#degenerate football

[midnightarsenal]

𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐞

Summary: Some old tweets come out and it puts you between a rock and a hard place.

Warning: Internalized Homophobia

Word Count: 2.6k

Arsenal Training Centre, St. Albans

///

You could sense the tension in the air before you'd even stepped through the doors.

...

The past few days had made you a bit of a nervous wreck. The result of some Sam Kerr fan account on Instagram posting a collection of old tweets you'd made nine years ago, back when you were 13.

Old, profoundly homophobic tweets.

And while some fans, mostly those already partial to you, had taken that substantial amount of time and your youth into account, many others had not. Instead, they hurled abuse alongside calls for the club to drop you at the earliest possible opportunity. You'd even tried disabling comments on your most recent social media posts before quickly realizing that the comments would simply move to older ones. Despite how bad some of them had become, you still found yourself not quite willing to disable the comments on every post you had ever made.

It was your own fault anyway. You had been signed by Arsenal a few months ago, having spent the years before that going from one mediocre team to the next until your international performance in Australia had seemingly caught the attention of several larger clubs, the Gunners included. You'd been positively over the moon when your management agency had called to give you the good news. It should have been your big break, and for a period of time, it was, but a position in such a prestigious club came with a level of increased publicity that you hadn't been fully prepared for.

You knew that you should have purged your Twitter before the contract had even been made public, but you'd long forgotten about those posts, those awful comments, and bigoted 'jokes' that your massively insecure thirteen-year-old self had felt the need to put out into the world to try and convince everyone that you were certifiably straight. To convince yourself in some deluded way that you did not frequently lose sleep over the increasingly intrusive and borderline distressing thoughts that plagued you every time you were around some of your friends at school and the teammates at your youth football academy.

Those thoughts just hadn't been you, of course. Because you were straight.

Or, at least that's what thirteen-year-old you had wanted to think at the time.

In the teenage years that followed those tweets, you had eventually been able to come to terms with your sexuality. It had been a slow, long, and painfully drawn-out process, but while the influence of your conservative family had worked to reinforce the close-minded worldview you had been raised with, being around so many openly gay women in your football career had ultimately proven to be a much stronger force in your life. To see that contrary to what you had been told, these supposedly evil and degenerate people were in fact perfectly ordinary and typically far kinder than the 'just' and 'moral' types you had been surrounded by in your childhood.

But, while you had gradually been deprogrammed from the more outwardly hostile and bigoted elements of how you'd been brought up, you had never quite gotten around to being proud of who you were, to being able to let yourself embrace what you felt and to let yourself be happy. Even today, all these years later, you still struggled to imagine yourself feeling the warmth of another woman, a woman you could love as more than just a friend, and a woman who you could feel comfortable telling the world about.

So, you had simply tried to ignore your feelings. Even as you went from teenager to adult and semi-professional to professional, you resigned yourself to a world in which love was an impossibility, where every teasing question from a friend about your romantic endeavors was expertly deflected with a non-committal answer and a change of topic.

You had learned to be happy for the women in your life who were openly gay and celebrated their relationships sincerely like a good friend would, but you could never deny yourself the reality that every time a close friend announced their new partner, you would feel a twinge of remorse, pain that was sourced from fleeting, quickly suppressed thoughts of a life not lived, an opportunity not taken, and a romance denied its potential. It was a sad way to live, but as sad as it was, the thought of telling the world that you were gay was even worse. It had always been worse.

...

And so now, as the sliding doors of the training centre's lobby parted, you found it a difficult task to keep your nerves from becoming overwhelming.

Management had already spoken to you about the tweets and the response on social media to them. Fortunately, no proper news outlet had put out an article on the 'situation' yet, but the club's PR people had seemed pretty nervous that eventually, one of them would. You'd told them that you hadchanged since you were thirteen and that you'd be more than willing to put out an apology. But, ultimately, their advice had been for you to simply stay quiet and hope it all went away on its own. Something that you had been less than thrilled to hear, as if you were ever confronted by a scenario in which it didn't just go away on its own, and eventually you were told to put out an apology, it would likely be too late by the time that you did.

"Morning, Y/N." you were taken away from your thoughts by the young woman at the front desk, Catherine. She was smiling, but you could tell it was a bit of a sympathetic smile, like the woman was trying to show that she was on your side. You appreciated the sentiment, of course, but being treated differently at all because of this was only making your nerves worse.

"Heya." you tried to greet back casually with a smile of your own, and despite your best efforts, it came across as an 'I know' type of smile, a visual confirmation that you acknowledged what had been happening on the Internet these past few days, and her small attempt to make you feel better.

You had almost passed her, ready to head deeper into the large facility when you abruptly stopped and asked, "Any of the other girls here before me?" To which the shorter woman behind the desk nodded, her demeanour steady in its sympathy towards you, knowing why you would be asking. After all, you were on a team with two gay relationships within it, let alone the number of players who just swung that way in general. And aside from the occasional joke or tease (the latter of which often hurt you to an extent that none of your new friends could possibly know), you were pretty certain that none of them actually thought you were a part of that category.

None of the girls had messaged you in the past twenty-four hours, which, while a little uncommon, wasn't an immediate tell that you had been made a pariah. The last message you'd gotten had been from Steph asking if you were available for a coffee date on Saturday, and that had been just over a day ago. Late enough to have been after that stupid account had posted those screenshots, but early enough to have been before many people knew about it.

Fuck, this was really getting to you.

You continued your way down the corridors of the training centre, each heartbeat feeling a little heavier than the last as you drew closer to the locker room. Knowing that at least a few of the girls would be there this early in the morning, getting changed or having a shower or just socializing as they waited for others to arrive. You wondered if they were talking about you, and if they were, what they were saying. You were wondering if they had already agreed to shun you, or even speak to Jonas about getting rid of you. Fuck, this was fucking getting to you.

You gripped the handle of the bag slung over your shoulder a little tighter as you approached the locker room and took a breath before opening the door, a hundred different scenarios having crossed your mind from the time you'd left the lobby to now.

Stepping into the locker room, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to what you had braced yourself for. It was business as usual—some of the girls were chatting casually, others were prepping their gear. For a fleeting moment, you allowed yourself the hope that perhaps they hadn't seen those tweets or had chosen to ignore them.

But as you made your way to your locker, you could feel eyes on you. Some were quick glances, laced with uncertainty or curiosity, while others held longer, more contemplative stares. No one said anything directly, but the air was thick with unspoken questions and possible conclusions. It was hard to tell.

You kept your head down, focusing on getting ready. The sound of your locker door clanging shut seemed to echo louder than usual, and as you changed into your training gear, you pondered over your next steps. Ignoring the issue didn't feel right, but neither did addressing it without a plan.

"Hey," just then, your attention was taken by the sound of a voice that you quickly recognized as Katie's, her Dublin twang thick as always. The defender's expression was hard to read as she approached, and she sat down next to you, continuing after you replied, "Morning." Your voice was small, and your throat tightened a little, Katie was one of the closer friends you'd made in your somewhat limited time at the club, and her opinion mattered to you.

"Listen, I heard about the tweets," she started, and while you braced yourself for what might come next, you couldn't help but notice her tone being somewhat gentler than you'd expected, but still straightforward. "And, I wanted to say..." she continued, and you felt your heart beat a little bit faster. But, then she stopped, if only for a few seconds, and frowned slightly, though seemingly more to herself than to you. She looked like she was thinking about something, something about you, perhaps.

"Well, I don't know what I wanted to say exactly... but I'm here if you want to talk, or if you need anything, really."

Wait.

What?

You must have had a look on your face because the Irishwoman spoke up again. "Like, if you have anything you wanna get off your chest. I'm here for you, all of the girls are." She remained gentle, but you could tell that heart-to-hearts weren't exactly Katie's style (not that this surprised you) from the way she looked a little awkward, but her sincerity remained all the same.

Breathing just the slightest bit faster, it took you another second or two before you replied, "A lot of the girls?" One of your brows lifting curiously. Was... she implying what you were beginning to think she was implying?

Did Katie know think you were gay?

"Yeah. We care about ya, dummy. And unless you really are some horrible bigot, nothing you say is gonna change that." Katie smiled at that remark and you couldn't help but reflect her, shaking your head lightly in response. "I'm not," you confirmed, your eyes connecting with Katie's. "I was just... different then... I was—" You went to continue, but cut yourself off, your breath almost hitching as you caught yourself at the last moment from finishing that sentence.

I was afraid.

You could virtually see the defender's gaze softening on you in real time and you couldn't bear the sight of it anymore, glancing away and turning your attention to your shoes. The locker room around the pair of you was beginning to fade into the backdrop, although you got the feeling that it hadn't just been Katie's eyes on you. Even as you observed the details of your trainers, you could practically feel the woman next to you's gaze wandering off every few moments to the others in the room, maybe looking for assistance, or trying to convey her unspoken suspicion.

"You were what?" You heard, and this time it wasn't Katie who spoke. It was Beth, who was standing a short distance away by her own cubby. Immediately proving that your heart-to-heart with Arsenal's number 15 hadn't been quite so exclusive, and the locker room's sudden silence ironically brought it right back to the forefront of your attention. Everyone was listening, and many of them staring as well. Was this what they had been talking about before you'd shown up? Had they been in here putting together dots you hadn't known existed? A longing gaze you hadn't suppressed or one too many comments about the eyes or legs of another woman that you'd thought would simply slip under the radar as casual observation? Were those tweets the final confirmation they needed?

Was this the supposed 'gaydar' you had heard about?

"Nothing." you retorted swiftly, shaking your head again as you reached into your locker to resume getting dressed. You hadn't really paid attention to the fact you'd stopped when Katie had come over to talk to you, but the girls didn't seem intent on letting this moment slip away, and you could see Beth approach from your peripheral vision even as you tried to focus on getting changed. You were beginning to almost feel trapped, though you were certain that the culprit behind that particular feeling was more likely to be yourself than your teammates.

"Y/N, we're your friends." Beth said, kneeling down to eye level, while Katie still sat beside you, staring into the side of your head with an expression that was unusually gentle and almost unnervingly so. You still couldn't look at her without feeling your throat close up.

"Trust me... none of us are going to react like how that silly little brain of yours thinks we might." she continued softly and with a warm smile, and now you knew. You knew that they knew.

Your head tilted slightly up to look at Beth, who was now squatted a small distance from you, hands clasped together and blue eyes looking right into your own. You could still sense the looks of the other girls on you too, only now you didn't feel that they were judging, far from it actually. Your leg bounced up and down nervously, and you didn't even have it in you to try to stop it. You felt like you wanted to cry. Why was this so hard? Even now, when it was clear that everyone in the room knew. You just couldn't say it.

Your eyes started to glisten as the first tears threatened to push their way out, and you gave Beth a small, sad smile. Your throat began to hurt in the way that only a sob—or an imminent one—could provoke.

"I think you know already." you finally managed to get out, your voice as small as your presence in that room, and Beth only nodded. You could see some of the other girls nod too, but you were distracted by the feeling of Katie's hand taking your own and clutching it safely. A breath escaped you and it was shaky, uncertain, afraid.

