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belokhvostikova · 10 months

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤: 𝐂𝐥𝐮𝐛 𝐏𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 | Tuesday was the development between you and Eddie Munson. Wednesday, peace finally seems plausible for the two hurt kids, and understanding becomes a valued aspect.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Swearing, yelling, crying, implications to verbal abuse, self deprecating thought, mentions of anxiety, bulling, parent abandonment, domestic abuse, and childhood abuse and neglect.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | I've gone back to all my posts and tagged everyone for the tag list. Literally. If you commented, I tagged you. If you reblogged and remotely mentioned you wanted more, I tagged you. If you were not looking to be tagged, please let me know so I can remove you. Also, I sincerely apologize to anyone who I've accidently been excluding from the tag list, that was my mistake.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 | One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐕. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐲

There was no investment in moral quandary for him. Logicality. Everything had to be logical under the guise that all faults of the world had been facilitated by the emission of emotions that tainted the globe.

Feelings were wrong. Sentiment was wrong. Empathy was wrong.

He believed it was such vulnerability that led to the downfall of his life- not that he’d ever verbally admit his life had crumbled right in front of him, but a pit within the deepest tunnel of his consciousness recognized it. Drilled it. Cemented it. He had chosen to blame the emotions of amenability for the reason why his wife came home at four in the morning with the familiar scent of the neighbor’s cologne. From there, he knew to get rid of it. Emotions. So when you sobbed, asking why mommy hadn’t been home for a couple of days, he said it was not worth crying over. When you had to stand in court upon a scary looking man in a robe and hear mommy agree to only seeing you every other weekend, he said to not worry and suck it up. And when mommy stopped picking up calls and seemingly “forgot” it was her day to see you, he said to get over it. But maybe it wasn’t too bad, right? He always said to be grateful that, at least, he stuck around. At the minimum, he always provided good take-out often, though you were quick to realize it was because he had no desire to cook for you. But, hey, he had always let you watch TV during dinner. Granted, it was because he never sat with you, and chose the comfort of the living room couch, where you could always see the history channel playing from the archway of the dining room where you sat lonely. It was then, you got a deep understanding of the Civil War. And at least his stoicism permitted a great hatred for the presuppositionalism that had infiltrated Hawkins, Indiana. That was good, right? Though, you were never one to define metaethics through divine revelation, so it kinda didn’t matter. But it could be worse. He always said he could be worse. That his choice to deprive you from any physical harm was somehow enough to garner him some merit as a parent.

And maybe that was one of the underlying reasons as to why Eddie Munson scared you so much. He was like your father. And your father scared you.

Mid week. The morning of spring Wednesday had been a groggily dawn of humidity and fog. Though no weather circumstance could derail the perfected routine of your father’s morning. Wake up, shower, brush teeth, make coffee. Black, no sugar. The bitterer, the better. Because that was by true definition strong.

It was like clockwork. Every morning. Because routine leads to success, he's ingrained. It was the only reason why every summer break since you were a child he had you waking up before sunrise with intentions of appearing downstairs for two hours of study time with a tutor he spent hours meticulously searching for that fit his standards. One with saggy cheeks, thin eyebrows, a thick accent, and a bad habit of reprimanding you with a smack of a ruler whenever you humanly made a mistake. The worst thing that could happen in his eyes was watching his daughter slack because of relaxation over summer. Especially after he programmed you into perfection.

But the unthinkable had occurred, and his routine was interrupted.

Between 6:30 a.m and 6:45 a.m, your father was set—like everyday—to retrieve the morning paper, sit down, set the timer, and complete the crossword puzzle. Ten minutes. Nothing more.

But by 6:33 a.m, Eddie Munson was nearly murdered by your father.

Oh, his girl. Of course, there was his sweetheart, Eddie was damn near devoted to that warlock, but then there was his girl. Definitely not the everloving relationship he had with his sweetheart, I mean, he touched her, and the harmonious sounds from her strings could elevate the pain of his mind, but there was still no doubt that a sentimental part of his heart was dedicated to his girl. Rusted and cranking, the old van had been gifted to the young man after countless hours committed to Harry’s Auto Shop over the summer. And though her imperfections nearly had him pulling the roots of his hair out of his head weekly, she still managed to get him from point A to point B—not to mention, she looked totally sick and provided the best comfort place to spark up a joint or spend time with a pretty boy or girl whenever the opportunity came (it never did).

But besides that, the moral of the story is his van, his girl, was deeply cared for.

Except for the occasions of last night.

Because right now, your father was wrinkling the informative pages of the daily news with a tight grip of pure seethe, because some dirty, gross van had parked over the curb of his property and ruined the pristine, clean-cut, green lawn with muddy tire tracks.

You had heard it all.

The blaring alarm at 5:45 a.m, the running shower from your father’s bathroom, and the heavy steps of his feet descend into the kitchen.

Exhaustion couldn’t fathom the ache of your body, as the fluffy duvet beneath you held no substance to the stiffening floor underneath. Not to mention, the heavy sorrow of the events that had only occurred a couple hours prior were relying heavy in your mind, prompting the loss of true sleep, made only worse when Eddie’s drunken snores were echoing as a constant reminder that he was right there.

Eddie Munson was in your bed- Eddie Munson was in your bed!

The ever so slight glimmer of the awakening sun was bleeding upon his sleeping figure, almost dead with no movement. He hadn’t shifted an arm or a leg, mouth still agape from his roaring slumber with a puddle of drool staining your satin pillow. You’d timidly approached the edge of your bed, knees scraping along the rough floor to reach his peaceful face. The disheveled bangs of his forehead had crumpled against themselves, shielding him from the oozing light through your window.

This was the calmest Eddie Munson had been in weeks.

No lumps in the mattress, an actual comforter, the pungent stank of his cigarettes now replaced with the captivating vanilla scent of your perfume, which eased him into a comfortable sleep and an all too real dream where you were in his arms. It felt scaringly natural.

There was a part of you that didn’t want to wake him. Whether it was because you could take an hour studying his pretty face, which led you to wondering how anyone could even fathom being so nasty to something so beautiful, or whether it was because that childhood anger and nestling vexation against a world that hated him was still deeply residing within Eddie, and you could easily fall victim to such hatred. It happened before, it could happen again.

You rested your head against your bed, a slight alleviation to the malaise of the floor, and let his warm breathing fan across your face. The tips of your fingers benevolently stroked the unruly strands of his bangs away, to reveal the fluttering eyes of his face. You wondered what he could be dreaming of.

You.

You were all he could think of. Awake and asleep.

“Eddie.” You softly whispered. In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the best choice given his hangover coma, but Eddie needed gentleness. “Hey, wake up.” You shook his shoulder. A pained groan prolonged far longer than you expected, as his face scrunched in a wince of a pounding headache. “Are you okay?”

That was too real for any dream. Eddie’s dry eyes snapped at the sound of your saccharine voice, suddenly realizing the devastating events that occurred last night. “Sh-shit!” He attempted to sit up, but your hand held his arm back.

“Shh, it’s okay.” You cooed, as he peered around frantically confused. He cracked his neck with a sharp turn, and his big eyes landed on you; once again, comforting him, as though he hadn’t put you through hell in the mere days he’s communicated with you.

His head fervently began shaking, as if to reject all that he’d done, as if everything he ever did you to was just a nightmare of his own fears, that he didn’t do what he did. But he did. And his eyes started welling up. “I-I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” He choked. “For everything, I didn’t- I’m so fucking sorry-”

“Shh, Eddie-”

“I don’t want to scare you, and I’m s-sorry for doing it in the first place, I’m so so fucking so-”

“Eddie, just lay down, it’s okay.” You attempted to ease into him, as you lowered him down, his begrudgement leaving him hesitating until his back was flat against your bed.

Once relaxed, it seemed his body and mind gave up on the restraints of his emotions, and his stream of tears came pouring with all dejection and regret of how everything had played out between you two. Eddie Munson hated himself. Hated who he was. Someone set up for the failures of life, he rejected anything that could steer him from a path of love and acceptance. And he hated that. He hated the life he had. At any given opportunity to go back in time, he would scream at his father, hit his father, just get him and his mother away from his father so that he could just grow up to be a normal person. A normal person, who could process their emotions and not deduce themselves into a nihilistic asshole. A normal person, who wouldn’t degrade the only person who’s held him without hurting him. A normal person, who would love you and cherish you as you deserved. Yet Eddie Munson hated his life and hated any momentous occasion that could possibly diminish the pain of life… like you. Because good things don’t happen to Eddie Munson, and you held so much power to hurt him.

Seeing his palms stab into his eyes, you gently held his trembling wrist to relieve him from the pain he believed he deserved. “Come on, Eddie, please stop.” You softly spoke trying to ease his hands away from his face. “Everything is okay, I promise.”

“N-no, it’s not!”

“Shh!” You rushed out. “My dad’s awake downstairs.” You whispered.

“S-sorry.” He spoke so meekly, as his hands cleaned the staggering wetness of his eyes and cheeks.

The atmosphere between you both fell stagnantly silent, as he tried to control his breathing through the tiny sniffles of his nose. He felt you staring, eyes boring into the side of his head, as he peered up at the dark ceiling. He couldn’t stand to look at you right now. He had just drunkenly sobbed and was now blubbering like a child, because of all the bullshit he just put you through. He was a-fucking-shamed. Ashamed of all he’s done. Ashamed of who he was. And you were seeing the worst of it.

“Eddie.” He closed his eyes and shook his head no. “Please.”

He slowly turned his head and met your tired yet so fucking beautiful face. God, he could stare at you forever. How could he do this to you? Put you through off of that, just because he was scared. He fucking hated himself, and you could so clearly see the despise against himself in his saddened eyes. I’m sorry I am the way that I am, I’m sorry you have to put up with me, I’m sorry I’m here ruining your life. He didn’t have to say it, it was engraved on his face.

His heart almost lunged out of his chest when you crept closer, noses nearly touching, as your eyes engulfed him with a meaningful stare. “I’m really glad you came.”

“What?” You truly couldn’t have been, but your head nodded with the soothing confirmation he needed.

“Yeah, I am.” You whispered.

“You shouldn’t be.” He whispered. “What I did was awful.”

“I know.” You sighed. “I know, and please don’t ever do that again. But I’m still glad you came. Glad that we talked. Glad that I got to understand.”

“I wish I told you sooner… and better.” He pinched his eyes closed at the haunting memory. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to scare you, I’m so fucking sorry I did.”

“I know you are.” There was no “it’s fine” or forgiveness to offer, because he truly did cross a line that terrified you. But you could accept his understanding of the wrongdoing he did. Because acknowledgement was a valuable step in moving forward.

“I just- Y/N, I just really want to be with you.” There it was. He was putting himself out there once and for all, risking it, because you deserved to know. The torment of his emotional unavailability was ending, because he was ready to face the adversity of his trauma to make you happy. But that was exactly the issue. You could see he was ready to do it for you. Not himself. And whatever was brewing between you and Eddie Munson would not magically dissolve the underlying issue within both of you under the guise that you both got together and skipped away into the sunset happily ever after. Reality was a harsh slap in the face, and you knew he’d hate it, but it was what was needed.

“I just want you to be okay, Eddie.” You confided with a heavy bite of your lip. “I… want to be okay, Eddie.”

His eyes were glossing with threatening tears again. He knew what was coming. “You don’t wanna be with me.” He murmured. It was no question, but a simple truth he had to face.

“No.” You spoke with deep conviction. “I don’t want to be with the person you are right now. I can’t be. Not now. It wouldn’t be right, and I just want us to be okay.” You brushed his bangs away. His lips began trembling, but he accepted your boundaries with a vehement nod to his head to let you know he understood. “Eddie,” you punctuated so it became cemented, “I don’t want you to do this again-”

“I won’t, I swear, I won’t drink-”

“No, Eddie… I don’t want you coming here. To my house. To see me.” You sighed, as his eyes desperately scanned your face for the off chance you’d say you were kidding and you wanted him over all the time. But your words continued.

“I’m really fucking sorr-”

“I know you are, Eddie. I know.” A heavy breath from your chest escaped. “But I need time, and it may not seem like it now, but you need time, too. So I don’t want you calling. I don’t want you asking anyone where I am or how to talk to me. Not Chrissy, not anyone. Promise me.”

He agreed.

But Eddie Munson would break this promise. Not for some drunken, overbearing, emotional reason, though. But for good reason. All because your bedroom door slammed open.

Synchronized through driven fear, yours and Eddie’s head snapped at the sudden bust of your bedroom door, where your father stood effervesce with indignation of pure enragement at the sight of Eddie in your bed.

“Get out of my house!”

“Dad, wait!”

Your words were not of care to your dad, as he shoved you onto the ground with a shriek of horror escaping your lungs, as he charged himself onto your bed. The shot of adrenaline had coursed out any inebriations from the night before, as Eddie went against the swelling pounding of his head to jump from the comfort of your sheets and tumble onto the floor.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you!” Imprinted with the mud of his shoes, the pool of his drool, and now crumbled under the heavy weight of your father’s fall, the sanctity of your bed—the only thing that had caressed you through the hardships of your life, where you found solace in the safety of its soft cotton and silk, where your mother once cuddled you to sleep as she spoke of the future, I’m gonna lay your pretty prom dress right on the bed and watch you become so beautiful for your special night, where you cried yourself to sleep for countless night because she left you and she didn’t actually want to see you become so beautiful for your special night—had demised under the ruins of men who made you bawl your eyes out and made you feel so little about yourself. And maybe your bed being derelict was a cursory occasion to cry over, maybe it wasn’t; nonetheless, your eyes began to brim with the flooding tears of the overstimulated stress of an exhausted mind, dry eyes, and a splitting heart.

“Please stop.” Too quiet and airy for any big, angry, men to hear.

Because big, angry, men don’t care for the aching pain of the people they hurt.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit…” Eddie stumbled onto wobbly feet, planting the palms of his hands to stand himself away from your reaching father. “M’so fuckin’ sorry!” At that point, the directions of his words were either targeted to you or your father, you couldn’t decipher, and truthfully, you didn’t care to decipher.

Your father managed to unravel himself from the hold of your blankets, stepping off with heavy stomps to follow Eddie around your room. “You better get out of my fucking house, I’m fucking calling the cops! How dare you fucking touch my daughter?!”

“Dad, please.” Weak, broken, unheard.

“I fuckin’ didn’t!” Eddie was fortunate enough to spot his beloved jacket, snatching it from the confines of your desk chair, where he was able to roll it out as an obstruction to your father’s determined path of strangling Eddie Munson.

Because in the mind of a relentless resolute driven by all the wrong ideas because of the pain he so adamantly refused the face, Eddie Munson was the cause of your ultimate failure. Eddie Munson manipulated his daughter. Eddie Munson got his daughter suspended. Eddie Munson would be the reason your failure tainted the family name.

Eddie pummeled through your door, coming face-to-face with the extravagant expanse of your home. Cold. Everything was freezing cold, from the temperature to the decoration. Deprived from any signs of life. As if it was a museum. His bulging eyes found the large staircase, and it truly amazed him how his feet found every step without thought, simply autopilot. There was a yanking urge that was demanding him to go back. Go back for you. Make sure you were okay. Make sure to clean your tears up. Once again, he was making you cry. Maybe not entirely his fault, but his being was partaking in your agony and he fucking hated himself for it. But the weighing steps of her father marching right on his ass prompted him to move forward. Your front door was swung carelessly, welcoming the hot air of the burning morning, where once again, the clean cut grass of the manicured lawn was falling victim to Eddie’s destruction of mucky shoes. Maybe drinking hadn’t been too bad of an idea—it absolutely was—as Eddie’s drunken state, at nine at night, had left his keys impaled into the ignition ready to go.

The haggard van erupted to life, Eddie had never been so grateful to hear the god awful clunk that definitely needed to be checked out. Peer out once more, your wrathful father ran with a tirade of curses that condemned Eddie Munson back to hell, but the screech of his reversing tires interrupted his polemic. “Don’t you ever come back! You’ll be dead before your kind can even step foot into my fucking neighborhood!”

Eddie Munson would return back in eighteen hours.

“There’s an old man sitting next to me…” Wayne softly chuckled, as the lyrics had been repeating out of his mouth for the entirety of his shift, after Rodney Nickelvich decided to play the voice of Billy Joel during break.

It’d been a particularly difficult shift. His back wasn’t getting any younger, and the evident ache that decided to settle in the lower region was making it known. But the stiffness of his folding bed would alleviate enough, at least until his next shift. But that never came for Wayne Munson. Because the second—the literal second—his head managed to even briefly skim his flat pillow, the presence of his caterwauling nephew combusted through their front door with no regards for the tired old man in the living room. Eddie hadn’t even looked his way. A straight B-line to the phone.

“And where the hell have you been?” Wayne groaned with prostration. “Comin’ in here like you own the place, have you lost your mind, boy?”

But there was no answer.

Where Eddie would have normally spoken back with a clear answer of respect, there was nothing. No acknowledgement.

“Ed.”

Already engraved into his mind like the chords to his guitar, Eddie punched the buttons to your number on the yellow phone. But then he stopped. “I need the time… I don’t want you calling.” But this was bigger than that, right? He needed to know you were okay. “Please don’t hate me.” He scrunched his brows in the burning pain of betraying your boundaries. Once again. His finger dialed the rest of the numbers.

But it was dead. Not a ring. Not a buzz. Not a single indication that your phone was even ringing. Just a deadline. And Eddie’s heart sank to the deepest pit in his stomach. “Fuck!”

“Eddie.” Wayne’s face etched with concern. “What the hell is goin’ on?”

Eddie’s chest began hyperventilating with worry for you. “I-I… shit, I-uh… I really gotta get to school.”

Wayne sat up, now. Never in the decade he’s been in the care of Eddie Munson had that boy ever rushed out to get to school. Something was deeply wrong. But he couldn’t even hurtle a question of scrutiny, as Eddie had already slammed the door shut with his being gone, so deeply perturbed.

Eddie was truly pissed off at this point.

The entire proposition of arriving early to school was to find Chrissy Cunningham, but just as it occurred yesterday afternoon, the cheerleader was nowhere to be seen in the breadth of Hawkins High. He knew he was going against your wishes, quite specifically, but his heart and mind couldn’t fathom the possible danger you could be subjected to. He had too. Right? Would you just hate him more for interfering? God, he was shooting himself over the complication he construed the entire situation to become. Asking his friends had quickly been classified as the most imbecilic measure he’d ever succumb to, as those guys had never found the courage to conjure up an idea to jump start an actual conversation with an actual girl. Knowing where the head cheerleader was was beyond their source of knowledge. Yesterday’s clothes, dry mouth, red eyes, the residing ache of his hangover still tormenting his sore limbs, and now having no comprehension of whether or not you were safe at the aggressive hands of your father, Eddie was about to traject the heaviest waterfall of beer and bile onto the grimy floors of Mr. Hall’s carpentry class. But the shrieking bell unexpectedly pacified the turbulence brewing in his belly, and he was shoving passed visibly annoyed bodies to reach the cafeteria. His only chance.

His overloaded mind didn’t even process the trouble he was walking into, but unwavering was Eddie Munson as he marched into the bustling cafeteria of crackling students and cardboard food, legs pushing him to the table. “Chrissy!” Heads snapped like automated robots. Yeah, he probably should have thought this out. Glares couldn’t even amount to the looks he was receiving from the highest of Hawkins High. This was no laughing matter, but the urge to not laugh at Jason Carver’s battered face left all self control out of Eddie, as the perfect comb-over paired with the purple swollen skin personified the magnificence of juxtapositions.

“You want something, freak?” Jason stood with a puffed chest.

