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humanpurposes · 9 months

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My Heart Belongs to Daddy, part vii (final)

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist // this godforsaken mess that you made me

modern!Aemond x step-daughter

Warnings: 18+, angst, smut

Words: 9k

A/n: Sorry it's been a month since I updated this but we made it to the end!! Just wanna say thank you to everyone who's followed along, liked, commented on and reblogged this series, I've been so overwhelmed by the amazing responses to this, just all the love 🖤 Also available to read on AO3.

It’s easy to forget just how fucking freezing King’s Landing can be in December. She pulls her leather jacket a little tighter around herself but there’s not much she can do about the cold stabbing at her legs through her fishnets— why the fuck had she worn a mini dress in the first place? It falls a little higher up her thighs than she wants it to and the bust just doesn’t fit quite right, but she supposes she has to commit now. She at least counts herself lucky that it’s not snowing.

She looks down at the pavement as it moves underneath her black boots. There’s her second mistake— one cocktail past her usual limit. Now she feels aware but somehow numb. She finds wonder in everything around her, the glare of colourful lights on the outside of the bars they rush past, the pulsing of music from every direction, the smells of smoke, vapes, and that distinct, sharp scent of winter.

She had met Baela, Rhaena, Jace and their friends at a pub near the train station. Being the last to arrive, she sat at the edge of the table. It wasn’t a big group but that only made her more nervous. The other girls introduced themselves as Coryanne, Jeyne, Jess and Floris, all beautiful, all dressed immaculately. She told them her name and they said a unanimous “hi!” but other than that it was hard to talk to them while they gossiped about people she didn’t know and reminisced memories she had no part in. Even Jace was distracted; he was clearly all over Coryanne and spent the entire evening trying too hard to make her laugh.

So she kept ordering cocktails, a different one each time, downing them in quick succession and waiting for the evening to pass.

She keeps telling herself this was a good idea. She needs the distraction, anything to get her mind off the obvious.

The others are all walking ahead of her, and she has to keep sight of them because she has no idea where Dracarys actually is. Baela keeps looking over her shoulder every so often, to check on her she assumes. She gives her a nod and a polite smile, but when Baela turns around, her face falls back to a comfortable frown. She doesn’t mean to look miserable, but she can’t help it. It must be so obvious that she doesn’t belong with these people. She’s just a stray they’ve picked up out of pity.

They turn a corner and suddenly half the street is taken up with a queue of impatient looking people, all in smart shirts and party dresses. Baela calls her name and grabs her hand, pulling her along after the rest of their group.

“Surely this isn’t the line for Dracarys?” she says.

Baela chuckles and keeps marching ahead.

They walk along the queue for a good few minutes. Suddenly they reach an old building with columns and a bell tower. It looks like it could be a Sept or a museum, until she registers the glaring red lights, the tall braziers marking either side of the entrance and the neon logo of a dragon against a blue flame.

Apparently tagging along with not one but two Targaryens has its benefits. Baela keeps her close and their whole group breezes past the bouncers without being asked for ID or charged for entry.

“Dad’s a co-owner,” Baela says in her ear as they walk towards the front steps. She can already feel the bass of the music rattling in her chest.

There’s a smoking area at the bottom of the steps, cornered off from the street by tall hedges and iron gates. It’s dotted with mostly pairs of people, each engrossed in their own conversations.

As Baela leads her up the steps she notices a solitary figure, obscured by shadows, leaning against the wall with his back slightly curved and his chin tilted down. He lights a cigarette. The flicker of flame lights up the sharp features of his face and his silver hair.

Fuck.

Aemond’s not even a club kind of guy. He hates the dancing and the “shitty” music. He likes metal concerts and late-night conversations, preferably somewhere you can actually hear the person next to you.

A plume of smoke billows from his lips, and for whatever reason, he glances towards the front steps.

After a double take, his eyes meet hers, wide and curious.

She only realises she’s stopped walking when Baela tugs on her hand. “You coming or what?” she says over her shoulder, trying to keep up with the others.

She can’t take her eyes off him. Of all the places he could have spent New Years, why does he have to be here?

Don’t engage.

His back straightens as he takes his weight off the wall.

Let go.

She shakes her head and snaps herself out of whatever trance she’s under.

She’ll just ignore him. As long as she sticks with Balea and Jace, everything will work out fine. Surely.

The inside of the club is vast like the nave of the Grand Sept. It has a high vaulted ceiling and an enormous stained-glass window on the farthest wall from the doors.

The floor before them is a sea of bodies in flashy outfits, moving in time to a low, synthy song. Colourful lights cut through the darkness, giving the faces an eerie glow. A few groups linger around the edges of the room, drinking cocktails and taking shots in booths around glass tables. At the end of the hall, under the stained-glass window, is the bar, illuminated with red lights.

Baela keeps a tight hold of her hand as they all fight their way to the bar. Someone orders for her and the bartender places a shot glass of vibrant blue liquor in front of her. Rhaena screams “Happy New Year!” as the others cheers their glasses together.

She holds her up to the light before she downs it, wincing at the sickly, sweet and sour tang it leaves on her tongue.

Her heart thunders in her chest, confused by the music and the sense of dread pooling in her stomach.

Aemond is here.

She’s supposed to be ignoring him, and she had been doing a good job of it so far.

Until that fucking call on Christmas Eve.

What did he think was going to happen? Six months of nothing, then one phone call and she was going to come running back to him?

But she had already proved that she can’t say no to him, the night of the dinner party, while Alys and Cregan were only in adjacent rooms. All it had taken was his hands on her hips, his breath on her neck, a few harshly whispered words and the promise of a quick fuck. It was enough for her to give in, consequences be damned.

She looks back at doors on the other side of the room. She tells herself she’s not looking for a head of silver hair, but it isn’t much good lying to herself. One look at him outside a club and she can feel that hollow feeling in her chest, an emptiness that Aemond has always been able to fill so perfectly.

“How could I ever stop wanting you?”

“I just know these last couple of months have been fucking unbearable without you.”

Would he say the same now?

Rhaena screams again. She doesn’t catch what she says, but the answer to that is evident when Aegon and Daeron materialise from the crowd, hugging Rhaena, Baela and some of the girls. Jace’s face hardens and he puts his arm around Coryanne’s shoulders.

Then Aegon’s eyes come to her. “Fancy seeing you here!” she shouts into her ear over the music.

She can’t stop herself. “Is Aemond with you?”

Aegon glances towards the door. “He went outside for a fag.” He runs his tongue over his teeth and furrows his brow. “How are things with you and your mum?”

She frowns. “Why?”

Aegon’s eyes widen and he laughs to himself to play it off. “Just asking, I thought things might be a bit awkward what with… everything that’s gone on.”

“Everything?”

He pauses. “Him and Alys.”

“Right,” she says.

He doesn’t say anything else, but he’s looking at her like he’s trying to read her mind.

She hates not knowing what other people are thinking, and it only adds to her growing restlessness. Aemond wouldn’t tell Aegon about them, would he? But part of her thinks Aegon would use the opportunity to be more of a dick about it if he knew.

They find a booth and file in. Jace is clearly trying to avoid Aegon; he sits between Coryanne and Daeron. Baela is polite with both of her cousins and Rhaena is friendly, but maybe that’s just the booze. Either way, Aegon is a charmer, and slots himself nicely beside Floris. Jenye and Jess are all over each other, whispers into each other’s ears becoming kisses to their cheeks, necks and mouths.

She slips off her jacket and sits at the end of the table, alone. It's like being at the pub all over again.

Until she spots someone walking towards their table.

Aemond stops, his eyes only on her. No one else seems to have noticed him yet.

She looks across the table, at the only empty space left.

His chest rises and his nostrils flare. He slowly sits opposite her, keeping his shoulders tense and his hands in fists.

She wishes she had a drink in front of her, if only to have something to do. She moves between having her hands on and under the table, unable to keep her fingers still. She bounces her leg, messes with her hair, tries to focus on fragments of conversation drifting from the others.

Then something brushes against her, under the table. She freezes, but relaxes as she feels Aemond’s leg settling against hers. She glances across at him while pretending to listen to something Rhaena’s talking about. Aemond holds her gaze, leaning against the back of the booth with a solemn look on his face.

She can feel his breath on her hands as he exhales a deep breath.

Baela insists that she wants to dance, and so does Rhaena. They drag Daeron with them and disappear into the mass of dancers. Aemond has to stand to let them out, and when he sits back down his leg brushes against hers again.

It’s so painfully obvious that everyone at the table is coupled up, Jace and Coryanne, Aegon and Floris, Jeyne and Jess. Aemond seems to be trying not to pay attention to any of them. He angles his head in the other direction.

She lets her eyes wander along the tightness of his jaw, the tendons in his neck, and the glint of a silver chain beneath his shirt.

She presses her lips together.

Don’t engage.

Don’t do anything stupid.

But maybe she should have thought of that before the cocktails.

She leans forward on her elbows, but as she opens her mouth to speak, Aemond calls Aegon’s name.

“Drink?” he mimes.

She doesn’t see Aegon’s reply. Aemond’s eyes move over her before he stands and heads towards the bar. Suddenly her leg feels cold at the absence.

A particularly loud giggle catches her attention. She looks down the table. Aegon is leaning into Floris’ ear with a dark look in his eye and she’s smiling, but he’s watching her. His eyes flicker over to the bar, and he grins.

Fucking pricks. The pair of them.

Only when she stands up does she realise how dizzy she is, but she ignores it, and makes her way through the crowd until she finds Baela, Rhaena and Daeron. She grabs Baela’s hands, less dancing, more stepping and swaying to the music.

But she keeps ending up turning her head towards the bar. It’s easy to spot Aemond, he towers over most of the people here, his silver hair gleaming under the red lights.

“I didn’t know they were going to be here,” Baela shouts into her ear, “it’s not too awkward is it?”

The music doesn’t make sense to her. It’s just noise. Everything is just frantic noise, and she can’t stand it. She feels restless, and so fucking angry. She wants to dig her nails into her palms. She wants to cry. She wants to scream.

“It’s fine!” she shouts back, “So fucking fine!”

She looks back to the bar. Aemond is at the front of the queue now.

“I need a drink,” she says, not loud enough for Baela to hear.

His name is a gentle hum in her throat as she gets closer to him, weaving her way through the other bodies in the crowd. She doesn’t care when they tell her to get in line and wait her turn. She keeps her eyes fixed on him.

Until he’s close enough to touch.

She watches her hand reach for his shoulder.

He turns his head around with a sharp look of surprise, but it melts away when he realises it’s her.

He mouths her name but she doesn’t hear it. He brushes his fingertips against the bare skin of her arm and she feels weightless. He’s looking at her. She can feel his heat through his shirt.

Until he withdraws his hand with an irritated huff. He leans into her until their noses are inches apart. Even in the low light of the club his eyes are only marginally blue, and she smells whisky on his breath. “Don’t start this again,” he says over the music.

She scowls until her face hurts. “You called me.”

“And you didn’t pick up.”

Her heart shatters. She thought she had done the right thing, but it seems a common occurrence with Aemond that nothing is ever right.

“It was a mistake,” he says sharply, “a stupid fucking mistake. Just forget it.”

He brushes her hand from his shoulder and storms off towards the front doors.

Panic and confusion courses through her. It feels worse because she’s drunk, she knows that, but it still hurts.

Her eyes start to sting as one song ends and another begins. It’s one everyone in the room seems to recognise.

She fights her way back to the booth and grabs her jacket, slipping it over her arms.

Jeyene and Jess are gone, and Jace and Coryanne have found their way to the dancefloor. Floris and Aegon are the only ones left, her legs draped over his lap.

“Leaving so soon?” Aegon coos.

She doesn’t spare him any of her attention. She tries to spot Aemond as she makes her way to the doors on unsure legs.

What if he’s already left? What if this is it, and he never so much as tries to speak to her again? What if she finds him and he pushes her away?

“Five minutes to midnight, ladies and gentlemen!” a voice booms through the speakers. Moving through the room is like swimming against the current as more people make their way to the dance floor, but she manages to make it to the doors.

The cold air hits her suddenly. It burns in her lungs and bites at her skin. The front steps and the street below her are quiet now, and so is the smoking area. Save for one person.

Aemond sits on a bench, hunched over himself, flicking his lighter, but never lighting a cigarette.

He looks up when she stops in front of him, his lips slightly parted, the red lights casting shadows in the angles of his chin and cheeks, and his nose.

“Are you seriously running away from me?” she says.

His mouth is in a thin line. He keeps flicking the lighter open and shut, open and shut. “You seemed happy enough avoiding me before.”

“Before? Before what? Before you left me in a hotel room?”

Aemond groans and rubs his fingers over his temple. “I’m not sober enough to have this conversation.”

“No, you’d rather ignore me for the rest of your life.”

“Look, I just want to go about doing things the right way—”

“I think we’re way fucking past that now.”

He groans. “What do you want me to do then?” he says, his voice laced with spite.

“Take some fucking responsibility!” she cries, louder than she means to.

He takes her off guard when he stands and steps into her. She takes a step back, and he keeps walking, until her back meets a wall. “And what does responsibility look like, hmm?” He places a hand beside her head leans in further still, until all she sees is the furious look in his eyes. “I called and you didn’t pick up. I try to keep my distance and look at you, you’re still practically begging for my attention.”

“Once,” she utters. “You called me once in six months.”

“And if I had tried before, after the dinner, after I left Alys, would you have listened to me?”

Her head lolls into her shoulder. All she remembers of that day is her mum, screaming and crying, storming upstairs and slamming her bedroom door. She stood there, in the kitchen, hands shaking, tears streaming down her face and her heartbeat pulsing in her head.

Her entire world had come crumbling down. Her mother hated her, and she was going to have to break things off with Cregan, and Aemond was gone. If he had called her then, she doesn’t know if she would have been able to manage a single word.

“No,” she says.

Her heart leaps as he takes her chin in his fingertips and tilts her gaze up to him.

He looks down at her with challenge, his eyes squinted slightly, lips in a smug pout. “What do you want me to do? How do I make this right?”

Her hands press against his chest, hypnotised as it rises and falls with each breath he takes. Then her eyes move to his mouth, that perfecting fucking mouth— it’s her favourite feature of his, she decides, the telling twitches of his lips and the way they feel against her skin.

Aemond clamps his hands over her wrists. “See?” he says in a low voice. “You think you’re so righteous, so perfect, but you’re just too fucking needy.”

She surges into him, grazing his lips with hers before he pulls away.

He keeps a tight grip on her wrists, and stares at her with wide eyes.

Only for him to come crashing into her, returning the favour with his own harsh and bruising kiss. He’s desperate and unforgiving, cupping her face with his hands so she has no choice but to let it consume her.

And she lets him. She lets him graze her lips with his teeth, slip his tongue into her mouth and steal the very air from her lungs.

The faint but familiar taste of whisky burns on her tongue. It’s thrilling and grounding all at once.

When they finally part from each other, he rests his forehead against hers. They glare at each other as they try to catch their breaths.

She can still feel the beat of the music from inside the club, and a voice over the speaker, gearing up for the countdown for the New Year.

“I meant it when I told you I loved you,” she says. “It’s not how I wanted to say it, but it was the truth.”

Aemond takes a harsh breath and runs his hand over his forehead, through his hair. “I can’t do this now,” he whispers.

She leans further into the wall, only to find she can’t get away from him. She pushes against his chest, but all her strength is gone.

Aemond takes a small step away from her. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m not thinking straight I…”

She doesn’t listen to him. She can’t, not past the pounding in her head, the retching feeling in her stomach and the crowd inside the club as they start to chant.

“Ten! Nine! Eight!”

“You must have known how much you meant to me,” she says. Her voice is clear and her tears are effortless.

“Seven! Six! Five!”

“And what did you do with it? You left me with nothing…”

“Four! Three! Two!”

“You showed me something I’ve never known and then you took it away, only to drag me back in…”

The world erupts around them. Every single voice in the city screams as midnight hits, fireworks and flares soar into the sky and burst with colour, light and noise.