"Yeah, I think we do, pet." the forward replied, closing the gap between you and pulling you in for a hug, her arms finding themselves at home wrapped around your torso. It was as if she'd given you permission to cry, the tears finally beginning to flow, as you buried your head into the other woman's shoulder, quietly sobbing into the fabric of her Arsenal jacket. Katie's hand tightened around your own, and you heard the sound of cleats and shoes closing in around you. You weren't sure how you were going to deal with this new reality moving forward, this world in which people other than yourself knew of your sexuality, but at least you wouldn't be alone.

///

End Notes: Hope you liked this one, guys! I promise not all of my fics will be angsty! I'm also in the process of writing an OC for a self-contained multi-part storyline. But, with how busy I've been with uni, who knows whether I'll actually finish it or not. Thanks for reading!

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

North To The Future [Chapter 13: Don’t Look Back In Anger]

The year is now 2000. You are just beginning your veterinary practice in Juneau, Alaska. Aegon is a mysterious, troubled newcomer to town. You kind of hate him. You are also kind of obsessed with him. Falling for him might legitimately ruin your life…but can you help it? Oh, and there’s a serial killer on the loose known only as the Ice Fisher.

Chapter warnings: Language, alcoholism, addiction, murder, sexual content, medical stuff, discussions of suicide, chilling with the parentinis.

Word count: 6.5k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @ladylannisterxo @doingfondue @tclegane @quartzs-posts @liathelioness @aemcndtargaryen @thelittleswanao3 @burningcoffeetimetravel @hinata7346 @poohxlove @borikenlove​ @myspotofcraziness @travelingmypassion @graykageyama @skythighs​ @lauraneedstochill​ @darlingimafangirl​ @charenlie​ @thewew​ @eddies-bat-tattoos​ @minttea07​ @joliettes​ @trifoliumviridi​ @bornbetter​ @flowerpotmage​ @thewitch-lives​ @bearwithegg​ @tempt-ress​ @padfooteyes​ @teenagecriminalmastermind​ @chelsey01​ @anditsmywholeheart​ @heliosscribbles​ @elsolario​ @killerqueen-ofwillowgreen​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @tillyt04​ @cicaspair418​ @fan-goddess​

Only 2 chapters left! 💜

“You need to go to the hospital,” Aemond says.

You’re sitting on the threadbare floral couch in Aegon’s apartment, melting snow dripping from your hair like rain out of a bleak sky. You’re still wearing Aegon’s parka, but you’re freezing; you feel like you’ll never be warm again. Sunfyre, whimpering and pacing restlessly, periodically nudges your arm with his nose. “No.”

Aemond studies you. “Why?”

“I don’t want anyone else touching me.”

Aegon looks up from where he’s kneeling on the floor in only his green flannel pajama pants, skin and scars and ink. When he lifts the towel he’s had pressed to the outside of your thigh, there is a six-inch gash in the flesh: silent inferno, scarlet lightning. His palms are stained with your blood. “I’ll kill him,” he says, low and fierce.

Aemond sighs. “No, you won’t.”

“I will.”

You tell Aegon: “No, really, you won’t. You’re not going to prison for Trent.”

“Well something has to happen to him!”

“The hospital is really not negotiable,” Aemond says. “You need stitches.” And he shudders, just enough that you notice.

“We could call the cops,” Aegon starts. “We could—”

“You get to leave,” you say, and neither of them understand. For the first time, your eyes snag on the pattern of the couch rather than just skate over it: ivy, red roses, calla lilies white like bones. You take a trembling breath and begin again. “In a week, or a month, or whenever, you both get to leave this city, and it won’t matter what anyone here knows about you. But everything I have is in Juneau. And it’s too small for secrets. If I tell anyone about what happened, they’re going to end up hearing Trent’s side of the story too. The cops wouldn’t see this as a warning sign or part of a pattern of violent behavior. They’d see it as a domestic disturbance, at least in part caused by me. I’ll spend the rest of my life as the girl who got caught fucking around on the local football hero with some degenerate drifter. The same drifter who Trent saved from drowning in the channel a month ago.”

“He did what?” Aemond asks, confounded.

“It’s a long story.”

“Okay, okay, Appletini,” Aegon soothes. “Just tell me what you want. Tell me what you want and we’ll do it.”

“You should wash the blood off your hands.”

“Why? It’s just you.”

After a moment, you smile down at him. He smiles back. And suddenly you’re warm again, warm everywhere like there are embers tumbling through your veins instead of just biconcave cells and menacing lineage. Aemond’s gaze darts between you and Aegon, a little intrigued, a little scandalized, like it’s not something meant for him to witness. Sunfyre’s tail wags hopefully.

“So,” Aemond says. “Your preference for confidentiality notwithstanding, you do actually still need stitches.”

“I’ll do them,” you reply.

“You’ll…what…?”

“I’ll do the stitches myself. I have all the equipment at the vet clinic.”

“Okay,” Aegon agrees immediately.

Aemond stares at you, his lone eye narrow and incredulous. Then he turns to Aegon. “You think this is a good idea?”

“If she wants to do it herself, she can do it herself. She did a great job stitching up Sunfyre’s face. You can barely see where the bear clawed him.”

Aemond raises an eyebrow. “Why did I believe you might serve as the voice of reason? Why was I that delusional? Yeah, alright, let’s go do some impromptu surgery. That can only end well.”

You examine the wound on your thigh. It’s a relatively clean cut, but deep; it will leave a mark that you’ll carry for the rest of your life. It’s about the same size as Aemond’s scar, you think disjointedly, your skull clouded with shock and searing pain. The bleeding has slowed, but beads like rubies brim at the edges of the severed quilt of flesh. “I need to wrap it with something so it doesn’t bleed all over my Jeep.”

As you and Aegon improvise a solution—a fresh towel secured around your thigh with duct tape, the white fabric soon splattered with red—Aemond goes to the window, his arms crossed over his chest, his face grave and distant. Sirens build outside in the frigid darkness.

Aegon whirls to his brother. “Did—?”

“No. I didn’t call them.”

The police cars zoom by the apartment building in a screeching procession, heading north towards the lakes. Flashing lights paint Aemond’s ivory skin in shades of fire and sky. Lines etch across his forehead, perplexed, wary.

“What’s that about?”

“It happens a lot around here,” Aegon says. He tests the duct tape, making sure the towel won’t get jostled when you move. “It means they’ve found another body.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Lidocaine, povidone-iodine, scissors, forceps, tweezers, surgical thread, bright lights and no shadows. The bruises on Aegon’s face from where Aemond slammed him against that Dodge Ram last night are vivid blooms: violets, irises, blue-dyed roses, things that don’t grow here. He stands beside the metal exam table as you work, running his hands through his wild, white-blond, blood-flecked hair. You’re both wearing the clothes that you left on the floor of your Jeep; you’re both back in that moment, or at least halfway in it, soundless electricity in the florescent-lit air, longing drenched with maroon pain, rage, feverish anxiety. You cut the right leg off your blue flannel pajama pants so you could suture your thigh without being practically naked again. Aemond duct taped a black trash bag over the missing window of your Jeep to keep the worst of the wind and snow out. You’ll have to explain that to your parents eventually. You’ll have to explain quite a lot to them.

Aemond roams between the exam room and the lobby like a leopard behind iron bars, not really wanting to be in either. He is unnerved by your suturing, unnerved in a way that is obvious and deeper than words; yet he is irritated by the news coming from the television in the lobby. He’s turned it on to see if they’re reporting on the Ice Fisher’s latest victim yet. Instead, they’re covering the weather. The blizzard that’s expected to hit Juneau tomorrow has picked up speed, arriving by noon instead of the previously estimated late-evening. It will drop several feet of fresh snow, enough to shut down the city for two or three days. This is a great inconvenience for Aemond. This will delay his clandestine plans.

Aegon is watching you stitch with awe in his eyes. He’s nearly sober and must be desperate to remedy that, but he’s hiding it well. “You are so fucking badass.”

“I am so fucking stupid. I forgot all about the bear mace. It was right there in the front of the Jeep with my purse, I should have told you to grab it, I just…I wasn’t being especially logical at the moment. It completely slipped my mind.”

“I think that’s a very understandable oversight.” He skims his calloused thumb across your cheekbone, light and fleeting just like the rest of him. One of these moments will be the last time he’ll ever touch me. “How are you feeling?”

“Everything hurts. Not just the leg. My back, my ribs, all over.”

“Appletini,” he says, deadly serious. “What are we going to do if Trent shows up again?”

“He won’t come here.” You’re sure of that. “He won’t make a scene in front of my parents. He has a temper, obviously, and when it first hits it blinds him. We’ve seen that over and over again. But he’s not as stupid as he seems. He won’t want to ruin his reputation. Juneau is his whole world.” Just like it’s mine, you think unwillingly, horribly. “Maybe he’ll go home and unwind with a few Heinekens and realize the best thing he can do is move on. Maybe he’ll just consider us even and never speak to me again.”

“That’s optimistic,” Aegon says flatly.

“It’s a catch-22, right? He can’t tell anyone I was with you without it coming out that he attacked me and vandalized my Jeep. I can’t tell anyone he’s a violet psycho without admitting what I was doing when he found us.”

“But you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You think that. I think that. But other opinions may differ.”

“You don’t belong in Juneau,” Aegon says suddenly, forcefully. “This place can be beautiful but it’s so fucking small. The people are small, their minds are small, any future here would be a waste of everything you’re made of. You feel that, right? I know you do. You don’t have to stay here.”

Aemond peeks into the exam room, observes that you’re still suturing, winces and vanishes into the lobby again. The news anchors are talking about snowfall, an estimated thirty to thirty-six inches.

“We should spend the blizzard at my parents’ house,” you tell Aegon.

“What, all three of us?” He remembers Aemond. “All four of us?”

“Definitely. We’ll have room to spread out in, we can shovel a section of the yard clear for Sunfyre, we won’t have to worry about Trent showing up for an encore. And…you know. I won’t have to be away from you.”

He grins. “You can’t get rid of me, Appletini. Not yet, anyway.”

“Not yet,” you agree, low and wistful. You finish suturing and bandage your thigh with gauze. Then you slide off the exam table, peel away your latex gloves, scrub your hands in the sink, and step out of your disfigured pajama pants. “Reach into that drawer. I keep an extra pair of jeans in there in case some animal gets its fluids all over me.”

Aegon passes you the jeans and pauses for a long time before he speaks. “Do you think Trent’s the Ice Fisher? It has to be him, right? After what happened tonight?” But his bruised face is full of doubt; his oceanic eyes are searching.

“I don’t think it’s him. I can’t really explain why, but I don’t.”

Aemond appears again, hesitating in the doorway. “Hey, idiot,” Aegon says. “We’re all going to wait out the blizzard at her parents’ house.”

“Why would we do that?”

“So I don’t have to spend three days alone with your oppressively stressful self, obviously.”

Aemond should jab back, but he doesn’t. He covers the damaged side of his face with one long agile hand and squeezes his remaining eye shut, flinching, uncharacteristically vulnerable.

“Nerve pain?” you ask.

“No,” Aemond snaps defensively.

“Here…” You paw though the cabinet and find a small white tube. “I have topical lidocaine, not just the injectable kind. It might help…”

“No,” he says again, stepping away from you.

“Aemond, let me—”

“No!”

