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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 16 days

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1968 [Chapter 11: Hephaestus, God Of Fire]

A/N: Only 1 chapter left!!! 🥰💜

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.4k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Here is our final interlude. Do you have the patience?

President Lyndon Baines Johnson has halted all U.S. attacks on North Vietnam: no bombs from the air, no infantry on the ground, no artillery shells launched by destroyers cruising in the South China Sea. The election will determine what happens next. If Nixon wins, military operations will resume until the South Vietnamese are in a sufficiently advantageous position to defend themselves from the communists. If Aemond is the victor, troop withdrawals will begin shortly after he is inaugurated on January 20th.

Regardless, it will not be until almost a full year from now, in October of 1969, that it becomes illegal for employers to reserve positions for men; the common practice of refusing to hire women with preschool-aged children will not be outlawed until 1971. Unmarried people will not be guaranteed access to contraception until 1972. Abortion will not be legalized across all fifty states until 1973. Women will not have a right to their own bank accounts or credit cards until 1974. It will not be illegal to exclude women from juries until 1975. The first female Supreme Court justice, Sandra Day O’Connor, will be appointed in 1981. There will be no female president of the United States, not for at least half a century after our story ends.

Each night on CBS Evening News, Walter Cronkite recaps the latest poll numbers. Nixon appears to have a slight advantage, due in large part to pulling ahead in Florida, Illinois, Ohio, and his home state of California. Aemond has comfortable leads in Texas, Pennsylvania, New York, and New Jersey. George Wallace will likely sweep the Deep South: Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, and Arkansas. From their hovels, the racists rejoice. From her grave, Lurleen Wallace rests uneasily, scratching at the lid of her coffin with the bones of her fingers, entombed in dark oblivion like all the rest of the world’s discarded wives.

~~~~~~~~~~

You go for the door, but Aemond is faster; he catches you just as your hand is twisting the handle and the hinges creak. He throws you against the wall so hard the paintings rattle: replicas of Monets and Warhols, Almond Blossoms, The Birth of Venus. You fight, clawing at him, ripping off the eyepatch that Alys must have at last convinced him was no defeat to wear. The hollow, gore-colored abyss of his left eye socket beckons you to fall in and be burned: Hestia’s eternal hearth, the volcanic forge of Hephaestus. He’s fire all the way down, hunger and fury, bones charred black and brittle. You think of the uninhabitable furnace of Jupiter’s moon Io, lethal radiation, poisoned air, lava bubbling up like blood through a bullet wound.

“You can’t hit me,” you gasp. “You need me for photos—”

His knuckles are in your belly, crosshairs made of scar tissue. The air collapses out of your lungs; your vision dims like twilight, like an eclipse. You’re on the floor and trying to crawl away from him. Aemond’s fingers hook into the fabric of your robe; it matches the silk nightgown you wear beneath, a pale anemic pink, something soft and young and desireless, something eternally at others’ mercy, something to be guarded or gutted. He’s dragging you towards him.

He’s going to hit me again, he might even kill me.

“Stop, stop,” you plead, still struggling to breathe. “What if I’m pregnant?!”

You almost certainly can’t be, but Aemond doesn’t know that. Yet his lone eye glints like metal, like coins, no weak mortal compassion. “I would have no way of being sure it was mine.” And then he tries to cover your mouth as you scream for help. You bite at his fingers; your bare feet kick the wall. Your hair, long and loose and wild, flows around you like a bride’s veil.

Too late, Aemond realizes that the door is still open a crack from when you grabbed the handle. There are footsteps and a voice that crescendos as it approaches: “What on earth is going on in here…?” Fosco appears in the threshold, yellow tweed jacket, tight olive green trousers. He stares thunderstruck down at where you and Aemond are entangled on the floor.

You beg: “Fosco, help me.”

“No, no, no,” Fosco says, jolting from his paralysis and holding a hand out towards Aemond. “No, you cannot do this, whatever has happened, you cannot touch her like—”

“She’s not your wife,” Aemond says. She’s not your property. Fosco hesitates; his large dark eyes shifting between the two of you from behind his glasses.

“Aemond, brother, listen to—”

“Get out.” Aemond’s voice is low, searing, malignant.

“Fosco, please don’t leave me,” you whimper. You try to pry Aemond’s fingers off your robe; they dig in deeper, bruising the flesh underneath. “Don’t leave me, don’t let him hurt me.”

Abruptly, Fosco turns and sprints out of the room.

“No!” you shout after him before Aemond grabs your face, his hand like a claw, fingernails leaving half-moon indents in your cheeks, crushing pressure on your jaw.

“You’re trying to sabotage this campaign.”

“I didn’t see the reporters, I swear to God.”

He knocks the back of your skull against the wall so hard that you see momentary flashes like stars, that all the words vanish from your throat, that words cease to exist at all. “You’re a traitor. Do you know the penalty for treason? The U.S. Army would have you executed by firing squad. Zeus would chain you to a rock so your liver could be carved out.”

“You betrayed me first,” you hiss through clenched teeth, your head pounding hot and maroon.

“I have been working for this since before you were born. You can’t take it away from me. I won’t let you.”

“I did everything right and you still couldn’t love me.” You swing at Aemond and he catches your wounded hand, squeezes it, digs his thumb into the spot where the doctors stitched you closed. The pain is excruciating, incapacitating. You wail as scarlet flowers bloom through the white of your bandaged palm.

Now the door flies open again and Aegon collides with Aemond, sends him sprawling, crouches over you. He’s screaming something at Aemond, gripping your shoulder to keep you under him, his too-long hair hanging in his face, black turtleneck sweater, one of Daeron’s frayed army jackets thrown over it, ripped jeans, bare feet. Aemond grabs his brother by the lapel of his army jacket and draws back his fist. His golden wedding ring flashes in the grey November sunlight that streams in through the windows. Aegon doesn’t flinch. He’s taken knuckles to the face before; you remember cleaning blood off his skin under a streetlight in Biloxi, you remember not wanting to wash him away.

“Don’t you see what it will look like?!” Fosco is saying, trying to coax Aemond to relent. “If he is photographed with a busted face after that story comes out? If she has bruises or a black eye? By harming them you are confirming what your enemies have printed, and the voters will believe it is the truth.”

“They already know it’s true!” Aemond snatches the Wall Street Journal off the table and hurls it at Fosco. Then he paces back and forth through the room, glaring at where you are still crumpled on the floor, sobbing, cradling your bleeding hand to your chest. “It’s right there, three goddamn photographs, and that’s all it will take to bring down a lifetime of work!”

Fosco studies the pictures again, shaking his head, one hand covering his mouth. At last he offers weakly: “It could be worse, Aemond.”

“How could it be worse?!”

Aegon scrambles to Fosco to rip the newspaper out of his hands, then returns to you. He hasn’t seen the front-page story yet. He skims it frantically. “This? This is what you’re losing your mind over? It’s dark, it’s blurry, they can’t even see what’s going on!”

“I have one fucking eye and I can see it!”

“So come up with another explanation, this doesn’t prove anything.”

“If she costs me the election—”

“If you lose, it won’t be because of her!” Aegon roars back. “It will be because the Democrats have held the White House for eight years and the world has gone to hell on our watch, it will be because of Kennedy, and Johnson, and Vietnam and the riots and the hippies and the drugs and the assassinations, it will be because Nixon is promising law and order in a time when nobody is safe, it will be because you just weren’t good enough. But she has given more to your cause than anyone. You hit her and you’ll lose your other eye.”

“They were in conversation,” Fosco says, meaning the photos. The four of you know that’s not true; it is a lie for the rest of the world, it is hope for Aemond’s campaign. “On the beach. They were whispering, comforting each other. Because of Mimi. That is all.”

Aemond scoffs, his remaining eye fierce and wrathful as it lands on you again. Aegon grips your shoulder, still crouching over you, still shielding you. “You bitch. I should have left you at that party in Manhattan to be the dope-smoking whore you were when I found you.”

“I shouldn’t have helped save your life in Palm Beach.”

And Aemond blinks at you, not hurt but bewildered, like he doesn’t understand your words, like what you said is impossible. He doesn’t believe you saved him. He believes it was God’s will.

Otto storms into the hotel room and takes in the scene: you and Aegon on the floor, Aemond pacing furiously, Fosco attempting to mediate. “Nobody says anything,” Otto commands, deep booming voice, black suit like he’s going to a funeral. “The Wall Street Journal hates Aemond. Everyone knows that, they’re probably the only national publication that would run the story. Our newspapers are already pushing the counternarrative, that this was a shameful, deceitful, desperate attempt to discredit Aemond right before the election. Our supporters will insist upon an innocent explanation. Nixon’s will use the photos as evidence of our degeneracy, our amorality, us immigrants with our strange faith and our progressive politics. Everyone else in the country will be warring over this headline. We will say nothing. We will conduct business as usual. The best thing we can do now is go out there and keep our schedule as planned.” He looks meaningfully at Aemond. “And your wife must be at your side. Smiling, unscathed, devoted.”

“I lost my composure,” Aemond says to you, more collected now, businesslike. He is smoothing any wrinkles out of his suit jacket. “I was wrong to put my hands on you. I apologize for that. It was beneath me.”

You reply: “Very little is beneath you, I’ve learned.”

“You have been.” A trace of a grin, crooked and cruel. “Plenty of times. And you will be again.”

Aegon is watching is brother, seething but terrified, sheltering you with power that is only illusory, never real. It is a mirage that Aemond or Otto could punch through at any moment. It is glass that would shatter into crystalline dust.

“If I win, you will beg on your knees for forgiveness,” Aemond tells you. “You will beg in private, you will be perfection in public, and I will magnanimously overlook this indiscretion in which you were taken advantage of by my notoriously dissolute brother. There was no affair. There was a fleeting moment of weakness on your part and depravity on Aegon’s. We will put it in the past. I will be the president of the United States and you will be my first lady. You will spend every second of your existence in service of my career, my country, and my legacy. You will give me children. You will obey me entirely. And you and Aegon will never be in a room alone together for the rest of your lives.”

“You can’t keep me away from her,” Aegon says.

“I just did. I make the rules here, I am the heir to this empire. If you wanted that responsibility, you should have seized it. You squandered it, you cursed it. It’s mine now.”

A whisper: “Aemond, it’ll kill me.”

“Then have the dignity to die quietly. It will be the most useful thing you’ve ever done.”

“Aegon must be seen in public too,” Fosco says, trying to sound like he isn’t defending him. “If you appear to be punishing or excluding him, it will be used as evidence of his guilt.”

Aemond nods, then turns to his brother. “As soon as the election is called, whichever way it goes, I want you gone. I don’t care where you go. I don’t care what happens to you once you’re there. You will disappear. We will say it was your choice, and if you comply you can keep your children and receive a modest amount of severance pay to get you started. And as long as you abide by my terms, my wife will not be harmed.”

Aegon doesn’t reply. His large Atlantic-blue eyes glisten, his lips tremble, his hand is still on your shoulder. You think through the throbbing pain of your bleeding palm: Is this the last time he’ll ever touch me?

Otto grabs Aegon, wrenches him away from you, drags him yowling and clawing at the carpet through the doorway.

~~~~~~~~~~

Your hand is freshly bandaged, pristine white gauze that people in the crowd jostle to touch like the relic of a saint, to pray over, to kiss. Men tell you how brave you are to bear the pain without weeping. Women give you komboskini, stained not with their husband’s blood but with only the clean, colorless ether of hope, faith, reverence, love.

Fosco and Helaena have been dispatched to accompany the children on a tour of the Franklin Institute, one of the oldest centers of science education in the nation. Aemond is giving a speech in front of the Liberty Bell at Independence Hall. You and the others are arranged around him like a starving crescent moon. You are standing immediately on Aemond’s left side, Aegon placed at his right. He looks drunk, he looks drugged; you aren’t sure if anyone else can tell, but you can. His cheeks are flushed. His eyes are pools of murky, desolate indigo like the night sky between stars. A few attendees give the two of you curious glances, but no mention is made of the accusations in the Wall Street Journal. You get the sense that if someone took it upon themselves to ask a question on the subject, they would be jeered, reviled, banished like President Johnson, who is currently besieged in the White House by the ghosts of Vietnam.

