#march towards Atlanta

[4xplay-or-2not]

Sherpa Guides | Georgia | Civil War | Smyrna

[freelancearsonist]

the mark they saw on my collarbone

➔ post-outbreak Joel Miller x afab!Reader // series masterlist

➔ 4.4k words

➔ Joel’s instincts kick in when he runs into an omega in trouble along a smuggling route.

➔ Rated MA // a/b/o dynamics and the associated gender politics (alpha!joel and omega!reader), heavy dom/sub dynamics, unprotected piv sex, creampie, fingering, oral (reader receiving), biting/marking, blood, size kink, joel calls reader little one/little thing, mention of reader being food-insecure, alpha!tommy and alpha!tess are here briefly. takes place one year post-outbreak. // reader is afab (female anatomy, no pronouns used), is generally able-bodied, is mentioned to be smaller/shorter than joel and can fit into his jacket, is otherwise a blank slate.

Tess’s face perks up halfway over a fallen tree–she stops in her tracks to tilt her nose into the wind. “You smell that?”

Of course Joel smells it. His senses were alerted to it about half a mile ago; he’s always had the better nose. He’s been trying to ignore it, however. There’s no point to giving into temptation in this shattered world, no matter how sweet the scent.

“Whew,” Tommy huffs, wrinkling his nose at the heavy pheromones that now drift around the trio. “Whoever it is, they’re closer than comfortable.”

“Smells like they’re in trouble,” Tess posits–always the thoughtful one. Always wanting to have faith in humanity, no matter how many reasons the last year has given her to lose hope. “That’s an omega. If not in full out heat, then damn near close to it.”

“Ain’t no way there’s an omega out on their own in these woods,” Joel growls. “It’s a trap.”

Tess shoots him a look–worried, stern. “What if it’s not?”

“It is.” He doesn’t even entertain the idea. There’s no way anything is left untainted in this world.

But with every step forward, the scent gets stronger and Joel’s resolve grows weaker. Your scent is so sweet. It reminds him of springtime in Austin, the little yellow sour grass buds and picnics in the park with…

The scar on his temple gives a single little throb, and he forces himself to focus up. They’ve got a clear destination, a contact to meet outside the Atlanta QZ. He needs to keep his head in the game and out of the past. Dwelling on that, on what the world was merely a year ago, is fucking pointless. No matter how much he hopes, how much he dreams, how much he begs and pleads to a god he never really believed in to begin with, nothing brings her back.

The scent makes his stomach churn the stronger it gets. It’s not like any omega he’s ever known before. They’ve all been… a little bitter. Or maybe his ex just left a tainted trace in his nose, spoiled it for everyone else. He’s never needed a partner to feel complete, anyway. Being a father is what gives him purpose. Gave him purpose.

He pushes that train of thought from mind, sets his jaw, and marches on.

The funny thing is, they’ve spent a lot of time in these woods–Tess, Tommy, and him. For as close to the QZ as it is, they’ve never met a single other soul in these parts.

That’s why, when Joel senses your pheromones only getting stronger as they forge on, he thinks about saying something. They’re headed straight towards you, into what must be a trap. The Atlanta QZ doesn’t take omegas; there’s no reason one should be so close. If he was smart, he’d make sure that the group avoids you at all costs. But there’s a deep, primal part of him that forces him to keep his mouth shut just as he’s about to open it and suggest rerouting their journey. He wants to investigate, to find out if you’re really as sweet as you smell.

He can tell Tommy and Tess are thinking along the same lines, and it makes his teeth grit together, eyes pinched in frustration. There’s an underlying possessiveness in every further stride he takes, eyes boring into the backs of his pack members’ heads while he takes position at the rear of the group.

This is why people used to say that alphas couldn’t work together, he realizes. Not that it’s ever been an issue for him before–but he’s never smelled an omega he’s wanted so much before, either. Tommy was always the tail-chaser, before everything went to shit; he was constantly getting himself into trouble, and Joel would constantly bail him out. And Tess… he’s never met an alpha quite like her. He’s never seen her with an omega, either; never bothered asking if she had one before the outbreak. But she’s compassionate, if a bit tough. She doesn’t seem like the main threat right now.

This is what he’s always hated about these god-forsaken roles. He watches Tommy’s pace pick up a little, sees the younger Miller’s nose tilt ever-so-slightly to the wind, and in this moment he sees his own brother as a threat. That’s something that should never have had to happen. But a pack of three, and all alphas… it was bound to happen sooner or later. Maybe they’ve all been fooling themselves.

It’s been great for them thus far, being able to use each other when necessary without fear of repercussions, but there also hasn’t been an omega in the picture yet. Now, with heavy pheromones swirling invisibly between the three of them, a subtle and silent struggle for dominance starts to rear its ugly head.

The scent only grows stronger, and it makes Joel worry. It’s heady, damn near overwhelming. Joel’s never witnessed an omega so close to heat without actually being in heat. The pull of your pheromones is dangerous–it’ll draw in every alpha within a range of miles, maybe even some from the QZ with how close you are. The range will only grow once your heat actually breaks out. The pack is heading directly towards the source of great danger, and all three of them know it. Even still, all three of them are powerless to stop it.

Joel spots you first. You’re nestled under a tree, sound asleep, half-camouflaged by a blanket of orange and brown leaves. You’re gorgeous, there’s no other way to describe you, and with your pheromones flooding his senses it’s nearly impossible for him to hold back from approaching you.

He reaches out a quick hand and grabs his brother’s arm just as he’s about to step towards you.

“Don’t,” Joel growls from deep in his chest. His eyes dart around quickly, searching every inch of autumn foliage for some sign of the trap this must be. They’ve heard about this exact kind of trap before, and Joel mentally curses himself for falling right into it despite knowing better.

Hardly any unmarked omegas survived outbreak day. Many of the few that did were captured by large groups of malicious betas and put into traps, their heats used to lure in alphas who were then exterminated en masse. Joel and his pack have been lucky not to encounter such a trap yet, but everyone’s luck runs out eventually.

They stand, they watch you, and they wait for the other boot to drop.

But it doesn’t. You sleep peacefully, albeit squirming a little bit, and no one else comes. There’s nothing but the sound of birds chirping in the distance and wind rustling the bare branches of the trees overhead.

All of a sudden, you wake. Your entire body jolts, nostrils flaring at the heavy and suddenly overwhelming scent of alpha. Your beautiful eyes widen with fear, and Joel sees you're about to make a break for it.

Without thinking, he steps forward and holds a hand out in front of him–a sign of goodwill. “Easy, omega. We ain’t gonna hurtcha.”

Your chest heaves with panting breaths, but you don’t move yet. You’re smart, he thinks. You know you can’t outrun all three of them.

“You’re in a spot a’trouble,” Joel continues, trying to make his voice as gentle as possible as he takes another tiny step closer to you. “Could smell your heat comin’ on from miles away. What’s a li’l thing like you doin’ out in the woods all alone?”

“Going to the QZ.” There’s a firmness behind your tone–how brave you are, he thinks. And how stupid. 

“Where you comin’ from?” He asks–prying, but gently.

You look apprehensive, but you answer anyway. “Tennessee.”

“Didn’t do your research, did you sweetheart?” He grumbles as gently as he can. “Atlanta don’t take omegas. You go there, ‘specially in the state you’re in, you’ll be shot on sight.”

He can almost see the gears turning in your head, albeit slowly given your state; you’re wondering if he’s really telling the truth, if you can really trust him. You’re wondering why he hasn’t leaped at you yet.

You gulp and plant your hands in the dirt at your sides as if you’re getting ready to stand, but you don’t move yet.

Tommy takes a quick step forward, and Joel sees the way you flinch at the sharp crack of a twig underneath the younger Miller’s boot.

“Joel–”

“Shut the fuck up,” he growls, a little harsher than he means to. “Don’t you fuckin’ move, Tommy. I mean it.”

“Please don’t hurt me,” you whisper, hardly louder than the breeze. And then he sees it–the first pang of heat, your face screwing up in pain and your body squirming uncomfortably on the forest floor. You try not to show it, but Joel catches it anyway. Your heat is here, and his instincts take over.

“Fuck off,” he snarls, stepping firmly between Tommy and you. Tess steps forward, mouth agape in some mixture of shock and confusion, and Joel swivels his burning gaze to her. “Both of you. Fuck off. Go on ahead to Atlanta, I’ll meet up with you there.”

Tess doesn’t look affected, just concerned. “Joel, what the–”

“Go!” He roars. There’s no room for argument, even though Tommy opens his mouth like he might try. In the end, they know there’s no winning. Not right now, not with Joel’s pheromones rising and his eyes so dark. They hesitate just a moment, slowly back away, and then finally admit defeat and vanish into the trees.

Once they’re gone, you don’t try to hide your pain as much. A whimper escapes your lips as you squeeze your thighs together and all pretense falls away.

“You okay, little one?” He drops to his knees beside you so he can give you a better look. It’s clear that the road you’ve traveled has not been easy on you–he’s amazed you’ve survived as long as you have all on your own. You’re disheveled and dirty, maybe even worse off than he is. You look like you haven’t eaten in days, and the simple t-shirt covering you isn’t nearly warm enough to protect you from the chill riding in on the late autumn breeze.

Joel’s quick to rip his jacket off and drape it around your trembling shoulders–he feels a strange surge of pride when you quickly pull the fabric tightly around you and nuzzle your face into the collar for a deep inhale of his scent.

“Talk to me, omega.” His voice is deep, demanding. “You doin’ okay? What can I do to help?”

“Alpha…” Your voice is so quiet, and all he wants is to take you into his arms. But now of all times is not the time to be hasty. As much as he wants you, he refuses to take advantage of you.

“It hurts, alpha,” you continue quietly.

“I know, baby.” The sweet ting of southern accent in his voice seeps into your very veins and warms you from head to toe with each rapid thump of your heart. “How can I help?”

You reach a shaky hand towards him and he meets you halfway, marveling at how small your hand is compared to his paw. He never really considered himself a big guy until this moment, seeing you so small and helpless beside him. Clearly it’s affecting you too–he sees the way your thighs clench tightly together the second he touches you.

“I trust you,” you murmur so sweetly.

For a moment, he considers running. He’s done horrible things with the hands that now hold you so gently. He’s not one to be trusted. He’ll only end up hurting you.

“Your scent’s gonna draw more alphas in, baby,” he coos deeply. “There’s a whole QZ fullav’em just a couple miles away. It ain’t safe to be out in the open like this.”

But there’s no logic or reason left in your gaze–you nuzzle your face into his neck so you can inhale his scent straight from the source, and Joel knows there’s only one way this ends without some worse alpha coming along and hurting or killing you.

“Need you, alpha,” you plead as shiny tears fill your pretty eyes. “Please, it hurts so bad.”

Joel wonders if this is your first heat–it sure seems like it. You’ve probably been on suppressants since the day you presented. Every bone in his body screams for you; screams to take your pain away, to soothe you with his own body, to make you his.

He’s never felt so much like an alpha as he does in this moment, when your heat gets the better of you and you fuze your mouth to his in a searing kiss.

Joel actually moans into your mouth. It’s deep and a little louder than he means to be, caught off guard by the suddenness of the kiss but even more by how sweet you taste. Your scent didn’t do you justice, really. He’s never gotten addicted to someone from their kiss alone before, and yet just as suddenly as it started he needs more. He needs to devour you whole, to claim every inch of you until there’s nothing left for anyone else. Even as he licks into your mouth and easily takes control of your mouth with his tongue, he knows this is going to end badly. He also knows that he doesn’t care.

“Sweet little thing,” he coos as he tugs you to straddle his lap. You can feel the insistent press of his hardening bulge against your core, and you grind down so hard he hisses. “Easy baby, I gotcha.”

“Alpha, please…”

“Gotta have some patience, omega,” he tells you firmly. “I’ll take care’a ya, but I gotta getcha ready first. Don’t wanna hurtcha.”

You kind of want it to hurt, you kind of want him to burn himself into your very soul, but you don’t say as much out loud. You probably couldn’t form the words anyway–all that comes from your mouth is a needy little whimper.

“Hush, omega, you’re okay,” he whispers into your ear as he lays you back against the fallen leaves, one hand carefully cushioning your head while the other pulls your thigh open so he can slot himself between your legs. “M’gonna make it all better, just gotta be good f’me.”

“Alpha…” You feel the first ounce of relief as he drags your jeans and underwear down your legs in one smooth motion. Your burning skin is met with cool air and it feels incredible. Nearly as incredible as the sensation of his kisses tracing down your body, even through the fabric of your t-shirt that he leaves in place because he doesn’t want you getting cold no matter how much it feels like you might spontaneously combust if you don’t feel him inside you soon.