“I’d leave him alone,” Aegon cautions you. You don’t listen. You follow Aemond as he retreats into the lobby and backs himself against a wall.

“Don’t touch me,” he lashes out, still holding his face in his hand, repulsed that you’re seeing him this way, repulsed by his own weakness.

“Fine. Then you do it.” Too swiftly for him to resist, you grab his wrist, squirt a plentiful amount of the lidocaine gel into his palm, and press his hand back to his ruined cheek, eyelids, forehead. He gapes at you, stunned. “Rub it in, then wait a few minutes. It should start helping.”

Aemond begins massaging the gel into the area around his scar. “Thank you,” he says huskily, averting his gaze from you.

“I don’t know what you have to be so shy about. You’ve basically seen me naked.”

Remarkably, Aemond smiles. He has dimples, you realize. He isn’t just marble or stone; he isn’t just formidable. He’s a little beautiful too. “I have things at home for it, but I forgot to pack them before I flew out of Miami.”

“Yeah, I bet you were in a real hurry to get here.” To find Aegon before he left for the next city. To bring back the long-lost prodigal son.

On the television, the news has pivoted to the Juneau Police Department’s latest discovery.

“Reports are coming in now that officers have found the eighth victim of the serial killer known locally as the Ice Fisher. The remains were recovered from Dredge Lake late this evening. While we are waiting for the victim’s identity to be publicly confirmed once the family has been notified, Chief of Police Eugene Baker has shared that the victim is a female in her mid-thirties. He has also reiterated the vital importance of Juneau residents not leaving their homes alone—no matter how briefly—until the killer is apprehended. The impending blizzard is expected to temporarily postpone the investigation…”

“Mid-thirties,” you consider. “Not Heather or Joyce or Kimmie. The Ursa Minor coincidence lives on.”

“The what?” Aegon says.

“No one from the bar ever gets murdered.”

Aemond watches the blue-white glow of the television, the edges of his face smoothing as the lidocaine gel dulls the erratic electrical signals of his severed nerves: fire, blades, tremors like tiny cataclysmic earthquakes. “Hm.”

The wheels in his skull turn, and then faster, and then faster.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s 11:00 p.m., and your parents are still awake. They’re working on a 1,000-piece puzzle at the dining room table and sipping Earl Grey tea when you walk in. The puzzle box is propped up so they can reference it as they click the jagged fragments together. The picture shows the skyline of London.

“Hey, ladybug!” your dad calls. “Want to help us? I can’t seem to finish this fucking clock.”

Your mom laughs, slapping his broad shoulder playfully. “It’s called Big Ben, you caveman.”

“You don’t complain about my caveman ways when you need wood chopped for the firepit—”

“I have an unorthodox request,” you say. They both turn their full attention to you.

“What is it?” your mom asks.

“I would like Aegon to stay with us until the blizzard is over. And Sunfyre. And Aegon’s brother.”

“Aegon has a brother?” your dad says.

“Yes, and he’s…um…” What’s the word for it? Is there a word for it? “Kind of…different. But he’s very well-mannered and won’t cause any problems. He’s nothing like Aegon. He’s essentially the complete opposite.”

“What’s his name?”

“Aemond.”

“So Greek,” your dad marvels.

Your mom blinks at you, clutching her cup of tea with both hands. Steam curls up around her face like smoke, like fog. “And you and Aegon are…getting along again?”

“Yes.”

She looks to your dad. “As…friends…?” he says.

“No. Not as friends.”

“Oh. Okay, yeah, that’d be just fine.” Your dad is trying to act nonchalant, but they’re both worried; they don’t understand, or maybe they understand too well, and that’s worse. You can hear Jesse’s ghost in the next room, in the attic, in the walls. He’s like that type of silence that starts to feel loud.

“I really, really appreciate it. They’ll be here soon.” Aemond drove himself and Aegon back to the apartment in your Jeep to pack up some essentials and get Sunfyre. “I’ll find the extra sheets and pillows. Aemond can sleep on the couch. And…there’s one more thing.”

“There’s a third brother and his name is Aristotle Onassis.”

No, Daeron. “If Trent shows up, don’t let him in.”

Now they’re really rattled. “What happened, ladybug?” your dad asks softly.

“I tried to end things with Trent. He didn’t take it well. He found out I was with Aegon and he smashed the back window of my Jeep with a rock. There was a whole…situation. I don’t want to talk about the specifics. I don’t need a hug or anything. I just need you both to know that he’s not welcome anywhere near me or Aegon.”

“Oh my god,” your mom gasps, her palm pressed to her heart. “Trent did that? Really?”

“Did he hurt you?” your dad asks; and his voice sounds nothing like the man who raised you. He sounds red and serrated and vengeful. He sounds like when he spoke to you about Jesse.

“No,” you lie, apparently convincingly enough. “But I’m afraid of him. I don’t think he’d try anything in front of you guys, but just in case…”

“Understood,” your dad says with a nod. “No need to elaborate. Trent is hereby banished from the premises.” He makes a cross with his hand like a priest performing an exorcism.

Your mom shivers as she drinks her tea, peering down at the half-finished puzzle. “Horrible. Just horrible. And he always seemed so nice…”

People aren’t always what they seem, Mom, you think bitterly, treasonously. Jesse seemed like he was getting better.

By the time you’re finished putting out food and water for Sunfyre and readying the couch for Aemond—your dad insists on helping you, though you try to refuse—there is a knock at the front door. The Targaryen brothers enter along with a frigid gust of Arctic air that blows the door wide open. Sunfyre, shaking snow from his fur, immediately makes himself at home by jumping up onto the couch and rolling all over it, kicking pillows to the floor.

“Great,” Aemond says tonelessly.

Your parents don’t even register the bruises on Aegon’s face, the dried blood on his hands and in his hair…not with Aemond in the room. They gawk at him: lofty height, long white hair, scar, sapphire, green Louis Vuitton suitcase, black Christian Dior sweatsuit. Eventually, your mom pulls her jaw shut and rises from the dining room table. “Hello!” she manages in an overcompensatingly enthusiastic warble.

To everyone’s surprise, Aemond goes to her and folds both of her hands into his own. “I wanted to personally thank you for welcoming me and my brother into your home. We will not forget your generosity, and it will be greatly rewarded. You will forever have the resources of Targaryen Enterprises at your disposal.”

“Have you ever tried not acting deranged?” Aegon asks him. “For maybe five minutes?”

“It’s our pleasure,” your mom stammers, transfixed by Aemond.

Your dad flashes a smile and gives Aemond a fatherly pat on the back. “Hell, if you’re ladybug’s friend, you’re our friend too. Do you have any pets, Aemond?”

“Yes, a Norwegian Forest cat. Her name is Vhagar.” He pulls a photograph out of his wallet to show them. The cat is freaking enormous.

“Goddamn, I’ve never seen one of those!” your dad exclaims. “How much does she eat? Do you let her outside? Does she hunt? What’s the life expectancy…?”

As they chat, Aegon rummages through the kitchen cabinets until he finds a bottle of red wine. You offer to get him a glass. “No point,” he says, winking. He drinks straight from the bottle, taking frequent little nips like taps of Morse code, sanding the edges off the present, the future, the past. When your parents retire to bed—no doubt to do some stealthy gossiping about their temporary houseguests—Aegon stumbles upstairs to shower, leaving you and Aemond alone. He sits down at the dining room table and moves puzzle pieces around with one index finger, linking them together faster than you would have thought possible.

“I forgot to tell you about him drinking wine,” you say.

“Well, wine is a given.” The rippling blue water of the River Thames is taking shape. “Make no mistake, it’s still suicide, what he’s doing now. It’s just slower. It’s the scenic route, sure, but it ends in the same place. You think he’ll make it to thirty?”

“No,” you answer quietly.

“He’ll overdose, or he’ll drive off the road, or he’ll fall into the ocean, or he’ll pass out somewhere and get claimed by the elements. He’ll be bones wrapped in roots and soil and we’ll never find him, we’ll never even have a body to bury. I’m not trying to hurt him. That couldn’t be further from what I want. Do you see that now? Do you understand?”

“You can’t fix him, Aemond. He has to want to fix himself.”

Aemond shakes his head. “He’ll never do it on his own.”

“You don’t think I’ve tried?” you say, heat like cinders in your throat. “I want the same thing you do. I’ve tried to get him to go to rehab, I’ve offered to help, I’ve given ultimatums, I’ve left him, I’ve come back, I don’t know what else there is to do. I’m watching him kill himself right in front of me, just like you are. It’s excruciating, loving someone like that. It’s hell.”

Aemond looks at you, a cold, razor-sharp warning. “I know.”

And he does love him, you realize. In a harsh way, in a tangled way, in a way that is burdened with years of betrayal and disappointment. But he loves Aegon too. If only that was enough. “He said that you were trying to protect him on the night of the accident. That your parents were always screaming at him.”

“They did a lot more than that. They hit him. My father harder, my mother more frequently. My grandfather broke his arm when he was ten.”

You can see Aegon as a sullen boy in a hospital bed, as an untamed streetlight-glowing teenager with the night wind in his hair, as a body floating in cold water. “And you think it’s a good idea for him to go back to that kind of environment?”

“Things are different now,” Aemond says, in a tone that offers no further explanation. “Is there a place where I can get some work done tomorrow?”

“Sure. The study is down the hallway, the second door on the right. There’s a desk and a phone in there and everything. Knock yourself out.”

“Oh, I don’t think it will come to that,” Aemond says, a sly smile on his half-ravaged face. And then he goes to the couch—not shooing Sunfyre away but merely shoving him aside to make sufficient space—and turns on the television so he won’t miss any of the news coverage, sliding his BlackBerry out of his pocket and clicking away on it.

When Aegon wanders into your bedroom—black Foo Fighters T-shirt, fresh green flannel pajama pants, dewy and flushed, aggressively rubbing his hair with a towel—you’re waiting for him. He holds up his hands to show you, grinning and proud. “No more blood. Happy now, vet lady?”

“Very.”

“It’s a problem, you know. I never seem to want to wash you off me.” His racoonish eyes flick to the mirror. It’s still decorated with the photographs he remembers, but there’s something missing: the magazine cutout of the Pacific Coast Highway, of California. “What happened to the convertible guy?”

“He got demoted.”

“Since when?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

But still, he knows: since New Year’s Eve, since everything started going wrong. Aegon glimpses his reflection in the silver glass and quickly turns away.

“Your face isn’t that bad. The bruises should start fading soon.”

He smirks. “You’re always looking in the mirror because you’re still trying to figure out who you are. I don’t like looking because I already know.” His eyes catch on the cardboard box full of Jesse’s journals, jutting out from under the bed like the monster of a child’s imagination. “Old birthday and Christmas cards? High school yearbooks? Hot Wheels? Legos?”

“No. Journals.”

His eyebrows shoot up, intrigued. “Yours?”

“Jesse’s.”

“Oh,” he says tentatively, treading lightly, not wanting to offend. “You’ve read them?”

“Bits and pieces. I think it would take years to finish them all.” And then you add: “If you’re ever curious and want to take a look, I don’t mind.” Maybe it would be good for you. Maybe it would show you what you have to look forward to if you don’t change. “Now come here.”