When you look to Aemond, you see his scar, his prosthetic eye, fierce and stoic determination in the lines of his face. He is quoting the inscription on the bell: “Proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof…” The bronze metal has a crack in it like one of Zeus’s lightning bolts. The smile on your face is frozen, demure, humble. Aegon’s eyes accidentally catch on yours—a childlike vulnerability, a deep raw woundedness—and then swiftly dart away.

“America is the Land of Opportunity, but some have forgotten that,” Aemond says into the microphone, and vengeance creeps into his voice like a spider up a wall. “Unfortunately, for as long as new communities have arrived at our shores, vile and prejudiced lies have been used to demonize them. Greek immigrants have been crossing the Atlantic for over a century. In 1909, rioters violently expelled them from Omaha, Nebraska. In 1922, an anti-Greek initiative was launched by the Ku Klux Klan. In 1924, Congress drastically restricted my people’s entry in favor of migrants from Northwestern European nations like Britain and Germany. Greeks have been condemned as unintelligent, immoral, and unworthy of the glorious opportunities of this country. We have been barred from jobs and universities, we have been used as cannon fodder in the World Wars. Discrimination against any group is antithetical to the American Dream. I have given an eye for this nation, my wife has bled for it, my brother has—even in the midst of personal tragedy—uprooted his life and the lives of his children to fight alongside me for a better America, and I will not stand by silently as the Targaryen name is tarnished by bigoted falsehoods…”

Now you can no longer hear him over the thunder of the applause, and you remember all the other faces in all those other cities, their eyes illuminated as if by fire, as if by the sun. You imagine devotees of the Greek gods bowing low in temples of white marble and flickering torches, bringing offerings of gold and livestock, grain and blood, murmuring prayers, bargaining for miracles. Did the gods hear them? Do the gods love anyone but themselves?

Alicent and Criston are watching you and Aegon with the same eyes: large, dark, shimmering, a curious combination of horror and profound sympathy. You can feel yourself becoming a ghost, a legend, a myth. One day people will read about you in textbooks and academic journals, in plaques erected at Aemond’s alma mater, Columbia University, and your own, Manhattanville College; and they will know only the fabled version of you. Who you really were will fade into nothingness like Echo, like Icarus into the waves, like Eurydice when her lover Orpheus dared to glimpse back at her.

That night in your penthouse suite at the Ritz-Carlton, you get out of the bathtub—dewy with steam, donning your pink robe—and then go to your side of the king-sized bed and slide open the top drawer of the nightstand. The card Aegon gave you at Mount Sinai isn’t there. Your heartbeat quickens; your stomach lurches.

“What…?”

You get down on your knees to reach into the back of the drawer, to see if the card has snagged somewhere. You hear footsteps and whirl to see Aemond standing in the doorway between the bedroom and the living room. He is holding the card. The cartoon cow beams jubilantly at you. You recall what Aegon wrote inside after crossing out the manufacturer’s message: I thought this was blank…congrats on the new calf! As your eyes widen, Aemond rips the card down the middle.

“Don’t!” you scream, rushing for him. “Please don’t, it’s all I have from—!”

Aemond shoves you back and then, with a grin more like a wolf baring its teeth, tears through the remnants again and again until the card is nothing but shreds. He opens the sliding glass door that leads out onto the balcony and throws them into the cold night wind, where they scatter in a flurry like snowflakes, like bones turned to splinters by cluster bombs in the swamps of Vietnam.

The paper fragments spiral down thirty stories towards the zooming headlights on South Broad Street, and you think about following them. Then Aemond pulls you into his arms as frigid air blows through you and whispers: “You don’t need Aegon anymore. You just need me.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Monday, November 4th, and you are walking alongside Ludwika on Broadway in Astoria, Queens, the part of New York City known as Greektown. She chats about the modelling jobs she did here before meeting Otto, her Louis Vuitton stilettos clicking on the sidewalk, her Camel cigarettes smudged with red Yardley lipstick. It is an act of kindness; she is trying to distract you. A few yards away, Fosco is telling Aegon about how he just won $500 by betting on the NASCAR Peach State 200, held at Jefco Speedway in Georgia. Aegon nods along, preoccupied, miserable. He has dark shadows around his eyes and is smoking one of his Lucky Strikes. He is wearing a green knit cap, windblown curls of his blonde hair escaping from underneath. You’re not supposed to stare at Aegon, but sometimes you can’t help it. You miss him. You’re worried about him.

The Targaryens have suites reserved at the Plaza Hotel in Manhattan, where the family will stay through Election Day to witness the results as they are tallied on the evening news. The children are there now, enjoying pizza from Little Italy with Helaena and the nannies. But you and the other adults are being photographed by flocks of journalists as you head for lunch at one of the oldest Greek diners in the United States, paying homage to Aemond’s ancestry. The candidate himself is locked in a fraught conversation with Otto and Criston: polls gaining here, polls slipping there, Nixon inching further ahead in Florida, the state you were supposed to help Aemond win.

“What should I order?” Ludwika asks you. “Not spinach pie, oh, horrible, worse than Hitler. Something else. Why can’t we go to a Polish restaurant for once? I will take you sometime. You will see. You will try a pierogi and never look back. We invented bagels, you know.”

“Beagles?” Fosco says. “What an accomplishment! They are so cute!”

“Bagels, stupido.”

“Do not bully me. I am suffering too. I should be back at the hotel eating a prosciutto pizza.”

As you pass an electronics shop with stacks of televisions in the windows, all turned to NBC news, the journalists begin to gasp and chatter excitedly amongst themselves. The flashbulbs strobe madly, shutters clicking and reporters shouting for Aemond to give them a comment. The youngest Targaryen brother has appeared on the screens, bruised and gaunt and missing teeth. He looks twenty years older than he is. His once-golden hair is turning white.

Otto sputters: “What…what the hell is that?!”

“Oh my God, Daeron!” Alicent howls, and then bursts into the shop so she can hear what her lost son is saying. The rest of you hurry after her, locking the front door behind you so the journalists can’t follow. Through the windows, they take photographs until Fosco and Ludwika lower the blinds.

Inside the maze of electronics, three adolescent employees gawk at the presidential candidate and his retinue. “Out,” Otto instructs them, and then, when they are too stunned to immediately vacate the premises: “I said, get out!” The teenagers scurry into the backroom and slam the door.

“Daeron,” Alicent moans in front of a Zenith color television. Tears flow torrentially from her huge, horrified eyes. Criston holds her, arms circling, his cheek pressed to hers, and you are reminded of how Aegon touched you in your hotel room in Houston, in his basement at Asteria, on the shores of the Atlantic Ocean.

Daeron is saying: “The United States has committed war crimes in Vietnam. I am ashamed of the actions my country has taken here. We have burned children with napalm, executed innocent civilians, and interfered in matters that we have no legitimate jurisdiction over…”

“He is reading from a script,” Fosco says. “You can see his eyes following the words.”

“Shh,” Otto snaps.

Daeron continues: “The only honorable course of action now is to immediately withdrawal all American soldiers from Vietnam…”

“I think this will help us, actually,” Otto says. “People will know he’s being forced to make propaganda for the communists, and they will have sympathy for him and the family. They’ll want to rescue him and all the other servicemen too. He’s obviously…under duress.”

Aegon drops to his knees and puts his palm against the screen over Daeron’s face, just like the shadows of your fingers once fell over Ari as he fought for his life in an incubator in Mount Sinai Hospital. “Do you see what they’re doing to him?” He turns to Aemond with tears in his eyes. “What you did to him? You left him there, you abandoned him, and now he’s being tortured.”

Alicent looks to Aemond, puzzled, petrified. “You tried to get him out, didn’t you?” Aemond doesn’t answer. Otto averts his gaze, counting the tiles on the floor.

“Dear lord,” Ludwika mutters, lighting a fresh Camel cigarette and puffing on it anxiously.

“Was it worth it?” Aegon demands. “Selling your soul?”

Aemond is steely, resolved. “It’s almost over.”

“You were all right.” Aegon stands, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his green-striped sweater. “I don’t have what it takes to win the presidency. I couldn’t do something like this. Me, the perennial fuckup. Me, the godless degenerate.”

“Aegon,” Alicent whispers. “Please…please don’t…”

He turns to his mother, insurmountably sad. “Mom, I tried to stop him.” Alicent sobs and covers her face with both hands as Criston embraces her. She can’t even look at Aemond. She can’t believe what he’s become. Her long coppery hair flows like blood.

You reach for Aegon, your fingertips brushing his ruddy cheek, and immediately he folds into you, burying his face in the curve of your neck, breathing in your warmth as you inhale his smoke and rum and pain and terror. “Daeron will be home soon,” you say, not knowing if it’s true. Your bandaged hand aches; your throat burns.

“I should have gone instead. It should have been me.”

“No, Aegon. Your children need you, I need you. I wouldn’t have made it without you.”

Then Aemond yanks you away, his grip on your wrist like an anchor, like chains.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Dad, play us something,” Orion says; and it is the first time you can remember him calling Aegon that. Aegon smiles. He’s sitting on one of the couches in the penthouse suite you share with Aemond, the Gibson guitar he bought back in July lying across his lap as he strums it absentmindedly. The television is on and turned to CBS News. It’s just before midnight on Tuesday, November 5th, Election Day. The children are thrilled. It’s the one night they’re allowed to stay up as late as they’re physically able to. This allowance is not purely altruistic; Aemond wants them awake and ready for photographs as soon as the winner is announced.

“What should I play?”

“Frank Sinatra,” Fosco says. He is beside Aegon on the couch, smoking a cigar and flipping through the Sports section of the New York Times, which he’s not really reading.

“Marvin Gaye,” Ludwika suggests. They are both on your side of the room. Aemond, Otto, Sargent Shriver, and a number of campaign staffers are huddled around the television, transfixed by the ever-updating vote totals. Alicent and Criston are between your factions, murmuring back and forth to each other, flutes of golden champagne in their hands. Helaena is on the floor entertaining Violeta, Daphne, and Neaera with Crayolas and coloring books full of scenes from gardens. You recall how eerily calm Helaena had been the night Aemond was shot in Palm Beach, like she somehow already knew he’d survive. Now she is nervous, looking fretfully around the room, wringing her hands, filling outlines of butterflies with ten different shades of blue.

“The Beatles,” Orion tells Aegon, casting Fosco and Ludwika a judgmental teenage glance.

“Any particular song?”

“You can pick.”

Aegon sips at his rum, ice cubes clinking in the glass. He looks over to the coffee table, where you are embroiled in a game of Battleship with Cosmo. He’s getting better; he’s genuinely sunk your destroyer and submarine so far. Then Aegon’s eyes drop to his guitar strings and he plucks the opening notes of In My Life. His voice is soft and low, almost secretive.

“There are places I’ll remember

All my life, though some have changed

Some forever, not for better

Some have gone and some remain…”

Cosmo turns to watch his father. Orion, Spiro, Thaddeus, and Evangelos are gathered around Aegon’s feet, gazing up at him with admiration, with love.

“All these places had their moments

With lovers and friends, I still can recall

Some are dead and some are living

In my life, I’ve loved them all...”

Cheers erupt over by the television; Aemond has just won Michigan. But then tense, indistinct deliberations follow. Florida is still too close to call, a bad omen. You wonder where Alys is as she watches the results come in. There must be some part of her—however small, however smothered—that fears Aemond will win. If he captures the presidency, she could be separated from the man she loves for the better part of a decade. You drink your Pink Squirrel, wishing it was stronger. You think of sea sponge divers down in the depths and imagine what that first gulp of air tastes like when they resurface, when they shed their rubber suits and brass helmets and step back into sunlight, warmth, freedom like Persephone returning from the Underworld each spring.

“But of all these friends and lovers

There is no one compares with you

And these memories lose their meaning

When I think of love as something new…”

You wear a sapphire-colored gown that Aemond chose for you, strings of silver around your wrist and throat, diamond teardrops hanging from your ears. Your hair is up, your fingernails painted a tasteful opalescent shade, the aching of your bandaged hand dulled by booze and Vicodin.

