, long hair, beards and menacing scowls. Sample lyric: ‘Simple skeletons, playing God again/We’re getting higher, we’re getting higher, and the truth will set us free’ (Simple Skeletons). Drumming: Lashings of classic Joey, from that Slipknot stomp and big, muscular grooves to bursts of high-velocity blasting. Joey says: “Scar The Martyr was the blueprint, but we wiped the slate clean. This is heavy shit. Kalen killed it on this record.” For fans of: Slipknot, Disturbed, Fear Factory. Check out: Earth Stood Still. Lurching, syncopated grooves and soaring, post-grunge melodies collide in a brutish, multi-tempo anthem that deftly showcases singer Kalen’s versatility.

Sinsaenum

Members: Joey Jordison (drums), Frédéric Leclercq (guitar), Heimoth (bass), Attila Csihar (vocals), Sean Zatorsky (vocals), Stéphane Buriez (guitar). Sound: Epic, imperious, blackened death metal with tons of eerie atmosphere. Image: Classic, dark, extreme metal attitude with a dash of theatrical corpse paint and a blood-splattered logo. Sample lyric: ‘We are the pain inside your head/We are the sorrow in your soul/We are the fire/We are the rusty nails’ (Army Of Chaos). Drumming: A masterclass in death metal precision and power. Proof that Joey is back and blazing. Joey says: “Sinsaenum is probably one of the most extreme and proficient bands I have ever been in. These guys are fucking on point at all times. We’re a fucking army!” For fans of: Morbid Angel, Dimmu Borgir, Behemoth. Check out: Inverted Cross. It’s blistering, heads-down death metal grandeur with anti-Christian lyrics, fret-melting solos and countless warped twists and turns.

Sin City

As well as making his comeback with Vimic, Joey Jordison’s taken up the drum stool for death metal project Sinsaenum. Mastermind and Dragonforce bassist Frédéric Leclercq explains how it came thundering to life

Words: Dayal Patterson

While Vimic represents a beefed-up reboot of Scar The Martyr, Joey’s also been behind the kit for a second, brand new band - Sinsaenum. The brainchild of Dragonforce bassist Frédéric Leclercq, it’s a more murky blend of death and black metal, featuring the twosome alongside some of the leading lights of the extreme scene, including dual vocals from Mayhem’s Attila Csihar and Dååth’s Sean Zatorsky. We asked Frédéric what the supergroup have planned for their dark future.

How did Sinsaenum first come about? Frédéric: “Oh Christ, even I have trouble remembering when it started! I always wrote death metal songs. I started to write in 1998, then I was doing something else [he played in the French bands Memoria and Heavenly], and I’m still doing something else, with Dragonforce. The first person I spoke to was Stéphane [Buriez, guitar] from Loudblast. It must’ve been in 2010 that we said, ‘Let’s really do something about it.’”

How did Joey get involved? “I kept writing more songs, and one day in 2013 I got a text from Joey. We call each other ‘Morbid Angel” – don’t ask why – so the text said, ‘Morbid Angel, what you up to?’ I was like, ‘Well, I just got back from tour… talking about Morbid Angel, I have these death metal songs.’ He was like, ‘You should send them to me!’ Two days later, he came back like, ‘Fuck yeah, that’s really cool. Who’s playing drums? I want to do it.’ So I started to ask more people that I had in mind.”

How did you guys meet? “We did the Mayhem tour together in the US, in 2008. One day drinking we were talking about death metal, and then we got to talking about it more and more. That’s how you get to know people – you find what you have in common. We had drinking and Morbid Angel.”

What about the other guys? “Stéphane I’ve known for 20 years. I played in a band in my hometown, Charleville-Mézières, and we supported his band, Loudblast. They were a big influence, and the first death metal band I heard. We kept in touch because France is a small country when it comes to metal. With [bassist] Heimoth from [French black metal band] Seth, it’s the same – there’s a small metal community. Dragonforce and Mayhem did a festival together, and Attila came onto the bus and said: ‘My son is a fan and would love an autograph – by the way, I’m the vocalist of Mayhem.’ He’s such a nice person – maybe you shouldn’t write that, keep the mystery! Sean and I met when Dååth was opening for Dragonforce in 2009. I really liked his voice and his attitude.”