“You’re gonna be good for me, arentcha?” He hums against the hem of your t-shirt, just above where you so desperately need him.

“Yes, alpha,” you breathe as politely as you can manage.

His lips latch onto your clit as soon as the words have left your mouth. He knows exactly what you need–none of that torturous rapid flicking that you’ve experienced in the past but firm, honest-to-god, get-the-job-done suction.

He slips a finger into your dripping entrance and it’s honestly amazing that you don’t come right on the spot. Just that one thick finger is a stretch–it makes you arch your hips up off the ground, desperate to get away from the onslaught of pleasure and yet simultaneously wanting more.

“I know, sweetie,” he coos against your clit, slowly curling his finger until he finds the spot that makes your thighs tremble. “Feels good, doesn’it?”

“Y-yes, oh my–”

He throws all pretense out the window and adds two more fingers, filling you to your breaking point. You shatter without warning as he increases the pressure on your clit, thighs quivering and hips bucking pathetically as your warmth coats his chin. Your entire body wracks as he works you through it, fingers curling against your g-spot as his lips mercifully release your clit with an obscene pop.

“That’s right, baby,” he coos proudly. “So good f’me.”

You’re panting as you come down, satisfied for one beautiful moment even as he pulls his fingers from you so he can kiss his way back up to your mouth.

He slots between your legs so he can lick into your mouth again, and the taste of your own pleasure on his tongue makes everything come crashing back down. Your cunt clenches hard around nothing, and you groan out in pain and need for him.

He grunts when your legs lock around his sturdy waist, feet pressing into his ass to grind his heavy, jean-clad cock into your soaked folds. He moans from the very pit of his stomach, surprised at the sudden movement–and then he presses even harder, grinding himself so firmly against your cunt that you swear you can feel the outline of his mushroom head even through the layers of clothing he still wears.

“Tell me you want this, omega,” he pants into your ear, still pressed so tightly to you as he reaches down to tug his belt open. “Tell me to fuck you.”

“Please, alpha.” You’re trying so hard not to sound whiny, but you’re failing miserably. “Please fuck me.”

Joel simply adores how sweetly you ask for what you need. God, he doesn’t even know your name, but it’s taking everything in him not to claim you for the rest of eternity.

Would that really be so bad? Clearly you’re a survivor if you’ve made it this far, and as an omega no less. You could be a valuable addition to the pack.

But really, it’s the thought of having you as a home to come back to that gets him tugging his cock out of his jeans to the symphony of your quiet moans and pleas. He thinks about having a lovingly-crafted nest and the sweetest, tightest cunt he’s ever known waiting for him at the end of a long day, and it takes everything in him not to blow his load right then and there.

He knows he doesn’t deserve this, but he’s willing to be selfish anyway. Just this once.

“Holy shit,” you gasp when you look down and see the firm length of him, barely contained in his big hand. He’s thick and weeping precum, tip stained a dark maroon from sitting in his jeans untouched this long. He’s nothing like the betas you entertained yourself with before the outbreak–you’ve never even really seen an alpha’s cock in person, and certainly none this large.

He must see the apprehension in your gaze, because he takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger so he can raise your face to meet his dark, brooding eyes. “You tell me if it hurts, okay? Don’t wanna hurt you, wanna help you feel better.”

You don’t know why, but you trust him. So you nod, and you tug him into a deep kiss.

The first press of him into your waiting core has your mouth dropping open, head pressing back into the hand that cups the back of your head. He keeps you pressed so firmly against his entire body as he inches in. He’s so attentive, pulling back to watch your face for any sign of discomfort as he rocks his hips, pushing an inch deeper with every shallow thrust until the base of him settles as tightly against you as he can.

He doesn’t find anything in your expression other than pure euphoria.

He kisses you, breathless and messy, as he wills himself to stay still while fully sheathed in your tight heat. Damn it all, he’s fighting so hard for control. He’s never had someone squeeze him so perfectly, so warmly. Your cunt is pure, unadulterated heaven.

“A-alpha,” you whine once you’re ready, but he can’t move. Not yet. You’re his omega, he needs to take care of you, and he’s far too close to spilling himself deep inside your cunt and pressing even deeper so his knot can take root. He could never live with himself if he disappointed you like that.

“Please, alpha,” you try again, and the unrelenting need is what does him in. You need him, not just anyone. No one else could satisfy you how he does–he’s sure of it.

With the first true thrust of his hips, a wave of pheromones rushes over his senses. He basks in the scent of you, nearly high on it, and then the danger of this comes crashing back to him.

He thrusts deep, makes your toes curl and your chest heave, and he asks a weighted question as the pace continues. “This your first heat?”

You nod your head, barely even able to process his words. “R-ran out of s-suppressants.”

Fuck. He knew it. You don’t even seem to realize the danger, the calling card that you’re putting on display for every alpha within a ten mile radius. It’s a miracle that no one has shown up–everyone in Atlanta is probably wise to the trap scheme, luckily. But luck runs out eventually, and someone’s going to end up taking a chance for your delectable scent.

“Others’re gonna smell you, omega,” he growls as he grinds deep. “Ain’t safe to be unmarked out here. They’ll come f’ya.”

The pleasure is unbearable–toe-curling, blood-boiling, thigh-quaking. All you can do is sob and whine as his big cock fucks into you and hits exactly the right spot with every thrust.

“Gotta mark ya,” he continues quietly. “Only way to keep you safe, baby.”

You come out of your reverie a little bit at that; but deep down, you know he’s right. The only way you’ve been able to survive so long was a stockpile of suppressants you were lucky enough to get your hands on. But they’re gone, and with them your chances of surviving much longer. Unless you let this stranger mark you–the most intimate gesture possible.

“Okay,” you breathe against his neck. “Mark me.”

Your cunt clenches unbearably tight around his shaft as his teeth dig sharply into the base of your neck. Your taste floods his mouth, heady and warm–in combination with your legs locked around his waist, he can’t stop it. He’s coming before he can warn you, hot ropes of seed coating every inch of you, seemingly endless. And then, without thinking, he presses that little bit deeper so his knot can fill you to your limit.

You sob at the sensation, nails digging into his shirt-clad back in a feeble attempt to tamp down the overload of pleasure at the sudden stretch of his thick knot in your tight cunt.

“Fuckfuckfuck–” he growls into your bitten neck, grinding himself as deep as he can as his cock pulses within your tight walls. “Oh fuck omega, I’m sorry–”

You hush him to the best of your breathless ability as your hands smooth through his sweaty brown hair and down over his shoulders. “It’s okay. It’s okay, alpha. You made it so much better.”

There’s a long moment of silence, Joel’s mind swirling with so many thoughts that he can’t focus on a single one. You coax him through it silently, hands smoothing over the fabric of his shirt as your breathing slowly comes.

You’ve never felt so full, so complete. His scent surrounds you and fills you; nothing has ever felt quite so right.

You realize vaguely that he’s licking the blood from the teeth marks on your neck, and you think now’s as good a time as any to give him your name.

He looks up at you, confused for a moment, and then a warm laugh bubbles from his throat. God, he can’t remember the last time he actually laughed. What are you doing to him?

“Joel Miller,” he introduces himself back. “M’sorry, I shoulda started with that.”

His arms are getting shaky from supporting his weight above you, so he grabs firmly onto your waist and rolls smoothly onto his back with you rested snugly against his chest.

“M’sorry,” he repeats again as he feels his swollen knot pulse within you at the slight movement of your hips. “I meant to pull out, I–”

“I wanted it,” you tell him. “I wouldn’t let you. I’m sorry too.”

He gulps, nods once as a hand idly comes up to cradle your head. “I’ve got a guy in the QZ. He can get us a pill. But we’ve gotta be more careful next time.”

“Next time?”

“That was just the first round, baby,” he explains quietly. “Heats can last days, even a week. You’ll need a lot more care ‘fore it’s over.”

“Oh.” You feel so dumb, getting your education from someone whose knot is currently swollen inside you.

“We’ll get a pill,” he promises. “And I’ll pull out next time.”

“You’re… not leaving?” You’ve tried so hard not to have any false pretenses about this. You figured from the get go that he’d leave as soon as his knot went down and you’d never see him again.

He sighs heavily and runs a hand over the patchy brown hair on his chin. “Look, I… you met the rest’a my pack earlier, sorta. There’s just the three of us. We’re not good people, but… we’ll keep you safe. And you seem like you’re able to earn your keep.”

“I am,” you’re quick to assert.

“And I’ve marked you,” he adds. “Can’t just leave ya out here to fend for yourself. You’re my omega now.”

You don’t know why, but the words make your heart flutter.

You and Joel catch up to Tommy and Tess at the edge of the QZ, just in time for the meeting with their contact. Joel had explained to you on the way that it was an old acquaintance, a guy they’d met in Texas shortly after the outbreak who they’d worked with for a few months before he joined up with FEDRA. Now he sneaks supplies out to them in exchange for rarities from the other QZs.

That’s what the pack does, Joel had explained. They’re smugglers–they distribute things illegally between all the different continental quarantine zones.

Tommy and Tess see the two of you coming, and they’re instantly on guard. It only gets worse when Tommy recognizes the brown leather jacket wrapped tightly around your torso to shield you from the breeze.

“Joel.”

Joel tries to ignore Tommy’s call, but there’s not much he can do.

“Joel, what the fuck’ve you done?”

Joel supposes Tommy’s outrage is justified, but he shields you from it anyway. Truth be told, he doesn’t rightly know just what he’s gotten himself into with you.

➔ beta: @futuraa-free (thank u honey i love u)

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[separatist-apologist]

The Sweetest Con

Summary: Nesta Archeron has been trapped in witness protection for the past five years, hiding a secret no one can ever learn. All she has to do is wait out the criminals back home determined to punish her and her sisters for a lie they told years before.

She can handle anything- even the new agent sent to keep her safe.

Read on AO3

Five years earlier:

She wasn’t used to Georgia’s humidity. 

Nesta never wanted to get used to it. Standing just outside the little white house that now belonged to her, Nesta wiped sweat from the back of her neck. The town was small—no more than a couple thousand people, if that. No big buildings, no major downtown, and worst of all, no Chinese food. Not unless she wanted to creep closer to Atlanta and given that Nesta’s car was a piece of rusting junk built a full decade before she was born, she doubted she’d make it.

So much for being a hot shot lawyer. 

Nesta dumped her bag just inside the white picket fence, ignoring the peeling paint and splintering wood. It was the kind of place Elain would have thrived in. With a sigh, Nesta turned her back entirely on the overgrown yard and began walking along the only road in the town to the center—aptly named Main Street. 

There was practically no one out. A few older woman walked with looped arms down the sidewalks while a harried mother pushing a stroller made her way toward the only grocery store. Nesta made her way toward the marble carved library, taking the steps one at a time despite the unrelenting sun overhead.

The air inside was ice cold and empty save of two women who were quietly talking to each other. One of them—the red head—clearly worked there given she was behind the desk. The other sat perched on the counter, a book in her lap. They had been clearly talking with some animation though now that Nesta had intruded, the pair stared with wary suspicion.

Nesta hadn’t come to make friends. Lifting her chin with all the haughtiness her mother had instilled in her, Nesta marched toward the shelves lined with fantasy and romance and began reading the jackets. 

She needed a distraction. All she could think about lately was what would happen if Rhysand ever found them. Surely he was irate…he’d be out for blood. They’d flat out lied, pointing the finger straight at the notorious mafioso and the feds, in their eagerness to put him away, had overlooked all the evidence suggesting otherwise.

But Rhysand would know.

And Nesta wanted to forget him. Mobsters lived short lives, besides—in a year, he might be dead and the whole thing over. She could keep herself busy for that long. So long as the library kept books on the shelves, Nesta could find something to do.

She brought them to the front desk where the red head and the dark haired woman waited. “Library card?” The woman’s name tag read Gwyn. 

“No,” Nesta said, fishing out her new drivers license. Agnes Smith. Sure. That sounded real. “Here.”

Gwyn eyed it for a moment. “You don’t look like an Agnes.”

“Tell that to my mom.”

Gwyn began typing on her computer, glancing at Nesta’s ID. “Emerie,” the dark skinned, dark haired woman said with a friendlier smile. “I think you look like an Agnes.” Gwyn rolled her eyes. 

“You should come by the general store,” Emerie added, glancing at the ID for Nesta’s address. “You moved into the old Brandon house.”

“Grizzly murder happened there,” Gwyn said seriously.

“Did not. He died of all old age,” Emerie said quickly. “It’s been run down for a while. I’d be happy to help you out.”

“Do you like women?” Gwyn asked suddenly and bluntly. 