“And I feel so stupid because I let you do it. But I still don’t understand… why do you have to be so fucking cruel? What did I do wrong?”

Aemond looks back at her with a face of agony. Flashes of green, red and gold glisten in his eyes.

“I thought I mattered to you,” she says.

“You did. You still do.”

Her head must be about to burst. She chokes on a sob and cradles her head in her hands.

She keeps her eyes on the floor as Aemond steps into her, and when he wraps his arms around her, she doesn’t have the energy to pull away.

“I’m so tired.” She says it over and over again.

There doesn’t seem to be a moment where they make an agreement, but she lets Aemond pry her hands from her face and lead her onto the street. He tucks her jacket tighter around her arms while he mutters about how cold it is.

She doesn’t feel the cold against her skin, but she can feel herself shivering and her teeth chattering.

A car pulls up to the pavement. Aemond opens the rear door and ushers her inside. It’s warm inside, and the seats are soft. He sits beside her and she falls into him. She closes her eyes, letting the motions and the hum of the engine lull her to a place between waking and sleeping.

Aemond’s gently shakes her awake when the car stops. Wherever he’s brought her, it’s quiet, and once the car disappears down the street, it’s almost silent.

Something cold lands on her cheek. She brushes it away and it melts under her fingers. She looks up, at heavy snowflakes against the streetlights, blinking them from her eyes as they fall.

Aemond takes her hand and she holds it tightly. The dusting of snow crunches under her boots as they walk, a short way along the street and up a series of steps. He doesn’t let go of her as he takes a set of keys out of his pocket and unlocks the door.

He marches her up a seemingly endless number of stairs before they come to a corridor, and another door. It’s dark on the other side, and it smells like him.

She blinks as her eyes adjust to the lack of light. Tall windows make up most of the outer facing walls, and King’s Landing lays out before them. They must be on the outskirts of the city, given how quiet it is, but she can see everything from here, the lights on Conquest Street, the silhouettes of the Red Keep and the Grand Sept, fireworks and lanterns, and the void that is Blackwater Bay beyond the docks.

Aemond leads her through another door. She winces when he turns on a light, but as her vision starts to settle, she realises it’s a bedroom. She’s drawn to the bed like a magnet, collapsing against the duvet.

“Shoes,” Aemond says.

She kicks her boots off and tosses her jacket on the floor. She curls her face into the pillow. It occurs to her that she hasn’t taken her makeup off, but she’s too tired to really care.

Aemond won’t let her sleep yet. He hands her a glass of water and waits for her to drink a few sips. Then he takes it from her and hands her a t-shirt.

“No…” she drawls, falling back against the bed, “wanna sleep.”

“Please,” Aemond says softly.

She drags herself up, fumbling to undo the zip on her dress. She pulls it over her head and rids herself of her bra and fishnets and lifts her arms up for Aemond to help her into the t-shirt. That smells like him too.

“Better?” he says.

She won’t give him the satisfaction. She crawls underneath the duvet, and by the time the light switches off and the door closes, she’s already half asleep.

The first feeling that hits her is a dull ache pulsing in her head.

Then comes a dry feeling in her throat.

Then a nauseating kind of hunger.

And then dread.

Her eyes dart open; it’s still dark in here, wherever here is.

She looks down at the Pink Floyd t-shirt hanging off her. It’s too broad in the shoulders to be hers.

Her lips feel strange. She trails her fingertips over them and squints, just makeing out the shape of her dress and her boots on the floor.

The memories start to fade into view, like a fog lifting from her mind. The pub, the club, the loneliness, and Aemond…

“Fuck,” she hisses.

She’s still a little dizzy as she drags herself from the bed. She finds her phone in her jacket, on the last legs of its battery. 8:55, 1st January glares up at her on the screen, along with texts and missed calls from Baela, Rhaena, Jace and Alys.

“Fuck!”

She grabs the glass of water on the bedside table and treads softly along the hardwood floor, to the door.

She hovers her hand over the handle. She’ll have to come out eventually, might as well get it over with.

The bedroom leads out to an open living space she doesn’t recognise in the slightest. In the corner there’s a kitchen and a small dining table with four chairs, then the rest of the room holds two sofas, a coffee table, a record player, plenty of bookshelves and by the window, a desk and a prayer plant with a ribbon tied around its pot.

None of the lights are on and from what she can tell, Aemond isn’t even here. The room is lit only by daylight. Beyond the windows, the sky is a dull grey and King’s Landing is covered in snow.

Nothing about the apartment is disorderly, expect perhaps for the extensive collection of shoes and coats by the door, most of them black with the odd item of brown for some variety.

The only photos on display are on the desk. One is of Alicent and Helaena, both in pale blue jeans and white blouses, with gentle smiles their arms around each other. Another is of Aegon and Daeron sitting by the pool at Dragonstone. The final one is of an arched, stone bridge, which she recognises immediately as Roseroad Bridge in Oldtown. It’s lined with statues of famous Maesters, Steptons and members of the Hightower family, and she walks along it every day to get from her apartment to uni.

He has his own place now then. She wonders if he moved in right after he left Queen’s Park.

She resists the urge to run her fingers along the desk, or over the closed cover of a notebook and the ink pen beside it.

Her head snaps towards the front door as it unlocks. Aemond walks in with snow on his jacket, a brown paper bag and two coffee cups in a drinks holder.

He raises his eyebrows slightly. “Morning,” he mutters, closing the door behind him.

She slowly makes her way to the kitchen as he unpacks the bag— eggs, a loaf of sourdough and some cherry tomatoes.

He looks up at her, and places one of the cups in front of her. “Oat, vanilla latte.”

“Thanks,” she says. It’s not quite as hot as she would have liked, but she’ll forgive him on account of the snow.

“Sit down,” he says, nodding to the dining table. “Won’t take me long.”

He plates up scrambled eggs and smoked salmon on toast and they eat in silence. After that he quietly clears their plates. She wonders if he’s scared of making too much noise.

Then he comes to sit back down, with a fresh glass of water and painkillers for her.

He sits rigidly against his chair, with one hand on the table and the other in his lap. She’d bet anything his fingers are restless under the table.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

She considers for a moment. She’s starting to feel somewhat closer to normal, but the panic has yet to wear off. “Fine.”

She glances around the room. “This is nice,” she says.

“Rhaenys owns it. She let me move in at short notice.”

“After…”

“After I ended things with Alys.”

She hums distantly, folding her arms and crossing her leg over her knee.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he says.

“Which part are you sorry for?”

He angles an eyebrow at her. “All of it?”

She pouts her lips in irritation— a habit she picked up from him.

His mouth quirks. He clears his throat, takes a sip of his coffee and, by the look of it, struggles to swallow it.

“I’m sorry too, for being so careless,” she says.

“No, I should have left once I saw you.” He presses his lips together and taps his fingertip against the table, three times. “And I’m sorry for calling you on Christmas Eve. I don’t even know what I would have said.”

Her heart sinks, but she reminds herself that’s what she should want. “Just a stupid mistake, yeah?”

He shakes his head in disbelief. “Did I really say that? It was actually highly premeditated.”

“Why?” she asks with more disgust than she means to.

He gestures with his hands, as though it should be obvious. “I just wanted to hear your voice again.”

The tension fades from her face. She feels the pull, the hope, the way it crushes her and makes her feel lighter. That’s all she had wanted, as she watched the phone ring, for him to want her, and then she could allow herself to want him back, even though it always ends in misery.

She can still remember what he looked like when they were at Dragonstone, that quiet, reserved kid who spent more time reading than he spent talking. She remembers how excited she was whenever their eyes met or she spotted him sitting alone. She remembers that day he showed her around the house and the gallery. She thought he was going to kiss her then, but he never did.

Maybe he never cared. Maybe was just using her. Maybe she was nothing but another body to fuck.

That doesn’t explain the small things. The hours he spent studying with her, the nights they stayed up talking about anything they could think of, his attentiveness for details, her coffee order, her favourite songs, the way he celebrated her happiness and read her like a book.

“How did we end up here?” she says, “how did we make such a mess of this?”

For a moment he looks like he’s going to reach for her hand, but he stops himself. “I had such a crush on you, when you came to Dragonstone you know,” he says.

“You never said anything.”

“Yeah, well I didn’t think you liked me.”

She tries to laugh but it comes out as a breath. It seems like such a simple misunderstanding for all the pain it has caused.

“I just remember thinking that someone as wonderful as you would never want…” he absentmindedly brushes his fingers along the scar over his eye. “I was different back then; I still had a lot to learn.”

“Aemond,” she says, drawing his eyes back to her, “I thought you were wonderful too.”

“Oh.” He stops himself from smiling and ends up twisting his lips and sticking his chin out in an awkward expression. “Look, I’ve had time to think, and talk this through—”

“With Aegon?”

“And Helaena.”

She tries not to roll her eyes.

“I think I owe you an explanation,” he says.

She leans back in her chair and raises her eyebrows.

Aemond draws his tongue between his lips. “I tried not to think much about you after Dragonstone. You were just Jace’s cousin, I didn’t think I’d have a reason to see you again. And then I knew that first night with Alys was a bad idea. But everything was happening with dad and Rhaenyra, mum was still upset about Storm’s End, and it was just after Harwin got sick… it just happened.”

“Good for you,” she grumbles.

“I’m not trying to play a sympathy card, I just want to tell you the truth,” he says. This time he doesn’t shy away from reaching for her hand. She doesn’t move, and watches as he settles for just resting his hand over hers. “I never meant for things to go as far as they did, but I needed a way out. I needed to get away from my family and Targ Corp. Alys gave me a purpose outside of all that.”

“So you used her?”

“Yes. And she got something out of it too.”

She doesn’t argue against that.

“I don’t know I thought maybe I’d be over how I felt about you. We were just kids, it had been a few years, but then I saw you… and you were perfect. Nothing could convince me otherwise.”

Guilt twinges in her chest. “It wasn’t just you,” she says.

“What do you mean?”

“I kissed you first.”

He tightens his hold of her hand. “But I still wanted you. And we worked it out so well, I just thought we could keep going as we were.”

“Until I fucked it up.”

“No, that’s not it.”

“I did though. I should never have said…” her eyes are starting to sting at the memory. Sprawled out on the bed, naked and not quite satisfied. The empty feeling in her chest as he left her there.

“I couldn’t take me eyes off you at the wedding,” Aemond says. “And then you had one conversation with that Stark kid, and I was losing my fucking mind. I knew why it bothered me. I know how I felt, no matter how I tried to rationalise it. I knew how I felt about you. I always knew.”

She blinks and two tears trail down her cheeks. She can’t manage any more than that.

“I panicked. I didn’t know what it would mean if you felt the same. It just became too real, I—” He exhales heavily, and runs his hand through his hair. “I know this is my mess. I should have stayed away from Alys. I should have been honest. But at the time, it just felt easier to just… let everything happen.”

She had never seen Alys cry as much as she had, that morning when she told her the truth.

“What did you say to mum?”

“After the dinner party? She’d had a horrible night as it was. She said she wished I had defended her more against my parents. I said she should have known what was going to happen before she invited everyone over and that she should stop trying to get involved in my life.”

“Can’t imagine she took that well.”

“I ended up telling her I had rethought my priorities. I couldn’t be what she needed. I said I’d leave Rivers PR and try to patch things up with my family.”

“You didn’t tell her about us though.”

He swipes his thumb over her knuckles. “I didn’t know if you would want me to.”

She takes a shallow breath. “I told her. After you left, I went downstairs and told her everything.”

“What did she say?”

Sometimes she still has nightmares about that morning. She stands in the kitchen while her mother just screams at her.

“She was so angry. It was understandable, I guess, but we barely spoke until I went to Oldtown.”

“You’re at the university?”

“Yeah. She said Oldtown sounded like a good idea. Lots of distance, far away from her.”

“And how has it been, being back home?”

“We talked about it. I think we both realised we didn’t want to lose each other over some stupid guy.”

He half smiles, and exhales. “She called me in September,” he says. “It must have been after you left. She just said she knew. She said I was ‘sick bastard’ and that I should never speak to either of you again.”

“That’s fair,” she says. She takes a sip from her coffee and it’s cold.

“I’m sorry, for everything,” he says. “And you don’t have to forgive me, I just wanted you to know.”

She nods with the smallest movement of her head.

Aemond slides his hand away from her. He leans over his elbows and taps his fingertips on the table again.

She keeps her eyes down as he clears up the coffee cups and follows the sound of his footsteps as he walks to the kitchen, then back to her, hovering over her shoulder.

He takes a slow breath.

“Whenever you’re ready, I could drop you home.”

“Thanks,” she mutters.

“Or if you want another drink, or a shower, or anything…”

She lifts her head and turns herself around to face him. He looks so tired.

“I’ll take you up on a shower.”

He leads her back to the bedroom, handing her a towel from a cupboard, and through to an ensuite with dark tiles on the walls, ceiling and floor, and a shower cornered off from the rest of the room by a glass screen.

She hangs the towel on the back of the door while Aemond runs the water, testing the temperature with his hand.

They turn back into each other.

A hazy cloud of steam fills the room. Aemond’s skin glistens, beads of water and sweat forming along his brow and his neck, but she keeps her gaze on his eyes.

She’s not sure who moves first, but they drift into one another, until their lips meet in an effortlessly delicate kiss.

But it quickly leads to something more intense when she pulls the t-shirt over her head and slides her panties down her legs.

Aemond groans lowly, pulling her into him by her waist, tracing his hands along every inch of her body he can reach. He kisses along her cheek, neck and shoulder as she teases the hem of his t-shirt and his toned stomach underneath.

He moans into her mouth, and she delights in it. “Whose needy now?” she asks sweetly against his lips.

He tears his t-shirt off in one quick movement and surges into kiss her again, cupping and kneading her breasts and her arse.

Then he takes her hands in his, and brings them down to the fly on his jeans.

She grins as he presses his forehead against hers. They both watch as she slowly undoes the buttons and hooks her fingers around the waistband.

She keeps her eyes on him as she pulls his cock free and comes to crouch in front of him, smiling at his clenched fists and tight jaw. He’s already half-hard as she starts to stroke along his length and runs her tongue along the underside of him.

She misses the weight of him in her mouth, his fist in her hair, his praises and the noises he makes as he spills down her throat, but before she can even place her lips at the tip, he drags her up to stand.

“Daddy—”

His usual commanding façade falls to something softer. “No,” he says, “just use my name.”

“Aemond,” she sighs.

He gives her a smug smile and reaches for the side of her neck, tilting her gaze up. “You still on the pill?”

Her breath hitches. “Yeah.”

“Hmm, good girl.”

He walks her into the shower, putting her back against the wall. Her back arches at the cold and the sensation of Aemond’s hands on her hips as he starts trailing kisses down her stomach. He pries her knees apart and teases the sensitive flesh of her thighs with his lips and tongue, edging closer to her cunt.

He must be feeling merciful and doesn’t waste too much time before drags his tongue through her folds.

“Fuck,” he mutters, “missed this perfect pussy.”

It would be embarrassing enough how quickly she comes on his tongue, but what’s worse is just how many times Aemond draws climax after climax from her, circling his tongue over her clit, fucking her with it, then replacing it with his fingers.

Her legs tremble as she feels her slick trickling down her thighs, but he doesn’t need her to stay standing for long. He comes to stand hitches her legs around his hips.

With his face buried in her neck he lines himself up with her entrance and slowly pushes himself inside of her.

She hisses and tugs on his hair at the stretch, but the pain doesn’t last long as he starts to rut into her.

“’m not gonna last long,” he says against her skin, panting with the effort as he picks up his pace.

But she can feel just how responsive her body is to him, just how much she’s missed the feeling of him, his cock dragging through her and hitting that perfect spot deep inside her.

She moans his name and holds him tighter, pulling him closer, urging him deeper.

Her orgasm is a wave of warmth, a soothing relief that just keeps going as Aemond continues to fuck her.