How much music was written before you started working with them? “When Joey sent that text, all the songs were half-written, because I’ve a tendency to write a song with just a verse and a chorus, maybe a mid-section, because I know the rest is in my head. So when he said, ‘I’m interested,’ I was like, ‘Oh shit, I have to finish the songs!’ I sent out files, because it was clear that people trusted my ‘vision’. They didn’t want to change too much. I had to finalise lyrics with Sean and Attila, and Stéphane contributed to the structure. Joey added some fills. I decided to make it a concept album using interludes like Tiamat, or Pestilence, or even Type O Negative did to create atmosphere, so I had to write those.”

What was it like working with your heroes? “I felt like a kid in a toy store! Being in a studio with Attila singing songs that I wrote, and saying, ‘Oh, you should do this song like [Mayhem’s] De Mysteriis Dom Sathanas, and him being like, [adopts a Hungarian accent] ‘OK bro’, it’s like ‘Fuck, this is happening!’ I shouldn’t sound so excited, ‘cause this is black and death metal, but I had a big smile during the whole process – we all did. On Army Of Chaos we have Schmier from Destruction and Mika and Mirai from Sigh. Mika and Mirai are good friends of mine and are doing the big choirs, the choruses… like Sepultura’s Stronger Than Hate [from 1989’s Beneath The Remains]. I remember reading the booklet as a kid… they had the guys from Obituary and Atheist on it, and I was like, ‘Fuck, that’s cool.’ And it’s Schmier who’s singing on the last pre-chorus.

Did Joey’s health battles affect Sinsaenum? “Not at all. He speaks about it way better than I, so I won’t comment on that. I’ve kept away from all the troubles. I was like, ‘I’m a friend. If you want to talk, I’ll listen, but I just want to make sure you’re happy.’ As far as health problems, he was fine – he killed the drums. I don’t know how he did it, but he said, ‘Dude, I’m on fire.’ He was angry, I guess.”

Will Sinsaenum tour? “It’s definitely something we want to do, but there’s no rush. I want to do everything the same way I lived it as a kid. These bands I loved, I loved their albums, but I didn’t see them live for a long time and it didn’t bother me. I want people to digest the album – there’s a lot of information on there. Plus, we’re all busy; it’s difficult to get us all in a room. We rehearsed before doing the videos, and being in the same room, it was like, ‘Fucking hell.’”

What’s happening with Dragonforce right now? “We’re doing summer festivals and writing the new album that will come out next year, so I have to juggle between doing Sinsaenum stuff and writing and recording with Dragonforce. So my head is about to explode, but that’s fine!”

What do you get from Sinsaenum that you don’t get with Dragonforce? “This is really the music I love. I like Dragonforce stuff, and I write more of it now, but sometimes I don’t agree with all the decisions. With Sinsaenum, from A to Z it is exactly what I want. I guess it’s my baby. It gives me a way to express the dark side of myself and show it to people – if they care or not, that’s another issue!”

Sinsaenum release Echoes Of The Tortured on July 29 via Earmusic 

[razorblade180]

A Book of Love

[Steam Bird]

Aether:Hey Charlotte! You wanted to see me? Is there an article you want to run by me before publishing?

Charlotte:No it’s not an “Eligible Adventurers” incident. I uhh…wanted to give you something and have a quick escape of I got too embarrassed.

Aether:…*stands in front of the door*

Charlotte: Gasp! My escape route!

Aether:Your honesty is both wonderful and your enemy. Anyways, what gift could be so embarrassing.

The reporter pulled out a very hefty scrap book with Aether’s emblem on the front. His mind couldn’t help but wander off to the last time Charlotte gave him surprise polaroids. His face went red.