“Though I know I’ll never lose affection

For people and things that went before

I know I’ll often stop and think about them

In my life, I love you more.”

More triumphant shouts and applause across the room by the television: Aemond has won Washington state. From his own suite at the St. Regis Hotel a few blocks south on 5th Avenue, Nixon’s people must be celebrating that he just secured Ohio’s 26 electoral votes. He needs 270 to be the next president of the United States.

Florida, you think. If Nixon can take Florida, I think he’ll win the whole thing.

As Aemond and Otto are distracted, as Fosco and Ludwika watch with pitying, knowing eyes, Aegon sets his guitar aside and walks by you with his rum in hand, taps your shoulder, disappears onto the balcony. You wait a few minutes—Cosmo wins Battleship and goes to color on the floor with Helaena—and then follow Aegon.

Outside the night sky is moonless, starless, thick with clouds. Rain is beginning to fall, soft hushed pattering. Far below taxis and limousines are still rushing and blowing their horns on West 59th Street. You can see the vast forested shadow of Central Park and streetlights like constellations. In apartments and office buildings, windows are illuminated as Americans sit numbing their fears with beer, wine, shots of liquor, smoldering hand-rolled joints.

Aegon is cross-legged at the ledge, one hand on the iron bars of the railing, staring out at the nightscape of Manhattan. His hair lashes in the cold November wind. His nose is pink, his eyes wet and faraway. He passes his Lucky Strike cigarette to you as you join him and says: “I don’t think Aemond can win without Florida.”

“No,” you agree, taking a drag.

Aegon snatches a rattling orange bottle from the pocket of his olive green army jacket, pops it open, and swallows three pills with a swig of straight rum, dark amber poison.

“Don’t do that,” you say, you plead.

“I need it, babe.”

“I want you to still be alive in ten years.”

Aegon smiles and reaches over to pat your cheek twice. “I think that ship might have sailed, little Io.” Can decades of self-destruction be undone, uninflicted, nullified like Heracles becoming immortal? Can the Underworld be escaped? “Come with me. No matter what happens tonight.”

“Aegon, I can’t.”

“I’m in love with you.”

“If I leave, he’ll hurt you. He’ll hurt me worse.”

“It’s not fair,” Aegon says, his voice breaking.

“Nothing is.”

There is an uproar inside the hotel room, screams that could be horror or triumph, realized dreams, breaking bones, bullets through flesh. You and Aegon are on your feet, hauling the balcony door open, stepping through the threshold into the rest of your lives.

Glasses are being toasted until champagne rains down onto the carpet. The telephone is ringing so Nixon can concede. On CBS News, Walter Cronkite is reporting that Aemond has won Florida and thereby accumulated 270 electoral votes. The blue text on the screen reads: Senator Targaryen will be the 37th president of the United States.

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justinspoliticalcorner · 22 days

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Jay Kuo at Think Big Picture:

For years, critics of Vladimir Putin have been warning that the Russians have taken over parts of the Republican Party. They raised the alarm as Republicans defended the Russian leader, parroted clear Kremlin talking points, and became mules for disinformation campaigns. In recent weeks, that criticism has shifted to include not just Republicans who have left the party, including former representatives Liz Cheney and Adam Kinzinger, but current GOP members. Recently, two powerful Republican chairs of the House Intelligence Committee and the House Foreign Affairs Committee warned openly about how Russian propaganda has seeped into their party and even made its way into speeches on the House floor. Other members are now even openly questioning whether some of their fellow officials have been compromised and are being extorted. Rep. Tim Burchett (R-TN) suggested in a recent interview that the Russian spies may possess compromising tapes of some of his colleagues. It’s unclear where he’s getting his information or how accurate it is.

And then there’s this: According to a report by Politico, a number of European politicians were recently paid by Moscow to interfere in the upcoming EU elections by Russians pretending to be a “media” outlet called “Voice of Europe.” The Kremlin-backed operation used money to influence officials to take pro-Russian stances. Authorities have conducted some money seizures and launched an investigation into which members of the European Parliament may have accepted cash bribes. This in turn raises an important question for our own politics: Are the Russians doing the same with U.S. politicians, directly or indirectly? This piece walks through the three types of compromise—disinformation, extortion, and bribery—to give a sense of what we know and what we don’t really know, and, importantly, where we should be on our guard. As this summary will show, from the 2016 election till now, there’s enough Russian smoke now to assume there is a fire, one that compromises not only the integrity of our own system of elections, but the safety and security of the free world. Duped.

Over the past year, we have witnessed two distinct kinds of Russian propaganda in action. Both use our own elected officials and intelligence processes to amplify and even weaponize disinformation. The first kind originates online through Russian-backed internet channels. Information operatives begin spreading false rumors, for example about Ukraine, that then get repeated within right-wing silos before reaching willing purveyors of it within the halls of Congress. A chief culprit in Congress is Georgia’s Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene. Among the Russian-originated false narratives she has uplifted is the patently false claim that Ukraine is waging a war against Christianity while Russia is protecting it. On Steve Bannon’s War Room podcast, Greene even claimed, without evidence, that Ukraine is “executing priests.”

Where would Greene have gotten this wild, concocted notion? We don’t have to look far. Russian talking points have included this gaslighting narrative for some time. The twist, of course, is that, according to the International Religious Freedom or Belief Alliance, it is the Russian army that has been torturing and executing priests and other religious figures, including 30 Ukrainian clergy killed and 26 held captive by Russian forces. The Russians have also targeted Baptists, whom they see as U.S. propagandists, according to an in-depth Time magazine piece on the violence and death directed toward evangelicals. The Congressional propaganda mouthpieces for Russia aren’t limited to the U.S. House. Over in the Senate, Ohio Senator J.D. Vance was also recently accused of spreading Kremlin-backed disinformation about Ukraine, this time over spurious allegations that Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy siphoned U.S. aid to purchase himself two luxury yachts.

[...]

The accusation that Russians are presently extorting and blackmailing U.S. politicians into supporting Russia’s agenda has some broad appeal. It would help explain some mysteries, including why people like Sen. Lindsey Graham (R-SC) suddenly is no longer as supportive of Ukraine as before and constantly kisses the ring of Donald Trump these days—after presciently saying in 2016 that the GOP would destroy itself if it nominated him.

The problem has been that these accusations aren’t supported by much evidence. That means that political extortion by the Russians is either not a very prevalent practice, or it’s so effective that no one dares expose it. Either way, we’re left without much to go on. The Russian word kompromat came into common parlance around the time that Buzzfeed published a salacious story about another intelligence report back in early 2017. In that instance, the author, a former British intelligence officer named Christopher Steele, was concerned Russia had compromising data on the soon-to-be president, Donald Trump.

That report never wound up being substantiated, and its sources and funding came into question as well. But intelligence agencies are in general agreement that obtaining kompromat is standard practice by Russia, and someone like Trump could have been an easy mark considering the company that he kept (e.g. Jeffrey Epstein and Ghislaine Maxwell) and the projects he was involved with (e.g. the Miss Universe contest). Lately, the notion of kompromat emerged once again, this time not from Democratic-paid outfits but from within the GOP itself. Rep. Tim Burchett (R-TN) is one of the more “colorful” characters within the GOP, primarily known lately for being one of the eight members who voted to oust former Speaker Kevin McCarthy and even for getting into public jostling and shouting matches with McCarthy.

The Republican Party (or at least its pro-MAGA faction) is compromised by Russian kompromat.

#Trump Russia Scandal #GOP Russia #Russia #Donald Trump #Marjorie Taylor Greene #J.D. Vance #Volodymyr Zelensky #Tim Burchett #War Room #Stephen Bannon #Mike Turner #Michael McCaul #Christopher Steele

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joeys-babe · 8 months

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Backstory

You and Joe defied all odds as high school sweethearts. It was the basic story; you were on the cheer team while he was the quarterback of the football team. Everyone around you said it wouldn’t last, and once Joe was committed to Ohio State you started questioning if your relationship would last as well.

Even with Joe in Columbus and you in Athens completing your senior year of high school, it was you two against the world. You FaceTime’d every chance you got and it seemed that long distance brought you two closer. When Joe transferred to LSU and was taking all online classes, it was a lot easier for you two to have time together.

It wasn’t long till Joe was back in Ohio with the Bengals, you seriously couldn’t be any more proud of him than you were when he was the #1 pick of the draft.

In 2022 when the team won the AFC Championship, Joe surprised you with a quick drive down to Athens where he would propose to you in the most romantic way possible. You both celebrated the engagement with your families around you.

That offseason started when the team lost the Super Bowl and though Joe was devastated, he couldn’t be too sad knowing that he was marrying his best friend that offseason.

Just right before the next season started you found out you were pregnant, and you and Joe were ecstatic. You’d soon find out that you were expecting twins.

These Imagines follow you and Joe through the NFL, parenthood, and living the best life possible.

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Out Of My League flashbacks to high school, OSU, and LSU here!

(☆ = Trends or pranks on Joe!)

Imagines

Reception*

Double Trouble

Welcome To The Jungle

Who’s That Girl With Him?

You Make Loving Fun*

#6 and #9

Get It On* ☆

Kiss Me* ☆

Birthday Boy

Touchdown Celebrations

A Day In The Life

Let Your Love Flow*

Caught Up In You

Easter

Birthday*

You’re All I Need To Get By*

Mary Jane’s Last Dance

Take It Easy

Crazy Love / I'm So Tired

Feel Like Makin’ Love*

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Blurbs

Take My Breath Away

Water ☆

Say You Love Me ☆

Drive My Car ☆

Santa

Kiss an Angel Good Mornin’

Baby, It's Cold Outside ☆

Lights

Wonderful Christmastime

Strawberry Acai ☆

Can’t Help Falling in Love ☆

Isn’t She Lovely

Yogurt ☆ / Can't Take My Eyes off You

With A Little Help From My Friends ☆

Dinosaur ☆ kinda

Hickey ☆

Boyfriend ☆

Blank Space ☆

Psycho ☆

Angel Eyes ☆

Joy Of My Life ☆

I Love a Rainy Night

The Real MVP (Flashforward)

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#joe burrow #bengals #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow x reader #joey b #cincinnati bengals #joe burrow fan fic #joe burrow smut #joe burrow universe #Spotify

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notanactressyayy · 23 hours

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⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭'𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭 𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐧, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡

pairing . Natasha Romanoff x fem! reader

summary . two girls with a pure heart and the will to do the best things in the world, but forced to do the one they would never dream of doing.

warnings . red room, suicidal thoughts (lmk if i have to add more.)

notes . i'm sick, got a really bad flu — and those are somehow the only times i get inspiration to write (also when depressed <3) this one goes through red room era, so both Nat and reader are little. english is not my first language (🇧🇷) so i apologize for any spelling errors.

divider credits: @iwonbin, @iluvrei

your 'parents' had left. they went to the store, so the house was all yours. Natasha was curled up on the corner of the couch, watching intently the movie playing on the television screen. her eyebrows were slightly furrowed, eyes narrowing at the screen. you could tell she wasn't watching the movie. she was paying attention to the actors performance, how they expressed their emotion, how they behaved in front of the cameras.

"you'd want to be an actress?" you ask softly, making her jump slightly, breaking her trance.

"maybe." she simply replies, shrugging her shoulders. she sighs and leans back against the backrest, grabbing the remote and fidgeting with it. "you?"

"i think it would be fun." you giggle, eyebrows raising as a bunch of little scenarios played on your head. "not necessarily a movie star. just.. be able to show people how i actually feel, you know?"

Natasha hums, a small smile tugging on her lips. it was the one job that was the complete opposite from your daily life — that was what being a spy was like, hide your emotions, hide from people, hide hide hide. from everything. absolutely no one knew you — neither you did, since you had to change identities every year or so.

"i think, you could do absolutely anything you ever want to do." she says, pointing her finger at you. "if you become an actress, i will be in your every premiere, watch all your interviews, and be the first one to buy the tickets for your movies,"

you laugh, playfully slapping her finger away. "you smartass,"

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

silence filled the house as everybody went to sleep, except for you and Natasha, of course. you always stayed awake late, even if one of the rules was go to sleep at 8:30pm. you both jumped out of bed quietly and hurried to open the blinds, so you could see the starry sky.