Until his hips still and she feels his cock throb inside of her. His voice is somewhere between a groan and whimper as he comes, and it sends another thrill down her spine.

Carefully, he lowers her down to stand on her own legs, keeping hold of her waist as warm water cascades over their bodies. His eyes don’t stop moving over her face, and she can’t stop touching him, threading her fingers though his hair, feeling along his neck, his jaw, his cheeks and his lips.

He turns her around. The cap of a bottle clicks and he lathers shampoo through her hair, then tilts her head back to rinse it out. Next, he coats it in conditioner, and keeping her back against his chest and his head over her shoulder, he washes her skin with a lavender body wash.

Then he pushes her into the wall by the base of her neck. She braces herself by her palms as he takes a delicate hold of her throat and fucks her again. He reaches deeper from this angle, bullying against her sweet spot.

Aemond keeps a steady pace and kisses the back of her neck. “Tell me you missed me,” he says.

“I missed you,” she utters, “missed how good you make me feel.”

“Hmm, missed being my good little slut?”

She tries to say it back, but all she manages is a throaty moan as she comes undone around him.

Then he washes the conditioner out of her hair like it’s nothing.

After he’s dried her off with the towel, he carries her back to the bedroom and lays her out on her back.

He’s insatiable. He fucks her again with their foreheads pressed together and their lips barely brushing over each other. Every brutal snap of his hips is another step towards a burning oblivion, and his pace barely falters as he positions her legs over his shoulders.

She can feel herself twitching and clamping around him, the coil in her belly tensing and tensing until it’s almost unbearable.

Aemond presses his teeth together and hisses like it hurts. “So tight,” he whispers, “my good girl, so fucking tight.”

“Please,” she utters, “Aemond, I wanna come,”

He frowns in mocking sympathy and grazes his lips over her the sensitive spot on her neck. “I know you do, baby, I’m close too, just hold out for me a little longer, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, barely a breath, and she says it over and over again. She closes her eyes so she can lose herself in it all, his cock dragging through her, the wet sounds of sex, the smell of sweat and lavender bodywash, his nose pressing against her cheek as he turns into her, his breath over her mouth, his desperate moans and whimpers…

Her orgasm rises and comes crashing down, until her skin comes alight and her body starts to tremble underneath him.

Aemond lets out a guttural groan as he comes, stilling his hips against her, pushing in impossibly deeper as a warmth floods through her.

He lifts his face to hover over hers. His hair is still damp and so is hers, leaving a cold patch on the pillow that makes her shiver.

Aemond leans on one hand over her and brings his thumb to her bottom lip to pry open her jaw.

She sticks her tongue out, ready and waiting as he trails a slow line of spit into her mouth.

“Swallow,” he mutters, and she does.

He smiles vaguely as takes her legs down from his shoulders and pulls her to sit up, cupping her face in his hands and leaning in to kiss her lazily.

This is how things were supposed to be, she thinks, winter mornings wrapped up in each other, her body settled in a perfect state between bliss and numbness.

Suddenly he’s moving away again. “All fours,” he says.

She rolls over her side and props herself against the mattress on her hands and knees.

Aemond keeps a punishing grip of her hips as he slides his cock into her sensitive pussy, fingertips digging into her flesh as he pulls her into him with every thrust.

It doesn’t take long before her arms feel weak and her wrists start to ache. “Aemond,” she whines, “please, please…”

Aemond pulls her against his chest as he keeps pounding into her. One arm wraps around her shoulders and her chest, holding her against him while his fingers pinch at one of her nipples. His other hand snakes down her body to play with her clit.

“Mine,” he groans against the shell of her ear, “you’re mine and you love it. I’m never going to let you go, never.” As harsh as his voice is he sounds desperate, pleading.

She holds her arms over the arm keeping her in place, helpless to do anything but cling to him and just take it.

She’s lost count of how many times he’s made her come, and this orgasm tears through her suddenly as a broken cry sounds in her throat. She digs her nails into Aemond’s arm to take the edge off as white-hot pleasure surges through her.

Her mind is completely fucked out. Aemond lets her fall back on the bed and spreads her legs, trailing his thumb through her soaked folds and his cum as it dribbles out of her.

And he slips into the bed beside her, pulling the duvet over their bodies and holding her close.

“I might need another shower,” she says.

Aemond huffs a laugh and presses a kiss to her temple.

It’s cold but she drags herself from the bed and goes to the ensuite to sort herself out. She runs herself another shower and brushes her teeth with a spare toothbrush she finds in a basket under the sink.

And when she comes back into the bedroom, Aemond looks at her with a dazed smile and a look of wonder in his eyes. She practically runs back to join him, wrapping her arms around his torso and tucking herself under his shoulder to rest her head over his heart.

“There was something else I wanted to talk to you about,” he says.

She doesn’t reply but he knows she’s listening.

“I’ve been talking to mum and Otto, and I think I might take him up on that job offer at Beacon.”

Her heart beats a little faster, in time with his. Dread pools in her stomach again, eased by the afterglow and the satisfied ache between her legs.

“We’d both be in the same city, away from our families. I could get my own place.”

“And?” she utters.

“We could start over. We could try to make this work.”

Away from his parents and Targ Corp. Away from Alys. Away from the city she’s been trying to run away from.

“I think mum would kill me,” she says.

Aemond shrugs. “She wouldn’t have to know.”

“So what, we go back to keeping secrets?”

“No,” he says, turning on his side to face her. He places his hand on her neck, caressing his fingertips over her skin. “No, that’s the whole point, we wouldn’t have to hide anything in Oldtown. It would just be me and you.”

She meets his suggestion with silence.

“You don’t want to,” he whispers.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” she says, propping herself up and resting a hand on his chest. “But we’ve made mistakes before. I just don’t think this is a good idea.”

Aemond’s expression shifts. His mouth tenses and his brow furrows, not quite angry, but hardly innocent.

“I understand,” he says, but she’s not sure she believes him.

She pulls herself away from him and swings her legs over the side of the bed, placing her feet on the floor. “I think you should just take me home.”

They fall back to silence. She slips into her dress and her jacket, stuffing her fishnets in her pocket because she can’t be bothered to put them on. She makes sure she has her phone and her keys, and waits for Aemond by the front door.

He’s not far behind her, appearing in a white knit jumper and a pair of blue jeans.

The streets are almost empty, and a good thing too because the roads are thick with snow. Aemond drives slowly and cautiously, not that he’s ever been an especially reckless driver.

The Bluetooth on the car picks up her phone automatically. She tuts as a Lana Del Rey song plays through the speakers.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, reaching to turn to audio off.

“No,” Aemond says, holding his hand over the button. “I like this song.”

She withdraws her hand and tries not to smile. “I fucking knew it. You’re a secret Lana fan.”

Aemond huffs a quiet laugh. “I just appreciate good music. Ultraviolence is a modern masterpiece.”

The weather gives them a reason not to talk for the rest of the way. She keeps her eyes ahead, pretending to be enchanted by the snow, but she keeps stealing glances of him, with minimal movements of her head so as not to draw his attention. She watches his hands as they grip the steering wheel, his legs as he presses down on the pedals, and his face in the reflection of the windshield.

It takes twice the amount of time it should for them to reach Queen’s Park, and he pulls over a few houses before hers.

Once they’ve stopped Aemond sighs and runs his hands over the wheel. He leaves the engine running to keep the heating going.

She eyes the door handle and her fingers twitch.

“When would you be moving to Oldtown?” she asks.

“I start at the end of the month. I’m trying to find a place before then.”

“Right,” she says.

She looks further down the street, but the house is hidden by hedges. Alys should have come straight home after her gala. Most days she’s an early riser, and she doesn’t tend to overdo it on the drinks when she’s working— which to her, is almost always. She’s probably in the kitchen, trying to figure out where in Seven Hells she ended up last night.

She looks back to Aemond. He’s watching her with wide eyes.

“I have my thesis due at the end of the term, and exams after that. I’ll be pretty busy,” she says.

He nods and peeks his tongue between his lips. “If you need anything,” he mutters, “you can call me, anytime.”

“Thanks.”

“And, you know, if you ever change your mind…”

“I’ll call you.”

The possibility seems more and more likely the longer she looks at him.

But she pushes open the car door before she does something stupid.

She follows the footsteps already laid out in the snow. It must be a good few inches of snowfall; the prints are set deep. Thank the Seven she’d chosen to wear boots and not heels.

“Wait—” He doesn’t need to say it loudly, it’s quiet enough that she hears him, even when he barely utters it.

She turns as Aemond slams the car door shut and closes the distance between them in a few strides.

“What?” she utters.

Aemond nudges his nose into hers and cups her cheeks in his hands. Her skin feels like ice against him. Warmth blooms in her chest, and suddenly she’s able to forget that she’s standing out in the snow, in a black mini dress and a leather jacket.

He tenderly presses his lips into hers. They kiss like it’s their first times, with slow and cautious movements. More than anything she just feels the shape of his lips and lets them rest against each other.

This time, when she pulls away for a breath, and those careless words come out of her mouth, barely above a whisper, he doesn’t break away from her. He doesn’t abandon her. He says it back.

It’s terrifying and grounding all at once.

She crashes her lips against his to kiss him properly, tugging at the collar of his jumper and running her hand over the pulse point of his neck.

She knows she can’t lie to herself. As soon as January is done, she’ll find his name in her phone. She’ll say she missed him. He’ll tell her he loves her, and she’ll say it back. Time will tell if it turns out to be a bad decision.

“I don’t think my life makes sense without you,” she says against his lips.

Aemond smiles, with a gentle curl of his mouth and a look of intense excitement in his eyes. “I know, baby. I know.”

Tags (comment to be added to either)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya

Series Taglist: @marthawrites @urmomsgirlfriend1 @aaaaaamond @boundlessfantasy @sahvlran @tinykryptonitewerewolf @arcielee @tssf-imagines @aemondsfavouritebastard @skikikikiikhhjuuh @queenofshinigamis @lost-and-founds @izzydlb @dc-marvel-girl96 @xcinnamonmalfoyx @padfooteyes @castellomargot @pet1t3 @okfashionista @khaothick @babygirlyofthevale

#my fics #aemond targaryen #aemond x original female character #aemond smut #aemond fanfiction #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen fanfic #hotd fanfic #hotd fan fiction #hotd fanfiction #modern!aemond #modern au #house of the dragon fanfiction #stepdad!aemond #my heart belongs to daddy

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izpira-se-zlato · 7 months

Text

Berlin, 16.10.23

Also very haphazard and partial gig report:

fuck him for singling me out, I had suddenly never worked a job in my life 😂 (he asked me what job I worked. I told him "IT" after a lot of pointing to make sure he really meant me, but he just understood that I made tea, so I mimed typing. And he went "aaah! Computer things! So you're the smart one. Not like me, I'm the monkey." (Paraphrased because aaaaah)

I'm so so happy I got to see bulbasaur cap! Käärijä in person

he threw water into the audience near the start (not the CCC water) and a few droplets caught me. Much better than with a detour through Bojan's mouth

I felt a little bad for the girl next to me filming hhh because I was excitedly yelling along 😂

the girls during icip were so good? And he interacted with them in such a lovely way? Recreated the weird run where Tommy chases him across the stage, and they all fell to the floor, and idk if Käärijä just wanted to fistbump them, but they pulled him up from the floor and he just. Did not cooperate a lot 😂 so they remarked (bc they still had the microphone) "oof, he's heavy"

he was also so so careful to get consent before touching either of the girls on stage, but in a way that felt like he just Does That? He'd also told us that we're a family and that we should kiss each other, bit that you need to ask before you kiss someone and if they say no, you don't miss them, simple as that (unsure if the family bit and kissing bit were the same banter segment)

Jesse had to come in stage and do… Idek what it was. Oh! Open a water bottle for him 😂 that was a lovely little moment

the coat?? Actually looks really awesome irl?? I did not expect that

I got a Häärijä high five at the barrier 😭

bald cap Häärijä is… Something 😂

Jesse was so good natured about us cheering him on setting up the stage 😂

he was so so touched by the number of people singing along

we chanted voittaja for him 😍

icip slays live so fucking much Holy shit

I was drenched after the concert. I jumped a whole lot (and have already seen myself on Mikke footage 😂) and I will be dead tomorrow but I think it will have been worth it

apparently he was still asleep at doors, which might have been the cause for the delay? Or 1 hour simply being a little short to get 1.6k people into the room

Jesse told the people still waiting (not us, I was already asleep at the time) to please not ask for autographs when Käärijä went to the bus but they all got handshakes and apparently a thank you speech

Salena came on stage but she didn't really know any lyrics, and a nice Finnish woman I talked to in the queue told me afterwards, “such a shame, she was so unprepared, you could wake Bojan in the middle of the night and he'd be able to just go rankka viikko ja paljon…”

I didn't actually see a lot of Salena at the beginning because we were all squatted down

I stepped on so many toes while jumping

#käärijä #käärijä eu tour #jeskiedes #Salena #gig report

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asimplearchivist · 10 months

Text

𝑪𝑯. 𝑰𝑰 — 𝑭𝑨𝑪𝑬 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑩𝑼𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮.

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐈 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary 🕷️ ⤏ miguel struggles to come to terms with your brief encounter. pairing 🕷️ miguel o’hara/spider!reader word count 🕷️ 3.5k a/n 🕷️ ⤏ I don’t know that the collective’s HQ is actually an old Alchemax facility, but it made sense to me since the go-home machine is similar to the collider. I haven’t been able to find much information on the wiki about 2099’s world, much less spiderverse miguel’s version, so I’m gonna sprinkle in my own headcanons as we go along until I learn anything different. if any of you happen to know any details (like currency, layout of Nueva York, little things like that) please let me know! I’d prefer this fic not to have glaring discrepancies to the source material if at all possible. :) 🕷️ MASTERPOST 🕷️ 🕷️ PREVIOUS CHAPTER ⤎ 🕷️ ⤏ NEXT CHAPTER 🕷️

“I told you that you weren’t up for that. I could’ve handled it just fine.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

He could feel Jessica’s eyes trained firmly on his back, though he did his damnedest to ignore the persistent prickling along the back of his neck. O’Hirn was struggling again, given most of the toxin had already worn off, and it was all the restraint Miguel could muster not to just toss him over the boardwalk into the yawning depths of HQ and be done with it.

“Are you sure you don’t need help?”

“I’ve got it,” Miguel responded brusquely, clenching his jaw.

“Just because I’m pregnant,” she started, “doesn’t mean I can’t—”

“I don’t need you getting yourself hurt,” he interrupted.

“I’m only two months in,” she sighed. “I hate to think about what you’ll be like later on. Even my husband isn’t as worried as you are, Miguel.”

“You’re exposed to enough danger as it is,” he growled. “I had it covered.”

“If you nearly drowning is your definition of ‘had it covered’, then I worry about what it means for you not to have it covered.”

Finally, they made it to the containment center, and Miguel dropped the mercenary face-first into the cage, muttering under his breath all the while. The field turned on with a hum, and Miguel released a terse exhale of relief as he stepped back for it all to be finally over.

“Hiya, boss! How’d it go?”

Almost over, anyway.

“Fine.” He turned and started to walk towards his office. “Jess, remember to fill out a report. LYLA, catalog Alexander O’Hirn into the queue for departure.”

Her lax footsteps were declaration enough of her intention to do anything but that.

“You could have at least explained the basics, you know. Since she’s from an adjacent 2099, she’d understand the multiverse theory. The Alchemax in that reality is performing similar experimentations for dimensional travel, and she’d evidently run into their projects before.”

“What part of ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ do you not understand?”

“The part where it excuses you for being an ass.”

He stopped and turned on his heel, lenses narrowing as he glared resolutely down at his companion. “It’s classified to anyone not enrolled in the collective.”

“Ooh, touchy,” LYLA commented, appearing over Jessica’s shoulder like the demonic conductor she was. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Miguel ground out.

“Something happened. Your vitals are all over the place, boss.”