Aether:Ummm I gotta ask. Is that book safe to open in public?

Charlotte:This gift is nothing like that last gift. Well…in spirit I guess it is, but far more safe! Have a look!

Despite not being inspired with confidence, Aether took the book and opened the first page. The words “Tales of Fontaine” were in bold blue letters above a collage of photos of himself. There was him before court. Another fishing with Freminet; there was even a tea party photo with Navia.

Aether turned the page to find many more moments like him and Paimon at a magic show and the time he swam with otters. Charlotte had even collected more dynamic photos of him in the midst of battle among friends and the more exciting part of the court cases.

Charlotte:Feels like yesterday when that happened. Now you’re off to Natlan soon, right? *smiles* Aether, I’m truly grateful for being apart of your amazing adventure. It’s one thing to be told about it, and another to live it. It wasn’t always grand for you; there’s a thousand pictures I never took that showed the rough times few ever get hear about from an adventurer.

Aether:Hehe, it comes with the job…

Charlotte:I know. I also know that Natlan will be no different, which is why I made the book. Whenever you’re down, I wanted you to have a way to remember the fun side of adventuring; the memories you made in this land of justice.

Aether:Charlotte, this is…beyond incredible. There’s so much here. Why the heck would you be embarrassed by this!? It’s awesome.

Charlotte:*red*Because of the red tab…

Aether:Red tab?

He looked at the side of the pages and found it. The tab skipped more than half the pages and led him to “Tales of Us.” First thing of note was a photo of the first time they met in Mondstadt with the caption, “New Friends wherever you go.” The next photo was them on their first date here. Specifically, it was the photo of him blushing while attempting to drink his coffee and avoid eye contact. “I think he likes me” was written underneath.

Aether couldn’t help but laugh sheepishly. His eyes went towards the photo of her on their second date when he had playfully given her a rainbow rose. He remember snapping this bashful photo of her a couple minutes after doing it. The caption read, “I know I like him.” First dance, dinner dates, strolls, fishing, so many little miscellaneous moments of them together perfectly captured on several pages. Aether kept flipping through as Charlotte looked at the floor to keep her cool.

Charlotte:I remember telling you and Paimon that if the world were to end tomorrow, I’d still do my job. I maintain that thought. However, if I were lucky enough to know you were close by, I’d make sure everything I had to do was finished then race your way for the final moments without fail. Aether, I really, truly…*looks up* huh? Hey! You’re crying!!!

Damn straight he was! If he were Neuvillette, it would be pouring! The boy had two streams running down his face.

Aether:Of course I’m crying! This gift is so fucking sweet! This might be the nicest thing I’ve ever gotten! I’m not used to farewells like this. I always try to smile and say “see you later!” *sniffles*

Charlotte:…Pfft hehe. Is that right?

Smiling fondly, Charlotte stepped closer and gently wiped the tears away. To think her gift would move him so. Aether was always full of surprises, but that’s what she loved about him. Slowly, she leaned in, kissing him and holding in a giggle when she felt him kiss back just as quickly. She wasn’t great at long confessions anyways and frankly, neither of them needed it. Their lips parted but they remained in each other’s arms while pressing their foreheads against one another and continuing to smile.

Charlotte:See you later, Aether.

Aether:Until next time, Charlotte.

[setsugekka]

❥worst behavior (m)

↳ A tale as old as time: difficult to say no to the familiarity of an ex lover.

park seonghwa x fem!reader — exes to lovers, explicit sexual content. [2.1k wc] cws: car sex, penetrative sex, barrier method contraceptive, marking, dirty talking.

“You know—”

The rest of the sentence hangs with anticipation in your throat as you steady yourself on your knees in the backseat of this vehicle. Neck craned to the side and shirt tangled into a web of your arms due to the low ceiling as you attempt to pull the useless fabric up and over your head quickly and efficiently.