Taken aback, Nesta said, “Um…not really—romantically, anyway.”

Emerie sighed. “It was worth a shot.”

Nesta almost blurted out that she’d still take friends before she thought better of it. No need to be defensive or obsessive. “Where is everyone today?”

“It’s ten am,” Gwyn said.

“They’re at church,” Emerie replied when it was clear Nesta didn’t understand. 

“But not you?” Nesta questioned.

Gwyn handed her ID back, along with a white library card bearing her pretend name. “We aren’t welcome.”

“Why?”

Emerie grimaced while Gwyn scanned Nesta’s book. “They think I’m a homewrecker…and Emerie likes women. Openly.” 

“Fuck them,” Nesta said without thinking. It was the first smile she’d seen from Gwyn—a small, half formed thing, but a smile all the same. “We should start our own religion.”

“That sounds like blasphemy,” Emerie teased.

“It sounds like witchcraft,” Gwyn added, pushing Nesta’s stack of books toward her. “I’m in.”

Which was how Nesta found herself hosting brunch that Sunday with two strangers in a house that didn’t belong to her.

PRESENT:

“Who is that?” Emerie asked, sitting on Nesta’s front porch holding a sweating glass of iced tea. 

“He’s not local at all,” Gwyn agreed, lowering her sunglasses to take a look at the tall, muscular man making his way toward Nesta’s gate. Wearing mirrored shades and a suit that was bursting at the seams, he looked like he was playing dress up as a cop.

His dark, wavy hair half pulled in a bun didn’t seem regulation, for one. But something about him seemed off somehow. 

“He one of yours?” Gwyn questioned. Nesta had long since betrayed the secrecy she’d been sworn to, telling her friends everything but the most critical piece of truth in order to protect Feyre. 

Nesta scratched her ear. No, this man was definitely not one of hers. 

“Want us to stay?” Gwyn asked, likely thinking about the shotgun mounted in the back of her pick-up truck.

“I can handle him,” Nesta assured them. Gwyn and Emerie stood, leaving behind their cups to slip from the yard. Gwyn nodded at the man once, lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval. That left Nesta standing at the top of her porch steps wearing a butter yellow sundress, arms crossed over her chest.

“Ma’am,” he the man began as he approached, his expression unreadable. She waited, watching as he took off his sunglasses only for recognition to slam into her. Oh. She knew this man from pictures.  “My name is Cassian.”

Rhysands right hand man. Nesta didn’t move, unwilling to betray she knew who he was. “What can I do for you, Cassian?”

Not even a fake name? Was he that confident she’d never done one google search? He had a mugshot, had appeared in the papers just enough times for Nesta to recognize him. They called him The Lord of Bloodshed thanks to his rumored job of handling the things Rhysand didn’t want staining his hands or his conscience. 

And that man was standing at the bottom of her steps, armed just beneath his suit jacket. 

“I’m here on behalf of your case,” he said like a pretty liar. 

“Oh? Has something happened?”

“An indictment is coming. I’m to escort you back home once Rhysand has been charged.”

Liar.

Still, there was no reason to call him out on it. If Rhysand had found her, he must be still looking for her sisters. She didn’t believe for a minute he’d found Feyre—his bruiser would have pointed his gun at her by way of greeting had he. No, they were monitoring her.

And Nesta could watch them right back. 

So she smiled, hoping she seemed innocent and sweet. “What a relief,” she lied, stepping to the side so he could come up. “I was starting to think I’d be trapped here forever.”

“Can I come inside?” Cassian asked, looking around her immaculate yard with interest. “It’s hot out here.”

“Better get used to that,” Nesta said, pulling open the screen door so Cassian could get the lay of the land. “Are you staying here?”

“If you don’t mind. The hotel is…”

Roach filled, she knew. People still went, content to carry out their clandestine affairs in filth so long as no one ever found out. 

“I have a spare room,” Nesta told him. Cassian turned back for his own car—a brand new jeep  that was laughably out of place in her little neighborhood. He returned with two bags slung over his broad shoulders, eyes hidden behind his glasses. The sun hit the golden brown of his skin, making it seem as if he glowed and tragically, Nesta thought he was a good looking man.

He’d kill her if she wasn’t careful…but attractive, all the same. 

Nesta showed him to the smaller room she kept made up just in case Gwyn or Emerie wanted to stay the night, thinking the full sized bed didn’t seem big enough for this man. He had to duck beneath the doorway, putting him well over six foot three—maybe six six? He made Nesta, who stood tall at five nine, feel dainty by comparison.

“Should I call you Cassian, or…?”

“Cassian is fine,” he replied, sunglasses resting atop his head. “This is perfect, by the way. I promise you’ll barely know I exist.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Nesta said in a flirty voice as she eyed him. “I think it would be hard not to notice you.” He grinned, unaware that a real agent would have shut her down in seconds. “Well, Miss Agnes, I’ll do my best to keep out of your hair.”

Nesta offered him another smile, mind racing. If she survived tonight she assumed she’d survive as long as he wanted her to—and as long as she didn’t admit she knew what he was. That meant keeping it from Gwyn and Emerie, who wouldn’t be able to stop themselves from treating him like a criminal.

He thought she was prey, but Nesta Archeron was a survivor. A predator, just like this man. And she had lived in Georgia for five years—she had guns hidden all over the house. He didn’t need to know any of that, though. Nesta waited while he unpacked some of his things and peeked around her little house, mostly quiet as he cased her. Sitting on her sofa beneath a ceiling fan moving at top speed, Nesta heard him push open the back door and walk through the yard where she assumed he was testing the gate.

He messed with windows when he returned, pushing back curtains to peer out into the street. “You’re wide open out here,” he finally said with a frown on his pretty face. And he was pretty—sculpted and rough in a way that was hard to ignore. Nesta found herself noticing the green in his hazel eyes and the way stubble clung to his strong jaw. A slit cut through his eyebrow while faint scars littered his jaw and hands, betraying a man who knew his way around a fight. 

He was fooling no one but himself. 

“This is where you put me,” she reminded him, wondering if he understood what she was really saying. 

“Maybe we’ll keep the curtains closed,” Cassian said, as if Nesta didn’t do that anyway. The sun was unforgiving and the only way to survive swampy summers was to try and keep things shady and cool. 

“Do you want to take off your jacket?”

“I want to take everything off,” he admitted, shrugging out of what she had to assume was stolen. “Even my own skin.”

“That’s how I felt when I first got here,” she told him. He’d look back on all this and remember—he’d realize she knew the moment he stepped onto her lawn. “You get used to it.”

She was going to kill him, she realized. The knowledge slammed into Nesta’s chest violently, paralyzing her for a moment. She’d never killed anyone…but at some point she’d have to kill this man before he killed her. Cassian, for his part, was unaware of the slant of her thoughts. He must have already known when he came down that he planned to kill her just as soon as he was given the order. She doubted he intended to take her home…and if he did, it would be under duress. 

That was future Nesta’s problem, though. For now, all she had to do was stay one step ahead of him. And that meant pretending like she believed every word coming out of his mouth and ignored all the obvious signs that he was a liar. 

“Hungry?” she asked. 

“Starving,” Cassian agreed. He vanished into the room she’d given him, leaving Nesta enough time to try and steady her nervous hands. By the time Cassian returned, Nesta was slicing up meat for the grill outside. There was absolutely no way she was turning on her oven.

“Can I help you with that?”

Instinct demanded she say no. She didn’t want Cassian anywhere near lighter fluid, for one. He looked so earnest and she was pretending, so Nesta nodded. “I haven’t seasoned it yet.”

“Leave it to me,” Cassian said with an easy smile. And she did, watching him from the corner of her eye while he seasoned her meat and vegetables. He vanished out the back door and when he returned, sweat glistened over his face. Nesta found herself standing there for a moment, staring as he pulled the rest of his hair off his face, biceps straining against the cuff of his t-shirts. 

Cassian was heavily tattooed with black ink that crawled over his arms and up his neck, broken only by the sweaty shirt he wore. 

“Why do people live like this?” Cassian asked, wiping his brow on his sleeve. “It’s horrible.”

“I keep saying it,” she replied honestly. “I would have preferred a colder climate.”

“Next time,” Cassian grumbled. “What are you doing now?”

“Cutting up fruit. Want some?”

Cassian picked a blueberry out of the bowl and popped it into his mouth. “How do you spend your time, anyway?”

“I’m the town lawyer,” Nesta informed him. “I work in a little office down on Main Street.”

“And when you’re not working?”

She shrugged. “I have friends…but I mostly read.”

He glanced toward her shelves of books in the living room, visible from the hall connecting the two. “Anything interesting?”

“Take a look,” was all Nesta could think to respond. Cassian didn’t take her up on her offer, turning instead to go check on the grilling meat. Had she not known who he was, Nesta might have thought the awkward environment was just because a stranger had invaded her space.

It felt almost normal. 

Almost.

Because Nesta couldn’t forget a killer was sitting across from her, his hands soaked in blood. She kept coming back to it as they ate in relative silence. Why had Rhysand sent him here? What did he want with her? Nesta needed to figure it out.

And figure it out fast.

CASSIAN:

Nesta Archeron was beautiful.

Cassian hadn’t expected it. He’d seen a picture of Feyre only once and had kind of imposed her face on all three Archerons. Walking up to her house had been a surreal experience. For one, all Cassian could see was her tits pressed against the neckline of that sundress she wore. Holy fucking Christ, but Nesta’s body was something out of his most depraved fantasies.

But her eyes were something else. Icy blue and calculated, it was no surprise Nesta had survived five years out mostly on her own. Did she even know her sisters were guarded by federal agents while she was left to fend for herself? 

It irked Cassian. Sure, he was grateful he’d been able to gain access to her life so easily, but surely someone was keeping their eyes on this woman? So the likes of him couldn’t just stroll into her home and do whatever he liked with her? 

But after two days living with Nesta, Cassian learned that no one seemed to care if she lived or died. Which was just as well—because he was starting to care. Just a little, he told himself that second night as he laid in bed staring up at the ceiling fan.

His only job was to get her back to Rhysand in one piece once he’d tracked down Feyre and married her. Nesta wouldn’t even know until it was all too late and the feds would lose their pathetic case.

And then Cassian could go back to his regular life in a place that wasn’t drenched in humidity. How did anyone sleep? Even with Nesta’s air conditioner going at full blast, Cassian found himself shucking off his shirt and kicking the sheets to the floor in a desperate attempt at sleep. 

Thinking the living room might be cooler, Cassian dragged his blanket with him to the couch where he found Nesta, half hidden in the dark with a piece of toast in her hand.

Her little night dress was enough to empty out his mind. Why was she so hot? Cassian could see every curve of her perfect body beneath the silken blue fabric and her hair was loose around her shoulders rather than braided in a crown atop her head.

He wanted to lick the salt off her skin.

He wanted to lick a lot of things, actually.

Cassian was fairly certain federal agents weren’t supposed to have sex with their charges—even if Rhysand was certain Vanserra had something going on with the middle Archeron. Cassian wasn’t anything close to a cop and fucking was his favorite thing to do. 

“I ah..” Cassian rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly hyper aware that all he wore was a pair of loose shorts. Nesta was looking only at his face with a grim determination—as if she found it very difficult to do so.

You can look at any part of me you like.

Having sex with her would certainly pass the time. 

“It’s hot,” Nesta said, flipping on a lamp on the side table. “I keep meaning to get someone out here to look at my AC, but…”

“I’ll look at it,” Cassian promised. “Before the sun comes up.”

“You’re handy?”

He was, actually. “I grew up with a single mom,” he said, flashing her a smile before making his way to the sofa. “We didn’t have a lot of money, so I learned how to do repairs.” Nesta tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. Unwilling to give her a reason to banish him, Cassian made a show of fluffing the couch cushions before stretching himself out. 

“My shower doesn’t have hot water,” she finally told him.

Cassian grinned in the dark. “I can take a look at that, too.”

“I would appreciate it,” Nesta replied. 

“Why don’t you make me a list? I’ve got nothing else to do all day and I feel like a freeloader sitting on your couch.”

That was true. Cassian was used to staying busy and suddenly he had nothing but downtime. It was tempting to go to the library and find his own books to read and treat the entire thing like a vacation. This would help build trust between them, he rationalized.

And Cassian liked having something to do. He liked being useful to people. 

“I could do that,” Nesta said, still standing in his line of sight. Even in the dark, Cassian could see her nipples pointed through the fabric. He wanted to touch them.

“I’m here to help,” Cassian reminded her.

“Of course,” she said, her tone unreadable to him. 

He nearly asked if she wanted to join him. It was on the tip of his tongue, but Nesta beat him to speaking, adding, “Well. Sleep well, Cassian.”