“I told you not to monitor me.”

“Does it have to do with the fact that she’s—”

“Don’t,” Miguel bit out.

LYLA raised her palms placatingly, twisting and regarding him wryly. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“She’s not the same,” Jessica reminded him needlessly.

“Of course she isn’t,” he growled. “Why do you think—”

She raised a manicured brow at him, effectively shutting him up. He opted to glower instead. “And because she isn’t the same, you owed her a civil response—especially since the big lug back there almost popped her head off like a cork. She obviously knows your counterpart because she recognized you. I know you’re going through a lot right now, but it didn’t give you a reason to dismiss her like that. It’s not her fault that any of this is happening, and we always need new recruits.”

Miguel bristled. “I’m not recruiting her.”

“And why not?” Jessica propped her fists on her wide hips.

His lenses narrowed further. “You know why.”

“Yeah, I do.” She shook her head. “Because you’re letting your personal bias interfere with the job.”

Miguel scoffed and turned away from her once more. “All this is on a need-to-know basis, Jess. We’re not so sore in need of help that I have to pull every conceivable Spider-Person in the multiverse into the coalition.”

“Don’t you think she needs to know why her dead husband randomly walked out of a portal and acted like she didn’t exist?” LYLA remarked.

Jessica fell silent, obviously in shock, and Miguel dropped his head to pinch the bridge of his nose. “LYLA.”

“I ran preliminaries while you were gone,” she continued lightly. Miguel twisted just enough to watch her use multiple holograms to display your credentials and history as she listed off your name and date of birth. “...Spider-Woman of 928C for five years. Widowed by one Miguel O’Hara of eight years in a classified, freak accident at his laboratory in Alchemax. Refused answers regarding the nature of his death, she snuck in to investigate herself. She was then bitten by a genetically and radioactively modified Goldenrod Crab spider he had assisted in mutating, which imbued her with the classic spider powers, plus…” She squinted at the words streaming across the screen. “...boosted olfactory senses, organic webbing excreting a sedative pheromone, and pigment-shifting abilities that are largely ineffective as camouflage but make for easy changes in hair color and skin tone—oh, look, she gives herself temporary tattoos with it! Neat! She then proceeded to steal the experimental suit of UMF in the same lab and has since been doing her best to stop Alchemax’s schemes and protect Nueva York’s civilians. Heh, the suit colors kind of make her look like a strawberry pie.” She glanced up at Miguel appraisingly. “Did I miss anything?”

“No,” he said tightly. “That about covers it.”

“You said you didn’t know much about the canon events of that universe,” Jessica scolded.

“I knew the basics,” he snapped, “which is why I wanted to avoid confronting her. I wasn’t going out of my way to learn the rest!” He cut a glare towards LYLA, who shrank back slightly. “But thank you for the input.”

“Just trying to help,” she replied lamely.

“Don’t bark at her,” Jess interrupted. “You could have briefed me on it. I could’ve gone by myself if you didn’t want to risk exposure.” She tilted her head slightly. “And if you didn’t want to face her.”

The UMF dissipated from his head so quickly that both woman and AI jumped. The midday sunlight pouring in through the windows on the far wall stung his eyes, but he didn’t care. “I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”

Jess regarded him coolly for a long moment, and Miguel spun to march himself into the blissfully quiet and empty haven of his own lab.

“You owe her an apology,” the woman called.

Gritting his teeth, he stopped long enough to throw his reply over his shoulder. “And why is that?”

“If you’re in this bad of a state seeing her now,” Jess said, “how do you think she feels having grieved you for five years?”

Miguel’s talons pierced into the meat of his palms as he stayed silent and stalked away.

The lab was blissfully quiet, save the hum and chirrup of the numerous machines and monitors working away in solitude. It was raining outside, drumming against the roof and narrow windows near the ceiling to allow in faint shafts of bleak, tepid gray light. The occasional muffled rumble of thunder made him wince, even as the dark room allowed his eyes to finally relax. Still, it would take a while for his head to stop throbbing.

He had been too harsh on Jessica—LYLA, too—he knew that. He didn’t have an excuse. But the migraine he’d woken up with that morning combined with the fact that any Rhino, no matter what universe they originated from, were royal pains in the ass. Almost drowning and scarcely avoiding impalement had not done anything to improve his mood, either.

Miguel let out a harsh sigh as he sank heavily onto the platform resting at floor level, propping his elbows on his knees and dropping his head into his hands. His fingertips dug into his eyes and temples in a feeble attempt to assuage the aching pressure but to no avail. He needed to sleep, seeing as he’d gleaned none the night before after having determined a mission to the dimension directly neighboring his was necessary ASAP—the anomaly might not have fully transitioned until a couple of hours ago, but LYLA’s predictions had been correct and he knew they’d needed to act fast.

Even still, it had almost been too late.

He was always too late.

He gritted his teeth with a growl, shaking his head and straightening to glare up into the shadowy rafters. The patches of amber holograms flickered like candlelight, dancing with images and footage and readouts he couldn’t be bothered to check at the moment—his vision was blurring and if he tried to squint any more today he worried his eyes might pop out of his skull altogether.

“No new anomalies, jefe.”

“LYLA.” He dropped his gaze to the glowing figure floating at eye level. She had her arms folded over her chest, glasses pushed all the way up her nose to hide her eyes.

She rubbed her nose briefly. “Yeah, that’s the designation. Don’t wear it out.” She summoned a graph and pointed to it. “The spike is fading in 928C. Everything should be back to normal by tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” He swallowed, dipping his head to scratch the nape of his neck. “Hey, mira, I’m…sorry, about earlier.”

At her lack of response, he raised his eyes again and found that she had blinked away just as fast as she’d appeared.

Miguel released another sigh, cursing under his breath. He’d done enough damage for the day, he figured.

It didn’t take long to get to his quarters. The uppermost floor of the compound was glassed in on all sides, and bigger than Miguel would ever have wanted—but the construction of HQ had been primarily handled by LYLA seeing as he’d been busy hunting anomalies and recruiting other Spider-People to the collective, and with the haste to get everything up and running he hadn’t really stopped to consider anything besides the necessities. The old Alchemax facility suited perfectly to his needs, and having more money than he knew what to do with from his old position in the upper echelons of the blasted corporation, he’d let her have the reins so he could have more time to work.

To be fair, the living space was…nice. Just big, with amenities and furniture that felt a little too modern. (It made it feel all the more empty.)

Miguel shed the UMF suit and chunked it in the nano-regenerator, wincing as he tweaked the bruises around his ribs. Grappling with a man twice your size in a heavy suit of impenetrable armor while underwater was decidedly not his definition of a good Friday night.

He traipsed into the bathroom, tapping the screen to activate the shower and adjust its jet settings and temperature. He’d be healed by tomorrow, he knew, but the soreness would linger for a couple of days. He’d just have to try not to twist too much.

Miguel stopped to scrutinize himself in the mirror, not for the first time (and definitely not for the last).

The warm white light spilling from the mirror’s rim highlighted his silhouette and the numerous scars littering his frame, the edges of his reflection growing hazy from the steam billowing out over the top of the shower’s tall glass walls. He scarcely recognized himself from the man he’d been six months prior. Working so hard combined with constantly improving his strength for better mobility and endurance in the field had changed his figure so vastly from the lean muscle upon which he’d previously relied while managing Nueva York by himself. It felt surreal, sometimes—but if he could distance himself from the man he’d used to be in any way, he’d take it. Miguel no longer wanted to make mistakes like he did. (It might actually kill him, this time, if he did.)

Miguel shook his head with a low growl, reaching up to tug the loose locks of hair off his forehead—and, in so doing, reminded himself of the band still snugly hugging his ring finger. He regarded it for a long, tense moment as he ground his teeth until his temples throbbed. He fought down tooth and nail the tide of fluctuating emotions that the ring brought—when he wore the suit, he barely noticed it. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that.

Miguel swallowed roughly and pulled it free, dropping it into the little ceramic dish next to his sink before trudging into the shower to scrub away his woes.

He did feel marginally better afterward, which was a small boon. Dressing in his favorite pair of worn sweats helped, too. He wasn’t hungry, but if he wanted to dissuade the headache with the abnormal amount of aspirin it took to even put a dent in his hyperactive metabolism, he’d have to eat something—so he fixed himself a club and choked it down with water.

By the time he’d settled into bed, flat on his back and gazing blankly up at the dark ceiling with an arm thrown over his forehead to shade his eyes from the city lights glowing along the skyline, his nerves had settled for the most part. He’d apologize to the ladies tomorrow. Maybe, as tired as he was, he’d actually be able to get more than three hours of sleep for once. (Doubtful.)

Miguel sighed heavily, shutting his eyes. He didn’t want to think about it. If he thought about it he’d get upset all over again. It had taken every iota of willpower he possessed just to get through the whole damn mission to begin with. One would think, after the couple of months that he’d had to get over the entire ordeal (his mistake—his greatest mistake—one he would never be able to reverse or rectify no matter how much he regretted it), that he’d have a better handle on his emotions. He’d fucked up catastrophically. Now he was forced to pick up the pieces by holding the multiverse together with nothing but his bare hands and his sheer force of will. He could never afford to allow his selfishness to influence the fate of the multiverse.

Miguel sucked in a deep breath, but the stretch twinged his ribs again. He turned over onto his side with a terse sigh, grabbing the pillow on the opposite end of the bed and stuffing it under himself in an attempt to buoy the bruises. Despite the darkness, his eyes still made out the shape of the overturned frame on the opposite nightstand.

Even while it was face-down, its glass face cracked beyond repair from the force of a previous breakdown, he recalled in perfect detail the picture it housed. You’d always insisted on printing out physical copies despite it having long since fallen to the wayside with the mass digitization nearly a century prior—the photo albums crammed into a box in the top of the closet were painful reminders of that habit. That one in particular had been your favorite: the pair of you at the park, lying on a canvas, red and white gingham picnic blanket, faces turned toward each other’s and away from the sun. You’d snuck the picture while he hadn’t been paying attention, having shut his eyes briefly because it had been unseasonably warm for early autumn, and he’d admittedly almost drifted off breathing in the fruity scent of your shampoo. You’d never told him about it until he’d noticed it’s addition on your bedside table a week later.

It had been the day of your fifth wedding anniversary. He’d lost you in a nearly identical manner to 928C’s alternative version of you—an inexplicable accident at Alchemax in the robotics laboratory where you’d enlisted your profession. Only when he’d tried to investigate further, he’d been drugged with Rapture by the CEO, and his attempt to revert his DNA back to its previous state was thwarted, resulting in…well, the monster of a genetic disaster that he was now, having to regularly utilize injecting a modified serum to tamp down the more feral aspects of the spider DNA slowly but surely attempting to overwrite his own.

His suit was technology you had developed. LYLA was a product of your collaboration with him. There were still sprinkles of you throughout his entire life, even though he’d buried you three years prior—the dimensional travel watch was spawned from the earliest prototypes that you had started, the Go-Home Machine adjacent technology, the anomaly analysis system—he couldn’t escape the ghosts of your influence no matter how much he tried.

Not that he wanted to. It was both torture and comfort to have you so close.

But losing you prematurely is what had spurred him to irrationality, upon discovering the neighboring universe where you’d lived instead and his alternative self had died—and the fact that you’d had Gabriella had broken what little resolve he’d tried to initially maintain. (Miguel didn’t want to think about the possibility that you might have been pregnant when you’d gone—he’d been vehemently avoiding the thought for years, and he’d continue to do so until the day he died because he wasn’t certain he could bear the confirmation of his worst fear.)

But his desperation to deny the multiverse of its cruel dictation of his life story had come back to bite him—he had paid the ultimate price for his negligence twice over.

Miguel squeezed his eyes shut against the hot sting threatening to spill over. He thought he’d been doing better—an incorrect assumption, evidently. The inconsistency of grief was what struck him blind every time. He’d known that he faced the likely possibility of running into another you going in to apprehend the anomaly, but…hearing your voice had nearly unmended him at the seams. Knowing he’d almost been too late to stop yet another you from getting killed…it had been all he could do to keep it together. Yes, he’d come across as dickish as a result—but if Jess knew how hard it had been to look at you (even if you weren’t his you) without falling at your knees, she’d understand why. He had to distance himself in order to spare both himself and this different version of you from the perpetual destruction that plagued him wherever he tread. He couldn’t lose you again. It would unmake him.

The rip of fabric tipped Miguel off that he’d accidentally perforated his pillowcase. Again. He groaned under his breath, curling himself further around the pillow wedged under his ribcage. The faintest whiffs of your old perfume clung to the cotton, and Miguel inhaled it greedily despite the sorrow that threatened to overcome him at the visceral memories it summoned behind his eyelids.

…He remembered that day in the picture clearly. You’d tasted like strawberries from the large bowl you’d eaten mostly by yourself, the sweetness and tartness lingering under your tongue. He could still feel the warmth of your hands on his face, your fingers carding through his hair as he’d rested in your lap while you read to him from your latest rom-com novel. You’d both ended up falling asleep for a few hours, exhausted from long shifts at work with increasingly demanding schedules, waking to the evening golden hour being overtaken by an ominous cumulonimbus. Halfway home the rain had started, and you’d both been soaked to the bone clambering into your shared apartment—and despite the chill, despite the wicker basket forever remaining warped from the overabundance of moisture, despite your recurring teasing over the years about his forecast research falling painfully short, you’d often recalled that day with unfathomable fondness.

He also remembered the desperation of his name on your lips when he’d found you after the explosion, already half-gone. You’d been terrified, confused—yet once you’d realized the inevitability of the situation, you’d circled around to comfort him instead. He’d never forgive himself for his own weakness preventing him from giving you peace, knowing he’d be all right as you’d slipped away, far beyond his mortal reach. (He wasn’t. But he’d wanted you to think he would be.)

That same desperation had tinged your alternate’s voice earlier. The terror, the confusion. He’d been fighting back tears at the agonizing recollection.

He let them spill, now, muffling himself into his pillow in a vain, feeble effort not to break the silence of his empty bedroom in his empty quarters that comprised his empty home.

…Maybe Jess had been right, after all, he thought later, once he’d had no more grief to shed. Face damp, eyes aching, head throbbing once more, he traced mindless patterns into the top sheet where you would have lain with his talon—always facing him, unless he’d managed to talk you into letting him hold you from behind. If this is how badly he felt from less than a minute’s worth of dialogue, how would you feel?

He did owe you an apology. And as much as the thought pained him, they did need more help around HQ. Miguel drifted into a fitful sleep, wondering if you looked any different under your mask.

#fisara's codices #fanfiction #mine #spider man: across the spider verse #across the spiderverse #spiderverse #atsv #miguel o’hara #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o’hara/reader #spiderman: across the spiderverse #spiderverse spoilers #across the spider verse spoilers #spider man: across the spiderverse #across the spider verse #spider verse

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tomwambsmilk · 1 year

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Welcome to the Succession Cannibalism Poll!! (aka the Succibal Face-Off)

One week ago, a private jet set out carrying 31 people and one dog, all travelling together for unclear reasons. The pilot attempted to take a shortcut through arctic airspace, but unforeseen turbulence forced the plane down. All 31 passengers + 1 dog survived, but the cabin crew were all killed in the crash.

Food supplies were slim, and dwindling. Finally, they made the difficult decision to eat one of the cabin crew, a flight attendant by the name of Andrew Dodds, who had drowned in a small puddle of water when the plane went down, and whose body was perfectly preserved by cold. They reasoned that help was on the way, and after all, Dodds wouldn't be needing his body anymore. It was a temporary measure, to get everyone out alive, they told themselves...

.... But in actuality, it was only the beginning.

32 Succession characters are trapped in the arctic, and the only food remaining is each other. Who will be the last one standing when (if?) the rescue team arrives? Who has the physical grit, the strength of will, and dubious morals required to eat their companions and make it through to the end? That part's up to you!