Aegon crawls onto the bed; the mattress shifts beneath his knuckles and knees. He takes your face in his hands and kisses you gently, unhurriedly, like you’re made of glass that’s already beginning to splinter. You hurt everywhere, yes, but one ache is worse than all the others. It is an emptiness rather than the pressure of trapped blood or the mending of skin and sinew. It is the cavernous void of a missing piece in the shape of him.

You reach out, graze the backs of your fingers over his bruised cheekbone, tuck his damp lock of hair behind his ear. “I guess we got interrupted earlier.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Aegon murmurs. He smells like wine and soap, your soap. The heat of his skin is rising and infectious, a swelling wave, a fever. He’s holding himself back. He always seems to be holding himself back with you.

“I won’t be yours forever. But I am right now.” You press your lips to his jaw, your fingerprints to the kaleidoscope of bruises on his face. “Take me, all of me, I want you to have it.”

Aegon drags off your jeans agonizingly slowly, mindful of the bandage. He lifts away your oversized T-shirt, your doubts, your pain, your fear of the future. You strip him bare like winter pillages the earth. He is careful not to put any weight on your right thigh. He is tender and whispering, and when his hand slips beneath your blue silk panties you are stunned by how starved you are for him, how desperate, smothering moans against his throat, Aegon swearing that he won’t fuck you until you’ve come first; and then you do, so hard you see pinpoint stars like an unnamed constellation, like the glimmer of the Northern Lights. And then he is inside you, covering you like ivy, growing over you and through you and into dark needful corners that you hadn’t even known were there. He is freeing like an open sky, like the infinite line of the ocean. He is a memory you’ll never be able to mine from your bones.

When you wake in the morning to see white powdery snow falling heavily beyond your bedroom window, Aegon is sitting cross-legged on the floor and flipping through an olive green journal. The pages, riddled with spikes and loops of untidy ink, rustle against his calloused fingers.

“He’s funny,” Aegon says. “I don’t know why I didn’t expect that. I should have.”

“Why would you expect it?” Why would you expect anything but ruin, but tragedy?

He smiles. “Because you’re funny too.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Your parents are in full entertaining guests mode; the kitchen rings out with clangs and thumps as they try out new recipes, cookies and muffins and reindeer chili with green chilies and cheddar cheese. You and Aegon are playing Mouse Trap on the coffee table in the living room, one of practically endless board games your parents kept from your childhood. Intermittently, as commercials appear on the television, Aegon jots down notes on the back of a Taco Bell receipt he found under the couch. Sunfyre alternates between collecting pats from you and Aegon and licking up fallen scraps in the kitchen. He trots around the house buoyantly, tail wagging, eyes bright and twinkling; it’s not often that all of his favorite humans are in the same place. An Oasis album rotates on your dad’s record player. Don’t Look Back In Anger reverberates through the house like a heartbeat.

Aemond is working in the study. You can sometimes hear the low melody of his voice, or the beeping of his BlackBerry, or the jangling of the phone. Each time it goes off, he picks up on the first ring. About once per hour he appears in the living room to switch the tv channel from the X-Files or Buffy to the local news before retreating back into the study. The Ice Fisher’s eighth victim has been officially identified: Nikola Kozlowski, an adjunct professor of Marine Biology at the University of Alaska. She was snatched, strangled, sunk into water too cold for you to imagine. Aemond stares at the television, artificial light dancing on his face.

“Hey, you want to play Don’t Break The Ice?” Aegon says, swigging red wine straight from the bottle.

“That’s in poor taste,” Aemond mutters as he leaves.

Aegon shouts after him: “It was a joke!” He sighs, flips the channel back to the X-Files, observes the commercial with peculiar interest. “You like Chia Pets?” he asks you.

“I don’t know, I’ve never had one.”

“Interesting.” He makes a scribble on the receipt, takes another gulp of wine.

Just before lunch, you and Aegon venture out into the blizzard together to clear a space for Sunfyre to run around in, tilling fluffy mounds of snow until you can no longer feel your cheeks or your noses, catching snowflakes on your tongues, dashing back inside for steaming cups of Earl Grey tea and bowls of reindeer chili.

“Aemond?” your mom calls, knocking timidly on the study door. “Dear, would you like some chili? It’s homemade! It’s a brand new recipe! We have bacon bits!”

Perhaps reluctantly—although he tries to disguise it—Aemond emerges for a lunch break. At the dining room table, he sits next to you instead of Aegon. Your mom attempts to compulsively feed him cornbread muffins; your dad asks him about Targaryen Enterprises. Aemond answers quite a few of the questions, gracefully evades others. He is someone who has a genetic gift for holding cards close to the vest. After a while, Aegon takes his half-empty wine bottle and staggers off. He’s wearing his black crewneck sweatshirt, cuffed jeans, combat boots, and his white-blond hair in a man bun. Aemond palpably disapproves of this.

“That’s a fascinating setup you’ve got there,” your dad tells Aemond, pointing at his sapphire. “I hope I won’t offend you by mentioning it, but I couldn’t let you leave without ever saying how brilliant I think it is. It’s the sort of thing a tech magnate would come up with. Innovative. Futuristic, even. In a humble Alaskan’s terms, it’s really goddamn cool.”

“No offense taken.” No, and in fact, you think Aemond is trying not to let on how pleased he is, how…touched. “I was given something disfiguring and pathetic and made it an asset. Now people look at me with astonishment instead of pity. Tech and finance companies name their products after sapphires, after me. Teenagers dress up as me for Halloween.”

“I bet the women like it too,” your dad notes with a grin.

“Well…” Aemond stirs his chili, avoidant. “I’m a little too busy for women.”

Your dad mumbles, rubbing his forehead: “A sexy genius billionaire…too busy for women…now I’ve heard it all.”

And Aemond smiles, even blushes, dunking a cornbread muffin into his chili. It’s the strangest thing: you don’t suspect that he had any desire at all to eat lunch with your parents, but now he doesn’t seem to want to leave. When Aemond at last returns to the study, Aegon plods down the stairs and throws himself onto the couch, flipping lazily through the television channels. Within two minutes, Aemond bolts into the living room.

“Where’s my Visa?”

“Oh, whoops.” Aegon takes it out of the pocket of his jeans and tosses it to his brother. The credit card sails across the room like a paper airplane. Aemond grabs it off the floor.

“What the hell were you doing with it?”

“Buying thank you gifts to show the Appletinis how appreciative we are for their hospitality.”

“Thank you gifts…?”

“Yeah. A George Foreman Grill, a Rainbow Art set, some Ginsu Knives, a lifetime supply of Zoobooks, a BeDazzler—”

“A what?”

“A BeDazzler,” Aegon repeats impatiently. “It bedazzles things. A Kidz Bop cassette tape, a Betty Crocker Bake n’ Fill, a Chia Pet…five Chia Pets, actually…oh, and a Psychic Reading with Miss Cleo for me. She said I recently received an alarming and unwelcome visitor. Sounds like she really has talent.”

“You’re useless,” Aemond says, glowering at him.

Aegon guzzles his wine. “How’s Mom?”

“Oh, you’re suddenly interested?”

Aegon shrugs, gesturing vaguely with his wine bottle. He’s very drunk. “It’s polite to ask.”

“She’s terrible,” Aemond says. “She misses you, she worries about you, she blames herself for everything. It never gets better. It only gets worse. Every year it gets worse. She wants to make things right. She wants a second chance. We all do. Mom, me, Helaena, Daeron—”

“Dad?” Aegon flings mockingly, like he knows it won’t be true.

Aemond watches his brother for a long time before he answers. “He’s dying.”

The shock hits Aegon’s face, slow but marrow-deep, spreading beneath the surface like dark tendrils of blood poisoning. “He’s…?”

“That’s not public information yet. People will panic…stock prices, you know…but the company is in good hands. The company will still be here in a year. But Dad won’t.”

Aegon shakes his head, not understanding. “What happened?”

“Cancer. Pancreatic, inoperable.”

“Jesus Christ,” Aegon whispers, swigging his wine.

“He wants to see you before it’s too late. He wants to apologize.”

Again, Aegon shakes his head. He stares out the window at the falling snow, at the cold grey sky. “I have nothing to say to him.”

“Aegon, please—”

“He never liked me, and if he thinks he does now it’s only because of the omnipotent, looming threat of the Great Beyond. Me showing up in Miami won’t fix anything. Not for him, and not for anybody else.”

“It will,” Aemond insists.

“Because you’re so happy to see me, right?” Aegon says; and he grins, a horrible, dazed, triumphant, venomous grin. “You’re so proud of the person I’ve become, the person I’ve always been. You’re beaming with it. You’re fucking ecstatic.”

“Stop.”

“Admit it, Aemond. You should have been born first. You should have been the heir. It always should have been you, and now it is. Can’t you just enjoy it? Can’t you just go back to your little conference calls and your conventions and your equity negotiations and leave me alone?”

Aemond’s hand juts out, seizes Aegon by the collar of his sweatshirt, wrenches him to his feet. Sunfyre growls, showing long canine teeth. “Why, so you can destroy yourself in peace?” Aemond seethes. “No, not a chance. You’re not going to be the weight we’re all forced to carry on our backs. You don’t get to become the Targaryen family ghost. You don’t get to haunt us. You’ve already done enough. Do you hear me? You’ve done enough.” He shoves Aegon back onto the couch, storms into the study, slams the door behind him.

Your parents peek skittishly from of the kitchen. “Everything okay out there?” your dad says.

“Yeah,” Aegon slings back. He drains the last of his wine, takes your hand, presses his still-healing lips to your knuckles. His face is a wasteland, miles away, years away. Sunfyre, whimpering, rests his head in his lap.

“Aegon,” you begin, laying your palm against his cheek. I would do anything to help you, to fix you. What can I do? What can any of us do?

“I’m not going back.” He gazes out the window, cold grey void filling up his eyes. “I’m never going back.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The days are seasons: silent colorless mornings, snow-glare afternoons, violet dusk peppered with star-fire, nights as black as volcanic glass. Rumbling, monstrous plows pass by on the street outside. Trucks and SUVs begin revving back to life, exhaust fumes melting icicles that hang like fangs. The long hours that Aemond spends in the study yield no revelations that you can see. He is courteous to your parents, jarringly so. Before he leaves, he places an envelope on their dining room table. You open it while he and Aegon are loading their luggage into your Jeep.

“Don’t bang my suitcase around,” you can hear Aemond commanding, muffled through the house’s frosted windows. “Hey, what did I say—?!”

Inside the envelope is a handwritten note and a check for ten thousand dollars. The note reads:

Thank you so very much for your remarkable warmth and hospitality. You have a beautiful home, and an even more beautiful family. Please don’t hesitate to get in touch if you ever require anything. In Targaryen Enterprises, you have a friend for life.

Yours most sincerely, Aemond

P.S. I apologize about my delinquent brother. I am indescribably mortified by his conduct.

P.P.S. Your daughter is far too good for him.

Once back in his apartment, Aegon sets a pot on the stove. He gets two mugs out of the cabinet—the large blue mug for you, the green mug with tiny gold stars for him—and dusts a kiss across your cheekbone, one of his swift weightless kisses, the kind that feels routine and limitless, like he’ll be doing it for the rest of his life. Sunfyre frolics around you both, panting happily, accepting ear scratches and high-pitched praises.