When it’s finally off the thrown to where ever it is that it has ended up (you couldn’t care less, really), you bring your attention back down to the star of the show for you: a tall man with long, black hair parted off to the side of his forehead and beaming eyes gazing back up at you as you make way with your clothing items.

He’s also your ex-boyfriend.

“—They’re going to be none too pleased with this evenings decision making.” You finally manage out with a huff. Seonghwa chuckles under his breath at the commentary on the fact; he knows it to be true, as well, not that either of you care all that much — evidently.

“They don’t really have to know.”

Smooth as butter the words slip out from between his lips as he leans upward, arms around your torso to pull you closer into and against his own body. It brings a smile to your face just before your lips meet his own and you’re reminded of all of the ways that you and he worked so, so well together in the past.

The sex was never the problem, suppose everything else was.

And going off of Seonghwa was hard. As his mouth trails down the column of your neck, your mind can’t help but revisit it all: the relationship, the subsequent ending of said relationship, and the way that the two of you never quite stopped sleeping together, either.

Your friends intervened, you started seeing other people, and talking to your ex less. It was good for the both of you — parties between mutual friends, however — very, very bad.

For reasons such as this.

“Lie back.”

Without much of a second thought you oblige the gentle request, immediately allowing yourself to fumble backwards and out of his lap in the cramped space of his cars back seat. Far from the first time that the two of you have engaged in such activities you consider yourself a bit of a pro at this point: should there be a sort of Olympics style competition for having sex in the backseat of a sedan, surely the two of you have a bright future ahead.

Crawling to his own knees now, Seonghwa lends himself down between your legs to kiss you again — this time far more fervent, needy — a habit of kissing you like it’ll be the last time he has the chance to. These are things about being with him that you enjoy, and ironically, are the things that keep you winding up here over and over again.

Long, nimble fingers making speedy work of the button at the front of your jeans, he pulls back with the bottom of your lip held snugly between his teeth before hissing the words into your mouth. “Couldn’t have worn something a bit more accessible?”

The scoff comes out before you have a chance to even consider biting it back, not that you would have, anyway. “Am I supposed to dress with intent to get fucked by you all of the time?”

And evidently the idea of it has quite the affect on him, pressing back into the kiss hard before settling only his knees again to begin the descent of the fabric down your legs.

“Maybe. Try it. Let’s see what happens.”

Sinister desire dripping from his tone as he says it — the kind that has your arousal pooling just that more in anticipation while he drops the clothing to the side and hastily begins work on his own belt — you briefly sit upwards to yank at the bottom hem of his own t-shirt, silently pleading for the removal of that article of clothing, as well.

Seonghwa pauses just for a second, passing you a plain, questioning look before slipping his shirt off and tossing that, as well. “If we get caught we’re gonna be in big trouble.”

“Don’t think your shirt is going to be the make or break of that event.”

Rolling his eyes, he quickly pulls the leather through the loops of his own jeans, just as quickly making work of the buttoning and shimmying his pants down his thighs just enough to make the space useful to him. It’s back to you then: fingers slipping into the waistband of your panties and discarding them elsewhere — perhaps to be found later, but it wouldn’t be the first time they’d be forgotten there, either.

The typical spot that the two of you run off to in order to be together like this — right on the outskirts of the city and in the parking lot of a midnight-shrouded park that’s long since closed to the public given the late hours of the evening — you can’t see much of him as he pulls open a foil package that he undoubtedly brings along to parties that he knows you’ll also be attending, but the silhouette of him as he steadily glides the rubber along his length just before settling back down against you is perhaps a sight that you’ll never tire of, as simple as it may be.

Pulled into an electrified kiss again as Seonghwa angles himself between your legs, you grow antsy in the anticipation when he doesn’t penetrate you immediately, his head dipping down to kiss along your jaw and back towards your ear. You figure he must feel the way you shift with need below him with the way he huffs out a quiet laugh against your skin.