The rules:

there are 16 polls in round one. Each will go live at the same time (provided the queue system works properly) at 11:15pm EST, and be live for 24 hours

Don't just vote for your favourite! Remember, this is about who in a given pairing would actually be able to eat who

In the event of a tie, super-secret tie rules are unlocked. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it

Feel free to add more detail in the notes! Was it a tough struggle or did one give in quickly? Did someone sacrifice themselves, or did they get stabbed in the back? Did they gut hunted down? Did they run? Did someone cry?

Consider reblogging to increase the reach of the polls!

Masterlist of Round 1 polls under the cut (with links, once they go live). Good luck, and happy hunting!

Sandy Furness vs. Karolina Novotney

Lawrence Yee vs. Connor Roy

Nate Sofrelli vs. Colin

Frank Vernon vs. Rhea Jarrell

Jeryd Mencken vs. Willa Ferreyra

Roman Roy vs. Tabitha

Greg Hirsch vs. Jess Jordan

Mondale Wambsgans vs. Stewy Hosseini

Caroline Collingwood vs. Gerri Kellman

Kerry vs. Logan Roy

Siobhan Roy vs. Gil Eavis

Cyd Peach vs. Hugo Baker

Ewan Roy vs. Naomi Pierce

Karl Muller vs. Kendall Roy

Brian from Management Training vs. Tom Wambsgans

Marcia Roy vs. Rava Roy

#succession #succibal face-off

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nikatyler · 4 months

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🌈 2023 ✨

Another year is over so it's time for a look back at what was happening on this blog! I haven't really been around, it was just my queue, and maybe that's one reason why I looked at my archive and went "huh" at everything. I don't remember much. The other reason why this year probably went poof in my head is because I was dealing with some mental health stuff lol. I say lol but it wasn't actually very lol but I'm doing better now and 2024...is looking promising for now.

So, let's talk more under the cut, shall we?

January

We're in Bridgeport and Sawyer is living his best life. You know, girlfriends, boyfriends, being turned into a vampire, giving birth to three little vampires, threatening to sell his enemies' organs on the black market...best life indeed.

February

Okay I am now seeing that "talking more" about every month will be impossible since I actually don't have much recollection of 2023 lmao

March

Sawyer and Erin are at the best point of their relationship, but we left them alone for a bit and went back to NSB. Pastel just moved to Strangerville and got a...rather strange roommate.

April

The rather strange roommate becomes Pastel's rather strange wife. I love these two so much. We also say hello to Moss -- and also to Ross, who returns from...god knows where. I mean yeah, there was the ts3 Ross, but technically they're two different people. Parallel universes and stuff.

May

Thea is born and strange wife Jesse gets even stranger. That whole "merging with the mother plant" thing was kinda weird but I really enjoyed it. Idk what I was on but it was fun. And then, before returning to the lepacy, I posted my Cottage Living screenshots! ...which were really just me going "uwu what does this do" on every possible Wicked Whims option.

June

...and I went from posting weird WW Ross stuff to posting wholesome Growing Together Ross stuff. If that gave you a whiplash, I am sorry, but imagine what it must be like for me. I'm locked with this guy in my head 24/7. He's the whiplash king. A blorbo to you, a curse to me. A beloved curse tho. Ok I'm getting weird. Back to the lepacy.

July

Lepacy time! Loved the soap opera Generations gen. Kinda wish I had sticked to some of the storylines instead of going "eh nvm I just wanna play". I'm not saying I regret not actually letting Saywer go on a killing spree but also...imagine if he went on a killing spree. You don't see that in lepacies often do ya

August

August was...welp 💀 I was at the grippy socks hospital for most of that month, 10/10 would recommend, but my queue ran out while I was there so I just reblogged some old stuff for a few weeks.

September

September is just lepacy month. Cornelia and Archer are happy, they get married, they get more children...yeah. Good wholesome Generations times all around. It's not like they're gonna get divorced later or anything.

October

The twins are kind of chaotic, one of them turns into a ghost, both then bring their cursed imaginary friends to life...and the final child of Archer and Cornelia is born.

November

I loved running into Sawyer at the grocery store all the time. Weird vampire alleged killer grandpa behavior suits him. Dorothea goes away to a boarding school, hates it there and instantly comes back. Relatable. Oh and midlife crisis hits Archer hard.

December

And we're in December! Dorothea enters her horsegirl era and finds herself a girlfriend...and we'll continue that in 2024!

What's in store for the new year besides the lepacy? Well, Not So Berry will be making a return (and HOPEFULLY we'll finally get to the end. we need to). There's a story I want to do in the NSB universe, if you know you know. Before we dive into the next lepacy generation, I'm thinking of another BC with the gen 7 heir...oh and Marika's Black Widow. Shoot and I'm starting an irl job in January. Yeah no we're not doing all this in 2024, don't count on it 💀 But I'll try.

Happy New Year! 🎇

#ts3 #ts4 #sims 3 #sims 4 #the sims 3 #the sims 4 #sims #simblr #fleur extra #breeze nsb legacy extra

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aerialsquid · 7 months

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FFXIVWrite Day 27: Sole

Cid/Nero plus Drusilla, just a random notion I had.

Drusilla touched her forehead with long fingers spotted by age but not weakened by it, and slowly pulled away the circlet covering her pearlescent third eye. She eased herself into the highbacked chair behind her desk, rolling her shoulders back as she leaned into the worn leather's comforting embrace. Her scythe was propped against the side of the desk beside her, its presence a reminder that any gentility in this room was at her discretion alone.

"All right. Tell me from the beginning how this happened."

—

The relationship between the Lemures and Garlond Ironworks was strained at best, an uneasy partnership of necessity and mutual loathing. Drusilla felt that Cid was a traitor to his culture, disdaining centuries of heritage for the sake of a few decades of sins, and would cut out his own third eye if it would make the Eorzeans like him better. Cid felt that the collective of Garlean expatriates were really only upset about the part of the Empire's evils that had inconvenienced them personally and were only differentiated from Thanalan's other hordes of roaming bandits by the dents in their foreheads.

Both of these were sentiments they had expressed to each others' faces in the past, which was why arrangements between the two organizations usually went through people like Jesse who had an easier time keeping their tempers. The Lemures' connections within the Empire meant they had an easier time sneaking out defectors, and more than one of their 'passengers' had later picked up a job at the Garlond Ironworks.

Garlond Ironworks was also really the only place you could get any magitek you'd snuck out of the Empire with you repaired or replaced. If not for the Ironworks, the magitek orchestrion playing a gentle bal-musette in the corner right now would have been silenced long ago. It was for the sake of such necessities that Drusilla had even let the two men in the door to her headquarters.

Everything beyond that was purely for personal amusement.

Drusilla leaned forward to put her elbows on the desk, steepling her fingers and resting her chin upon them. The corner of her thin mouth quirked up in a half-smirk as she regarded the two flustered men standing before her.

"I believe you said Cid's exact words were, 'You owe me, Nero'?"

"Words I did not accept!"

"You reached out and grabbed his hand, a conventional symbol of striking a deal."

"What was I supposed to pull him out with, my teeth?!"

Drusilla smiled, sharp as a curved scythe. "It means everything. You've pulled him from the void and now you two have a contract."

Nero hissed through gritted teeth, his hands in tight and furious fists. "I'm not a bloody voidsent! I'm a human being!" he snarled, a claim that might have held more weight if not for the threads of purple that threaded through his skin like seams of ore through rock, flaring in tune with his temper.

He hadn't needed to show them off to prove what he'd become, Drusilla was familiar with that tiny pull that came from lower level voidsent fresh out of the darkness, their endless hunger constantly drawing surrounding lifeforce towards them.

"The voidsent claim they were also once human, before their realm fell to darkness. Mind, I've never heard of a human becoming voidsent in this era, but humans don't usually jaunt to the void. Queue's a lot longer going the other direction."

"I am quite sure that if I were a voidsent, I would know. This is just some minor infection of the aether, and given time I will be able to –"

"Look, stepping aside that issue, what's it mean if we have a contract?" Cid cut in, trying to ward off Nero's continuing insistence that he was too good for this nonsense. At Drusilla's request he'd taken off the goggles that normally covered his forehead, and his pale hair was now hanging haggard in his face. Despite the lack of purple, his eyes looked just as sunken and haggard as Nero's. "You mean, like a Reaper and its servant?"

"Aye. Think of yourself more like sponsor than master, before Nero gets his stones in any more of a twist - you're his tie to this world, keepin' the void from calling him back. A voidsent fights for his reaper but only if he gets paid for it, mind. The pay runs out, the voidsent goes elsewhere or it starves."

Cid tilted his head. "Pay…how?"

Drusilla slid a hand under her desk to find the knife she kept hidden there, and flicked the tip across the pad of her finger. A soft line of red was drawn across her skin as she jerked her hand back. When she held it up Nero's eyes fixated on it, like a hunk of meat before a starving coeurl, and his leg almost lifted to walk to her before he stopped himself.

"You should bandage that," he snapped defensively. Instead Drusilla got up and walked around her desk, the bleeding hand still held upward and still controlling the tracking of Nero's eyes.

She held the finger closer and his lips parted, just before he recoiled a few steps backwards.

"I'm not going to lick your hand. That's disgusting. Unsanitary."

"But you want to. You can already taste it the aether pouring forth from me. The heat of it. The light."

"There is nothing I want less," Nero insisted, devoting himself to a detailed inspection of the orchestrion instead. His fingers were twitching against it.

Drusilla chuckled. She tugged a hankerchief out and wrapped her finger in it, stuffing the hand back into her pocket. At least that would dull the scent. "The pay is aether, Garlond. The fresher the better, and the best comes right from the warm body of a living, breathing mortal. Nothing else will satiate that hunger. And if he's your partner, it's your responsibility to keep him fed."

Over the sound of Nero protesting that he wasn't going to be Cid's pet dog, Cid said, "I'm not going to just bring him people to eat, that's insane!"

"It doesn't have to be people. Voidsent can feed off anything living, even fruits or vegetables recently picked. It doesn't have to kill them either, if the voidsent's got a mind to be careful." Though when you were a Reaper, it was usually helpful if it did.

"But I can tell you've paid him a bit already, even if y'both think you're being real subtle about it."

"What are you talking–"

An abrupt silence came over the two men, as if both had reached a specific and unpleasant conclusion at the same moment. Drusilla drummed her fingers on the desk as she circled back around to reclaim her chair.

"Your man got a little less endurance in the bedroom, Nero? Falling asleep right after the first round, when you're feeling more awake than ever?"

Nero was fidgeting even more now, veins of amethyst pulsing across his cheekbones. "I haven't the–haven't the faintest–"

Cid, meanwhile, had his hand to a particular spot on his neck that was very decisively covered by his collar, and that Drusilla was quite sure hid a bite mark. "So that's why I kept falling asleep at the worktable! It was you, you bastard!"

"It wasn't as if it was on purpose!"

Drusilla smirked, drumming her fingers lightly along the shaft of her scythe. "Better start paying your employee more, is all I'm saying."

#ffxivwrite2023 #CidNero

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april · 2 years

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jesse we need to play brimstone for the next halloween contract. jesse i know you're having fun but you already completed the first one we need to queue for a new game. JESSE

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polyphonetic · 1 year

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I posted 6,860 times in 2022

That's 3,861 more posts than 2021!

492 posts created (7%)

6,368 posts reblogged (93%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@livingthedragonlife

@auntdarth

@georgestraitfromthehorsesmouth

@noblevagrant65

I tagged 1,877 of my posts in 2022

#kassandra rambles - 338 posts

#disco elysium - 156 posts

#genshin - 85 posts

#homestuck - 70 posts

#bird - 69 posts

#miku - 57 posts

#queue - 57 posts

#fluff - 55 posts

#ask me - 48 posts

#kird rambles - 45 posts

Longest Tag: 132 characters

#(points at self) girl who plays mono-black and also loves multicolor decks with unusual wincons like cascade or teleportation circle

My Top Posts in 2022:

jesse. we need to get the body down from behind the whirling-in-rags. did you do the autopsy report jesse

yo mistah white my consciousness is fractured and i don't remember basic facts about my reality, bitch

2,743 notes - Posted September 3, 2022

"I could fix him" I could read his queer little emails about his paprika hallucinations and love for a castle weirdo despite the fearful warnings of the village folk. I could receive his little recipes he wants to make. I could gaze at my inbox dreamily while he's being driven by a cart in circles and is too awkward to say anything.

3,836 notes - Posted May 6, 2022

"I'm dying to know what's next", we all say, as if Dracula hadn't been in the public domain since 1962

6,905 notes - Posted May 6, 2022

every day of my life is a timeloop but i always accidentally figure out the exact action that narratively breaks me out of it and i always get it on the first time every day

28,209 notes - Posted August 14, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

this equation is NOT cute. numbers actually hate being under a square root symbol and it distresses them

29,947 notes - Posted August 25, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

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caeruluspirit · 2 years

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there's ghosts. we Must Remove Them. today (7/12) at 5:30pm est

jesse. we need to SUCC. vacuum the ghosts, that is, because otherwise twitch will nuke me from orbit :o) i got a new controller and it's really poor quality so i think that's going to make this experience worse better for the audience. i don't think this will start off with song requests on but i might clear the queue and have people suggest some SPOOKY music so i get scared

twitch_live

#stream promo #cae is streaming #luigi's mansion #gamecube emulator #twitch

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the-real-tc · 2 years

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Ch. 4 Bad Business: Let the Dead Bury Their Own Dead

Author's Note: There will be more "Heartland magic" that's wholly unrealistic in this chapter as Amy works with Herring. (Just go with it, okay?)

There will also be more very uncomfortable stuff, so I reiterate the trigger warning and the abusive comments will not be tolerated piece.

Here's the next installment as the investigation into Val's death continues. More theories will be flying around again after this!

***

To the childless wife he gives a home, and gladdens her heart with children.

- Ps. 113

Chapter 4:

Let the Dead Bury Their Own Dead

Tuesday, April 23

Hudson Funeral Home

Ashley Stanton slipped on a pair of sunglasses, ostensibly to shield her eyes from the bright sunshine as she stood outside the funeral home following the service for her mother. Several old high school acquaintances, family friends, some Briar Ridge clients, business associates, and members of the showjumping community lined up to express their condolences to the Stanton siblings.

Jesse Stanton, with his girlfriend Tessa draped on his arm, did most of the talking, for which Ashley was grateful. At this moment, she thought standing here and listening to the usual platitudes and expressions of sorrow to be almost intolerable. She longed for this part of the proceedings to be over, but people kept coming.

After what seemed like an eternity, the queue came to an end. Ashley realised she had not really recognized nearly half of the people who shook her hand, hugged her, or patted her arm, but she did remember Amy and Ty. Amy had offered a long embrace. That one felt authentic; after all, Amy knew what it was like to lose a mother. Jack Bartlett and Lisa Stillman had been right behind. Jack had spoken several words about Val during the service. He spoke more kind words about her again in the line; words that described the healthy, neighbourly respect they had eventually come to have for each other.

I never truly appreciated how much of a decent man he is, Ashley now thought. Oh, Mom... I can see why you had your eye on him.

With a pang of disappointment, it dawned on Ashley there was one person she had not seen. He probably didn't even come, she thought despondently, not after the way Mom drove him away... Or after the way I treated him.

However, the person she was thinking of was observing everything from a distance, waiting for the right time to approach.

"Are you okay?" Jesse asked, turning to his sister when she did not make a move to the town car.

"I'm fine," she replied distractedly. "I just need a minute."

"Okay," Jesse replied, giving her shoulder a slight squeeze. "We'll be in the car. Reception's in half an hour, though; don't be too long."

"I know," Ashley mumbled. "You two go on; I'll be there."

Jesse nodded. "All right. Let's go, Tessa," he said to his girlfriend, and the pair headed to the waiting vehicle.

Having seen this exchange, Caleb finally saw his opportunity. He turned to his wife. "I'll be right back, Cass. There's something I've gotta do."

Cassandra nodded, already having figured out exactly what was going on in her husband's mind. "Of course. I'll meet you back at the truck."