Aemond goes immediately to the television. He turns it on, flips through the channels, finds the local news. There is a flurry of words you can’t get a grip on right away: breaking news, the Juneau Police Department, the Ice Fisher, suspect in custody.

What appears in the little black box doesn’t make any sense. There are random, disconnected fragments—flashing blue and red lights reflecting off fresh snow, Trent’s apartment, officers in uniform, florescent yellow crime scene tape, Trent being led to a police car in handcuffs—and then they all come together in a boom like thunder. And then all the pieces fall into place.

“I made a call reporting Trent for suspicious behavior,” Aemond explains calmly. “I got a judge to issue a search warrant. They went into his apartment with dogs and UV lights and found hiking boots with blood on them. A lot of blood. Human blood.”

Trent?

“And not just boots. There are trekking poles too, and snowshoes, and chisels, and fishing lines, things that match evidence left in the areas where the bodies were discovered. All with blood on them.”

TRENT?

“They’re waiting for lab results to confirm that the blood matches one or more of the victims’ DNA, but I’m confident they’ll find what they’re looking for. He’s their killer, the worst one Juneau has ever seen. He’s not a mystery, and he’s not a legend. He’s just a man.”

You and Aegon are staring at the television, horrified, hypnotized; you can’t look away. Your heart is racing. You’ve forgotten how to breathe. Your pulse is a deafening roar in your ears, a storm over the ocean, crashing waves and winds that capsize ships. Trent’s face isn’t colored with rage, audacity, remorse. When he flips his long hair out of his eyes, he looks bewildered. He wears the blank, fumbling confusion of a child.

It can’t be Trent, can it? Can it?

“No more excuses. No more delays.” Aemond turns to his brother. His pale eye is savage and determined. His sapphire glints like a blade. “It’s time to go home.”

[dragon-communion]

While on the one hand, Fia’s sessions of “taking lifely vigor” from the Tarnished are definitely implied to be sex, and I find it hilarious that this is a situation where the devs probably bapped GRRM on the nose and told him to calm down, what if I roll with the implication?

It’s implied in a previous version of the Turtle Neck Meat item that people in the Lands Between just don’t have sex anymore. It’s too feral. Bestial. Might even have something to do with the birth of Omen children, actually, considering how such an animal act might bring one closer to the Crucible.

So what if extended hugging sessions are that scandalous and vulgar? Spending a minute in the arms of another person being worse than a glimpse of Victorian ankle has some fascinating implications for society in the Lands Between. If physical contact itself is base and hedonistic, can you imagine how touch starved everyone is?

One of the major problems in modern day America is how distant everyone is. While the Lands Between might not have the same issues with a lack of third places or the consequences of car-focused city planning, our level of general societal paranoia compounded with the advent of COVID means we just don’t touch eachother at all ever. This is grossly simplified because I’m too lazy to go get sources, so feel free to fact check me, but part of the focus on getting yourself a romantic partner is so folks can finally have someone it’s acceptable to get positive physical touch from. Failing that, getting into a sport at least earns you a more violent facsimile of that.

In the Lands Between, where society is focused on being a civilized as possible, it would make sense (a la Brave New World by Huxley) for society to try to eliminate sex and its trappings. Given Elden Ring’s heavy Catholic themes, celibacy also takes on a religious twist- Augustine of Hippo “taught that original sin was transmitted by concupiscence”, or physical desire and longing. To quote briefly from Wikipedia, “The view of the Church is that celibacy is a reflection of life in Heaven, a source of detachment from the material world which aids in one's relationship with God.”

Looking at Queen Marika the Eternal makes it painfully obvious to the player that she’s not even a creature of flesh anymore, twisted into something like a glorified clay pot or even a reliquary for the Elden Ring. We don’t know much about what she was like beyond a few queenly speeches, but whether she was always literally a vessel like that or not, the no doubt popular image of her as a vessel of life could have easily changed over the years from something very physical to the more chaste implications of the female water-bearer statues or iconography of her pouring out a chalice. People do still swear by Marika’s tits, so obviously physical desire might still exist, but my recent theorizing on crystal tears and amber babies really puts me in mind of the sterilized process in Brave New World where disembodied ovaries are fertilized in a lab via cloning. There’s something there in the imagery of the baptismal fonts around the Erdtree collecting tears that become new births.

The whole arrangement might also put a new spin on the gladiatoral games in the Coliseums, and to some extent Marika’s warlike drive. People crave contact, and the high of violence can be close enough to sex to mimic it, though poorly. I think everyone has probably made jokes about how American football has some undertones, and pro wrestling is the same. The most obvious example is dog collar matches, which look so close to BDSM as to be nearly indistinguishable to me.

With all of that in mind, the unmistakable intimacy of Fia’s actions might actually be as degenerate and twisted to modern Lands Between sensibilities as pup masks and handcuffs to the modern day American. What she offers is a gentle hug, perhaps even extended cuddling, and pillow talk. It’s stated that Rogier says “all sorts of things” abed, and while it’s easy to take that to a more physical interpretation, it could actually literally be Fia playing with the man’s hair for an hour until every single thought falls out of his head. When she makes the offer to you, she has to couch it carefully, framed in the ideas of a foreign interpretation of the sacred as if the only way it can be legitimate is if it is a sacred act, as if that’s the only way you’ll be able to understand it. Like when we argue for gay marriage and couch it in the language of romantic equality, because surely everyone can empathize with romantic equality, when the real physical benefits involve insurance and hospital visitation rights.

Anyway, it’s just something I’ve been thinking about.

[bucknastysbabe]

Slips through cracks

A/N: Idk where this monstrosity TW of a beast came from but hope someone enjoys!

Rating: Explicit

Tags: TW implied ab*se, past underage, incest, weird manipulation and childhood trauma, Aegon being Aegon, drug and alcohol abuse. Modern!au, Frottage, fucked ass up greens, Daeron’s twin reader, she’s of age in this, nepo baby Aegon with a coke problem, Daddy Criston hours, I attempted to use English terms👍🏻 xoxo your pathetic American, toxic relationships

Oh boy, the trip to Oldtown. The whole family has to go see Daeron play in the Westeros Cup of football. You included. Ripped from an Essosi holiday break to cohabitate with the most dysfunctional unit of all time for a weekend. Then you could fuck back off to your own pretentious private school, Helaena could go back to her cottagecore Etsy shit, Aemond to med school, and Aegon.

You clenched your teeth at the mere thought of him. Degenerate. Drunk. ‘Wild Prince’, Asshole. You could go on. He was videoing the plane, incessantly talking to his ‘followers’. There was no way he wasn’t coked the fuck up right now. Aemond sniffed and tucked his nose further into his book, eyes rolling at the eldest.

Alicent and Viserys had already made it to Otto’s place, sending Criston Cole to keep the ‘kids’ in check. Even though you and Daeron were legal adults now. Peering over your book you watched Helaena knit a sweater in the fine print of a spider’s web. She smiled softly and asked, “Do you think he’ll like it?” She was almost done and it did look damn good, Daeron would love it. Your twin was kind and definitely could find a way to insert the handmade item into his wardrobe.

“Yeah Hel, you know he’s going to find a way to wear it every chance possible,” you laughed.

“Darling Daeron,” she sighed under her breath, eyes dreamy. You watched her nimble fingers, tuning out Aegon’s wretched talking and Aemond’s pointed noises. Eventually your eyes slipped shut, book falling into your lap.

“It’s time to get up,” he teased in your ear, you bolting upright with a gasp. Aegon smiled down at you, grinning lecherously, tucking a strand of hair behind an ear. You scoffed and stood up, shouldering him off in the process. Your big brother whined, “C’mon you’re still mad at me? I was drunkkkk.”

Being drunk does not constitute leaving your sister in your dorm for a night after promising a ‘real flea bottom party’ with his ‘famous friends’. You cried watching him being a dumbass on social media, plastered with girls and drugs. Idiot. You got an actual Uber back to the family estate, crying to Criston about your dick brother.

You ignored him further, wanting to rip that stupid earring out of his head. Aegon pouted, prodding further, even taking your bags for you. Which the dumbass never worked out so he was struggling. You couldn’t help but quirk your lips up as the eldest brother almost fell face first down the jet’s stairs.

Aemond snatched your duffel, easily hauling it over a broad shoulder. He snapped, “You being a pathetic clown isn’t going to magically fix everything.” You shared a look with Cole and snickered. Aegon grumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets, “Oh get the stick out of your arse Aem.”

Helaena drifted aside, eyes on the sky, gazing towards the tower your mother’s side of the family was named for. You followed her gaze, frowning. It was a gleaming beacon on the outside, a gloomy vault on the inside. You hated it there, unsure why they couldn’t just abdicate the site to national affairs like every other royal did. Too proud.

Cole ushered you all into the limo, giving Aegon an extra shove and low curse, the blonde rolling his eyes. You sat far away from your elder sibling, asking Aemond how school was going. He replied in that stiff way of his, “More tests and research, then hopefully I can get my first residency. I’d like to be in a high-profile area like King’s Landing or Lannisport. Get more expertise.”

You nodded along, giving your brother best wishes. He hummed, “And your studies? Last I heard you’d rather play tennis.” You rolled your eyes and snorted, “I’ve given up hope, I won’t be a professional like Daeron. Finding myself with a passion for Psychology and it’s social aspects.”

“So you can figure out what’s wrong with the Targaryen bloodline,” Aemond said.

The aggravating ringing of Aegon’s phone ruined one of your rare conversations with Aem. He apologized sheepishly but still held up a finger as he argued with someone over the phone. It was either about one of his girls, drugs, or both. You rolled your eyes and groaned, watching the city pass by as the limo bumped it’s way toward the Hightower.

“Okay, whatever, fuck you I have plenty of others!,” Aegon spat, cheeks red from annoyance. Criston reached over the limo and snatched the cell, stuffing it in a coat pocket. Your brother gaped like a dying fish before demanding, “Give that back! I was in the middle of a conversation!”

“You’re getting on everyone’s nerves. Obviously it’s not doing you any good so why don’t we take a break, eh?” His brown eyes remained stony, arms crossed authoritatively. Ser Criston was basically the surrogate dad of your group, Viserys preoccupied with his health and elder daughter, her brood.

Aegon begged but received nothing. Eventually the prince settled down when Criston said he’d return the phone after they got there. The idiot instead rolled his window down to the crowd outside and waved, cheering with the people. You could see the cameras flashing on his cheeks, Aegon just sucking it all in. Aemond slunk deep into his seat and Helaena put on her noise cancelling headphones.

Aegon’s violet eyes turned to you, breathlessly stating, “They love me you know.” You retorted, “They love how accessible you are.” Aegon’s cheery smile faltered for a second, eyes flitting down. It didn’t last long as he painted the grin back on and blew a kiss to a girl decked in Oldtown’s team colors.

Eventually the limo pulled into the high gates surrounding the tower. Attendants were already getting your bags and taking them to the assigned rooms. Your mother, Alicent, and grandpa Otto waited by one of the many grand doors. She hugged and kissed you, blessing the seven for your safe arrival. The same spiel happened except for Aegon who got a stiff kiss on the cheek. Otto and Helaena shared an embrace, your sister happily chattering to him about her sweater for Daeron.