“You too,” he said, disappointment ribboning through him. It was absurd to think a woman like Nesta Archeron was going to crawl in his dirtbag lap.

Still, Cassian could dream. And he did, waking with a throbbing erection he had to discreetly handle in the freezing cold shower. Cassian hadn’t noticed it wasn’t hot given the air was miserable and he didn’t want to take a boiling shower for once. He could hear Nesta in her room listening to music, up with dawn just like he was. 

He found tools out in her garden shed, unused and rusty. They’d likely belonged to the previous tenant, whoever they’d been. Still, they worked well enough for Cassian’s purposes. What she needed was an entirely new unit. Cassian guessed the old one was over a decade long and judging from the rattling, it was on its final legs.

He had money. A lot of money. Would she believe him if he told her the agency had decided to replace it? Nesta didn’t strike him as particularly stupid—if they’d never helped her before, she might not believe they’d help her now. He couldn’t live the way they had been, though, which was how Cassian found himself on the phone with the local repairman giving out his credit card details over the phone.

Nesta was gone by the time Cassian came back into the house, drenched in sweat and slightly sunburned on the tops of his arms. It was a relief to get into the basement and work on the water heater, and by the time Cassian finished, the service guys were there to replace Nesta’s air conditioner. It required them to turn the air off which was actual hell, though once it was back up, Cassian felt instant relief. 

Nesta returned with a scowl on her face, dressed in a pencil skirt that made Cassian’s mouth dry out. How had Archeron managed to create her? Cassian had met him—he was nothing special. An unremarkable man in every way imaginable, including his appearance.

Nesta could have modeled. Could have had her face on billboards, her body in magazines. Had he met her back home, he knew he’d have dogged her steps hoping for just a look in his direction. 

“Any news?” Nesta asked, sliding her keys and purse onto a side table. Cassian watched her kick off her heels and turn her face upwards toward the vents blowing cold air.

“Nope,” he said. What would Rhys do if he kept her here for a year? Kick his ass, likely. “Rough day?”

Holding up a cloth shopping bag, Nesta nodded her head while Cassian rose to take it from her. Inside he found an assortment of peppers, onions, and a rather nice steak he assumed she wanted to grill. Cassian had never grilled before he met her and found that he rather liked it. In fact, he liked the whole little game he was playing. Pretending to be the sort of man who had a house and a wife and a barbeque suited him.

In another life, Cassian would have thrived.

“I’m working on another divorce and her soon to be ex stopped by to tell me what he thought about me.”

“I hope it was to tell you you’re beautiful,” Cassian replied without thinking as he peeled stickers from the vegetables.

“No it wasn’t,” Nesta replied, her tone uncertain. “It was to tell me what a bitch I am.”

Cassian arched a brow. “Did you tell him to get fucked?”

Nesta chuckled. “Not this time…but I wanted to. He thinks if he digs his heels in, he can avoid this divorce but it’s happening either way.”

“This is why I’m not married,” Cassian said, reaching for a knife.

“Oh?” Nesta asked, an amused smile on her perfect face. “Is that the only reason?”

Cassian couldn’t help his grin. “I’m off-putting to women, of course.”

“There it is,” she said with a pretty laugh. “Want any help?”

“Get out of my kitchen, Nes,” Cassian replied, swatting her away. “Water’s fixed, by the way.”

The whole thing was warm and domestic. Nesta thanked him before sauntering off, hips swaying with each step. The only thing to temper Cassian’s hot blood was the hotter grill outside and a reminder that Nesta was off limits to him.

He was merely a guard meant to get her back home before the feds scooped her and her sisters back up again. Collateral, he supposed, for the game Rhys was playing with Feyre. Cassian was grateful for that, at least—if Rhys called him and told him to kill her, he wasn’t certain he could do it. 

Cassian returned to find Nesta in a pair of tiny little shorts and a pink tank top. He wished she’d pull her hair down, still left in its braided crown, though in truth he could have stood at the backdoor and stared at her for an embarrassing length of time.

“What did I say about the kitchen?” he teased, setting his tray of meat and vegetables on the counter beside her.

“I wanted to make a little salad,” Nesta told him, showing him the bowl. “Do you even eat vegetables?”

“On occasion,” Cassian said with an easy grin. “I’ll eat whatever you put in front of me, though. I’m not picky.”

“Tell me about yourself, Cassian,” Nesta ordered once they were seated at her little wooden table. 

“There’s nothing interesting to tell,” he replied. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself? I’ll bet you’re a lot more interesting than I am.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Nesta murmured.

“C’mon,” Cassian cajoled. Nesta sighed, eyes narrowed with that suspicious look he was growing so fond of. Was there such a thing as love at first sight, he wondered? Cassian was starting to suspect he was under its spell. Under hers, anyway. Nesta relented, telling him little stories he figured were probably half true. 

Cassian knew the right questions to ask, at any rate. Careful not to mention her family, Cassian asked her about everything else. Nesta spoke about going to law school and living in Georgia, mentioning two friends she’d made—Gwyn the librarian and Emerie the grocer. He’d seen them on his porch when he first arrived. 

He needed to do a little digging on them, but he figured they were likely fine. 

“What about you?” Nesta asked, their meal long concluded. Cassian began gathering up dishes.

“What about me?”

“Are you from Georgia?” she questioned.

Cassian chuckled. “No, I’m not from Georgia. Just got unlucky in my assignment, I guess.”

“Why did you want to do this work?”

Cassian considered that. “I’m good at it,” he replied, drumming his fingers along the edge of the sink. “I kind of fell into it, actually. I guess I succumb easily to peer pressure because when one of my friends suggested I apply, I did it without hesitation.”

That wasn’t entirely true. There had been no application process—he and Rhys had become friends as boys and Rhys’s mother had been like a second mother to Cassian. He’d always wanted to repay them for their kindness and when Rhys asked him to join him as his right hand man, the answer had been obvious.

He couldn’t tell Nesta that, though. She didn’t poke, either, seemingly satisfied with his answer. While Cassian cleaned up, Nesta made her way to the living room, picked up a book, and curled up on the couch. Cassian watched her pull a blanket from the back of the sofa and drape it over her tanned knees.

“Cold, huh?” he joked. 

“You fixed—”

A gunshot silenced both of them. Nesta jumped clean out of her skin, book falling from her trembling hands. Cassian frowned, his own heart racing with excitement. Finally, something interesting was happening.

His own gun was in his hand before Nesta ever stood. “Don’t move,” he whispered, motioning for her to get away from the window.

“Send the bitch outside!” a man’s voice yelled, filling Cassian with cold rage. He was at the door in a moment, flinging it open so it was his large body filling the space. On the lawn, a man stumbled forward, gun pointed at the sky. He pulled the trigger again, clearly trying to intimidate Cassian.

Cassian had been tied up before, a gun pressed against his lips while his cock was threatened with a knife. Some fucking rural drunk with a gun didn’t scare him. In truth, very little scared Cassian. He’d cheated death more times than he could count and he knew, as he stepped onto the lawn in the fading daylight, that he wasn’t going to die today.

This man, on the other hand…well. Cassian supposed it would depend on what he did next.

“Lower your weapon!” Cassian barked, his voice rough and menacing. The man jerked to look at him, eyes wide and watery. “Put your gun down or I’ll fucking kill you.”

“Send out your bitch—”

Cassian didn’t shoot him, but he did hit him in the face. Hard. Maybe too hard given the way the man crumpled at his feet as blood poured from his nose. Only the alcohol kept him from passing out which was lucky for Cassian.

Crouching in the grass, Cassian grabbed the man by his thinning hair and forced his head into an unnatural angle. “What did you say?”

“I called her a bitch,” the man spluttered through the blood. 

Cassian cocked his gun with his free hand and pressed it to the man's cheek. “Try again,” he whispered, fully intending on killing this man on the front lawn. Cassian’s finger pressed against the trigger just as Nesta barked, “Cassian!”

He twisted to look at her, arms crossed over her chest. She was fury incarnate right then, marching toward the pair of them without a care in the world. 

“Get out of her, Brent,” Nesta ordered, pointing her finger toward the gate. “This is embarrassing, even for you.”

“You ruined my life—”

“You ruined your own life by cheating on your wife!” Nesta spat without remorse. “And you’re ruining it by assaulting a federal officer.”

Cassian nearly choked. Did he look like a cop right then? 

“He assaulted me,” Brent protested, shoving out of Cassian’s grip.

“If I see you near her again, you’ll find yourself six feet under before you can utter one fucking word. Do we understand each other?” Cassian asked, rising to his full height. Brent glanced from the gun in Cassian’s hand to Cassian himself before offering a sullen nod. 

“Whatever,” he muttered, clearly trying to save face. Cassian watched him stumble off, forcing himself not to pull the trigger anyway at the man’s retreating back. Nesta came to stand beside Cassian, resting her soft, small hand on his forearm.

“That’s the guy getting the divorce,” she told him, as if Cassian cared who he was. Letting someone who threatened him walk away unscathed felt wrong and Cassian longed to rectify it. Where did he live, he wondered? 

“I can see why,” Cassian muttered, turning back for the house. “I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.”

“He’s not coming back—”

“He pointed a gun at you,” Cassian growled, the memory filling him with rage. 

Nesta only shrugged, proving that she was still part of the life whether she wanted to be or not. Did she know what a liar her younger sister was, he wondered? Did Nesta know it had been Feyre who killed her father? Looking at her in the warm light of the house, Cassian decided that a woman like Nesta wouldn’t allow herself to live this way if she hadn’t known. If she wasn’t protecting someone. 

Who was protecting her? 

“I’m fine,” Nesta reminded him. But Cassian knew all too well how differently things could have gone if he hadn’t been there. Cassian knew how quickly a bullet could end things. 

“I’ll feel better out here,” he said, setting his gun on the glass coffee table. “You won’t change my mind, Nes.”

She hesitated, eyes moving from him to the window. “Fine.”

Cassian had no intention of sleeping, though. He waited until he knew Nesta was asleep, slipping into her bedroom just to check. She was so lovely even in sleep and Cassian had to resist the urge to touch her face. Not tonight. Another night, perhaps—but not this night. 

The thing about small towns he found himself appreciating was how easy it was to find people. Slipping into a local bar, Cassian mentioned what had happened to the bartender, who helpfully told him where Brent lived. 

He didn’t bother to slip in quietly. If he wanted to be unnoticed, he would have called up Azriel. Cassian liked when his marks were scared, for whatever that said about him. Flexing his fingers, Cassian picked through the dirty, mostly empty house. He supposed Nesta was helping to clean him out.

Good for her.

Brent was waiting in a fraying brown chair, a bottle of Jack Daniels held loosely in one hand. “Knew you weren’t no cop,” he muttered. “You got the look of a felon.”

“Have you been talking to my third grade teacher?” Cassian asked, his tone light. “She used to say the same thing.”

“You ain’t foolin’ no one but that girl of yours,” Brent told him, eyeing the gun in Cassian’s hand. 

“She’s the only one I need to fool,” Cassain agreed, coming closer. “I swore an oath to protect her.”

“I didn’t hurt her.”

“But you scared her,” Cassian said in that same friendly tone. “You came to her house and threatened her and I can’t stand for that.”

“Well, I don’t really care if I scared her. Sometimes women ought to be a little afraid.”

Cassian clenched his fingers. “Is that so?”

“Make your threats and get the fuck out,” Brent ordered, taking another swig of whiskey. Cassian saw his gun on a chipped side table. 

“You don’t have much going for you, do you Brent? Wife left you, took all your money…is about to take your house. You’ve got no job, no friends…anyone would lose it.”

“Yeah,” Brent mumbled, eyes glassy. “You get it.”

“If I were you, I’d probably kill myself too,” Cassian added, holding Brent’s gun in his hand. Brent’s eyes found him, big and wide with shock. 

“What did you say?”

Cassian shrugged, making his way closer to the inebriated man. “I don’t think anyone will be surprised when they find you. I’ll bet it takes them days before someone comes checking.”

“Look, you don’t have to do this. I can…I can pay you—”

“No you can’t,” Cassian said with a chuckle. “And even if you could, I wouldn’t take your money. This is about honor, of which you have none because an honorable man wouldn’t try and threaten a woman for doing her job.”

“She fucked me over—”

“You fucked yourself,” Cassian interrupted, reaching for Brent’s hair a second time. “And you made a mistake coming after her.”

“I’m sorry—”

Cassian pressed the barrel of the gun beneath Brent’s jaw.

“I know you are,” he said, holding the man’s gaze. “It’s not enough.”