"do they really think we're asleep?" you inquire with a smirk, sitting down on the cold tile floor and patting the space between your legs.

Natasha sits down with you and carefully leans her weight against you, her head on your chest. "if you keep shouting like that they might figure it out."

you shake your head at her sarcasm and chuckle. your eyes drift to her hair, the pink strands illuminated by the moonlight. you carefully grab a few of them and begin braiding them. "when are you going to Ohio?"

and when she was about to relax, you ask the most inconvenient question in the most inconvenient time. why did you have to bring up that? Ohio was not a mission like this one — she'd meet other widows, future widows, you weren't gonna be there. and she didn't want to be away from you.

you notice how she stays silent, and decide not to push. you finish the two little braids on her short hair and coaxes her head back to your chest, arms wrapping around her.

"do you think," Natasha begins, quietly, as if this was a topic she'd like to avoid. she gulps, eyes locked on the twinkling stars. "do you think we would be happier if we weren't here?"

the question wasn't direct, but you understood perfectly. being a normal girl meant never being in the red room, which meant never meeting each other. that was a tough one, but the answer was obvious.

"yeah," you nod, shrugging, pondering. "you know, Natalia? i think that even if we were born in different families, somehow the universe would find a way for us to meet."

she smiles, feeling a warm, fuzzy feeling in her chest. something rare. something that didn't happen often. it quickly faded, but she appreciated that. "i hope so. because right now? i'd throw myself down this window if i could."

"so would i," you chuckle humorlessly. the life of a widow would never end up with joy, you both knew what you were submitted to.

she shifts her body, pulling her head back a little to look in your eyes. she didn't have to speak for you to understand. gratitude, longing, pain. "moya malenkaya zvezdochka, (my little star),"

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

"we're leaving!" you yell, a smile on your face as you watched Natasha finish adjusting her white dress. she wore black chucks and her hair was down. out of every style she ever played, this was the one you most liked. dresses.

"where are you going?" your 'mom' asks, her smile widening as she sees her daughters all dressed up.

"just riding our bikes!" you answer, putting your hair up on a ponytail and putting your shoes on. "we're not going too far, promise!"

"okay! come back before five!" the woman answers as you run out of the house, grabbing your bikes and hopping on them.

"—back before five," Natasha mimicks her with a silly face and a high pitched voice, coaxing a laugh out of you. "we know mom. you tell us that every freaking day."

and with that, you both go pedalling to downtown, which was yes, a little too far from home. Italy was very beautiful, sunny, full of joyful people around. sometimes you hated that. Natasha suddenly stops as you pass through a little flower shop. it was tiny, and the grandpa behind the counter seemed kind.

"would Natalia like to receive a flower bouquet today?" you try a rough voice, which made her laugh. you hop out of the bike and run in the store.

"ciao, bambina! (hi, little one!)" the man exclaims, his happiness almost surprising you.

"hey!" you match his good humor and point at a colorful bouquet on a basket. "how much for these?"

"these are 50 euros, but for you, young lady, i can make.. 49!" he laughs, grabbing the bouquet and carefully handing it to you.

you raise an eyebrow at the joke, grabbing the coins from your pocket and placing them on the counter. after he counts everything, you don't even say goodbye before running to Natasha again.

"here you go, malyshka, (sweetheart)," you politely bow and hand her the flowers, feigning chivalry. it seemed stupid, but her smile seemed way too genuine for your liking.

she grabs the bouquet and smell the flowers, a small tear runs down her cheek, which she quickly wipes away. "thank you,"

you nod, a little heat creeping up your cheeks. you would never receive flowers, neither from a romantic partner, nor a relative — that was for sure, so you did it, even if it wasn't real.

oh, how much she wanted to say the three forbidden words right now.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

it was raining, heavily.

the time was approaching. the time..

the time for the Sicily mission was almost over. general Dreykov, along with his soldiers would soon be there to retreat you, just like the police. it was always like that.

"come on!" Natasha calls, extending her hand for you as she steps out of the house. "we got to go,"

"gonna get a cold, Natalia," you laugh, grabbing her hand and stepping out as well. you immediately got drenched in water, shivering from the coldness.

"are you scared?" she mocks, shaking her head.

pink droplets of pink hair dye fell down the concrete ground, a colorful contrast of what it used to be. her hair would soon be blue. you didn't like that.

"where are we going?" you ask, running with Natasha as she took off the yard, leaving the household.

"anywhere," she yells back to you, running across the sidewalk, as you followed behind. you rolled your eyes slightly, shrugging.

as you ran, the cacophony of the city could soon be heard. probably your parents would realize you weren't home and call the cops or something. but that didn't matter. not when you were both trained spies. you found a small park — which was empty due the rain — and sat on one of the benches.

"i don't know if we'll meet again after this," you say quietly, finger traveling upwards to tuck a strand of pink behind her ear. "you're going to America. i'm returning to Asia. and the chance of us being paired up again is so small—"

"i love you," she interrupts, voice weak and almost tired. "gosh, i always wanted to tell you that."

your eyes widen, a mixture of foreign emotions filling your being at her confession. "i love you, too,"

"when we grow up, i'll marry you." she smiles, scooting closer. "and we'll live a happy life. we'll have a picket fence and a birdhouse. we'll have a cat and a dog and probably adopt a kid,"

tears run down your cheeks, blending with the rain droplets. you nod, wrapping your arms tightly around her neck, a hug she quickly returned.

"chertovski nespravedlivyy mir, (goddamn unfair world,)" you murmur against her skin, pulling back to look into her eyes.

"it is," she agrees, placing her palm on your cheek. "it's ironic. i'm glad you're here with me. but i don't want you to. i don't want either of us to be here."

"but we are," you whisper, taking a quick glance to the people around, seeing their gaze almost burning you. "that's how life is, i guess."

and with that, you and Natasha lost each other — having to cling to the memories, to the small comfort they brought.

because a widow never had a happy ending.

to be continued..?

#natasha marvel #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanov #notanactressyayy #marvel incorrect quotes #natasha x y/n #red room #marvel #natasha romanoff soft smut #natasha x you

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nhlclover · 1 year

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𝐉𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐘 | 𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐂𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐘

summary: a rare spur of jealousy leads to misplaced anger against your boyfriend

warnings: slight angst, kissing, NOT proofread soz

a/n: he is doing so good in the tournament rn

word count: 1.3k

Being Rutgers girlfriend doesn’t demand much. He likes kisses, taking me on dates, and just simply being in each other's presence. However, being Rutgers girlfriend also means I double as a hockey girlfriend. This means attending all the games, being there so that he can vent about the games and being a motivational speaker. I truly didn’t mind it though. Getting to see him live out his dreams made it all worthwhile.

Tonight was another game, this one against Ohio State. Normally I attend the games alone and sit in a section separate from the student section. However my friends, after seeing a video from the UMich hockey account that showed Mark fighting another player, wanted to come and see a game. This also meant they wanted to sit in the student section so they could “be in the thick of it”.

We joined the sea of students, also dressed in blue and yellow. Some people around us had signs, most of them chirping the opposing team, Ohio State. When the boys skated out, the student section roared. People banged on the glass, pumping up the others while they did their warmups. The noise only slightly diminished as the game started, with chants starting every few seconds. By the end of the 2nd period, it was 2-0 for Michigan. The student section was slightly less rowdy, as people went to the concession stands.

“Okay, but number two was the best, right?”

The mention of my boyfriends' number made my ears perk up. I look at the three girls sitting in front of us who are the only possible owners of the voice.

“His last name was McGroarty, go look on Instagram.” One of the girls says.

I look at her phone, see her type in Rutger’s last name, and click on his profile. “He is so cute.” She squeals.

“I don’t see a girlfriend.” Another girl says.

With Rutger's newfound fame from being drafted by Winnipeg, to UMich and the World Juniors, we thought it best to keep our relationship just between close friends and family for the time being. It was good, for the most part, except when girls would assume he was single just because he had no posts about his girlfriend.

“You know, I heard they go to Milo’s frat’s parties a bunch.” One of the girls says. “You could try and find him at the party Friday?”

There’s a twinge in my chest and my ears heat up. Who are these girls to think that they can just get with my boyfriend?

I thankfully didn’t have to endure much of their conversation any longer as the boys skated out onto the ice to begin the third period. They finished the game, winning 3-1 with Rutger securing the win with an empty netter.

We get up, walking out of the stands to where Rutger and the rest of the team will exit the building from. We’re about halfway there when I realize the girls from earlier are walking to the exact same place. The twinge from earlier returns and a wave of heat takes over my body. My friends and I stop a few feet away from the girls, who continue to talk about Rutger, adding in a few comments about Ethan and Mark.

The door opens, a few of the guys spilling out. You spot Rutger walking out beside Dylan. Before you can even get to him, the girls from earlier are by his side. They ask him about the game, telling him how well he played.

“Are you coming to the party on Friday? Beta Theta Phi?” One of the girls asks.

“Um, not sure. Maybe?” He tells them.

“Well, I’ll be looking for you.” She smiles, walking off with her friends.

I expect the twinge to dissipate as the girls leave, but it stays. Rutger joins my side, tossing an arm around my shoulders. “Hey girls, did you enjoy the game?” He asks my friends.

“Yes, are you kidding? We saw two guys start swinging at one another then proceeded to fall on their asses. There’s nothing better than that.” Melanie tells him.

“You ready to go?” He asks me. I nod in response, saying goodbye to my friends.

Johnny joins us, walking back to their shared dorm together. I’m noticeably quiet on the short walk home, letting Rutger and Johnny talk about their game while I try to navigate what I was feeling. I felt as if I was mad at Rutger, but couldn’t figure out why.

We get in their dorm, both boys flopping down on their respective. “I’m absolutely wiped.” Johnny sighs, pulling out his phone.

Rutger has his arms open, waiting for me to climb in as I normally do. When Rutger notices my hesitation, he props himself up on his elbows and looks at me with a confused look on his face.

“I think I’m probably going to sleep at mine tonight.” I tell him, stepping towards the door.

“Woah, woah. Why?” He asks, climbing out of bed and walking towards me.

“I just feel like being in my own bed tonight.” I lie straight through my teeth.

“I know you’re lying, y/n.” He says. “You always stay over after a game, plus you love to stay the night because you get to wake up in my arms.”

“Well… I just want to sleep at my place tonight.” I tell him.

Rutger's expression turns from one of confusion to one of hurt. “Babe, talk to me. What’s up?”

I glance behind Rutger's shoulder, seeing Johnny looking at us rather than at his phone. Realizing that he probably should let us talk alone, he scrambles out of his bed.

“Yeah, I’ll just… go to Luke’s or something. Maybe I’ll have a sleepover with Fants.” Johnny chuckles, pulling on some shoes quickly. He slips out the door leaving us alone.

“Can you tell me what’s up now?” Rutger asks me.

I sigh, sitting down on his desk chair. I open my mouth to speak but putting my thoughts into words seems impossible.

“I was sitting in the student section and these girls in front of me were talking about you, calling you cute and stuff, and saying how easy it would be to get with you.” I explain. “Then they came to talk to you after the game and I hated it! I don’t know why but I absolutely despised hearing them talk about you.”

I finish ranting, turning in his chair to look at him, only to see a smirk on his lips. “No way…” He says. “You’re actually jealous.”

“What? I’m not jealous.” I say, crossing my arms on my chest.

“Oh yeah, you are. You’re talking about how much other girls crushing on me is bothering you. Plus you’ve got this brooding look and your eyebrows are furrowed and you’re kind of pouting…wait.” He says, stepping towards me. “Are you trying to turn me on right now? Cause it’s working.”

“Rutger I’m serious.” I say, wiping the grin off his face.

“Sorry, sorry. But you have nothing to be jealous of. I’m all yours and no one else's.” He tells me, coming over and grabbing my hand. He pulls me up from the chair, placing his hands on my waist. “Other people are going to find me attractive and that’s something that’s gonna happen. I mean guys look at you all the time.”

“Other guys don’t look at me.” I say.