You raised a brow and asked, “Where is Daeron anyways? With the team still?” You checked your phone to see if you missed a text. Alicent replied, “He’ll be here later, they’re finishing up practice currently.” You frowned. Daeron had better get here quick or you feared someone was going to get stuck with a knife.

Criston held out Aegon’s phone to the blonde, who snatched it up greedily. His ringed fingers and violet eyes soaked up whatever minutes he had missed. You asked, “Can I go to my room? I have a headache.” Otto put his hand at the small of your waist and said, “Yes, come on, I’ll get someone to bring you water and medicine.”

You must’ve been really tired, blinking open your groggy eyes to see that hours had passed. Stretching your body you let out a little squeak, happy to have some alone time. Then the door crashed open and a freshly showered Daeron cheered, “Sister!” You grinned and hopped out of the bed as fast as possible, tripping in the process but your sibling caught you easily.

You pulled the taller twin into a hug, gushing, “This is so exciting! Look at you, Mister Oldtown Football himself.” Daeron blushed and rolled his eyes, “Nothing but hard work, I swear,” he added lowly, “And beating off bloodsuckers.��� You smirked and both of you simultaneously said, “Aegon!”

Daeron groaned, “Yes, I had to come find you so he’d stop getting me on his social media shite. He went out to party though, so we’re clear for dinner.” You laughed and replied, “Well, let’s go have some family bonding. You need to tell me all about your year.”

“No you, freezing away in the North like that.”

Bonding with Daeron was exactly what you needed. Even dinner was not unpleasant, Viserys in a jovial mood. No one spoke of the elephant in the room. Your twin did slide his phone over to you later in the sitting room, dramatically pantomiming a gag. The video was of Aegon draining a shot between some broad’s tits. You could see the coke on the table in the back, loads of it.

Aemond peered over and barked a laugh, “Oh he’s going to be a nightmare in the morning.”

You swallowed at the comment, a thought leaving as soon as it appeared.

You grumbled, “Hopefully Cole will leave him out there.” Daeron smirked, “Someone’s still mad about summer.” You batted Daeron’s shoulder, now clad in Hel’s sweater. You pouted, “Try getting left alone all night! It sucked.” Your twin gave you a look, murmuring, “I know he’s your favorite for some reason but you shouldn’t trust Aegon.” You leveled him with a glare.

Daeron dropped the subject and the rest of the evening went smoothly. You went to bed when your twin had to return to the team complex. You tossed around for a bit, wondering about your eldest brother. Eventually sleep graced you. Not for long.

You groggily beat at whoever was in your bed. You rasped, “There’s no ghosts here Daeron.” Then realization hit you. Daeron was across Oldtown. Bolting upright you flicked on the lamp to be greeted with a disheveled Aegon. His purple eyes were big and sad. Obviously he’d been crying. Your big brother was likely suffering from a coke crash into a sad drunk fit.

You cursed, “The fuck are you doing? How did you get here?”

Aegon’s plush lips wobbled as he sniffed, “Cole got me.”

“Why are you crying?”

Aegon sniveled some more, “Did you mean that earlier? Does anyone like me? Why do y-you hate me?”

You gawked at him, perplexed by the behavior. Throwing up your hands you demanded, “Aegon you’re twenty-four years old, why are you crying in my bed like we’re children? I don’t hate you, you’re just a selfish prick.”

The blonde threw himself on top of you with another cry, apologizing profusely. You sighed, “Thanks- I guess. It hurt my feelings when you left me alone all night. I thought I was more important than that, big brother.” If you were turning the screws on him, that was your business alone, but it worked like a charm.

He pulled back and shook his pale locks, blubbering, “No-no-no you are so important to me, I am a selfish prick! I’ll make it up to you when Daeron wins!” Aegon was embarrassingly pathetic. But here you were, rubbing his heaving back while he whimpered, “No one gets me like you do.” You idly wondered if he said this to other girls or just his sister, which had long been a strangeness never deeply thought about. It’s just something that was, is.

You sighed, “I love you big brother, of course I get you, now can you get the booze clothes off and we can go to bed? I have some leftover headache stuff you can take.” He snuffled into your neck, wetting your skin with more tears. Shoving the man off you gently ushered him along.

“Promise you love me? I love you more than anything little sister,” he whispered into the darkness once the light clicked off.

You replied, eyes unblinking up into the inky black of the room while he cuddled into you, “Love you more than anything big brother.” A tear slipped down your cheek but you arms were too busy wrapped around Aegon to wipe it.

You awoke again tucked into his frame like many a night from the past. He always came back to you. As soon as Daeron and you grew up enough to not be attached at the hip, that’s when Aegon sunk his talons in.

He pressed little sleepy kisses to your neck, humming in contentment. Aegon murmured, “Smell so sweet. My perfect sister.” You swallowed at the feeling of his cock swollen and nestled between your thighs, only separated by thin cotton. Wetness had already seeped out your cunt, probably started when you were still asleep.

You chided, “A-Aegon, what if mother walks in?”

He whined, “C’mon, please, missed my sister’s pussy, please baby.” You found your will crumbling at the sounds of his breathless grunts and hot cock rubbing against your swollen folds. Aegon moaned like a needy whore in your ear, rutting harder and whimpering like he couldn’t enough. His hands grabbed and groped at your tits desperately.

“Hnnn- oh fuck, you get me so horny, m’so fucking hot for you.”

You rolled your hips back easily, playing into this mood. It was like muscle memory now, start baby talking him when he got this desperate. You pitched up your moans, “Yeah? Big brother all hard n’ achy for me? Gonna mess your little sisters panties up before breakfast?”

“Fuck!,” he cried, mouthing at your shoulder with a shudder. Aegon mewled, “Yeah, yeah- mmmfuck yeah m’gonna bust, so hard for you.” You taunted, “Didn’t even get a nut off last night? My handsome big brother surrounded by all these pretty girls and- oh- has to come rut into the baby?”

The tip of his cock was dragging the soaked material of your panties across sensitive nerves. You cried Aegon’s name softly, pressing your tits into his greedy hands, squeezing around his prick. He stuttered and whined, long and loud at your ministrations. The prince whimpered out, voice strangled by desire, “I thought about you, how much mmh- better your pussy is, oh gods m’gonna cum!”

You turned around to seize his loose lips, colliding with wet smacks. Both of you drooled and whined into eachother’s mouth, fucking faster by the second. The bed was faintly squeaking by now. You gasped, “Brother! Aegon!” He rasped, “Love you oh my gods love you.”

The elder seized up, hot cum soaking and staining your underwear further. He whined through his nose, exhaling on a choppy breath. You came soon after, Aegon’s whining and tweaking at your tits sending you over the precipice with a tight squeeze and muffled wail.

Your legs trembled as he slumped against you, pressing another kiss before rolling onto his back with a sigh. He jerked you over to him while fumbling to the side for his phone. You laid quietly while he slid through the messages and videos, a frown on his lips. He asked, “Do you ever think about running off to Essos?”

You shrugged, “Sometimes. I don’t think it’ll be much different for you in Braavos or Astapor.”

He challenged, “It would be just me and you. I swear.” The phone was put away petulantly, his red rimmed eyes staring into your own. Footsteps passed outside, your eyes nervously flickering to the door. Peering back at Aegon you said, “Just say the word and I’ll go, big brother.”

He seemed satisfied at that, lips curling back up. Aegon sighed, “Good. I’ll get going then. Love you.” He pecked your lips again and darted out an old servant’s exit while you watched blankly. Holding back a retch you texted Daeron, “Good luck today!”

[howtofightwrite]

Where did the idea that fighters/knights are dumb jocks came from? It is a D&D thing or older than that?

I'm going to start off with a major disclaimer, I don't know, and haven't been able to concretely nail this one down.

There's also an irony here in that the dumb fighter isn't really a D&D cliché. In Dungeons and Dragons, if you're trying to min-max a fighter (especially in any edition in the past 20 years), you're far more likely to dump Charisma rather than Intelligence. Back in AD&D, the only thing a Fighter would really benefit from would be extra languages, which isn't a reason to focus on the stat, but it's not terrible, while low. In contrast, low charisma just means people immediately dislike your fighter, and if their main method of communicating with people involves turning them into a Jackson Pollock reproduction on the dungeon walls, then low charisma doesn't really handicap them. Since then, Intelligence has become more important, because it governs how many skill points your character gets at each level, and gates a few potentially useful feats.

It's not the fantasy heroes from the pulp era, most of those characters were, at least, cunning, if not downright intelligent in their original incarnations. For example: The archetypal fantasy barbarian, Conan, is actually depicted as quite intelligent in the original Robert E. Howard short stories and novels, it's only in later adaptations and parody where he degenerates into the mindless engine of destruction that now dominates the stereotype.

This leads me to one of my first suspicions about this cliché: It may be a case of a parody becoming separated from its comedic origins, and taken at face value. The dumb fighter can be used very effectively as a comedic foil. It's certainly possible that some audiences started taking this at face value rather than realizing that the entire archetype was meant to be a joke.

Similarly, even in a non-comedic context, there's a lot of potential value in appearing to be an idiot, while concealing your true cunning, as it will lead your foes to underestimate you. It's possible there's an example of this that was picked up and then (as is often the case) the nuances were lost when other authors emulated that example.

I'm aware of a case where this happened (though, the details were slightly different), the 1951 film adaptation of Tennessee Williams' A Streetcar Named Desire. Marlon Brando's performance was incredibly influential. On one hand, this lead to method acting becoming a mainstream technique in Hollywood. However, it also lead to a lot of actors blindly emulating Brando's performance. The problem is, Stanley (Brando's character) is a punch-drunk boxer, who slurs his speech. He's been hit in the head enough times that he's not all there anymore, and actors who were playing characters who really should not sound like washed up, has been, boxers, were mimicking Brando's slurred delivery.

This does also lead to a third possibility for this cliché that I'm somewhat inclined to endorse. Where does the idea of a fighter as a dumb jock come from? CTEs.

To be clear, chronic traumatic encephalopathy is not a joke. It's a very serious condition, and it's associated with contact sports that involve frequent blows to the head. Technically, it does not make the sufferer, “dumber,” but it does have a lot of very serious symptoms (including impaired impulse control, confusion, memory loss, increased aggression, and eventually early onset dementia. This is not a complete list.) The net result is that it could certainly give the impression of someone being a, “dumb jock.”

Which leads back to Brando's character, Stanley, an ex-boxer, who is suffering from CTE. And boxing is a sport where CTEs are disturbingly common, especially among older fighters. (American Football is another sport with massive incidents of CTEs. Both at the professional and amateur levels.)

This leads to a really messed up possibility, that the entire stereotype of the, “dumb jock,” is in part a mask applied over kids suffering serious neurological damage as teenagers, due to the, “tradition,” of high-school sports. Now it is important to note that CTEs usually take years to manifest, so it's rare to find the symptoms in a teen. Also, if they're neglecting their other studies in favor of sports, that also reinforces the stereotype even though that behavior is, basically, benign.