And then he pulled the trigger. The relief he felt was instantaneous, his blood lust slaked. It took another few seconds to arrange the gun in Brent’s hand, letting both his arm and the weapon fall lifelessly into his lap. The bottle of Jack hit the floor with a thud, spilling over stained wood floors.

The scene was practically a work of art. Textbook suicide—no one would look twice at him or Nesta. That didn’t stop him from wiping his prints on the way out, just in case. He found himself back on the couch, face washed of blood, before two am. 

Cassian had been right about one thing: it took them three days to find Brent.

“Suicide,” Nesta said crisply when she learned, eyes focused on Cassian’s face.

He only smiled. 

[pas-de-duex]

Prinxiety Week Day 7: Music

Read it on ao3 here! It has an additional chapter with the extra prompt: Concert!

Trigger warnings: anger, jealousy

@prinxietyweek

Virgil Storm was on top of the world.

Underneath the bright lights, in front of roaring crowds, sweaty from performing his latest hit, he felt better than ever.

Right now, watching one of his biggest fans on a date, he felt like shit.

He had absolutely no right to feel this way.

It wasn’t even that Roman was a groupie or anything (gods know he had plenty of those). Roman was just a huge, huge fan. He went to every concert, every meet and greet, and every interview Virgil’s band gave in the greater Miami area. Hell, Virgil had even seen him in Atlanta, Georgia one time! Roman was a consenting adult who had every right to go on a date with whoever he so wished.

So why did Virgil feel so shitty seeing him with some guy who looked like he should have a wife and kids at home, not sitting with Virgil’s newly acquired crush in a witchy tea restaurant that had recently opened up downtown?

Virgil was supposed to be picking up some new guitar picks from Logan in five minutes. Instead he found himself marching into said restaurant, and sliding into the booth next to Roman.

“Hey Roman.”

Roman turned to him in shock.

“You-you, you- you-“

“Well hey kiddo! You must be that Virgil Storm Roman keeps telling me about.”

“Patton,”

“Let me tell ya, Roman here LOVES your music! He's got posters of you all over his room! He owns every cd, record, hell even cassette tape you’ve ever released! He’s been to a ton of your concerts! Why, he even dragged me to one in Atlanta last year-“

“Patton!!” Roman stared daggers at the other man, while Virgil gave a satisfied smirk. “Ahem, sorry, you’ll have to excuse my friend Patton here. He just moved to Miami from Atlanta and we are, um, catching up.” Roman gave Virgil a sheepish smile.

“Hey, no worries. Just thought I’d come say hi to my biggest fan. I’ll get out of your hair if-“

“No! Uh, I mean, would you, would you care to join us? I mean- you don’t have to if you don’t want to, I mean, I’m surprised you even remember me, let alone that you know my name, I MEAN-“

Roman put his head on the table in shame.

Virgil felt his phone buzz. It was no doubt Logan wondering where the heck he was.

“Yeah, I've got some time.”

He quickly shut off his phone and took a menu from Roman.

“So, how long have you two known each other?”

“Oh Roman and I have been friends since kindergarten! I moved away to Atlanta for college, but we’re still the bestest of friends!”

Patton ended up doing most of the talking. Roman spent most of the time avoiding Virgil’s eyes, and Virgil spent most of the time staring at Roman.

“Well this was great, Roman! Now that I’m finally home we’ll have to do this more often! Oh and it was nice to meet you, Virgil!” Patton gave Roman a hug and waved to Virgil before heading

“So, just to make 100% certain, he’s not your boyfriend, right?”

“What? Patton? No! He’s just-he’s just a very good friend. I prefer guys that are,”

“Tall, dark, and mysterious?”

“Well…y-yes I suppose so.”

Virgil smiled and put his arm around Roman’s shoulders. “Wanna run an errand with me then, babe?”

Roman blushed. “Uh, sure! It’s a date! I mean, not a date, I mean-“

“It’s a date.” Virgil kissed Roman’s cheek and started walking towards Logan’s music store.

“Finally! Never have I ever had such trouble getting in contact with someone over guitar picks! Oh, hello Roman. Why do you consistently order 3,000 of them Virgil! If you wouldn’t sign them and throw them into the crowds, maybe you wouldn’t have to keep ordering so many!”

“Wait, time out, you know Roman?”

Logan looked like he was about to take off his tie and beat Virgil to death with it.

“That’s what you took from all that? Yes Virgil, yes I know Roman! I think I would know my own brother-in-law very well!l

“Brother-in-law?”

Logan was dangerously close to murdering Virgil.

“Um; how about those guitar picks, Logan? I’m sure Virgil is happy to take them off your hands-“ Roman murmured the rest of his sentence.

“What was that, babe?” Virgil asks.

“I said I’m sure you're happy to take the guitar picks and maybe-“ he murmured again.

“Logan’s not going to get them until you tell me what you want,” Virgil said coyly.

“I said you’re happy to take them off your hands thenmaybeyoullsignoneandgiveittomebecauseivebeentooverfifteenofyourconcertsandnevercaughtoneofyourguitarpicks.”

Virgil laughed. Logan rolled his eyes and went to grab the box of guitar picks.

“Of course I’ll give you one, babe. But it wouldn’t be authentic if I didn’t get to play you something first.”

He swiped a pick from Logan’s jar on the counter, and went and grabbed an acoustic guitar off the wall.

“Hey! That’s a vintage 1966 Martin 18! You’d better be careful with that!”

Virgil ignored his friend and sat on a stool Logan conveniently had near the wall. He strummed a few cords and then began to sing.

“At last, my love has come along, my lonely days are over, and life is like a song!”

Roman could’ve swooned. Virgil finished up his song, took out a sharpie, and autographed the pick. He hung the guitar back on the wall, then got down on one knee and presented the pick to Roman.

“Roman… would you do me the honor of going on a proper date with me?”

Roman took the pick with shaking hands.

“Yes, yes a thousand times yes!!”

[eretzyisrael]

by Asra Q. Nomani

Another troubling example is the “Hands Off Uhuru Fightback Coalition,” whose leaders face charges in a Tampa court in September for allegedly working with Russian intelligence to interfere in U.S. elections. In a statement that rings true today, Matthew G. Olsen, assistant attorney general in the Justice Department’s National Security Division prosecuting the Uhuru case, said last year, “Russia’s foreign intelligence service allegedly weaponized our First Amendment rights – freedoms Russia denies its own citizens – to divide Americans and interfere in elections in the United States.” Assistant Attorney General Kenneth A. Polite, Jr. of the Justice Department’s Criminal Division called it “foreign malign influence.”

These groups are not merely focused on domestic issues; they harbor broader, international ambitions, for which they are willing to “disrupt the DNC,” even if it costs Harris votes – and potentially the presidency. Many of them seek to dismantle the current global order, with a particular focus on the Middle East and the destruction of Israel.

At the heart of this coalition lies a shared animosity towards the Democratic Party and, now, Harris. The Atlanta chapter of the National Alliance Against Racist and Political Repression tells its followers Harris is “funding genocide and ignoring police terror.” “Workers Strike Back” tells Americans to “REJECT the New Warmonger-in-Chief.”

By presenting the protests as “grassroots,” the media has underplayed the powerful forces behind controversial messages, like “HAMAS IS COMING,” during the network’s recent protests in D.C., when the American flag was burnt and replaced by the Palestinian flag. By not dissecting their motives, the media has also given them a powerful bullhorn. These protests are not spontaneous uprisings of concerned citizens. They are carefully orchestrated campaigns designed to subvert U.S. elections and undermine American democracy.

These protestors seek to overthrow the current political order, or as one organizer, “Socialist Action,” says: “Permanent Revolution.” Their demands are absolute, and their tactics are ruthless. Democratic Party leaders must recognize that there is no winning with these groups. Their aim is to tear down what exists and rebuild it in their own intolerant image.

Andrew Fox, a former British military officer who did three tours of duty in Afghanistan, tells me: “These protestors are not just demonstrating; they are fomenting an insurgency designed to destabilize the U.S. and further the interests of foreign actors.”

Democratic Party leaders and Harris would be well served to refuse to be swayed by the loudest voices on the streets, who pledge to “Disrupt the DNC,” as “Workers Strike Back,” supporting “Left Antiwar Independent Candidate” Jill Stein, threatens to do. Firebrand, a self-described “communist organization” and coalition member, has guided its members to avoid playing a game of “lesser evilism” and refuse Harris’s candidacy. 

The fight against disinformation warfare is not easy, but it is necessary. By shining a light on the truth behind the myth of the marching millions, understanding details like who funds protests and rents charter buses to Chicago, we can make wise decisions, not misled by fear and chaos, but rather guided by transparency and facts. 

[anarchopuppy]

You are invited to join for the first annual Weelaunee Food Autonomy Festival March 10-13. Together we will build our capacity in the forest by meeting each other, planting hundreds of fig, pawpaw, and persimmon saplings, grafting onto callery pears, and sharing in a variety of food autonomy workshops and discussions.

As we experience intensifying climate instability, economic disparity, and ecological destruction, our hands have been in the dirt, working to share food and growing techniques within the communities we inhabit. Across the continent, diverse collectives, farms, and mutual aid hubs have organized themselves, especially since 2020, and have been busy creating autonomous food systems, developing grassroots crop breeding, building food production and distribution systems for collective resilience and communal luxury—outside of the market or USDA management. These efforts at mutual aid and horizontal experimentation challenge state violence, racist dispossession, and the myth of scarcity.

At the same time, a movement in Atlanta enters a third year defending a 300 acre forest, which is threatened by construction of a police training facility (dubbed Cop City) and what would be the largest soundstage in the world, solidifying Atlanta as the new Hollywood. Those defending the forest from these dystopian projects are also creating a world outside of the market or state's control. Eggplants and fig trees sunbathe at the edge of the creek, a cold frame awaits spring germination, foragers commune with the undergrowth, and carpenters improvise structures on the ground and high in the canopy.

Restoring this forest, scarred with a history of indigenous dispossession and prison slave labor, is a complicated task. But we know autonomous food production can break the dirty cycle of land displacement and dependence on the capitalist food system. Moving in this way, towards food autonomy, is essential to the vitality of all life inhabiting the forest. We want to take this opportunity to share lessons and knowledge in all things plants, and learn from the ideas and work of others from all over, inside the fertile context of a forest occupation. Now is the perfect time to combine practical discussions of food autonomy with the movement work of defending the Atlanta forest, in what Cooperation Jackson calls a strategy of "building and fighting."

Learn more

[a-queer-seminarian]

(This isn’t going to be particularly well articulated so I welcome correction or expansion. Also to be clear, I am fully in favor of police abolition.)

hundreds of people are at Atlanta city hall today to ask our council to vote no on Cop City. Along with our hundreds, the building is also teeming with police.

I’d say there’s 50-100 of them, and most of them have just been sitting or standing in the same places all day long with nothing to do but listen to us condemn cop city.

While obviously the main reason the Powers That Be have filled city hall with cops is to intimidate us, i’m starting to wonder if there’s a second purpose, too: that they want to further cement the “us versus them” mentality that police need in order to do what they do.

I’ve heard former members of intensely proselytizing religions discuss their perspective on being sent door-to-door to evangelize: each time someone responded to their efforts with anger or rudeness, it served to confirm what they’d been taught — that the world outside their community was a cruel and hostile place. The belief that they’d be alone and rejected if they left their faith was reiterated, making it harder for them to leave.

Police are trained to view civilians, especially BIPOC, not as people but as threats. They are told that their job isn’t to “protect and serve” anyone but each other — which is what enables them to harm civilians with impunity. They’ll stand by a fellow cop, no matter how corrupt.

And what better way to confirm all they’ve been taught about The Enemy than to make them stand around listening to us condemn them all day? For our own safety we ignore them: heads down when we walk by them, as they stare silently back. The Us vs Them division is so clear.

I’m absolutely not saying we should tone down our condemnations — of course not! They are justified. And I applaud everyone who is bringing up police brutality, and who is calling for justice for Tortuguita. I also don’t have much pity to spare for police. I don’t personally feel called to, idk, outreach towards them.

But…I have marched with protesters who chant “quit your job! quit your job!” when we pass police lined up to keep us in line. And I wonder if there is some way movements can make room for such a thing — a cop who quits. Who overcomes their programming.

[tomorrowxtogether]

Tomorrow X Together Announce 2024 U.S. Tour

Act: Promise will span 11 shows across eight cities including New York, Los Angeles, Houston, and Washington

K-pop band Tomorrow X Together announced on Tuesday that they’ll be embarking on the U.S. leg of their Act: Promise tour this spring. 

The trek, which launches in South Korea’s capital, Seoul, on May 3, promises to be “grander” than its 2023 predecessor Act: Sweet Mirage. The U.S. portion of their world tour kicks off May 14 in Tacoma, Washington, and features 11 total shows across eight cities including Oakland, Los Angeles, Houston, and New York.

