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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 1 year

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ñuhus prūmӯs (my heart) │Chapter 8: Missive

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 │Chapter 11 │Chapter 12 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Childbirth is the duty and dismay of all highborn women. Together, you and Daemon experience the trials, tribulations and triumphs of expectant parenthood. Daemon solves a problem.

(Set post-episode 7, though Daemon never married Laena or Rhaenyra.)

Thank you to @angelqueen04, @ewanmitchellcrumbs and @ajthefujoshi for holding my hand throughout the drafting, teehee!

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, detailed depictions of pregnancy, violence.

Fucking useless, he thinks. Then again, what was I expecting?

The High Septon is a rambling, tedious man of fourscore and one summers, closer to the grave than he is to the land of the living. Daemon’s surprised that he’s still functioning. It had taken some time for the lackwit to sink himself into the chair opposite him, so brittle are his bones in his dotage, and fix his milk-glazed eyes in his direction. Even longer for him to finally dispense with the pleasantries and focus on the goal at hand.

Questioning him had taken every iota of his sparing patience. The man had repeated the exact same avowal as he had to the others: that he was “praying night and day for the Princess in the wake of such an abominable event”, that he “knew not” who the now-dead men emblazoned with his fucking Seven-Pointed Star are, that they could not be agents of the Seven, that the Faith Militant “are extinct as they have been since the reign of your grandsire, the blessed King Jaehaerys”.

Yes, he snorts, because men who fuck their sisters are ‘blessed’. As long as a cleric speaks and waves a bit of ribbon in front of them first.

The dullard had fainted away when he’d unveiled the proof of his claims, the rather excellent pickling he’d had the healer woman perform on the head of one of the two remaining bodies in your old chambers. He supposes the sight would have been rather garish.

The dead man’s eyes are wide open from the shock of Mallery’s sudden impalement, alert and startling from within the eerie discoloured liquid. And, most importantly, the carving of the star is on full display to all who may cast their gaze upon it. He’d had to get the servants to take the damned jar away, the severed head bobbing about comically as they’d departed, and wait for the old man’s attendants to rouse him.

At any rate, he’s come to appreciate that no answers will spring from this avenue of interrogation. He departs the High Septon’s chambers—in the Tower of the Hand, of all places—with as much information as he had possessed prior to his visit.

Fuck all, that is.

Daemon finds Largent and Breakbones standing around in the middle bailey, clearly trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Their respective sizes rather prevent the accomplishment of that objective. Even with faces carefully blank and posture forbidding, the two attract many a curious eye from passers-by.

“Anything?” the Strong lad asks when he nears, shifting away from the wall with a grave disposition.

He offers a cynical half-laugh in response, striding onward. The pair fall into step on either side of him, a singular unit marching onward to the Holdfast.

He’d been taken aback by the sudden appearance of Harwin Strong earlier this morning. It transpired that Rhaenyra was alerted to the attack—and he is chagrined to admit that he’d entirely forgotten to alert her himself—and had been making ready to fly to King’s Landing. Naturally, Viserys had issued summary directives that would bar his eldest daughter access to any means of transportation off Dragonstone.

Thinking of that row still gives Daemon the urge to hit something.

“I’ll not have my heir caught up in this contemptible plot, Daemon,” his brother says between weak coughs, groaning as the fit abates. He slumps forward into the chair while the Maesters coax leeches to latch upon the mutilated skin of his back. “What if Rhaenyra is to be the next target? Allowing her into the city would only make that easier, would it not? Nay, it is best she stays on the isle, away from all this mess.”

“So, you acknowledge that your city isn’t safe, do you?” He paces in Viserys’s line of sight. “If security’s such a concern for you, then do something about it! Double—triple the guards! Recruit more men for the City Watch! Rally troops from the fucking Crownlands—”

“And what good would that do other than engender panic?” Viserys sighs. “No. I’ll not bring upheaval to the capital to allay your rage, brother. There’s been no new attempts, and you’re managing well enough on the search.”

Well enough? He’s man enough to admit he’s floundering, though he’ll never admit to such a thing before the sycophants from Oldtown. They’ll probably go running to old Otto to crow about Lord Flea Bottom’s failures while they clamber to lick the shit from his arsehole. No. Whoever this cunt is, he’s an apparition, a ghost in the wind.

Daemon is impressed by his own ability to refrain from yelling at the King and getting himself thrown out. He takes a breath and tries again. “My wife could do with her elder sister’s comfort. Would you not provide her with that?”

He tries not to think upon how tearful and reticent you have been as of late, a return to the you that had filled his waking hours in the days immediately following the threat on your life. Something is wrong, and he knows not what—only that you need as much soothing as he can garner.

“She has her siblings and stepmother here,” Viserys says. He cannot help but to scoff at the pronouncement. The only ones you willingly spend time with are your half-sister and youngest brother, and it’s unlikely you’ll find succour in the ramblings of a witchling or a child. “She has you. Will Rhaenyra really make much of a difference? I think not.”

This time, he almost follows through on the urge to strike the King. It is not uncommon for Kings to favour their heirs above all else—who better than he to know that truth?—but he’d thought for one foolish moment that perhaps you might be exempt from it this time.

He is wrong.

“Fine, then,” he just barely grits out from between clenched teeth. “I’ll take my leave, Your Grace. I have a hunt to continue.”

Breakbones’s voice interrupts. “What exactly have you learned thus far, my Prince?”

Daemon glances dubiously at him. He admires the enthusiasm with which the man has readily proffered assistance in the task of searching out the primary conspirator—no doubt the very reason Rhaenyra elected to send him, being among those of her confidants with the soundest pretext for paying visit to King’s Landing—but it seems foolish to speak of details out here. Ordinarily, he’d take the man to task for it. But the steps traversing down to the royal residences are perhaps the most private he is like to get until safely in your rooms once more, dotted with the occasional guard along the way. Moreover, he is not overeager to remind you of the attack in your condition.

“Nothing of note,” he says, taking the next several steps onward to ensure he’s firmly out of earshot of the last watchman before he continues. “An alias and a pin. Rumours, but nothing concrete.”

Withdrawing his sole piece of evidence from the pouch at his belt, he rolls the brass insect between thumb and finger consideringly, feeling the crevices and sharp edges that make up its metalwork anatomy. The piss-coloured stone defining the last segments of its abdomen—he suspects it’s more likely glass than anything of real value—appears amber in the daylight. He watches as it passes from his own hand to Strong’s, the man holding it aloft and squinting.

To the unenlightened, the trinket may bear the likeness of a bee or a beetle. If not for the pseudonym extracted from that scum in the brothel, he too would have assumed as such. He’d confirmed it by spending evenings after you had fallen asleep poring over dusty old illustrations from stained old tomes on entomology from scholars long since dead. Hadn’t that been an exciting venture.

The man is taking far longer to examine it than is the norm. Daemon’s heartbeat quickens. “Do you recognise it?” he asks.

“Yes,” Strong murmurs finally, frowning and turning the pin over in overlarge fingers. “I… I’ve seen it before. ‘Tis a firefly, is it not?”