“Yeah they do, I’m pretty sure Luca had a thing for you for the first few months we were dating.” Rutger tells me, making me laugh. “Don’t tell him I told you though.”

“We’re always going to find each other being jealous of people that are attracted to the other and that’s just something we have to deal with.” He tells me. “But as long as we both know we’re committed to each other, there’s nothing to worry about.”

I give him a soft smile at his words. I lay a hand on his cheek, bringing him down to me. I softly kiss him, hoping the gesture works as a way to tell him thank you for easing my worries.

“You know,” Rutger starts as we separate. “Johnny’s sleeping… not here tonight, so we have the place to ourselves.” I laugh as he pulls me over to the bed.

#rutger mcgroarty #rutger mcgroarty x reader #rutger mcgroarty imagine #umich imagine #umich #university of michigan #nhl imagine #nhl #hockey #winnipeg jets

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manicpixiedckgirl · 2 months

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i am more convinced than ever that cosmic horror writers are just "some guy who also happened to glance at a total eclipse and saw the eye of god". like unless you've seen a total eclipse, you don't understand, you can't, i can't really explain it to you. you're sitting with your girlfriend, in a field. with a group of complete strangers that includes astrology wackjobs, menonites, lesbians from Ohio, and an old man who will later tell you a joke about teddy bears. and through these crappy cardboard glasses, you're watching a tiny yellow dot in the sky, the sun with almost all of the light blocked out, get slowly covered by this black disk. at first, it kinda just looks like the sun is turning into pacman through the glasses, but the sun is so bright you don't notice a difference as the moon moves across it. slowly though, even though it's a completely cloudless day, it starts to look like it's a little overcast, and the whole thing goes from cool to unnerving. it turns from day to night in the space of about 20 minutes or so, speeding up as it goes, and the primal part of your brain that knows what wildfires are and knows to run starts kicking and screaming. it knows whatever is happening is getting closer. the yellow dot is now a half moon, but it's the sun, and the haze that's normally around the sun that makes it way too bright to even think about looking at is fading. this whole time you've been looking directly at it, through the glasses, but now the heat of it against those glasses is strangely absent. the world looks strange too, like there's a filter over everything. everything is bluer, richer, deep. you feel giddy, knowing you're about to see the thing you've been looking forward to, try to quiet the monkey brain. before, suddenly, it starts to get dark. the street lights start to pop on in the corner of your eye. the sliver gets smaller and smaller. people get quiet. traffic stops. and then, when totality finally arrives and that sliver disappears, you hear two things. the birds stop singing. and people scream. through the glasses, there's a black dot with a white halo. you cant take it anymore. you glance over your glasses, just a peak. hanging in a sky dark, enough to see stars in, hangs a black orb, wreathed in white flame. where you know the sun should be is this indescribable inversion of reality. it's like the sun has been swallowed from the inside. and you laugh, you cry. in that moment i think i believed in god. you try not to look at it, but you can't not look at it. if i go blind, you think, this is what sight i had sight for. it's pure momentary insanity. and then as suddenly as it started it's over. and you have to go back to work tomorrow. that'd make anybody write some fucked up fetish horror is all im saying

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mosquito-queen · 2 months

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A shudder ripples up Yelena’s spine. She quickly turns from her perch on the picnic table bench, and spits red ice onto the dirt. She hacks up the offending treat, before turning back to the concerned girl sitting across from her.

Kate’s face is twisted up in a knot, “Hey, are you okay? Did you choke or something?”

”What was that?” Yelena manages to cough out, grabbing a napkin from the table and trying to scrub the sticky flavor off her face.

Now Kate frowns: “You said you liked snowcones. I got you the tiger’s blood, that’s what you asked for right?”

“This is poison,” Yelena pushes the melting cup of disgusting towards Kate, “It is not how I remember it.”

Kate considers this, and uses her spoon stained in banana flavoring (Yelena did explicitly tell her she wouldn’t kiss Kate again until after she brushed her teeth of that flavor) to test Yelena’s snowcone. She swallows, and shakes her head, “This is it, the three flavors for one combo.”

Yelena pouts and insists, “No, it is not. It was different, better.”

”Well when did you have it last?” Kate flicks her sunglasses over her eyes, peering up behind the lenses in an attempt at playing detective. All Yelena can think about is the way Kate’s mouth is stained artificially red and maybe tiger's blood would taste like it was supposed to on her lips. Then Kate says: “You know your tastebuds change when you get old.”

”Cyka,” Yelena growls and snatches the glasses from Kate’s face. She slips them on. Kate doesn’t attempt to take them back, just squints the sun out of her eyes as punishment. Except it isn’t really a punishment - Kate loves it when Yelena wears her sunglasses. Yelena plays absently with the spoon in the barely solid snowcone, “I don’t know. Must of been Ohio.”

That’s always Yelena’s answer when she ends up hating something she allegedly loved. Kate doesn’t hold it against her, but she can’t understand it either. At first she thinks it’s just nostalgia. Kate catches herself falling into that trap sometimes: the mall, sick days, McDonald's fries (nope, that one still holds up). Kate thinks Yelena just has her Ohio childhood on a pedestal - which, again, completely fair with all things considered.

Kate starts doubting Yelena experiences Regular People Nostalgia when she says she wants to go back to Cedar Point. The best Kate can do is take her to Coney Island. Kate doesn’t say anything when they walk past a warning for minimum height requirement. She doesn’t say anything when her brain absently notices that a six year old Yelena could not have made it on the ride. Maybe Ohio had even less rules than Coney Island. Who was Kate to know? Yelena throws up after the first roller coaster. She’s a curious shade of white when she practically shoves Kate out of her way, beelining towards the trash can. Her aversion to rollercoasters is very funny with all things considered.

Sometimes Yelena will be restless. She paces and sighs and opens the cabinet doors over and over and over and over again. Kate doesn’t know what she’s looking for. She just knows Yelena never finds it. She’s usually mumbling, “I was doing something.” She’ll pace off again, come back, sigh. “I just can’t remember..” The thing is, Yelena is very good at not remembering what she is doing outside of a mission. The other thing is that Yelena is very good at making up what she was supposed to be doing. Kate suspects it’s the same way Yelena is very good at filling the gaps in her memory.

Kate thinks about how badly Yelena must want these things to turn them into her reality. She thinks about how a six year old little girl had time to become the greatest child assassin the world has ever known and carefully craft an entire imaginary normal life. She thinks about how another version of Yelena went to Cedar Point, had sticky tiger’s blood dripping from her chin, camped in her backyard with her sister, sat through family dinner every night, failed math class in eighth grade, broke her arm doing a backflip on the trampoline, spent her summers traversing the world on family vacations. Kate likes that Yelena just as much as this one.

Sadness sours this Yelena’s face. There’s a deep loneliness that would rival the sprawling desert. Kate says, “Ohio probably puts cherry in it instead of strawberry.”

Yelena perks up, “That must be why I remember it different.”

“Maybe we try something new next time,” Because Kate wants to stop waking in the middle of the night to half-muffled sobs coming from the bathroom after every failed attempt of Yelena trying to reconcile reality and delusion. Whatever Yelena wants to be real should be.

#prolly will expand this later #bishova #kate bishop #yelena belova

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amtrak-official · 10 months

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#polls #I will make a big rant post about one of these

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megxplryxb · 1 year

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More Than This

*Notes* Gif is not mine..

Pairings: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

cw: Friends to lovers, angst, hurt, romance, eventual smut (probably), no use of y/n, Steve being a bit of an ass

Author's note: My first proper fic in a while so please be gentle on me. <3 There will be 2 Parts to this fic if the demand is there.

"Are we there yet?" Robin whined from the back of Steve's car, repeating the same question she'd asked ten minutes earlier. Frustration having set in about an hour ago when Eddie had fallen asleep and decided to use her shoulder as a pillow. You couldn't exactly blame her for being pissed off, the journey had felt long and drawn out and the current heat wave definitely wasn’t helping the current situation, with irritated sighs and huffs being echoed over Eddie’s loud snoring.

"Relax, Robs, we're almost there." Steve promised his friend through the rear view mirror. "Right?" He asked, squeezing your thigh for reassurance in the passenger seat beside him, begging you to say yes either way so Robin would quit bugging him. You flinched at the sudden feeling of Steve’s warm hand on your skin, shifting just enough so that his hand fell from your leg. Your uncomfortable body language hadn't gone unnoticed by him, looking at you in utter confusion before turning his focus back to the open road again.

"Oh yeah, about a half hour and we should be at the motel." You muffled, scanning the map as your friend breathed a sigh of relief behind you. You had navigated the majority of the journey, swapping with Robin forty minutes in when it became clear she couldn't understand the directions, meaning you were left with no choice but to sit up front with Steve because Eddie had already smoked a joint by himself and couldn't be trusted to guide you to your required destination safely or on time.

He had won four Metallica tickets on some radio show contest a few days prior, pleading with his friend to drive you all to Ohio in his BMW so he could see his favourite band play live for the first time. It wasn't really Steve's kind of music but who was he to turn down a night away from Hawkins?

You had been friends with Steve and the others ever since he called to Dustin's a couple of years ago while you were babysitting at the Henderson household, blissfully unaware of the danger that surrounded Hawkins at the time. Their friendship had taken you a little bit by surprise at first but you had to admit, you found their bond totally adorable. Especially, when Steve would give Dustin advice about girls and how to do his hair and how they'd protect each other and now you too, every time the world went to shit. You really didn't expect to get mixed up in a world involving supernatural creatures when you said yes to a babysitting job, that was definitely not on the advertisement but now you'd do anything for that kid and the rest of the group to keep them safe.

Steve had been drawn to you from the very beginning, not at all prepared for a pretty girl to answer the door to him while he waited for the younger boy. He immediately recognised you from high school, knowing it definitely wasn't the first time you had caught his attention.

"Oh hey, sorry, I didn't know Henderson had a sister." He muttered innocently, sliding his hands in to his pockets as you leaned against the doorframe wearing a plaid skirt and woolen cardigan.

"Pfft he wishes...I'm just his favourite babysitter or at least I'm the only one crazy enough to look after him.” You joked as Steve let out a small chuckle. “So, what are you doing here anyway ‘King Steve’? Mrs Henderson didn’t mention Dustin having a play date tonight.” You teased, folding your arms as Steve pressed his tongue to his cheek, a little taken aback by your wit. "Well, if Mrs Henderson had told me Dustin had such a pretty babysitter, I might have come play more often." He flirted, enjoying the back and forth between you, completely forgetting the reason he had called to Dustin's in the first place.

“Dude, that's my babysitter and she's awesome so don't even think about trying any shit with her!" Dustin had warned his older friend, seeing the lust in Steve's eyes as you walked away to let them talk.

Of course you liked Steve, he was gorgeous and sweet and he wasn't the stuck up asshole you'd remembered from high school. But, you knew that he was still getting over Nancy and you wouldn't be anyones rebound girl. So, you started occupying your time with Billy Hargrove to get over your little crush on Steve and it wasn't long until he became your boyfriend. You actually liked Billy, saw parts of him that no one else had but your friendship with Steve complicated things between you from the beginning. Cause, every time Billy did something to hurt you or piss you off, it was Steve you turned to for comfort, leading to fist fights between the two boys and you caught in the middle.

Billy hated that you were so close with his biggest rival, he hated that the other boy knew so much about you and your relationship and he hated knowing that your feelings for Steve went way past platonic, even if you hadn't realised it yet. So, when he eventually made you choose between your friendship with Steve and your relationship with him, Billy wasn't all that surprised when you chose Steve. Not that you ever told your friend he was the reason for the break up.

Over the next few years, you and Steve had gotten even closer, spending more time in his house than your own because he hated being there by himself and you didn't want to go home either. Your Mother had long passed away and your Father was a drunk. It was one of the many things you had in common, both of you having shitty parents and it was nice to have someone who understood how you were feeling. But lately, you had taken a step back from him, deciding to stay at Robin's house instead until you had enough money for a place of your own, because Billy Hargrove had been right all along, you were in love with your best friend and you were fucking terrified of him finding out.