According to a press release, Act: Promise “embodies the commitment to move forward together towards a hopeful future.” The concert is billed as an example of a “cohesive narrative, seamlessly weaving together captivating music, performances, VCRs, and set designs.” 

Tickets for the tour will go on sale to the general public on March 24 via Ticketmaster.

Earlier this month, the quintet —  Yeonjun, Soobin, Beomgyu, Taehyun, and HueningKai — announced their upcoming sixth mini album, Minisode 3: Tomorrow, due April 1, while also unveiling a new logo and color scheme for their upcoming era. The group previously dropped Minisode 1, featuring their massive hit “Blue Hour,” in 2020. Minisode 2, which included “Good Boy Gone Bad,” released in 2022.

Last summer, Tomorrow X Together performed at Lollapalooza in Chicago, stacking their set list with tracks like “Farewell, Neverland,” “Lonely Boy,” and “Anti-Romantic.” The group invited Coi Leray onstage for a surprise cameo during “Happy Fools,” sealing their set as one of the most memorable of the fest.

Tomorrow X Together 2024 U.S. Tour Dates

May 14 – Tacoma, WA @ Tacoma Dome May, 18 – Oakland, CA @ Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum May, 21 – Los Angeles, CA @ Crypto.com Arena May, 22 – Los Angeles, CA @ Crypto.com Arena May, 26 – Houston, TX @ Minute Maid Park May, 29 – Atlanta, GA @ State Farm Arena June, 1 – New York, NY @ Madison Square Garden June, 2 – New York, NY @ Madison Square Garden June, 5 – Rosemont, IL @ Allstate Arena June, 6 – Rosemont, IL @ Allstate Arena June, 8 – Washington, DC @ Capitol One Arena

[4xplay-or-2not]

Cobb County in the Atlanta Campaign | American Battlefield Trust

[im-a-king-baby]

I am re-reading ELYN now, so I will ask for some insights soon with a fresh memory 😊

But for now, maybe I can send you a flower ?

🌺

Hi!! I hope you enjoyed reading it again!

Here is an epistolary section that never made it into the fic (I had a few spares, just in case 😄):

PopIdolLive shares TEN Fun Facts about Simme to celebrate the And The Next World Tour announcement!!!

Simme is Swedish and Venezuelan. His dad was Swedish but moved to Venezuela where he met Simme’s Mom and they had two kids before moving back to Sweden when Simme was ~3. Simme has credited his Mom’s insistence that they spoke Spanish at home as how he managed to keep the language!

His first ever single Como Este had a mix of Spanish and English lyrics and that blend has continued across three albums, but fans are still waiting for Simme to record a song in Swedish. Simme has blamed this on a lack of Swedish songwriters in L.A. (sad, but true!)

During Simme’s first tour (the Chaos tour!) his crew had an in-joke called ‘Stop! Hammer time!’ where they had to stop at any hardware store they passed on the road and buy a hammer. When the tour split into two buses it became a competition to find the most interesting novelty hammer and they started signing them and giving them to fans at stage door when the buses ran out of hammer space! (eventually this stopped when the label lawyers found out and got scared about liability)

Also on the Chaos Tour, since they didn't have a set tour schedule the merch t-shirts were left blank on the back and the crew would write on wherever they played each day making each one a collectors item (The rarest is the single one for 'Jimmy's House' which has never been sold, but signed shirts from 'LaGuardia Airport Lounge' and 'A Starbucks in Leeds' have hit five figures at auction!)

Simme wore a silver bracelet throughout the Honesty tour which he hasn’t confirmed was a gift from the Voice 2024 runner-up Alfonso Perez but it did appear shortly after they were seated together at multiple events and a photo leaked of them having an intimate kiss in a limo driving away from the AMAs.

Speaking of romantic entanglements, Simme attended a prestigious Swedish boarding school where he dated the Crown Prince of Sweden for nearly three years! They looked adorable together, but broke up after graduation so that the Prince could go into the army and Simme could move to L.A to pursue music.

It has been Noted by the fans that Simme gets less dressed on each album (a jacket on Simme, an unbuttoned shirt on HH, shirtless on ATN.) There is a running fan theory that album 4 which the fans have dubbed ‘the CENSORED album’ will feature Simme fully naked (with the title covering up enough to keep it decent!) staring at the camera.

And if the idea of fans naming albums feels unlikely, we have precedent! In an interview during the Honesty, Honestly press tour the interviewer commented that Simme was released in December 2023, and HH was dropping just over a year later in January 2025, Simme grinned and said: ‘And the next March 26!’. The fans latched onto this, referring to album 3 as And The Next so consistently that it ended up being the name chosen for the album! (which actually came out in June 2026, so only a few months late!)

On the bridge of Relentless Simme names twenty five cities, all of which were visited during the Chaos Tour. When this song is performed live, Simme always includes the name of the city he's performing in on the list (except for Portland, when he got mixed up and said Atlanta instead! Oops!)

Simme returned to his home country of Sweden towards the end of the Chaos Tour, but was unable to play there when he was touring Honesty, Honestly due to scheduling conflicts with Stockholm venues (boo!). The current ATN tour schedule doesn't have Sweden dates listed but there's plenty of time for more countries to be announced so watch this space!!!

[bananafire11]

Summary: On a supply run, Daryl gets himself stuck. Carol's there to the rescue. Pairing: Caryl TW: Briefest mention of Daryl's scarred back, reference to previous canon character death, and spoilers for season 4-5

Stuck

The streets of Atlanta certainly weren’t what they’d been before. This far into the apocalypse, and with the walkers migrating out of the city, there were only small bundles of the dead mulling about the roads. Now, Carol hadn’t seen what it was like right after the outbreak. After all, she’d never gone on any runs but instead stayed at the quarry camp to do the laundry and cooking as Shane –a name she had not thought of in a long time– had informed.

Of course, she’d heard the stories from Glenn about how they’d barely gotten out of there. Therefore she was grateful for the decrease in rotting corpses populating the dead city.

Her and Daryl had been sent out to gather supplies for the group. The small houses and neighborhoods they’d run across had been raided already, leaving them with no other option than to try their luck here.

Better yet, Carol knew her way around this area of Atlanta. They’d been around this area once before – before Beth’s death – and so they waded easily between towering buildings and around the huddles of moaning walkers, keeping low amidst the rusted vehicles and blackened debris.

The goal was to make it into the building that Carol knew stored donated goods for the families who needed them. She’d been there a few times herself from Before.

With the city previously overrun and dense with the dead, there was plenty of buildings to be scavenged. They were skimming along the alleyway and Carol patted Daryl’s bicep. He turned around to peer at her from underneath his curtain of greasy bangs.

“We need to take that entrance over there,” she gestured to a doorway right on the side of the building across from them, “should be a straight shot from there.”

Daryl’s eyes tracked the area she had pointed to. “Alrigh’,” he gripped the strap of his crossbow. “C’mon,” he took one last glance over his shoulder at her before they both sprinted off towards the door, weaving between cars and staying out of sight from the walkers grumbling about.

Daryl yanked the door open, holding it open for her as they entered. The hallway was lit by the broken windows reaching toward the ceiling and Carol could practically taste the dust on her tongue. Daryl locked the door behind them with a soft click.

They marched on through the corridor, shoes crunching through the broken glass and dust. Carol held her right hand against the knife holster attached to her belt in case they ran into unwanted company. She glanced over her shoulder and Daryl already had his knife out, always prepared.

At the end of the hallway, there stood two double doors. Carol grasped the handle, metal chilly against her palm. She strained to pull it open, the metal hinges creaking under the pressure.

“Mh, move o’er,” Daryl's larger hand brushed hers aside and he planted his feet before throwing his weight into thrusting the door open. One yank, two yank, three yank, and it popped open, a chain rattling loud from the other side. Carol peered over his shoulder and saw a metal chain holding the door handles together on the other side, only allowing the doors to open about a third of the way. The hunter grumbled, fingers tapping idly against the wood in an agitated rhythm.

The space was probably hardly enough room for her smaller frame to fit through. Annoyance pricked in the back of her head, crawling towards her temples. She spun around, eyes scanning the floor for anything that could potentially cut the chain or break through the wooden door. Nothing.

Carol sighed, fists clenching beside her. They needed that food, and urgently. She turned back toward Daryl, “I can fit through there. You wait here and I’ll get the stuff and get out,” she proposed. Immediately, his nose twitched and she watched him bite his cheek.

“Naw, y’ain’t goin’ on yer own,” he squinted at her with tired eyes, “we go’n together.”

She shot him an incredulous look. “Daryl, you are not fitting through there,” she pointed to the width between the doors. His shoulders were most definitely broader than that. His fingers tapped against the wood, faster now.

She watched his jaw bob back and forth, his eyes flicking between her and the doors before he let out a huff. She thought maybe he’d given in just when he sat back on his haunches to shove his crossbow through first, proving her very wrong. It was almost humorous watching her hunk of a friend get on his knees and stick his head through the crack. The chains rattled when the hunter slid one arm through at a time. He pivoted onto his side, pushing himself through, only getting halfway through before he halted.

Carol crossed her arms over her chest as she watched his legs kick out, trying desperately to gain enough leverage. It proved useless when his boots slid through the dust covering the slick ground below them. He went still for another moment before she heard a comical ‘humph’ from the other side.

“Having trouble?”

“Fuck off,” came the muffled mumble beyond the doors. Carol snorted, edging closer to Daryl, watching his pants stir the dirt covering the tile. She leaned over to look down at him above the chain. He scowled up at her, “Stop mock’n me, woman.”

Carol couldn't help the smile that crept its way onto her face. “I’m not mocking you,” she insisted. He didn’t look convinced, bottom lip caught in his teeth and chewing away at the already bloodied skin. Carol’s eyes skimmed where he was stuck, the doors jamming into his back and into his belly. She grimaced, that didn’t look comfortable. “Can you turn onto your stomach? See if you can wedge your way through?”

He grumbled but slowly turned his body over until he was on his hands and knees again. It didn’t look any more comfortable than when he’d been on his side. She observed as he pushed his arms against the doors and attempted shoving his way through again. This time she couldn’t hold in her chuckle of endearment. He looked ridiculous, legs sprawling for a grip on the tiles and rusty handkerchief swaying before her eyes.

“I think you need help,” she pressed. It was pretty obvious he needed help, but knowing him, he’d be a stubborn ass about it. And as she expected, he was.

“I got it,” he drawled. But Carol could only watch him struggle for so long.

She crouched down behind him, tapping a finger to his thigh to let him know she was there. “Hold still,” she reached forward and set her arms against his lower back, digging her nails into the cool leather of his angel vest. “Alright, on the count of three. One, two, three,” and they both thrusted forward, shoes digging into the floor. She felt them move forward just slightly, Daryl’s hips now flush against the floor. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. “Ok, ok… let’s keep trying that.”

The hunter groaned but reluctantly lifted up off the ground and back into position.

Carol regained her grip on his vest, and they tried again. Only this time, her hands slipped against his back, only proving to shove the vest and his undershirt up his spine. She quickly smoothed the material back out, knowing he’d much rather not have her stare at the scars lining his marred skin.

“Wha’s tha problem?” Daryl twisted his neck enough to look at her over his left shoulder. Carol hummed, “Not working as well as I’d thought.” She puffed out a breath of air and leaned back onto her legs, between his thighs. She had an idea, but he wasn’t going to like it. She pressed her arm up against his ass and he made a noise of confusion ahead. “Sorry but this is really the only way I think I can push you through.” She planted her shoes against the tile, trying to find leverage in the crooks and crannies. He tensed beneath her touch until she heard a very defeated sounding sigh.

“Jus’ fuckin’ hurry, already,” he shifted his legs in what she assumed was impatience. Daryl braced his arms again. “Ok, push,” and she propelled against him, straining her legs and arm. His legs kicked out on either side of her in his own attempts to free himself. They both groaned in union, right up until a firm rattle and she was thrust forward through the doorway along with him.

With a ‘oumph’, they were laying on the other side of those shitty doors. She lay against the back of his thighs, him propping himself up onto his elbows. Carol sat up and he moved to sit with his legs criss-crossed underneath him. There was a moment of silence, of his cheeks turning a muted red, before she burst out into small giggles. Her heart squeezed when he let out a small laugh of his own. Laughing didn’t come easy these days and the warmth in her chest was a rare thing.

“Think I’ve learned mah less’n fer today,” he mused. Carol nodded, “I’d sure hope so.”

She raised herself to her feet, Daryl following suit. She decided their whole debacle was worth it when she spotted the rows and rows of canned goods lining the walls. She turned toward him, meeting his eye underneath his snarled mane. “Cmon, let's get us some good food.”