“That it is.” A sick, swooping excitement curdles in his gut. This is what he has been waiting for. Finally, someone has recognised this blasted thing. Finally, someone knows it by name. “How do you know that?”

Breakbones appears to stare at some fixed point beyond him, lost in his own thoughts. “My brother, Larys.”

Clubfoot.

Larys Strong is an unsettling being—Daemon hesitates to call him a man—who always seems as though he can discern every last secret a person is concealing with a mere glance. He’s the worst sort of creature. One who hides himself behind oily amiability and glib half-speak, each and every encounter ringing with some unknown threat.

The lad before him looks back down to study the item in his grasp. “As a youth,” he continues, “he was fascinated by them. Used to capture them in jars and shake them until they were stunned, then—pull them apart with Mother’s needles. He wanted to know how they made their light. He’d… pin the pieces to shavings of wood and present them to Mother as a gift.” The memory seems to disconcert him, for his face twitches with the effort of suppressing some unknown emotion.

Ice trickles down Daemon’s spine.

Viserys had ignored his incredulity after he’d discovered that Clubfoot had been named Master of Whisperers. “He has a talent for gathering intelligence, and his House is loyal,’” the King had said.

His House is loyal—but what of him?

“That”—Daemon jerks his chin toward the pin—“was found on one of the attackers.” He stares at Breakbones assessingly. “Would you say your brother still has his… fascination?”

“Wait—you think Larys is behind this?”

Before he has the opportunity to respond to Strong’s obvious perturbation, Largent grunts. Fuck. Daemon had forgotten he had been standing there.

“Seen ‘im around the city at night,” the knight says, the bass notes thrumming through the rock beneath his feet. Hells, but the man’s a fucking giant. “In some of the more crooked places, too. Could be doing ‘is job. Could be up to no good.”

That sounds about right. The Master of Whisperers is a position that brings with it a necessity to lurk about in unsavoury alleys and disreputable establishments, a spider spinning its web of informants across King’s Landing. It could be used to disguise dealings that have little to do with the Realm.

In this moment, he is almost certain.

“The mastermind calls himself ‘the Firefly’.” Daemon’s legs are already itching with the urge to bolt back up the steps and to the middle gate, through, past, onward to the outer yard, to the Great Hall, to the Small Council chamber, where he is no doubt sitting, watching, waiting— “Tell me he’s not capable of it,” he demands of Strong. “Swear it, and I’ll be merciful.”

Breakbones’s jaw works for what seems like hours, face flushing with the strain of the conflict he is like to be wrestling with, a brother made to decide if he can live with the consequences of standing aside so that justice might prevail upon his own blood. Daemon might have found it somewhere in himself to be sympathetic, perhaps any other time, but not here, not now, not at the prospect of finally coming face-to-face with the scum who is responsible for the way you had looked that night, covered in gore and trembling and so fucking terrified—

“I… I cannot,” the man finally says, defeated. It is all the acceptance he needs.

As Daemon strides back along the path he has just traversed, he allows the conviction to fill his body like smoke and ash fills the sky after a conflagration.

Larys Strong is privy to the movements of the royal family, he thinks, mind whirling. The Master of Whisperers knows everything that occurs in his city of employ. It’s the point of the fucking job. He’d have known that Daemon was away, that you were alone, that few would hear you in chambers so far from—

How difficult would it have been for scum like him—someone with a network of spies that spans an entire city—to pass the order to strike along to the cutthroats?

The pieces fall conveniently into place—or perhaps he is making them fit. Truthfully, he cares little about seeking proof of the matter from the mouth of Larys Strong. For the crime of association alone, Daemon is willing to see him pay. And, if nothing else, his death will send a message that the Rogue Prince is cleansing the city piece by wretched piece.

The thud of boots on stone pound in tandem with the drum of his beating heart, the rhythm of bloodlust kindling the fuel in his veins to living flame. Someone will die today. He feels this settle with assurance into the very hollows of his bones, as sure as he had been standing before you in the great winds of Dragonstone with blood dripping from your hand and your lip in consecration of a pledge made before the gods of Old Valyria.

Avy amīsilun. I will protect you. The vows had been struck, and they must now be defended.

Daemon only vaguely notes the scattering of the court like ants as he marches through the main walkways, to the empty Great Hall and onward, flanked by Breakbones and Largent.

The Kingsguard manning the doors to the Small Council chamber make their usual racket at being ordered to step aside—“the King and his Council are within, you cannot enter!”—but they are no match for him when his blood is up. He watches dispassionately as Largent forces them to step aside for their Prince, shoving them bodily to the floor with an almighty clang of plate armour. The heavy oak doors burst open from the power behind his shove, and the occupants within erupt.

“Your Highness!”

“My Prince, really—”

“Prince Daemon—”

“What is the meaning of this?” Viserys’s voice just barely cuts over the din. He looks especially ghastly in the light pouring in behind him, creating a halo of brightness that ought to accentuate something of grandeur—of beauty—but instead only serves to highlight the decay of the man who calls himself King. “Brother—”

There he is. Daemon doesn’t give a fuck about his brother’s outrage, not when Larys Strong sits at the end of the table right in front of him. It’s almost surprising that he’s not hanging off the Queen’s leg. Or worse, the Hand’s. Though he’s done well to craft something of concerned impassivity from his features, there is a smug little almost-smile that plays at the very corner of his mouth.

He knows. He knows and he’s mocking me—

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Daemon says. “But your Master of Whisperers has just been implicated in the plot against my wife’s life. Largent”—he jerks his head toward the finely-garbed form of Clubfoot—“take him.”

Several things occur at once: Otto and his bitch of a daughter spring from their seats, yelling orders at the Kingsguard within the chamber; said guards advance with blades extended, barring the way forward; the remaining milksops at the table begin squawking as they are wont to do, contributing little other than pointless noise.

And, in the midst of all of it, Larys Strong is calm, an immovable stone object with lips carved into a smile.

“Stay your hand!”

“My Prince, this is all too—”

“Preposterous!” Alicent says, seeming so wroth that Daemon would not be surprised if her heart were to suddenly give out from the strain of forcing so much blood to her face. She makes a grandiose sweeping gesture with her arm. Supercilious bitch. “Lord Strong is a member of the Small Council and a loyal servant to the King! You cannot cast aspersions upon his name without—”

Larys himself interrupts. “Might I enquire as to the charges against me, my Prince?”

A chill creeps across Daemon’s neck. The man sounds as nonchalant as a noblewoman at high tea, tone casual and polite.

“Why?” he asks, automatically stepping forward. The Kingsguard block his way, but he cannot look away from the man before him. “So you can make sure to dispose of any tangible proof? Shut the fuck up.”

More squawking. Perhaps I should have directed that last part to the entire room.

The King appears apoplectic, though the colour casts an almost healthy sheen across his waxy, grey-sheened visage. “You will explain yourself, Daemon, or I will have you thrown out of this chamber!”

How typical of his brother to side with anyone—anyone—other than him. Daemon wonders for a moment if he could get away with shoving the guards aside, striding over to Viserys and throttling him, punishing him for the negligence he has paid to his family, to you.

