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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 10 days

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1968 [Chapter 11: Hephaestus, God Of Fire]

A/N: Only 1 chapter left!!! 🥰💜

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

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

Word Count: 5.4k

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

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You beg: “Fosco, help me.”

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

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

“Aemond, brother, listen to—”

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

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

Abruptly, Fosco turns and sprints out of the room.

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

“You’re trying to sabotage this campaign.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How could it be worse?!”

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

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

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

“If she costs me the election—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A whisper: “Aemond, it’ll kill me.”

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What…?”

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

“Bagels, stupido.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shh,” Otto snaps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~~~~~

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

“What should I play?”

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

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

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

“Any particular song?”

“You can pick.”

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

“There are places I’ll remember

All my life, though some have changed

Some forever, not for better

Some have gone and some remain…”

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

“All these places had their moments

With lovers and friends, I still can recall

Some are dead and some are living

In my life, I’ve loved them all...”

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

“But of all these friends and lovers

There is no one compares with you

And these memories lose their meaning

When I think of love as something new…”

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

“Though I know I’ll never lose affection

For people and things that went before

I know I’ll often stop and think about them

In my life, I love you more.”

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” you agree, taking a drag.

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

“Don’t do that,” you say, you plead.

“I need it, babe.”

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

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

“Aegon, I can’t.”

“I’m in love with you.”

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

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

“Nothing is.”

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

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

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astars-things · 3 days

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luke having a daughter in college and she’s jsut the sweetest little girl who adores her dad and now with them bending in jersey jack really gets to see how great of a dad luke is with them living together for so much and the team is all so shocked how good of a dad luke is so young

Luke Hughes x Daughter!reader

In the bustling heart of New Jersey, the Hughes residence was a lively place, filled with the sounds of laughter and joy. Luke Hughes, the youngest of the three Hughes brothers, had taken a unique path in life. While still in college, he had become a father to a beautiful little girl named Y/N. Now, at 21, he was juggling the demanding life of an NHL player with the equally demanding yet infinitely rewarding role of being a dad.

Y/N was the light of Luke's life. With her curly hair, bright eyes, and infectious giggle, she had a way of making even the toughest days seem brighter. Every morning, Luke would wake up early to make her breakfast, often a messy but heartfelt attempt at pancakes, which Y/N would decorate with an overwhelming amount of syrup and sprinkles. She adored her dad and followed him around like a shadow, always eager to help or simply be near him.

Jack Hughes, Luke's older brother, had recently invited them to stay at his place in Jersey. With the brothers now playing for the same team, it made sense for them to live together, making the commute easier and allowing them to spend more time as a family. For Jack, it was an eye-opening experience. He knew Luke was a good guy, but seeing him as a dad was something else entirely.

"Uncle Jack!" Y/N's voice rang through the house one morning, her tiny footsteps pattering down the hallway. "Look what Daddy made me!" She proudly held up a lopsided pancake, grinning from ear to ear.

Jack laughed, ruffling her hair. "That looks delicious, Y/N. Did you help him make it?"

She nodded enthusiastically, her eyes sparkling. "I put the sprinkles on!"

Living with them, Jack saw firsthand how devoted Luke was to his daughter. He balanced his training schedule with quality time spent with Y/N, whether it was helping her with preschool activities, reading bedtime stories, or simply playing in the park.

One evening, after a grueling practice, the team decided to gather at the Hughes' place for a casual dinner. The players sprawled out in the living room, joking and talking about the day's drills. Y/N was in the middle of it all, comfortably nestled in her dad's lap, listening intently to the banter around her.

"Hey, Luke," Nico Hischier called out, leaning against the kitchen counter. "How do you do it, man? Balancing everything with Y/N and hockey?"

Luke glanced down at his daughter, who was now trying to braid his hair, and smiled. "It's all about priorities, Nico. Y/N comes first, always. Hockey is important, but being a dad... that's everything to me."

The team nodded, clearly impressed. They had seen young players struggle with responsibilities, but Luke seemed to handle it with a grace and maturity beyond his years. It wasn't just about providing for Y/N; it was about being present, about being a role model and a source of unwavering love and support.

As the evening wore on, Y/N grew sleepy. Luke gently carried her to bed, tucking her in with her favorite stuffed animal. He read her a story, his voice soft and soothing, until her eyes fluttered shut. Jack watched from the doorway, a newfound respect for his brother blossoming in his chest.

When Luke returned to the living room, Jack clapped him on the shoulder. "You're a great dad, Luke. I’m really proud of you."

Luke smiled, a bit shyly. "Thanks, Jack. It means a lot coming from you."

The team dispersed later that night, each player leaving with a new perspective on Luke Hughes. He wasn't just a talented defenseman; he was a devoted father, navigating the challenges of young parenthood with a strength and tenderness that left a lasting impression on everyone.

#send in requests #imagines #thanks anon!#jack hughes #luke hughes #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes x daughter!reader #nhl imagine #nj devils #x daughter!reader

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antiporn-activist · 2 months

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We knew this was coming, and it's here...

Teen Girls Confront an Epidemic of Deepfake Nudes in Schools

Using artificial intelligence, middle and high school students have fabricated explicit images of female classmates and shared the doctored pictures.

April 8, 2024

After boys at Francesca Mani’s high school fabricated and shared explicit images of girls last year, she and her mother, Dorota, began urging schools and legislators to enact tough safeguards.Shuran Huang

Westfield Public Schools held a regular board meeting in late March at the local high school, a red brick complex in Westfield, N.J., with a scoreboard outside proudly welcoming visitors to the “Home of the Blue Devils” sports teams.

But it was not business as usual for Dorota Mani.

In October, some 10th-grade girls at Westfield High School — including Ms. Mani’s 14-year-old daughter, Francesca — alerted administrators that boys in their class had used artificial intelligence software to fabricate sexually explicit images of them and were circulating the faked pictures. Five months later, the Manis and other families say, the district has done little to publicly address the doctored images or update school policies to hinder exploitative A.I. use.

“It seems as though the Westfield High School administration and the district are engaging in a master class of making this incident vanish into thin air,” Ms. Mani, the founder of a local preschool, admonished board members during the meeting.

In a statement, the school district said it had opened an “immediate investigation” upon learning about the incident, had immediately notified and consulted with the police, and had provided group counseling to the sophomore class.

Tenth-grade girls at Westfield High School in New Jersey learned last fall that male classmates had fabricated sexually explicit images of them and shared them.Peter K. Afriyie/Associated Press

“All school districts are grappling with the challenges and impact of artificial intelligence and other technology available to students at any time and anywhere,” Raymond González, the superintendent of Westfield Public Schools, said in the statement.

Blindsided last year by the sudden popularity of A.I.-powered chatbots like ChatGPT, schools across the United States scurried to contain the text-generating bots in an effort to forestall student cheating. Now a more alarming A.I. image-generating phenomenon is shaking schools.

Boys in several states have used widely available “nudification” apps to pervert real, identifiable photos of their clothed female classmates, shown attending events like school proms, into graphic, convincing-looking images of the girls with exposed A.I.-generated breasts and genitalia. In some cases, boys shared the faked images in the school lunchroom, on the school bus or through group chats on platforms like Snapchat and Instagram, according to school and police reports.

Such digitally altered images — known as “deepfakes” or “deepnudes” — can have devastating consequences. Child sexual exploitation experts say the use of nonconsensual, A.I.-generated images to harass, humiliate and bully young women can harm their mental health, reputations and physical safety as well as pose risks to their college and career prospects. Last month, the Federal Bureau of Investigation warned that it is illegal to distribute computer-generated child sexual abuse material, including realistic-looking A.I.-generated images of identifiable minors engaging in sexually explicit conduct.

Yet the student use of exploitative A.I. apps in schools is so new that some districts seem less prepared to address it than others. That can make safeguards precarious for students.

“This phenomenon has come on very suddenly and may be catching a lot of school districts unprepared and unsure what to do,” said Riana Pfefferkorn, a research scholar at the Stanford Internet Observatory, who writes about legal issues related to computer-generated child sexual abuse imagery.

At Issaquah High School near Seattle last fall, a police detective investigating complaints from parents about explicit A.I.-generated images of their 14- and 15-year-old daughters asked an assistant principal why the school had not reported the incident to the police, according to a report from the Issaquah Police Department. The school official then asked “what was she supposed to report,” the police document said, prompting the detective to inform her that schools are required by law to report sexual abuse, including possible child sexual abuse material. The school subsequently reported the incident to Child Protective Services, the police report said. (The New York Times obtained the police report through a public-records request.)

In a statement, the Issaquah School District said it had talked with students, families and the police as part of its investigation into the deepfakes. The district also “shared our empathy,” the statement said, and provided support to students who were affected.

The statement added that the district had reported the “fake, artificial-intelligence-generated images to Child Protective Services out of an abundance of caution,” noting that “per our legal team, we are not required to report fake images to the police.”

At Beverly Vista Middle School in Beverly Hills, Calif., administrators contacted the police in February after learning that five boys had created and shared A.I.-generated explicit images of female classmates. Two weeks later, the school board approved the expulsion of five students, according to district documents. (The district said California’s education code prohibited it from confirming whether the expelled students were the students who had manufactured the images.)

Michael Bregy, superintendent of the Beverly Hills Unified School District, said he and other school leaders wanted to set a national precedent that schools must not permit pupils to create and circulate sexually explicit images of their peers.

“That’s extreme bullying when it comes to schools,” Dr. Bregy said, noting that the explicit images were “disturbing and violative” to girls and their families. “It’s something we will absolutely not tolerate here.”

Schools in the small, affluent communities of Beverly Hills and Westfield were among the first to publicly acknowledge deepfake incidents. The details of the cases — described in district communications with parents, school board meetings, legislative hearings and court filings — illustrate the variability of school responses.

The Westfield incident began last summer when a male high school student asked to friend a 15-year-old female classmate on Instagram who had a private account, according to a lawsuit against the boy and his parents brought by the young woman and her family. (The Manis said they are not involved with the lawsuit.)

After she accepted the request, the male student copied photos of her and several other female schoolmates from their social media accounts, court documents say. Then he used an A.I. app to fabricate sexually explicit, “fully identifiable” images of the girls and shared them with schoolmates via a Snapchat group, court documents say.

Westfield High began to investigate in late October. While administrators quietly took some boys aside to question them, Francesca Mani said, they called her and other 10th-grade girls who had been subjected to the deepfakes to the school office by announcing their names over the school intercom.

That week, Mary Asfendis, the principal of Westfield High, sent an email to parents alerting them to “a situation that resulted in widespread misinformation.” The email went on to describe the deepfakes as a “very serious incident.” It also said that, despite student concern about possible image-sharing, the school believed that “any created images have been deleted and are not being circulated.”

Dorota Mani said Westfield administrators had told her that the district suspended the male student accused of fabricating the images for one or two days.

Soon after, she and her daughter began publicly speaking out about the incident, urging school districts, state lawmakers and Congress to enact laws and policies specifically prohibiting explicit deepfakes.

“We have to start updating our school policy,” Francesca Mani, now 15, said in a recent interview. “Because if the school had A.I. policies, then students like me would have been protected.”

Parents including Dorota Mani also lodged harassment complaints with Westfield High last fall over the explicit images. During the March meeting, however, Ms. Mani told school board members that the high school had yet to provide parents with an official report on the incident.

Westfield Public Schools said it could not comment on any disciplinary actions for reasons of student confidentiality. In a statement, Dr. González, the superintendent, said the district was strengthening its efforts “by educating our students and establishing clear guidelines to ensure that these new technologies are used responsibly.”

Beverly Hills schools have taken a stauncher public stance.

When administrators learned in February that eighth-grade boys at Beverly Vista Middle School had created explicit images of 12- and 13-year-old female classmates, they quickly sent a message — subject line: “Appalling Misuse of Artificial Intelligence” — to all district parents, staff, and middle and high school students. The message urged community members to share information with the school to help ensure that students’ “disturbing and inappropriate” use of A.I. “stops immediately.”

It also warned that the district was prepared to institute severe punishment. “Any student found to be creating, disseminating, or in possession of AI-generated images of this nature will face disciplinary actions,” including a recommendation for expulsion, the message said.

Dr. Bregy, the superintendent, said schools and lawmakers needed to act quickly because the abuse of A.I. was making students feel unsafe in schools.

“You hear a lot about physical safety in schools,” he said. “But what you’re not hearing about is this invasion of students’ personal, emotional safety.”

Natasha Singer writes about technology, business and society. She is currently reporting on the far-reaching ways that tech companies and their tools are reshaping public schools, higher education and job opportunities. More about Natasha Singer

A version of this article appears in print on April 11, 2024, Section B, Page 1 of the New York edition with the headline: Fake A.I. Nudes Create Crisis in Schools. Order Reprints | Today’s Paper | Subscribe

#be very nice to teenage girls #they are living in hell

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nicoleheichou · 9 months

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Girl Of My Dreams - Chapter 60: A SIMP

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Synopsis: Sakusa was the type to always get things done on his own, but now that he's forced to juggle between his successful pro-volleyball career and being a single dad, what happens when he enrolls his daughter in a new preschool and meets his daughter's new teacher? Will their relationship remain professional or will it evolve into something more?

Kuroo had Atsumu swap out Bokuto's jersey lmao.

Kenma doesn't know how to compliment Kuroo lmao.

Bokuto already finished his meal but he was still hungry.

Yn is just messing with Sakusa and he knows it. Lol.

As usual, let me know what you thought! Things are gonna start getting exciting soon.

TAGLIST WILL BE CLOSED ONCE THE NEXT UPDATE GOES UP, SO LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT TO BE ADDED BEFORE THEN.

Taglist: @taelia15 @dorkange @sexyandcringe @szeonn @natriae @whore-for-anime @diestheticu @loveinhaikyuu @youraggedybitch @mikk-o @erenisms @akisrandom @confusion-lord @aikochan4859 @trashy-simp @somniari-94 @pillboxmb @astrrnmy @all-in-the-fandoms @mattsunnn @kunikame @daninaninani @juniorhooter @crayonwriting @sosiegate @grassbutneo @saaraunicorn @lalalemon101 @sunahyejin @sugusshi @roselleviennesstuff @queen-aria-things @hello0i @oopskashish @wolffmaiden @shakesqueer444 @julia-1901 @blkladyelle @marinarihearts @oikawas-toris @carlgrimm @zekeslefttit @rory-cakes @nomnom21 @noayuusukki @yukimaniac @the-jester-calamity @everytimeswift @morpheus-rex @buns-inhiding

#sakusa x reader #haikyuu smau #haikyu smau #smau #haikyuu!!#girl of my dreams #gomd

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burnt-french-nugget · 9 months

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Jeff the killer (Jeffrey Woods) !!rewrite!!

Personal rewrite :3

Hope you like it <3

Jeffrey was born in a small town near New Jersey, living with his parents and brother.

He was a shy boy from the start, always hiding behind his parents when he was young, usually sitting in the corner of the preschool room, playing with a toy car or with the colorful blocks, sorting them by color. His brother, who was born only two years after him, was more social and loved to be around people, greeting them every time he gets. They were almost polar opposites, but they had a few things in common. They became friends with a girl named Jane, who adored the two brothers presence, hanging out with them and caring about them when their parents didn't.

The young man felt happy with his family and only friend, though, things didn't last forever.

His father later lost his job, which only made them move away from their home. Jeff was devastated, since he only had one friend, Jane, and he didn't want to leave her, or his home. He was attached to it, it was all he's known his whole life. The 16 years of his life. But, high school was right around the corner anyways, so it had to happen. But the young man wasn't having it, and cried the whole time was he packed his belongings into boxes. His father got upset when he saw the young man cry, getting all cold and selfish, telling him to be a man and suck it up. He was told to be greateful, since he might be more happy in his new home and neighborhood. Jeffrey forced a smile through his tears, finishing the packing.

They left early in the morning, getting to their destination, which was the city of New Jersey. Jeff had a few unread messaged from Jane, who got worried after she saw that the Woods home was empty, calling her later the same afternoon to calm her down. After the phone call, he just went to his half packed room, lying in his bed and sleeping peacefully.

That Monday, Jeff and Liu started school. The young man was nervous about everything as his brother had to drag him out of his room and new home to get to their new school, which was separated into two buildings, middle school and high school. The only time they've seen each other during school time was when there was lunch, the two back doors of the schools opening to a big area for everyone to hang out in. Jeffrey didn't like that fact, so much so that he skipped classes just to walk up to his brothers classroom window to say 'hello' and just sit nearby to listen into the talking that was happening inside. School wasn't the thing he was good at, even though he seemed smart for being so quiet and observant, so it wasn't a surprise when he started to become troublesome.

His parents weren't so pleased about it, starting to ground him, taking his phone and even going to an extent where they blocked Jane's phone number. Jeff was, once again, heartbroken, crying in his room until he fell asleep. Because of that, he hit the books, thinking he'll get his belonging back with that. It worked once he had decent enough grades, a sense of joy washing over to him once he turned it on the phone after such a long time. But his happy expression turned into a frown when he unblocked Jane, and she weren't answering. 'She's probably too busy with school.' Jeff thought to himself, trying again the next day, and the day after that.. but no answer. She might've changed phone numbers, or phones. Or.. no.. she isn't ignoring him, is she?

He might have just lost his only friend..

A year has passed, and Jeff finally got the courage to talk to other people, socialize and make friends. He was now in a small group of boys: Randall 'Randy', the eldest of the group, Keith, the most energetic one, and Troy, whom was a mystery to crack. Jeff seemed to like the three, hanging out with them every day, soon forgetting about his little brother, and his old friend Jane, now only being with the boys. Finally pleased and happy, Jeff got comfortable around them, and they were comfortable around him. They all looked like douche's from the outside, but Jeff knew them as a bunch of misunderstood guys that would go out in the middle of the night for walks and stargazing. They were a good influence on him, making him smile more and more joyful in general, but at the same time, he lost a lot of sleep by sneaking out for his friends, his grades slipping once more.

His father was getting furious again, slapping his son after he read the grades on the report card. The young man wasn't let to leave the house after he come home from school since then, having to hit the books and only text or call them every once in a while. Their friendship seemed to crumble in some way, the three boys growing distant from Jeff, taking the chance to pick on his little brother. When the younger boy confronted his brother about it, he denied everything, saying that his friends would never do that behind his back. Liu started to come home in bruises, Jeff not even listening to his little brothers plea's, only telling him that he's getting too clumsy lately. Things only got worse for the younger brother..

Only when Jeff saw it himself, then he believed what Liu had told him. Randy was holding the younger man by the collar of his shirt, making him struggle as the three laughed at the boy. He was pushed to the ground, angering his older brother to an extent. Jeff approached them quickly, punching Randy in the face as he shielded his little brother. "What the fuck, man?!" Keith tried to attacked Jeff, but he dodged and kicked him in the abdomen hard, making the young man fall onto the ground. Troy watched it all happen, backing up in fear. They seemed shocked by his behavior, running away from Jeff and his little brother. Jeffrey apologized a lot after that, every few seconds, in fact, but Liu forgave him. Trust and attachment can blind people after all.

After that, Jeff tried his best to avoid the three, his eyes only being on his brother, to protect him from any danger. Though, he couldn't avoid them for long, since he was invited to a neighbors birthday party later that week, and the trio was invited.

Once he and Liu got there, they sat somewhere far from the other three, talking to some other kids that were there. Well, more like Liu did it, since Jeff just sat there, looking like a tough older brother, keeping his silence. His eyes were on the three, making sure they weren't doing anything. Though, he saw that they were sitting there, snickering and giggling like the mischievios boys they were, even sharing glances with Jeff a few times. The more they sat there, the more Jeff realized they were onto something.. something bad.

By the end of the party, the young man finally got his guard down, since nothing happened and it went smoothly, now thinking they were just joking around and teasing him. He approached them again, trying to be more serious, yet trying to befriend them again, though, that didn't sound that much of a good idea to his little brother. Liu stood close to his parents, watching the four closely as they talked. Things started to get heated very quickly, the three starting to attack Jeff after Randy took the first punch. Soon, Troy had something in his hand. It was a kettle, bull of boiling hot water he found from the outside kitchen, Randy and Keith had knives in their hands.

Everything happened so fast, but everyone's attention was drawn to the four young men once Jeff screamed in agony from the boiling hot water hitting his face, his cheeks having gashes from Randy and Keith's attacks.

Some of the parents pinned down the trio as Jeff's family rushed over to the screaming young man, he was crying blood from the damage the boiling water has made, the blood from the gashes staining his clothes into a deep red. His father started to yell for someone to call the police, even multiple slurs and insults towards the three young men, who were struggling while still being pinned. Everything became blurry and muffled for Jeffrey, the only thing he felt was his mothers gentle and comforting embrace, which calmed his nerves a bit, but not too much, since every slight move hurt him quite a lot.

Everything went blank from there..

Jeffrey woke up in the hospital, his head, neck and arms bandaged from the burns and cuts. His mother was sitting there, holding her sons hand as she gently rubbed her thumb across his hand, her face filled with worry. Liu and his father were asleep on the couch in his hospital room, seemingly being the ones awake the whole night, his family doing shifts until he woke up.

He was hospitalized for 3 weeks, then his bandages came off, revealing his scarred and now slightly disfigured face. The doctors tried to make his face look normal while he was still out cold, and yet his jaw was now a bit crooked, a sharp pain hitting him when he tried to show emotion. His eyelids were hard to close, it was painful, and yet it was like they couldn't be controlled. He tried to smile, but his face hurt and his smile was crooked now as well. A few bloody tears ran down his cheeks when he realized that he was now supposed to get used to this.. look.. for the rest of his life. His vision was now damaged, so he was now supposed to use glasses to see. All thanks to Randy, Keith and Troy.

The night they came home, Jeffrey was quiet, going to his room and refusing to come out of there.

In the middle of the night, Jeffrey came out of his room, waking up his mother in the process. He was in the bathroom, slicing a smile on his cheeks, ear to ear. It was painful, and he was crying. "I can smile now.."

He turned around to see his mother, who screamed in terror. Jeff, without another thought, attacked her, killed her on the spot. The young man ran to his parents bedroom, where his father stood in front of the bed, shocked, scared and yet heartbroken.. of what his son had become. Jeff killed him as well, going to his little brothers room last. He crept there, seeing that his brother was sound asleep, holding a small bear plush in his embrace. His eyes softened a bit, he couldn't kill him. Since he knew Liu was a heavy sleeper, he wrapped his little brother in a blanket and quickly dressed in something else, putting a mask on his face he made a while back. Blood dripped down from the gashes he just made to his face, but he picked up his brother anyways, putting him on the backseat of the car and drove away with him.

That morning, the two members of the Woods family were found dead, while the two children were now reported missing.

Later that week, multiple fires happened in the neighborhood. Randy, Troy and Keith's houses were set ablaze, with the whole family's trapped inside, everyone presumed dead. A month afterwards, the Richardson family was found dead in their home, brutally murdered. The only survivor was Jane Richardson, who was burned by getting set on fire by unknown substance and went missing once she was in greater health and escorted out of the hospital.

Key words: Friendship, betrayal, bullying, burns, car runaway, missing report

A B O U T

Name: Jeffrey Vincent Woods

Alias: Jeff, 'The Smiley Killer', burnt nugget

Age(current): 26 years old

Gender: male, he/him

Nationality: American

Ethnicity: French

Personality: Not much of a talker, he's more observant. Jeff tries to avoid any type of socializing with people, but there are a few ones he find 'acceptable', like his brother, or Jane, who he still sees as a close friend. He's unpredictable, so you'll never know what he'll say or do either as a reaction or something else. He likes to be mysterious, usually known to just stare at a person for minutes at a time until his eyes start to hurt and he has to put some drops in them. All in all, creepy with a tough exterior. He no longer shows any weakness in front of people, not even Liu, trying to remain stoic and 'brave'. He's actually insecure about how he looks now, sometimes hiding in his hoodie for warmth and comfort, so he makes sure he's alone when he undresses himself in fear of him being made fun of or getting a look of disgust from someone. He has a soft spot for children and animals, but doesn't show it often.

Appearence: About 6 feet tall, long brown and black hair that frames his face, his eyes were a beautiful blue, but now they're a cold grey color with a tinge of madness present. His face is scarred, from water to fire burns, to the gashes he's made from that faitful night. Usually dressed in monotone colors, black, in shades of grey and white, nothing else, all baggy that cover his body completely. He wears a handmade mask he's made for himself, to cover the damage the trio had caused.

Family:

Martha Anabel Woods (Deceased)

Fredrick George Woods (Deceased)

Luis Liu Woods (Alive)

Ally/Allies and relationships:

'Homicidal' Liu (little brother) - Loves and cares about him to death, he makes sure to let him know he cares in different ways but not by words or showing his emotions, will make sure he's safe and sound and would take a bullet for him

Weapon of choice: different types of knives, preferably switchblades

Jane 'Everlasting' (friend) - he has grown slightly detached from her, but he still cares, showing it in different ways, tough, he tries not to show it often since he's still slightly upset with her not responding to him

Emory 'The Savage' Woodgrip (ally) - they met in the woods one day and he just decided they are chill, she's basically another idiot he has to secretly look after (he doesn't mind that). They sometimes share a pack of cigarettes in silence.

Enemy/Enemies: Nina 'the killer' Hopkins - crazy af fan (he's both angry and terrified of her existence)

Hobby/Hobbies: Committing murder, making masks and feeding stray dogs (If that's even a hobby)

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