[henrybly]

Things had been tense since they’d touched down in Atlanta. As luxurious as the private jet had been (even with Bly money, Henry had never traveled like that before), the wi-fi had been spotty at best, their phones going haywire and pinging with Instagram notifications as soon as they were no longer in the air. He already had a pretty good idea of what everyone had to say with regards to Poppy’s latest Instagram post, and couldn’t help but keep his eyes trained on Diego as the other man checked his phone.

His stomach had dropped as soon as he saw the colour drain from Diego’s face. He knew Poppy hadn’t meant any harm by the photo, and maybe if he’d only known Diego Rodriguez for a few weeks, then he wouldn’t have understood what the big deal was. But he was fully aware of why Diego’s face was a mask of poorly-concealed horror right now.

“Diego,” he started towards him, shivering a little on the airport tarmac with only his hoodie to keep him warm. But then their manager was bustling them into two separate cars, Diego getting shoved into the back of one with Harper and Michael, meaning he got to sit with Poppy in the one that drove behind.

“Pops,” he said, trying to broach the subject as delicately as he could. He rarely ever beat around the bush, even with situations as fragile as this one, forever sure of his step. But right now it felt like he was walking through a minefield. He didn’t know how much Poppy knew about what went on between him and Diego and how their dynamic had shifted in the past few weeks. He’d spent more time in Diego’s bed than anywhere else recently, which would have been nice if he didn’t know the other man was beating himself up about it whenever Henry left. And now, there was a picture of them cuddling on the internet. Something that wouldn’t have been so compromising to Diego if Poppy had taken Henry’s place in the photo.

He cast his mind back to the time Valentina had uploaded photos from her 25th birthday party on Facebook, photo after photo of his sister and her friends enjoying themselves on her feed. He hadn’t been searching the background for anything incriminating, but evidently Stefan had. His phone had blown up with anxious demands that Val delete a certain photo. Honestly, Henry hadn’t known what Stefan was talking about until the other man had sent him a screenshot, revealing a picture of Valentina and her friend, Ariadne, arms slung around each other as they posed for the camera. Still unable to see what was so wrong with that, he zoomed in on the background, realising that the photographer had managed to capture him and Stefan as well, doing nothing except sitting side by side and laughing, except Stefan had his face pressed into Henry’s neck. Again, nothing that Henry had thought people would read into but Stefan had been hysterical.

He remembered marching into Val’s bedroom without knocking, something he had never done before, not because it was some written Bly rule, but just out of respect. He’d told Val, bluntly enough, that she had to delete the photo. His sister had been confused, but brought the photo up anyway. He’d never forget the look that she gave him, a mix of concern and pity as she finally deleted it from the album, and they never spoke about it again.

He had been direct in his approach with Valentina. But he didn’t want to make such a demand from Poppy. He really didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

“Poppy, I think maybe you should delete that photo,” he said, quietly. “A lot of the fans are running wild with rumours and you know Diego hates that stuff. Plus, we should probably give the PR team a break until after the New Year.”

It was a feeble joke that he’d added on, but it did nothing to wipe the confused look from Poppy’s face. Still, they’d already pulled up outside the venue and he quickly reached over to squeeze her hand.

“Please,” he begged, before quickly getting out of the car and jogging to catch up with Diego.

“Hey, are you okay?” he asked, when he reached the man. He couldn’t help but wince when he caught the tail-end of the Diego’s conversation with Harper, who was loudly insisting that was not me sleeping next to Henry!

[watchmenanon]

APRIL 28, 2017

Super Naturals

The wonder that is Stranger Things is at once a sweet story of simpler times and a spooky spin in the supernatural. For Netflix, the script by the Duffer brothers was a definite yes, as were the young actors whose bonds bedazzle on and off the set.

TATIANA SIEGEL

On a hot March morning in Atlanta, Finn Wolfhard and Noah Schnapp are rehearsing a scene for season two of Stranger Things.

Outside Screen Gems Studios, the sky is relentlessly bright, with the thermometer inching toward 86 degrees. Inside, it’s as dark and cool and secret as a military bunker. Director Andrew Stanton offers some last minute guidance before the camera rolls.

Stanton, the two-time Oscar winner behind WALL-E and Finding Nemo, took an unconventional approach in preparing to direct episodes five and six. He rewatched season one with the volume off. It’s obvious that even the smallest gesture is crucial. He tells Schnapp to touch the back of his neck when he delivers the line about feeling a troubling sensation in the back of his head.

“I geek out over the little things,” he explains a few minutes later. “But the touch made it all the more creepy.”

Wolfhard and Schnapp are sitting on a bed in what viewers have come to recognize as the Byers’s home, the one with the mysterious blinking Christmas lights and the sinister wall that Winona Ryder attacked with an axe in episode four of season one.

A Jaws poster hangs above a bookcase. The pajama-clad Schnapp, playing Upside Down escapee Will Byers, hits his line: “It’s like a dream, and you can’t remember it unless you think about it really hard.” But he flubs the follow-up and slaps his hand angrily.

Wolfhard, playing series star Mike Wheeler, cut him off too late. “I’m waiting for my cue,” offers Wolfhard, wearing a buttoned-up polo shirt, corduroys, old-school Pumas and a hoodie. Stanton tells the 14-year-old: “It’s okay if you don’t cut him off.”

Schnapp later explains his momentary frustration. “I just get angry when I mess up. It’s a professional business. It’s no game,” he says, sounding more like a seasoned thesp than a 12-year-old who will head to French, math and English classes at the on-set school later that day.

Back on set, the boys repeat the scene, this time for the camera. The dialogue is flawless, but now there’s a boom in the shot. So Wolfhard and Schnapp do it again. Three more times without a mistake, each time from a different angle.

“They rehearsed that only two times, and they nailed it,” Stanton marvels. “That’s a really long scene. They are just that good.”

As they prepare to break, Wolfhard and Schnapp face one another and begin slapping and clapping hands in a fixed pattern, chanting, “Concentration… 64.…” Are they prepping for the next scene? Some sort of protective charm against a mysterious foe? Nah. They’re just kids blowing off steam. Something Mike and Will would do, too.

Call it Hollywood’s version of the Upside Down, the inexplicable, parallel universe of Stranger Things. After all, who would have wagered on five unknown kids, a long-neglected Ryder and then–32-year-old twin brothers with few prospects to launch one of the most talked-about series of 2016?

But within days of its July 15 debut, the ’80s-set Stranger Things — created by Ross and Matt Duffer and led by Wolfhard, Millie Bobby Brown, Gaten Matarazzo, Caleb McLaughlin and Schnapp — quickly became a pop-culture phenomenon, complete with a Barack Obama–hosted White House visit in October and even a shout-out from a congressman on the House floor in February.

The series notched surprise wins for best drama ensemble at the SAG Awards and top drama series at the PGA Awards (beating out heavyweight Game of Thrones for both honors). Netflix aired a season-two spot during this year’s Super Bowl that drew more than 14 million views on YouTube.

And according to Google, Stranger Things was the most-searched-for show of 2016 around the world (it streams in 190 countries).

Still, the path to success wasn’t so linear. In 2014, the Duffer brothers were struggling writer-directors with only the unreleased horror film Hidden to their credit (the pic eventually was released straight-to-DVD). As they remember it, Stranger Things was envisioned as a movie, an homage to “the two Stevens/Stephens with different spellings — Spielberg and King,” Matt Duffer says.

They were making the rounds, taking studio meetings, “and people would ask us our movie ideas,” Ross Duffer adds. “And they weren’t very interested in any movie ideas that we had.”

They owed Warner Bros. a script and asked if they could adapt Stephen King’s It, a Stranger Things–esque book that the studio was developing with Cary Fukunaga attached to direct. “We didn’t even get in the room,” Matt Duffer recalls. “They said no.”

Undeterred, they embarked on writing Stranger Things , pivoting mediums from film to TV. But it was a difficult recalibration, given their lifelong obsession with movies, from E.T. to Jaws to Close Encounters of the Third Kind. “Growing up, I associated television with Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Like, I’m done with my homework and it’s something to pass the time,” Ross Duffer explains.

But after seeing the trailer for HBO’s True Detective — directed by Fukunaga — and finding it more enticing than 90 percent of the movies in theaters, Matt Duffer says it dawned on them that “this is actually the cooler place to be right now, given the current state of the industry.”

Coming of age in their native North Carolina in the mid-’90s, the Duffers didn’t have a basement like the Wheelers, nor any friends with telekinetic powers. But the goal was simple: to make a viewer feel the same as when he or she cracked open a big, fat King book.

“The first thing we wrote was the Dungeons & Dragons scene because it was so close to our experiences growing up,” Ross Duffer says. “We had a room over our garage, which was just not as cinematic. I wish our house looked like that. I wish a telepathic girl had dropped into our lives.”

They sent the pilot script around but found no takers until it landed on the right desk at Shawn Levy’s 21 Laps Entertainment, where senior vice-president Dan Cohen read it and immediately alerted Levy. Without hesitation, Cohen and Levy signed on to executive-produce the series — then titled Montauk — alongside the Duffers.

“Talent is talent. It’s just waiting for someone to bet on it,” Levy says. “We wanted to bet.”

So, too, did Netflix, which ordered the supernatural drama in April 2015. Casting would be key, potentially the separation between cheesy and brilliant.

The idea to target Ryder — a two-time Oscar nominee who rose to It Girl status in the ’80s but whose career had cooled considerably in the new millennium — to play a single mother trying to track down her missing tween was an early stroke of genius from casting director Carmen Cuba.

The Duffers and Levy invited Ryder to tea at L.A.’s Chateau Marmont for a conversation that lasted several hours and ranged from secret government testing to missing children. “I remember Winona: ‘What is this new kind of television on your computer?’” Levy says with a laugh. “We left that tea slightly exhausted but quite certain this was our Joyce Byers.”

But finding the right kids proved to be far more exhaustive, with the Duffers and Levy seeing some 1,000 aspirants. The trick was finding kids who looked “regular” and not like slick child actors.

Gaten Matarazzo, a stage actor from New Jersey whose Broadway credits included Priscilla, Queen of the Desert and Les Misérables, was the first cast, as Dustin Henderson, the perpetually picked-on boy with a lisp.

Next was Millie Bobby Brown, who landed the breakout role of Eleven, the buzz-cut waif with psychokinetic abilities. The British actress says she perfected an American accent by watching TV and just observing people. After sending a self-tape to Cuba, she was asked to provide another and another and still another. She wouldn’t allow herself to get her hopes up, though.

“I always get really close on something,” Brown says, then it’s, “‘Oh, we’re picking the other girl because….’” But the series of tapes led to a Skype call and then a trip to L.A., where she won over the Duffer brothers.

McLaughlin, another Broadway actor who played Young Simba in The Lion King, nabbed the role of Lucas Sinclair, the member of the gang most suspicious of Eleven’s arrival.

Then came Schnapp, whose screen time in season one is limited but who plays a significant role in season two. The angel-faced boy with an uncanny resemblance to Ryder (his screen mom) recalls coming to L.A. for a so-called chemistry test and being paired with McLaughlin.

Fortunately, the two suburban New Yorkers already had bonded at the hotel pool. But Schnapp returned home without the job and headed to upstate New York for sleepover camp, where he was allowed only three incoming phone calls.

One day, his mother called with the Duffer brothers on the line. “I’m like, ‘Who’s Will?’ ‘Cause I didn’t know what they were talking about,” he says. “And then I realized it was ‘cause I originally auditioned for Mike when I auditioned for the role. And I started freaking out. It brightened the rest of my summer.”

Wolfhard was last. The Vancouver native, who started acting at eight, was sick in bed when he did his self-tape, which was “super out of focus, my dad’s finger was in the frame, super unprofessional.” But the Duffers loved it and Skyped with Wolfhard, then flew him to L.A. twice over a two-week period. But two months passed with no word.

“Out of nowhere, I got a call from Matt saying that I got the part, and that was really, really cool,” Wolfhard says of landing the lead. Ironically, Wolfhard was available to tackle the series only because Fukunaga had just dropped out of King’s It.

Wolfhard already had landed the role of Richie Tozier in that film, which was now suddenly on hold. It eventually recovered with Andrés Muschietti in the director’s chair, and Wolfhard was able to fit the project in between seasons of Stranger Things. It will hit theaters in September, some seven weeks before the second-season debut of Stranger Things on Halloween night.

To prepare their Fab Five, the Duffers assigned a list of movies to watch, including E.T., The Goonies, Jaws and Poltergeist. But nothing could equip the young stars for the show’s rabid fandom.