At the very least, given the cultural prominence of boxing as a sport in the 19thand early 20thcenturies. It's easy to miss today, but even up into the late 1950s and 60s, boxers were still held in pretty high regard, culturally. There are still some remnants of that today, particularly in the uppermost echelons of the sport. So, it wouldn't surprise me if the stereotype of the dumb fighter is heavily informed by veteran boxers who were already suffering from CTEs, and dealing with serious cognitive impairment as a result. However, as I mentioned at the beginning, I can't prove this. It potentially explains the stereotype, but that doesn't mean I'm right.

As to historical knights and fighters, a dumb fighter is easier to dispatch on the battlefield than a smart one. They're easier to lure out of position. They're more vulnerable to manipulation (either via battlefield tactics or psyops.) If they're in a command position (which applies when we're talking about knights), their potential to inflict catastrophic casualties on their own troops increases dramatically. There are a wealth of historical examples of a, “less astute,” commander being easily manipulated into sacrificing their troops for little to no benefit by their opponent.

Historically speaking, knights were (usually) pretty well educated in comparison to the peasants they'd lead into battle. These were professional warriors with at least some formal education in strategy and tactics. That somewhat undermines the image of the knight as a dumb jock. It's certainly possible there were idiot knights in history, actually, it seems fairly likely given the nepotism of Europe, but again, they would have been the exception rather than the rule.

So, as I said at the beginning, I don't know where this came from. I suspect it's tied up with people suffering from CTEs, but that is just an educated guess.

-Starke

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[afeelgoodblog]

The Best News of Last Week - May 16, 2022

🐶— Meet the good boi that has won hearts and admirers for detecting more than 200 undetonated explosive devices since the beginning of the war in late February

1. Spain set to become the first European country to introduce a 3-day ‘menstrual leave’ for women

Spain is set to offer three days of menstrual leave to women with severe period pain. The proposed policy will be voted on at a cabinet meeting next week, along with a measure to offer sanitary pads in schools.

“If someone has an illness with such symptoms, a temporary disability is granted, so the same should happen with menstruation ― allowing a woman with a very painful period to stay at home,” Angela Rodriguez, Spain’s secretary of state equality and gender violence, told El Periodico.

2. Leader of Pussy Riot Band Escapes Russia, With Help From Friends

Maria V. Alyokhina disguised herself as a food courier to evade the Moscow police who had been staking out the friend’s apartment where she was staying. She left her cellphone behind as a decoy and to avoid being tracked.

A friend drove her to the border with Belarus, and it took her a week to cross into Lithuania.

3. Patron the bomb-sniffing dog gets a medal from Zelenskyy

Patron poses at an award ceremony in Kyiv, Ukraine on Sunday. The Jack Russell terrier is credited with detecting more than 200 Russian explosive devices since the start of the war.

If you liked this post you can support this newsletter with a small kofi donation ❤️

4. Wolf seen in Brittany (France) for first time in a century

A single animal was filmed by a camera trap in the commune of Berrien, situated in the Arrée Mountains, on 3 May. Wolf was previously extirpated from the region in the early 20th century due to hunting pressures, and was later lost from the entirety of France.

5. Nonspeaking student with autism gives moving commencement speech

Rollins College’s Elizabeth Bonker who has not spoken since the age of 15 months due to autism delivered a moving commencement speech, urging her fellow graduates to use their own voices.

6. ‘Young stem cell’ transplant trial shows 5th ever case of human retinal tissue regeneration, with signs of vision improvement in macular degeneration — the leading cause of untreatable, aging-related blindness

New data from the phase 1 clinical trial examining OpRegen in patients with dry age-related macular degeneration (AMD) show that the subretinal cell therapy may help improve or maintain visual acuity in this patient population.

OpRegen has been generally well-tolerated with no unexpected adverse events.

7. Biggest ‘floating solar park’ in Europe will open this year in Portugal

Two tugboats are currently moving a vast array of 12,000 solar panels, the size of four football pitches, to their mooring on the reservoir. Miguel Patena, EDP group director in charge of the solar project, said on Thursday that electricity produced from the floating park, with installed capacity of 5 megawatts (MW), would cost a third of that produced from a gas-fired plant.

The solar panels will supply 1,500 families with power.

. . .

That's it for this week. Until next week, You can follow me on twitter. Also, I have a newsletter :)

Subscribe here to receive a collection of wholesome news every week in your inbox :D

[microscotch]

“I don’t really know what to think anymore. Maxxx is a great guy but he’s so possessive that I just had to make a point, you know?”

“He kinda doesn’t really want to get the message, though...”

-“How about a little exxxtra spice 🔥🔥🔥??”

- “AND TRUST ME, I FRICKIN’ CRUSHED IT THIS MORNING, RIGHT IN FRONT OF MAXXX’S EYES! I’D BE SURPRISED IF SHE’S STILL ABLE TO WA-.”

- “Dude, I SO don’t want to hear about your d-game.” 

“I don’t trust either of them. One day Roz acts all morally superior just ‘cause I was close to crashing my UFO into this hoard of degenerates, and now he brags TO ME about stealing another guy’s girl. Or maybe going for April’s implant ass is his way of dealing with me turning down his hatefuck offer? Whatever complex this qualifies as.”

-”WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING??”

-”Keeping my eyes on your fake ass, literally and figuratively.”

-”Excuse me??? First, there’s nothing fake about daily pilates with Misty Waters. Second, not into girls and third, DON’T STALK ME WHILE YOU’RE TAKING A DUMP.”

“Actually, I just wanted to piss her off.”

-“Drop that hairy piece of filth and be with me, April! We look so much hotter together, plus you can be the no name bimbo breaking my heart in all my music videos once my career really takes off!”

-”Oooo when you put it that way...”

“Maxxx really does know how to charm a girl. Who knows, maybe we truly are meant to be together after all. I mean, if he didn’t care about me, he’d just be looking for another girl as we speak.”

-“Damn April, I gotta give it to you, you really are outdoing everyone in this house!”

-”Embarrassingly low bar, let’s all be honest - I mean, Watcher, I just wasn’t sure about what I wanted. :( ”

-”Pfft, not hard when she’s living with both douchebags.”

-”Jealous much, desert queen Isabella?”

-”I just have class and don’t take every available opportunity because I’m cheap. All that talk about me having dated over 25 football players are just cruel lies!”

-”I haven’t heard anyone talk about it on here besides you-”

-“ALL. THAT. TALK.”

- Um, well, speaking of looking cheap, where’s Angie?”

“Look, the last day really SUCKED for me and I’m just trying to distract myself from the fact the guy of my dreams chose some bimbo who immediately cheated on him over me.”

“Angie is coming into the living room and all of the sudden starts tickling me. Just like the girls during my bartending days, you haven’t spoken a word to me before, neither when I pulled out a BuzzFeed article from 2017 featuring SimNation’s top 50 worst pick-up lines, or when I asked her for a mint to get the taste of vomit out of my mouth yesterday. Just now when you’re lonely and desperate - I suddenly exist!”

-”Get your claws away from me you freak!”

-”Did YOU OUT OF EVERYONE just call me a freak??? And who put that horrid music on, sounds like 8th graders during band rehearsal after discovering MySpace.”

-”You mean my mixtape I’m aggressively dancing to??”

-”WHAT? NO MAXXX, NEVER!!!! YOUR MUSIC CANNOT BE DESCRIBED IN WORDS!!”

-”Cabs are here!”

“I’m meeting up with this girl I ran into at the club yesterday. I just knew the moment I saw her she was something special... reminds me, should ask for her name again.”

“So everyone is having a good time, we’re dancing, it’s great. And suddenly, out of nowhere...she kisses me.”

-“Oh baby, I couldn’t be more turned on by you than right now, in your sweat stained maxis tracksuit.”

-”Let’s take this somewhere more private, shall we? ;)”

“Maxxx and I need to figure out where we’re at. If we really are ready for a relationship together.”

-“April, I love you, but honestly I think only I deserve you, so I’m ready for this relationship thing if that means I won’t be seeing you near these out of your league morons ever again. It’s unbearably insulting to my looks and charm seeing what the guys you decided are my actual competition look like.”

-“Your face looks just like the Sector 6 aliens I would sometimes see on vacation at Sector 8, so grotesquely deformed I always used to wonder how their organs were even remotely working... say, what do you do for a living?”

“Maybe it was the amount of bubbles clouding her judgment or something, but as much as I can’t stand the girl, this was honestly sad to watch.”

-”Performing human experimentation. But my wife and I are certainly not opposed to extending our selection of interesting subjects.”

-”I mean, yeah, it doesn’t have to be a two-men show but that’s one weird metaphor.”

-“It’s official, these clownshows are dating now. But they’re gonna break up so fucking fast, trust me.”

-“I hate them so much.”

“Angie is my only friend in this house, so obviously I had to let her know about everything I just saw. So pathetic.”

-“Maxxx, can I maybe talk to you for a sec?”

-”Angie, look, you’re a nice girl and will surely find someone, but Maxxx doesn’t want anything from you.”

-”NOT THE THIRD PERSON THING AGAIN, WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME??”

“It was going great, the girl and I relocated to the hot tub and then... suddenly I see everything flashing white! I just thought “Wow, must be the best woohoo I ever had.” ‘til I realize...”

“I almost died, would you think this chick even moved a muscle? She just sat there grinning, like she was enjoying it. So no idea if we’re dealing with an actual succubus or if she’s just got some crazy fetish.”

“And that’s not even the worst thing that happened.”

-“CRAP!”

-”Crap indeed.”

[zmediaoutlet]

🛼 🧃

(Thanks for the ones you sent me! Hoping to get to them after work tonight 🤞)

(thank you, too! what's the point of the bluesite if we aren't high fiving each other!)

🛼 describe your latest wip with five emojis

Uhh. Let me pull up the Windows+. keyboard and stare into the distance for a few minutes...

🏚️🥃☠️😭🛫

🧃 share some personal lore you never posted about before

[that feel when you've been on here for a decade+ and have to remember all the shit you've blabbed about in that time]

When I was little I sometimes went to boy scout troop meetings with my brothers, because my dad was traveling for work just about every week and my mom had to take them to the meetings instead, and I was too small to be just abandoned all night on a Tuesday. My mom had this horrible blue Chrysler van and would ferry like 6 boys 'into town' (we grew up very rural) for the troop meetings. This was the non-Mormon troop in town, which a) meant that they actually did camping and learning instead of just churning badges to Eagle, and b) these kids were fuckin' degenerates, lol. There were lots of pranks and assholery and vicious games of shirts-vs-skins pickup football and also good-natured teasing and showing up for each other and trying their best, sometimes, or trying at all if their best wasn't possible. A scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent. I don't know if they hit every marker -- I know for a fact that some of those boys didn't grow up to be the best men -- but it was a good thing in their lives, for a while, and sitting in the back of the meetings playing or reading or boredly watching was a good way to learn about the way that boys are. Plus there's this all-time quote, from my mother, after she bought Taco Bell for the neighbor boys and for some reason let Eric get an enchirito: Eric, if you fart one more time, I am throwing you out onto the highway!

[ollieflopkins]

🧃 🍄 🧩

🧃 ⇢ share some personal lore you never posted about before

in 2016 (when I was a degenerate broke english teacher living in france) I was in Barcelona on holiday walking on the most random back street and had a Barcelona jersey on (I am a former culer, but that is a different story lol) and started getting heckled by a group of adult men saying stuff about Suarez the traitor, left us to play at Barcelona, etc. and I turned around and was like are you liverpool fans?? They said babe we’re from liverpool we’re scouse?? And I showed them my liverbird tattoo and they freaked out and wanted to take pictures with me and my friends and gave us a bunch of money and said we were their daughters. my more responsible friend was like noooo we can’t take their money we can’t talk to strangers! but I’m too invested in having fun so I was all in.

we actually ran into them later on as we walked around the city - we walked past a bar they were in completely coincidentally and they pulled us into the bar to watch a football match with them, and they bought us drinks and food and were just handing us euros and saying go have fun!!! they tried to give us their numbers to text them if we needed anything else and to let them know we got back to our airbnb safely. total dads it was so fun and heartwarming. Liverpool fans are everywhere and it brings me so much joy to connect with them.

told this story to @thelatenightvibes a while ago. love scousers sooo much Liverpool is one of my favorite cities in the world.

(and I answered 🍄 and 🧩 on Csenge and Meb's posts!)

[theclockstopsticking]

You Give Love A Bad Name

The school's side door squealed on its rusted worn-down hinges and slammed shut as Billy stepped from the cement pavement onto the grassy field. His brown leather boots squished and kicked up patches from the manicured turf without care. With Billy, he never walked. No, every step was a calculated strut meant to draw the eye. From the bounce of golden blonde curls to the subtle swing of his hips, Billy Hargrove was beach-grown sin wrapped in form-fitting denim, the likes of which Hawkins had never seen before.

The afternoon was warm, with the sun shining at its peak. The rest of the student body was inside for fourth period, which meant an undisturbed walk across the football field to the woods. Usually, it was Tommy who scored the drugs. He'd either sneak off before the start of basketball practice and come back with a baggie of pre-rolled joints or stock up on uppers the day before a party. He could afford it, the rich fucking prick. It seemed like everyone in the popular crowd was loaded like it was a requirement. Billy was the only exception, not that anyone knew about it. He didn't get weekly allowances or shopping money like the rest of them. Everything he had; his car, his CDs, the bottles of cologne he kept tucked at the back of his dresser drawer all came from the money he scraped together from odd jobs. But with how quickly Billy seemed to climb the social ladder, peacocking at parties and starting fights, no one questioned or complained about his mooching off of their drugs. 

He hated them, loathed every facet of their existence. Even the way they ate their goddamn food annoyed Billy. It was because everything was so pathetically impressive to them. They all lived cushy, spoiled, preppy lives, so the moment anything new came along felt like a fascinating new revelation. It only had its appeal because of the way he looked. Billy knew that. His hair was considered long for a boy, and it would've been queer on anyone else, but girls found his mullet irresistible. Along the bible belt, men in leather pants, high hair, and makeup singing about fame and babes was plain old satanic corruption. Guys like Tommy and Patrick didn't get Motley Crue or Led Zeppelin, not one bit, but it only contributed to the reputation of how "badass" Hargrove was. He could get away with anything and have half the morons at school worshipping his every move. 

Maybe that was why Billy felt himself itching for a high, anything to ease the restlessness running rampant through his body. 

Billy walked along a dirt trail, past thickets and low branches until he came upon a small clearing. A rotting old picnic table stuck out oddly in the woods behind the school. Small hick towns like Hawkins always had local dealers that were easy to find. For the bored and degenerate, their hookup was Eddie "The Freak" Munson. 

Rowdy, disruptive, and "non-conformist," Eddie's reputation spread faster than his own. They might've shared some classes, Billy didn't pay much attention, and Eddie wasn't Mr. Perfect-Attendance. They never had a reason to interact until now, when Billy was too impatient to wait until after school to steal a smoke from Tommy. 

Billy expected to find Munson bored out of his gourd waiting or reading one of his fantasy nerd books, Misty yapped about. He didn't expect to find the man with his tongue down another guy's throat. Billy couldn't make out the face, just some brunette with his back towards him, pressed against the edge of the table with Eddie's arm loosely wrapped around his waist. 

'Isn't that fucking rich?' He huffed a small laugh with a shake of his head. Anyone could've come out here, anyone else, and they'd be fucking toast. Billy walked out from the line of shrubs, deliberately stepping on every twig and pile of crunchy leaves he could. 

"This that famous Munson customer service I keep hearing about? Who knew I was missing out." Billy called their attention with a wicked gleam in his eyes and a shit-eating grin. 

Billy's smile didn't falter as the unknown boy jolted from his cozy position and hastily pushed himself out from under Munson to scram as fast as he could. He kept his eyes trained on Eddie. 

"You do this with everyone or only the special clients?" @hawkinshellraiser​

[ikram1909]

we keep saying it but the impact gavi has is insane ... the video rfef just posted 💀 has anyone else's injury ever had the football world on their knees like this ?

I don't think I've ever seen anything like this 😭 like we've all just collectively lost our minds and it's not just the fans. Players, coaches, his teams everybody is fighting for their lives trying to cope with his absence it's actually insane. Hope he sees all this and knows just how loved he is. A few degenerates beefing with him out of pure jealousy are not the majority. There are so many people out there that love him more than they've ever loved a player before. Hope he knows how special he is.

[seasurfacefullofclouds1]

I think they want a fake version of Louis. He genuinely likes football so he talks about it. He isn’t an avid reader he has said that about himself. In his free time he likes going to pubs and watch football going clubbing and drinking. He doesn’t go to museums or art galleries. That’s just the person he is, why would he state those as his interests and talk about those things if they really are not?

There are so many assumptions in the characterization, though?

First, the assumption is that someone who goes to art galleries understands art better than someone who doesn’t.

We have seen Louis wear street art and art with social commentary on T shirts: Basquiat, street-inspired pop art, Mapplethorpe etc. He also collects modern art that we have seen in his house. Louis seems to collect art that’s meaningful for him, and what seems meaningful is art which expresses hope against bleakness, and inspires action against oppression. How is this one-dimensional?

Second, there is an assumption that “high art”— books, collectible art, expensive food— is always better than “low art”— popular music, pub food, football.

This type of thinking is so ingrained into the “Chelsea boots and Vans” Larry culture that Larries can’t recognize how stereotypical and classist it is.

Where to begin? Back in the day, Impressionism was considered renegade and undisciplined. The Paris audience walked out on the first performance of the Rite of Spring. Jazz and rock ‘n roll were considered degenerate.

If Larries could truly listen to Louis and see him for who he is, they would realize that he’s a very witty, funny, nuanced person with kindness at his core, as opposed to their fav Harry who wears kindness like a costume. They’re both three-dimensional people. It takes a sympathetic and intelligent mind to recognize their full humanity.

[ariesbilly]

i wanna hear more abt fps scars if you have more to say im gonna explode!!

I just think that it would have been a good character design is all like…the storytelling that could be done with just some good special effects make up is that TOO MUCH TO ASK!

But anyway I’m my mind FPs got all kinds of scars all over from senior, from stupid shit he did as a kid, from being in a gang, from working construction and fixing cars/bikes and going fishing and playing football…you know how it goes. And he carried a lot of shame over them for a long time because it was embarrassing and he’d always have to come up with a lie for the ones senior caused so it was just easier to not ever let them show. Although, once he built up a reputation for being a degenerate he really didn’t have to lie so much anymore, people would make up their own stories for him…

But it’s that embarrassment and shame and feeling like his body is ugly from al the markings that make him insecure about taking his clothes off during sex, doesn’t want to be seen that intimately and feels like his grotesqueness will make him unappealing to his partner, so the short stays on and the lights stay off and usually this doesn’t pose a problem because he was good and shifting focus away from him during sex and focusing on his partner.

But then Fred comes along and he can respect boundaries so it isn’t an issue until they start having deeper conversations and feelings get kicked into over drive and FPs realizing he’s got something with Fred he doesn’t have with anyone else and he feels safe, and Fred’s so respectful and makes it known he wants to see all of fp and wants him to be comfortable around him to do that but he isn’t pushy about it, which lends fp to eventually feel secure enough to show Fred all his ugly, and Fred doesn’t cringe away or make a big deal about it besides kissing fp all over and touch him gently and smooth away every bump and ridge and valley until fp forgets they’re even there and afterwards when they’re lying together fp let’s Fred look at him all he wants and it’s still a little scary, being seen like that, but he’s learning to feel better about it.

And then when he’s an adult and gone through AA and healing himself and realizing the scars are not his shame to carry but seniors, and he doesn’t feel bad about showing them off anymore, they’re part of his story and proof of the life he lived to make it this far, and all the life that’s ahead of him… I don’t know 😖

[papirouge]

Not the same football anon as before, but i wanted to stop in and say that I agree with you. I really like hearing Girioud talk about his faith so openly! It’s cringe whenever people (mostly muslims) call it a right wing dog whistle but if a muslim player prays on the field, they have no issue. Girioud is not apologizing for being Christian and I like to see it. Him and Benjamin seem to be close friends so I hope he could help him since it’s been reported how Pavard struggles with depression. :(

People hate grizemann were the same incels that hated Pavard too. They’re himbos - cute, skinny, sometimes awkward white boys with nice hair 😂 those incels wish they were half as hot. 😭

Yeah Muslim are so freaking fake anyway. They supported the Muslim players who made drama in the french football federation league because they wanted special treatment during the ramadan, and they lost their shit when people told them that their demand was edging on religious proselytism (the FFF paid them dust btw lol). But just because someone is Christian suddenly he's a far right agent....🤔 If only the Coran helped them understand what hypocrisy is....

At least Giroud* doesn't ask a religious prerogative, he keeps his religious takes outside the field. Christianism as a whole is a much more adaptative religion than Islam anyway, that's why there aren't stories of Christians asking for special treatment wherever they go and claim victimhood over it. Our religion isn't about performance, it's about what we are in our heart🩵 God is so based for that 🌟

Are you talking about Benjamin Pavard? as I said I'm no soccer head so I vaguely know him. I think he's in the France NT team?

I digged for some info and it HE'S FROM MAUBEUGE??? I had a friend from there when I studied in the north of France !! I LOVE this place !! France North is infamously super poor and there's a lost of classism regarding this region (it's said they are all inbred degenerates bc there's been a lot of child abduction, incestuous & pedophilia scandals around there 😭). I'm sure the the Ch'tis (surname of France northern people) are proud of their boy! Benjamin doesn't have that much of a Ch'tis accent (though at some moment you can slightly hear it👀). He even admits that at the beginning of his career he had some hard time to be understood by his agent bc of his chtis dialect - ngl he's cute 🥹🩵

You last paragraph SENT ME lmaooooo (the "nice hair" is soooo specific GIRL I'm obsessed with men with good hair TOO 😭) But TEA. #teamhimbo aaaall the way. Them cute skinny soft boi Whities are those who save the France NT (Kyky is the exception & can stay tho 👀) Them ugly soccerbro incels have NOTHING on them💅🏾

[shittymurderparty]

Alpha coaching little league football

Alpha: "Can someone in this locker room catch a pass!? Son of a fff-father who's in the crowd tonight and is probably very proud of you!"

(Source: John Crist, ""Degenerate Football Coach Gets Job at Christian School"")