Slipping the hand not propping his weight up down and between your legs, his middle finger pressing against your opening as you attempt to push up against him, Seonghwa gives a fuller chuckle at the neediness displayed beneath him.

“Don’t want me to pry you open a little bit first?”

On the surface it would seem thoughtful, but you know the man well enough to know that he’s only saying it to get to you that much more — the thought of the act of doing such a thing. And while having him knuckle deep in you is never unwanted, you’ve already more than had your fill of such games tonight.

“Think you finger-fucking me in the downstairs bathroom for twenty minutes probably did the trick.”

He hums in response, pulling his hand back and replacing it with the tip of his cock. “True, guess you’re right.”

You have little time to reply to his coy words as he begins his slow, steady drive into you. Hand pulling back again to wrap an arm up and under your thigh to give him a bit more leverage as he buries himself inside of you for what feels like a lifetime before he finally meets his end — Seonghwa wastes no time at all pulling out from you and dipping his head down to your breasts with the additional space that the motion naturally grants him — kissing and sucking the supple skin gently, only to leave pretty, light purple and red blotches in his wake.

As he brings his hips forward and against you again, he brings his head back up to the place it had previously been nestled in just next to your ear; the sighs and heavy exhales of him echoing so loudly through your mind as he gently brings himself into a comfortable pace against the apex of your thighs.

“God,” he sighs, your hands coming up to tangle into his hair as you focus on the way he feels inside of you. “Feel so good every time. Fuck.”

Words immediately dropping down and into your gut, you feel yourself clench down hard around his cock, bringing forth a few particularly hard, rough, thrusts into you that have you moaning loudly into the emptiness of the car — it’s something you desperately try not to do, given the circumstances, but every so often the man much too willing to demonstrate all of the ways that he knows all of the right buttons to press.

The prideful part of you wants it to take longer, require more effort from him; suppose he put in a bit of the extra leg work back at the party in the aforementioned bathroom — but when the drag of his cock finally angles just right and with the right amount of force behind it — it’s quite quickly that you feel that familiar coiling of orgasmic release taking hold of nearly every muscle in your body.

Of course, Seonghwa an attentive lover and far too familiar with yours in particular not to pick up on the signs.

He also can’t keep his mouth shut about it, either.

“Wanted it bad this time?”

An annoying question, not enough to take you out of it, paired with the unfortunate layer of his particular brand of chiding quite literally something that causes your sexual attraction to him to skyrocket even more, you whine in response in hopes that he’ll let it go.

Burying himself deep into you, so much so that it teeters on the edge of pleasure and pain with how close the tip of his length is to the furthest end of your body, Seonghwa switches his ministrations to a steady, shallow grind against you as opposed to full thrusts, and with the positioning of his pelvic bone against your clit, it has you seeing white hot in an instant.

“Hwa! Please, fuck.”

Perhaps if you were less in the interest of the immediate threat of your orgasm, you might find his amused chuckling at the way you fall apart for him still so irritating.

But there are more pressing matters at hand currently.

“Okay, okay,” he starts, warm lips held firm against the flesh of your cheek. “You don’t have to beg for it, you know I’ll never make you beg for it.”

Rather than a logical response you quite quickly fall into a chant of his name — the occasional expletive changing things up as your orgasm washes over your body with toe curling electricity. As you reach the peak of your release, Seonghwa picks up his pace of fucking into you again with full, long strokes of his cock into you — soaking wet from cumming around him and the sound of his hips meeting your own through the newly dampened skin resonating so loudly in the car you’re almost certain someone to hear should they be anywhere in the general vicinity. He chases his own end, and it comes just as quickly with a loud groan through gritted teeth and the fingers comfortable latched into the skin of your thigh now painlessly digging into the plush skin underneath his grip.

“Wanna cum in you so fucking bad.”

A handful more messy strokes, Seonghwa pushes himself as far inside of you as he can to empty into the barrier separating the both of you.

You know, you sort of want him to, as well.