"Thanks, babe," he said, and strode towards his ex-wife.

Ashley's eyes went wide behind her dark lenses at the sight of this blond man she had once been head over heels in love with.

"I'm real sorry for your loss, Ash," Caleb said, taking her cold hands between his.

She allowed him this small gesture of consolation before gently pulling away; his genuine concern for her feelings was beginning to break through her resolve not to cry again.

"Thank you, Caleb," Ashley finally responded, dabbing at her red-rimmed eyes with an already damp tissue. "Coming from you, that means a lot."

"Aw, shoot," Caleb said with a wry, sad smile. "Val and I may have had our differences, but we buried the hatchet a while back."

She stared back at him in surprise. "Really?"

"Yeah, really. She admitted you were happy back when we were together. She was sorry for her role in our divorce. I honestly think she meant it."

Ashley blew out a shaky breath and shook her head at this revelation. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry I let her come between us."

"Water under the bridge, Ash. You have your life with what's-his-name, and I have mine with Cass."

"You haven't heard?"

"Heard what?"

"I'm divorced. Again." Ashley said, dropping her gaze.

"Oh," Caleb said. "I did kinda wonder why you were up here alone. I mean, a husband ought to be there to support his wife at a time like this, if you ask me. Sorry."

"It's all right. Anyway, I heard through the grapevine you're going to be a father," Ashley said, trying to force some brightness into her tone. "You must be very happy."

"Yes! Yes, I am," Caleb replied, a smile blossoming across his face despite the somber nature of the meeting. "Cass and I, well, we were trying a long time."

"Congratulations," Ashley said charitably.

"Thanks," he replied, making an effort to suppress his joy out of respect for her current pain. "Take care of yourself, Ash."

"I'll try," she managed to say, blinking away a new flood of tears.

"I guess I'll see you around," Caleb said, touching her shoulder gently before turning to leave. "'Bye."

***

The lavish funeral reception was held at Briar Ridge, complete with a caterer and tents so the attendees could be well fed and sheltered. Jack begged off attending this part of the day's proceedings; Lisa felt compelled to put in some face time, mostly because other members of the private investors' group decided it would be a good idea to show united support for Jesse and Ashley.

Lisa thought Jesse was putting up a brave front as she watched him interact with clients his mother had courted over the years.

More like glad-handing, she mused, watching as Jesse flashed toothy grins and enthusiastically shook hands with other would-be mourners. Lisa immediately rebuked herself for the uncharitable assessment. He's just been through a terrible loss, but he knows he can't be seen as falling apart—not that anyone would fault him if he did.

In fact, she remembered behaving in a similar fashion when her father, Matthew, passed away, leaving her to pick up the pieces at Fairfield. I also wanted to show I had the strength and positive attitude to take over when we lost Dad. I needed people to be confident Fairfield was in good hands with me at the helm.

She noticed Tanner Gunn was now in deep conversation with the Briar Ridge heir. Lisa caught snippets of their conversation, but eventually diverted her attention as she was starting to feel like a voyeur. Instead, her eyes fell on Ashley standing under one of the tents, looking as if this was the last place she wanted to be while her brother's girlfriend prattled on to her about something or other. The younger Stanton sibling seemed to be barely paying attention; Tessa was blissfully oblivious to this fact.

"It's so tragic," a new voice to Lisa's right caused her to turn in surprise.

"Oh, hi, Emma," Lisa said, recognizing Emma Fitzroy, one of the newer members of the investors' group. "Yes, it certainly is tragic."

"I wasn't the biggest Val Stanton fan, but you've got to admit she was a helluva businesswoman," Emma remarked. "I can't believe something like that could happen. I mean, getting shot while out riding a horse? It's crazy."

"It is," Lisa murmured, sucking in a breath as she recalled finding Val. Emma clearly had no idea of all the grisly details. She was at once grateful Chief Parker and Nadir Jutley had respected her request for privacy on that matter and kept her name out of the papers.

Emma was shaking her head pityingly. "Jesse Stanton really has his work cut out for him."

"Yep. He sure does," Lisa said vaguely, looking over at Ashley and Tessa, wondering if and when Jesse's girlfriend would figure out Ashley probably wanted to be left alone.

"Er, I'm sorry. I forgot you and Val were friends," Emma said, misinterpreting in Lisa's tone a veiled rebuke. "I probably shouldn't have said what I said."

"No, it's all right," Lisa commented, now turning her full attention to Emma. "If I'm honest, I wasn't the biggest Val Stanton fan, either."

"Oh? I'd just thought with you and your husband being her neighbours and long-time acquaintances and all..."

Hmm, she was paying attention to Jack's speech at the funeral, Lisa thought. Sharp lady. "You know, Val and I..." she began, then trailed off.

"Val and you...?" Emma pressed.

"Years ago," Lisa said, deciding to level with Emma, "Val tried to pursue Jack, despite knowing he and I were a serious item at the time."

Emma made a face, showing her disapproval. "Ow, that's terrible."

"It was," Lisa said, "but she eventually backed off when Jack wouldn't reciprocate her overtures, and when Jack and I finally got married."

"Wait, wasn't she seeing Dan Hartfield?" Emma asked.

"In recent times, yes, to my utter and complete surprise," Lisa responded.

"Oh? How's that?"

"Dan's my ex-husband," explained Lisa, "so that was a little... awkward, to say the least."

"Wow, that is pretty awkward," Emma commented. "I had no idea."

"But they actually seemed to enjoy each other's company, so who knows?"

"I saw Dan a little while ago at the hors d'oeuvres tables," Emma said. "He actually looked kinda morose."

"Maybe she meant more to him than he realised," Lisa said with sincerity. "Would you excuse me, Emma? I'd like to go talk with Ashley for a moment."

"Of course, Lisa," Emma said.

Lisa made her way over to the tent where Ashley was still being subjected to Tessa's chatter. It was a lame excuse, but she no longer wished to be talking about Dan and Val, and she did, in fact, have a message to deliver to Ashley that she had forgotten to give at the funeral home.

"Pardon me," she said, once she was close enough for Tessa to hear, not the least bit concerned she was interrupting. "I'd like to say a few words to Ashley."

A look of relief flashed across Ashley's face as Tessa's long-winded narrative was brought to a halt.

"Hello, Lisa," Ashley said, leaning in to accept a hug. "Thank you for coming."

"You're welcome. We didn't get a chance to speak for very long after the service, but I wanted to let you know my nephew, Ben, sends his condolences."

Ashley's face brightened a little at this. "Ben! Oh, tell him I send my thanks, Lisa. He was such a fun guy. I loved having him at Briar Ridge when he was here in Hudson."

"Have you kept up with riding at all?" Lisa asked, ignoring Tessa, who seemed peeved at being silenced. "I remember you and Ben were once fierce competitors on the circuit."

"No, I haven't," Ashley admitted with a sad shake of her head. "I retired from showjumping when I left Hudson. Law school was too demanding."

"I can imagine," Lisa said. "Ben had to give it up, too. But his horse, Red, sired Herring. Your mom was interested in buying Herring from me. It's why she was out at Lookout Point that day."

"Oh, Lisa," Ashley said in dismay, "I hope you don't think that any of this is your fault!"

"No, no," Lisa replied with a shake of her head, "but I am sorry for what happened."

"Lisa," Ashley said slowly, her face crumpling, "I—I know you were the one to find Mom..."

"I was," Lisa answered, trying to keep her voice even.

"I know the police said Mom was shot, but they won't give us any real details. Did you see anything? Anything at all?"

Tessa kept glancing between the two, looking like the unwelcome third party in a private conversation.

"I'm sorry, Ashley," Lisa said. "I told the police everything I saw, and aside from Herring and your mother, there was nothing else out there that I could see."

Tessa, sensing an opening, let out a "tut" sound and shook her head.

"Jesse's been thinking of hiring a private investigator, you know," she blurted out.

Ashley pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at her brother's girlfriend.

"Oh?" Lisa asked, looking now at the young woman with feigned interest.

"Yes," Tessa remarked smugly, finally glad to be noticed. "He thinks the police are dragging their feet. After all, why have they not named any suspects? It's been a week, and nothing concrete. It's ridiculous, don't you think, Lisa?"

"We haven't been formally introduced," Lisa now said with a tight-lipped smile, irritated Tessa had presumed immediate familiarity so as to call her by her first name.

"I'm Tessa. Tessa Haywood," the young woman said. "Jesse's girlfriend."

"And I'm Lisa Stillman," Lisa said.

"I know," Tessa said with a smile and a slight giggle. "Jesse mentioned your name to me after you and Jack spoke to him in the receiving line."

"What is it you do, Tessa?" asked Lisa.

"I'm an executive assistant," Tessa remarked with an air of superiority.

"Mm. That's nice," Lisa said.

"Yes," Tessa chatted on. "I work for a big firm in Calgary."

Good for you, Lisa wanted to say, but held her tongue. She remembered the days when "executive assistant" used to be "secretary", and coming from Tessa, the modern title sounded more pretentious than ever.

"Sounds like you're probably quite busy," Lisa commented politely.

"I am," Tessa giggled again as she glanced towards Jesse, who was still speaking with Tanner.

Busy, indeed, Lisa thought, guessing Tessa Haywood probably spent more time with the elder Stanton sibling in Hudson than anywhere near her "executive assistant" job in Calgary. Val could not have been too happy with this match, Lisa thought, considering how low-class Tessa seemed to be, despite her conventional beauty that would have turned many heads, and had obviously turned Jesse's.

Yup, she has "gold-digger" written all over, Lisa thought. It's only a matter of time before she sinks her claws totally into Jesse. I'll bet there's going to be a wedding announcement soon enough, at least once a respectable period of time has passed after the funeral, or not...

She turned back to Ashley, deciding Jesse's current and future marital status was really none of her business. "I don't want to take up any more of your time, but I do want you and Jesse to know that if there's anything you need from us, don't hesitate to reach out, okay?"

"Okay," Ashley said with a positive nod. "Thank you. Both you and Jack were always good friends to my mother. I actually won't be staying in town much longer, maybe just long enough to help Jesse take care of Mom's affairs, but she would be happy to know we have your support. So thanks, again."

"You're welcome," Lisa spoke with a sad smile, gently patting Ashley's shoulder. "Take care."

***

Following the funeral, Amy was back to work with Herring. She saddled Spartan just outside the barn in preparation for another round of desensitizing the other horse. Once again, Remi had risen to the occasion, as the recovering Herring responded well to her presence just as Sassy had responded positively to her.

The traumatized horse was no longer balking at either Amy or Ty when they approached his stall. That alone was an improvement, for which Amy was grateful. She massaged his forehead for a few moments while talking softly to him. When Herring seemed calm enough, Amy slipped a soft halter rope around Herring's muzzle and neck and then opened the stall gate. From the corner of the stall she had claimed for herself, Remi jumped to her feet, tail swishing expectantly.

"Okay, Herring," Amy whispered, imagining the horse could at least understand her gentle tone since he could not understand her actual words. "We're going to meet Spartan, now. Let's go."

She led him slowly outside the stable, hoping he would react well in Spartan's presence. As if on cue, Remi followed. Spartan stood patiently beside the open barn door. Once the black Quarter Horse entered Herring's field of vision, however, the chestnut horse stiffened. Amy felt the tension in the halter as Herring dug in his hooves and pulled back.

"Herring," Amy uttered, looking back at him. "Come on, you can do this."

Herring nickered and strained against the lead. Amy did not want to force anything this time, so she slackened the length and turned to stand in front of Herring to block his view of Spartan. She rubbed Herring's forehead again. "It's okay, boy. Spartan's not gonna hurt you."

Amy backed slowly away from Herring, drawing his lead with her as she did so. She took a quick glance behind her and stopped when her shoulder was about to touch Spartan's nose. In a quick motion, she turned and hoisted herself into the saddle, still keeping hold of Herring's lead.

To her relief, Herring did not react negatively to having Spartan in his field of vision again. Amy clicked her tongue and took Spartan's rein in her free hand.

"Let's go, Spartan," she commanded, directing him to turn. The horse complied immediately, clomping off to the left. Amy felt the tension increase in Herring's lead. He was still refusing to budge.

"Come on, Herring," she called. "We're moving, now."

The chestnut horse obstinately planted his hooves in the ground.

"Whoa," Amy called, directing Spartan to stop, which he did. She peered back at Herring, on the verge of disappointment that this next step in his therapy was not going as planned. Remi sat down nearby, thinking perhaps nothing was happening so she could take another rest period.

Herring angled his neck in the dog's direction, blinking at her as she panted. He's interested in Remi because he feels safe in her presence, Amy thought. Let's see if he's interested enough to follow where she leads.

"Remi: up!" Amy commanded. The dog hopped to her feet, her tail once again wagging expectantly. Herring's ears swiveled forward.

"Remi, go run!" Amy instructed, throwing her arm forward.

The dog took off across the yard towards the pond. Herring's head turned to watch Remi's flight. He nickered once, raised his right front hoof and pawed the air, as if trying to decide whether to go or stay.

"You want to follow your friend?" Amy asked Herring. "Let's go, then."

She urged Spartan to start walking in the direction Remi had taken. To her delight, Herring also began to move. It was slow at first, but Amy was okay with that sedate pace because it meant Herring was no longer fearful of being so near to another four-legged beast his size.

"Good, Herring," Amy said encouragingly as the walk continued. "Good boy."

When they finally reached the pond, Remi was waiting expectantly. Herring approached the canine and nuzzled her for a few seconds, which Remi patiently endured. Spartan took the opportunity to take a drink, and Herring followed suit. The two horses stood side-by-side on the shallow bank, quietly lapping at the water as if they had been lifelong stable-mates.

"Good boy, Herring," Amy said again, an irrepressible smile spreading across her face.

***

Next Day

Briar Ridge

"Mr. Stanton, thanks for meeting with us," Detective Toby Kavanaugh said, as he and Detective Constable Jennifer Patterson sat down opposite the younger man in what was once Val's private office.

"Anything to help the Hudson police get to the bottom of why I had to bury my mother yesterday," Jesse stated. "I'm concerned that the investigation is going nowhere."

Kavanaugh and Patterson exchanged a glance at Jesse's not-so-subtle dig at their effectiveness as investigators.

"As you're aware, we first theorized your mother could have been the victim of an unfortunate hunting accident," Kavanaugh began.

"Right," Jesse said. "And I also know you guys have come up with absolutely zilch on that one."

"And that leads us to the next logical line of investigating," Patterson said, "which is that this was a targeted attack."

"You mean murder," Jesse said.

"Yes," Kavanaugh said seriously. "Briar Ridge is a very successful operation, and your mother was among one of the wealthiest in Hudson. Can you think of any reason why anyone would want your mother dead? Any enemies she had you're aware of?"

Jesse tented his fingers under his chin reflectively. "As a matter of fact, Detective, I can think of several people who would want my mother dead."

"Oh?" Kavanaugh responded, surprised he was being so forthright. "Tell us more."

"My mother was indeed very successful, but she could rub people the wrong way," Jesse said. "I won't hide that fact from anyone. In fact, I butted heads with her myself."

"So you're placing yourself on the list of people who would want her dead, Mr. Stanton?" Patterson asked.

"Of course not," Jesse replied, "but I know how you cops think. I'm an obvious suspect, aren't I? After all, I was the last one to see her alive, right?"

"Right," Patterson said in agreement.

"But that doesn't mean I killed her, as you all know I was right here when she was shot by whatever lunatic did this," Jesse said. "I'm just putting it out there right now that despite suddenly being thrust into the role of head of the family business, I still have a lot to learn when it comes to running things around here. My mother was the reason the business expanded into the great success it's become. She had to rub people the wrong way. She had to play hardball, because it was the only way people were going to take her seriously after my dad died and left her in charge. Without her, it's going to be difficult living up to her standards and keeping things afloat here."

"Your mother had a will, I take it, Mr. Stanton?" Patterson asked.