It wasn’t supposed to happen, you certainly didn't want it to happen, it was so cliche that it made you physically nauseous, but thinking you had lost Steve when he disappeared under the water that night on the lake was all it took for you to realise just how much he really meant to you. Now you didn't know to act around your friend, not wanting to give him the slightest inkling of your current feelings towards him. You hated the way your stomach would flip when he'd smile at you, cheeks heating when he’d compliment you and the way you'd almost forget to breathe when he leaned in to kiss your cheek after picking you up from work, it was truly tragic. But to make matters worse, Robin had let slip that Steve was back on the dating scene again and you were just a tiny bit jealous and a little pissed off that he had failed to mention that detail to you personally when you spent so much time with him.

The sun was bright, high in the sky, heat taking over the BMW before you rolled the window down, welcoming the instant breeze as you pulled your sunglasses from the top of your head back over your eyes. Steve was immediately hypnotised by the scent of your shampoo and perfume as your hair blew in the wind. He tried to stay focused on the road in front of him but you were making it incredibly difficult in your low cut crop top and tiny denim shorts, hanging the top half of your body out the window for air. He was sure he almost drooled at the small sight of your laced bra that threatened to unveil itself if you shuffled in your seat much more.

Steve silently wondered what had been going on with you lately, you had become so distant and he was worried that he'd done something to upset you, said something stupid, but he couldn't think of anything. You didn't stay with him anymore, you flinched when he'd touch you and now, you barely even looked at him. Whatever was going on with you, he needed to find out soon, because it was driving him crazy.

"You ok over there, Dingus?" Robin teased, elbow leaning on the back of the drivers seat, catching Steve gazing at you. She was sure that you and Steve belonged together but you refused to let her know the full extent of your feelings because as much as you loved Robin, you didn't trust her not accidentally spill the beans to Steve.

“Uh yeah, m’fine.” He swallowed, relieved you hadn’t caught him staring as you rolled the window up again. He knew he shouldn't have been looking at you like that, you were his best friend for christ sake and he was sort of dating someone now, but he just couldn't help himself, not when it came to you. He never could.

“Eyes on the road, Romeo.” Robin whispered, pinching his cheek as he swotted her hand away, focusing back on the road again.

Thirty minutes later and you had arrived at the motel you’d be spending the night in, climbing in to the backseat, shaking Eddie to wake him from his slumber as Robin and Steve went to check in.

“Wake up sleeping beauty, we’re here.” You announced as he stretched out, yawning loudly.

“Oh man, why’d you wake me up, I was having such a good dream. You and Nance were giving me a—"

“I’m begging you not to finish that sentence, Munson.” You pleaded, placing a hand over his mouth.

“Hey, I’m a guy. I can’t help that I dream about my hot friends.” He defended as you got back out of the car while he followed suit.

“That doesn’t mean you have to tell me about it though.” You shuddered as he let out a laugh. “So, you finally gonna bunk up with Harrington tonight, put the rest of us out of our misery?” He grinned, pulling a little worn box out of his pocket, lighting up a cigarette.

“Nope. I’m sharing with Robin, you’re bunking with Steve.” You replied, rummaging in the trunk for your duffel bag, not really wanting to talk about Steve.

"We could swap if you wa-"

"I’m good with Robin." You interrupted, as he picked up on the irritated tone in your voice. "What's going on with you two lately?" Eddie questioned.

"Nothing." You shrugged, swinging your bag over your shoulder, Eddie looking at you, completely unconvinced by the answer you had given him. "Total bullshit."

"There's nothing going on, Eddie." You repeated.

"Did you guys finally do it or something? Is that why you aren't staying at his house anymore?" He asked as you let out a sarcastic laugh.

"No, we didn't 'do it'..….how did you even know I haven't been staying at Steve's?” You quizzed, Eddie offering you a drag of his cigarette, leaning against the Beamer. “He told me. Asked me if I knew what was going on with you, told him if he didn't know, there was no way I would."

“Rob said he’s been going on a couple of dates recently, I figured me sleeping in the next bedroom might be a bit of a mood killer." You revealed, exhaling the cigarette smoke as Eddie grinned at you. “Ah, so the issue is he's not doing you?" He joked as you rolled your eyes.

"That's not the issue, Eddie, there is no issue!" You lied, handing Eddie back what was left of his cigarette as he chuckled at your frustration.

“If you say so princess."

—

"So are you ever going to tell that girl how you feel or are you happy drooling at her from her a distance for the rest of your life?" Robin questioned Steve at the check in desk while he tried to shush her.

"Jesus Robin, will you stop with that shit? We're just friends, alright?" Steve declared, leaning heavily on the counter.

"No dingus, we're just friends, you don't look at your friends the way you look at her, there's a difference." She stated as Steve looked out the window, back to where you and Eddie were still talking outside in the parking lot. Seeing you two laughing outside stirred up a hint of jealousy in him because it should have been him you were laughing with, not Eddie. Steve was supposed to be your best friend and it was killing him that you were treating him like a total stranger.

"I don't even know why you're dating other chicks, you've got the perfect girl right out there." Robin pointed, as Steve let out a frustrated breath.

"m'not dating ‘other chicks’ Robin, just one ch...girl, Tracy, remember?" He asked as Robin laughed. "Oh I remember, do you? Beause it didn't seem like you did when you were mentally undressing your best friend back in the car."

"I wasn't "mentally undressing" her!"

"You totally were though." She muttered under her breath.

"Robin, I swear to god, just drop it. I'm seeing Tracy now, please, just let it go." He begged as she finally decided to ease up on her friend, seeing the annoyance on his face. "Fine, but she was a real bitch in high school, y'know?"

"You thought everyone was a bitch in high school." Steve replied unamused at her response. "Not everyone." She argued, turning her head to where you were walking in with Eddie.

"Ok, here we go, we have one room reserved under a Miss Buckley and one reserved under a Mr. Munson is that correct?" The receptionist asked.

"Yes, Ma'am." Eddie replied with a cheesy grin, winking at the girl behind the desk.

"Great, your rooms are ready now. Here's your key Mr. Munson you're in room fourteen and Miss Buckley, you're in room sixteen, enjoy your stay." She smiled as you all gathered your things to head to your residence for the night.

"Fuck, there was something really hot about the way she kept calling me Mr. Munson." Eddie smirked as you walked towards the rooms.

"She was just being polite, you pervert." You muttered, shoving your friend playfully.

"Aww don't be jealous sweetheart, you're still my number one girl." He said throwing an arm around you.

"In your dreams, Munson." You fought back.

"You were." He teased, sticking his tongue out playfully. Steve walked ahead, finally finding the room he'd be sharing with Eddie, swiping the room key, pushing the old creaky door in with his shoulder.

"Oh you gotta be fucking kidding me!" Steve cursed, opening the door as you all entered to see what he was referring to.

“What’s the prob….oh.” Eddie sighed, finally noticing the lack of a second double bed.

"Aww, this is so romantic. All you need is some candles and rose petals and you’re all set.” Robin teased, earning a glare from both guys.

"S'not funny Robin, we’re not sharing a bed, go check your room and see what you’ve got.” He requested as Robin wandered off to see if your room had the same issue.

"Shit, I'm sure I asked for two beds dude." Eddie stated rubbing his neck as the other let out an irritated breath. "You had one job Munson..."

"We've got one double bed too." Robin revealed, swinging from the doorframe unbothered. Sharing a bed wasn’t an issue for either of you, you'd done it most weekends at Steve's anyway when Robin was too drunk to go home or when you stayed at hers.

"Alright I'll go back to the front desk and see if that hot little receptionist can help us out." Eddie grinned, heading for the door but you placed a hand on his chest to hold him back.

"Easy there lover boy, the sign said "No Vacancies", it's totally sold out." You explained, hearing Steve curse behind you.

"Looks like you guys are roomies then." Robin laughed as they both shook their heads in defiance.

"No, absolutely not." Steve refused.

"Agreed." The other boy reiterated.

"Are you guys really that immature? It's just one night." You explained, taking a seat on the end of the bed.

"Have you seen the size of Harrington's dick? I don't want that thing poking at me all night!" Eddie shrieked as Steve smirked smugly. Your eyes widened at the mention of your friends package, sending them straight to his dick. Your movement hadn’t gone unnoticed by Steve who was looking at you confidently, almost enjoying the fact he had caught you staring at him.

"So what do you suggest then?" Robin quizzed, getting bored of standing around, wanting to freshen up before the concert.

"Easy, I go with one of you lovely ladies and one of you stays here with ol' big dick." He proposed, nudging his head towards Steve who seemed more than happy with that arrangement.

"No way." You refused knowing you’d end up getting stuck with Steve.

"Why not?" Steve quizzed, folding his strong arms, almost looking insulted by how quick you shot down the suggested arrangement.

Because you're sleeping with someone that's not me...

"Why should Robin and I have to switch because you two aren't man enough to share a bed for a couple of hours?" You spat, directing the question towards your best friend.

"Because we're guys! It's different for girls..." Eddie interrupted before Steve had the chance to speak.

"Afraid you'll like it?" Robin teased.

"If it's that much of a problem, why don't one of you just sleep in the car." You suggest, earning a glare from Steve. "I fucking drove us here, m'not sleepin' in the damn car!" Steve answered back as you noticed him glaring at you, quickly picking up on his pissed off tone.

"Sleep on the floor then." You muttered.

"This is ridiculous, why are we still arguing?” Steve groaned, not understanding why you were so against sharing a bed with him. You had done it before so why was now such a big deal?

“You’re the one being ridiculous! It’s just somewhere to sleep for a few hours.” You replied getting more agitated each time Steve spoke.

“Guys please…” Robin begged, sensing the tension between you both starting to boil over.

“Oh I’m the one being ridiculous? That's rich...” Steve fired back.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean, Harrington?” You questioned, raising a brow at him, completely forgetting that Robin and Eddie were watching this encounter unfold between you.

“You know exactly what it means, sweetheart.” He challenged and suddenly, you knew he wasn't talking about the sleeping arrangements anymore.

"Ok children, let's just cut the shit shall we? Robin, you and I will take the other room and leave these lovebirds alone to fuck out this sexual tension before we all lose the will to live.” Eddie grinned, grabbing his bags, leading Robin out of the room as she whispered a "sorry" to you.

“Shut the fuck up, Munson.” Steve replied, glaring at the other boy as you took a mental note to murder the metal head at a later time.

"Hey, it's not like I'm saying anything you guys don’t already know. Why don’t you just save us all some time and get it over with huh? We'll meet you in the lobby in an hour.” Eddie replied, closing the door behind him, leaving you all alone with your best friend for the first time in a long time.

“Idiot.” Steve muttered, throwing his car keys on the nightstand, throwing himself on to the bed. "This is just fucking great..." You muttered under your breath, the awkward tension between you already suffocating the room along with the smell of stale cigarette smoke that seemed to be attached to all of the soft furnishings. You could feel Steve's eyes on you while you grabbed your bag and headed for the bathroom, knowing you needed to get away from him and give each other some much needed space after the heated exchange.

"Need to use the bathroom before I get ready?" You questioned, a hand resting on your hip as Steve barely acknowledged you, grabbing the remote to turn on the tv.

"Nope."

"Cool." You whispered, closing the door behind you, quickly turning on the shower so you could finally let out the tears you'd been trying desperately to hold back for so long.

You didn't know how to make things right with Steve. You thought you were protecting your friendship with him by keeping him at a distance until your feelings disappeared, but it seemed all you were really doing was making things much worse between you.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #steve harrington imagine #steve the hair harrington #king steve #steve x reader #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfic #steve stranger things #steve harrington stranger things #stranger things 4 #stranger things smut #stranger things

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sapphic-coded · 9 months

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I Swear That I Don't Have A Gun

You grew up in Ohio with your father, brother, and sister. Your family was small and strange. Because of that, you were picked on relentlessly at school. Until another weird kid showed up. Her family moved in across the street from you. It wasn't long until the two of you became friends. Your friendship became the light in your life. Until it ended suddenly. Rumors followed your friend's disappearance. Russian spies. You didn't see her again until you crossed paths at work.