Minutes of heavy breathing passing the two of you as you lie in the very same places from which you had just finished, Seonghwa finally moves first — pulling back and settling himself onto his heels — delicately withdrawing himself from you and pulling off the condom with an overstimulated wince.

“What was all that about?”

Hand stretched out as the man dumps the soiled rubber into an old fast food cup, he’s quick enough on the uptake to know that it’s your panties that you’re silently asking for, while not-so-silently asking about something else entirely.

“What?” He replies, slightly affronted in tone. “I miss being able to cum in you. Can’t I?”

Ball of your foot against his chest and playfully kicking him backwards as you slowly begin getting dressed, you’d be lying if you were to say it wasn’t something that you had missed, as well.

“Gotta stop seeing other people then,” you answer back, fishing around the floor of the vehicle in the darkness in an attempt to now locate your pants. “Might as well just start seeing each other again, huh? Is there no limit to your madness?”

You’re being comical, which is evident in your tone. You know this to be the case, which is what makes your ex’s response all that much more dumbfounding.

Jeans in hand, Seonghwa hands them to you simply and with little expression on his face as the words so casually drop from his lips. “Then lets start seeing each other again.”

What’s another, arguably poor, decision made tonight, anyway?

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ hope you enjoyed! please check out my navigation for more (´｡• ᵕ •｡`)

—this is a oneshot, there will be no part 2.

[velandvithestarlightgullwings]

To the Undecided and to those that are to "Pure" to sully their hands with voting at all cause of "BoTh SiDeS"

So, the Presidential debate just passed and I'm seeing many people still unsure about voting or even still deciding to sit out voting this year.

Like, we literally watched a man literally say that Haitian Immigrants are eating cats and dogs. Ignoring how fucking racist that sounds for a second, do all see how fucking unhinged he sounds? He doesn't even have policies...Well, he does but he'll never admit that Agenda 47/Project 2025 is his policies. Even after he was forced to answer the question, he said he had a "concept" of a plan.

Like, what the fuck are we talking about at this point? The choice is legitimately as clear as day. We have a literally Dictator wanna-be who is well known to cozy up to other dictators who has promised to be a dictator on day one and most of his team have worked with the heritage foundation for P2025 that will target minorities, women, veterans, seniors, LGTBQ+ and...Really, anyone that is not a straight, white, RICH, male. Like, they looked at Handmaiden's Tale and the Taliban and said "That's what we want."

And on the opposite end is someone who legit sounds and looks presidential and is actively wanting to help Americans go for a better future.

I get that a lot of people who are undecided don't have their finger on the pulse of politics but if you are still undecided AFTER this debate, after looking and listening to each party's policies...Well more Kamala's since Trump has a concept of a policy, and after the family and friends I KNOW have told you what is at stake, then that tells me that you want to vote for Trump but are too ashamed to just admit it. And as much as that sucks, at least grow a spine and admit that you are just another sheep in the herd that is MAGA. One thing about out and out MAGAts that I respect is that they stick to their leader no matter how hard he makes a fool out of himself.

And as for those dear and pure liberals that can't life a finger to vote for anyone because they are just the bastions of truth and honor, and justice, knowing that sitting at home can lead to a Trump presidency along with those that think "BoTh SiDeS aRe BaD," "VoTiNg DoEsn'T mAtTeR," "iT cAn'T hApPeN hErE," "rEvOlUtIoN," and other bullshit, despite all of the articles stating the opposite or even those that feel that they are so privileged that even if Trump wins, they think that they won't be touched by the hell he will bring unlike the millions that will, I have just one thing to say.

All of you are deeply selfish and if the horrible result does happen, I hope your friends and families are the first to be targeted for your deep cowardice. I hope that when they ask why, you give them the same excuse that you give to everyone else and yourself, and I want you to stew in the guilt that you could have stopped it all but chose not to.

So to everyone, get your shit together and vote or prepare for a result that will haunt you for the rest of your lives.