"Yes, she did," Jesse replied. "And before you even ask, yes, she named me the legal heir."

"Was your sister, Ashley, happy with your mother's choice?"

Jesse shrugged at Patterson's question. "You'd have to ask her that. But if Ashley was ever interested in being part of the family business, moving away and studying law was a funny way of saying so."

"All right, let's talk more about those other people who rubbed your mother the wrong way," Kavanaugh said. "Anyone in particular we should be aware of?"

Jesse tented his fingers again. "I'm sure if you check your records, you'll find my mother had several unpleasant interactions with an activist group called 'Animals Have Rights Too'. In fact, she filed a restraining order against some of their members."

"That's fairly serious," Kavanaugh said. "Had they threatened your mother lately?"

"If they did, my mother didn't tell me," Jesse answered. "But I'd definitely check them out, if you're looking for suspects. You never know what those nutty people are capable of."

"If they did send recent threats to her, and you can find evidence of it, they'd be in violation of that restraining order," Patterson said. "It would be grounds for us to bring them in."

"I'd have to poke around her files," he said, gesturing around the neat stacks of folders, a computer, and several locked filing cabinets in the office.

"We would be able to search more efficiently than you would," Kavanaugh said.

"Come back with a warrant, and I'll let you conduct that search," Jesse said with a tight smile, cocking his head to the side.

"We will," Kavanaugh said.

"All right, let's move on. Your mother would have been considered a very wealthy widow," Patterson said. "Did you notice her receiving any undue attention from anyone after your father passed away? Any suitors whose interest seemed more fiscally motivated than romantic?"

Jesse scoffed. "I think you missed the part where I said my mother rubbed people the wrong way."

"That doesn't really answer my question," Patterson said.

"Okay, my mother and a man named Dan Hartfield seemed to be having something going lately, but he's probably just as rich as she was, so he definitely wasn't after her money."

"How long had they been seeing each other?" Patterson asked.

"Look, I don't think it was anything serious," Jesse said. "I didn't keep tabs on my mother's private life. But if I had to guess, I'd say it had been over a year or so."

"Anyone in your mother's past we should be looking into?" queried Kavanaugh. "Someone she jilted, perhaps?"

Jesse just shook his head and smirked. "No. After my father died, my mother put most of her energy into expanding Briar Ridge and ramping up operations, which didn't leave much to entertain requests from potential suitors. If anyone was doing any pursuing of a relationship, she was the one doing it."

"Oh?" Kavanaugh said. "How's that?"

"Okay, look, I really don't want to say anything, because gossip makes my skin crawl," Jesse said. "But there was a time when I think my mother was trying to start something with our widowed neighbour."

"Which widowed neighbour might that be?" asked Kavanaugh.

"Jack Bartlett over at Heartland ranch," Jesse replied. "He eventually remarried, but to be honest, I don't think his new wife was happy with the attention my mother had been paying him."

"And who's this 'new wife'?" Kavanaugh asked.

"Lisa Stillman."

"The same Lisa Stillman who discovered your mother's body?" Patterson asked.

"That's correct," Jesse answered.

"All right, thank you very much," Patterson said.

"Anything else, detectives?" asked Jesse.

"You've certainly given us some avenues of investigation," Kavanaugh replied. "We understand this is a difficult time for you, so we won't take any more of your time today. But if something else occurs to you that you didn't share today, please call us immediately."

"Thank you, Mr. Stanton," Patterson said as she and Kavanaugh stood. "You've been very helpful."

Both left their cards on the desk in front of Jesse.

"Anything I can do to help catch whoever did this to my mother," Jesse said, also rising from his seat. "I'll see you out."

***

Fairfield Stables

"Thank you for meeting with us for this follow-up interview, Ms. Stillman," Detective Kavanaugh said, as he sat opposite Lisa in her office. Detective Constable Patterson occupied a third seat.

"You're welcome," she said, looking at the two of them. "How can I help?"

"We know you discovered Val Stanton's body on the morning of the 15th at Lookout Point," Patterson said.

"That's correct," Lisa said, suppressing a shudder at the memory.

"How long would you say you knew Val Stanton?"

"I've probably known of her for close to thirty years," Lisa replied thoughtfully. "I mean, I was born in Hudson, but I didn't always live here, and neither did Val. She was from somewhere in Ontario, and I think she moved here when she married her late husband. I was at boarding school in France for much of my teen years, and I was in the 'States for close to ten years with my ex-husband before moving back. So I would say I was only acquainted with Val shortly before moving to the US, but definitely more so after my return."

"And how would you describe the nature of that acquaintance?" Kavanaugh asked.

"Uh, it was... Complicated," Lisa said honestly. "But in the end, I'd say we were mostly friendly."

"'Mostly friendly'?" Patterson repeated, lifting an eyebrow. "Would you care to elaborate on that?"

Lisa frowned. This was not the direction she was expecting this interview to take. "I don't want to speak ill of the dead," she said at length. "Val could be a shameless flirt, especially when it came to Jack, my husband."

"Val Stanton flirted openly with your husband? And how did he take those overtures?" asked Kavanaugh.

"He rebuffed her," Lisa said flatly. "She eventually got the message."

"Yet you still remained 'mostly friendly' with her," Patterson said skeptically. "How did you take those overtures?"

"Look, we were neighbours and we travelled in the same social and business circles," Lisa said, trying to explain. "Jack knew her as a neighbour for longer than I did. I wasn't pleased with how she fawned over my husband before and after I married him, but she knew there were lines that shouldn't be crossed, and to her credit, she never crossed them."

"Okay, let's shift gears a little," Kavanaugh said, deciding they had spent enough time on that angle. "Val Stanton was shot riding your horse, Ms. Stillman, isn't that right?"

"Yes. Yes, that's right," Lisa said, a pout pulling at her face as she failed to block the mental replay of finding Val and the traumatized Herring.

"Can we ask why she was riding your horse?"

"I told Chief Parker this already," Lisa said, thinking back to when the senior officer spoke with her about Herring's ownership at Lookout Point.

"That's fine," Kavanaugh said easily, "please tell us again."

"Val is—was—interested in buying Herring," Lisa responded.

"Didn't Val Stanton own plenty horses already?" asked Patterson.

"Of her own? Maybe," Lisa said reflectively. "Val buys—sorry, Val bought horses mainly to train them and sell them, not to ride them herself. She was long past the days of being in showjumping competition. But recreationally, she was interested in Herring for our club's hunter-jumper events. Our faux fox hunt club."

"And how long have you owned Herring?"

"From his birth," Lisa replied, growing more perturbed by the line of questioning. Surely these detectives did not think either she or the matter of Herring's ownership had anything to do with what happened to Val, did they? "Would you like to see his papers?"

Kavanaugh waved aside her question. "No, no. Just curious."

"Anything else, detectives?" Lisa asked.

"Not at this time, Ms. Stillman," Patterson said. "Thank you for your cooperation."

The two officers stood to leave. "We may have more questions for you later, Ms. Stillman," Kavanaugh said. "But if you think of anything else, or remember anything else about the morning you found Ms. Stanton that you think might be pertinent to our investigation, please call us immediately."

Kavanaugh and Patterson left their cards on Lisa's desk.

"I will," Lisa said, but wondered now how her answers must have sounded to the investigators.

You did nothing wrong, she thought to herself. You're not responsible for what happened out there to Val. They must know that, right?

***

Amy woke suddenly, seized by an intense, painful cramping sensation in her abdomen. She forced herself to take a deep breath and to exhale slowly, but felt no relief. This pain was unlike any she had experienced before. The day she had some severe cramping when pregnant with Lyndy to the point Cass recommended she get checked by a doctor played in her mind. This cramping was far worse, if that was possible. She flipped on her bedside lamp. Aghast, she noticed with a start she was spotting. Heavily.

Oh, no. This isn't good.

"Ty," Amy called out shakily. "Wake up. I think I need to go to the hospital."

Ty slowly stirred at the sound of his wife's voice. He thought he heard her moving about the loft.

"Amy?" he answered sleepily, reaching out to her side of the bed and coming up empty. He pulled himself up, squinting against the glare of the lamp.

"Amy?" he called out again when he did not see her.

"In the bathroom," she managed to articulate as another painful spasm caused her to double over. "Something's really wrong..."

Ty heard her agonized gasps, flipping his heart into overdrive. His feet hit the floor in an instant. Two seconds later he was at the open bathroom door, looking in on Amy. No longer was she merely spotting; his eyes were drawn immediately to a splash of red on the bathroom floor.

"You're hemorrhaging!" Ty exclaimed, forcing back the panic he could feel building up inside him like a geyser. "I'm calling an ambulance."

"Hurry," Amy groaned. I can't be miscarrying... please... I can't lose this baby...

***

One Week Later

They watched a dejected Ty leave for his shift at the vet clinic. Breakfast had been such an awkward affair. The young man's despair had still been so tangible, it was impossible to ignore, but impossible to address.

"I wish Amy would say something to him," Jack eventually huffed. "Anything."

"What do you expect her to say?" Lisa asked. "Jack, she's grieving. They're both upset. What she's just been through..."

"You can talk with her. Please?" Jack entreated, his eyes full of compassion.

With consternation she asked, "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"She's shut Ty out. Lou isn't here right now, and I certainly have no words for her," he declared. "You've been where she is, Lis."

Despite Jack's imploring, Lisa agonized over what he was suggesting. "But—I'm—I'm not her mother," she protested. "God knows I've tried my best to make both Lou and Amy understand I never wanted to replace Marion—or their Grandma Lyndy."

"And they know that," Jack insisted, tenderly taking her face between his hands and locking his eyes on hers. "They know. But right now, Amy doesn't need Marion or Lyndy. She needs you. And she needs to hear your story."

Lisa broke the gaze first, struck by his sincerity, but nevertheless uncertain she could be of any genuine help. Her long-buried insecurities about her place in this family were resurfacing, and she was struggling to squelch them.

"At least think about it," Jack beseeched. "I'm worried about her. It's killin' me that there's nothing I can do, and it's killin' Ty, too."

"All right," Lisa relented. "I'll think about it."

"Thank you," he breathed with relief, knowing without a doubt Lisa would do more than think about it; she would act on it. He leaned down to kiss her, and she allowed him to hold her. It never failed that his embrace helped soothe worries and vanquish her fears as it did in that moment.

***

Lisa mounted the steps to the loft not without a heavy sense of trepidation. Nothing about the impending conversation was going to be easy, but the time had come to have it.

The blinds were all drawn; lights remained off. Lisa opened the baby gate and side-stepped a few scattered toys on the floor. In the dimness of the room, she tried to locate the person whom she had come to see.

"Hello, Amy?" Lisa called softly when she did not immediately see the younger woman.

A soft fluttering sound reached Lisa's ears, and the privacy curtain separating the bedroom from the rest of the living space drew back. Amy stepped forward hesitantly, directing her gaze toward her visitor with dull, clouded eyes. Wordlessly, she ambled out, dressed in a housecoat; hair in a messy ponytail. She did not bother to maintain eye contact.

"What did you want?" she asked in a voice that was a bare, monotone whisper.

"I wanted to see you," Lisa said, ignoring the lack of greeting and courtesy. "Thank you for letting me come. Please, sit down with me." She settled into the couch and encouraged Amy to join her by patting the space beside her.

Ignoring the invitation and making a pointed statement about personal space, Amy plopped down in a seat opposite Lisa, her arms wrapped protectively around her waist. Lisa sensed something very close to hostility emanating from Amy, as if she were just bristling at her mere presence. Lisa was not particularly troubled by that negative attitude. She was simply grateful Amy was open to having her here in the first place when she had seemingly shut herself off from everything and everyone else. It had been days since she had been down to the ranch house; a week since she had dealt with Herring; a week since the night the ambulance's ear-splitting wail had awoken them all.

In those ensuing days, Lisa and Jack had stepped in to mind Lyndy when Ty was at the vet clinic; in fact, Jack was minding the toddler right now. Georgie, bless her, had volunteered to handle some of the ranch chores that Tim did not have time to tackle.

How to begin? Lisa honestly did not know with certainty Amy's current frame of mind and heart, but she could guess her thoughts were a jumbled mess of guilt and possibly anger; her heart was probably in shreds. She took a steadying breath before speaking again, hoping Jack was right about her ability to bring Amy some kind of comfort and support in her crisis.

"Amy, I know how happy you and Ty were when you announced you were going to have another baby," she said slowly.

Amy flinched and a shudder raced through her frame. She sucked in a sharp breath and a shadow crossed her face at the mention of the word "baby".

"… And I want you to know I'm here for you, and I understand what you're go—"

"Just stop!" Amy exploded, her sudden, violent shift in emotion catching Lisa off-guard. Amy shot up to her feet, eyes ablaze; her usually lovely features deformed by an ugly scowl. "You don't understand, Lisa! How could you understand? You-you don't even have kids of your own!" She ducked her head and turned away from Lisa, yet remained rooted to the spot, lips quivering as she simmered in rage, arms now locked tightly over her chest.

Lisa regarded her serenely. While it pained her to hear those words, she placed no blame on Amy. "You're right, Amy," she said quietly. "I don't have kids of my own. At least, none that are living."

Amy started. Her eyes darted back to Lisa. "What do you mean 'none that are living'...?" Comprehension gradually dawned. "You—you had a miscarriage, too?!"

Lisa slowly held up all the fingers on her left hand and one more on her right hand.

Amy gawked as the number registered. "Six? You had six miscarriages? Oh, Lisa… Oh, I'm so sorry!" she cried in horror, her indignation instantly forgotten. "I didn't mean—I…"

Lisa got up right then as a sobbing Amy rushed to her and fell into her arms.

"I'm so sorry, Lisa," she gasped again, her own personal misery spilling out along with self-recrimination.

"Shh," Lisa whispered, rubbing soothing circles into Amy's back. "It's okay, honey. You couldn't have known. It's okay."

Presently, Amy calmed down as the tears and sobs petered out. Lisa used her thumb to wipe some of the moisture away from Amy's face. They sat together on the couch, ready now to talk in earnest.

"Why didn't you ever say anything?" Amy asked. It was not meant as an accusation, and she immediately regretted her tone. "I'm sorry; that came out wrong."

Lisa waved aside her worry. "Amy, honestly, it all happened a long time ago—obviously, when I was still married to Dan. It's just not the kind of thing people talked about. Even now, I think, there's still quite a bit of a stigma when it comes to miscarriage. It's not a happy subject. It gets awkward. People just want to avoid pain. And nobody wants to be the center of gossip."

Amy nodded in understanding. "I certainly don't want the whole town knowing and talking about it," she murmured, "especially after our very public announcement at Maggie's."

"But in this case, I think it was wrong of me not to have talked about this earlier with you, or with Lou, even… I guess I was reluctant to because I'm not your mother, and I've never wanted to take Marion or your Grandma Lyndy's place in this family," Lisa explained. "The opportunity to talk about such things never really presented itself, either."

"Does Grandpa know?"

"He knows," Lisa responded with a nod. "In fact, he's the one who thought I should speak with you."

"But, Lisa, six?" Amy sighed, closing her eyes to stave off a new flow of tears. "How did you stand it?! Just losing this one… it's horrible. I can't imagine…"

"It wasn't easy," Lisa admitted with a sad shake of her head. "But Dan and I—we had busy lives. We had our business to run. We were still in the 'States at the time, you know? I didn't have my family around. I mean, my sister and my parents knew, but they were here in Canada. So, I just put my head down and plowed forward because I didn't think I had another choice. In the long run, maybe it might have been better if I had talked to someone, maybe on a professional level, even, because our marriage didn't last. Partly because Dan had no idea how to support me in that situation, and later because my father got sick and I came back to Fairfield to care for him.

"If I'd brought those children to term, maybe things might have been different. But see, the kids I wasn't able to have with Dan—it's like they've all been restored to me because of Jack. I have children now, Amy: I have you and Lou; I have Lyndy and Katie, Georgie and Ty—you are all so much more than I ever dreamed I could have. Yes, I liked that life I had before I married Jack, but I love that my life includes all of you, now.