Series Masterlist

Natasha Romanoff x fem Reader

Warnings: Violence. Reader is a messed up assassin and said something stupid to Nat. Childhood trauma. Minors DNI.

Word Count: 5.4k

Author's Note: This chapter was both weird and fun to write. I hope you guys enjoy! As always, thank you for all the love and support. I see all your likes, reblogs, and comments and they make me smile.

Taglist: @natsxwife @iliketozoneout @newawakening9 @natasha-1million @ilovemcuff @taliiiaasteria @alowint @yerisdumbass @natashasilverfox

Chapter Six: He's Killing Me For Mercy

Mount Vernon, Ohio – 1992

“Please don’t stop on my account,” your father’s heavy gaze that pinned you firmly in place turned towards Nat’s father. The white, plastic fork was warm in your tightening grip. “In fact, I apologize for intruding like this. I thought I would be occupied for the rest of the night with my company, but a friend called them away. I suddenly found myself with free time.” He smiled, and you felt yourself begin to tense as he laughed. “Such an elusive thing. So, I figured I would finally meet the only person Y/N talks about.”

His eyes swept past you and landed on Nat. You shifted a bit in your chair. Your father’s smile was natural. His laughter sounded genuine. But you knew it was only a performance. The same one he put on whenever it was necessary. And the times it was necessary were few which meant–

“Would you like something to eat?” Nat’s mother asked.

“That sounds wonderful,” your father looked at Nat's mother. “It smells delicious.”

You watched as your father settled into a chair directly across the table from you. You felt chained to yours. You didn’t know what to do. You felt as if you were watching one of those nature shows on television. You were watching a predator slowly creep up on its prey. And all you wanted to do was act. You felt a buzzing beneath your skin.

“Give him some of the rabbit,” Nat’s father called to her mother.

Your father’s brows rose. “Rabbit? Fascinating choice. Unfortunately, it's not a very common one in this neighborhood.”

The buzzing continued. You wanted to act. You needed to. But you couldn’t figure out what to do. You felt trapped. You could only watch as the predator slowly creeped closer. You felt something warm and soft brush against your hand that gripped your plastic fork. You tore your attention away from your father and looked over at Nat. She was looking at your hand. You followed her gaze.

“That’s something we discovered after moving here,” Nat’s father replied.

You heard both of Nat’s parents chuckle warmly. Nat’s green eyes lifted to meet your stare. Despite the buzzing you felt, slowly your tight grip on your fork loosened.

“But apparently we are in good company,” Nat’s father continued. “Y/N tells us that you like to hunt.”

“Did she?”

You lifted your head and met your father’s stare. You saw a flicker of a twitch in his casual smile. The single crack in the mask he wore. Yet, the stinging coldness of his stare persisted. It was relentless, and you just wanted him to leave. This piece of the world was yours. He could have everything else. He did have everything else. Why couldn’t he just let you have this?

Your fork dropped from your loosened hold as every loud, piercing thought died on the tip of your tongue.

“Well,” your father said as Nat’s mother placed a plate down in front of him. “It is a cherished hobby of mine.” He picked up a plastic knife and fork and looked over to Nat’s dad. “It’s a bit of an old family tradition. My grandfather taught my father, and in turn he taught me.”

You watched as your father stopped to take a bite of the rabbit. You remembered the first time you saw your father throw together a believable tale with just a couple spare tidbits of truths and an imagination that stretched ever onwards. It had amazed you then. It was like a magic trick. Everything about it was fake, yet the audience applauded as if someone really could pull a rabbit from a hat.

And all that amazement and wonder twisted into a simmering anger as he sat there and corrupted this day.

Your father closed his eyes briefly and sat back in his chair. “This is absolutely delicious. You must send me the recipe. I would love to try it at home.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Anyways, I wanted to carry on the family tradition. Not only do I find the sport enthralling, but it instills important values. A well rounded education is what our children deserve.”

“Then let me join you,” Nat’s father said.

Your father’s attention shifted entirely to Nat’s father.

“Please,” Nat’s father insisted. “It’s been too long since I’ve done a bit of hunting.”

You sat back in your chair and looked over to Nat. You already knew what your father’s answer would be. Your father allowed no one but you and your siblings on his hunts. Your interest shifted to crafting your escape plan. You wanted to spend a little bit more time with Nat before your father dragged you back home. Perhaps if you–

“I’d be delighted.”

What?

You looked across the table at your father, but his interest still remained entirely on Nat’s dad. Did your father just…no…no that didn’t make sense. You watched as your father spoke, but you couldn’t hear a single word he said. This didn’t make sense. Your father wouldn’t let someone he just met intrude on a hunt. He…he wouldn’t…he didn’t.

This wasn’t right. That’s not what your father said that day.

REDACTED – 2010

You wake to a slow, steady, clinical beeping sound. Your vision is a blur of varying shades of white. Your entire body is sore, and something is wrapped around your arm. You squeeze your eyes shut and listen to three steady beeps before you open your eyes again. Your vision clears, and you stare up at bland, off white ceiling tiles. Your mind barely has time to form questions before the answers come rushing in.

The job in the middle of nowhere. The weight of your gun in your hand. The warm droplets of your target’s blood hitting your cheeks. The stupid thing you said to Nat.

You close your eyes again. Fuck. She probably doesn’t even want to talk to you now after that. Fuck! You open your eyes as you let out a breath. You lift your head up from the thin pillow you’ve been laying on and see your arm nestled in a blue and white sling. Oh right. The tree. You try to move your arm. The sharp, stinging pain from before has dulled considerably. Someone has taken the time to shove your arm back into your shoulder socket. It would still take awhile for your arm to heal completely, but at least it wasn’t hanging uselessly at your side anymore.

You lay your head back down against the pillow as your attention shifts to your father. He sits in a chair next to your hospital bed. His stare meets yours, and you don’t know what to say. This hasn’t happened before. You have never not completed a job. You also have never seen your father look at you the way he does now. The hard steel of his gray eyes has softened. Something you thought was impossible.

“When my clients ask about you, do you know what I tell them?” he asks.

A couple answers spring to life within your mind, but you stay silent. You lay there and wait. Observe. You can predict so much about your father. But not this. This is new and strange.

He looks down at his hands in his lap. “I tell them that you are the best.”

You want to say something. You want to smile. You want to savor this sweet affection, but you don’t. It’s tantalizing bait. He wants you to follow its scent.

“You are the best, Y/N,” he looks at you. “Your brother never had the stomach for it. Your sister’s quiet hatred kept her from achieving her potential. But you excelled. Your accomplishments eclipsed your siblings in a way I did not think possible.”

You look away from him. You need to change the subject. Better yet, when is he going to yell at you for not finishing the job?

“I am proud of you.”

You roll your head to the side to look over at your father again. He stands and reaches for your hand. You feel his warm calloused hands wrap around yours and your mind goes blank. You don’t like this. What is this?

“I am proud of how far you have come,” your father says and gives your hand an uncomfortable squeeze. “And I cannot wait to see how far you will go when they are done.”

They?

The door to the hospital room opens. You pull your hand from your father’s hold and sit up as a doctor and three nurses enter the room. You see the syringe in the doctor’s hands. The slow, steady beeping from the heart monitor you are attached to picks up rapidly. You look at your father as he steps away.

“No,” your voice is hoarse and you immediately fight against the many hands that reach for you. “Get off! Stop!” You see your father calmly walk towards the open door. More hands shove you back into the bed as something sharp pierces your neck. Your world disappears.

Your House – 1992

The front door shut behind you. The last dwindling rays of the setting, golden sun were cut off as you stood in the familiar muted, stale light of your home. You looked towards the dark gray walls. They were painfully empty. Just a still sea of occasional marks and chipping paint. Your father’s voice carried throughout the house as you followed him into the family room. He pointed to a spot on the brown couch, and you sat down without question.

You flinched when your father’s voice boomed like a deafening crack of thunder. You thought back to Nat’s room. You remember the calm you felt when she slid those headphones over your ears. The whole world had melted away. The memory slipped away from you when you felt a dip in the couch. Your sister sat down next to you while your brother stood next to the couch.

The ringing in your ears muted your father’s words. His mask of pleasantries was abandoned. There were no smiles or laughter. The frown you were accustomed to had returned. The cold stillness of his steel gray eyes had melted into a passionate frenzy. You watched as spittle flew from his thin lips as he yelled. He pointed at you, but he didn’t look at you. His attention shifted between your sister and your brother, but he seemed to favor your brother more.

You saw your brother tense as he stood next to the couch with his arms folded in front of his chest. He was staring at Father and you noticed the slight shake in your brother’s hands. Pieces of your father’s yells were beginning to break through the constant ringing.

“...jeopardize…stupid…weak…”

Your brother’s arms unfolded and he stepped forward. You’ve never seen your brother this angry before. You’ve never seen him yell like this. You watched your brother’s advance as his yells triumphed over your father’s. And just as your brother got close, your father’s fist slammed into your brother’s head. Your brother collapsed, and the yelling stopped.

Far Away – 2010

It all comes rushing to you at once when you wake. The job. The lack of fear in your target’s eyes as they choked on their own blood. The way his body shook when Nat shot him twice. Waking up in some hospital with your father. You try to move your arms, but you can’t. Something keeps them pinned down. You remember the nurses coming into the room. You remember your father’s retreat.

You open your eyes, and you have no idea where you are. You are strapped down to a large, weird looking chair. The light of the single light bulb that hangs directly above you does a poor job of illuminating the room. Darkness swallows up the edges of the room. You can’t tell how big the room is, and you can’t see any doors or windows. But you got in here somehow.

You look down at the thick, brown leather straps that keep you firmly in place. You thought you were well beyond your father’s ridiculous tests. Oh well. You’ll get out of this and finally go home. You pull on the bindings that keep your right arm bound to the arm of the weird chair. The bindings hold. Okay. Fine. It wouldn’t be a test if there wasn’t a challenge involved.

Footsteps steal your attention as a man you have never seen before steps out from the shadows and into your small bubble of pale, white light. The first thing you notice is the white lab coat he wears. You remember a doctor entering your hospital room with the nurses. You remember the syringe they were carrying. You can’t tell if this is the same doctor or not. He stands tall above you with a long, angular face. His thin, dark hair is combed neatly to one side. His brown eyes examine you for a moment before his hands dip into the front pockets of his lab coat.

“I’m certain you have some questions, Y/N,” the doctor says.

You do, but you know voicing them would be a waste of energy. Your father has concealed your escape somewhere. You just need to figure out the puzzle.

“I guess I’ll begin by welcoming you to the team.”

Your brow furrows. The team? You look up at the doctor as he pulls a pair of pale blue latex gloves out of his coat pocket.

“Not everyone makes it this far,” the doctor pulls the latex gloves over his hands. “We’ve seen some real promising candidates, but you blew your competition out of the water. I’ve met so many people who do what you do. People I wouldn’t want to cross because their skills are frighteningly accurate. But you,” he pauses as his eyes examine you again, “you have a talent for killing.”

Whatever this shit is that your father put together, you hate it. You just want to leave.

“You’ll fit in comfortably once we correct one small problem,” the doctor says.

“I’m more of a solo act,” you finally reply as the doctor walks towards the front of your chair and reaches into the thick darkness outside your bubble of light. He pulls a black cart into the light. Sitting on top of the cart was a wide television screen. He takes a moment to position the cart and television exactly how he wants it before moving back towards you.

Despite being unable to move, you lean your head away from the doctor’s outreaching hand. This doesn’t seem to matter to the doctor as his hands grab hold of your head and shift it back to where he wants it. You feel cool leather press into your forehead as the doctor straps your head down against the chair’s headrest.

You pull again against the restraints as you hear more movement happening behind you. You can’t move, and someone turns on the television. Blue light floods the room as the doctor attaches some cold metal contraption to your face. You feel the skin below your eyes pull downwards by tiny metal hands. Identical metal hands pull on your skin above your eyes. When the doctor steps away from you, the only place you can look is at the strange blue images on the television screen.

“We are going to begin in just a few moments,” the doctor says.

You hear more movement behind you, and you try to hold onto your one singular focus: escape. There’s a way out. There’s always a way out in all of your father’s tests. And once you find it, then you can take whatever contraption the doctor put on your face and smash it into his head. Maybe stab out his eyeballs with the tiny metal hands.