“On my Instagram,” McLaughlin says, “[it’s] like, ‘Brazil loves you.’ People from all around the world… France, Mexico, Africa...”

Brown says she never tires of the fervor surrounding Eleven. “I don’t really want to call them my fans. They’re kind of like my friends,” says the 13-year-old. “And I can’t say no to a picture. Obviously, I would do the same thing to Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson. This 90-year-old came up and he was like, ‘I love you!’ It was really sweet.”

Perhaps most important was the vote of approval that came from Mr. King himself. The author tweeted several thumbs-ups in July, including: “STRANGER THINGS is pure fun. A+. Don’t miss it. Winona Ryder shines.”

Of course, an email exchange with the Duffer brothers ensued. “It took me four hours to write a five-sentence email,” Matt Duffer jokes. “I had to check the grammar with all my writers. I was very nervous about it.”

The kids also are enjoying the perks of being labeled TV sensations, including hanging with people they’ve long admired. Matarazzo singles out a meeting with Sarah Paulson. “She’s a wonderful person, and to hear compliments from her, it was, like, ‘wow,’” he says, sounding rather grown up for a 14-year-old.

For the 15-year-old McLaughlin, nothing compares to getting feedback from President Obama. “He’s like, ‘I like the bond the boys have on the show. They never gave up looking for their friend.’”

That dynamic the president noticed isn’t just a put-on for the cameras. Wolfhard and Matarazzo frequently hit the multiplex in tandem and caught Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens together. McLaughlin and Matarazzo compete against each other in video games. Retro ’80s games, naturally. “Pac-Man, yeah. I’m even wearing the Pac-Man shirt,” he says, pointing at his street clothes.

Brown, who describes herself as “a real girl’s girl in pink and pearls and rings and necklaces,” has managed to fit in with the boys by taking up whiffle ball. She and Schnapp have formed a close friendship. “Noah comes around almost every weekend for sleepovers,” she says. “We watch really scary movies on Netflix like The Babadook and Hush.”

Ultimately, they all are sharing in a secret that is being guarded more closely than a Project MKUltra experiment being carried out at the fictitious Hawkins Laboratory: what will happen in season two.

As evidence of the major secrecy involved this year, Building 5 — where a camera test is about to take place with a new character — is off-limits to press today. Day players and non-essential crew also are cleared. Only hair and makeup and a few key crewmembers remain. Keeping a lid on potential spoilers is serious business.

“My brother always asks me, ‘Gate, can you send me the script?’” Matarazzo says. “I’m like, ‘It’s a new season, and it’s a lot stricter than last year.’ He read them last year, but this year he’s not able to ‘cause we don’t want any, like, hacking interference.”

Hacking, indeed. The danger serves as a jarring reminder of today’s less-than-innocent times — and explains part of the appeal of Stranger Things: it harks back to an era not long ago but definitely out of reach, when people made eye contact, kids tore through neighborhoods on their bikes unsupervised and no one was enslaved by a beeping device.

Schnapp says his father schooled him on the mindset of the ’80s. “They were always outside. It’s all phones and computers now. You know, I kind of miss the ‘80s. Even though I wasn’t alive,” he says with a laugh, catching his own absurdity.

But viewers of Stranger Things — be they 12 or 90 — understand that universal feeling.

[ancientfaces]

Today the United States enjoys a Federal holiday to celebrate Martin Luther King Jr. Day.  All of us have an impact on the lives of those around us, but a rare few have contributed to lasting changes to our society as did MLK Jr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was born on January 15th in 1929 Atlanta, and like his Baptist minister father, became a prominent civil rights leader in his local community. Drawing inspiration from his Christian beliefs coupled with the nonviolent activism of Gandhi, his leadership spread across the nation to eventually lead our society towards a pathway to minimize discrimination in the United States. He is likely best remembered for his famous "I Have a Dream" speech which he gave during the March on Washington in 1963. Tragically, he was assassinated the following day on April 4th, 1968 in Memphis Tennessee. We remember the remarkable life of Martin Luther King Jr. with his biography on AncientFaces.

[chaos-the-clover-cat]

Alright, time for me to share my thoughts on my home state, Georgia.

Lets start off with some fun facts!

Georgia is the birthplace of Waffle House, Chick-fil-a, the CDC, and holds the headquarters of many more businesses

The capital, Atlanta, holds one of the oldest and largest pride festivals in the United States. The original march took place in 1971 without the permit to march

The Georgia Aquarium is the largest aquarium in the World in both gallons of water and amount of fish

Georgia is also home the largest airport measured by air traffic in the world.

Georgia has had five different capital cities in it's history. The first being Savannah, second being Augusta, Third being Louisville, fourth being Milledgeville, and the fifth and current capital being Atlanta

Georgia is the largest state east of the Mississippi

There was an Atomic Bomb lost off of the coast of Georgia somewhere around Tybee Bay

Now that we have that out of the way, time for some headcanons.

Of the original 13 states, Georgia was the tallest

Georgia is constantly worn out because of his capital's non-stop attitude towards business.

Due to Georgia's early days of big sea trade, he is very skilled in naval navigation and running older ships.

Georgia makes one of the best pecan pies in the south but none of the other southerners would say that out loud.

Georgia gets very wrapped up in sports, to the point he will neglect his other duties when one of his teams is doing particularly well.

Despite Georgia's competitiveness, he still has that Southern Hospitality, an will make sure that everyone he has over is well fed and comfortable.

When in Atlanta, he tells people to use Marta if possible. Sometimes states try to drive anyways and they will normally get trapped in the traffic.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Mike Luckovich, Atlanta Journal Constitution

* * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

March 1, 2023

Heather Cox Richardson

Drugmaker Eli Lilly announced today that it will cap the cost of insulin at $35 a month, bringing costs for people with private insurance and those without insurance who sign up for Lilly’s copay assistance program into line with the $35 cap for Medicare recipients Congress imposed with the Inflation Reduction Act last August. Republicans all voted against the Inflation Reduction Act and explicitly stripped from it a measure that would have capped the cost of insulin at $35 for those not on Medicare. They continue to oppose the measure. On February 2, 2023, newly elected House Republican Andy Ogles (TN) introduced his first bill: a call to repeal the Inflation Reduction Act, claiming it “took a gigantic step toward socialized medicine.” The bill had 20 far-right cosponsors. At the time he introduced the bill, Ogles presented himself as an economist with a degree in international relations from Middle Tennessee State University. Since then, an investigation by NewsChannel 5 in Nashville revealed that he took one course in economics and got a “C” in it, and that his resume was similarly exaggerated across the board. Ogles won a seat in Congress after the Republican state legislature redistricted Nashville to make it easier for a Republican to win there. Lilly’s announcement in the face of Republican support for big pharmaceutical companies is a bellwether for the country’s politics. Biden has pressured companies to bring down the price of insulin—most notably by calling for such legislation last month during his State of the Union address—and is claiming credit for Lilly’s decision. But there is more to it. The astronomically high price tags on U.S. insulin compared to the rest of the world have become a symbol of a society where profits trump lives, and there is growing opposition to the control pharmaceutical companies have over life-saving drugs. A number of other entities, including a nonprofit company in Utah called Civica Rx, the state of California, and a company run by billionaire Mark Cuban, have all promised to produce generic insulin at a fraction of what pharmaceutical companies are currently charging. Lilly's announcement is likely a reaction to the changing moment that has brought both political pressure and economic competition. The company’s leaders see the writing on the wall. The administration continues to work to create positive change in other measures important to ordinary Americans. This month ends temporary increases in the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, or SNAP, previously referred to as “food stamps.” At the start of the coronavirus pandemic, Congress boosted SNAP payments, keeping as many as 4.2 million people out of poverty. Congress ended those extra benefits late last year through the Consolidated Appropriations Act that funded the government. About 42 million Americans receive SNAP benefits, and the end of that boost will cut those benefits by $90 a month on average. Secretary of Agriculture Tom Vilsack wrote an op-ed at CNN today, promising that the U.S. Department of Agriculture, which administers SNAP, will do its best to protect families losing the expanded benefits. It will work to adjust benefits to rising prices, expand school lunch programs, and promote access to the Women, Infants, and Children (WIC) program. “Our country was founded to support the prosperity and potential of Americans in every corner of the nation,” Vilsack wrote. “Under President Joe Biden’s administration, we’re making good on this promise.” Yesterday the Senate Judiciary Committee held a hearing about the ratification of the Equal Rights Amendment prohibiting discrimination on the basis of sex. Congress passed the amendment in 1972 and sent it off to the states for ratification, but they imposed on that ratification a seven-year deadline. Thirty states ratified it within the next year, but a fierce opposition campaign led by right-wing activist Phyllis Schlafly eroded support among Republicans, and although Congress extended the deadline by three years, only 35 states had signed on by 1977. And, confusing matters, legislatures in five states—Idaho, Kentucky, Nebraska, South Dakota, and Tennessee—voted to take back their earlier ratification. In 2017, Nevada became the first state to ratify the ERA since 1977. Then Illinois stepped up, and finally, in 2020, Virginia became the 38th state to ratify the amendment, putting it over the required three quarters of states needed for the amendment to become part of the Constitution. But now there are legal challenges to that ratification over both the original deadline and whether the states’ rescinding of previous ratifications has merit. The Senate hearing was designed to examine whether the deadline could be separated from the amendment to allow the amendment to be added to the Constitution, but it was far more revealing than that. Faced with the possibility that the ERA might become part of the Constitution, right-wing leaders insisted that the ERA has “just one purpose left,” as the Heritage Foundation put it: “Abortion.” They claim that since, in their view, women are now effectively equal to men across the board in employment and so on, women’s current demand for equality before the law is simply a way for them to capture abortion rights. Catholic bishops of the United States have written to senators to express “alarm” at the ERA, warning it would have “far-reaching consequences” with “negative impacts to the common good and to religious freedom.” They claim it would require federal funding for abortions and would prohibit “discrimination based on ‘sexual orientation,’ ‘gender identity,’ and other categories.” “We strongly urge you to oppose it,” they wrote, “and any resolution attempting to declare it ratified.” This fight highlights that the attempt to stop government protection of individuals is really about imposing the will of a minority. A piece by Megan O’Matz in ProPublica today explored how an anti-abortion law firm has been sowing doubts about the 2020 presidential election as part of a long-term strategy to end abortion rights. Led by former Kansas attorney general Phill Kline, whose law license was suspended a decade ago for ethics violations, lawyers at the Thomas More Society worked to restrict access to the vote and to stall President Joe Biden’s inauguration in order to keep Trump in office. Their efforts thrived on disinformation, of course, and the echoes from the testimony released recently in the defamation case of Dominion Voting Systems against the Fox Corporation continue to reverberate in the fight against public lies. In that testimony, both Fox News Channel hosts and top executives admitted that they knew Trump’s claims of victory in the 2020 presidential election were lies but spread them anyway to keep their viewers from abandoning them for another channel. Now House Speaker Kevin McCarthy (R-CA) has given exclusive access to 44,000 hours of video from the U.S. Capitol on January 6, 2021, to one of those hosts, Tucker Carlson. Today, Senate majority leader Chuck Schumer (D-NY) and House minority leader Hakeem Jeffries (D-NY) did an end run around McCarthy to address the problem of disinformation directly at the source. They sent a letter to Rupert Murdoch, chair of the Fox Corporation, and other top Fox executives, reminding them of their damning testimony and reminding them that “your network hosts continue to promote, spew, and perpetuate election conspiracy theories to this day.” They wrote: “We demand that you direct Tucker Carlson and other hosts on your network to stop spreading false election narratives and admit on the air that they were wrong to engage in such negligent behavior.” It is an important marker, and if the Fox Corporation can read the writing on the wall as well as Eli Lilly can, it might shift the focus of the Fox News Channel, which already seems to be trying to pull its support for Trump and give it to Florida governor Ron DeSantis. But that protest is unlikely to change the behavior of right-wing members of Congress. Yesterday, Representatives Marjorie Taylor Greene (R-GA) and Mark Green (R-TN) blamed the Biden administration for the deaths of Caleb and Kyler Kiessling from fentanyl poisoning after their mother, an attorney and conservative activist, testified before the House Committee on Homeland Security. But the young men, along with 17-year-old Sophia Harris, died in July 2020, when Trump was president. When senior CNN reporter Daniel Dale asked Greene’s office why she had blamed Biden for the deaths, her congressional spokesperson, Nick Dyer, “responded by saying lots of people have died from drugs under Biden and ‘do you think they give a f*ck about your bullsh*t fact checking?’” Dale also asked him to comment on Greene’s lies about the 2020 presidential election yesterday. Dyer answered: “F*ck off.”

—

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON