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dauntlessallure · 2 months

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𖤐 ⸝⸝ ˚ ┊ INSULT TO INJURY — T. FUSHIGURO ⋆

〝 ⠀ ݁ 𝐁𝐎𝐗𝐄𝐑!𝐉𝐉𝐊 𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐍𝐄 ❜ ⠀݁ ⠀

【 SYNOPSIS 】— he’s mean. tough. toji fushiguro shouldn’t be so much to deal with until he is. you fix him up & he gives you a lil reward.

【 CONTENTS 】— boxer!toji , medic!reader , reader referred to as ‘ she ‘, fem-bodied reader, smut , slight angst / comfort , mentions of blood & injuries , mature language , jealousy , mutual stalking, hints at masturbation , consensual non-consent , unprotected sex ( wrap it before you tap it. ) MDNI + any other missing tags .ᐟ

【 PAIRING 】— toji fushiguro x reader

【 WORD COUNT 】— 2.2k

【 TAG LIST 】— @itsmonicabc @girlluvsblogging

⠀ ̽ ⠀ ᝰ✍︎ ﹐⠀/⠀ ❝ ⠀ 𝔄𝗗𝗠𝗜𝗡𝗜𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 𝔑𝗢𝗧𝗘 . . .

THE LONG AWAITED BOXER TOJI IS HERE. alrighty people , toji had won the poll vote for the first of the boxer!jjk men series. reblogs are very much appreciated <3. comment to be added to my tag list .ᐟ this work is not yet proof read.

boxer!toji was one of the first of many people that you had first taken care of as a medic. it was your first event working with the company , everyone you had run into was very very nice and seemed happy to have the extra support that your dainty little hands could provide. though at first , toji was refusing treatment. he called it “ a waste of time. “ which is translation for: im slightly embarrassed. toji was never the one to ask for help. in his own brain , he handles his own healing even if his nose was pouring blood like a leaking faucet. but you , you’d insisted that he’d stay. lucky you didn’t have to tell him twice. he couldn’t say no to you, a beautiful individual with a good head on your shoulders.

boxer!toji was endlessly throwing compliments at you the entire time as you tended to his bloody nose. “ do ya always look this pretty while fixing your patients up ? “ his word’s immediately went straight to your head. toji fushiguro was undoubtedly handsome, and huge in stature while you were just a tiny little thing. he smirked as you looked at him with a reddened face, toji knew what he was doing. “ awh cmon doll , you ain’t gotta be shy about it. “ at this point, he was just teasing you. “ just . . hold still “ was the only thing you managed to get out.

boxer!toji who gets jealous that others are in dire need of your care besides just him. someone who honed the same skill as you certainly wasn't uncommon but you ? you were the only one that toji allowed to actually touch him. you were just following up with another patient, geto suguru when toji walked in to see you wrapping up geto’s left hand. you didn’t even notice toji standing outside of the doorway until geto cleared his throat, causing you to look up from suguru’s limb. toji was already staring directly at you and now suguru. you’d be lying to say that his stare didn’t do things to you. “ oh toji .ᐟ i’ll be with you in just a mome— “ he didn’t give you time to finish “ i’ll come back later when you aren’t so busy with some lightweight. “ toji spat as he glared at geto before walking away. you quickly apologized to geto, finishing taping up his hand.

boxer!toji still remembers the first time he laid eyes on you. just staring at you from afar while you spoke to the chairman of the company, masamichi yaga. toji stared you and your body like a piece of meat. as shiu , toji’s manager was deep in conversation with him but the sorcerer killer had one thing on his mind. “ she’s too pretty to be working in a place like this “ he had spoken out loud. shiu’s eyes followed toji’s gaze which led him to you. perhaps even the contractor agreed in silence. you locked eyes with both men as you were stepping into your office for the evening, causing a small friendly smile to play on your lips while toji’s dark gaze seemed to burn a feeling into you that you just couldn’t shake off upon entering your new workspace.

boxer!toji who HATES losing. It makes him feel so small even though toji couldn’t be small even if he wanted to. especially with the most recent loss he had taken, It hit him hard. The media alone already hated him so this was only insult to injury for fushiguro. he just wasn’t able to understand it. if you thought he was embarrassed before, it just went up a couple notches. how did it all go so wrong ? not to mention, he had some nasty injuries to only add to his frustration. tonight’s scheduled fight went out of control in toji’s favor. toji was set to fight on ‘the strongest’ fighter , satoru gojo. the whole time you watched from backstage , just flinching everytime a punch was thrown or a kick was made. you could replay that brutal moment in your mind , that’s how explicit it was. a loud CRRAAACK was heard after satoru had thrusted his knee upwards into toji’s face. — ouch. you immediately knew something was wrong by the dazed expression displayed on toji’s face, his body falling limp.

boxer!toji was quickly rushed to your area as soon as possible by shiu, he was still in a hazed state of mind. mostly anger and confusion fizzled in his mind as you instructed him to sit. toji obeyed your orders & sat on the medical bench, now holding an ice pack to the giant laceration that skimmed the side of his head whilst staring blankly at the wall in-front of him in silence. shiu sighed at toji’s stillness before walking out of the medical area, leaving you to now look after toji. the medical room was just gasping for comfort , nothing but a thick and awkward tension lingered in the air. toji slowly turned his face towards you , almost emotionless. it was nerve wracking, you’d expect him to be yelling or just mouthing off but no. his pride was hurt to push you away , not this time.

boxer!toji who for once lets you tend to his needs without any trouble or bartering, he just couldn’t bring himself to say no to you again. even though he’s mentally punching himself for letting his guard down, but he really has no choice here. toji sure as hell wasn’t gonna go to an actual hospital to see what’s wrong with him. maybe it’s better for you anyways, you needed the hands on experience. “ just do what you have to do. . make it quick. “ he didn’t have to tell you twice. you stood up to change your gloves , he was now staring at you. his eyes raked down over your body before landing back onto your face , toji could feel your concern about him which made him feel guilty. . why ? who really knows ? the way toji’s mind works is complex. . he feels bad & guilty over things that he has zero control over.

boxer!toji blurts out “ i betcha think i’m weak , don’t you ? “ , it causes you to stop your movements and look at toji. “ what ? no toji , i don’t think you’re weak. . . “ trailing off on your words , your skilled hands proceed to fix up the gash on toji’s head. “ if anything , you’re everything but weak. not everyone can do this type of career , and not everyone can be toji fushiguro. if that was the case then there would be a million guys running in and out of that locker room . . you did good , but you can’t win them all. “ you words seemed to stick in toji’s mind for the rest of time you’ve spent fixing him up, the short exchange of words made the tension less apparent. soon enough you set toji on his way. “ please take it easy . . Be careful with your nose too , your lucky it wasn’t broken fushiguro. but i will need you to check in with me soon with that gash, keep it clean ! “

boxer!toji never did come back for his checkup during the next event. matter of fact , he didn’t even even show up for the next few events which caused you to worry. you go as far as waving down shiu and asking him what the hell was up. “ fushiguro says he is still recovering “ shiu reassured you that toji was fine. but you began to speculate that something else was going on, something deeper beyond your comprehension. but what could you do about it ? nothing. after all , you were just a medic. you’d nod at shiu before stepping away back into your office, groaning while you slowly shut the door behind you. . perhaps you were beginning to miss that hunk of a man a little too much.

boxer!toji who’s stalking your social media a little too hard during his ‘ recovery ‘. endless hours of his dark colored orbs staring at the screen of his phone , just scrolling away on your instagram. these pictures didn’t do you enough justice he thought , you were even better looking up close. little did toji know that you were doing the same thing. . you didn’t understand why people hated him. better yet , why on earth he didn’t have a significant other ? all the gym photos of him shirtless with a sheen of sweat covering over his torso and chest , it made your heart thump. the pool of arousal quickly making itself known in the pit of your stomach. . was this wrong ? you kept staring at the picture while your hand began to snake it’s way below the waistband of your shorts but you stopped once you realized you had accidentally liked the photo ! were trying to get a better grip of the phone in your shaky hands , your chest tightened with anxiety as you quickly unliked the photo. phew ! there’s no way he could see that you didn’t just like a photo of his from six months ago !

boxer!toji who did in fact see that you did in fact like a picture of him from six months ago. a low chuckle leaving his lips seeing the notification pop up on the upper half of the screen only for him to grin as he refreshed his notifications. — no notification. it disappeared. toji was cocky enough when it came to the effect he had on people in any manner. after seeing you doing the same mutual stalking that he was doing only 30 minutes ago caused all those feelings to rush to his raging length , restricting itself by the fabric of his sweatpants. toji was more than ready for his check up.

boxer!toji slowly sneaks into your office during the next event. it was quite early in the evening, not even all the fighters had arrived yet. but toji had something he needed to prioritize before making a complete comeback from his injury. you. while nobody is looking, not even you noticed him snaking his way through the door, quietly closing the door with a soft click.

while bent over , tidying up your area — a pair of large hands grip at your hips. causing a gasp to flee from your lungs. “ shhhh. it’s just me princess. “ you knew that voice , causing a shiver trickle it’s way down your spine. it was toji. slowly bending upwards, his lands kept a firm hold on your lower half. a quiet chuckle coming from the man behind you. “ toji , what are you doi– “ he didn’t even let you finish your sentence before one of his rough hands made its way up to your throat, giving it a light squeeze. quickly hushing you, toji presses his body against your backside while leaning down to your ear. “ someone’s been stalkin’ me late at night , hm ? “ fuck, he knew. “ we both know what you’re doing up at those hours of the night , don’t we ? “ as if he wasn’t doing the same exact thing , humiliation began to leech itself into your brain. how embarrassing ! the other thing you muttered out was a strangled “ m’ sorry ! i-it was wrong of me ! “ evidently your ‘sorry’ and honesty wasn’t much to toji, as now you found yourself bent over the medical bench with your leggings now carelessly tossed across your office, your arousal-soaked panties dragged down to your ankles, and your moans and whines being suppressed by one of toji’s hands covering your kiss bitten lips while he’s plunging in and out of your sopping cunt at an inhumane pace. “ you’re gonna take my cock as a thank you for fixin’ me up — fuuuuuck. “ the lewd squelching coming from between your legs bounced off of the walls as you moaned loudly into his palm, his thick length filling you beyond oblivion. even you were surprised by how he fit inside despite being fucked onto only two of his fingers before hand. “ mmmph ~ “ was the only thing you could manage to sputter out , toji was pounding you so hard. he was fucking you stupid. no coherent words , thoughts, dared to corrode your mind other than pure selfish pleasure that toji was bestowing onto you. “ pussy so fuckin’ tight , she’s pullin’ me in. “ he’d groan , looking down at where your bodies met. soaking in the image of your cunt gripping his cock like a vice. the cute noises escaping from your covered mouth seemed to be having an effect on toji as well. you could feel his grip only tighten and his thrusts become sloppier by the second while the coil in your stomach instantly snapped. you were cumming so hard , harder than any other pathetic ex partner of yours could ever manage. a string of noises left your body as your gummy walls convulsed & pulsated around toji’s throbbing length. “ hah — fuck ! makin’ a mess of you. “ was the last thing toji uttered out before his cock spasmed. toji grunted as his hand left your hip and landed hastily against the flesh of your ass. his seed painted your walls white. the warmth of his load earned a whimper, you could feel it seeping out of your aching heat. toji slowly retracted his hand from your mouth before slowly pulling out , watching your face contort into one of pleasure while his load dribbled down your inner thighs. “ i think i’ll need a check up more often, whaddya say ? “

ׂ⠀〝⠀⠀.. ⠀ ©dauntlessallure 24’ — please do not steal , publish , or post my work elsewhere or credit as your own .ᐟ

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favoniuscodex · 1 year

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guardian angel [ genshin scenarios ]

summary: overprotectiveness isn't the cutest, but it's endearing to know that your boyfriend has your best interests in mind (aka instances where the boys are (healthily) protective of you).

characters: alhaitham, childe, cyno, diluc, xiao w/ a gn!reader

warnings: implied catcalling/harassment (alhaitham), intimidation (childe), exhaustion (cyno), minor injuries (diluc), threat of hilichurl attack (xiao). no angst endings.

word count: 3.4k

a/n: this one won the poll, so it's first up! hope u enjoy! thanks to @/spiriteddreams reading over alhaitham's part for me beforehand!!!

-- alhaitham --

Alhaitham enjoys sticking to routines. Thus, when you disrupt his routine of meeting him after work in order to walk home together, he is annoyed, but his brain is quick to rationalize it. They are probably just busy with work or they left work early, Alhaitham justifies. However, there is a less rational part of him that gnaws at his sanity, telling him that something is wrong.

He takes his usual path home, making it only a short distance before he feels arms wrap around his waist. Alhaitham stiffens in response to the sudden touch. But, as he looks down and realizes its just you, mouthing words that he can't hear due to the music playing through his headphones, Alhaitham pauses his music. He pushes one of his earpieces off his ear in order to hear you properly and parts his lips to speak, but an unfamiliar voice cuts through your reunion with Alhaitham.

"Look, he didn't even respond to your greeting," a man proclaims far too haughtily and assuming for Alhaitham's liking. "That's not your boyfriend. But it's okay, sweetheart, I can make sure you're not singl-"

Alhaitham doesn't have time for this nonsense. Don't get him wrong -- he has all the time in the world for you and anything you're excited about, but your distressed expression at the man's words has Alhaitham protectively wrapping an arm around you before turning around to face the mystery man obviously provoking you.

"Are you calling my partner a liar?" Alhaitham immediately challenges, narrowed eyes sharpening the intensity of his multicolored glare. Your harasser blinks a few times, slowly coming to a fearful recognition of who Alhaitham is.

"My apologies, Acting Grand Sag-" the man begins.

"Don't apologize to me. Apologize to them."

"I am sorry!" the man cries, but Alhaitham can't quite be bothered to hear the man grovel for forgiveness. Alhaitham looks down at you, deciding to let you make the call.

"Would you prefer for me to handle this or would you rather just go home?" Alhaitham asks you softly, looking at you over his shoulder. "I am content with either option."

"Um," you begin, peering around Alhaitham to glance at the man once more, who seems to be trying not to collapse in fear. "Just... Let's just go home. He won't mess with me again, and I'm hungry."

An affectionate, soft smile appears on Alhaitham's face at your words as he realizes you're just as attached to your little routines with him as he is. Thus, with all the venom he can muster in his expression, he turns back to the nervous man.

"If I see you anywhere around here again, I will ensure that you will be dealt with swiftly," Alhaitham promises, and the man nods before scampering off like a coward. As soon as the man is out of sight, Alhaitham sighs and grabs your hand. The action sends your heart aflutter, due to Alhaitham not frequently initiating public displays of affection.

"Are you alright?" He asks, using a gentle voice you don't hear all too often from him. You nod, and he smiles softly once more before giving your hand a gentle squeeze. "Very well then. If anyone else tries to make trouble for you, let me know and I'll handle it."

"Wow," you breathe teasingly. "Alhaitham willingly taking on extra work?"

Alhaitham sighs, but you notice the way a smirk threatens to flash across his features at your playful words.

"I'd work forever if it meant you'd be happy," Alhaitham says, and you playfully place your free hand over your heart, pretending to swoon.

"I think that's the most romantic thing you've ever said," you say with a giggle, relishing in the way Alhaitham rolls his eyes at your words.

"Let's go home. I have biryani planned for dinner."

"Biryani? I changed my mind -- that's the most romantic thing you've ever said."

You get a rare chuckle out of Alhaitham as he guides you home, walking close to you and protectively holding onto your hand tightly in case any more trouble comes along for the two of you.

-- childe --

"Pardon me for interrupting," a silky voice croons from behind where you and Childe stand. "I was hoping to have a word with our dearest Tartaglia."

Childe's grip on your hand tightens as his playful expression turns steely at the sound of the voice. He gives you a cautious glare, before plastering the fakest smile you've ever seen on his face.

"Give me a moment, babe," he murmurs lowly to you, practically speaking through gritted teeth, before turning to face a man you've never seen before. Of course, arriving at Zapolyarny Palace on the Tsaritsa's request practically demanded that you would meet new people, but few were able to evoke such a strong reaction from Childe like this man was.

The stranger adjusts his silver-framed glasses and smiles sweetly at you.

"Apologies for my rudeness, I do not believe we have met," he says, eerily reminding you of a viper waiting to strike. "I am Pantalone, ninth of the Fatui Harbingers. And you are..?"

You look over at Childe, who glances at you out of the side of his eye. You respond curtly, giving the man just your first name, and he laughs.

"I understand your hesitation to divulge answers, but your relationship with Tartaglia is quite evident already. Any other information I wish to find out about you I can do so with ea-"

"Spit it out, Pantalone. What do you want?" Childe asks, and you wonder if your boyfriend has lost his mind at how rudely he is speaking to his superior. However, Pantalone seems to pay it no mind, finding the conversation all the more amusing.

"My my, you're much more friendly Pulcinella and Capitano than you are with me. How tragic. I simply wished to discuss finances with you. Is that such a crime?"

Tartaglia blinks at him, taking a slight step forward and sheltering part of your frame behind him.

"We can discuss it at the Fatui meeting tomorrow. Considering you're a higher rank than me, you shouldn't require my input," Childe says, and Pantalone laughs once more. It is a dry type of laugh, as if he's never really found anything funny in his life. A conniving smile spreads across Pantalone's face once more.

"I see that you are on the defensive because of the company you currently keep. No worries. We can discuss our matters tomorrow," Pantalone says. He turns around and takes a few steps, before looking over his shoulder at the two of you. Tartaglia's hand moves from holding your own to wrapping protectively around your waist. Your lover straightens his posture, ready for a challenge, but Pantalone simply smiles eerily once more.

"I would be careful about who you show affection with in the Palace," Pantalone warns.

This time, it is your lover's turn to grin widely at his opponent across the hall.

"That's alright. I can fight," Tartaglia promises with an edge to his voice that you rarely hear. Pantalone's expression warps indecipherably at Childe's words. The ninth Harbinger shakes his head before turning and walking away, leaving you and Childe alone in the hall once more.

With his arm still on your waist, Childe leans over and presses a quick kiss to your forehead and smiles down at you.

"If any other Harbingers try to intimidate you, let me know and I'll handle it."

You stare at your lover, narrowing your eyes. "How would you handle it?"

Childe laughs softly. "I wouldn't want to ruin your stellar image of me, would I? Now, c'mon, let's go. This place is eerie."

-- cyno --

"You need to rest."

Your boyfriend's figure looms over your own tired one, multiplying the amount of relieving shade that covers your body. Despite Cyno's order for rest, your pride gets the best of you as you dismissively swat a hand through the air.

"I'm fine," you insist.

"You can barely walk. When was the last time you were even in the desert?"

"Is this a setup for a punchline?" You ask. Your voice almost sounds like a croak, straining from a lack of water. Cyno is quick to respond, pulling his own canteen off his belt and handing it over to you.

"No. It's me caring about you, that's what it is," Cyno crouches down to meet you at eye level. "Drink."

"This is your water. You need it. I'm not drinking it," you say stubbornly and Cyno sighs before pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance.

"I know the desert well enough to know how to ration my water. I also know it well enough to tell you when to rest and when to drink. Go ahead. I'll be fine."

You narrow your eyes at him, not moving the canteen to your lips. Cyno sighs before plopping down in the shade-cooled sand next to you. In the distance, you watch waves of heat warp the sand dunes on the horizon, and you wonder if you're in over your head. You'll never admit that though. The last thing you wanted was to slow down Cyno on your trip to the desert, but here you are, struggling to bear the heat.

Cyno sits with you in silence for a moment, before splitting the quiet with another question.

"People often say my humor is dry," Cyno says plainly. "But I think it's only dry when it's in the desert."

A small giggle escapes your lips at the awful pun, and Cyno smiles slightly. Cyno looks over at you. He pointedly looks at the canteen in your hands before flickering his piercing gaze up to you. Despite his best attempt, Cyno can't bring himself to stare at you with the same intimidating gaze he uses for criminals. When he clears his throat to speak once more, you interrupt him by lifting the water to your lips, taking a few sips before handing it back to him.

"I can carry you until we reach an oasis. There should be one not too far away, if we're lucky," Cyno offers, and you giggle at his offer. At your laughter, Cyno raises an eyebrow questioningly. You lean forward, hugging your knees close to your chest and smiling at him.

"What's so funny?" Cyno says, and you beam at him.

"Nothing. You're just cute when you're worried about me."

Cyno's eyes widen, before he decides to study the sand instead of your eyes. You watch as his fingers twitch slightly in the sand as he thinks of the words to say.

"'Cute' isn't exactly how most people describe me," Cyno mutters. In your heat-addled haze, you only grin wider at him before closing his canteen and handing it back to him, drawing his attention once more.

"Well, you're cute to me, even if others can't see it," you say. Despite the warmth of your body, you still reach out to grab his hand, lacing your fingers through his.

"Can we rest for a bit here?" You ask sheepishly. "I'm a bit worried I won't be able to walk far if we get up now."

Cyno nods at your words. "Of course. The last thing I want is to overwork yourself. It's okay if we work at different paces - I'll wait for you as long as you need."

Your heart melts at his honest words, so you scoot over to him before laying down in the sand, holding out your arm for him to rest with you. However, he shakes his head, electing to hold your hand instead.

"I'll watch over you while you sleep. Right now, it's my duty to keep you safe."

-- diluc --

"It's just a scratch, 'Luc," you say to the broad-shouldered man currently fretting over your injuries. "I'll be fine, I just need a bandage."

Diluc glares at you with as much vitriol as he can muster towards you -- which isn't much. You're unsure if this type of glare from him would even scare one of the bunnies on the Dawn Winery grasses outside. It certainly isn't the same glare he uses for handling criminals and members of the Abyss. Despite Diluc's efforts to seem intimidating, he's never been able to be mean or intimidating towards you. Thus, you giggle at his expression and his brows furrow.

"This is serious, love. You can't keep going out there and getting injured," Diluc grumbles. "Come on, sit on the bathroom counter."

"One of the maids could've helped me, y'know," you say teasingly before hopping up and resting on the cool marble basin, watching as Diluc's cheeks flush with a faint shade of red. "But you're way cuter."

"Stop trying to distract me," Diluc mutters, voice plagued by his easily flustered state.

"Is it working?" You ask, and your lover falls silent. The color of his cheeks synchronizes with his hair as he furrows his brow, focusing on cleaning up the scraped skin on your arm with a clean cloth. You smile softly at him as he works, unaware of your affectionate gaze towards him.

"How did this happen?" Diluc asks after a few moments of silence. His voice warbles slightly, and it takes everything in you not to pull him in for a hug -- it would only upset your injury, which would upset Diluc further in turn. Guilt washes over you at the sadness in his voice, and you use your uninjured arm to lean forward and ruffle his hair affectionately.

"I just tripped on a branch while out trying to collect some berries. Don't worry, it wasn't anything bad, sweetheart. I promise."

Diluc swallows heavily before nodding. Both of you know why seeing you injured affects him so much, but neither of you dare speak of the causation. Instead, you move your free hand from his hair to his cheek, heart melting at the way his face instinctively leans into it. Diluc reaches behind you to pick up the roll of bandages that one of the maids provided.

"Tell me if this hurts, alright? It should be taut, but it should not hurt," Diluc murmurs, voice deep as he begins to wrap the bandages starting at your wrist. You hum in acknowledgement, but Diluc is far too gentle to cause you any pain. He wraps the bandage up perfectly, staring at his handiwork with narrowed eyes before looking up at you.

"It's perfect," you applaud him and, for the first time since you've shown up injured, Diluc smiles softly at you. "You did wonderful. I feel better already."

"If it causes you any issues, please let me know." He says hurriedly, and you sigh, causing him to look at confusion. You smile wearily at him.

"C'mere," you urge, moving your hand from his cheek towards his tie. Loosely, you grip the knot of the fabric, urging his face towards yours. Your lips meet Diluc's in a loving kiss. You can tell he's caught off guard by it as you hear the hasty slap of his hand against the marble counter behind you as he regains his balance, leaning further into the kiss. Diluc's other hand reaches forward to curl around your cheek and jaw, calloused fingertips delicately gliding against your skin like a restorationist carefully brushing a piece of fine art.

Diluc is a man of quiet intensity, preferring to show his devotion to you through actions rather than words. As he kisses you in this moment, the reverent movement of his lips tells you over and over how much he adores you. The worried tension eases out of his shoulders as he melts into you, parting only when the two of you need to catch your breath. You use this opportunity to press your forehead to Diluc's, staring at him in the eyes.

"'Luc, I'm not going anywhere." You reach up and cradle his hand closer to your face. "I promise."

Diluc's thumb brushes gently back and forth on your cheekbone as he mulls over words to say.

"I know," he sighs, before sounding more firm in his words. "I know. I trust you. I love you."

-- xiao --

You've never been happier to have your boyfriend accompany you on an expedition. Adventurer's Guild commissions were at an all-time high, but danger was also at an unprecedented level. For reasons still unknown to the Guild, Treasurer Hoarder activity was at an unusual high, which made transporting goods and completing commissions that much more difficult.

Plus, it wasn't that often that you got to see Xiao. Warmer months are approaching, which means monster activity will increase, along with the need for commissions. Sure, the two of you would still meet at Wangshu Inn, but your relationship with the adeptus is still rather unconventional. After all, you knew from the start that Xiao wasn't the type of guy who would take you to fancy dinners at Xinyue Kiosk.

Rather, the two of you were perfectly content with eating dinner together on the Wangshu Inn balcony whenever the weather was nice and your schedules coincided. 'Dates' were a foreign concept to Xiao, and you didn't want to urge him out of his comfort zone by surrounding him with other humans. Thus, you found enjoyment in the fact that Xiao was willing to help you with this commission -- it was a more unique date for the two of you.

Yet, as the two of you head north to Qingce Village on a trodden dirt path, Xiao is quick to wrap his arms around you, pinning your hands to your sides and clutching you close.

"Xi-" you begin, but you're cut off by the stomach-whirling sensation of teleporting away. The two of you touch the ground almost instantaneously, but you're left reeling and dazed, not used to the feeling of teleportation. The two of you are now stationed in a cave, and you have no clue how far you've gone.

"What? Aren't you not supposed to teleport me like that?" You breathe, mind still spinning with confusion and disorientation, but Xiao silences you with a finger to his lips. With a single swipe of his hand, his mask reappears on his face, and he's quick to summon his spear.

"Wait here."

You watch, dumbfounded, as your lover teleports away, leaving you alone. Xiao wasn't the type to leave you stranded without good reason, so you sigh and make yourself comfortable on the stone ground of the cave, waiting for him to return.

Minutes later, the yaksha returns. The tip of his spear is stained with something, but you figure it's probably better if you don't pay too much attention to that.

"You are bad at watching the surroundings," Xiao says, looking down at you before wiping his mask away. You look up at him, blinking slowly.

"Wow, thanks," you say sardonically, and Xiao tilts his head, not fully used to human sarcasm.

"There were hilichurls following us," Xiao says, sitting down besides you on the cave floor. "They unsheathed an arrow, so I teleported us away."

"Oh," you say as a devious thought pops into your mind. "Thanks, sweetheart."

At the usage of a pet name, Xiao's face turns scarlet and he looks away from you, flustered. Deciding to make it even worse, you wrap your arms around his shoulders, leaning into him and resting your head on his shoulder.

"What would I ever do without my dashing protector to save me? How may I ever repay my loyal knight?" You giggle while Xiao's eyes widen at your playfully romantic words. "You swept me and my heart off my feet with your heroic ac-"

"Enough." Xiao says, but it comes out less as a firm demand and rather as a sheepish choke of words. "Please."

You giggle once more, memorizing the way the red on his face complements the green in his hair, before leaning in to place a quick kiss on his cheek.

"Thanks for looking out for me, Xiao," you say, teasing tone leaving your voice. Xiao raises his hand to rest on one of the arms you have wrapped around his shoulder, and you feel your heart swell at the rare initiation of physical contact.

"I will always be there when you need me," Xiao vows, and you realize just how far your relationship with the adeptus has come. While he still blushes at your words, he no longer admonishes you for playful romantics and flirty remarks. Instead, he embarrassedly embraces them, while holding you close.

"Good thing I always need you then, huh?" you murmur softly, as if whispering a secret amidst a crowd. The two of you sit alone in the cave for a while longer, and you realize you wouldn't mind spending forever like this, as long as Xiao was by your side, with his eyes fluttered closed in contentment.

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cobaltbeam · 1 year

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A BIG OL' SMOOCH!!!

On Patreon you can find wips, polls, and extra content!

#my drawings #fanart #star wars #the clone wars #sw tcw #blyla #aayla secura #commander bly #bly x aayla

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kathaynesart · 5 months

Note

...what must we do for you to learn what happened in Shanghai?

I have received SO many questions about this 0_o

Hm, I’ll tell you what, I’m considering creating a Patreon in which I’ll include extra Replica content (mostly art pieces with written excerpts/summaries). CHECK FOR POLL BELOW. It would just be fun/dramatic flavor scenes that are not important to the plot of Replica. Things like:

what actually happened in Shanghai

drama after Leo discovers they had been keeping the truth of the key from him

more Central Park Colony tom-foolery

raising baby Junior

creation of Omega and Donnie's interaction with him

Mind you, these are all things that would normally be too much for me to do for on top of Replica, as a lot of my free time is already dedicated to this comic (and I am very slow). But this could help me a lot with extra expenses and would be a nice way to cover a few things I don't feel I'd have the time to do in the actual comic. It would also be an opportunity to see comic updates in advance and possibly tutorials.

We shall see though. I don’t want to proceed with it further until done with the holiday special and some other Zine work. Once I'm back on the usual updates I'll have to figure out a possible schedule and if it's truly doable. But let me know if you would actually be interested in this, because it would really help with my decision!

#resisting the knee jerk reaction to doubt anyone would want to pay for my content #poll #rottmnt replica #replica #rottmnt #what happens in Shanghai stays in Shanghai #patreon #tmnt #kendra #donnie

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 days

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All In 9

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power imbalance, low self esteem, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you meet a mysterious man on a night out with your sister. (petite!reader)

based on the winning option for this poll

Characters: casino owner!Bucky Barnes

Note: Hellllllooooo 😁

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You can’t help but admire the books balanced in your lap. You’re overly aware of another set of eyes on you as you once more trace the title with your fingertips, not wanting to touch too much but simply unable to resist. It can’t be real. All the books you ever had come from the Goodwill or your grandmother’s closet.

Bucky leans into you, his proximity still sweltering to you. You glance over at him sheepishly as you grip the edges of the top book to hold them steady.

“Thank you,” you babble again, probably for the ten dozenth time.

“You like them, doll?”

“Yes, very much,” you push your shoulders up bashfully.

“See, doll, all I wanna see is you happy,” he intones, “you’re happy, aren’t you?”

“Sure, yes,” you stammer, “thank you.”

He chuckles, amused by your incessant thanks yous. He rubs your shoulder and grips it tight, pulling you closer.

“So, I made you happy,” he shifts his body slightly against the seat belt, “how are you going to make me happy?”

You blink and gulp, clutching the books tighter. You bite down as you stare at him. Oh.

“Can I tell you how?” He brings his fingertips up to pet your chin, “promise, it’s not too much.”

“Mm, okay,” you utter.

He grins and presses his thumb against your chin, “a kiss? Just one.”

You let out a wispy noise and barely keep the books from slipping away. What? You can't be entirely surprised, you have no illusions, well as little as you can have, about what he wants and yet it’s like you’ve been slammed into by a sixteen-wheeler. Your clamp your lips tight as your bat your eyes.

He considers you and his lips straighten, his dimples pitting beneath his beard, “you don’t want to?”

“Uh, no, it isn’t...” your bottom lip quivers and your voice quakes. “I just...”

You shudder and look at his mouth then his neck. You can’t look him in the face. Your whole body is alight and your heart is throbbing. How do you tell him the one thing you’re terrified to ever admit to anyone, though you’re certain they can see it clear enough.

“You just what?” His voice is grittier, deeper. It adds an extra beat to your heart.

“I never...” your eyes wander away, “I never kissed anyone. I’m sorry. I’m just... nervous. So I... I don’t know if I would be good.”

He hums and rubs your chin, turning your head to him. He moves his hand to cradle your entire jaw and your throat bobs once more. You can’t help but reach to his wrist, clasping around his silver watch as your other hand strains to keep hold of the books in your lap.

“Why wouldn’t you be any good, doll? Those lips can’t be anything but delicious.”

You squeak and squirm in the seat. A tingle flows up your spine and strangles you. Your lips open and close like a fish out of water, a fluttering breath escaping you.

“Doll, close your eyes,” he says.

You can’t argue. You can’t move. You can barely think. So you obey.

You shut your eyes and feel the heat around you stir. You can sense him leaning in and you stiffen as his breath glosses over you. He tilts your head up as his lips brush yours, his beard tickling your skin, and he presses firmly against you. You squeeze your eyes tight as he hums again and you let out a surprised squeak as his tongue pokes against your mouth.

He pulls back as the books fall out of your lap onto the floor. Your eyes flick open and you try to look down. He holds you in place and pushes you back against the seat.

“Forget them,” he urges as his hand stretches across your neck, “and open your mouth, doll.”

He leans in once more and you’re plastered against the seat by his weight and the seatbelt. His mouth covers yours again and you let your lips go slack as his tongue delves within. You let out a murmur around him and slap your hand against the suede as his hand moves under your ear, a perfect vee beneath your lobe. He groans as he keeps his tending firm but soft, drawing back with a nibble as he leaves your lips wet.

You sit there, eyes closed, puffing and trembling. He caresses your chin and purrs, “how was it, doll? Everything you expected and more?”

You force your eyes open and look at him, shrinking down as you reach for his arm and try to dislodge his hand, “wow... I...”

He smirks, “been a while since I left a lady breathless.”

“I’m... sorry.”

“Sorry?” He drags his touch along your jawline, “for what?”

“I... was I bad?” You ask.

He once more looms over you and you brace yourself. He kisses your forehead and slowly retracts his arm, “you are too good, doll. If I don’t stop myself...”

You look around, fluttering lashes, shaky hands, and slowly bend forward. You gather up the books and slowly sit back. You stare forward, stunned stupid as the feel of his lips lingers. It wasn’t bad, just new, a little bit scary. Just like his words.

What would happen if he didn’t stop himself? Could you stop him?

🃏

The car rolls through a gate topped with golden points. You peer up at the urban mansion. You’ve never been to this part of town. The towering homes and curated lawns make you feel tiny. More so than usual.

You fumble to undo your seatbelt as Merv opens the door. You slide out ahead of Bucky and he trails after, his hand on your back as he guides you up the stone walk to the front door. He punches in a code into the keypad and lets you in ahead of him.

As you enter, you smell maple and bacon. He stays close to you, directing you with a point over your shoulder. You enter a dining room, the large table only set for two. He takes the books from you and sets them aside on the corner table. You swallow tightly.

“My personal chef should be about done,” he pulls out a chair and looks back at you expectantly.

You scurry up and sit with a thank you. He tucks the chair in under you and takes the chair on the other side of the corner, still close. Before you can settle in, a woman appears with two stemmed glasses. She sets one down before each of you as Bucky nods in fleeting acknowledgement, though his blue eyes only twinkle in your direction.

“Smells good,” you chew your lip nervously and his gaze follows the gesture.

“Nothing but the best, doll,” he winks and sips from his glass.

You do the same, surprised by the bubbliness. There’s a slight tang to the orange juice you don’t expect. He’s still watching you, seemingly amused by the play of emotions on your face.

“What?” You give a brittle giggle.

“You,” he says, “it’s a mimosa...” he leans forward, “still tryna figure out what you like.”

“It’s nice. Sweet,” you look at the glass and take another drink.

“Mm, maybe something strawberry next time,” he suggests.

“Ooo,” you smile but stop yourself as you feel goofy.

You blow out between your lips, trying to expel the tension as his eyes stay stuck to you. His attention is flattering but no less intimidating. You were never one to be in the spot light. You peer around the room, admiring the modern but elegant decor.

“Your house is so nice,” you rub your hands together nervously. “Must be nice living here...”

“Eh, bit empty but not bad,” he says, “lonely.”

“Oh,” you turn back to him.

“Doll,” he pinches the stem of the glass, “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea here. I know I got a reputation, you probably read all about it online. But I’m a changed man... or trying to change.”

You lower your brow in confusion. It’s strange to have anyone, let alone him, explain themselves to you.

“You know, I was with a certain type for a long time but... nothing serious. No one like you.”

Oh, you know. Why would he be with someone like you? You don’t dare to ask the question.

“It’s... okay,” you stammer.

“I don’t know any other way to do this,” he sits back and pushes his hair away from his face, “I’m taking it slow but...” his chest rises and he exhales heavily, “I hope you know how into you I am.”

Your cheeks sting hotly and you can’t help but touch them. You avert your eyes, looking down, then cross your arms across your chest. You look at him and shrug.

“Why?”

He narrows his eyes and brushes his fingers along the trim of his beard. He puckers his lips thoughtfully.

“I didn’t know until I saw you,” he drops his hand, resting it against the table. “I don’t know, you just looked... sweet. A bit lost. But I meant what I said, the skirt was cute. Kinda hoped you’d wear it today.”

“Oh?” You let out apologetically.

“That’s okay, doll, wishful thinking,” he says, “can’t have everything I want at once. I’m learning that.” He sits forward, “you’re teaching me how.”

“I am?”

“Sure you are,” he smirks, “waiting on you, aren’t I?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess,” you twiddle your fingers nervously.

Before it can grow awkward, the same woman returns. She has a tray in her hands, large and spread with serving dishes. She leans it on the table and lays it all out; bacon, sausage, eggs, toast, french toast, waffles, pancakes. Everything you could dream of for a perfect breakfast buffet.

Your stomach grumbles loudly and Bucky tilts his head coyly. Did he hear that? You wait until the woman leaves to reach for your fork and knife, mirroring him as he does the same. He uses the tongs to put some bacon on his plate and offers you some. You take only one, it usually makes your stomach hurt.

“You’ll be waiting on me tomorrow,” he says, as he continues to serve himself. Each time, he adds some to your plate as well.

“I will?”

“Probably a long day for me. You’re gonna have to get into the night shift, doll,” he explains. “Business and all that tripe. I’d rather have you by my side later anyhow. I’m not much of a morning person. Besides, I’ll need something pretty on my arm at the casino.”

“Casino?” You echo.

“Sure thing, doll. I gotta keep a watch over what’s mine,” he insists.

“Right, er...” you look at your plate.

The idea of stepping back into the casino makes your insides jelly. It’s so crowded and bright and busy. And with him, the one person everyone will be watching. At least there are no cameras permitted on the floor.

“Just stick close,” he says, “shouldn’t be hard. I won’t let you get very far.”

He chuckles and you poke at the scrambled eggs. What do you wear? What do you do? Just follow him around like a duckling?

The woman returns, plaintive as she stands in the doorway. You glance over at her but Bucky keeps his attention on his food.

“Thea?” He calls to her.

“Sir, a package,” she declares.

“Ah, yes, bring it in,” he demands and bites into a sausage.

He chews and you opt to turn your focus to the growling in your stomach. You may as well enjoy what you can and you’ve never been shy of a good meal. You pour syrup onto the waffle and dust some icing sugar over it. He’s watching you, you peek up briefly to confirm it. You make your bites small and tidy. You wilt beneath his constant surveillance.

The woman, Thea, returns. Bucky waves her over as she carries a white box. He drops his fork and stands. You hover your cutlery over the plate and watch as he dismisses her with a curt nod.

“Please, enjoy,” he insists as he sets the box on the other side of the array of food.

You stick to your conservative progress, curiously watching him as he pops open the lid of the box. He looks inside and smiles. He goes back to his seat to retrieve his napkin and wipes his hands.

“How do you like them?” He pulls out a shirt, the edges scalloped around the bottom and neck, little purple hearts speckled all over.

“Pajamas?” You wonder aloud.

“Thought they’d be cute,” he smiles and drapes the shirt over the back of the chair in front of them, revealing the matching shorts. “You can take some pictures for me tonight.”

You nearly choke. You tried to forget that picture. Both of them. His and yours. Right then, you can only think of him in the towel.

“I’ll have it packed up with the books for you to take,” he puts the pajamas back in the box and closes the lid. “Let’s finish our food.”

“Uh, okay, thank you,” you stammer.

“Doll, it’s all just beginning,” he sits and reaches for his mimosa, holding it out. You take yours and he clinks your glass. “Here’s to us.”

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #casino au #mcu #marvel #all in #avengers #captain america #winter soldier

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golyhawhaw · 2 months

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ALAN RITCHSON

I present to you my rendition of Alan Ritchson. He was the winner of my Patreon poll. You may know him as Reacher. It was a blast making this. I hope you enjoy it.

Content

Alan Ritchson Tray Files

Alan Ritchson Skin Detail

Download and other information under the cut

Thank you to Wistful Castle for allowing me to recolour this hair with an extra swatch.

Skin Features

1 Swatch

HQ Compatible

Recommended Downloads

Wistful Castle Alistair Hair

Kijiko Uncurled Lashes

Golyhawhaw Reacher Eyes

Golyhawhaw Neck Slider

Download(Patreon)

#ts4cc #sims 4 cc #s4cc #simblr #sims 4 skin #sims 4 male skin #sims 4 #the sims 4 #ts4 #alan ritchson #reacher #jack reacher

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 6 days

Text

1968 [Chapter 10: Poseidon, God Of The Sea]

A/N: Only 2 chapters 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: 7.2k

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

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

It’s Friday, November 1st, and it begins like every day does: with you sneaking a birth control pill and swallowing it with a handful of cool water from the sink. Aemond is usually gone before you wake up—writing speeches, reading newspapers, strategizing with Otto and Criston and Sargent Shriver—but you always lock the bathroom door just in case he reappears. You’ve popped the tiny pink pills out of their circular packages and hidden them in hollowed-out tampons, each opening sealed with cotton balls. You don’t like taking the pills; you don’t fully understand how they work, and you don’t like feeling out of tune with your body’s own rhythms, but they are infinitely better than the alternative. You can’t imagine having to carry Aemond’s child now, sacrificing your comfort, your health, your future, your life for a man who doesn’t know the real you and doesn’t want to. You return the modified tampon to the box you keep in the linen closet, then begin to pin up your hair.

When you venture downstairs, you’ve thrown on a long flowing floral skirt and chunky black sweater, black flats, small unceremonious gold hoops in your ears. You’ll have to change before the journalists arrive to fawn over the children as they bake homemade apple pies this afternoon. You’ll have to wear whatever Aemond tells you to. But presently, it’s Aegon you’re looking for; you begin with the basement.

He isn’t sprawled across his futon, he isn’t lazing on the floor. He isn’t there at all. As you stand on the steps, you see only Eudoxia, muttering irritably in Greek and crawling around on her hands and knees as she picks globs of red out of the shag carpet.

“What is wrong with him?” she says when she glances at you. “Can you believe this? Melted candle wax everywhere. He is a pig. A pig! Someone should make bacon out of him. Then he could finally be useful. He’s just about fat enough. He could feed the whole family, and all the dogs too.”

You don’t know how to reply; you can’t apologize for helping to make the mess, you can’t agree that Aegon is a plague and nothing more. “Do you want help cleaning up?”

“If Aemond saw me putting you to work, I would be deported back to Tyrnavos.”

“No, Doxie. Asteria would fall into the sea without you.”

She peers up at you through fallen strands of her hair, dyed a palpably artificial pitch black. Then she grins, large doughy cheeks, crinkles around her eyes. “Go help Aemond win his election.”

“Yes ma’am,” you say dutifully, and head back upstairs.

In the living room, Aemond and Otto are hissing like snakes as they leaf through the Wall Street Journal. The newspaper reports that Nixon’s poll numbers are climbing in this crucial eleventh hour. They can’t decide if that’s true or if the Wall Street Journal, a Nixon-friendly publication, is trying to give him a little extra momentum as Election Day approaches. Criston nods at you from where he sits on the couch, looking exhausted, dark shadows around his eyes and shoulders slumped low; Aemond and Otto don’t notice you at all. You keep moving.

There is chatter and giggling and the clanging of bowls and pans in the kitchen. You peek inside from the doorway. Fosco, Helaena, and the nannies are making pancakes with the children. Butter sizzles, spatulas scrape, bubbles appear in wells of batter. Helaena is lifting Evangelos so he can pour a cupful of smooth, milky batter into one of the pans on the stovetop. Cosmo, drizzling maple syrup over an ambitiously tall stack of pancakes, waves at you. You smile and wave back. In the corner of the room, Ludwika is smoking one of her Camels and shooing away Aegon’s second-youngest son Thaddeus, whose fingers are covered with flour.

“Please take your paws elsewhere,” Ludwika says, flicking ashes into the kitchen sink. “This dress is Prada.”

Fosco spots you. “Would you like some pancakes?” he asks as he approaches, wiping his palms on the apron tied around his slim waist. Flour dusts his eyeglasses. “We have enough batter to make about 500. Although I cannot promise they will not be burnt. Our chefs are rather inexperienced.”

“Thanks, but I’m not really hungry.” You take one last look around the kitchen, wondering where Aegon could be.

Fosco understands. His voice drops low and discrete. “I have not seen him this morning.”

“He isn’t usually up yet.”

“He’s not, this is true.” Fosco taps his chin, leaving white dabs of flour there. “Maybe he’s sailing?”

“Maybe. I’ll check.”

“And I have no idea where you’re going or why,” Fosco says with a wink before returning to the stove.

Outside it’s grey, misty, only 50 degrees. It would be a bad day for sailing. The wind rips at your clothes and your hair like a man’s lustful hands; the waves are choppy and treacherous. You think of Icarus plummeting into the ocean, of Andromeda being offered as a sacrifice to assuage Poseidon’s wrath, of sirens beckoning doomed sailors. From where you’re standing in the backyard of the main house, shivering with your arms crossed over your chest, you can’t see Aegon’s boat Sunfyre bobbing in the rough surf. You turn left to investigate Helaena’s withered garden.

As you walk, the hem of your skirt dragging dead autumn leaves, you skim your fingertips over the evergreen emerald hedges, cool and damp. At the center of the garden—like a diamond in a wedding ring, like the sun surrounded by its planets—you don’t find Aegon smoking a joint or napping under Zeus’s shadow, only a silent stone circle of gods who watch you with unmoving, all-knowing eyes. You spin slowly, studying each of them, deities who loved and cheated and offered mercy and cursed and killed. From his gurgling fountain in the middle of the clearing, Zeus glares at you most fiercely, wielding his lightning bolts, aching to loose them. The wind rattles the leaves of the hedges; crows caw from somewhere out in the mist.

“Oh! You’re here, darling?” Alicent says from the arched doorway cut into the greenery. She’s pushing Viserys in his wheelchair. Sparse white spiderweb-strands of hair hang limply from his head, mottled with liver spots. His fingers are bony and clawlike. “In this awful weather?”

You scramble for an explanation. “I just, um, needed some quiet.”

“Yes, the children are very rambunctious this morning, aren’t they?”

“Children?” Viserys echoes, as if he is only just learning of them.

“Your grandchildren,” Alicent reminds him. “Aegon and Helaena’s kids. Orion, Spiro, Violeta, Thaddeus, Cosmo, Daphne, Evangelos, and…” Panic crosses her face. She realizes she’s forgotten one, but she doesn’t know who.

“Neaera,” you say.

“Of course. Such a sweet girl, gentle like a lamb.”

You weren’t blessed with that sort of disposition. Sometimes you wish you were. Life seems easier for women who don’t feel bitterness or forbidden ambition, who pain moves cleanly through like clear water. They have no thorns for it to snag on and grow roots into the bones, the soul. They are never at risk of becoming poisonous like Jupiter’s moon Io. “What brings you to the garden on a day this dreary?”

“I feel close to them here,” Viserys rasps.

You stare down at him, baffled. “Close to who, sir?” You rarely interact with the ailing patriarch of the Targaryen family. He is often confined to his bedroom, attended by Alicent and Eudoxia and his nurses, and even when he is physically present his mind is sluggish, alien, impenetrable. Now Alicent’s eyes are downcast, and she drifts away to inspect the statue of Poseidon, a formidable bearded man holding a trident and with dolphins and sea turtles emerging from the waves of white marble at his bare feet.

“I left them back in Greece,” Viserys says, his gaunt face vacant, distant, vaguely sad. He is bundled up in a thick wool robe that hides how skeletal he has become. “I thought about having them brought over to be interred at the mausoleum, but it felt wrong to disturb their bones. Now I cannot visit their graves. I can only hear them here, among the gods our ancestors worshiped.”

“Who…?”

“Aemma and Rhaenyra,” Alicent tells you from where she now stands by Aphrodite, gazing longingly at the goddess of love. You notice that she is clutching a komboskini in one hand; she must believe that what her husband is saying is blasphemy, but she doesn’t condemn him. “Viserys had a wife and daughter before he met me.”

You feel a sudden and overwhelming stab of grief for the old man; you are thinking of Ari. “What happened?”

“The sea took them,” Viserys explains. “A riptide off the coast of Euboea. We found their bodies three days later.”

“Oh God. I’m…I’m so sorry for your loss.” You don’t know what else to say; it’s too disastrous, too unspeakable.

“Aemma was pregnant. It was a boy. She delivered him in the water, a coffin birth.” And you know from his face, his voice, that Alicent and her children never stood a chance, that Viserys has only one true family, only one set of names carved into the scarlet chambers of his failing heart. You think of Aemond’s heart, claimed by Alys and her son; you think of your own.

“They’re at peace, Viserys,” Alicent says. “They are in heaven with my mother and Ari and Mimi.”

He continues, as if he hasn’t heard her: “I thought that if I made something of myself in America, if I helped contribute something incredible to the world, then they would not have died for nothing.” Viserys reaches out with trembling, gnarled hands, and when you realize he wants to hold yours you let him. His grasp is weak and cold. “Aemond will be president. He will save countless lives, he will save this nation’s soul. And you have made that possible.”

Where’s Aegon? Is he okay? Why is no one else ever looking for him? “Thank you, sir.”

Viserys begins hacking, doubling over in his wheelchair, and Alicent hurries to soothe him and provide a handkerchief that Helaena embroidered green spiders onto. When he has recovered, you leave them with the gods: Viserys to grieve his old life, Alicent to mourn the one she never had.

You plod through sand dunes out to the Atlantic Ocean, peering into the fog as you search for Aegon’s sailboat. Still, there is no sign of him. You glance back towards the main house as sea spray peppers your cheeks and your knuckles. You’re beginning to get nervous. Where the hell is he? Is he passed out somewhere, is he sick, is he hurt?

And then, at last, you see him: sitting at the bottom of a small bluff so he is invisible to anyone not at the water’s edge, arms linked around his bent knees, not smoking, not drinking, not gulping pills, just gazing out into the waves that thrash and rumble beneath a grey sky, his too-long blonde hair whipping in the wind. He wears one of Daeron’s army jackets over a white turtleneck sweater, ripped jeans, no shoes, a collection of other men’s dog tags slung around his neck.

“Hey,” you say as you join him, dropping down onto the cool, crumbling sand.

Aegon smiles. “Hey.”

“It’s strange to see you awake before noon.”

“Yeah…I didn’t really sleep.” No, he didn’t, you can tell: his eyes are bloodshot and his voice tired, husky. He is watching you, so hopeful but so afraid. “What are we gonna do?”

About us. About Aemond. “If he loses on Tuesday, I can leave him.”

“What if he wins?”

You don’t have a good answer. You shrug, avoiding Aegon’s eyes. “It’s not forever, you know? It would be four years, and then…”

“Four years?” Aegon says. “No, I can’t wait another four years. I’ve been waiting my whole life for something like this. And what if he gets a second term? Eight years? I’ll be almost fifty. We’ve already lost so much time, I can’t surrender another decade.”

“Aegon, first ladies don’t quit. It’s never happened before, not once since 1789. It’s a part of the democratic process. People aren’t just voting for Aemond, they’re voting for me too. You know that. You told me we were a package deal, and you were right. If they trust me and I walk away, it’s…it’s…it’s treason, it’s abandonment, it’s wrong. And Aemond needs to have the political credibility to get what he wants done.”

“Look,” Aegon says, like it pains him. “I get that my life is already half over, and I haven’t done anything worthwhile with the last forty years, but I want to be different. I want to be better. And I can do that, but I need you to give me a chance.”

“You think Aemond would let me leave? If I publicly humiliated and undermined him?”

“We don’t need Aemond, we could figure it out—”

“What do you think he and Otto would do to you, Aegon? They would ruin you anywhere you go, they would have you declared mentally unfit and take your children away.”

“They don’t own us!”

“They do,” you insist. “And if you try to fight them it will destroy you. You’ve never cared about strategy, and I love that you’re truthful, and I love that you’re real, but I need you to understand what you’re asking for right now.”

“But he breaks the rules,” Aegon says, and his eyes are glistening. “He has Alys. He has a kid out of wedlock.”

“Yes,” you agree softly.

“And what, I’m supposed to hope Aemond loses?” Aegon swipes tears from his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Because that’s the only way I get to touch you? Nixon wins and more draftees get butchered in Vietnam, and Daeron doesn’t come home, and the white supremacists get to resegregate the beaches at Biloxi, Mississippi and wherever the hell else they want to, and civil rights protesters get attacked by police dogs, and teenagers get sentenced to decades in prison for marijuana possession?”

“I’m sorry.” You can’t tell him he’s mistaken about any of that. He isn’t.

“I’ve spent my whole fucking life in a cage, but I’ve never felt this powerless.”

“Aegon?”

“Yeah.”

“Am I…” It’s terrifying to ask. “Am I the same way Mimi was when she was younger? Is that why you like me?”

“No,” he says immediately. “No, you’re different than Mimi. Mimi was fun, and we could party together, and I cared about her, obviously, but…” He stares out at the ocean, shaking his head. “She wasn’t as strong as you. And she couldn’t really get to me. I feel like you could kill me if you wanted to, you could reach inside my chest any time it crossed your mind and crush me in your fist and I’d be gone.”

You stretch out your fingertips until they collide with his sweater, warm yielding flesh woven over his ribs. “Not so easy,” you say. And then Aegon smiles and he leans in to kiss you, the ocean roaring like an ancient beast, a titan, a maelstrom. The wind rakes through your hair and stings your eyes. You ask when he rests his forehead against yours, your hand on his face, your thumb stroking his cheek: “Do you wish you could go back to when you hated me?”

“Never. I’ve gotten used to not being alone.”

“The kids made pancakes. You should go have some.”

“Come with me.”

“You first. I’ll be five minutes behind you. We shouldn’t walk to the house together.”

“Why?” Aegon teases. “Because people might think we fucked in the basement last night?”

“I’ve already told them. Aemond is waiting for you in the kitchen with a bazooka.”

Aegon laughs and struggles to his bare feet, slipping on the sand. “Okay. See you soon.”

“See ya.” Once he’s gone, you recite the full length of Here’s To The State Of Mississippi in your head, then trek across the sand and through the backyard to rejoin the rest of the Targaryens.

When you open the sliding glass door, Otto is standing in the hallway. His icy blue eyes sweep from your simple black flats to your windswept hair, still pinned up but unacceptably tousled. “Why the hell aren’t you dressed for the reporters?”

“Because they won’t be here for another two hours. Surely you are well-acquainted with the itinerary that you yourself arranged.”

“Don’t get yourself in trouble, girl.”

“Remember when you used to defer to me about things? Were you stupid then, or are you stupid now?”

“Do you know what Joe Kennedy did when his daughter Rosemary threatened the family’s reputation?” Otto says, eyes glittering cruelly.

You really don’t know; you weren’t aware that JFK had a sister named Rosemary. “What?”

“He took her to a surgeon to be lobotomized. Now she’s hidden away in a little cottage in Wisconsin, can’t speak, can’t walk, with full-time nurses to wipe the drool off her face and change her diapers. How would you like that? Would your obscene little flirtation still be worth it? We could tell people that you were in a car accident or fell down the stairs. The doctors go in through the eye socket, you know. And you’re awake the whole time.”

“You can’t do that to me,” you say, shellshocked.

“Oh, if that’s what it takes, I’ll find the will somehow.”

There is shouting from the basement, and you and Otto both bolt for the staircase. At the bottom of the steps, Aegon and Eudoxia are embroiled in a ferocious confrontation, red faces, hands itching to slap and shove. Aegon roars, jabbing his index finger at her like a petulant teenager: “I told you to stay the fuck out of my room!”

“You are filthy, you leave crumbs everywhere! We will have mice!”

“Where’s the garbage?” Aegon demands. “Huh? Where’d you put it? Out by the curb?”

“It has already been picked up.”

“No, no way! That’s bullshit!”

“You’re too late!” Doxie says. “The truck went by 20 minutes ago. And why is this a problem? What precious heirloom did I steal from you? An empty rum bottle? A magazine full of naked women? Candy wrappers, cigarette ashes, melted candle wax? You live like a pig, you should not be so outraged when you are treated the same as one.”

“Aegon, what happened?” you ask. Otto is equally bewildered, surveying the markedly clean basement, his brow knitted into deep crevices.

Aegon doesn’t answer. He only glances at you—frustration, anger, but shame too—and then sighs in defeat and stomps up the stairs to the main floor of the house.

Eudoxia looks at Otto and shrugs nonchalantly. “At least there were not so many used condoms this time.”

Your gaze catches on the end table by the futon. The empty cups are gone, the ashtray is spotless…and there is no folded white corner of a receipt poking out from under it.

The math problem from Mount Sinai, you think, that relic, that talisman, that worthless scrap of paper that Aegon never wanted to talk about but kept so close to him, just like you cling to the card he gave you and Aemond cherishes his engraved Ouija board. It’s gone. It’s almost like it never happened.

~~~~~~~~~~

After the journalists arrive and the apple pies, so quintessentially all-American, are made—you help Cosmo with his job, layering strips of dough into lattice crusts that turn golden in the oven, glinting with sugar crystals like diamonds—Aemond’s retinue begins the last of their campaign stops by travelling via limousines to Philadelphia, just an hour and a half across the width of New Jersey and over the Delaware River. In your penthouse suite at the Ritz-Carlton, you soak in a bath opaque with bubbles, steam hot and dewy on your skin. Your hair is long and free. The Zenith radio out in the kitchenette is playing Tomorrow Never Knows by the Beatles.

Your hands have just slipped beneath the hot water—your skull full of Aegon, things he’s done, things he’s said—when you hear the bathroom door open behind you. You rest your arms on the spotless white rim of the tub, porcelain-enameled steel, and try not to look like you’ve been interrupted. Aemond’s footsteps cross the linoleum floor, then he kneels by the bathtub and wraps his arms around you, his long uncalloused fingers skating over your shoulder, collarbones, nipples, before linking like a long necklace. He likes you best like this, when your scar is hidden, something that might have been a nightmare or a sad story that happened to somebody else. He rests the mutilated left half of his face against the right side of yours; his eyepatch scratches against your temple. You shift uncomfortably, you can’t help it. You don’t want him touching you. His arms tighten around your ribs.

“You know, JFK’s mother went through a crisis of sorts as a young wife,” Aemond says calmly. “She realized her husband was a hopeless philanderer and tried to leave him and go back to her parents. But her father sat her down and explained that she had made a commitment. Marriage is for life, and you don’t abandon your vows when the circumstances prove difficult. So she went back to Joe. And if she hadn’t, there never would have been a John F. Kennedy, or a Bobby, or a Eunice or a Ted, or a million other things too.”

“I am so fucking sick of hearing about the Kennedys.”

“You used to love being compared to Jackie.”

“I’m not her. I’m never going to be her.”

“I’m giving up things too,” Aemond says. Now he’s combing his fingers through your hair, unraveling tiny knots, yanking at your scalp. “If I win, I won’t be able to see Alys and our son. It would be too risky, someone might catch me. For as long as I’m president, I’ll have to be apart from them. You don’t think that’s painful? But Alys understands. She knows it’s for the greater good.”

“Please stop touching me.”

“You’re mine to touch as much as I want to.”

You stare at the seafoam green wall and try to pretend you’re in another place, another year.

“I’ve been thinking,” Aemond says sympathetically, an appeasing sort of tone, like he’s trying to strike a bargain. “I’m a realist, I’m aware that I can’t keep you locked up in a basement or put you in a straightjacket for the next fifty years. That doesn’t serve either of us. If you are truly desperate to be rid of me, there’s nothing I can do to change your mind. And I require a partner who is fully committed to my cause, my legacy. Not a captive. I can’t fight Nixon and you too.”

You twist around in the tub to look at him, skeptical, amazed. Is there a way out? “So what are you offering?”

“I need you for as long as I’m president,” Aemond says. “If I win, I need you for at least four years, probably eight. And a short while after that to establish myself in retirement and fade from the headlines, another few years. But then…we could work out some arrangement that is mutually agreeable.”

The hope is so fragile, so fearful, splintering glass. “You would let me go?”

“We’d have to negotiate the details, particularly as far as our future children are concerned, but…yes. In some sense, at least.”

You can’t find any words. You don’t want to offend him, to shatter this moment. And yet the price is so steep. Four years, eight years, ten years. But then…but then…

Aemond smiles, his remaining blue eye bright and cunning. His fingertips trace the slope of your jaw. “I care so deeply for you. You are my Aphrodite, you have made my wildest ambitions possible. You will help me save this country. I am worshiped because of you, I am trusted, I am envied. No one has a wife as beloved as mine, and everybody knows it. So I feel…I’ve considered…” His hand moves down to your throat, drawing invisible chains of gold or silver. “If you’ve given me so much, I can extend some mercy in return.”

“You can’t harm Aegon,” you say. “Or take his children away, or do anything else to punish him.” And then you lie, a necessary fiction, an invention, a myth, Prometheus stealing fire to give it to humans, Zeus hiding Io from Hera. “He hasn’t betrayed you.” And he’s saved me over and over again.

“Of course I won’t harm Aegon. I need him too. This act he has now of the devoted, reformed, tragedy-besieged single father? People adore it. At this rate, I’ll be able to make him the attorney general for my second term if he uses the next four years to rack up some experience. And his children are gold mines for the photographers. They have filled the void left by our own son’s death.”

“Ari,” you say.

“What?”

“He had a name. He wasn’t just ‘a son’ or ‘our son.’ His name was Ari.”

“You’ll feel better once we’ve had others.” Aemond stands and holds out a hand to you. He’s wearing a black suit like he’s getting married, like he’s going to a funeral.

You gaze up at him, not wanting to leave the water. You belong to him, but when he touches you it feels like the earth dying when Persephone is stolen away by Hades each autumn, it feels like Eurydice’s spiderweb-fragile life evaporating when Orpheus dared to look back at her as he led her out of the Underworld. “What if I can’t get pregnant again?” you ask. “It took over a year the first time. And the surgery…what if there’s too much scar tissue, what if I’m just…just…broken?” There’s real pain in your voice that staves off any suspicion Aemond might have. You do want more children, you believe, you know; just not with him.

“Then it is God’s will. But we’ll keep trying.”

Aemond draws you out of the water like a fish from the sea, something to devour, skin and muscle, delicate bones sucked clean.

~~~~~~~~~~

The sunlight is cloudless and glaring. Leaves swirl in the brisk wind in jewel tones: gold, ruby, fire opal, honey calcite, tiger’s eye, red jasper. Aemond has just finished a speech at Franklin Delano Roosevelt Park, standing in a stone gazebo that you can’t help but think resembles a Greek temple, tall columns that house deities of love and death, oceans and fire. Alicent and Helaena have taken the children to attend the opening of a new public library on the other side of the city. The rest of Aemond’s entourage—you, Criston, Otto, Ludwika, Fosco, Aegon—are arranged in a semicircle around him on the stage. Only 50 yards away, there is a small parking lot full of police and press vehicles. Philadelphia residents have walked miles to hear Aemond speak, to glimpse him, to cheer for him, to take leaves he’s stepped on or loose threads from his navy blue suit as relics like the bones of a saint. You match him, as you always must: navy blue dress, high heels, hair neat, makeup mature and understated, gold jewelry gleaming on your ears, throat, wrist. Ravens flap their wings from the skeletal limbs of bare trees. A car radio is blaring Break On Through by The Doors.

“Senator Targaryen,” a reporter calls as flashbulbs strobe dizzyingly. “What do you think about Tommie Smith and John Carlos getting death threats for raising their fists in the Black Power salute at the Olympics in Mexico City?”

There is a split-second lull; it is a difficult question. Aemond must remain the savior of the hippies and college kids and civil rights activists, yet he must not let the old-money urban elite or suburban families mistake him for a discord-sowing radical. You and Aegon exchange a glance; Otto placed him on the opposite side of the gazebo, and this is not a coincidence. Then Aemond decides what to say. “Peaceful protests—even those that can make us confused, defensive, fearful—are not a threat to democracy,” he speaks into the microphone steadily, deliberately, commandingly. The crowd leans forward as they listen, enraptured. Journalists’ pens fly across the pages of their notebooks. “They are not the harbingers of some doomed descent into anarchy. They are a manifestation of the fact that we have already failed. Our nation has failed, our laws and our leaders have failed, and this is our chance to address those dire inadequacies. I urge every single American to listen to what Mr. Smith and Mr. Carlos have actually said about their concerns and their hopes, to be empathetic, to be honest when reflecting on what our country has achieved and yet so desperately still needs to improve upon. These men are not enemies of the United States. They are the United States. They are a part of us, and we are a part of them, and we must not allow prejudiced, ignorant voices”—he means Wallace, he means Nixon—“to draw divides between us. The harassment that Mr. Smith, Mr. Carlos, and their families have experienced is a travesty. It is something that we should expect from a fascist or communist regime, not from a democracy. And to do my small part to show my admiration for them and atone for the mistakes of this nation that I so fervently hope to make better, I would like to personally fund private security services for the households of Mr. Smith and Mr. Carlos for the foreseeable future.”

The crowd erupts into applause, cheers shouted, signs held aloft. Your eyes snag on one, clutched by a middle-aged woman bundled up against the cold; only her eyes—grey, tearful, shining like quarters—are visible above the red plaid of her thick wool scarf. On her sign is a large photograph of a young man in uniform, maybe nineteen, maybe twenty. Below the photo in red marker is written: Ryan Farrelly, my youngest son, burned to death in Phan Thiet on September 21st. Bring Daeron home! Bring them ALL home!

The woman waves at you. You raise your hand wave back. And then there is a sound that comes from everywhere, a boom of thunder, an explosion, bullets like the one that demolished Aemond’s left eye in Palm Beach back in May, a lifetime ago, a truth that has become mythology. There is something hot and sticky splattered across your face, and you can’t see; when you wipe it away with your sleeve and open your eyes, there is a hole in your palm that you can look through like a window.

Where else?

But when you check your chest, your belly, you are whole. It is only a hand would, and that won’t kill you. It doesn’t even hurt yet, though the blood runs in torrents down your arm. You peer frantically around to see if anyone else is hurt.

Aegon, Fosco, Ludwika, Criston??

People are rushing the stage to shield Aemond and his family from bullets. Police are tackling somebody in the audience and beating him bloody with their batons. Aegon is screaming and shoving through the chaos as he fights his way towards you. Otto slams him against one of the columns of the gazebo and holds him there, because Aegon is not the one who’s supposed to get to you first. Now Aemond’s arms are around you, and he is ushering you down the stone steps towards the parking lot, and Criston is running alongside him and telling Aemond that the closest hospital is Jefferson Methodist, but UPenn is better and only two miles farther.

“Who else?” you ask as you cradle your hand against your chest, blood turning your dress from navy to black. Now it hurts plenty, like waking up from your c-section, like a crimson wave that is scalding and crushing and dragging you under to be drowned. “Is anyone else—?”

“No, just you,” Criston says, a reassuring grip on your shoulder. “Don’t worry. Nobody else is hurt.”

“Senator Targaryen, this way!” a police officer is yelling, and he leads the three of you to his black and white car. Criston leaps into the passenger seat; Aemond pulls you into the back with him and slams the door. The sirens shriek and the police officer careens out of the parking lot, Criston giving directions, Aemond yanking off his suit jacket to wrap around your hemorrhaging hand.

“I’m not going to lose it, am I?” you ask dazedly. None of this seems real. You wish Aegon was here. “I need my hands.”

“No, honey. I don’t think they’ll have to amputate.” Then Aemond stares down at the blood on his palms, warm scarlet ruin, water and oxygen and iron that once pulsed in your arteries and veins and now stains him. He frowns, then wipes his hands on his white shirt until almost all the blood is gone from his skin. He is cleaning you off of him. He is readying himself for the cameras that will undoubtedly be waiting at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania.

Inside the glass doors of the building, dust motes circle in aisles of sunlight; you watch them as doctors and nurses push you towards the operating room on a stretcher.

“We’re going to take excellent care of you, Mrs. Targaryen,” a doctor says as he ties a sterile white mask over his nose and mouth.

Don’t let Ari die, you almost murmur in response; and then you remember that’s already happened.

There are needles gliding into your veins, bright lights, pain vanishing like the memory of a dream dissolving when you wake.

~~~~~~~~~~

Four hours later, you are propped up in bed on a mountain of pillows, your hand surgically repaired and bandaged, morphine in your IV drip. The doctors think you shouldn’t lose much function—the bullet was from a pistol, blessedly small in size and missing most of your major tendons and nerves—but you won’t know for sure until it’s healed. Ludwika is here with you, lounging in the chair beside your bed and flipping through a copy of Cosmopolitan with her Louis Vuitton stilettos propped up on the ottoman. She is content to be here, but this is technically a job; she has been tasked with supervising you while Aemond and Otto meet with the Philadelphia police who are investigating the attack. The rest of the family—everyone except Aegon, who you suspect has been forbidden to enter the premises—has already been here to fret over you and ask if you need anything. But you aren’t in the mood for visitors. You are stunned, and aching, and you hate hospitals. You keep thinking of tiny babies in incubators, priests in black robes.

Your room is already filling up with flower bouquets. Every few minutes, the phone rings and Ludwika has to answer it. Each time she announces who it is—“Oh, hello Lady Bird, so nice of you to offer your well-wishes!” and then looks to see if you nod, agreeing to take it. The current first lady says that you are already as beloved as Jackie Kennedy and Eleanor Roosevelt. Pat Nixon calls you a gladiator.

There is a mint green Zenith radio on your nightstand, the volume turned way down low, and a television mounted on the wall. NBC news is on, but you’ve muted it to attend to the barrage of phone calls. There is a knock on the doorframe. Aegon stands there in his khaki pants and ill-fitting viridian button-up shirt and tan moccasins, wide searching murky blue eyes, carrying a white Dairy Queen cup.

Ludwika observes him as she puffs on a Camel cigarette. “I am suddenly struck by the inspiration to spend Otto’s money at the gift shop. I hope they take American Express.” She rolls up her magazine, shoves it into her oversized Gucci purse, and clicks in her heels out of the room and down the hallway.

Aegon commandeers the chair and drags it closer to your bed so he can feel your cheeks and your forehead, so he can get a good look at you. “Hey, little Io. You hurt your hoof, huh?”

“It’s not that bad. The caliber of the bullet was really small. Who shot me? One of Wallace’s Klansmen?”

“No, just some insane guy who thinks Aemond is a Russian double agent trying to overthrow capitalism here and put us all in gulags. I heard you could see right through the wound.”

“Yeah, I had a hole in my palm.”

“Just like Jesus.”

“I guess they fixed it.”

“Messiah status revoked.” Aegon sets the Dairy Queen cup on your nightstand. “I brought you a lemon-lime Mr. Misty.”

“I need to get out of here.”

“They gotta make sure you’re okay, babe. You could spike a fever or something.”

“Aegon,” you say seriously. “I can’t be in a hospital. I need to leave.”

He understands; his voice is gentle. “I might be able to get you out tonight, okay? I’ll try. I’ll talk to the doctors.”

“Okay,” you whimper.

Aegon turns up the Zenith radio, Van Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl. He sings along, snapping his fingers and shimmying his shoulders, his hair shagging over his eyes:

“Hey, where did we go?

Days when the rains came

Down in the hollow

Playin’ a new game…”

Reluctantly, you give him a smile. And you think very clearly, though you don’t say it: I love you.

Aegon leans across the bed to rest his head on your lap. He says softly as you run your fingers through his hair with your good hand: “Maybe Aemond will lose.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

On the muted television, Nixon is giving a speech in Charlotte, North Carolina to a euphoric crowd. You can’t hear the people gathered there, but you know their applause are thunderous. Nixon is flashing peace signs with both hands and beaming radiantly, this man who was once so poor, tragic, ordinary, unwanted, unloved. He has learned what it feels like to be a god.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Sunday, November 3rd, and your hand hurts like hell. You swallow your pills, smiling a little. Now Aegon is getting clean and I’m the one swimming in a haze of narcotics. Who could have predicted that? Still in your robe and bare feet, you swish to the hotel bathroom to wash your face, brush your teeth, rebandage your hand and make sure it isn’t growing dark insidious vines of blood poisoning.

When you venture out to the kitchenette, Aemond is in a sapphire blue suit and seated at the table, reading the Wall Street Journal, his face hidden by columns of black ink and interspersed photographs. This is unusual; he should be scheming with Otto and Sargent Shriver by now.

“Everything okay?” you ask with only vague interest as you go to the refrigerator to get yourself a leftover slice of apple pie, meticulously wrapped and packed in a cooler by Eudoxia before your departure from Asteria. Aemond doesn’t answer. You plop a piece of apple pie onto a plate, return the rest to the refrigerator, and then turn to your husband. And only now do you register the newspaper’s front-page story.

The photographs, all three of them, are of you and Aegon. They are blurry, taken from a distance, but you recognize the moment immediately. You can feel it again: ocean wind in your hair, his lips on yours, your hand on his face as you willed him to be closer, healed, permanent. You are sitting at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, turbulent and perilous. The journalists must have been north of you, shrouded in mist, their camera shutters clicking feverishly. The headline reads: A Family Affair?

And you remember what Aemond said on your 23rd birthday before he left for the Washington State Convention in Tacoma, how he scolded Aegon when he saw him lighting a joint in the backyard at Asteria: You know journalists will sneak around trying to get photos. You know we’re never truly alone out here.

You can’t speak, you can’t breathe. Aemond knows. The whole world knows.

Slowly, Aemond lowers the newspaper so you can see his face, scarred and hateful and horrifying, lethal like the volcanic hellscape of Jupiter’s most cursed moon.

~~~~~~~~~~

What are my earliest memories? Aegon getting drunk on his futon in the basement while I played with toy soldiers on the green shag carpet, Aemond with his poems and his myths, Helaena letting a praying mantis creep across her knuckles, Criston teaching me how to swim and sail, my mother cleaning sand from my face and hands and giving me water to wash the grit out of my teeth, my father wandering through the doorways of Asteria like a ghost, always on the periphery of my vision, and I had the sense that if I reached out to touch him my hands would pass resistlessly through his skin and sinew like a stone through water.

These are the things I think of here in the rain-dripping darkness, bruises down to my bones, eyes swollen almost completely shut, teeth broken and throbbing like blows from a hammer, fingernails ripped out. I know Tessarion is here because I can hear her, soft sympathetic squeaks, the padding of her tiny feet. I know John McCain is still alive because sometimes he taps back through the cracked concrete wall. I have run out of folklore, so now I tell him the truth. I tell him that I am afraid each beating will kill me as my body becomes a stranger, someone weak and brittle and helpless. I tell him that all my life I wanted to run as far as I could from home, but now I would crawl back to them through razor wire, I would fall into their arms in a shredded bloodstained heap and I’d be happy to do it. Isn’t that funny? I mean, I don’t laugh much these days. But maybe you can appreciate the irony.

Has the election happened yet? Has Aemond won? I’ve lost track of the days, but it has to be getting close to November 5th. What happens if he can’t get me out? What happens if Nixon wins?

I don’t want to be a hero anymore. I don’t want to have adventures like Heracles, Achilles, Jason, Odysseus, Perseus, Orpheus, Ajax. I just want to go home. Please let me go home.

I can hear keys jangling against the lock on my cell door. My heart jolts into a breakneck, pounding rhythm; I think that sound will terrify me all my life. Some things you just can’t forget, you know? Some things dig down deep and build a home in the marrow of your bones, a rust-red cave of immutable memory. I know exactly what the communists want from me. They’ve been asking since they dragged me out of the Loach four months ago.

Everyone has a breaking point. This is mine.

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