"And Amy, you have Ty. You still have Lyndy and the rest of us. You're not alone."

Amy leaned into Lisa. "Thank you," she murmured. "Thank you for telling me."

"You're welcome," Lisa said, caressing her hair. "If you need to talk about this, you call me, okay? I'm here for you. Anytime."

"I will," Amy promised.

*** Chapter 5: Moving Target

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colecassiidy · 3 months

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Laws

I. please dni if you, the mun, are younger than 21+ years old. by interacting with me on this blog, you are telling me that you are a legal adult and therefore i will be treating you as such.

II. This blog runs off a ghost queue of ~1/day. My RP Prompts/Memes are always open! and I have a wishlist here!

III. i will write with duplicates, ocs, and x-overs! i treat every plot and muse as their own separate verses, unless discussed otherwise (that is to say, i do not have over-arching plot/narrative on this blog and i do not practice mains and affiliations). because of this, i would very much prefer plotting over memes. even with canon ovw characters, lore is very vague and wishy-washy and there’s much room for interpretation and differences. come to me info-dumping me about your character and i will try and find a way where i can fit :p If I have followed your blog and have not yet reached out to plot, i either immensely enjoy your writing or i have yet to formulate a proper way to reach out; the latter of which can take a bit of time, so i will appreciate any and all patience :pray:

III - A. if there is no biography on your blog in regards to your muse, i may not follow back.

III - B. While I am duplicate friendly, I would politely request that if you ship your muse with a duplicate cowboy that we do some plotting before hand. My personal joy is finding threads/directions that have not yet been taken and exploring them to diversify the experience, which includes exploring other verses if need be.

IV. this blog will contain graphic depictions of violence, drinking, and smoking – due to my realizing it too late, there are threads and images that are not tagged for blood. if these are things that discomfort you, i would highly recommend not following this blog :(

V. you can call me tek, i am 25+, i am here to be a complete and utter clown. i’m sorely lacking in graphics and icons but please do not let this stop you if this is something you utilize! i also use the beta editor and, due to simple preference, will be avoiding writing with blogs that use the legacy formatting in long term threading. i write a lot on the phone and the legacy format is incredibly unfriendly towards post snipping; in the best interest of creating an ease for myself, i am going to begin enforcing this rule.

VI. i do not intend on writing smut. please respect this, thank you! as somebody who has always had aroace tastes in fiction, i am more obsessed with friendships and complicated relationships as opposed to exclusively romantic/sexual ones; i find it incredibly difficult to insta-ship and trying to develop dynamics that are based off of flirting alone (platonic flirting is easier for me to do and something i will write him doing; if your character is not sexually attracted to him and if i do write a line towards your muse in this nature, please do not feel as if i am forcing a ship on you; i am very content and happy with my platonic relationships!). i do think cole has a healthy libido and can be quite a bit of a charmer when he wants, but it’s really just a writer problem on my end.

VII. depending on the timeline, my writing will address cole as jesse mccree or cole cassidy following the name that he was using at the time. for simplicity’s sake, he will simply go as cole cassidy for any interactions outside of overwatch. because of the sensitivity of this topic, i will generally not follow overwatch blogs first. i’m adaptable upon request otherwise. if you have explicitly stated that you do not want to follow or write with blogs using that name (and all the power to you, there is no bad blood), i will hardblock in order to avoid future confusion and stepping any toes.

VIII. i’ve been a para roleplayer - (with a past avg of ~200 words - key words being past tense lol - i genuinely don’t think i can consistently do 200 these days); i would rather avoid novella, semi-lit, and literate threads as my energy levels are just absolute dog. my lengths can greatly vary to what the thread calls for, and thus i’ll be just as flexible with you. just, y'know, as long as we aren’t sending one-liners to para’s. chat rps + crack are always fun, and i’ll gladly participate!

IX. i respond to whatever i see that has been responded to (this includes ask answers - my default is to usually make threads out of them since i grew up with those acting as starters back in the day lkjsldfa; feel free to inform me if that is something you would prefer me not to do if it is not spoken in in your rules!) if you would like to drop a thread by simply not answering to it, i have no issue of this!

X. i’m slow, i’m so so slow, and i’m sorry - i have 2 jobs :’) my dashboard can also be quite quick at times and i will miss a good number of my mutuals that are located in different time zones and won't see posts until weeks later by chance of them coming up in my for-you.

XI. i want to make a disclaimer that i do block liberally. i've had to block blogs due to my for-you being flooded with blogs i'm not mutuals with and that it'll be so consistent they are all i see until i press the block button aslkdjfsl. It is not personal,

#navigation&mastermaps;;#this is for my own ease of access to edit n revise when i'm not at a computer :skull:

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undermycoat · 6 months

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jesse. jesse we need to queue more posts

#starting to reblog a bunch before realizing life is unpredictable #cupid de bunny

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blacklodgemusictx · 7 months

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Mr. Kitchen: Jesse Daniel Edwards Devilish Alter Ego to Angelic Crooner

(Mr. Kitchen art by Eric Edwards)

I am pushing it.

I really am.

But I dared twice… and was rewarded. This time? Chattanooga. I thought it was further away than Nashville, but when I asked for it, I was told – no, it’s comparable. It’s fine. Let’s do it.

Thus, my eighteenth wedding anniversary present prospect was delivered – our anniversary fell on the 14th, and we left for Chattanooga on the 15th of September.

500 miles on night one. All in the name of another Jesse Daniel Edwards show. I didn’t ask a thing about it. I didn’t need to.

A hair under another 500 on day two. The traffic was bizarre. We ended up in the strangest middle-of-nowhere jam near Murfreesboro (I could be making that up; I have no idea where we actual were but looking on a map, that seems right.) As we sat stock still for what felt like hours, we were paraded slowly by billboards for the Caverns – a weird reminder of our time spent here back in April.

As soon as a break was available, we took it and exited… behind a parade of people who also ended up at the same gas station: refugees forming an endless queue at the gas pumps and bathrooms. I even checked as I stood in line: “Y’all from the traffic jam?” Nods & grimaces.

Back on the road, we reached our hotel in Chattanooga at a reasonable hour. We laid down and fell unconscious for some indeterminant length. Awake and refreshed, we start getting ready. I Instagram Jesse… we are prepared to get in the car and go. Per the venue’s event, things should have been happening around 9. Jesse responds: “We are on at midnight.” “Doug,” I call out hesitantly… “Guess what Jesse says?” I have no idea what the call is. If he’ll go, huh… let’s go back to sleep, or what? Nope. Let’s go. We’ll watch the other bands and get something to eat.

While Instagramming Jesse, I nervously ask, “Pretty please, can we just text?” He apologizes. He thought I already had his phone number. I laugh out loud later. The phone number I was so nervous to ask for? (“I won’t bother you, I promise!”) It was written on every Mr. Kitchen CD Jesse handed out after the show.

An additional curve ball for the night: we have another show. Tomorrow night… in Dallas at Salim’s. We don’t want to chance running into another bizarre, rural traffic jam, so Doug is relentless: we will leave *tonight* after Jesse plays.

The irony is not lost on me as we navigate to our destination for the evening: The Cherry Street Tavern. We’ve just come 1000 miles to watch music in a tiny little spot in a town only marginally bigger than where we live – ours a town constantly maligned for the fact that “nothing ever happens.”

The guy at the door thinks we are joking when we say we came from Texas to see Jesse. He asks where we are from, “Abilene.” He’s from Port Arthur. Small world. He is finally convinced when he looks at my license. He seems genuinely impressed.

The Cherry Street Taven has food. I order a hamburger for Doug and a charcuterie board for myself. It seems to take forever – I’m assuming that’s because most people come to a bar for the alcohol, not the nibbles. But when my board comes, it’s half the length of the table we’ve camped at and full of tasty things.

Plop me down, feed me, and promise me music: recipe for Happy Me.

The first band is good. Everything is running almost an hour behind so I have no idea which band it is. A girl singer, but she’s the “tough” kind, not the sweet, high-voiced kind. So I like her.

We move up for the second band. I like to be close. I don’t care that this place is so small; I could have stood anywhere and had the exact same view, but this is me; this is my hang-up: I need to be close. It’s Justin and the Cosmics; per the sign outside, they are celebrating an album release. They are interesting, but I’ve got my earplugs in. Can’t hear a thing. It’s all just noise. I focus on the guitarist and the Gretsch he wields on and off throughout their performance. I do love a Gretsch.

It's so late. So late. We are leaving after Jesse to drive back to Texas. This stays in the back of my mind. I worry. But Doug is a machine. He likes driving. I don’t understand why. I'm not too fond of driving. My favorite thing is for someone else to pilot me while I nod off to a blissful, neck-cricking sleep only to wake up and be at our destination as if by magic. I can be rested and full of vigor, drive for about thirty or forty minutes, and then be ready to nod off. I thought perhaps I was one of those babies taken for car rides to soothe to sleep. Asked my mom, nope. She didn’t do it. I’m just cursed.

There’s Jesse! And another face I recognize is the drummer from the Nashville show in June, Landon’s brother, Gabe Pigg. He seems pleased to see us and happily notices my LED handbag – personalized tonight to reflect where I’m at: Jesse’s Violensia album cover interspersed with a gif of a hand shredding on a guitar neck.

Tiny hearts pop above my head: Jesse has brought me vinyl. I already ordered Violensia from Cavity Search so I think he’s just delivering it to me, but my copy comes later. This is just Jesse being nice and bringing me music. He also brings me a copy of his American Dreaming. “Didn’t know if you had this one already,” yep. I do. But still – you have brought me a kind offering of music, and this is all it takes to make me joyful. I sit on my barstool and hug my new vinyl, bouncing up and down gently like a little kid.

I don’t know what Mr. Kitchen is. I don’t need to know. Intrigued. Gabe sets up behind the drums, but the keyboard that’s typically Jesse’s territory is also set up in front of him. Gabe ends up doing impressive double duty: keyboard with one hand, drumstick with the other.

Jesse stands behind… a thing… Ok, here I show my musical ignorance. I guess I will call it a “synthesizer.” I’m sure that’s wrong, and it has some more specific name, but I’ve searched all the music sites trying to find a picture of something similar, and I got nothing. It’s about yea big (holds hands out like a fisherman describing the “one that got away”) and doesn’t have as many keys/buttons as a standard synthesizer. No clue. He’d played it before at the Galactic shows, but it appears this is going to be his primary station for the night.

They do a brief soundcheck, and the sound guy shakes his head, “That doesn’t even sound like a human voice.” He seems dumbfounded. This is antithetical to his job. But now that I am familiar with Mr. Kitchen, I feel this was exactly what Jesse was going for.

A couple of drunk leftovers from the previous band’s audience sway gently. Doug says later that was the “least dance-y” music he could imagine… unless you want to dance like you were in Twin Peaks. BINGO. Another point in the pros column for why I love Jesse’s music. The second coming of Freddie Mercury… if he were playing at the Roadhouse, Audrey Horne shoegazing serenely in the background.

Earplugs back firmly in place, Jesse and Gabe take the stage. They are both wearing identical dark jumpsuits. Ahhh, Mr. Kitchen is Dire-Straights-Money-for-Nothing Jesse. I add that to my mental list. I know about personas. I knew about Bono’s alts, The Fly and Mr. Macphisto and the Mirrorball Man, of old. But Jesse is practically a different version of himself at every show. The enigma grows. I am fascinated with this person.

I cannot hear or understand a fucking thing. Not a bit of it. I do recognize ONE song, I Don’t Like the Look of That Look – a song from a link to a future album Jesse sent to me months ago, but as a fan, I am also familiar with the act of falling in love with material retroactively. I already regret that I only recorded a couple of songs from my first exposure to Jesse because, at the time, I didn’t know who he was. So I recorded every bit of this show. It worked beautifully because he basically played the entirety of the Mr.Kitchen CD he passed out at the show and I have had that CD on almost constant play for weeks now.

The rest is a wall of noise and heavy distortion. Mr. Kitchen is Jesse… as the devil, the flip side to the angel crooner presented thus far. There is a default clear, sincere sweetness to Jesse’s voice. Mr. Kitchen is the flip side, the alter, just another facet to the gem that is this bizarre, delightful performer.

One of the drunks tries to interpretively dance into my shot. Instant flashback to the weirdo who wouldn’t stop jumping in front of my camera (ha ha very funny, I will CUT A BITCH IF YOU MESS UP MY SHOT) back in DC with Salim earlier this year. I guess this memory shows on my face because he half-heartedly wiggles away without putting up a fight. Thank goodness.

The venue is cleared out at this point. There are people left, but they are packing up merch and moving equipment for the other bands, cleaning up, and getting the bar back in order. I know this is not ideal for a performer but for me? It was a transcendent, trance-like show just for us. A thousand miles worth every foot. Now that I have had time to sit with the material and consume it all with relish, I appreciate this experience even more.

At almost 2am, the spell breaks. The show is over. I grab 3 home-burned CDs (a random number Jesse handed me, but I found homes for all of them, just like the stack of Violensia boxes I got back in June. If I love something, I need the people I love to know about it too) and a hug from Jesse. He wants to get Doug a Redbull or something, but Doug is good. He’s ready to go. So away we go.

The drive back to Texas was strange and beautiful and weird – typical for us.

It reminded me of the NoSleep podcast story about people who live, marry, procreate, and die driving their cars. The driving never ends. For me it was vignettes. Small snatches of wakefulness.

At some point, we apparently wandered into Silent Hill. Fog. Eeriness. A deer. Just one, though. In Texas, we play deer roulette, but in – I don’t know – Alabama? Just one deer. Lonely by the side of the road. At five a.m. there was a gas station. Stale donuts. But now we know: five a.m. is the exact time to eat stale donuts. In Alabama or wherever we were.

I watch the sun rise pink and orange over the Mississippi River. Still, we drive.

We make it back to Texas and crash at another hotel. We need about 12 hours of sleep in maybe 6 hours – the amount of time we have to rest up before the NHD (Nourallah-Harvey-Dezen – Salim’s power trio, supergroup with his friends Billy Harvey and Alex Dezen) show. I think I managed three or four hours of sleep. I wake up and quietly Doordash us some Denny’s. I lay back down after eating a bit. I doze next to Doug – not really sleep. Alarm at 6. We get up and head for Salim’s.

I am so happy to be back. Galactic is one of my dearest home-away-from-home happy places. I haven’t been here or seen Salim for three months which is far too long. I get a Salim-hug and am renewed. The activities of the last 48 hours are still buzzing around, unprocessed in the back of my head.

I soak up the smiles and the music – I have seen each NHD member separately, but not together. They joke and play off each other. Their mutual admiration is obvious. I love it. I’ve said before Doug doesn’t attach emotion to music, but that’s ALL it is for me. I want you to have fun. I want you to love what you do. I want to see it; that’s how I absorb the available good feelings.

Another round of hugs, and it’s time to split.

Final achievement unlocked: weekend successfully navigated, back home…enough sleep to justify not calling in sick in the morning. Everything went perfectly.

(Now just to pen Part II: NHD Texas minitour that started that next Thursday)

I could do a separate review just of the Mr. Kitchen CD. It would be difficult until it’s widely available – why review something other people can’t easily lay hands on? These days it’s all about instant gratification. Believe me, I know.

I do have to give one acknowledgment though: there is a song on the collection called “Wolf in a Wool Coat.”

youtube

Obsessed

It’s steeped in the ethereal, electronic feel of the 80s… which I adore. Think “Lady in Red” or Patrick Swayze – all leather jacket popped collar and moody sex appeal — breathing, “She’s like the wind…” It is easily one of the most beautiful songs I have ever heard.

I hope Mr. Kitchen ends up on Bandcamp or Soundcloud soon because people NEED to hear these songs.

It’s hard being so addicted. But thank goodness to have a prolific “pusher” like Jesse. More music will surely be available by the time my aural “arms” start to itch.

You know what “they” say, though: too much is never enough.

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