“I need you to take a deep breath, Y/N,” the doctor continues. “Calm your mind.”

You’ll cut out the doctor’s tongue too. You hate his voice. You’ll cut it out, stab out his eyeballs, and then shove all three down his throat. That would be funny. Then you would leave wherever the hell you are and find your father. It wouldn’t be too hard to find him. He left you in that hospital room.

He left proud of you. He left when the nurses and doctor came.

He left you to them.

“You know what is best.”

You stare at the blue shapes on the screen. Why did he leave you to them?

“What is best is you comply,” the doctor’s voice drowns out the other footsteps in the room. “Compliance will be rewarded.”

Everything – ????

The rabbit squirms in the trap. The sharp blade of your hunting knife is bigger than your hand. It was made for an adult yet your father shoved it into your small hands the moment you spotted the trapped rabbit. It feels so heavy in your hand as you near the frantic animal. Once you are close, you look over your shoulder. Your father stands behind you flanked by your brother and sister. Mud is caked across the faces of your siblings.

When you look back down at the rabbit, you find a terrified man huddled at your feet. He looks up at you, shaking, and suddenly the hunting knife fits comfortably in your hand. The man’s face changes with every blink. First he’s barely older than your brother. Then he wears the deep wrinkles of a man far older than your father. Then his wrinkles smooth out into a rounder, heavier face.

Then you recognize the face of one of your classmates. One of the many who stare and laugh when you aren’t looking. You see them about to break out into a giggle when your small hand reaches out and grabs a fistful of their hair. The strands of hair wrapped around your fingers are so soft. You hear their plea. You see their big black eyes begging you not to do it. But it’s all trapped inside your small body, and you need to do something. You need to let it out.

You bring the heavy knife down and plunge it deep into their chest. The warm rush of blood wets your hands as you jerk the knife free. When you bring it down again, the young man trapped in your grip cries out. You breathe deep as the body goes limp beneath you. You kneel over them and pull the knife out. The bright red blood on the blade drips onto the fallen leaves that cover the hard ground. You bring the knife down again, but this time your target doesn’t make a sound. You only hear the sounds of your heavy breaths and the ripping of skin as your knife plunges into their chest again and again and–

The television screen goes dark. You are back in the strange dark room. The light bulb hanging above you continues its dull, endless whine. You can’t move. You can’t look anywhere except at the screen. Your clothes feel different. They don’t feel like your clothes. You stare at the blank television screen and the stranger standing next to it at the very edge of your light bubble.

He wears all black. A black t-shirt hugs his brawny chest, and black cargo pants covers his legs and disappears into his black combat boots. His dark hair is pushed up and back away from his face. A dark stubble coats his chin as his brown eyes meet your forced stare. He turns and reaches into the darkness for something. He drags a plastic folding chair into the light and sits down next to you. He positions himself in a way that you don’t have to turn your head to look at him because you can’t.

He slouches forward a bit and rests his arms against his thighs. “Did you really drown the mayor of Charleston in a toilet bowl of his own piss?”

The memory comes back clear as day. The weight of your toolbelt hanging around your waist. The sound of the mayor following you down the hallway of his impressive house. The nonsense you made up as you led him into the foul smelling bathroom. The mayor didn’t seem to catch on that you weren’t really a plumber until you shoved his face into the toilet.

The barest hint of a smile curls your lips and it is all the man needs to see before he smiles and shakes his head. He sits back in his chair.

“Welcome to the team,” the man says. “You will call me Rumlow. I’ll be your handler.”

You don’t need or want a handler. You don’t even care about this team they keep mentioning. But you don’t get any time to voice your opinions as the doctor steps into the light and switches the television back on. You see the doctor hand Rumlow a black journal before your attention shifts to the strange blue shapes.

Rumlow speaks, but you can’t hear him. All you hear is the sound of muscles tearing as you yank your knife free from the rabbit. Crimson red blood stains the creature’s soft white fur. Slowly, your small fingers uncurl from its fur. Its blood is dark and warm and the sight of the dead animal eases the tension that had pounded against your chest.

You look over at your father, and he stands alone. Dry, dead leaves crunch beneath his boots as he starts towards you. You start to stand, but the ground beneath your feet shifts. The knife in your small hands disappears as the whole world rearranges itself. You are suddenly on your back rolling down a hill. The taste of dirt fills your mouth as you roll downwards. When you finally come to a stop on your back, you spit out the stray bits of grass and dirt that made it into your mouth.

A weight settles on top of you. You feel warmth begin to seep into your cold, numb skin as you look up at Nat. The ends of her red hair tickle your cheek. You smile as you feel your body relaxing beneath her. Your hands are still wet with the rabbit’s blood when you hear someone approach.

You’re standing in the basement of your house. A hooded man is tied to a chair. He is sobbing. Begging. You had just walked out of your high school for the last time. You had come home hoping to sink into the blessed relief that all the pretending was over. You could finally escape. You could finally stop staring at the empty house across the street. Instead, your father hands you your first gun. Not one to borrow while on hunting trips or during training. This Beretta was yours. As long as you killed the sobbing man in your basement.

You’re back with Nat on top of you when you feel the familiar weight settle into the palm of your hand. You don’t do anything. You just lay there looking up at your friend. Another pair of hands forcefully curl your fingers around the grip of your gun. They lift your hand up the same time you take aim at the sobbing man in your basement. You try to rip your hand free, but you can’t. All you can do is watch as the hands aim your gun towards Nat. You feel the hands press your finger down onto the trigger.

You sit up screaming and find yourself back in the strange room. Strapped down to the same chair. Different scratchy clothes. The television is still on, but the blue screen is gone. Instead, news footage plays. Sitting next to you with a remote in his hand, is Rumlow. He seems completely enraptured by the footage, so you watch it. You read the headline running along the bottom of the screen. Aliens Invade New York City.

What?

You watch bizarre footage of aliens pouring forth from giant holes in the sky. People screaming and running. Large alien ships, at least that’s what you think you see, crashing into buildings. Your attention drifts to the timestamp on the bottom corner of the screen. You feel your stomach twist. You’ve been trapped here for that long?

The footage cuts to a street cluttered with smashed cars and fallen debris. You spot her immediately. Her hair is shorter. You like it. She fights off advancing aliens, and you wonder if you’re dreaming. But you can feel the tiny metal hands forcing your eyes open. You are awake.

“This is a recording of what happened last week,” Rumlow says. “It didn’t feel right to keep you in the dark since you were down here while everything happened.” He presses a button on the remote he holds and the footage freezes on a shot of her fighting off an alien. Rumlow stands up. “She’s an Avenger now, Y/N. She’s onto bigger and better things. You should do the same.”

As Rumlow leaves, you memorize every inch of her image on the screen. You ignore the date. You fight back the burning behind your eyes. You focus only on her, and you imagine what it would have been like to run into her again. Would she have ever found you, or would she have stumbled into your path again? You wish for the former. You smile when the screen changes back to the same blue shapes.

Her touch is soft when she takes your chin in her hand and gently turns your head so she can see the cut better. It’s just over an inch long going across your cheek. You struggle to meet her gaze so you stare at her blue hair instead. You feel her run her finger across your cheek right underneath the cut.

“He did this?” she asks.

Your silence stretches until you’re back in the strange room again. Two nurses are pushing the cart with the television on it away. You watch it get consumed by the thick shadows as the tiny metal hands are removed from your face.

Rumlow comes to stand in front of you. “You have your first mission.”

Triskelion, Washington D.C. – 2012

You are sweating beneath the multiple layers of clothes that hug your body. You hate the rough, navy blue fabric of the SHIELD uniform. It itches you, and you just want to peel the clothes off and wear your own. The black, tactical bulletproof vest that wraps around your chest over your uniform is heavy. It’s the first thing you plan to ditch the moment you leave for extraction. You’ll move faster without it.

The black face mask feels suffocating, and you know your hair is slick with sweat underneath your black helmet. You stare down at the assault rifle you hold in your gloved hands through your black goggles. You listen to the idling engine of the SHIELD transport van. You are sitting in the back of the van with one other SHIELD agent who isn’t fond of talking. The back doors of the van are hanging wide open. Beyond the idling van is a large parking garage. You shift in your seat. It’s hot. You didn’t realize it was the middle of summer. Then again, you hadn’t chosen this costume to wear. Rumlow had tossed the uniform at you and waited for you to change before going over your first mission.

You didn’t like that word. It didn’t fit you.

The sound of approaching footsteps draws your attention to the back of the van. A minute later, two SHIELD agents appear with their prisoner in tow. The prisoner’s ugly orange uniform looks far less comfortable than yours. It doesn’t make you sweat any less, but it makes you feel a tiny bit better. When the prisoner lifts his head up to look into the transport van, you fight to remain calm. Erik Braun. He looks the same as the last time you saw him. Except for the shackles and horrible clothes.

The SHIELD agent accompanying you in the van gets up and helps Erik into the van. The chains that link the cuffs around his feet clatter against the van’s floor. As the SHIELD agent gets Erik settled into one of the van’s seats, you see the two SHIELD agents outside the van turn their attention to something else. You feel your muscles tense as your grip tightens on your gun.

“Are you kidding?”

Your tightening grip on your borrowed assault rifle relaxes at the familiar voice. You ignore Erik completely and stare out into the parking garage. You hear approaching footsteps. You’re tempted to get up and run out of the van so you don’t have to wait any longer. It’s been…actually time is hard for you right now. It both feels like it’s been so long since you’ve seen her and barely any time at all. You stay in your seat and you wait.

She steps into view, and you feel your teeth bite into your bottom lip. Something begins to simmer to life deep in your gut. You decide that you really like her short hair. It reminds you of her blue hair back in Ohio. She’s wearing the same jacket she wore during your London job. The black shirt she wears underneath looks far more comfortable than the heavy uniform you are trapped in. The black jeans that cover her legs reminds you of when she straddled you during the Amsterdam job.

“I’m not done with him,” she says before looking into the van. She looks first at Erik, then at the other SHIELD agent in the van, and then at you. You stay completely still as you hold her stare. Not that she could tell with the black goggles covering your eyes. You are covered head to foot in your disguise. It shouldn’t be possible for anyone to recognize you. But you wonder if she can. You get your answer when she looks away and doesn’t make a move towards you. The bitter taste of disappointment starts to creep in.

“We have our orders,” one of the SHIELD agents outside the van says.

The agents and her go back and forth mentioning names you don’t recognize. You hear the growing frustration in her voice. She’s ignoring you completely, and you’re tempted to bury a round or two into the heads of the arguing agents to get her attention. From where you are seated, it wouldn’t be hard at all. A target standing mostly still? Easy. Then maybe you could toss the heavy helmet, peel off the suffocating face mask, and continue where you two left off. Minus the annoying smoke.

When the arguing eventually stops, you stand. Your heavy footfalls are loud against the van’s floor. She looks at you again when you reach out for the hanging doors. You stop. You wait. You’re dying for her to somehow see you. She folds her arms in front of her chest and turns away. You want to jump out of the van. You want to call out to her. You want to see her reaction.

You pull the van doors shut. The van starts moving once you sit back down in your seat. You lean your head against the cool wall of the van. You already regret following your orders. You don’t know when you’ll see her again. If you will. You are no longer a freelancer. You are part of a team now. The scope of your freedom has shrunk. You need to see her again. You can’t leave things like that. Not after the stupid thing you said to her.

You look over at Erik. He still looks a lot like the picture your father gave you. He doesn’t make eye contact with you until the driver up front bangs against the wall dividing the front of the van from the back. Erik watches as you casually lift your gun and aim it at his bald head. The other SHIELD agent merely looks away. Your finger rests over the trigger, and you watch as Erik opens his mouth to say something.

A single gunshot snaps him back against the wall of the van. His eyes roll up into the back of head as a stream of thick blood runs down the length of his nose. His mouth hangs open. The new hole in Erik’s forehead is a satisfying dark red circle. You lower your gun as the van continues to drive on as if nothing has happened. You uncurl your fingers from around the gun’s grip.

Second target down.

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