“Look a little different, Carver, that new?” Eddie gestured to the contuse skin, smirking oleaginously. As if it was previously discussed, Andy McAvoy and Chance Williams stood to defend the precious honor of their friend. In Eddie’s mind, it pleased him to know a conversation of protection was ordered by Jason to his goons to preserve any remaining prettiness of his face. Prom was coming up. “Relax, I didn’t say your names, did I?”

Eddie and Jason’s gaze looked down upon Chrissy, who’s brows were cinched with confusion and worry as to what was going to occur. Jason could only snicker incredulously. “She’s not speaking to you! You really think I’m gonna leave her with some devil worshiper like you? Why don’t you do this whole town a favor and fuck off with the circus, fucking basketcase.”

But Eddie was indefatigable to the insults of the perfectly pristine. They’d been propelled since childhood, the last thing to strike his ego would be the dense words of Jason fucking Carver. Eddie had bigger issues at hand.

“That’s really cute, Carver, but she can make her own decisions, and right now,” Eddie locked eyes with a frantic Chrissy Cunningham, “we have something important to talk about.” It was imperative for Chrissy to understand, and the moment her eyes softened, a breath of relief escaped Eddie at her understanding. Your name was oozing importance.

“Are you that fucking insane-”

“Jason,” Chrissy held his hand, “h-he’s right.”

“What?!”

A disgustingly pompous smile eased onto Eddie’s face.

“It’s, uh, it’s for, um, Mrs. Durberry.” Chrissy nodded. “I-I have to, uh, tutor Eddie. We, um, we discussed it yesterday during, uh, lunch. Yeah, during lunch!”

“During lunch.” Eddie smirked with a condescending nod.

Jason huffed through flared nostrils, bending down to look Chrissy right in the eye. Though whispered in secrecy, Eddie rolled his eyes with agitation. “Are you sure about this? Is he just making you do this?”

“No, I promise.” Chrissy assured. “You know I aced chemistry, Mrs. Durberry is just trying to give me an opportunity to get community service hours, and tutoring was the perfect chance. You know it’ll look good for college applications.”

The lie was good enough to believe- not good enough to like, but good enough to believe, and that’s all Eddie Munson and Chrissy Cunningham needed. Jason sat down in defeat, the other players following in unison, as Chrissy gathered her items. “You try anything, Munson, and you're dead.” Jason pointed with a stern finger.

Chrissy had quickly walked by, hoping Eddie would just follow, but of course, he couldn’t leave without the last word. “Right, right,” he slyly smiled, “might wanna put some ice on that, s’looking a little nasty. Who did that to you again?”

“Eddie.” Chrissy chastised.

Now, it was most abundantly clear that Chrissy Cunningham was not an indictment of the American education system, her grades almost as perfect as yours—though no one could come close to your precociousness—yet Eddie had to reevaluate his beliefs when Chrissy was marching vastly farther than anticipated.

“Jesus Christ, Chris, y’know we don’t actually have to intrude Durberry’s class? She fucking hates me.” Eddie giggled. “‘Specially after I used the bunsen burner to light a joint. Kept asking “what’s that smell” for a week.”

Chrissy finally came to a halt after turning into another empty hall. “Sorry.” She sighed. “Just can’t have Jason following us.”

“Y’know, you could probably do better than some control freak who follows you around.” Eddie shrugged.

Chrissy blinked at her shoes in contemplation. Eddie hadn’t expected the words to hit so deeply, a mere critique to the numerous problems he found in Jason Carver, but nonetheless, the cheerleader got extremely quiet, before shaking her head to get back to the point.

“A-anyways, um, what is it that you, uh, wanted?” She rushed out.

“Oh! Right, um, I need you to go to Y/N’s house.” His eyes widened, as his lips tightened between his mouth. He knew it was outrageous to ask.

“W-what?”

“Look, I know that’s a big ask-”

“I already gave you her number and address, why don’t you g-”

“I did!” He heaved. “I fucking did, and I messed up!”

Chrissy slumped,“Again?!”

Eddie winced. Again, again, again, again, again.

“Look, I “made” it to her house, and we got to talk. But her fucking dad caught me in her room, and just went haywire on me. Practically chased me out.” Eddie stressed. “And I-I tried to call her to make sure she was okay, I mean, it’d been a long night and she was crying when I left, and, fuck, Chris, I don’t know what her dad is capable of.” Is he like my dad? “Her line was dead when I tried, like off the hook, and I can’t go over to make sure she’s safe, Chrissy. I have to make sure she’s okay. Can you please just, I don’t know, do this for me, I’m fucking helpless here, I’m…” Helpless to my mother.

Chrissy was taken aback by the pure fear in his eyes as he rambled into oblivion. She knew you. She knew your father. She could only imagine how ballistic he’s gone in the past couple of days knowing what’s happened. “Okay, okay, okay, yeah, um, yeah,” Chrissy took a deep breath with a soft nod to her head, “Yeah, I’ll try to come over- but her dad’s really strict, Eddie. Like extremely, he’s the only reason why she’s so, you know, hard about her grades and stuff, I don’t know if he’d actually let me see her-”

“Please, please, just try.” Chrissy took notice of just how tightly his hands were balling into themselves, knuckles turning a blistering white from the lack of ease he was inflicting upon himself. “She’s your friend, and she doesn’t want to see me, so please, I’m begging you, Chris-”

“I will, Eddie, I will.” She reassured, as she adjusted her knit sweater that suddenly became itchy on her sensitive skin. “I just, um, I’ll probably have to come up with an excuse, a-and skip practice.”

“Look, m’sorry I’m dragging you into this, but I just need to make sure she’s okay, and maybe you can finally have a chance to talk to her about…y’know.” Chrissy shook her head quickly, acknowledging but not trying to think about her implicit endorsement to the status quo at Hawkins High, and how much it had hurt you. And she let it hurt you. “Just- you can’t tell her it was me who sent you, okay? Sh-she wants nothing to do with me, and I’m trying to respect that, I just need to know she’s safe, but she can’t know I sent you. I don’t- I don’t want to make her more upset, Chris. I can’t, I just-”

“Eddie,” Realizing the words were once again coming out a mile a minute, he bit his tongue, letting a bubble of air constrict his lungs with a fervent grip. He wasn’t about to cry. He couldn’t. Not here. Not at school. Not in front of Chrissy fucking Cunningham. Not that she’d judge much, she could already see the sheen of his eyes. “I’ll do it, I’ll check on her. A-and I won’t say it was you.”

His body was finally able to ease at her response, finally letting his airway release all tensions from the stirring anxiety that was still nesting in the crevices of his stomach. “Thank you, thank you so much.” His hands reached for her shoulders with a firm shake of acknowledgement, though his strength had her stumbling on her feet a bit. Not that he noticed. He was still worrying about you. “Just, uh, call me or something, the second she, uh- the second you know she’s okay.” Eddie didn’t want to think of the other possibility. The possibility where your father had laid a hand on you. Or worse. He wouldn’t know what to do. In his experience, silently crying and letting daddy take his frustrations out was the safest option. It was what mommy said to do, so dad wouldn’t do worse. At least ice cream was always promised at the end to make it all go away.

“Yeah, okay, I’ll do that.” She nodded in agreement.

With the confirmation stated, Eddie had already begun walking away with a determined plan in mind to sit in front of the yellow telephone until the shrilling call came through. His mind dead set on you.

“Wait!” Chrissy had to snap him back to reality. “Eddie, I don’t have your phone number.” She lightheartedly scoffed.

Chrissy Cunningham began to worry. Yes, about you. She was ready to march her way past your father in order to make sure you were okay, and to pour her heart out on a well needed apology just so you could understand how sorry she was. Even if you didn’t accept it. But she was also worried about herself. Never in a million years did she expect Eddie Munson, of all people, to show her what true feelings were. He hadn’t even talked to you for more than a week, and he was bending over backwards to ensure all his wrongs were corrected for your safety and comfort. Jason Carvered loved her, she knew it, but the subtle things were becoming pronounced. Do you really think you should be wearing that? My parents will be there. Just come to the party, I’ll look bad if my girlfriend’s not there. When she comes back, I don’t want you hanging around Y/N anymore. She’s bad news and betrayed your friendship by fucking around with that trailer trash. Don’t make yourself look bad by being friends with her.

“Shit, yeah, sorry, my, uh, my brains all over the place.” He crazily signaled with a swing of his hand. Unlike yesterday, Chrissy’s pink pen was tainting a small torn sheet of notebook paper rather than skin, as risking the chance of Jason Carver seeing Eddie Munson’s phone number written on her hand would prompt another outburst of fury between the boys. So as Eddie reiterated the numbers to his home, Chrissy copied with intent.

Intent to see you. Intent to apologize. Intent to inform Eddie.

“Okay, I’ll call you as soon as I leave her place.” Chrissy assured, as the queasiness in Eddie had simmered but surely hadn’t left. He knew as soon as he got home, the consternation would eat him unalive.

Eddie nodded his head. “Yeah, thanks again, seriously, I’ll owe you whatever.” He sighed, before his brows perked. “Oh! I can give a twenty percent discount!” He didn’t even have to specify.

Chrissy Cunningham didn’t smoke. But at least he was trying.

“Uh, s-sure, Eddie.” She simply agreed, and it was able to give him a satisfied smile. “Anyways, yeah, I’ll talk to you later. Just try not to worry too much, I’m sure she’s okay.” She inspirited.

“Okay, yeah, as soon as you can.” Eddie sighed. “I’ll leave you to it, I’m gonna go throw up or something.”

Luckily, Eddie Munson didn’t vomit in the filthy stall that is the boys’ bathroom at Hawkins High, though Chrissy Cunningham sure felt like she was about to hurl today’s lunch and breakfast standing at the doorstep of your home. Her toes tensed in the comfort of her sneakers, hearing the incoming steps of your father approaching the door. Hands gripping the straps of her backpack, she was ready- well, as ready as one can be about to face their best friend’s—did she even have a right to call you that—daunting father.

The door swung. “Hi, Mr. Y/L/N!” Smile, a bright smile and wave from Chrissy Cunningham was sure enough to get anyone to be polite. But his face plastered the same dead expression he’s had for the last four years Chrissy had known him. No smile. No squint of the eyes. Unemotional stoicism.

“Hi, Chrissy.” Robots had more pep in their voices. “Sorry, but Y/N is grounded, for quite an extensive period actually, so she’s not allowed visitors. Go home.” He began to close the door, but Chrissy’s manicured hand abruptly stopped the closure.

“Wait!” She immediately reeled back, seeing the disrespecting look take over his face. “Sorry, sir, I-I’m not here to hang out, it’s just, uh, I brought all the school work Y/N’s missed. You know, from her suspension?” She spoke sheepishly. “A-and well, we don’t want her falling behind, sir.” A nervous chuckle accompanied her faux parent voice. “In fact, Mrs. Durberry and I actually discussed tutoring, so, you know, Y/N is back on track by the time of her return.”

It was in regards to your grades, your father’s favorite. Chrissy Cunningham was a genius.

“Really?” He questioned quizzically.

“Yeah!” Chrissy bounced on the balls of her feet with a firm pat to her backpack. “I’ve got all her work right here. She’s free to turn it in when she gets back, and you know, she’s firmly secured that valedictorian spot, so there’s no need to worry.” She smiled, and of course, of course, that’s all he cared about in the wake of your suspension.

So easily had Chrissy been let into your home. She wondered what she would say to you, as she followed behind your father to your room. It was strange. Your home had always been a cold one, but your laughter and the endless sleepless sleepovers had the ability to bring warmth to such a colorless environment. But all that suffocated her was hostility. Long gone were the memories of an innocent friendship between the two girls. Another factor to consider was the mere fact that your father was guiding Chrissy. She’d been over to your house for years, the layout didn’t suddenly change over a couple days, and a nervous thump began upsetting Chrissy’s heart. And she found out why.

“Had to lock her up.” He uttered with no shame, as he pulled out a glowing key from his pocket. Haphazardly bolted on your door was a new lock, evidently cheaply and hastily done, as the lock resembled the numerous ones used for the lockers at Hawkins High, and the chipped paint and exposed wood could only insinuate the fury in which this job was done in. Your door lock, one onced used when you and Chrissy discussed the boys you thought were cutest at school in your pink pajamas, was now accompanied by a prison lock keeping you captive in your bedroom. “Should've seen the trash she was bringing in.” He muttered mostly to himself. Chrissy didn’t speak. She couldn’t speak. Too disturbed for her own wellbeing. “Do me a favor, kid,” he unlocked the door, “knock some sense into that disgrace.”

He walked away without a care.

The door creaked open, and Chrissy had taken a deep breath. Stepping inside, with a soft click of the door behind her, her eyes landed on the still figure on your bed. Turned away and engaging at the neverending nothingness of everything, you cocooned yourself in your blanket, like a hurt child. Because you merely were one. Chrissy looked away, inching tiny steps closer. Disheveled would be an understatement to the usual cleanliness of your room. Knick-knacks and personal items were thrown about, cracked, and broken, and damaged beyond the actions of someone who was depressed. No, this was the destruction of deep rooted anger.

No expecting the company, you simply screwed your eyes closed with the awaiting words of hatred you thought would be coming from your father at any second. But it didn’t. Only the familiar softness of Chrissy Cunningham, your best friend. “Y/N…?”

You immediately jumped at the sound, meeting your reddening, wet eyes with Chrissy’s round, worried blue ones. “Chrissy…”

The occupying distrust you had for her was incomparable to the pain of what had occurred today. Yes, she hurt you. Yes, you lost your one true friend. But you needed her. And your arms opened like the broken child reaching out for help, and she immediately embraced you on your bed. Your bed, where you spent countless times giving each other at-home mani and pedis, even though your allowances provided enough for professional services, but this was more fun. Your bed, where Chrissy once vented about the first fight she ever had with Jason Carver, because he disregarded her at a party to do a keg stand—yes, it was trivial, but they were sixteen at the time. And your bed, where you both shared the vulnerability of losing a mother, either physically or emotionally, through sobbing tears and tight hugs, but none of that mattered because you were best friends and had each other. Forever.

“Are you okay?” Her vision appeared blurry under the disorientating state of water welling in her eyes. “I’m so sorry for everything.” Chrissy stroked your hair. You couldn’t muster a word to respond with, merely silently crying into the junction of her neck, where she smelled of spring flowers. You’d picked out that perfume for her. Her seventeenth birthday. “I should’ve stuck up for you, I-I should’ve told everyone to stop, I’m so sorry I didn’t.”

Her apology suddenly revealed why you lost trust in her in the first place. Urgently pulling back from the hug far quicker than Chrissy would have liked, you brought your knees to your chest, letting your face find solace on the tiny space rather than her embrace.

“What are you doing here, Chris?” You mumbled so quiet, she was barely able to register it from the chirping birds outside.

“I came to apologize to you.” At least she wasn’t drunk. “I- Y/N everything I did to you was awful.” Her plucked brows furrowed with shame and remorse. You carefully picked up your head, as she gently held knee. “When everyone started saying stuff about you, I was so confused, and before I could even question it, Jason had me promise to not be around you, and I’m so sorry. I’m not trying to excuse what I did, I just should have known better, and I needed to apologize to you.”

Your eyes had closed in relief. You were beyond the trenches of exhaustion, everything was so sore from the exertion of crying, that the simple apology brought the grand relief you’d been yearning for. “I-I think I need space away from Jason.” That had your eyes snapping open. Jason and Chrissy, in love since the tenth grade, becoming the embodiment of young love in Hawkins. Their parents had practically set up a future in which both attended the same university as young adults, and married each other with the expectation of kids by the age of twenty-five.

“I don’t like who he is as a person.” She confessed with a wobbly lip. “ I know he loves me, but I love you, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

You took her back into a loving hug, where she fell limp in your arms, as her tears stained your clothes. Though muffled you spoke with a small whine, “You sound like Eddie.” Which had her giggling through tears.

She had slowly pulled away, smiling at the small curve of your lips that was brightening your face. She wiped your tears, and caressed the hairs out of your face. “Yeah, he’s kinda my new friend now.” She shrugged. “Even offered me a discount to his… business.”

You laughed with a roll to your eyes. “Quite the entrepreneur he is.” She snickered in agreement. “But yeah, I could tell when he came to my house yesterday.”

“Oh, god.” Chrissy plopped back on your bed. “How did you even figure out it was me, you’re so smart?”

You giggled, joining her, as you stared up at the ceiling. “Seeing someone like Eddie Munson show up with pretty pink writing on him doesn’t seem like something that occurs innately in nature. Figured you had something to do with it.”

“I’m sorry for that, too.” She turned to look at you. “I shouldn’t have given him that information without asking you. He just really wanted to apologize to you, too, and it seemed like the right thing to do. What even happened?” She sat up to get serious.

You couldn’t fathom retelling the occurrence of what happened, so you merely opted for the safest choice, and nodded your head in silence. “He did apologize, just wish he would have done it differently.” You sighed. “And, uh, my dad-” Your throat had automatically constricted at the simple mention of him, eyes tightening with the hopes of suppressing the whirlwind of tears that were about to flood your face. “Chrissy, he wouldn’t stop yelling.” You began bawling, as she pulled you up to wrap her arms around your shrinking body. “H-he kept screaming a-and shouting, then he just- he just started throwing things-” Chrissy could only rock you body, gently and softly, letting your tears hit her shoulder with all might. “I was so scared.”

The dreaded question. “Did- did he hit you?” Chrissy spoke into your hair, terrified of how you might answer. But luckily, the tiniest bit of luck, you had shook your head no, and she let out a deep breath. But the harsh slap of reality was that your father had still severely crossed a line that put you in an unsafe environment. And you were petrified.

“He’s not letting me leave my room.” You whispered through sniffles.

“Did he take your phone, Edd-” Chrissy contemplated for a second, before she spoke extremely softly. “Eddie said you didn’t pick up when he tried to call you after what happened.”

“He tried to call me?”

“Just to make sure you were okay.” She emphasized. “He said he’s trying to respect your wishes of wanting space, but after what happened, he just needed to know you were safe… that’s why- that’s why I’m here.” Your brows furrowed and you immediately sat up. “I’d been wanting to apologize to you, and Eddie had been dying to make sure you were okay, so he asked me to come check on you, and so I could finally say sorry to you. He- Y/N, he really cares about you. We both do.”

This was the bit of progress you were wanting to see. To know that the Eddie Munson you met Friday afternoon, the one who coward away at the mere idea of feelings and compassion, the one who uttered the vile words that stabbed right through you, the one who shouted in defense because he was hurt, that that wasn’t him. It wasn’t who he wanted to be. It wasn’t who he truly was. But a recovery from trauma was not a linear progression, and last night you were able to understand the fluctuations of Eddie Munson, the reason why he berated and hurt, the reason why he comforted and protected, the reason why he wailed and sobbed.

“Chrissy, when’s the next time you’re gonna see him?” You cleared your face from staining tears.

“I’ll see him at school tomorrow, but he asked me to call him to make sure you were safe first.”

You nodded. “I, uh- can you actually ask him something for me?”

That one clunking noise Eddie had once been so happy to hear? Yeah, he’s returned back to detesting it, as he felt it drew so much attention to the all too quiet streets of Pinecrest Acres. He made the conscience—and sober—decision to park behind the gray De Tomaso Pantera—fighting the urge to just pop the hood and look at the beauty inside—that resided two houses down from yours. It gave him enough coverage away from any view of your father. Eddie was terrified. Much to his dismay, Chrissy had been fairly vague over the phone when she rang him at 5:59 p.m exactly. Luckily by then, a buddy of Wayne’s had taken him out to an early dinner before their shift at the plant, so his uncle missed out on the Olympic-worthy run Eddie had made to the phone the second it began ringing. And Chrissy had spoken. A lot. But so little at the same time. He was happy to hear you guys made up. Truly he was. But Chrissy had carried on for a five minute tangent about how gladly you accepted her back into your life again. Eddie Munson was honestly jealous. Though she had mentioned how you specified wanting time away from her, too, maybe meeting up to speak that coming Monday at school when your suspension would be over. Eddie had wondered if you would speak to him then, too. But he didn’t have to wonder much longer. After he so kindly told the cheerleader to get to the point, the real point he wanted to hear, she had assured him that you were okay. Physically, at least. Eddie had dropped to his kitchen chair with a breath of relief that no one had touched you. But then Chrissy kept speaking. She wants to see you. Tonight. That had Eddie trajecting back up from his seat. But his questions had disappointingly gone unanswered. No details. No explanation. No reasoning. Just show up, Eddie. At midnight. At her window. And not drunk. Chrissy had never gotten the full story as to what went down between you and Eddie, so that part desperately confused and intrigued the girl, but she didn’t push any further. Eddie, though, had cringed in disgust at himself because he knew.

An owl had hooted in the distance as he followed the tracks his beloved, dying van had made on your green lawn. Once again, Eddie had found himself in the same position as last night, cracking his neck and rolling his limbs for the climb of a lifetime. If it was somehow possible, he felt he was quivering more than when he was three beers down and no dinner. Yes, he was sober, but his heart could stop beating at the neverending questions his mind was bombarding against himself. Were you mad because he sent Chrissy over? Surely you couldn’t be, she would have said so. But you could also be really fucking pissed. The same type of anger that caught him off guard when his father swung on his little face when Eddie thought they were having a good time.

But he couldn’t rely on heavy thoughts as such. He just needed to get to you. Passed the trellis, over the trimming, onto the roof. Quiet as Eddie Munson could be. He couldn’t really be quiet, but he tried for you. Crouching his way to your window, he sucked in a deep breath before he ever so gently tapped on your window. He was eyeing his reflection, wondering who the hell he had become. The one definitive figure he didn’t want to become: his father. A relentless pessimist, hatred against the world, bruteness to show off, and the inability to take accountability for the hurt they cause, because they were hurt first, right?

But then your curtains opened, and there you were. You.

You, who’d included his friends when no one wanted them. You, who made him smile despite his hesitations of getting hurt. You, who took the fall for everything. You, who gave Eddie Munson a chance.

You lifted your window open. “Hi.”

Eddie could cry right then and there. His shaky trembling hands slowly offered themselves to you, and you peered down, gently laying yours in his, where your warmth dissipated his coldness. He sighed with a loving grasp. “Y-you’re okay? He didn’t- did he touch you?”

Eddie had heard it from Chrissy, but hearing your small “no” was more comforting than a third-party person.

“Why, um, why did you need to see me?” He softly cleared his throat.

“I want to talk, b-but not here.” Eddie nodded ardently at your request. “Just somewhere far.”

Somewhere far, he could give that to you.

Helping you out of your window, you followed Eddie’s led to the edge of your roof, where you traced the dying height from your second story room to the hard, hard, ground. “Don’t be scared.” He soothingly smiled. “Remember, I made the climb drunk.”

You shook your head in disappointment, but he saw that small, beautiful smile peak through your lips. “Just, um, please don’t let me fall.” Your stomach sunk at the eerie possibility.

But Eddie was there, and he let you know with a secure squeeze to your joint hands. “Never.”

You watched him descend. Off of the roof. Over the trimming. Down the trellis. He made it look so easy, as if he actively partook in the illegal activity of breaking and entering. Eddie would never admit it, not now at least, but for good reason he had done it once. Once. Mr. Godly had a cat that fifteen-year-old Eddie once saw the old man kick. Safe to say, Cronkers now resides in the makeshift cat house of cardboard, wood, and a childhood blanket behind the Munson’s residence. Her favorite is Wayne’s Monday meatloaf.

He encouraged you down delicately. Instructing you to take small movements, find your steps, and he’ll be right there. He’d always be there. When your Converse hit the holes of the trellis, his hands faintly found your waist, where you trusted him to carry you down the last couple abrasive steps onto your crushed garden. Feet safely on the ground, you gazed up at his staggering height and met his concerned eyes. You merely nodded before he could get the words out, are you okay?

“Your car?” You interrupted his staring. But in his defense, your face was illuminated mesmerizingly in the moonlight of the dark sky.

“Right, right.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry.” He muttered in embarrassment, as he quickly walked away before you could see his flushing cheeks. As if you hadn’t already witnessed him ugly cry drunk in your bedroom.

You walked the quiet trip to his van, where he graciously opened the door for you. You didn’t know at the time, but the couple yards it took to get to his car, he’d been battling himself whether or not that’d be the right move to try. He’d never opened the door for anyone. But your small “thank you” that flashed his way had him praising to the gods he didn’t even believe in that he was a genius.

His car smelled strongly like cigarettes and weed. It honestly hurt your head, but you hadn’t expected anything less from Eddie. It made you giggle to yourself. The usual was everywhere; littered receipts and wrappers crumbled into the door compartments, numerous scented trees hanging from the rear view mirror, which you could only assume had been Eddie’s attempt to mask the nicotine and marajuana, and of course, an array of tapes thrown upon the floor at your feet, you could vividly imagine Eddie getting tired of a tape and carelessly getting rid of it. But then there was something else.

Eddie appeared in the front seat. “You ready?” He heaved.

“Yeah, but, um, why do you have these?”

“Ice cream?” He questioned more than answered. Yes, ice cream sitting in the tight space of his cupholders, two cartons with a spoon for each. “Um, well, I figured it’d be nice to, uh, have. I always, uh, liked having it, I guess. Always made me feel slightly better as a kid. It’s vanilla and chocolate. You can take whichever.” You eyed him incredulously, he eyed you worriedly. “Do you not like either of those flavors? I know I went basic, but I thought they were safe choices. I can get you whatever. Strawberry, cookies n’ cream, mint?” He grimaced, as though it was a deal breaker but he’d look right past it.

You giggled at him. “No, Eddie, it’s okay. I just didn’t expect it.” You shyly smiled.

“Okay, good.” He smiled, with a whistle of relievement. “So, it’ll make you feel better?”

Lovers Lake had been the destination of choice for Eddie. It was quiet and calming. The car ride had been, too. Eddie had suggested some music, but was adamant about his disdain for the radio, though you weren’t necessarily in the mood to have the voices of Megadeth screaming at you this late at night. Eddie had begrudgingly agreed. So it was quiet. He was itching to ask you why you wanted to talk, though that only seemed appropriate whenever you would arrive. You had reached over and played with the mini bobble head figure of Garfield that was nestled against his van’s windshield. You said it was cute. He blushed. Then proceeded to nervously ramble about how Uncle Wayne had one of Odie in his work truck. You didn’t know Uncle Wayne, but he spoke about him like you knew every detail about Wayne already. The lake had been abandoned and lonely upon arrival. The lights to Rick Lipton’s lake house had been shut off for nearly a year now after his arrest. Eddie had only agreed and smiled when you mentioned how an old, lovely couple probably lived there and sat out by the lake to watch the sunset. Sure, something like that. He’d let you have your fantasy. The way the idea lit up your face and eased your tension, he wasn’t about to ruin that.

“We can, um, head to the back.” He offered, to which you agreed.

In truth, the bundle of blankets and pillows in the back of his van didn’t paint him out to be the greatest of all people, but he quickly assured that he frequently takes nap in the comfort of his van when he doesn’t have the energy for Mrs. O’Donnell’s voice. Specifically adding a yapping gesture with his hand to emphasize. So there you were. Sitting in the back, doors open to let in the midnight breeze, as you looked out to the glistening waters. You’d settled on vanilla after you noticed the tighter grip Eddie’s hand had clutched around the chocolate flavor, and surely, a blooming smile erupted on his face when he got to secure his preferred flavor of dessert.

“So, um-”

“I just wanted to speak to you.” You confided. “You know, when we’re not yelling, crying, or drunk,” you giggled at his wincing face, “as we have been doing for the past couple of days.”

“M’a fucking mess, I’m sorry.”

“So am I, Eddie-”

“No, you’re not.” He firmly attested. “You were absolutely perfect before I came into your life and fucked everything up.”

You teased, “You're saying I’m not perfect now?” Your mouth dropped in a dramatic gasp that had him smiling.

“No! No! I’m not saying that at all, you are perfect now, you’ll be perfect for the rest of your life and you won’t even have to try.” He sheepishly grinned, filling his mouth with a big spoonful to bite back the smile.

“Hate to break it to you, Eddie, but I’ve been far from perfect even before I met you. I wish you would see that. It’s doing more harm than good.” You spoke sincerely. “I don’t like you placing me into a bubble, Eddie, especially when you’ve hated the people who’ve done it to you. But I never have.”

His head dropped with a nod. “You’re right.” He accounted. “I’ve had the bullshit done to me for years, I thought it’d finally make me feel good to do it to someone like you. And it was fucking gross of me, because you’re right, you’ve never done anything to me. Actually, that night you took our photo, that was quite literally the nicest anyone has ever treated me- us. And, fuck me, did I like the shit out of you.”

You laughed at his shy revelation. “You have such a romantic way with your words, Eddie Munson.” You joked.

“Sorry.” He covered his mouth so kidlike. “But, uh, yeah I obviously liked you, and well, something in me was just fighting me to stay away. Or get away, more than anything. Because, um, it’d… it’d really fucking hurt if you didn’t like me back.” He couldn’t meet your eyes, speaking with pure shame as to who he was as a person. “And, well, mission fucking accomplished, I, sorta, kinda went above and beyond with that logic.”

“You think?” You smiled.

“It was so stupid of me.” He regrettably sighed. “Because-because I thought- you were just so nice to me. Ready to be my friend and everything, that I knew, I fucking knew my feelings would get too much for me and the realizations that I couldn’t be with you fucking scared me.” His voice had significantly softened to ease the burning ache in his throat. “A-and I’m such a shit excuse of a person that I fucking hurt you when you didn’t deserve it.”

“You are not that, Eddie, don’t say that-”

“But I am, Y/N, I’m so fucking terrible. I-I’m, fuck- I really fucking hate my dad.” Your brows creased at the sudden change of topics. “He was an awful person, he- he would-” The crying began. “Fuck,” he wiped his tears completely embarrassed, “He would just do terrible things to me and my mom, and I fucking said- I fucking said I wouldn’t be like him, be like her- she just fucking took that shit, Y/N, she said it was for the best.” You held his hand, his ice cream long forgotten and pushed to the side. “I just don’t want to be like him- them. M’tryin’ so fucking hard that it fucking backfired. M’such a terrible person, and I’m so sorry.”

You wished this conversation wasn’t full of tears, but you realized how inevitable that idea was. You and Eddie Munson were hurting and releasing. Crying was necessary.

“You are not a terrible person, Eddie.” He had to hear, loud and clear. You rested your head on his shoulder, where his head dropped upon yours. “Terrible people don’t sit and wonder if they’re terrible. And the fact that you care about how you are as a person shows it.” You caressed the back of his hand. “You are a worthwhile person, Eddie. I can so clearly see it.”

“I’m really fucking sorry for everything I’ve done to you, Y/N.” He wiped the incoming snot from his nose with his denim sleeve. “I-I need you to know that everything I did was out of fucking stupidity.” He huffed. “What I called you, those names, that was fucking disgusting, and I don’t believe that about you at all. I never have.”

“I’m sorry for what I said about you, too-”

“Don’t you fucking dare say you’re sorry for telling the truth.” He deeply laughed through his sniffles, voice deeper from the being nasally stuffed.

You smiled back guilty. “No, I am! What I said was really mean, too.”

“Absolutely not, sweetheart.” He chuckled. “What was it, ‘a sulking asshole too pathetic to deal with their problems?’ You hit it right on the nail, princess.”

“Well,” you giggled, “even if you won't let me apologize, I need you to know that I still feel bad. Slightly.”

“Fair enough.” He grinned. “But I do need to apologize, and I need you to know that I’m truly sorry, Y/N. For everything. For what I said. For what I did. For making you feel horrible and scared. And for just putting you through all that. You didn’t deserve any of it. I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

“I know.” You whispered. “And if it’s any consolation to you, Eddie, I also hate my dad.”

“Oh, my god.” Eddie clutched his heart. “He really put a fucking number on me, fuck me.” He groaned, turning to face you. “Please, please, please tell me if he does something. I won’t be able to fucking live my life not knowing.”

Your lips tucked tightly within themselves, and with a soft nod you assured him you would.

You spoke. You both spoke for a while. The hours had passed unknowingly until both tubs of ice cream were empty by 3:33 a.m. Tears and laughter had flooded the back of the van, and you felt like you’d been his friends with him since childhood. He couldn’t fathom the way he treated you, when speaking to you floated him into another dimension of peace and acceptance. Something he hadn’t felt in the entirety of his life. But when you caught a glimpse of the repeating digits on his watch, your heart panicked and you urged him to take you home, which he suddenly complied. This time, though, Megadeth was gladly played, and to say you were shocked would be quite an understatement. Eddie had belted a laugh at your abrupt introduction to metal, finding your this-is-weird-but-I-don’t-want-you-to-think-I’m-judging-you face as the cutest thing ever. And sooner than he liked, he pulled up behind the De Tomaso Pantera. Your attempt to say goodbye fell short, though, when he shot down your idea to walk home alone.

“Really, Eddie, go home, it’s late.” You huffed, when you reached your house.

“I will, I will,” He snickered with defensive hands. “Just, uh, th-thank you so much for, um- well, being so understanding even after all that I did. I just- you really are the best, Y/N.” He ranked his hands over his face in hopes of concealing the ever growing smile on his face.

“Thank you, Eddie.” You giggled at his flustered state. “You’re quite incredible yourself.”

“Do, um, where does this… leave us?”

“I still want space, Eddie.” You spoke honestly, to which he concurred. “Until we’re okay.”

“Until we’re okay.” He sighed.

Eddie had managed to take advantage of the four hours of sleep left until school began. There was no sleeping past his alarm clock, no rush to get dressed, no giving up when lateness was inevitable. He’d shown up, showered and full with a bowl of cereal that went a long way, as he approached Ms. Kelly’s office. It was nerve wracking. He’d never considered this to be a good idea, in fact, following his father’s word, therapy was a pussy excuse for the delusional to waste money on. But those were the words that held him captive from the potential he so well deserved to reach. Turning from her filing cabinet, Ms. Kelly had caught sight of his timid figure standing at the door.

“Eddie.” She hadn’t been unfamiliar with his being, she’d actually been the one to break it to him the last two times that he was in for another year at prison Hawkins High. “How can I help you?”

He sauntered his way into her office, taking a seat with a gruff. It was evident his persona to seem calm, cool, and collected was falling through the cracks, as his finger spun the numerous rings on his fingers. “I, uh, I was wondering if it’d be cool to, um, just talk?”

“Absolutely.” Ms. Kelly dreamed of the day Eddie Munson would enter her office with good intentions. “Anything in particular?”

He shook his head. “No.” He sighed. “Just got a lot pent up inside, I guess.”

“Well, the floor is yours, Eddie.” She smiled. “Talk as much as you need.”

𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 | Unfortunately, my tag list for this series has gotten too long, so I will not be adhering to any further requests to be included. I'm so terribly sorry, but the amount of tags has beyond reached its limit, and I think it's best to stop. I hope it's understandable. Nonetheless, thank you all for your kind support, I hope you guys continue to enjoy the series, and if you ever have any ideas as to what you'd like to see, I'd love to know!

@sierrahhh @harrysgothicbitch @niallerlover8022 @aunicornmademedoit @spring-picnics @sleepy-bunnie @eggo-segual @bambi-horror @aheadfullofsteverogers @sademoloser @freakymunson @princess-eddie @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @negativity4you @nope-thanks @allsortsedits @callingmrsbarnes @f0rgggg @hurricane-abigail @sweet-sunflower64

@redlovett @goldstars-to-all @eddiesguitarskills @goslytherin @sashaphantomhive @maxinehufflepuffprincess @emeritusemeritus @angel-upon @middle-of-the-earth @scarletwitchwhore @my-tearsricochet @ericasdumbworld @animechick555 @gewrgia-black @hookandchain @roseanddaggerlarry @prestinalove @sebismyhubby @maddsunn

@zoeymunson @corrcdedcoffin @sweetmariihs2 @thefemininemystiquee @monserat @findmeincorneliastreet @sheneedsrocknroll92 @silent-stories @batkin028 @btbabyy

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson angst #the yearbook: club pictures

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iburnedmyselfalive · 4 months

Text

SHADOWS OF AFFECTION.

nsfw -- first time writings smut in awhile please give me ideas + feedback!! i feel like this is so rushed :'( didn't really proof read I'm sorry!!

A dimly lit room with a faint glow from nearby equipment. Anakin Skywalker, dressed in Jedi robes, stood facing you, a determined and slightly tense expression on his face.

"What are you doing here? You know you're not supposed to be in this sector." While speaking, his voice remained void of any emotion

"I have as much right to be here as you do, Skywalker. Maybe more." You mirrored his tone in your response noticing how that irritated him.

"You think you're clever, don't you? Always meddling where you don't belong." he said, his voice tinged with irritation, and his expression showing clear frustration.

"i'm here to ensure justice, something you seem to have forgotten in your pursuit of power." you remarked, stepping closer to him, your proximity enough to sense his rhythmic breathing.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," he retorted, narrowing his eyes at you, a glint of frustration now more evident. "I fight for peace, for the greater good, unlike your misguided intentions."

"Peace? Your methods are ruthless, your actions reckless. You'll destroy everything you claim to protect." you scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief at his apparent contradictions.

"You don't understand the burden I carry, the choices I have to make." he murmured, his voice sounding like it almost went softer.

"Your excuses won't justify your deeds. The path you're on leads to darkness." you retorted firmly, unyielding in conviction.

There's a tense silence as you continue to lock eyes. Anakin's gaze flickers, conflicted emotions swirling within him. Suddenly, he reaches out, cupping your face in his hands, bringing you to shock.

Why did you want this?

"Despite everything, I can't deny what I feel for you." Anakin murmured, his voice carrying a hint of cocky confidence, unable to mask his underlying emotions.

Before you could even react to his words, Anakin closes the gap between you fully, pressing his lips against yours in a sudden, passionate kiss. It's a mixture of conflicting emotions - love, desire, and turmoil.

The kiss lingers for a moment, filled with intensity and an unspoken understanding. Anakin then breaks away, his expression a mixture of regret and longing.

"Fuck," he muttered, when he pulled back abruptly, a mix of emotions crossing his face.

He turns away, striding out of the room, leaving you standing there, stunned and conflicted by the unexpected moment of tenderness from your sworn enemy.

You wanted more, no, you needed more.

"Anakin," you called out, your voice barely above a whisper, filled with a hint of desperation that stirred something within him, causing a smirk to grace his lips.

"Hm?" he responded, pausing his steps, intrigued by the tone in your voice.

You sensed a rush in your stomach, a sensation akin to fireworks bursting within. "I-I need..." you attempted to articulate, grappling to express yourself as he cocked his head, observing you with a mix of fascination and amusement, a smug chuckle escaping his lips.

"What do you want, huh? You've gotta speak up, sweetheart, and tell me," he chided, his tone carrying a teasing edge.

I... I want you," you stammered, summoning the courage to draw nearer to him.

"Please," an almost pleading tone escaped your lips.

"Just kissed you, and now I've got you begging for more, hmm?" he chuckled, his voice tinged with a sense of satisfaction.

"Anakin, please, stop teasing me," you pleaded, frustration evident in your tone.

"Fine then, I'll find someone who'll give me what I need," you responded when he stayed silent, a hint of anger colouring your words, a calculated move to incite a reaction from him. His jaw tensed at your provocation, swiftly grasping your arm and ushering you back into a less conspicuous room.

"Enough with the games," he growled, commanding attention as he took a seat on the edge of the unfamiliar bed, a room that didn't belong to either of you.

It was amusing because you weren't the one teasing him; it was actually the reverse. The mere mention of seeing someone else seemed to set him off.

"Sit," he ordered firmly, his eyes fixated on his lap, a commanding presence exuding a sense of heat.

You glanced at him, uncertain of your next move, which only seemed to exacerbate his frustration.

"Sit, now," he demanded sharply. "Begging me for more and now when I offer, you act like a lost little bunny, huh? Pathetic," he hissed, his tone a blend of irritation and disdain.

Your cheeks warmed, a rush of heat coloring your skin at the way he spoke to you. Yet, driven by a mix of defiance and intrigue, you deliberately positioned yourself on his lap, straddling him. As you settled, you felt a surge of intensity in the eye contact you maintained with him, your gaze unwavering, a silent challenge and a hint of curiosity sparkling in your eyes.

An overwhelming sense of yearning surged within you, an unexpected desire that seemed to emanate solely for Anakin. It was a realization that struck you hard—you hadn't comprehended how much you craved him until that moment. Letting out a soft whimper as he gently directed your movements, guiding your hips, he melded his lips with yours in a passionate embrace.

His hands extended, caressing to cup your breasts, eliciting a soft gasp from you. "Ani," you whimpered in a breathless plea, your voice muffled amidst the intensity of the kiss.

"Bet this pretty little cunt is soaked huh? All for me, is that right?" he playfully cooed, further teasing you with his words, evoking another soft whine to escape your lips.

When you refused to say anything, he brought a hand up, slapping you pathetically which made you much wetter than you already were. You strained to tighten your thighs from your current position, trying your best to maintain composure.

"I want to hear it," he growled, craving the sound of your voice, eager to sense the urgency and longing in your words.

When you could only muster a hasty "mhm," it fell short of what he sought, clenching your thighs together again as a result of his second slap.

"Y-yes ani, 'm so wet" You protested with a soft whine, attempting to shift and escape his secure hold while perched on his lap.

He chuckled darkly, a hint of amusement in his eyes as he shook his head. "I know you can do much better than that dirty bitch," he asserted with a commanding tone, his voice carrying an air of authority.

"'m so wet for you ani, please touch me, please" you expressed your desperation with a pleading tone as his hand slid down your body, departing from its prior position, your breasts, and descending farther and farther.

His hand lightly brushed over your clothed clit, causing you to nearly lose balance on his lap. "Please," you whimpered, leaning in close to his ear.

"I need you to listen to me and follow my instructions, clear?" he growled, asserting his dominance.

"Crystal," you replied, your voice filled with desperation as you tried to move against his fingers, although he hadn't instructed you to do so, had he?

"Desperate whore," he hissed, "keep that up and we'll both end up unsatisfied," he warned in a low, threatening tone.

You swallowed hard and nodded, halting your movements even though every part of you resisted. His finger continued to trace deliberate circles over your clothed clit, coaxing more moans from you as he intensified his touch.

"I need more, please," you pleaded urgently. You sensed his undeniable hardness beneath you, fueling your growing desperation.

Your words only fueled his hastened actions; his intention to tease was already fixed. He proceeded by swiftly pulling you up and removing your pants.

While you were still in your panties, he gently positioned you on the bed. Standing over you, he returned his hand back to your pussy, soaking wet, carefully pulling aside your panties.

"Ani!" you exclaimed as you finally sensed his fingers on your sensitive clit.

"Yes, yes so good, don't stop," you whimpered, your back arching, fingers tightly clutching the bedsheet.

However, everything shifted rapidly as your orgasm drew near. Your hands embraced him, drawing him closer, sensing his warm breath as his fingers intensified their pace.

"Yeah?" he teased, a smug grin adorning his face.

Tears cascaded down your face as your legs started to tremble, the sensation making you see stars. You attempted to kiss him, but you couldn't quite reach, and teasingly, he playfully moved away slightly.

"Getting close, sweetheart? I'm sure I'm making you feel incredible," he growled, coaxing you to say it.

The intensity of pleasure overwhelmed you as his fingers explored various rhythms, gauging your every reaction to pinpoint what brought you the most pleasure. When he slapped you, it momentarily stifled your words. "'S-so good, Ani, so good," you whimpered, struggling to speak amidst the sensation.

You were on the verge of climax, but a disappointed whimper escaped when your orgasm was withheld. Anakin promptly withdrew his two fingers from your swollen clit.

You protested, a desire to retaliate rising within you, but weariness held you back, knowing it hadn't been your effort but his.

"You should've mentioned you were close," he teased, sporting a playful grin.

"Shut up, Anakin." you sassed right back at him.

Anakin retorted sharply, his voice edged with a demanding and rough tone, "Don't tell me to shut up when you're craving every bit of this, begging for more."

With a mixture of frustration and desire, you decided to snap back at him, "Stop pretending like you don't know what you're doing to me."

Anakin, his voice husky and determined, countered, "I know exactly what I'm doing. And you love every second of it, don't you?"

"I-I don't love it... I just... I can't help but... feel." With a mix of denial and embarrassment, you replied, faltering with your words as he guided his fingers back to your clit.

Anakin's voice was laced with a teasing yet commanding tone, "Words might fail you, but your body doesn't lie. Show me how much you want this" he remarked.

As Anakin's words hung in the air, your breath hitched. Your gaze met his, conveying a mixture of uncertainty and desire. Without a word, your body responded, inching closer, a silent invitation for more. Fingers trembled slightly, reaching out tentatively, a silent plea for his touch to continue. Their eyes held a depth of longing, silently communicating what words couldn't express.

You let out a gasp as he directed his lips to your breasts, alternating between sucking and gently nibbling on one nipple, then showering the same affection on the other with equal passion.

"Ani, I need you," you whimpered as your climax neared once more. Your hands trembled as you attempted to remove his Jedi robes, but this action made him pause.

"What did I say?" he reminded you sternly, referring to the specific orders he had given for you to follow his commands strictly.

"'s too much, Ani," you cried out as he pulled you to the edge of the bed. Kneeling down, he began to gently use his tongue to tease over your clit.

"That's not what I said," he hissed, intensifying the circles of his tongue over your clit while his hand reached out to firmly cup your breasts.

"Please," you cried out, attempting to close your thighs as you squirmed, sitting up and tangling your hands in his hair, desperately trying to pull him away from you

He snarled, "Take it," exerting force to keep you down.

"Ani, it's too much, please!" you cried, squirming even harder.

“Mm, what a beautiful cunt this is," he murmured, his tongue tracing circles over your clit, drawing you even nearer to him.

As you started moaning his name, almost reaching climax, he abruptly withdrew. Hs stripped off his clothing, you whimpered, studying his features, and he was undeniably well-endowed. "Where do you want this, sweetheart? Right here?" he teased, grazing his tip along your folds, referring to his cock.

You nodded with a pout, but before you could speak, he raised his hand, wrapping it around your neck ever so slightly "Can't even say it, can you? You want me inside you, huh? Deep inside," he cooed, his voice taunting.

"Say it now. I want to hear it," he demanded.

You whimpered, obeying his command but feeling embarrassed. "I want... you... please... to fuck me," you struggled to express, blushing with vulnerability.

His grin widened as he pushed himself into you. "So big," you murmured to yourself, grasping onto his arms as discomfort crossed your face.

"Let me set the pace baby, yeah, let me set the pace" he cooed softly, his voice filled with assurance. He started with a slow movement for a fleeting moment before intensifying his pace, causing the distinct sound of skin meeting skin. You were already a disheveled mess, so he paid no mind if someone were to walk in.

"Oh, Anakin, please!" you cried out, feeling the intense arousal build up. You had been denied your orgasm multiple times, so you sensed that just a few more thrusts would push you over the edge.

"Hold it, you filthy bitch," he cooed, commanding you to restrain yourself from climaxing.

"But!" you began to protest, only to be interrupted by him.

"I said, hold it," he growled, swiftly reaching up to slap you. His thrusts were intense, driving deep into you.

"Yeah, yeah that's it, taking this so well f'me," he groaned in satisfaction.

"Ani, I... I need..." you struggled to articulate your words as he relentlessly pounded into you, but he understood your desires perfectly. He pressed his lips against yours, delivering a messy yet forceful kiss that sent butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

"Up," he commanded, his gaze fixed on your hips, and obediently, you complied, raising your hips as instructed. He swiftly grabbed a pillow, placing it under your lower back as he delved deep inside you once more. Holding still momentarily, observing your squirms for him, he finally resumed thrusting.

"Ani, yes, just like that," you cried out, the altered position aiding him in reaching a new angle, hitting your most sensitive spot.

He swiveled his hips, trailing soft nibbles along your neck, then ascending to your earlobe, teasingly biting on it.

"Are you going to cum f'me? Going to make a mess all over my cock?" he provocatively questioned.

"Yes! Please, yes!" you cried out, your legs trembling as he brought his thumb down to your clit, vigorously circling it.

"fuck," he groaned, his hips briefly slowing before returning to their earlier rhythm. Your hands dug deeply into his back, almost drawing blood.

"Please make me cum, I want it so badly," you pleaded, gripping onto him tightly.

The pleasure overwhelmed you, becoming almost unbearable.

"mhm, mhm," you cried out, so overwhelmed that you couldn't articulate properly.

Your back arched deeply, the sensation seemingly endless. Your eyes rolled back, hands gripping his hair as he penetrated you deeply, fully immersed in the act, lifting one of your legs and placing it over his shoulder.

And that was the tipping point for you.

"Come for me, now, pretty baby," he demanded as it felt like an explosion, finally letting go, releasing yourself all over his cock. He groaned in unison with you as he planted his seed deep inside you, his thumb continuing to work on your clit while he maintained a slow and steady rhythm of thrusting.

"That's it, taking it so well," he cooed as his pace gradually quickened once more. In a state of shock, you whimpered, feeling utterly exhausted and drained from the prolonged teasing game he had been playing with you for a while.

"What? it's too much for you to handle huh? what is it baby? Have I gotten you all worked up?" he asked, wearing a sly grin.

"Mhm," you replied, nodding your head with a pout on your face.

"Too bad. You're going to take my cock and thank me for it," he growled, thrusting deeper into you, leaving you wondering how that could even be possible.

"Drenched in all your damn juices," he hissed, gripping your waist while one hand moved to your lower stomach, applying slight pressure to feel himself inside you.

"Look," he demanded, seizing your jaw to force you to observe the point where you two were connected, to witness how intensely he was penetrating you.

"Oh, fuck," you moaned at the sight of him moving in and out of you, your body tightly embracing him. Something about the sight drove you to the edge once more; your eyes rolled back as you cried out, "Ani!" while bucking your hips.

"Fuck," he cooed, "make a fucking mess all over me."

His words spat out with intensity, "Cover me in all your fucking juices," he hissed, demanding,

"Yeah pretty baby, you want to huh?" he cooed as you desperately nodded.

"Gonna fucking fill this pussy up" he spoke through gritted teeth.

In just a few more thrusts, both of you reached climax together. You moaned for him while he buried his face into your neck, groaning into your ear.

"Good girl," he cooed, planting a soft kiss on your lips before pulling away from you and kneeling down again.

"Ani?" you questioned with a whimper, but were interrupted by a moan as he began circling your clit with his tongue once more.

Did he really want you to cum for the third time?

Overwhelmed by the stimulation, you cried even harder, attempting to squirm away from him.

"Mm, it's too much, too much, I can't handle it," you whined, sensing your climax nearing as he sucked harshly on your clit, the sound of a 'pop' echoing in the room.

Indeed, he had succeeded; the cocky guy had brought you to climax for the third time.

"You did so well f'me, darling," he cooed, leaning in to kiss you as you tasted yourself on his lips. Eventually, he pulled away, planting a kiss on your forehead as he took care of cleaning you up and helping you get dressed again.

You winced from the pain in your legs when you attempted to stand, prompting him to lift you up himself.

"Tired?" he inquired, and you nodded, nearly dozing off in his embrace.

"Oh, training got the best of her? Take it easy on her, Anakin," Obi-Wan's sudden voice made you whimper.

"Shh, sleep baby," he cooed, shooting Obi-Wan a glare.

Anakin carried you back to his place, gently helping you change into comfortable clothes before guiding you to bed. He tenderly tucked you in, caressing your head and planting gentle kisses on your forehead.

"Rest now, my dear," he whispered softly, dimming the lights as you drifted into a peaceful slumber, feeling safe and cared for in his embrace.

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moonlit-positivity · 17 days

Text

Some of my best moments of healing came when I started to understand some of these snippets of wisdom from others:

People can only perceive what they know.

Comprehension is also a part of communication. If they can't comprehend what you're saying then there is no point in wearing yourself out.

There is a big difference in "listening to respond" vs "listening to be right" and most people do not understand this.

Most people on social media aren't looking to have healthy communication. They're looking to argue. Find other places for conversation outside of the comments section.

People cannot tell you how you're feeling. That is information only you have access to. They are projecting themselves onto you.

People often hide behind projection when theyre hurt. Don't take things personally.

Emotionally immature people cannot understand the difference between communicating vs reacting.

What's the difference?

Communicating = listening with intent to understand

Reacting = allowing the perceived threat to dominate the mood

Triggers can also show us parts of ourselves that are unhealed and in need of attention. Though it is never okay to force yourself to "work through them" if you do not relate.

"There is always more work to do" = this is a lifelong process. Don't try to rush it so hard.

Breaks are allowed and actually necessary in order to catch up.

"Trust in yourself & trust in the process" = you know what's best for you. Nobody else should be telling you how to live your life.

"Do something else" = your sanity is in danger if you don't learn how to step away from the stress. Don't ignore your mind & body asking for a break.

"Life is not a game" = take yourself and your health seriously.

It's normal to seek chaos while recovering. Sometimes we are hard wired for chaos due to the nature of our traumas. Healing can leave you feeling "boring" and that's normal.

Recovery can also be reflected in our outward appearances. "As I grew inward, my outward appearance changed too." The changes we make inside can have a very deep impact on the way we take care of ourselves and the way we project that outwardly through our appearance. Sometimes negatively, sometimes positively. It can fluctuate and change just like we do.

You're not alone. I guarantee you, whatever it is you're going through- there's a community out there for it.

Sometimes you will never know how to move forward. These are the moments that require the most kindness and compassion you can find.

There is such a huge awkward transitionary phase between "I'm stuck repeating old habits" vs "oh okay, I've learned enough to move on now, but I don't want to give up my old identity and now I'm even more panicked than I've ever been in my entire life what the fuck is happening please help me" and this is so fucking normal.

When that happens, just be as kind and patient as you can be. The old parts are in need of patience. They are clinging for a reason. Maybe the closure long forgotten? Maybe the underlying issues finally able to be spoken out loud and addressed? Give them the safety of knowing they are safe, well loved, and that you're still gonna be you in all that you are when they're ready to put those burdens down.

Change doesn't look good at first. At first it feels like ripping your skin off. There's a subtle power in allowing it to feel uncomfortable and doing it anyway. You can tap that power just by waking up and staying committed.

"You're stronger than you think, give yourself some kudos, you're worth the effort to heal." These are all words that others have said to me. Take the positive words that ppl give you and use them to your advantage. They're actually not bullshitting you. They actually really do want you to succeed. Draw on them to get you there.

In the same vein, ask trusted ppl what they think your strong points are. I've had ppl tell me "you're resourceful. You're strong in how you advocate for yourself." It can help to hear these types of things. It's okay to ask!

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spiritualitygeek · 6 months

Text

What's Next For You In Love? (One-Card Reading)

Disclaimer: This pac is for entertainment purpose only. I am not liable for any actions or decisions taken or made based on the information presented in the reading. The interpretations and insights are subjective and open to individual perception. Please use your own judgment and intuition when applying the messages to your life or situation. Thank you!

Pile 1 🌤️

Card: 4oW

Signs: Gemini, Pisces, Capricorn

There's indications of a period of instability or potential conflict in matters of love and relationships for you, Pile 1.

✨ If you're already in a relationship, one or both of the following may happen:

- Conflict and Disagreements: There might be disagreements or tension within established relationships. This could arise from unaddressed issues or external stressors.

- Stagnation: Some relationships may experience a feeling of stagnation, where partners may feel like they're not progressing or growing together.

✨ If you've recently started seeing someone:

- Caution Needed: Be cautious when entering into a new relationship. There could be underlying issues or red flags that require attention.

- Misaligned Goals: Your potential partner may have differing long-term goals or values that could lead to challenges down the line.

✨ For my Single Individuals:

- Internal Conflict: I'm seeing a period of self-reflection and inner conflict for you. This might be a time to focus on personal growth and understanding your own desires and needs.

- Avoid Rushing In: Please take time, think through the pros and cons before jumping into a new romantic venture. Rushing into things might lead to complications.

✨ For lost and found connections:

- Challenges in Reconnecting: If you're considering rekindling a past relationship, there might be hurdles or unresolved issues to navigate before finding stability again.

To summarise:

You need to have an open and honest communication in your romantic situation, Pile 1. No matter what situation you're in. You're advises to be wise. To think before you take that leap of faith and to talk things out with your person before jumping to conclusions. Clearing the air and addressing concerns can lead to resolution.

Pile 11 🌧️

Card: Strength

Signs: Capricorn, Aquarius, Aries

There's indications of a period of balance, compassion, happiness and resilience in matters of love.

Also, while connecting with your card I also saw Aquamarine crystal. It is known for its calming and soothing energies. Here, although it implies the need for open, calm, and honest communication. You're encouraged to approach situations with a clear mind and a compassionate heart.

Additionally, the Aquamarine's connection to the element of water symbolizes emotional healing and purification, indicating a potential period of emotional renewal and growth in your love life.

✨ If you're already in a relationship, one or both of the following may happen:

- Rejuvenation: A period where you and your partner will draw upon your inner strength to overcome challenges and renew your bond. I'm seeing that balance of energies between you two.

- Emotional Fortitude: You'll find the courage to address any issues that may have been lingering, leading to a deeper connection. You're fostering compassion towards each other.

✨ If you've recently started seeing someone:

- Empowered Beginning: This signals a strong and positive start to a new relationship. Both parties will feel a sense of inner confidence and a willingness to support one another.

- Open-hearted Communication: You'll have the courage to express your true feelings and intentions, creating a foundation of trust. There'll be balance and harmony.

✨ For my Single Individuals:

- Self-Empowerment: I'm seeing a period of personal growth and self-discovery for you. You're finding a newfound confidence and ability to stand on your own. And that is not just good for your self esteem but also for attracting new love. And this love is not going to be someone. It'll most likely be "the one". When you're feeling your best, and acknowledging your importance and qualities, you attract people who do the same. So, the more love you give yourself, the more love you're attracting from your soulmate. All the best!! I'm so happy for you.

✨ For lost and found connections:

- Forgiveness and Healing: If you're seeking to reconcile with a past love, both parties here need to summon inner strength to forgive and move forward. Shift your focus from what was to what is and what can be.

Talk things out. Open and honest communication will open doors of reconciliation for you. Allow yourself to heal. Allow your relationship to heal.

To Summarise

Expect balance, trust, happiness, and hope in your love life. But it's crucial to keep in mind the advises above.

Pile III 🌦️

Card: 7oC

Signs: Pisces, Sagittarius, Virgo, Cancer, Capricorn, Scorpio

There's indications of confusion and many possibilities in the realm of love for you, pile 3.

Also, a song came up for y'all out of nowhere.

Now, the card VII of Cups along with the message of the song "Standing Next to You" by Jung Kook, is giving me fantasies, illusions, distractions, need for reassurance and stuff like that.

Ofcourse, the messages apply differently to different individuals and their situations and I've tried my best to make this reading inclusive of all.

So here you go:

✨ If you're already in a relationship:

- Choices and Fantasies: It's easy to get lost in daydreams when you're in love. Especially if you choose to imagine an idealized version of your partner over the original version of them. This can be particularly true if you're a water moon/Venus or 12th house Venus placements.

If this sounds like you, it's important to remember that your partner is human, just like you. They're not some perfect being descended from the heavens. They have flaws and imperfections, just like everyone else. That's completely normal and okay.

Instead of being disappointed by the gap between imagination and reality, take the time to truly know your partner. Spend quality time together, have meaningful conversations, and appreciate the person right next to you. This real, tangible connection is what truly matters.

The song's message, expressed in lyrics "Standing next to you," is a poignant reminder for you to focus on the here and now. It's your sign to cherish the present moment and the person who's chosen to be with you. Don't let yourself be swept away by fantasies. Embrace what you have, and with patience and time, your love will blossom into something beautiful.

✨ If you've recently started seeing someone:

- Overthinking Love: In the early stages of a new relationship, it's easy to have high expectations and fantasies. This is your warning against overthinking and idealizing fictional romance.

"Standing next to you" is a reminder for you to appreciate the person in front of you. Try to know them. Give them some time. That is, if you genuinely like them. And you feel the compatibility in the long run.

Otherwise, it's not worth it. Take a look around, maybe your "Standing next to you" is a totally different person and you've been looking everywhere but at them. Give it some thought!!

Confirmation: You have your sun or moon aspecting their sun or moon.

✨ For my Single Individuals:

- Choices and Opportunities: Y'all are really entering a time when you have many options in the dating world. Although, you're confused. Either because of this reading or in general. You're like, I'm not popular. What do you mean many options? Nobody looks at me?

Honey! Calm down. If you knew how many eyes are eyeing you, you'd be sick self-conscious all the time. So it's good that it's not obvious to you, yet.

Although, the channeled song is giving me hints in the sense that even with many options, there's a special connection who you either already cherish secretly or are totally oblivious about.

The song is also giving me hints about a specific someone. If you know someone who is your potential love interest, has their personal planets specifically sun or moon aspecting your sun or moon, this is them.

If you knew it already, perfect! If not, now you do! Find them, hold on to them. They're your person.

Good luck;)

✨ For lost and found connections:

- Dreams vs. Reality: If you're seeking to reconcile with a past love, I'm sensing the inner struggle between what was idealized and what actually transpired. You're still somewhat disappointed in them. They were good. Better than your other exes. But you still can't digest the fact that they didn't treat you a certain way as you imagined. And so, you sought it better to part ways.

Maybe there was compatibility issues even. You were disillusioned to their real personality. Something blinded you to see them differently. And that may or may not have been their fault.

Before jumping into anything, be clear about what you want from this relationship or any relationship in general and learn what they want too.

If you find a common ground, it's perfect! If not, who's gone is gone! They may not be the person for you.

Maybe there's someone better. Someone worth the wait. Someone with who you'll stand the test of time. Nothing and nobody will be able to divide you from them. And if you believe this person whom you're considering for reconciliation is that someone, go for it. But if not, please be patient. The song says "I'll be right here." This is a direct message from them, through divine.

Confirmation: You have your sun or moon aspecting their sun or moon.

To summarise:

It's important that you appreciate the present moment and value the person who's chosen to be with you. Don't let fantasies or illusions obscure the potential for a genuine and lasting connection.

Remember, love is about embracing imperfections and cherishing the person standing next to you. Because, while perfect love and partner can indeed be manifested, making it last requires real effort. It's about being present, understanding each other's imperfections, and working together to build something strong and lasting.

Thank you all for taking the time to read my pac. I hope the insights resonated with you and provided some guidance. If you found this helpful, I'd be grateful if you consider following me for more spiritual content and future tarot readings. Wishing you all love, light, and positivity on your journey! ✨

- With love, Snow ❄️

#tarot #tarotblr #tarotonline #pac tarot #pac reading #pick a pile #pick a picture #pick a photo #pick a card #pac #spirituality #love reading #love tarot

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whitehotharlots · 1 year

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Actually, most stuff *isn’t* political; you are just insane

Over the last several years, what was once a niche academic observation has become something of a mantra in left-liberal spaces: everything is political. (Everything is ideological doesn’t quite mean the same thing, but in effect the two assertions are interchangable).

There’s a grain of truth here, as anyone who smoked pot in high school and just, like, had some really deep thoughts will confirm. In order to understand any statement or work of art--in order to communicate--there must exist some shared understandings and beliefs between senders and receivers. Okay, great. Whoopdee doo. That’s some real philosophy major-level shit. You should write a fucking book about.

In spite of being unbearably tedious, this observation has become an all-consuming basal assumption underlying every left-liberal analysis of social issues and criticism of cultural artifacts. No longer are artists and commentators allowed to insist that some things simply fall outside the lens of our manichean partisan binary. No sir. Anyone whose work isn’t explicitly progressive is actually a secret reactionary, and so every work--from sitcoms to video games to journalistic descriptions of city hall meetings--must soak itself in the treacle of cultural liberalism.

If you’re writing a scene in which a black guy and a white guy are friends, you better fucking include a soliloquy in which privilege is reflected upon. If you’re making a breakfast cereal commercial that doesn’t feature at least one person of every conceivable racial marking, you might as well sign up for a job with the Daily Caller. Anyone who tries suggesting that, hey, I’m sorry I didn’t think it was a big deal that we didn’t make the Honey Nut Cheerio’s Bee gender non-conforming, I swear to god I didn’t think this was political is an idiot liar who deserves something far worse than prison. Why? Because everything is political, politics can only be understood within the contemporary Democrat-Republican split, and fascism happens the second our vigilance falters in the slightest.

You all see how retarded this is, right? How much it’s ruining people’s brains? At the very least, you can grasp how this hampers one’s ability to just enjoy stuff, let alone be able to understand its artistic and cultural importance outside the very narrow and stupid and 99% inapplicable lens of contemporary American politics?

I’m sorry, but I’m tried of lying about this shit. There’s nothing political about Kramer storming into Jerry’s apartment. There’s nothing political about Charlie Kelly blowing cigarette smoke into a hornet’s nest. There’s nothing political about the Pink Panther’s appearance in Owens Corning Insulation commercials.

Yes, you can get a byline or a humanities degree suggesting otherwise, so long as you’re craven enough to ignore context and authorial intent and also you think comprehensibility is bad. Again, good for you. But the rest of us, we are not professional lying shitheads, we have lost patience with the bullshit and are begging you to please shut the fuck up.

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itsonlytext · 2 months

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Innate Destructibility

He knew that if he wanted this (them) to work, he was going to have to stop squirming in his own words.

content and warnings: sexual thoughts, brief mentions of drug use and overall a rather (unspoken) angsty scene >1000 words. john struggles to communicate, sherlock struggles to understand.

(if it better suits you, here's the ao3 link to this one-shot.)

John (oh God, John).

He tried to hide the fumbling in his hands as he clumsily wandered over the planes of this warm, inviting body, but he couldn't. He knew that John had figured it out by now. (He must've.)

He had, of course, done it in the past (experiments, drunken teenage accidents, Janine). But he had never done it with John before - a man. (The man.) And no matter how hard he tried to force the trembling in his slender fingers to dissolve with every heated kiss, to push down the shaking in the sighs that escaped his lips, he knew he couldn't have hidden it. John always knew. He must've. (He sees everything.)

"Sherlock," he sighed out with a gentle laugh, pulling away and staring up at him earnestly.

Sherlock ignored the way his heart was beating faster than he had ever felt it before (heroine, 29 mg cigarettes, murders, they didn't compare anymore - they never will). He ignored the way his curly hair fell slightly into his line of sight (John) and blew out the breaths trapped in his lungs.

John rested a hand on his (left) shoulder, his hand hot to the touch, leaning his back flat against the wall. He seemed to struggle to find his words (it was unlike him, Sherlock thought. John always knew what to say). "I- You.." he huffed.

Oh. Flushed cheeks, heavy chest, nostrils slightly flared - he was catching his breath. (How didn't he deduce that?)

Sherlock kept his lips pursed the way he usually did when John spoke (too scared to ruin it with his innate destructibility).

"You know that you don't.. we don't. We don't have to do that.. right now," he shook his head, running his hand over his mouth and looking firmly into Sherlock's eyes. "This.. is good. This is really good, we don't have to do anything else yet."

Sherlock didn't understand. (Never understood anything.)

He didn't reply. Didn't he want this? Surely those four torturous years of waiting, hurting, miscommunications and implications had been enough to calcify their current intentions. (Clearly not.)

John pursed his lips and moved his hand from Sherlock's shoulder to the nape of his neck. "Come here," he pulled him into a confident, firm kiss.

It was only (upsettingly) brief.

John knew he was confusing (losing) Sherlock with every obscure and choked out sentence, slowly pulling the rod back to shore with the bait still lamely dangling on the hook. He knew that if he wanted this (them) to work, he was going to have to stop squirming in his own words - an underlying disease that made all his bait look so incredibly unattractive.

"We can.. We can always--"

"John? Is that you in there?"

Mrs Hudson's wandering voice fell close to the (closed) bedroom door. "John?" her voice tilted like she was on the precipice of laughter.

Sherlock could see her scrunched up nose and smile in his mind. Her interruption was a good thing, he knew. No matter what John was about to say, he wouldn't have been able to understand it anyway (he never did, he never did).

"What are you doing in there?"

John dipped his head frustratedly and lowered his voice. "She's going to have a field day with this," he muttered.

A small smirk tugged at Sherlock's lips as he graciously stepped back and allowed John a bubble of fresh air from the wall he had been previously pinned to. He gestured to the door. "You might as well."

"What?"

"Well she's already heard you."

"Oh!" her voice had gotten louder, as if she had somehow managed to lean even further into the door. "Is Sherlock in there with you?"

The detective suddenly opened the door. "It is my room, Mrs Hudson," he replied plainly.

John didn't seem too pleased with his answer. Sherlock couldn't precisely tell why, but the face he made twisted his stomach into unfathomable discomfort.

"Yeah, no, Mrs Hudson, we were just.. Talking."

(Innate destructibility - a virus that attacked more than just his speech. His actions, his mind, him.)

She grinned.

"Yes, erm." Sherlock watched John uncomfortably rub the nape of his neck as he stepped closer to their landlady with flushed cheeks.

Oh. He was embarrassed.

"Did you need me?"

Her eyes wandered over him knowingly before nodding. "There's a delivery out for you."

"Right, er, thanks.." he glanced at Sherlock with another ambiguous gaze - nothing that promised, 'we'll talk about this later', or 'i'm sorry, maybe when we're alone'. His facial features provided no form of context that Sherlock understood. (Why couldn't John ever finish the sentences that mattered? Relieve him of this unadulterated agony?)

Sherlock watched him follow Mrs Hudson out of the bedroom without a second glance.

John (oh God, John).

tags: @nathan-no @helloliriels @dragonnan @strawberrywinter4 @with-a-ghost-mr-holmes @7-percent @totallysilvergirl @inevitably-johnlocked @meetinginsamarra @a-victorian-girl

#bbc sherlock #sherlock fandom #fanfic #john watson #johnlock #sherlock holmes #authors #itsonlytext #no queerbaiting in this house #sherlock x john #complicated feelings #fanfiction

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mortalpolykule · 4 months

Text

Lay All Your Love On Me

Chapter 1: Sweat

Bi Han x Shang Tsung x Liu Kang

An au in which Bi Han doesn’t betray his brothers and they capture Shang Tsung. No guarantees that there will be much plot after this. Mainly just connected short stories about the character relations. This first part is mainly just laying the groundwork for character interactions and providing context. The pacing is a bit clunkier than I wanted, but fuck it we ball.

Warnings: None for this one, although there may be smut in future chapters

Bi Han, Kuai Liang, and Tomas had returned from their mission with Shang Tsung in tow as a prisoner. The sorcerer had his hands tied behind his back and his mouth gagged with a strip of cloth. His eyes dragged slyly around the room, likely plotting his escape. Kuai Liang and Tomas briefed him on the mission. There were a few hiccups along the way, but the trio was ultimately successful in disrupting the enemy’s plans. Liu Kang praised them for their efforts. Throughout the conversation, Bi Han had his eyes fixed on Shang Tsung. On the surface, it appeared that he was just keeping a close eye on the prisoner, but there was some underlying tension between the two of them.

“And what shall be done with the sorcerer?” Bi Han spoke up. His gaze was still deadly focused on Shang Tsung, who opted to ignore him and observe Liu Kang instead. Liu Kang could feel the sorcerer sizing him up. He realized that this was their first meeting in person since he defeated his counterpart and began constructing the new timeline.

“Shang Tsung will either be turned in to Outworld’s authorities to be tried for his crimes, or he can remain here in the temple under my supervision. I leave that up to Shang Tsung,” Liu Kang explained. Bi Han did not like that answer.

“He tried to tear my family apart and bring disgrace to the Lin Kuei!” He growled. “And the only punishment you have in mind is to babysit him?”

“I will explain all in time,” Liu Kang reasoned, his tone soft in an attempt to deescalate the situation. However, that only seemed to enrage Bi Han further.

“I have grown tired of your vague statements and half truths!” He roared.

‘Ah. So that is the source of his anger,’ Liu Kang noted.

“Bi Han!” Kuai Liang called out. His brother’s temper was making him increasingly nervous. Liu Kang did not react to the outburst, much to Kuai Liang and Tomas’ relief.

The Fire God knew that he must nip this conflict in the bud before it resulted in disaster, and he realized exactly what he needed to do.

“Kuai Liang, Tomas, please take Shang Tsung to my quarters. I must speak with Bi Han alone,” He said.

The two brothers bowed quickly and exited the room, tugging Shang Tsung with them, much to the sorcerer’s disappointment. He very much wanted to observe the Fire God and Grandmaster together.

Bi Han watched Liu Kang intently, his body still tensed, ready for a fight. Liu Kang decided that they weren’t going to make any progress with him amped up like this. Liu Kang calmly walked over to him and placed a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder. Bi Han flinched, expecting a blow that never came, but he made no move to push his hand away.

“I understand your anger Bi Han. Come with me, and you will have the answers you seek,” He said before turning and exiting the room. Bi Han decided to indulge him if it meant getting an explanation for Liu Kang’s lax punishment for Shang Tsung. They walked silently for a few minutes. Bi Han had spent a limited amount of time at the academy, so he was unfamiliar with this path. Eventually they came upon an isolated clearing. There were racks with various weapons placed around a grassless circle. It was much more simple compared to the other training grounds he had seen around the academy.

“Spar with me,” Liu Kang stated. Bi Han looked at him incredulously.

“I thought we were discussing the sorcerer,” he deadpanned.

“We will do that as well, but I need your mind to be clear for what I’m about to tell you,” Liu Kang explained. Bi Han’s eyebrows raised. Now, his curiosity was beginning to outweigh his frustration.

The two of them opted to fight without weapons or powers, relying only on hand to hand skill and strength. Bi Han figured the fight would not be easy, considering Liu Kang was a literal god, but he had confidence in his own fighting prowess as well. Liu Kang matched his every blow and was able to counteract him with ease. He played on the defensive side while Bi Han was on the offensive. After a while, Liu Kang finally began to speak.

He explained everything from when he took control over the hour glass to now, how he created this timeline to be be better than the last, crafting everyone’s fate to create the most peaceful outcome. He didn’t divulge much information about the previous timeline, but he did tell how Shang Tsung was a powerful sorcerer and had caused much chaos across the realms, so in this timeline Liu Kang wanted to neutralize him by giving him a meaningless life.

The fact that Bi Han was right about the sorcerer being a danger to them all only brought a small bit of comfort, for he was beyond shocked and angry. How much control did he really have over his own fate? His blows came down harder than before and his pace was beginning to grow more frantic.

“Talk to me Bi Han. Voice your frustrations freely. I will not judge you for them,” Liu Kang stated. He was still largely unaffected by Bi Han’s onslaught, which only increased the cryomancer’s ire. Bi Han could feel ice beginning to form on his hands, a physical manifestation of the heightened emotions storming inside of him. Still, he concentrated on keeping his powers in check. The Fire God had kept up his end of the bargain, and Bi Han wasn’t about to pull out his ice for his own convenience. He had more honor than that, honor that Shang Tsung had tried to strip away. The mere thought of the sorcerer had him in a fury before Bi Han even realized it. His form had gotten sloppy.

“Bi Han. Tell me what’s going on,” Liu Kang tried again. He remained calm and collected, merely blocking Bi Han’s blows as they came. He had been so focused on reading Bi Han’s expressions, that he failed to anticipate a sweeping blow from Bi Han’s leg, knocking him off balanced and sending him to the ground. Bi Han wasn’t even sure if he himself was expecting it either. A small gasp left Liu Kang as his back collided with the floor and the air was knocked out of his lungs. Out of all possible reactions, Bi Han didn’t expect Liu Kang to let out a hearty laugh and sit up, brushing the dirt off of his clothes.

“You caught me off guard. Well done,” he said with a smile, no evidence of anger or embarrassment on his face. Emanating from him was an aura of fondness and…. pride? Bi Han was so taken aback that he dropped his fighting stance completely. His eyes were wide, analyzing Liu Kang for any tricks. He would deny forever that a blush had crept up onto his cheeks and ears. His mind was swimming. His instincts and his starvation for praise were fighting amongst each other, and there were still the revelations from during the fight. This man-this god that sat before him was so much more than Bi Han had ever imagined. Liu Kang reached a hand out and gently pulled Bi Han down to sit next to him.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Liu Kang asked, still smiling gently. Bi Han couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact with him. Liu Kang had to have noticed his blush. He noticed everything.

“I…,” Bi Han began, but in that moment, words failed him. Where would he even start? There were so many things he wanted to say to him. To shout at him. He wanted to punch him and then gently hold his face in his hands.

“If you need time to process everything, I understand. I apologize for any distress that I have caused you and I promise to be more forthcoming about my decisions in the future,” Liu Kang said.

Bi Han simply nodded with a grunt.

“I also realize that it is important for me to admit when I have made a mistake. I believe this is the case with Shang Tsung. I weaved his fate out of spite and a desire for vengeance, and because of that, his suffering is my own doing. I must rectify this.” Liu Kang stood up and reached out his hand to Bi Han. “I will not ask you to forget your feelings, but I hope that you will be more patient with Shang Tsung from now on.”

Bi Han sighed. He had no energy left to argue, but he did take Liu Kang’s hand.

“Very well, but you better keep your promise.” Bi Han grunted.

#mk1 #mortal kombat 1 #mk1 2023 #shang tsung #liu kang #liu kang mk1 #bi han #shangliu #liushang #bishang #Bi Han x Shang Tsung x Liu Kang #liu kang x bi han #Spotify

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trans-axolotl · 1 year

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can I ask what a harm reduction self harm plan is? I saw you mention that and I've never heard of it before.

Sure! I'm going to put a trigger warning on this post for in depth discussion of self harm and self harm methods--please approach with caution!

A harm reduction plan for dealing with self-harm can look like many different things, but it's basically any plan for coping with self-harm where completely stopping self-harm is not the main goal. A harm reduction approach to self-harm recognizes that self-harm is a coping skill that people start using because it does meet some need, even if it also causes other problems or the benefit begins to get outweighed by the harms. Harm reduction can help you slowly start to work to understand what that underlying need is and work to meet it in other ways, without demonizing you for doing what you need to survive. Harm reduction can be an important way to take care of yourself and make some less risky choices, even if you're in a situation where you're not ready or not capable of stopping self-harming. Everyone's individual needs will look different, but there's several categories that can be good to consider if you're wanting to make a change in how you approach your self-harm.

One category is frequency. When you're actively struggling with self-harm, it can become really addictive. A harm reduction self-harm goal around frequency might look like making a goal for reducing how many times you self-harm per day, week, or month. Instead of traditional coping plans for self-harm where any instance of self-harm is seen as a relapse and might bring up feelings of failure, goals about reducing the frequency of self-harm might allow you to achieve positive changes that you feel good about, even if you're not stopping completely. For some people, it might help ease into doing healing work that requires a lot of emotional energy and processing, as you will still know that you have access to old coping skills and might not feel as bad about still being in a position where you're using them. It also might help you continue to feel committed to healing when relapses do happen, instead of seeing relapses as a catastrophic moment where if you're going to break your streak of days clean, you get into a "fuck everything" mindset and use riskier behaviors.

Another category is severity. We might not be ready to give up self-harm completely, but reducing the severity of the self-harm method we use might feel like a more accessible way to reduce the risk and take care of ourselves. This can look like making the effort to make more shallow cuts instead of deeper ones, less severe burns, or banging our heads on a surface that is softer. This can also look like switching from a more dangerous method of self-harm to a less dangerous form of self-harm. Even things like snapping a rubber band against your wrist instead of cutting could be considered a harm reduction approach to self-harm!

Another category that I like to focus on is environment. This is sort of a broader category that I like to use to focus on what other types of risk-reducing behaviors you can take. This can look like making sure that you always clean and sanitize your blades, that you have appropriate first aid materials and take care of wounds, that you only self-harm while sober, that you make sure the physical space you self harm in is clean and sanitized, that you tell a support person when you self harm or let someone else help with wound care--any of these things are things that could reduce some of the harms of self-harm. This could also look like setting up intentional self-care practices to use after you self-harm, whether it's sensory items, journalling, cuddling with an animal, using therapy coping skills, or distracting yourself.

A harm reduction approach to self-harm doesn't have to be restricted to the things I've listed above, and also can include goals about completely stopping self-harm! If you're in a place where you feel ready to stop completely, harm reduction might still be an helpful framework for considering how you want to engage with your self-harm urges and help you understand what path towards stopping self-harm feels most easily accessible.

I'll share what my personal harm reduction plan looks like. At different times during my life, my harm reduction plans used to be a lot more focused on reducing frequency and severity while still leaving room for regular self-harm. Now, my plan is with the goal of not using self-harm. However, if I do end up in a situation where I am using self-harm, my harm reduction informed goals are that: I use clean supplies. I self-harm indoors while sober. If I'm getting urges for a much more dangerous form of self-harm, I will let myself use cutting as a less risky form of self-harm. I practice safe wound care and leave a certain amount of time for those wounds to heal before self-harming in the same place again. If I self-harm more than once in a week, I let a support person know and ask for help with accountability.

My advice for anyone who's interested in taking a harm reduction approach to their self-harm is to embrace education and self-inquiry. Education about things like safer cutting and burning, anatomy, and wound care are really important so that you can actually know the risks and know what steps you can take to make things safer. I think self inquiry is also a good step to take when you're making any sort of coping plan. Really looking at your individual situation and figuring out what things seem the most achievable, what role self-harm is playing in your life, what triggers are connected to your self-harm, how you feel before and after you self-harm, how you want to feel, what parts of self-harm feel helpful and what parts you don't like. This can be a great thing to do with a support person if you have someone who you feel like can help you process this and give their perspective.

Here's a link to a google drive folder full of zines and workbooks about self-harm harm reduction. Trigger warning for continued discussion of self-harm, self-harm methods, anatomy, some mentions of suicidal ideation, and a photo of self-harm scars in the Icarus project zine.

Last thing I'll say is that it's okay to start small and give yourself the compassion to embrace where you're at. If reducing the frequency seems too hard right now, trying to always use clean blades is an amazing step! If changing anything about the way you self harm doesn't feel achievable, adding emotional self care into your self harm routine is still a win. If you never get to a place where you feel ready to stop completely, that's okay too--any and all steps you're taking to reduce the risk are so important and are worthy of celebrating.

Feel free to ask any other questions!

#harm reduction #antipsych #self harm tw #tw self harm #mad studies #asks #personal #mental health tag #ask to tag #antipsychiatry #ok to reblog

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purringfayestudio · 4 months

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I don’t know if you’re at all interested in discussing your recent post about your stop motion being tagged as body horror (if not, please feel free to ignore this, that’s totally fine!) but I can see where people are coming from. Even if it’s in fabric form, you are essentially showing a body being turned inside out, which could be upsetting to some. I agree that a body horror tag might be a bit of an extreme take on it, but I understand the feeling, and I can understand wanting to warn others who might be triggered by that sort of thing. Of course, if the tag makes you uncomfortable, that’s totally okay too! If making body horror wasn’t your intention, it makes sense that you may not want to see your art labeled that way. I think there really is no right answer, but I just thought it was an interesting thing to consider. Hopefully this isn’t offensive or a bother, I certainly didn’t mean it that way!

Oh I understand where people are coming from, I just personally think they're mistaken in their connection between a plushie and the grotesque images you'll find in the real body horror genre, and that they are disconnected from the ethical issues surrounding the term which make it inappropriate to reduce its definition to a very normal plushie-making process.

"Essentially showing a body being turned inside-out" It's a plushie, and an unfinished, undefined, fabric bundle in a rough animal shape at that point. At what point do we define a "body"? Do people feel the same when an artist starts a 2D drawing with a sketch of the underlying skeleton? Or when a sculptor morphs the clay between their hands? They're going to be "bodies" once finished, after all. Is it body horror when we eat animal-shaped cookies? Are people truly psychologically disturbed by these things so much that what feels like dozens of people have "warned" others in my tags? Or is it just that weird little feeling you get when you see something unexpected?

What people feel when they encounter something is valid, but how we define it matters. If people want to invent a new tag that better describes the distress people feel at anthropomorphizing or identifying with non-living objects, or the weird feeling at seeing something unexpected, that would be appropriate. Plenty of people have mentioned that part making them feel weird and that's not upsetting at all to me. "Body horror" just isn't it.

That being said I probably won't show it again, because it's distressing when you put in so much work to show a full process only for people to dump triggering things into your tags every time it comes around.

#I know this site is full of anthropomorphizing people but y'all #disconnect from the internet for a moment and go connect with human beings #yes even you ultra introverts - trust me I am one

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gallifreyinstituteforlearning · 11 days

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How does a Gallifreyan or a Time Lord experience humans? (or: how would you describe humanity from a Gallifreyan or Time Lord perspective while accounting for their fundamentally different sensory experiences?)

A Time Lord's View on Humanity

Gallifreyans/Time Lords have a wealth of senses they can use in their first impressions when meeting a human.

🌟 Immediate Sensory Impressions

👁️Visual: Time Lords naturally see more enhanced colours and details than humans can, so they can notice incredibly subtle details about a particular human. With a look, they can also read cues about a human’s health and emotional state - this might include seeing the flush of blood under the skin, the subtle muscle tension, and micro-expressions that might reveal a person's true feelings or intentions.

🦨 Scent: Humans stink. Time Lords can detect pheromonal changes that indicate stress, fear, or deceit if they concentrate. They can also detect the unique personal scent that every human carries. This can extend to a deeper picture of where the human has been recently and their lifestyle choices, like diet and hygiene.

🎧 Auditory: Time Lords can hear not just words but also the underlying frequencies of a human’s voice that could indicate mood and sincerity - if they try hard enough, they can hear the heartbeat, a quick inhalation of surprise or shock, or a sigh of relief.

🖐️ Touch: Even through a handshake, Time Lords feel the texture and temperature of human skin, the strength of a grip, and the pulse rate, all of which offer clues about a person's current physical and emotional state.

👄 Taste (if applicable): If you're hitting first base, Time Lords can discern a lot from this sense. Their enhanced taste buds can detect residual chemicals and substances on a person’s skin or breath, providing insights into the person's recent activities, health status, and even emotional state (as certain emotions can alter the body's chemistry).

🕰️ Chrono: Time Lords are 'time sensitive', meaning they can perceive time as a dimension - as easily as humans can see how much wine is left in the glass (not enough). This means when they meet someone, they sense not just who that person is now but the "echoes" of their past and potential futures. They might get a sense of important past events that have shaped the person, or their potential future significance. This probably doesn’t manifest as clear visions but more as a nuanced understanding of the person’s temporal significance. This could result in a particular 'draw' or 'revulsion' to them.

🔮 Psionic: Most Time Lords can't read minds medially or distally (i.e., most can't read minds without touching a person), but they can get a sense of mood or subtle emotional undercurrents from a distance. They pick up on psychic residues that humans unconsciously emit, which reflect their current emotional state and deeper, often unacknowledged, feelings.

🤔 Practical Interaction

In practical terms, when a Time Lord first encounters a human, they process all these details and form a complex, layered first impression. Time Lords tailor their social response based on this comprehensive sensory and temporal analysis, often leading to interactions that seem incredibly perceptive or mysteriously prescient to humans.

Of course, some Time Lords prefer to shut down or ignore many of these extras to be on a more human level for their own reasons.

Hope that helped! 😃

Further Reading

How do Time Lords see the future?

What happens when a human spends a lot of time with a Time Lord?

→🫀Gallifreyan Anatomy and Physiology Guide (WIP) →⚕️Gallifreyan Emergency Medicine Guides →📝Source list (WIP)

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

》📫Got a question / submission? 》😆Jokes |🫀Biology |🗨️Language |🕰️Throwbacks |🤓Facts 》📚Complete list of Q+A 》📜Masterpost If you like what GIL does, please consider buying a coffee or tipping below to help make future projects, including complete biology and language guides.

#doctor who #gil #gallifrey institute for learning #dr who #dw eu #gallifrey #dw meta #gallifreyans #ask answered #whoniverse #gil biology #gallifreyan biology #time lord biology

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zeciex · 2 months

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A Vow of Blood - 67

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 67: The Daughter of Insolence

AO3 - Masterlist

Gently closing the door behind her, Alicent turned to see Aemond seated by the hearth, his face cast in a warm, orange flow that softened the sharp lines of his face. His fingers twitched restlessly, betraying an underlying sense of unease.

Crossing the room, Alicent chose the chair adjacent to her son and sank into it, letting out a weary sigh. Her gaze drifted to the dance of the flames, while a nagging headache began to stake its claim, her thoughts swirling in a tumultuous mix of duties and plans yet to be executed. With so much looming come morning, the current moment of silence offered a brief respite, a chance to ponder the dawn’s impending challenges.

The quiet between them lingered before being gently fractured by Aemond’s soft-spoken words, his voice so low it nearly melded with the hiss and pop of the fire. “I went to Viserys. I saw him the night of…”

Alicent turned towards her son, a heaviness descending upon her heart as she digested his admission. A surge of apprehension gripped her, a fear of the unknown conversation they might have had, fear of the declarations Viserys might have made. “Why?”

Aemond appeared to shift uneasily at the question, his hands moving with nervous energy. “It’s irrelevant now.”

A furrow of concern formed on Alicent’s brow as she observed him intently, the firelight casting his face in a glow that softened his edges yet seemed to shroud his inner thoughts in shadows. His unusual decision to seek out his father, especially on the very eve of his death, puzzled her. It wasn’t like Aemond. Its importance was undeniable, instilling a sense of foreboding in her as she speculated it involved Daenera.

Alicent absentmindedly traced a nail along the skin of her thumb, the repetitive action providing a strange sort of solace. It appeared her son’s restlessness had crept under her skin as well. “Did he say anything?”

“He called me a plague sent to destroy him,” Aemond answered, his tone devoid of amusement, laden with the fresh hurt those words inflicted.

A sharp pang of empathy pierced Alicent’s heart, the harshness of such a declaration embedding itself within her as though a blade had been thrust into her back. The agony stemmed not solely from the cruelty of the remark but from the knowledge that Aemond had been its recipient. A wave of sorrow for her son washed over her, creating a fissure in her understanding of Viserys. The disparity between the man she knew and the one who would utter such words to their child left her grappling with disbelief and heartache–and yet, it was not the first time he had levied cruel words at their children.

Despite her turmoil, Alicent instinctively sought to rationalize her husband’s behavior, adhering to the role of a supportive wife.

“That’s,” she began, struggling the comprehend the reason behind Viserys’s harsh words to their son, “You must remember, Viserys was under the effects of the milk-of-the-poppy. It’s not like him to–”

“You needn’t defend him any longer,” Aemond cut her off decisively, to which Alicent let out a weary sigh, her fingers momentarily pressing against the bridge of her nose in a gesture of fatigue and resignation.

“I’m relieved that he’s gone,” Aemond declared, his words sharp with the bitterness of a son wounded by his father’s actions. And how could he not be bitter? But still, he shouldn’t say such a thing.

“Don’t utter such words,” Alicent chided, her voice tinted with worry. She couldn’t bear to hear Aemond express such sentiments; it wasn’t proper. “He is still your father, despite everything.

“I refuse to grieve for him,” Aemond stated, turning to lock eyes with her, the firelight casting his face in a dramatic interplay of light and shadow. The contrast accentuated the harsh lines of his face, with one side obscured by the eyepatch, the vivid scar etched into his skin glowing as if aflame. “I feel no sorrow. Why should I? In his eyes, I was a monster–a plague sent to destroy him. He couldn’t even stand to look at me.”

Alicent’s heart shattered anew for her son. Beneath his stoic exterior, the depths of his pain resonated through his words, mirrored in the contours of his face. She felt a tightness in her throat as she fought back tears, the weight of sorrow pressing down on her.

Memories flooded back–of gripping his hand tightly while the Maester painstakingly removed the damaged eye, of being by his side as the wound was stitched together, enduring the agony of having the wound reopened for thorough cleansing to prevent any infection that might corrupt his blood. She was there, holding his hand as the Maester excised a portion of his eyelid and meticulously cleared the socket of burgeoning scar tissue to insert the sapphire, all while Aemond’s body writhed in feverish torment, his skin burning, sweat matting his hair to his fever-flushed face. And through it all, she vividly recalled the absence of Viserys.

Alicent had resented him for his absence, for what he had allowed their son to go through. Viserys had withheld the justice his son was rightfully due and chose to ignore the anguish he had permitted Aemond, his son, to endure, acting as though the harrowing experience had never taken place.

Yet again, she frequently found herself trying to excuse his failings. It was Viserys, after all, who had given Aemond the eyepatch and had instructed the Maesters to spare no effort in ensuring his survival through the fever. He bought him a new sword and sent for books to arrive from the Citadel. He had tried, even as he couldn’t look at him.

“Your father was a weak king,” Alicent acknowledged, pausing to close her eyes briefly, a gesture of contemplation and resignation. When she looked again, her focus was drawn to the fire. “He wasn’t one to face his shortcomings. But he was a… decent husband and father…”

“He failed us,” Aemond declared, his voice laden with resentment, each word an indictment of his father. “He failed you as a husband. He favored Rhaenyra over us–were blind to the nature of her bastards. He was weak and he never cared for us. You were more of a servant to him than a wife. You needn’t excuse or defend him any longer, Mother.”

“Aemond,” Alicent responded, her sigh carrying the weight of exhaustion.

“He always hated us, his own children,” Aemond persisted, his words dripping with resentment and bitterness. “He could barely acknowledge our existence.”

It hadn’t always been like that, Alicent thought. Or, perhaps, it had been and she had just failed to see it. There had been a time, she knew, where there had been glimpses of happiness–of love.

Viserys had been a decent father, though not an exemplary one. The joy and pride he had displayed upon the birth of Aegon were vivid in her mind–his elation at having the long-desired son were moments she cherished. She had done her duty, born him a son, an heir–only for the succession to never change. Helaena’s arrival had brought happiness too, though she had been a fussy child. Yet, by the time Aemond was born, Rhaenyra gave birth to her own son, Jacaerys, not long after. Viserys had never been prouder or happier than at the birth of his first grandson. Even as, with each birth, it became clearer and clearer that they were not her husband’s but instead the illegitimate children of House Strong.

Viserys had been blind with a love he had never afforded anyone else.

She had devoted herself to be his wife; her youth, her innocence, birthing the son he had ardently wished for, and given him more still. And yet, her contributions seemed to always pale in comparison to Rhaenyra.

Aegon was the son Viserys had wanted, he was the boy her father had demanded of her. He was supposed to be for the crown. And Helaena was made to be the future Queen. Aemond was the spare. And Daeron, her youngest, he had been her solace until Otto made the decision to send him away to be nurtured in Oldtown.

“He never hated you,” Alicent responded, her voice imbued with a gentle, contemplative quality. Extending her hand towards Aemond, she laid it tenderly on his arm, offering a reassuring squeeze. “Your father loved you and I will not have you deny him this. He loved you.”

“But we were never them,” Aemond mused softly.

“No,” Alicent conceded with a note of solemn agreement. “We were never them.”

Despite everything, there was undeniably love for their children. He did hold affection for them, somewhere, yet Alicent could never measure up to Aemma’s memory, haunted by her ghost for years. And Aegon could never replace the son he lost. His love for them was shadowed by the ghosts of those he had lost, and the sweetness of recollection–for no one could ever measure up to the memory.

The affection he held for them could never compare to the love he had for Rhaenyra and her children.

Alicent had poured her essence into embodying the ideal wife for Viserys, the perfect daughter for her father, and the loving mother her children deserved. Yet, it was never enough.

All these things she had toiled with, seemed to come so easily to Rhaenyra.

Alicent stared at the flames. “The hour grows late; you should try and find some rest before morning.”

Inhaling deeply, Alicent rose to her feet, a profound fatigue embedding itself into her very bones, her muscles protesting with stiffness and soreness after the day’s exertions. Her footsteps echoed a soft click against the floor as she approached Aemond, pausing before him. Bending forward, she murmured, “I’ll go see to Aegon, and make sure he has not met with any further mishap.”

Gently, she kissed the crown of his head, then retreated a step. Together, they navigated the quiet of the room, stepping into the corridor where shadows seemed to dance in the dim light.

With a comforting squeeze to his arm, she advised, “Do not go roaming the halls. Get some rest, it will be a long day on the morrow.”

Leaving Aemond at the entrance to her chambers, Alicent continued down the corridor, her path veering towards Aegon’s chamber, the weight of the coming day already pressing on her shoulders.

Gently pushing open the doors to her son’s room, Alicent stepped inside, immediately greeted by the sound of tranquil breathing indicative of deep slumber. Aegon was exactly where she had left him, sprawled on his stomach with half of his face buried in the pillow, an arm dangling over the edge of the bed as his lips were slightly open, inhaling and exhaling rhythmically. Ser Arryk Cargyll maintained the quiet watch near the doorway, his presence a silent guard for the prince’s restful state, while Lady Mertha busied herself with arranging his attire for the morning, each piece placed meticulously on a nearby table.

Alicent ventured closer to Aegon, observing him with a mix of tenderness and contemplation. In these moments of repose, he appeared almost a child, his youthful innocence unshielded. The usual harsh lines of discontent that seemed to etch his features were absent.

Back when he was an infant, Alicent often found herself watching him sleep, finding a peaceful solace in his quietude that starkly contrasted with the turmoil of his waking cries.

She tenderly swept his hair from his forehead, her fingers lingering on his skin with a gentle touch. In the hush of his slumber, Alicent found him more endearing, easier to love. In these tranquil moments, his presence did not test the bounds of her affection.

Though his arrival into this world has been quick and marked by an ease that belied the challenges to come, loving him had not been as straightforward. In his infancy, despite his frequent cries that seemed to echo her inner disquiet, he was more manageable. Alicent had endeavored to imbue him with a sense of duty from a young age hoping to enlighten him about his crucial role and the immense potential that lay within him–on his shoulders rested their family’s future and fortunes. However, as he matured, he grew defiant and stubborn, mirroring the less admirable traits of his father without exhibiting redeeming qualities to counterbalance them. Yet, deep down, Alicent held a conviction about the greatness he was capable of achieving. He could rise to be a great king; she believed this was their divine purpose, the reason the gods had granted her a son.

Aegon shifted in his sleep, drawing a deep breath before rolling away, his face turning from Alicent’s gaze.

Silently retreating, Alicent caught Lady Mertha’s attention with a glance, subtly nodding towards the doorway as a signal to depart. The lady’s maid heeded the unspoken command, accompanying Alicent out into the corridor. The door clicked shut behind them, casting shadows that swallowed them in near-total darkness. Side by side, they navigated the silent, expansive corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast.

“Have the preparations for the Princess’s chambers been completed?” Alicent inquired, clasping her hands together in a composed gesture.

“All has been removed, Your Grace,” Lady Mertha confirmed. “However, I would suggest it prudent to delay her relocation until she proves worthy of such privileges.”

“We shall have her moved back to her chambers regardless, to avoid any impression of punishing her,” Alicent decided, her voice carrying a tone of finality. Their footsteps resounded against the stone floor, their presence briefly filling the grandeur of the great staircase, sounds bouncing off the high ceilings and stone walls as they descended.

“Over the many years of your service, you have been loyal to me,” Alicent began, her voice imbued with gratitude. “Your devotion and integrity are qualities I deeply value, especially now, as we face a challenging task. The princess is headstrong and defiant, much like her mother, and she requires someone with a guiding yet steadfast hand to lead her on the right path. I entrust her to your supervision, to ensure she does not become a thorn in our side. It is imperative she is never left unattended; her propensity to evade supervision has already caused us enough concern. We cannot risk her escape or any… rebellious actions.”

“I cannot oversee her at all times on my own,” Mertha pointed out.

“Guards will be posted at her door constantly and will accompany her wherever she goes,” Alicent assured. “Additionally, you can enlist one of the newer maids for assistance–one that understands to keep her out of trouble.”

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Mertha accepted the charge, giving a short nod.

“I intend to have a word with her first, after which you may escort her to her chambers for the night. You’re dismissed to make the necessary arrangements,” Alicent directed.

With a respectful nod, “Your Grace,” Mertha bowed slightly before departing, her steps echoing as she retreated through the stony silence of Maegor’s Holdfast.

Alicent then continued her own path through the courtyards and into the Keep.

Winding through the halls within the Keep, Alicent ascended the serpentine staircase leading to the west wing, only to discover it was not as abandoned as she had hoped. The sight of her son, poised outside Daenera’s chamber, caused her heart to constrict.

The guard stationed by the door seamlessly merged into the darkness as he neared her, his steps echoing. Their gazes intersected for a fleeting moment, and with a subtle shake of her head, Alicent signaled her wish to remain unseen. Complying, the guard repositioned himself against the wall, still close enough to the princesses' confinement to keep watch, his gaze fixed forward, effectively rendering her invisible.

Alicent’s eyes lingered on Aemond, who stood transfixed by the door, his only movement the restless twitch of his fingers.

As he inched closer to the entrance, a wave of dread washed over her, the prospect of him defying her wishes once more–for Daenera’s sake–weighing heavily on her. The possibility of him crossing that threshold yet again stirred a deep unease within her.

A sense of foreboding enveloped Alicent, a chilling fear that Aemond was drifting beyond her grasp. Dread wrapped its cold hand around her heart, clutching it tightly. The notion of losing him, especially to Daenera, was unbearable. Aemond had always been the one she could lean on, the steadfast son whose loyalty to his family and duty overshadowed any personal desires. Yet, now, his resolve seemed to falter–all because of her.

Months had passed since Alicent discovered the affair, and an equal amount of time since she had told him to end it. Yet, as the moon had turned, it became apparent that her son’s defiance remained constant. She knew him to be willful, bold even, but she never thought he would be this spiteful. Despite her clear instructions and explicit command to end the fling and commit himself to a more suitable union, he persisted in his disobedience. She had extended him the courtesy of choosing his own wife, a rare privilege. Nonetheless, against all counsel and her express wishes, he continued to choose Daenera.

She observed him with both concern and disbelief as he leaned closer to the door, his face momentarily swallowed by the shadow it cast. Alicent felt a knot tighten in her throat at the sight. The influence the princess had exerted over her son perplexed her; it was as if Daenera had bewitched him, woven a spell around him to lure him from all that was right, to steal him away from his family and duty.

Alicent harbored no illusions about Daenera’s intentions. She was convinced that the princess would exploit Aemond’s affections, attempting to sway his loyalties away from his family. And should those efforts prove fruitless, as Alicent knew they would be, Alicent, too, recognized the vindictiveness in Daenera’s nature. In her heart, Alicent feared Daenera’s influence would lead her son down a path of misery and regret.

Alicent’s deepest wish for her children as for them to claim what was rightfully theirs, to lead lives filled with prosperity and seize the moments of happiness whenever possible. She had hoped that Aemond would secure a future that was not only joyous but also stable, perhaps with a Baratheon girl as his wife–someone who recognized her role. It could even have been a Lannister if he so wished, or a Tyrell. Anyone but Daenera.

For a fleeting moment, Alicent speculated if the gods had sent Daenera to test them, to test their strength and perseverance–or if it was some sort of punishment.

Aemond pulled away from the door after a long, lingering moment, his posture straightening as if resolving himself. He stared at the door for a moment longer before he exhaled and then turned to retreat down the hall.

Alicent watched him as he slipped into the darkness, watched as the light failed to penetrate the encroaching shadows that eventually enveloped him, his presence reduced to the fading sound of his footsteps until he vanished entirely. After a moment’s hesitation, she stepped forward from her concealment, her heart thrumming with apprehension. The guard followed her and proceeded to unlock and open the door for her, then stepped aside to grant her entry.

Poised on the threshold, Alicent felt a brief sense of relief at her son's withdrawal. Perhaps she shouldn’t be too concerned with him.

The room was dimly lit by the faint glow of the hearth, casting an interplay of warmth and chill in the air–a testament to the fire’s inability to fully dispel the cold entirely. The air felt old and stale, carrying a dampness that lingered unpleasantly in the throat.

Alicent stopped forward into the chamber, her gaze immediately drawn to the figure slumped in a chair, enshrouded in a black cloak that was all too familiar. The girls attention seemed fixated on the fire, unfazed by the sound of the door opening, and it gave Alicent the opportunity to study her. Her hair hung in unruly curls and strands, a smear of red on her cheek and on the fingers that continuously fidgeted with something in her hand.

For an instant, Alicent didn’t see the defiant girl she had braced herself to confront. Instead, she glimpsed a figure that might invoke pity. However, as the girl shifted, locking eyes with her, Alicent was met with that unmistakable contempt, a flame as fervent as the one crackling in the hearth–an insolent daughter of an insolent mother. What struck Alicent even more deeply was the girl’s dismissive return to watching the flames and her biting remark, “Please excuse the absence of courtesies, Your Grace. It appears that unjust confinement has a way of eroding such formalities rather swiftly.”

In the dimly lit chamber, Daenera sat alone, the passage of time marked only by the sporadic delivery of meals. The routine of food arriving – once at what she assumed to be mid morning, then again at noon, and then with the in the evening – was her only indicator of the day slipping by in her confinement. The hours stretched endlessly, each moment an eternity.

Daenera idly turned over the golden coin in her hand, its edges catching the dim light as she sat curled in the chair watching the dying hearth. She kept the coin in perpetual motion, a solitary distraction from the oppressive silence that enveloped her. It was a silence so profound that it seemed to amplify the whir of thoughts racing through her mind.

Daenera’s relentless search for an escape had left no corner of her chamber unexplored. She had searched every inch of the walls, delved under the bed, rummaged through the contents of the closets and cupboards, only to be met with stark disappointment. The room, in its desolate state, offered no hint of salvation. Lacking weapons or tools, she found herself devoid of means to force the door open or defend herself. The realization of her utter confinement then sank in.

Exhausted and defeated, she had finally settled back down in front of the hearth. The cloak wrapped around her offering only a little comfort against the chill. The cold had seeped through the floor, numbing her feet and creeping into her body, and she had drawn them up on the seat in an attempt to regain some warmth in them.

Memories, unbidden and sharp as blades, sliced through her thoughts. Her mind replayed the horrific scene of Ser Criston Cole’s sword impaling Joyce, the vibrant red blood that had marred the blade, and the dark pool that had spread like a macabre shadow on the floor. The visceral memory of the warm, sticky blood on her fingers haunted her, and her hands still bore the grime of it, the blood brown and crackling.

Her thoughts raced chaotically. Fenrick, her men, Jelissa, and Patrick – their fates hung in the unknown. Were Meraxes sailing towards Dragonstone or had they been apprehended before even leaving the docks? She wondered if anyone had dared to defy the Hightowers, if anyone had found the courage to inform her mother of the dire circumstances.

Her mind moved towards her grandsire and wondered with a mixture of dread and sorrow about his final moments. Was his passing a cruel act of murder, or had the relentless embrace of death finally claimed him in its natural course? Was his death as brutal as Joyce’s or was it kinder in its swiftness?

Her mind was haunted by the images of what might have become of his body. Were they bestowing him the funeral of a Targaryen king, or had they consigned him to a more humble interment, following the traditions of the Faith?

Daenera felt a sharp pang of sorrow clenching her heart, resonating deeply within her chest, and she pulled the fabric of the cloak more snugly around her, seeking a semblance of comfort in its folds. Where was Aemond in all of this? Did he know of her confinement in this desolate chamber? Would he even care?

As she continued her musing she idly toyed with the coin, turning it between her fingers. Her thumb, in a repetitive motion, traced the coin’s thin edge, feeling each notch and curve as if seeking solace in its familiar metallic coolness.

Tears, not unfamiliar to her eyes in recent days, threatened to spill again. She despised this feeling of helplessness, the gnawing isolation that enveloped her. She loathed the way she clung to the cloak as if it were the only thing keeping her sane, its scent a bitter reminder of a freedom now lost. The dirt and grime on her skin, and the memory of Lary’s leering gaze and the humiliation he inflicted upon her – lingered like a foul taste in her mouth.

Daenera detested this feeling of being a bird trapped within a cage, her wings clipped, her sky reduced to the expanse of a ceiling. Most of all, she hated the way her mind incessantly circled these thoughts, trapping her in a relentless cycle of despair and anger.

The room’s oppressive silence was suddenly broken by a soft click, followed by the gentle creak of the door as it swung open. A narrow beam of light sliced through the dimness, accompanied by a fresh gust of air that briefly challenged the room’s stale atmosphere. Daenera’s gaze immediately darted towards the entrance, focusing on the woman who had come to retrieve the untouched tray of food. It was the same woman who had brought it earlier, her movements efficient.

The older woman methodically tended to the hearth, stirring the dying embers into life and adding more firewood, coaxing the flames to grow. After ensuring the fire’s vitality, she turned her attention to the chamber pot, lifting it with practiced ease and disappearing momentarily to dispose of its contents outside.

Daenera had attempted to engage with the woman in conversation during her earlier visit, seeking even the slightest of human connection in isolation – to pry information out of her, anything about what was happening outside.

But her efforts were met with silence; the woman remained resolutely mute, responding to none of her inquiries or pleas. Eventually, Daenera had ceased trying, resigning herself to silence and so, she remained silent this time as well.

She stayed close to the hearth, watching as the flames consumed the new firewood. The heat it offered was hardly enough, but it provided a small respite from the bone-deep chill that had taken residence within her.

At times, her desperation had led her to consider more drastic measures – the thought of setting the room’s sparse furniture ablaze had flickered through her mind. But the practicalities of such an act quickly quashed the idea.

The resultant smoke would likely choke her before the guards would manage to intervene. Weighing the risks, Daenera had reluctantly decided against it, leaving the furniture untouched, her gaze drifting to the flames that danced mockingly before her.

Time drifted languidly, its passage barely noticed by Daenera as she was lost in contemplation. The creak of the door opening once more only faintly registered in her consciousness, her focus deeply entrenched in the embers of the hearth.

Dismissing the sound as merely the return of the maid, she paid it little heed. In her hand, the coin she idly toyed with briefly captured a stray gleam from the fire, its eye momentarily sparkling in the dim light before she flipped it over to the spiraled side.

And then, the palpable change in the room’s atmosphere soon pierced her haze. The air seemed to thicken with a presence more significant than that of a silent maid. Daenera’s gaze slowly lifted from the flames, and she found herself unexpectedly locking eyes with the Queen. There she stood, a figure of composed authority, her hands neatly clasped in front of her. Her lips were set in a tight line, and her eyes held a discerning, calculating sharpness that seemed to penetrate the very core of Daenera’s being.

“Please excuse the absence of courtesies, Your Grace,” Daenera’s voice was low, tinged with a bitter edge as she spoke without lifting her gaze from the flames. “It appears that unjust confinement has a way of eroding such formalities rather swiftly.”

Her thumb traced the curve of the coin, pressing it into the soft flesh of the pad of her finger. “Have you come to deliver news of my execution? Will I meet my end as the alleged bastard you claim me to be, perhaps dangling at the end of a rope? Or does my Targaryen blood warrant a more dignified demise at the hands of the king’s executioner?”

Despite the veneer of defiant nonchalance in her tone, an underlying current of fear wrapped around her heart. She wanted to live – by the Gods she wanted to live.

Swallowing thickly, she continued. “Or have you concluded a more quiet end would be preferable, so as not to disturb the smallfolk?”

Alicent finally broke her silence, her voice carrying a cold, matter-of-fact quality. “My father did indeed call for your quiet execution. The same fate he sought for your mother.”

Daenera’s jaw tightened, her teeth clenched as she struggled to maintain her composure. Her gaze was steadfastly locked onto the fire, where the flames danced in an array of yellow, orange, and red, their tongues flickering and snapping as if in cruel jest, echoing the taunt that haunted her mind: You should have been wiser. Now, see where your choices have led you.

Alicent inhaled deeply, seemingly gathering her thoughts and steeling herself for what she was about to say. “I must admit, I hold no affection for you, but I do not wish to shed blood unnecessarily.”

Daenera turned to face the Queen directly, her eyes meeting Alicent’s with an unyielding hardness as Alicent continued. “We will present our conditions to your mother. Should she recognize Aegon as the legitimate heir to the throne and bend the knee, further conflict can be avoided.”

A scoff left her mouth as she shook her head in disbelief.

Daenera scoffed, shaking her head in indignation.

“She will then be permitted to live out her remaining days in peace on Dragonstone along with your brothers,” Alicent finished, her tone unmoving.

Daenera fixed her eyes on Alicent, her expression falling somewhere between skepticism and sheer disbelief. It was unmistakably clear that Alicent held onto the notion of resolving this peacefully, without the necessity of violence. Daenera found herself wondering whether this belief stemmed from a place of naivety or genuine hope for peace.

Otto Hightower would never tolerate rivals to the throne. He may temporarily stay his hand, but Daenera was certain that he would order their execution, regardless of any submission or bending of the knee.

“How gracious of you, to grant us our days on Dragonstone,” Daenera responded, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she shook her head in disbelief at the proposition.

Alicent, maintaining her composure, asserted, “The terms are equitable.”

Daenera’s response was immediate and scathing. “‘Equitable’?! My mother is the legitimate heir to the Iron Throne. Viserys named her as his successor; it is her rightful inheritance.”

“If your mother truly values the lives of her children, she will capitulate,” Alicent declared, her tone imbued with an undercurrent of condescension. “It is what the King wished.”

Slowly rising from her position on the chair, her movements somewhat unsteady as she acclimatized to the sudden surge of blood through her legs. Clenching the coin in her palm, she gripped it so tightly that it dug into her skin. “What the King wanted was to see his daughter ascend the throne.”

Alicent’s lips tightened, pursing further before she spoke in a tone of solemnity. “Years ago, on Aegon’s second name day, my husband confided in me. He spoke of a dream, a vision he believed prophetic, foretelling that a male child of his line wearing the Conqueror’s crown. By then, he had not had a male heir, and thus, named your mother as his heir, as a means to settle the succession and ensure that his brother never wore the crown.”

Her words were tinged with an unmistakable bitterness as she unfolded and then refolded her hands in a precise motion, her posture regal and unyielding, embodying her status as the Queen. “He appointed your mother out of necessity. Over the years, this decision was marred with regret and doubt. There’s no questioning his love for his daughter, your mother, but he always believed it was not the rightful path. In his mind, his son was destined heir. Thus, in his final moments, he amended the succession, proclaiming Aegon as his true successor.”

A sharp pang of anguish jabbed at Daenera’s heart, her expression darkening into a deeper scowl. Her heart throbbed erratically, a mix of fear and disbelief churning in her stomach. “I don’t believe you. Viserys would never alter the succession so drastically – so suddenly. He would never disinherit his daughter.”

Alicent, undeterred, maintained her stance. “It was his final wish to rectify his mistake. He chose Aegon as his heir.”

“Is this his decree, or merely your own desires masquerading as his final wish?” Daenera challenged, her gaze intensely focused on the Queen.

Alicent’s response was a slightly uptick of her chin, her eyes hardening into a frosty stare.

“It seems implausible that he would so drastically reverse his stance,” Daenera pressed on. “After all, he publicly supported his own trueborn grandson as heir of Driftmark, and thereby, reinforcing my mother’s claim to the throne. Why endure the ordeal of court appearances, of taking his place on the Iron Throne, if not to ensure his will was done?”

“I cannot pretend to know his innermost thoughts, I can only relay the words he shared with me in private,” Alicent replied, her tone edged with a firm conviction. “He explicitly expressed his wish for Aegon to ascend the throne.”

“What proof do you have to substantiate this claim?”

Alicent’s lips tightened, her gaze sharpening. “He entrusted his final wish to me–”

Daenera interjected, “So, there are no witnesses to corroborate your statement? No official record or scribe to document this decree? We only have your word to rely on?”

“My word should suffice; I would not lie about such matters,” Alicent stated, her tone resolute – righteous even. However, the absence of tangible evidence cast an unmistakable shadow of doubt over her claim.

Daenera responded with a mix of disbelief and scorn, “Naturally, you would resort to deceit. You’re poised to gain everything from this – or conversely, stand to lose it all if the truth were otherwise.”

The notion that Viserys had a sudden change of heart seemed to her nothing more than a convenient fabrication by the Hightowers to seize power. With no witnesses to corroborate such a claim, its validity was dubious – and yet, it appeared to hold sway with the council.

Daenera surmised that this very issue must have been the cause of Lord Beesbury’s demise.

Lord Lyman Beesbury, having held the position of Master of Coin since the onset of Viserys’s reign, had a long-standing friendship with the King. He had known him far longer than anyone on the Council. His intimate knowledge of Viserys’s character and intentions made him unlikely to be swayed by mere assertion from the Queen. He would have asked for definitive proof – and for this loyalty, he was killed.

Daenera held a firm belief that Alicent would twist the truth to fit her own narrative. It was a tactic she had used before, yielded against her mother so much that it drove her to flee to Dragonstone. “You say that Viserys named Aegon as his successor–”

“It is the truth,” Alicent replied, a hint of impatience creeping into her voice.

“Have you ever considered the possibility that he might have been referring to my brother, Aegon?” Daenera questioned, feeling the coin dig painfully into the palm of her hand as she stood her ground.

Alicent’s demeanor remained stoic, her gaze fixed on Daenera with a cool detachment. “And why would he choose a child he met only once?”

“Why would he choose a drunk who is unsuitable to wear the crown?”

Alicent’s eyes drifted upwards, as if seeking divine patience, her jaw shifting to the side in a clear display of irritation. She ran her tongue along her bottom teeth, visibly exasperated. “I did not come here to debate the legitimacy of the succession, or to seek your opinion. The decision has been made, and the Council supports Aegon ascending the throne – as was the king's wish.”

“Of course the Council will support Aegon’s claim, when those who dare question the legitimacy of your claim have been silenced,” Daenera observed. She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction as she saw the impact her words had on Alicent, who notably paled in response. “It seems their unwavering loyalty to the King is repaid not with honor, but with permanent removal.”

“That was an unfortunate accident,” Alicent bit out through clenched teeth.

“And here I thought you wished to refrain from any unnecessary bloodshed.”

The Queen’s face grew stern, her grip on her own hands tightening as she gazed down at Daenera with a cold, almost patronizing air. “Aegon will be crowned King at dawn.”

Daenera let out a derisive scoff, her gaze shifting briefly to the dancing flames, reflecting her frustration. She then fixed a contemptuous look back at the Queen. “And why, pray tell, are you informing me of this?”

“You are expected to be at Aegon’s coronation, exhibiting your support for him as your King,” Alicent answered.

The mere thought of being present at the coronation ceremony, where she would be strategically positioned like a pawn in a grander game of deceit, filled Daenera with dread. The idea of having to feign support, to unwittingly endorse Aegon’s claim to the throne – a claim that starkly undermined her mother’s rightful ascendancy – sent a wave of despair through her. This illusion was an act of betrayal, a way to undermine her own family. Her heart sank at the notion.

“I refuse to participate in this charade.”

“You will,” Alicent insisted, stepping closer, diminishing the space between them, her presence imposing. “Your presence will solidify his claim.”

Alicent reached out, intrusively tucking a stray lock of Daenera’s hair behind her ear. The gesture was both invasive and belittling. Alicent’s dark eyes gleamed with a familiar certainty, that look of self-righteous conviction she so often assumed.

“I will not be a pawn in your schemes against my mother,” Daenera retorted, her voice laced with scorn. Her hold tightened around the coin, pressing the edge into her palm with such force that it was painful, and yet she could not stop.

Alicent exhaled a tired, frustrated sigh. “You will attend, not just to show your support for Aegon but also to announce your betrothal to Aemond.”

The words hung heavily in the air.

The sensation of the earth shifting under Daenera’s feet was overwhelming, as if the very ground was conspiring to swallow her into a chasm of shock and disbelief. The staggering revelation, one she hadn’t even considered, prevented her from succumbing to the urge to collapse. Her heart contorted in anguish, wrung dry of hope, before sinking into the abyss of her stomach. And a pallor washed over her as the blood seemed to drain from her face.

Throughout her captivity, her mind had been consumed by thoughts of escape, the safety of her men, and whether word had reached her mother. Her thoughts were a blazing inferno of concern and strategy, yet, astonishingly, they had never illuminated the possibility of a forced marriage to Aemond.

“The people are not so easily deceived,” Daenera managed to utter, her voice quivering with emotion. Her body trembled anew, and her head moved in a slow, disbelieving shake. “They will see the truth. They will know that I am but a political pawn, without a say in my fate.”

“Your mother once suggested a union between Jace and Helaena, and you and Aegon,” Alicent responded, her voice cold and measured. “She framed it as a means to reconcile our families, yet I saw it for what it truly was; a gesture born out of desperation.”

“And this proposed betrothal, if not an act of desperation, then what?” Daenera retorted sharply, her eyes gleaming with the threat of tears.

“It is meant as an offering of peace.”

“‘An offering of peace?’” Daenera’s voice was laced with bitter disbelief, almost a scoff. “It’s nothing but an affront – a scheme to shackle me to your son, to your cause.”

Alicent’s gaze sharpened, her eyes narrowing. “In truth, it is he who will be shackled to you.This was never my desire for my son. I pleaded with him to marry a Baratheon girl, but he wouldn’t hear it. For some…” Her gaze drifted upwards, as if seeking answers from the heavens, “unfathomable reason, he wants you.”

Daenera clenched her jaw, feeling the sting of betrayal slip between her ribs like a blade, piercing her heart. She swallowed hard, the acrid taste of treachery burning down her throat, igniting turmoil within her stomach.

Alicent’s gaze returned to Daenera, her dark eyes intense. “We hope this union will convince your mother to accept our terms of surrender.”

Daenera quickly withdrew her hand, recoiling from Alicent’s touch, which felt both soft and oppressively judgmental. She was acutely aware of her predicament – isolated, surrounded by enemies, a mere tool in their ambitious games. They would exploit her as a vulnerability of her mother, and they would do it well.

“My mother will never renounce her claim. She is the rightful heir to the throne.” Daenera asserted, her voice wavering, weak yet resolute.

“If she cares for the safety of her children, she will.”

Daenera fixed Alicent with a piercing glare, her voice sharpening with accusation. “And what of your own children? Do you truly care for them?”

Alicent’s response was tinged with frustration, her eyes burning as she glared back at Daenera, the corners of her lips turning downward. “Of course, I do–”

“This usurpation, it is a double edged sword,” Daenera interjected, her chest burning with frustration and indignation. “This will lead to war and to what end?”

“It is his rightful inheritance,” Alicent reiterated, though a flicker of unease crossed her face, betraying her otherwise controlled demeanor. There was something in her eyes that Daenera couldn’t decipher, not did she have the time to, as Alicent continued with a sneer. “All of this… it is for their futures. The efforts and sacrifices I’ve made will not be for nothing. Aegon is Viserys legitimate heir. The Iron Throne is his by birthright, and I will not let your mother take it from him.”

“Does he even want it?” Daenera challenged, her tone scornful, her teeth bared. “Or is it perhaps you who wishes to maintain a grip on power, Your Grace?”

“Aegon is the rightful heir to the throne,” Alicent’s voice rose in conviction. “As the firstborn son of Viserys Targaryen, and as his fathers chosen heir. Do you honestly believe the lords of the realm will rally behind your mother, a woman? See reason, Daenera. A ruler cannot have their authority questioned, and she would undoubtedly be questioned. You cannot expect the lords to bend their knees to a woman who has done nothing but show how ill suited she is as ruler by having bastards and shirking duty.”

“And do you truly believe they will support Aegon?” Daenera’s voice resonated with a chilling firmness. “Can the lords rally behind a man so blatantly unfit to rule? Your son is a drunk, who spends his nights wetting his cock in the lows of Flea Bottom, and spends his days tormenting serving girls! He’s preying on them. Innocent young girls, Alicent, younger than you were at your wedding. It is you, who should see reason!”

Alicent’s expression faltered at this harrowing truth, and for a fleeting instant, Daenera sensed a flicker of fear and regret go through the Queen. Her complexion turned ashen, her eyes widening in shock, her lips slightly parting with a mix of disbelief and realization. In that moment, Daenera clung to a flicker of hope, silently praying that her words had made a significant impact. After all, Alicent herself was once a young girl, now a woman and a mother. Could she not sympathize with the plight of those girls? Was she blind to the reality of her son – the very boy she was crowning?

“Your resentment has poisoned him – has poisoned both of your sons,” Daenera pressed on, attempting to elicit some semblance of responsibility. “You fear what will become of your children should my mother take the throne, but you should fear what will become of them should he be granted the power of a king. Who will protect the serving girls from his touch? Your son is a rapist–”

The blow was swift and unexpected, and Daenera stumbled back. She braced herself against the wall, her hand instinctively rising to cradle the tender, burning skin of her cheek. Taken aback, Daenera’s gaze snapped back to Alicent, her eyes wide with astonishment. Alicent’s initial surprise at her own actions quickly gave way to a newfound resolve. She stood there, an embodiment of conflicting emotions, yet she managed to project an air of unwavering confidence, her posture upright and unyielding.

A fiery determination burned in the Queen’s brown eyes, stirring in Daenera the memories of the fateful night when Aemond had lost his eye. She remembered how Alicent, with a dagger gripped in her hand, had confronted Rhaenyra, driven by a visceral need for retribution – an eye for an eye, blood for blood. Those eyes, filled with a profound belief in their own righteousness and justice, revealed a troubling truth. It seemed that for Alicent, the deplorable behavior of her son and his actions towards the serving girls were, regrettably, viewed as mere facets of the burdens women were expected to bear in this world. It was an unfortunate but unalterable aspect of their existence.

Daenera slowly removed her hand from the wall, straightening to her full height. “You know that what I say is true.”

Alicent responded with a calm, yet firm tone. “My son has his flaws, Princess. Yes, he indulges in wine and frequents the brothels of Flea Bottom, as many young princes have. But he is not the monster you make him out to be.”

Her hands clasped together in front of her once again, her expression hardening into a facade as unyielding as stone veiled in porcelain. “He will mature, and he will become the great king he was destined to be. I will make certain of that.”

Daenera’s voice was a soft murmur, her eyes capturing the flickering light of the hearth’s flames, reflecting a deeper, more ominous intensity. “Do you never tire, Alicent? Serving every man in your life? Being the ever-dutiful daughter, the amiable wife, and now the unwaveringly devoted mother – does it not wear you down? It must be utterly exhausting, always bending to their will, always serving them.”

“And what about yourself?” Alicent replied, her voice steady and composed. “We are not so dissimilar, you and I.”

Alicent moved closer to Daenera, her head tilting subtly as she observed her with a careful expression. Her eyebrows drew together, her eyes alight with an emotion that Daenera couldn’t quite identify, yet it caused her heart to beat more forcefully. She remained where she was, refusing to yield or cower.

“We each have a part to play in this world. As a woman, your duty is clear. As a dutiful daughter,” Alicent began, lightly touching Daenera’s cheek where the skin still burned from the earlier slap. The touch was soft, almost gentle, a strange sort of comfort. “As a loyal wife… As a Queen… And as a mother. I know my role, and I have faith that it is as the gods will it.”

Daenera’s brow inched downward. “And you believe it is divine will that Aegon ascends the throne?”

A tightness formed at the corners of Alicent’s lips. “Why else would they bless Viserys with the son he yearned for? It is the natural order of things. In time, you will come to see the wisdom in accepting the role the gods have set out for you.”

“To serve others,” Daenera observed with a soft hum. “And yet, you can’t acknowledge this is about maintaining your own hold on power – however tenuous it might be, after all, you’ll only be the mother of the King.”

“I am acting in the best interest of my sons, my children. Everything I have ever done has been for their future, for the preservation of what is rightfully theirs,” Alicent retorted, her lips tightening further as she pulled her hand back. “As their mother, it is my duty.”

“It must be exhausting, to cloak yourself in self-righteousness to mask your own ambition. At least your father is transparent about his desires. You, on the other hand, veil yours in the guise of duty and divine decree,” Daenera remarked, sensing a heavy burden descending upon her shoulders.

Alicent gazed back, her lips slightly pursed, the corners downturned in a subtle expression of discontent or perhaps disdain. Her eyes were measured, searching Daenera’s face as if looking for something, or maybe seeing in her a reflection that rendered her weary.

“Have you ever asked yourself what you want?” Daenera asked. “Not what others have impressed upon you to want.”

Alicent’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Have you?”

Now, the question lingered heavily within Daenera. Her frown grew more pronounced as she locked eyes with Alicent, a woman whose features bore a resemblance to her own, enough that she could have been her mother. Subconsciously, Daenera’s hand came together, her finger tracing the faint, curved indentation left by the coin – and the pale scar etched into her skin by a dragonglass arrowhead.

Taking a deep breath, Alicent regained her poise, seamlessly transitioning back into the role of the Queen. Her gaze, as condescending as ever, swept over Daenera. “The servants will take you back to your chambers and see to it that you are appropriately attired for the coronation in the morning.”

“And if I refuse?”

“We have a handful of your men in the dungeons,” Alicent answered, the threat clear. With a swift turn, Alicent exited the room, leaving the door slightly open behind her. Two servants promptly entered, one of whom Daenera recognized as the same woman who had seen to her meals.

Daenera was led back to her chambers, accompanied by two servants and a pair of guards – likely to ensure she didn’t attempt another escape. The late hour’s presence was marked by a persistent chill permeating the air as they navigated the corridors of the Keep. Stepping out into the courtyard, Daenera instinctively lifted her gaze to the heavens. The sky was painted in deepening shades of blue as night fully embraced the realm. It was a cloudless expanse above, where stars sparkled and flickered like distant beacons.

Drawing in a deep breath, she momentarily closed her eyes, cherishing the crispness of the fresh air and using the moment to calm her racing heart. Her hands tightened around the cloak draped over her form, the fabric serving as her sole shield against both the chill and the prying eyes that might wander. Beneath the thin material of her underdress, her skin erupted in a rash of goosebumps, reacting to the night’s cool touch.

Guided through the imposing doors of Maegor’s Holdfast, Daenera was led across the inner courtyard and towards the grand staircase.

As they walked, she couldn’t help but wonder if it was deliberate or mere coincidence that their path took them past the very spot where Joyce had been killed. The floor there had been scrubbed clean, yet the stone still bore a darker hue, a silent testament to the violence that had occurred. Her gaze lingered on the spot, a sharp pang of sorrow clenching her heart. Swallowing hard against the grief that threatened to overwhelm her, she was soon nudged ontward by persistent hands.

As Daenera stepped into her chamber, a heavy sense of loss struck her. She noticed the stark emptiness where her cherished potions and essence bottles once stood. The cabinet, previously filled with her carefully curated collection of dried herbs, had been completely removed. The room felt barren and ransacked, stripped of her personal effects.

But it wasn’t just her alchemy tools that had vanished; her hair oils, fragrances, and cosmetics were also missing. The space that had once been her sanctuary now felt invaded and foreign, almost as though it had ceased to be a part of her world. It was a harsh reminder that this room, and her life within it, were no longer truly her own.

A wave of bitterness rose in Daenera, but she forcefully suppressed it. She set the coin down on a table, deliberately placing it spiral-side up – there was no need for more eyes to watch her humiliation.

The older servant gestured her forward, wasting no time in removing her cloak and placing it over the back of a chair as she barked at the younger maid servant, “Fetch the water. As hot as it can get.”

The younger servant hurried out to comply with the order, undoubtedly darting through halls and down to the kitchens.

Daenera, attempting to sound casual even as her throat remained tight, inquired, “My maid – what has become of her body?”

The older servant responded only with a harsh glare, as she swept Daenera’s thousled hair away from her shoulders to undo the knots that held her underdress together. Her movements were harsh and forceful, making Daenera think she would be more at home in a butcher’s shop than attending to a lady. The servant’s face was etched with a permanent scowl, deeping the lines of age and giving her a certain hardened, unyielding appearance.

“What of my sworn shield?” Daenera asked, persistent in seeking answers as the door swung open and a group of girls entered, each carrying buckets of steaming water. They effectively poured the contents into the bath and quickly exited, all deliberately avoiding eye contact, as the older servant scowled at them, barking orders.

The older servant, with an abrupt and rough motion, stripped Daenera of her final layer, removing her underdress to leave her completely bare. Instinctively, Daenera’s arms wrapped around herself, her skin prickling with goosebumps that felt like countless tiny needles piercing her flesh.

“Out, all of you, quickly!” The older servant commanded sharply to the group of serving girls carrying the buckets of water, as though they weren’t already hurrying. They scurried towards the door in a rushed procession, letting it close with a soft click behind them. Even with fewer eyes in the room, Daenera couldn’t shake off the profound sense of vulnerability that came with her exposed state. Nonetheless, she steeled herself, firmly gripping the servant’s wrist to draw her full attention.

“What has become of my sworn shield?” She asked, her voice steady despite the chill. The last she saw of Fenrick he was unconscious and bleeding.

The hag wrenched her wrist free from Daenera’s grasp with a disdainful sneer. “I suppose he is locked up in the dungeons with the rest of them.”

Suppressing her own urge to sneer in response, Daenera swallowed the bitter feeling, finding a small solace in the knowledge that he seemed to still be alive.

Rather than succumbing to her frustration with a sharp retort, Daenera chose to adopt a more composed and dignified approach. She recognized the potential benefit of gaining the older woman’s favor, aiming to foster a semblance of dialogue that might yield useful information.

Her response was calculated, delivered with a blend of diplomacy and sweetness, “What is your name?”

“Metha Ashford,” the servant replied curtly. “I serve as the Queen’s lady-in-waiting, and from now on, I will be attending to you. Kneel by the bath.”

“And my name is Edelin–” the younger servant added softly, her voice quickly hushed by a stern glare from Mertha. Edelin, frowning, gathered the bloodstained and dirtied undergown, an item that seemed more suited for burning than washing.

Daenera’s gaze fixed on the steaming bath. With a semblance of dignity, she requested, “I would like some soaps and oils for my bath.”

Edelin hesitated, glancing towards Mertha, whose eyes radiated cold indifference. Mertha’s boney fingers then dug sharply into Daenera’s shoulders, pushing her towards the bath. “You will have no such choice of luxury. We will use the soap I’ve brought and nothing more.”

Asserting her status, Daenera stated, “I am a princess,” even as she was forcefully pushed down to her knees beside the path. The impact further aggravated her already bruised skin, her knees throbbing painfully as her hands came to brace herself on the edge of the tub.

“You are nothing but a hostage,” Mertha retorted harshly, her hand clamping down on the pack of Daenera’s neck, nails digging into her skin, as she roughly pushed her head dangerously close to the water. Daenera’s nose almost touched the surface of the water, and as she let out a shocked breath, the water ripped.

Something dipped into the water, as Mertha continued, “The Queen’s command are clear – we are to take care of you.”

Scalding hot water cascaded over Daenera’s head, causing her to gasp and sputter as it burned her scalp and streamed down her face. She attempted to ward off the water and struggled futilely against Mertha’s unyielding hold. Another cup of water was poured onto her head.

“We’ve been instructed to stay by your side,” Mertha stated coldly, pouring the third cup of water over Daenera’s head, “to ensure you don’t engage in any treacherous acts.”

Daenera’s fingers dug into the edge of the bath, her neck straining against Mertha’s grip, the muscles in her neck aching with the effort. “Y–you’re hurting me!”

Mertha responded with a reproachful chide and a dismissive scoff. “Cease your struggling, and I won’t need to handle you so forcefully.”

In a reflexive act of defiance, Daenera’s arms swiped at Mertha, sending the cup of water tumbling from her grasp. She glared up at the older woman, her hair clinging to her skin, dripping down her neck in a trail that went all the way down her back. “I am a princess and you will treat me with the respect that is deserving of my station!”

“You are nothing but a bastard, as far as the gods are concerned,” Mertha retorted, her voice tinged with contempt. “The late king, may the gods rest his soul, was too blind to see the truth, but the Queen sees it clearly – and she will not allow the realm to be ruled by the Whore of Dragonstone and her brood of bastards. She is doing the gods’ will and putting things right, and you should consider yourself fortunate for the leniency she is extending you, princess.”

Mertha firmly repositioned Daenera’s head and resumed pouring water over her, roughly lathing a common bar of soap before harshly scrubbing Daenera’s scalp. Her fingers moved with a roughness reminiscent of someone washing a wild animal, showing little regard for Daenera’s discomfort. The soap stung her eyes, and she struggled to suppress her sniffles, water dripping from her face and threatening to enter ner nostrils. She remembered how Joyce used to perform this task with such tenderness and care.

After what seemed like an eternity of scrubbing, when Mertha finally rinsed the soap from Daenera’s hair, she proceeded to push her into the bath to wash her body with an abrasive tool that felt akin to a scrubbing brush used on the floor, leaving her skin raw and inflamed. The near-scalding water only intensified the sensation, making Daenera feel as if she were being boiled alive.

And by the time the water no longer held its boiling effect on her body, Daenera had contemplated at the very least ten different ways of killing the old hag – mostly imagining her pushing her head into the water and keeping it there until she no longer flailed around.

It was the younger servant, Edelin, that wrapped cloth around Daenera’s body. Her touch was far more delicate as she helped Daenera dry off and gently braid her hair to prevent it from frizzing during the night, weaving pieces of silk in between the strands. Her blue eyes conveyed a silent apology for the ordeal as Mertha went about ordering the bath drained.

Daenera decided then that if she were to cultivate an ally among her prison guards, it would be the girl.

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