Instead, he scoffs, hand falling to rest upon the pommel of Dark Sister. “The Lord of Harrenhal himself has traced a vital piece of evidence back to Strong, here.” The deliberate phrasing lands as intended. The others glance uncomfortably at each other, no doubt concerned by the prospect of contending with another nobleman’s accusation against one of their own. “I’ll be remanding him for questioning.”

“If you will not divulge this supposed ‘evidence’, then there is no further reason for your presence,” Hightower says. He gestures at the Kingsguard. “Guards!”

A true weakling, relying on the steel of other men to enforce his will. The guards lock blades, hindering the way.

“Why, Otto”—Daemon glares at the Hand—“one might find it suspect that you are so keenly interested in obstructing the Princess’s justice. Is there anything you ought to be hiding?”

The Hand is a craven, but there is nothing tying him to this plot. He would know—he’d wasted far too much time in corroborating this. Nonetheless, it is thoroughly enjoyable to watch the man squirm like an enemy soldier pinned to the ground through the ribcage, twitching and writhing in place.

“Absolutely ridiculous—”

“Enough!” Viserys exclaims. Otto falls silent immediately, sitting down in a pathetic display of deference to the half-withered man at his left. “Daemon,” the King says, “you will obey the directives of this Council or you will be removed.”

“Fine.” Daemon turns to face the target of his wrath. “Tell me, Strong. What does ‘the Firefly’ mean to you?”

Breakbones shifts uncomfortably at his back. Larys Strong affects affability, though it rings obsequious and sinister.

“It is an insect,” the man says in a tone that is almost crooning. It is fucking eerie. His head tilts and his eyes grow hazy, staring far-off as though in a daydream. That same unnerving half-smile lingers still. “I quite enjoyed studying them as a boy—”

Daemon has had enough of the prevaricating. “Someone who calls himself ‘the Firefly’ ordered the attack on my wife,” he snarls, straining at the steel barrier, “and that someone is you!”

He is pushed back once more, and he is about ready to throw a fist or two at the exposed slivers of jugular peeking out from all that gold in front of him. It mightn’t incapacitate the guards, but it will certainly delay them long enough for him to rearrange Clubfoot’s insides with Dark Sister.

“My Prince!” Larys’s hand flutters over his chest like a maiden, the very picture of overdramatised surprise. It boggles him that he is the only one to see this act for what it is. “I have never been anything but loyal to the Princess. What cause would I have to commit such an atrocity?”

Words. They’re all just words. Daemon is about to snap a demand for Larys Strong’s arrest when he takes notice of a gem glittering golden in the sunlight streaming from the window. A gem that is nestled upon the man’s cane.

Surely not—

He relaxes against the guards’ hold on him, stepping back with hands raised. As he had expected, it prompts an ever-so-slight lowering of their blades, a sure sign that they perceive the immediate danger to be over.

They are wrong.

Daemon strikes quickly, throwing his weight at the guard closest to him so as to knock him off balance. The man topples like a tower during a siege. Largent and Breakbones surge into the fray behind him, fending off the rest. It is all the opening he needs. He is able to snatch the cane from its resting place propped against the table and stare for a scant few seconds. Though he dimly registers the occupants of the table scrambling away—all save for Larys Strong, sitting so still it is as though he intends to blend into the chair—he cannot care, so fixated is he upon the metalwork adorning the handhold.

Wings warped out to reveal the inner body. Three ridges demarcating the abdomen. Antennae curving downwards from the head. And that fucking gem, warmer in colour than the pin, but so similar in cut that they can only have been made for the same purpose.

“You fucking liar—” he might whisper, might shout. As he brings the cane down over the cowering form of Larys Strong, the wood breaks apart on impact with the man’s head. It splinters into two sharply pointed parts. How fitting would it be for him to meet his end impaled by the proof of his involvement in your attack? “You will die for this!”

Daemon raises his arm high, preparing to pierce the jagged end of the cane through flesh. Larys Strong’s watery blue eyes are wide, reflective and crystalline in a way that belies true shock, horror, unadulterated emotion. Blood streams from the point of impact atop his scalp, matting his hair bloody and striping rivulets of crimson along the pale of his temples. He is nestled as far down into the seat as is possible, arms lifted to shield his skull from further assault, and it is the first sign of fear he’s shown since Daemon walked in.

“Enough! Guards!” the King roars.

He revels in it, in the fact that this man knows he is about to perish at his hand, is about to meet whatever gods he believes in for daring to harm his wife and children, for daring to harm what is his. He brings the makeshift lance down with all his might—

A harsh blow to his gut preludes the unyielding grip of whichever of Viserys’s dogs have managed to bypass Largent and Breakbones. He can do naught but wheeze as he is seized firm and hauled back, struggling against the guards’ hold to no avail. He growls like a beast dragged from its meal, frantic and feverish, unhinged in a way he has never felt before.

Maegor the Cruel reborn, Daemon thinks wildly. Let them see the horror that lurks within the blood of the dragon—

“Viserys—” he tries to say, but it takes on a decidedly inhuman cadence, brutish and bellowing.

“How have you the audacity to enter this place in such a manner? I do not recall granting you leave to slaughter members of my Council on a whim!” The sound of his brother’s voice shatters the spell of madness, and he finally absorbs the scene before him.

The Small Council members are huddled in the corner of the chamber, ashen-faced and trembling. The Queen cringes behind her father, eyes tear-bright and fearful. Otto looks upon him with alarm and revulsion in equal measure, and he is sure there is a moue of satisfaction twisting the very edges of his expression. Cunt.

The sheer disappointment contorting Viserys’s expression would have once been enough to bring up stinging bile in the back of his throat. But this—this rotting creature before him, pockmarked and deformed, elicits nothing but contempt and the faint taste of regret, bitter and stale from things left unsaid.

Defend your daughter. Defend my wife.

Defend me, brother.

“If there is truth to your accusations, let there be a trial,” the King says. “There will be nothing further from you this day, Daemon. Begone from my sight.”

His brother dismisses him with a scoff and flick of his remaining hand, turning away from him as he always does. Daemon jostles the guards away from him when they release their punitive grasp on his arms, sneering at the way they immediately grip the pommels of their sheathed blades in silent warning.

“Are you well, my Lord?” the Hightower bitch asks, standing over Larys Strong with a finger gingerly tipping his head this way and that, taking stock of the injury.

The man looks past the Queen and stares directly into Daemon’s glare, cool and calculating. Though he is clearly shaken, there is something distinctly unsettling about the notes of impassivity that reveal themselves in the subtle arch of his brow, the bluntness of his regard, the flare of his nostrils. His gaze shifts to somewhere behind Daemon, smirking. The creak and slam of the door heralds Harwin’s intemperate departure. Whatever the man had seen in his younger brother’s eyes had clearly been enough to rattle him.

Clubfoot smiles up at Alicent. It is an unfriendly thing. “The Prince has… much rage in him over the harm done to his lady wife. Perhaps I would be free of it if he were only present at the outset of the attack,” he says mournfully, so obviously mocking in nature that even Otto himself glances uncertainly at the man. “But I do not take offence, Your Grace.”

Daemon seethes. How dare he—bastard—

His feet carry him forward without thinking, only to be grabbed firmly at the shoulders by the guards. He shrugs them off with a huff. “Make no mistake, you cunt,” he hisses. “You might have been shielded by these useless fucks today. But you cannot hide behind them forever. One day soon, you’ll be alone. And one day soon, I’ll have my revenge. Bisir kīvio Jaehossi Uēpossi Arlȳssī sēten.” This I vow by the Old Gods and the New.

“Daemon!”

“And you,” he says, turning to the King. “Long have I watched your weakness rule you. Long have I stood by as you’ve run this family into ruin. This man”—he points to Larys—“is responsible for the harm done to your daughter. My wife. And so, I also promise this: if you do nothing… you are no brother of mine.”

Silence reigns for a beat; two; three. All he can hear is the sound of his own breath being forced from bruised lungs, heavy and gasping.

“Guards,” Viserys says finally. For a moment, Daemon is hopeful. He looks triumphantly to Larys Strong, ready to see the man taken up and borne forth from the room. Then, the King sighs and looks down. “Remove my brother from this chamber.”

His hope turns to ash.

The first thing he does after Viserys’s lackeys all but throw him from the room is find some parchment. In truth, it’s a simple matter of venturing to the storeroom adjoined to the Council chambers—he ignores the faint pulse of interest at the recollection of the last time he had been in here, the taste of your slick and the clench of your cunt as he’d fucked you into the wall to the sound of those droning lackwits mumbling to each other—and retrieving what he needs.

“… gone too far, Your Grace. He cannot be allowed…”

“… assault a member of the King’s Council is unheard of! He must be…”

“… will be dealt with, I assure you, my Lords…”

Daemon bites his tongue so hard that the taste of iron fills his mouth, fingers flexing at the trails of dialogue that can be heard from within the meeting itself. Of course they’re more concerned with the fact that he’d struck Larys Strong than the discovery that had provoked such a thing. He grits his teeth and leaves, not wishing to hear further proof of Viserys’s disloyalty.

Every test, every obstacle, every affliction brought to life by my desire to see my brother finally choose me. Viserys had failed me in all, and he has failed me now. No more.

He doesn’t bother to venture forth from the hall. Instead, he retraces a path from long ago, ascending the dais upon which rests the greatest emblem of the Conqueror’s victory over Westeros.

Needs must.

The throne is an uncomfortable seat, but serviceable enough for this particular purpose, he supposes. He sets the open inkwell and pounce pot on the misshapen armrest, laying the parchment over his knee and dipping the quill lightly.

“Milord—”

“What?” He does not bother to look down at Largent, loitering at the base of the pulpit uncertainly, the hulking giant having followed him unerringly throughout his self-appointed task. As he speaks, he scrawls his message black upon blanched paper. It lacks refinement, but perhaps that’s for the best. “What will they do—mount the steps and drag me off?”

The Kingsguard, newly returned to their station at the Council doors, can hear him. He’s sure of it. They do not react, do not even move, but he knows his jibe meets its mark. Snorting at his own question, Daemon discards the quill carelessly and sprinkles powder over the wet ink, tapping the excess all over the floor.

He rolls the parchment up and holds it out, wiggling it jauntily in the City Watch captain’s line of sight to coax him forth. When the scroll is in his palm, Daemon leans forward. “Take this to the madam of The Gilded Doll,” he murmurs. The chill of menace pinches at the flesh around his eyes. “No other. If this falls into the wrong hands, I’ll gut you. Understood?”

“Yessir.” If he’s confused by the order, it does not show on his face. Largent abruptly revolves and marches his way out of the room, the beating of leather soles on hard stone fading with every advancing step.

Daemon slouches upon the Iron Throne. There is a sense of deep weariness slithering through his veins like poison, drawing the vitality from his limbs with every pulse of his blood. It is different, this sensation, so unlike the pent-up explosivity that threatens to obliterate everything in his path whenever he loses in a row with Viserys.

Against a prince turned heir turned king, I lose always. Always.

All the weight of his thirty-six years of existence seems to bear down upon his shoulders. He imagines it is what a brother’s warm embrace might feel like, heavy and overbearing. Pinching at the bridge of his nose, he tries to relieve the sudden ache. Tension presses insistently behind his eyes, forcing him to shut his lids.

He takes stock of what he knows.

Larys Strong tried to engineer the deaths of his unborn babes. By extension, your own. He used an alias to recruit three assassins of little repute, waiting until he was sure Daemon would be away to strike against you. And, when confronted, he’d had the audacity to make bold pretence of innocence before the King and his stooges, covertly deriding Daemon’s powerlessness before the governors of the Seven Kingdoms.

But why? Why? He cannot think of the motive. What would a creature like Larys Strong have to gain from this depravity?

Harwin’s words from earlier spark an intriguing thought. “He’d… pin the pieces to shavings of wood and present them to Mother as a gift.”

The man has no allies at court save for Alicent and Otto. Though Daemon despises them, even he cannot accuse the Queen and her father of encouraging such a plot. They’re too grasping, too arrogant, too soft to risk discovery of such a thing, even if they have the most to gain from it. That Larys has taken it upon himself to gift the Hightowers with the elimination of the greatest threats to their claim on the Throne seems quite possible. He’s like a barn cat proudly presenting a kill at the feet of its master, oblivious to the disgust and disdain.

Either way, Clubfoot has made himself an enemy. Fuck Viserys, and fuck his Council, too. Daemon doesn’t care what they have ordered of him. Clubfoot will not live long enough to regret what he has done.

He leaves the pilfered instruments on the Throne—let the King dispose of them himself, the useless cunt—and makes his way back to you, seized by the need to see you safe, to reassure himself that no other has sought to harm you during his pursuit of justice. As they had before, the promenading nobles and bustling servants give him a wide berth, ogling him with wary eyes and whispering to each other. He takes the opportunity to glare at a select few, to sneer at their flinching reactions when he passes them along the way to the royal wing of the Holdfast.

You are exactly where he left you that morning.

Daemon lingers in the doorway, ignoring Marbrand’s presence in the entry beside him, and watches the scene within your chambers. He observes young Daeron chattering to the healer at the table as he fiddles with the various flasks, pots and implements strewn across the surface. He sees the grin on Ūlla’s face at the excitement in the boy’s voice, nodding and contributing her own conversation in hushed volume while she passes instruments to him. He surveys the cheerful dispositions of Jeyne Cressey and Bethany Follard, your newly-appointed ladies-in-waiting—girls whose presence had been given little explanation or fanfare—as they sit on the chaise with their stitching, gossiping idly among themselves.

He watches you.

You are propped up against the headboard with legs curled under you, heavy-lidded and focused on some minute detail on the sleeve of your gown, or perhaps the mattress beneath you, or maybe even the stone floor further away. He does not know. Your fingers stroke listlessly, absently at the taut flesh of your belly, arms pressed to the bulk of your own self as though you are afraid your babes will disappear from your womb should you let go. There is something ethereal about the picture you make; immensely swelled, distant, turned so deeply within yourself that you seem content to let the world move on without you.

“Nuncle!” Daeron waves, sparing but a glance before preoccupying himself once more with the woman’s trinkets.

He offers a nod of acknowledgement to his nephew as he makes his way to where you sit. Daemon is careful to lower himself slowly, hand outstretched and ghosting featherlight along the back of your hand in greeting.

You lift your gaze, a look of vague question twisting the arch of your brow. The fog clears from your eyes when you realise who has come to disturb your trance. “Kepus.” It is sighing, dreamy, as though it had taken a great effort to expel the sound from your chest, almost a question and yet not.

Something is wrong. The words replay themselves like snatches of long-forgotten melodies ringing in his mind, the warning bells sounding for a cause unknown. It has been days now. This is more than the fear or despondency that had characterised your behaviour in the aftermath of the attack. He is no closer to determining the cause.

“Dōnītsos.” Sweetling. His voice remains low and calm despite the turmoil swarming within like hatchlings through their first flame, loud and squawking and chaotic. He is wary of these strangers, these new ladies of yours, mousy and guileless though they seem, and so he keeps to his mother tongue to avoid prying ears.

“Mirros avy ivestragon eman. Vīlībāzmo bē issa.”I have to tell you something. It’s about the attack.

“Skorion massitas?” you ask, blinking in unhurried revolutions as though you are batting cobwebs of disuse from your lashes. What has happened?

He takes hold of your hand, light and cool to touch, squeezing it in his grasp to moor you back to reality. You stare blankly as he imparts the barest of details. The pin. The whorehouse. The long list of those he’d interrogated—and not kindly, at that—from the cooks to the pageboys to the maids who had dared venture near your rooms that night. The High Septon. Breakbones. And, finally, the threatening smile of Larys Strong as the knights of the Kingsguard had hauled him from the Small Council chamber.

Your bottom lip trembles in the way it did when you were a babe squalling for comfort, throat working in tandem with your reflexive swallows. It is tempting to feed his thumb into that rosebud mouth, let you suckle your anguish away with the salt of his skin as your infant self had done, hot wet tongue and spit and tears, in need of something only he can provide.

“Skorio syt…” Why…

Your breath escapes with a shudder, palm flying low upon your belly, and he brings his free hand up to join yours at the locus of activity stirred up by the twins. A flurry of movement greets him, firm thumps and hard kicks that curve the corners of his lips up despite the gravity of the conversation. Their motions seem to ground you. Trust my little dragons to settle their muña where I cannot.

You take a deep inhale and try again. “Skorio syt ziry kesir non gōntoks? Zijomy vēttīlaksir emon daor.” Why would he have done such a thing? I have no quarrel with him.

“Gīmion daor,” he says softly. I don’t know. There is no need to frighten you with tales of butchered insects and a young boy’s obsession.

You shiver like a baby bird left out in the cold as he slides further onto the bed, helping you shuffle close enough that you may latch onto the parts of him within your reach and press your face into his neck, huffing against his skin. This is where you prefer to be as of late, swaddled tight and held close, trembling waif of a girl curled under the wing of your beloved uncle.

“Papa. Yne mīstos daor.” It is muffled, muted, but he hears it all the same. He did not stand for me.

Your voice is high, mournful, so startlingly young. For a moment, he is twenty-five summers and you are seven and you have just split flesh after tripping over Caraxes’s tail. For a moment, he is hushing you as you sob with the Maester’s every stitch, streaming nose snuffling while he cups your eggshell skull to his chest to shield you from the blood and pain and fear as best he can.

He does the same now, only your bones are steel rather than glass and you smell of rose oil and the swell of your breasts and belly push against his body in triplicate, a woman grown and his wife, his wife. “Gīmin,” he says gently, hand to your middle and hand through your hair. I know.

“Ziry otāpton.” I thought he would. You nuzzle into him like a cat seeking the warmth of a fire. “Skorio syt yne amīsagon… olvī jorrāelos daor?” you ask, voice breaking. Why doesn’t he… love me enough to protect me?

“Ziry ajorrāelō daor,” Daemon replies resolutely. You don’t need him. “Yne aemā.” You have me. He strokes your middle. “Īlōn aemā.” You have us.

‘I’ll be your father,’ he wants to say. Why not? What is a father but his daughter’s guiding star, the one man to map her journey from first breath to last? Father, uncle, husband… all of them words to denote pride of place in your life, a standing he has alone claimed since his return from the East. You are his small fey princess, his baby full of his babes; he is your disciplinarian and confidant and comforter and lover. A distinction of title means little. If it is the firm hand of a father—a papa—that you need… well, does he not already provide it?

He will be your papa, your kepa, your husband. The man who corrects you and instructs you and fucks you, the man who raises you up even as he raises the children who slumber still in the safety of your womb. He’ll be all that Viserys has failed to be and more.

You sniffle, teary poppet with lilac-bloom eyes staring up at him. “Kesīr buqan.” I hate it here. And, though the capital is arguably the greatest spectacle of Targaryen strength, your confession is a sentiment he shares. Your little hand holds tighter to his shirt as you continue. “Henujagon jaelan. Mazumbille jagon jaelan. Ñuhe rūhossa Zaldrīzdōrot sikagon jaelan, luon ȳghon issa. Jagon kosti, kostilus—”

I want to leave. I want to go home. I want to have my babes on Dragonstone, where it’s safe. Can we go, please—

“Sh.” As he smooths the stray hairs from your forehead, you arch into the touch like one who is starved of love. He tries not to think of the ways his brother has failed you. “Aōle qūvyrzy iqighō daor. Hembīli.” Don’t make yourself upset. We’ll leave.

There is nothing left for you here. There is nothing left for him here. It is all too easy to agree to your desperate pleas. How amusing it is to think that Dragonstone—the fortress he had once associated so strongly with emptiness and exile—is where his heart and yours now lie. For the first time in days, he can see the trace of a smile warm the curve of your lips, and the sparkle in your eyes can almost be mistaken for happiness.

Daemon sits with you in the stillness of the afternoon, surrounded by your ladies and your young brother and your healer—the last vestiges of familiarity left to this place, this home turned battleground—and indulges in the simple joy of those pulsing movements emanating out from within your belly, the sound of Daeron’s laughter, the beat of your heart against his skin and the feel of you real and whole in his arms.

This is the family I’ve made for myself, he thinks. You and he and the lad and his babes, something tangible and ever-growing and precious. This is mine.

In Daemon’s practised opinion, the Crafty Fox is one of the capital’s finest taverns. Situated on the corner between Eel Alley and the Street of Steel, it is often a loud and boisterous environment, easily accessible through entrances along both street-facing walls and constantly filled with patrons from various stations in life. It is a rare sort of place, one where the divide between noble and lowborn blurs in a haze of ale and laughter and smoke. Popular, cheap and long-standing, it is the worst sort of establishment for conducting meetings of a clandestine nature.

Which is precisely why it is also the perfect location.

The shadier locales will undoubtedly be manned by Clubfoot’s little informants, and so he has chosen to meet his quarry in a location few would guess or expect. With his hair pulled back and his hood keeping his face from the view of inebriated passers-by—he’s even wearing a fucking hat for good measure! The shame of it—Daemon knows from experience that no one here will notice that they stand in the presence of the Rogue Prince. It is the best camouflage for the enterprise he intends to conduct this night.

Where the fuck are they? he thinks to himself, pressing along the perimeter and scanning around the open hall, searching for a familiar face. What did her missive say? Ah, yes—I’ll recognise one of them.

He casts about for the former serjeant of the City Watch, the one he’d had to let go after that unfortunate business with the whore in the brothel some ten summers back. But try as he might, he cannot see anything. Too many soldiers and apprentices and shop owners and youths are in his way.

One of the drunkards blocking his view sidles along, opening a path directly to the two men seated in a rare quiet corner, a looming beast hunched over his rickety table and all but squashing the slim form beside him into the wall.

There.

Daemon does his best to affect the casual, ambling gait of a man in his cups, navigating a meandering trail through raucous clusters of bodies, sweaty and stinking of drink. It is a familiar scent, one that evokes the memory of years past.

Sidling along, he finds himself standing before his intended targets. “The air’s cold tonight,” he says loudly, deliberately, echoing the agreed-upon phrase from the message and drawing the attention of the two men.

They look up from the wood-grain surface of the table. “This is true,” the smaller one replies, slow and equally careful to pronounce the words. The correct response.

His speech is coarse, utterly typical of the lower classes in Flea Bottom. Satisfied that he’s found the individuals he has come to meet, he slides onto the stool opposite them, glancing this way and that.

“Evenin’, ser,” the man adds.

He looks like a rat, Daemon thinks. With a pinched face and tawny sprouted hairs on his jowls that look more like the whiskers of a rodent than the beginnings of a beard, the observation is apt. The man ogles him from behind his prominently pointed snout, grinning a strange little half-smile that unsettles him greatly.

“The White Wyrm?” he asks, just to confirm. Fucking ridiculous name. It seems her years as his paramour served for more than coin and pleasure if her new epithet is anything to go by.

This time, the former serjeant responds, shifting in his seat. His knees knock against Daemon’s below the table. Gods above. There is an audible creak, the sound of wood threatening to snap under immense weight.

“Yep,” he grunts, bass cadence thrumming through the floor. He could be Largent’s kin. He takes a swig of the tankard before him. “She said you was lookin’ for a couple good ones.”

“Are you good?” is Daemon’s immediate counter. He cannot keep the notes of scepticism from his voice.

The man sneers. “You tell me, Rogue.”

Ah. He’s not forgotten the dismissal, then.

“Not here,” Daemon hisses, eyes tracking to those nearby. There is no reaction from anyone within range, no suggestion that they have been overheard. He turns furiously back to the man before him. “I’ve been assured that you are worthwhile prospects. If that is no longer the case, I’m happy to let her know—”

“Hey, now, we was only jokin’, wasn’t we?” the smaller man says, glancing rebukingly at his partner. The larger man shrugs, leaning back. The chair groans again.

“Good man.” Cheers and laughter begin to erupt across the room. Daemon leans forward, voice dropping to a hush. The two men crowd in closer so as to hear him. “I have a task for you,” he murmurs, looking about furtively. “It’s—risky. If you get caught, there are no gods nor men that will save you.”

“Sounds fun.” The smaller man beams as he gestures to the man beside him. His parted lips reveal the gaping holes in his mouth, bloodied gums speckled with grey. Daemon cannot tell if the teeth have been knocked out or if they’ve fallen out.

“You’ll do it?” he asks. I haven’t even discussed the particulars.

The larger man stares assessingly at him, brow raised. “We’ll do anyfing, if the coin’s good enough.”

A buxom wench appears at his shoulder, tits half-out and practically staring at him by their own power. She smiles in what he supposes must be her idea of enticement, the pockmarks of a long-healed sickness or injury stretching unflatteringly with the contortion of her skin. When she opens her mouth as if to speak, Daemon waves her off with a stern glare and a shake of the head. He has no need to get soused tonight. The woman makes an offended noise and trounces off.

He turns back to his audience of two. Daemon tips his chin in acknowledgement, continuing the exchange as if no interruption had occurred. “If you’re successful, I’ll pay whatever price you deem necessary.” The larger man nods, clearly satisfied. “Now. Before we get to the details—what should I call you two?”

The pair look to each other for a moment.

“He goes by Blood, these days,” the smaller man finally answers, something dark and sinister crossing over his expression. “Me? You can call me Cheese.”

Read it on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/44058132/chapters/115715053

Taglist (😭 thank you!):

Now in the comments!

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strictlyfavorites · 5 months

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Jimmy Stewart & Post-Traumatic Stress-Months after winning his 1941 Academy Award for best actor in “The Philadelphia Story,” Jimmy Stewart, left Hollywood and joined the US Army. He was the first big-name movie star to enlist in World War II. An accomplished private pilot, the 33-year-old Hollywood icon became a US Army Air Force aviator, earning his 2nd Lieutenant commission in early 1942. With his celebrity status, he was assigned to attending rallies and training younger pilots. Stewart, however, wasn’t satisfied. He wanted to fly combat missions. By 1944, frustrated and feeling the war was passing him by, he asked his commanding officer to transfer him to a unit deploying to Europe. His request was reluctantly granted. Stewart, now a Captain, was sent to England, where he spent the next 18 months flying B-24 Liberator bombers over Germany. Top brass tried to keep the popular movie star from flying over enemy territory. But Stewart would hear nothing of it. Determined to lead by example, he assigned himself to every combat mission he could. By the end of the war he was one of the most respected and decorated pilots in his unit. But his wartime service came at a high personal price. In the final months of WWII he was grounded for being “flak happy,” today called Post Traumatic Stress (PTS). When he returned to the US in August 1945, Stewart was a changed man. He had lost so much weight that he looked sickly. He rarely slept, and when he did he had nightmares of planes exploding and men falling through the air screaming (in one mission alone his unit had lost 13 planes and 130 men, most of whom he knew personally). He was depressed, couldn’t focus, and refused to talk to anyone about his war experiences. His acting career was all but over. As one of Stewart’s biographers put it, “Every decision he made [during the war] was going to preserve life or cost lives. He took back to Hollywood all the stress that he had built up.” In 1946 he got his break. He took the role of George Bailey, the suicidal father in “It’s a Wonderful Life.” Actors and crew of the set realized that in many of the disturbing scenes of George Bailey unraveling in front of his family, Stewart wasn’t acting. His PTSD was being captured on film for millions to see. But despite Stewart’s inner turmoil, making the movie was therapeutic for the combat veteran. He would go on to become one of the most accomplished and loved actors in American history. When asked in 1941 why he wanted to leave his acting career to fly combat missions over Nazi Germany, he said, “This country’s conscience is bigger than all the studios in Hollywood put together, and the time will come when we’ll have to fight.” This holiday season, as many of us watch the classic Christmas film, “It’s A Wonderful Life,” it’s also a fitting time to remember the sacrifices of those who gave up so much to serve their country during wartime.

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beauperalta · 2 years

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Bailey May headers

fav or rt if u save

#twitter #now united #beauperalta #headers #headers twitter #messy headers #bailey now united #bailey may #bailey may headers #headers Bailey May #bailey may packs #bailey headers

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waywardxwords · 7 months

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The Fix - Part 4

Summary: Everyone has a past, but yours seemed to haunt you. You've tried to move forward with a normal life, but the day comes when that's not possible anymore. When Sheriff Beau Arlen enters your life, you're certain he is going to judge you just like everyone else in town does. But something about Beau is different.

Warnings: Child abduction, mentions of domestic violence, language, gun violence, mentions of drugs/drug use

Word Count: ~2.5k

A/N: I want to preface this by saying: I don’t usually bring up real life situations or discuss what’s going on in the world on this Tumblr. My page is meant to be a safe space for anyone who comes to read fiction, and it will remain that way. I want to put a heavy disclaimer on this that there is mention of gun violence in this chapter. I live in the United States where gun violence seems to be a daily occurrence, but I know reading about it can be triggering for many (especially with recent events). Please know that it is not my intention to trigger anyone, and I absolutely respect and encourage you to skip this chapter if you are not comfortable reading. My descriptions are vague, but I still want to be clear that it is a topic in this chapter.

Pop, pop, pop.

The sound was nauseating and caused you to bolt upright in your bed. You were disoriented and confused—you didn’t even remember falling asleep.

Beau’s voice was muffled through your closed bedroom door. “Jackson, drop the gun!” He demanded with a tone you hadn’t heard him use before. “Nobody else needs to get hurt.”

Nobody else? Your heart was in your throat. Bailey.

You pulled on the metal doorknob and swung it open so hard that it clanged against the wall and bounced back. It was so loud that it caused Beau to flinch slightly, but as you stepped into the hall you realized his focus was fixated on someone in your kitchen, his gun drawn and aimed in that direction.

“Darlin’, I’m gonna need you to stay put,” Beau’s tone had shifted slightly—it was more gentle—but his gaze remained locked on the person in your kitchen.

“Is that her? Is that my wife?” You heard the voice of the man you had worked so hard to forget.

“Jackson,” you muttered as you ignored Beau’s request and moved down the hallway. “Where is she? Where’s Bailey?” Your heart thudded against your chest so hard, as if you had just run a marathon. As you approached Beau, he adjusted his hold on his gun.

“Dammit, I asked you to stay put,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, well, I don’t follow directions well,” your eyes were fixed on the man in your kitchen. As he came into view, you noticed how awful he looked. He was either tired or high, maybe both. “Jackson…” you started again. “Where is Bailey?”

“She’s safe,” Jackson moved, pointing his pistol back and forth between you and Beau. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair disheveled. It looked as though the clothes on his back had been worn for days.

Your feet wanted to take off running in the direction of where he had come from to find her, but your eyes found the barrel of his gun and you tried to will yourself to stay put.

“Alright, let’s take it nice an’ easy,” Beau broke the silence. “Nobody has to get shot, Jackson. We gotta get an ambulance here for my deputy, okay? Can I radio in that I need an ambulance?” He was putting the ball in Jackson’s court. Beau recognized that Jackson yearned for control in every situation; he was better at this than you had realized.

“Fuck no,” Jackson spat. “Ain’t nobody leavin’ here but her.” He pointed the gun back at you. “You sleepin’ with a Sheriff now, baby?”

You cringed at that word: baby. It brought back flashbacks filled with pain.

“I’m just here to keep an eye out, is all,” Beau spoke before you could even process what to say. “Every deputy, cop and FBI agent is lookin’ for you right now. I’m here to keep her safe.”

“Looks like you’re doing a great job of that,” without breaking eye contact with Beau, he leaned to the side and spit. “She’s comin’ with me. We’re gonna be a family again.” He cocked his head—he was out of his mind at this point. You had never seen him this far gone, which terrified you.

“Yeah, I’m not gonna be able to let that happen,” Beau’s jaw tightened and out of the corner of your eye, you noticed his finger twitch by the trigger.

“Beau…” you started softly to try and calm him down. You knew the only way to Bailey was through Jackson. His finger twitch made you nervous.

“Oh, we’re on a first name basis now, are we?” Jackson asked, annoyed.

You ignored it. “I want to go,” you continued to speak to Beau. “I want to be with Bailey.” There was a pleading tone to your voice. For the first time in this entire encounter, Beau looked between you and then back at Jackson, incredulously.

“Not gonna happen,” Beau said firmly and his jaw muscles flinched. Your breath hitched in your throat when you saw the shadows creep beyond the window just past Jackson. More people were coming—an array of officers and FBI agents, you could assume. You wanted to stop them—you were so close to getting to Bailey. She was so close, you could feel it.

“You don’t get a say in this one,” Jackson practically snarled. “Come on, baby. Let’s go.” He held out his hand that wasn’t gripping the gun.

Before you could even move, a shot rang out and ripped through the glass. You watched Jackson’s eyes widen. A scream fell from your lips, but before you could process—Beau’s arms encircled your waist and tackled you into the hallway up against the wall. He pulled your head to his shoulder, his fingers spanned out over the back of your head. His body covered yours against the wall and you realized he was trying to shield you from a potential gun fight.

“No, no, no!” You screamed against his shoulder. You pushed and shoved against his chest, but he was a boulder and wouldn’t budge. “He knows where Bailey is! He’s the only one who knows!” You realized at that point tears had started to flow from your eyes and sobs shook your entire frame.

“Relax!” Beau commanded over the noise of officers and agents entering your home. “Just take a breath for a second.” He pulled back when he realized the moment was under control.

“Jackson Lyle, you are under arrest,” someone said as your body shook against the wall. As Beau removed his frame from yours, his eyes watched you closely. That painstaking, sympathetic gaze was back, and it only made you more frustrated.

“He’s the only one who knows,” the repeated words fell in a whimper from your lips.

“I hear you, darlin’,” Beau said softly. His fingertips trailed up to brush back a strand of hair that had fallen over your eyes, and you wondered if he realized he had even done it. “You couldn’t have gone with him.”

You pushed past him, and were surprised to find out he didn’t try to stop you. As you entered the living room once more, you saw Jackson on the floor with his hands restrained behind his back in cuffs. There were two FBI agents standing over him, as well as deputies and officers casing your home and marking evidence. Jackson seemed to be conscious—by the looks of the pooling blood, it seemed he had been shot in the shoulder at least once.

“Where is she, Jackson?” You asked firmly. It was your goal to get some kind of answer, just in case he would lose consciousness at any given moment.

Jackson’s eyes floated over you before he leaned to the side and spit in your direction. “Can't tell you that now, baby. We could've been a family again.”

Anger burned the pit of your stomach. “You son of a bitch,” you started, before you lunged towards him.

The arms that encircled your waist from behind were beginning to feel familiar. “Hey, hey, hey,” Beau’s gruff voice rumbled just behind your head. “I want to kick his face in just as much as you do, but we gotta do this right.”

Your breathing calmed a bit as the FBI agent you recognized stepped forward. “Sheriff,” his eyes burned into Beau.

“Agent,” Beau tipped his head at Matt, the agent from earlier.

“Do you have any idea how many problems you’ve caused?” The agent ignored your presence.

“We got the guy, didn’t we?” Beau shot back.

You held your hands up to stop the back and forth. “My daughter is still missing. What are we doing to find her?” You looked at Matt expectantly.

He sighed but finally pulled his gaze away from Beau. “We have agents searching the direction we tracked Jackson’s truck from. They’re also checking the truck for any evidence,” he answered. “He has to go to the hospital, but we’ll question him more as we get there, and then once the doctors are done with him.”

Your mind raced to think of what else could be done. “Which direction did he come from?” You asked. Matt didn’t answer. His eyes hovered over you for a moment. “I asked you a question, agent.” You couldn’t control the tone of your voice, you were desperate.

“I can’t tell you that, ma’am,” he sighed.

“My five-year-old is out there, alone,” you seethed. This time, Beau didn’t stop you. “And you’re not gonna tell me which way I might be able to go to find her?”

Matt spoke before he processed. “Do you know who your ex-husband is associated with? He runs with some of the most dangerous criminals you could think of. Drug traffickers we’ve been trying to bust for years.”

“Is this supposed to make me feel better that my daughter is out there in insane danger?” You felt like you could puke at any given moment.

“Listen,” Matt sighed. “We are doing everything in our power to get your daughter back. I mean this with all due respect, keep your nose out of it,” he glanced between both you and Beau firmly. “Or else you’re going to find yourself in an even bigger mess.”

He didn’t give you an opportunity to respond. Instead, he turned to the paramedics who were busy loading up Jackson on a gurney.

“Keep him cuffed,” he said firmly as he escorted them through your home.

“This is insane,” you muttered out loud with a hand to your forehead.

“Excuse me one second,” Beau spotted the paramedics loading Mo up onto a gurney just outside on the front porch. He walked past the various law enforcement personnel. “Popcorn, you alright?”

“I’m alright, boss,” Mo managed a smile. Beau nodded and looked to the paramedics.

“He should be okay,” one of them spoke first. “Looks like a direct shot to the shoulder, and there’s an exit wound. We’ll take him in and get him checked out.”

“Thank you,” Beau clapped the paramedic on the back. “Good work, Pops.”

“Sorry he got through me,” Mo seemed disappointed in himself.

“None of that,” Beau waved off. “No one saw him comin’. You did good.”

After he was assured his deputy was alright, he walked back through the kitchen and into the living room where you were standing.

“Is there somewhere you can go?” A second agent approached you from the hallway. “Until we know if it’s absolutely safe, you should really stay somewhere else.”

You were still convinced you were going to get in your truck and go on your own search for Bailey, but you weren’t about to tell the FBI that. “I’ve got a place in mind.” You lied.

“Good, we’ll reach out as soon as we know more,” he nodded at you and went on to process any additional evidence.

You high-tailed it for your bedroom where you grabbed a backpack and filled it with some clothes and other things you might need while you were away. Lost in thought, you didn’t notice the man in the doorway until he spoke.

“Where are you gonna go?” Beau’s voice halted your movements, but only for a second. You quickly glanced over your shoulder. He was leaned against the doorframe. You tried to ignore the way his muscles pressed against his brown jacket with his arms crossed as he leaned against the doorframe.

“Uh, somewhere,” you murmured as you returned your focus to packing.

“Oh, so you have no plan,” he pushed off of the doorframe and walked towards where you stood.

“I have a plan, you’re just not gonna like it,” you zipped the backpack up and pulled it up onto your shoulder.

“You’re not goin’ on some wild goose chase,” he sighed.

You pushed past him and headed back into the hallway. “I’m an adult, Beau. I can make my own decisions.” You were both silent as you passed agents and deputies along with two crime scene investigators. You took one last look around your home before you headed for the front door.

As soon as you were off the last step of your front porch and away from any lingering ears, you heard his boots crunch behind you. “I can’t let you do this.” He said, the frustration clear in his voice.

“You’re gonna have to arrest me, then,” you mumbled over your shoulder as you pulled your truck keys out of your denim jacket pocket.

“Aw man, do you know how much paperwork that is?” Beau grumbled. He sighed as you tossed your backpack into the truck. “Alright, alright. Get in my truck.”

You eyed him suspiciously. “The last time I got in your truck, Beau, you did exactly what I told you not to do.”

“If I remember correctly, you said Jackson wouldn’t show up here and he most certainly did,” he bit back. He rolled his eyes when he noticed your firm stance—you weren’t willing to budge. “Listen, I’m gonna take you back to my trailer and we’re gonna come up with a plan.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, frustrated with his so-called ‘plan’.

“Please,” it was a word you hadn’t heard often, and you felt a little bad about all the trouble Beau had gone through to get you to this point. “I’ve broken pretty much every order I’ve been given, darlin’. I’m willing to break a couple more but we gotta get settled and really think through our next steps. And something tells me you don’t have anywhere to go in this town, either.”

Oh, so he’s handsome and smart, you thought to yourself. “Fine,” the word left your mouth with a huff. “But you promise me we’ll go look for her?”

“I promise,” he looked directly into your eyes as he said it. Your mind flashed back and you remembered how he had avoided eye contact when he couldn’t be honest with you about taking you home instead of allowing you to join the search party. So you decided to trust him.

You pulled your backpack out of your truck and closed the door. “If you’re lying to me, Beau Arlen, I swear to God…”

“Oh, trust me, darlin’,” he chuckled. “Won’t make that mistake twice.” He walked the few short feet with you to his truck and pulled the passenger door open for you. You raised your brows at him, adding the fact that he was a gentleman, too, to your repertoire.

After you climbed in, he closed the door.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Posting this a few hours ahead of Saturday. I hope you enjoy! Thanks for all the likes, reblogs and comments. You all are appreciated!

New installments posted on Wednesdays and Saturdays!

A preview of the next chapter:

The drive to Beau’s trailer was mostly silent. As he pulled up the dirt drive, you took in your surroundings. This wasn’t really where you expected the Sheriff of the town to live; it was hardly a trailer—it looked more like a tin can, but it was quaint. The mountains behind were illuminated by the moonlight. Even in the darkness, you felt peace.

“You live here?” You asked as he shifted the car into park.

“Yes ma’am,” he sighed as he opened his door and you followed suit. “It’s not much, but then again, I don’t need much.” He smiled. In the glow of the moon, you saw his dimple again.

“It’s quiet out here,” you chimed as you pulled your backpack from the floorboard and closed the car door behind you. You allowed him to lead the way as he walked to the steps that led to the trailer door.

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jbaileyfansite · 7 months

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Interview with The Telegraph (2023)

We all know what is meant by McCarthyism. It popularly refers to the first half of the 1950s, when Senator Joseph R McCarthy led a ruthless campaign to hound suspected communists out of the US government. What’s less well-remembered than the Red Menace is the Lavender Scare: by an executive order from President Eisenhower, McCarthyism also targeted gays and lesbians. “If you want to be against McCarthy, boys,” the senator once told the press, “you’ve got to be either a Communist or a c--ksucker.”

Thus gay men and women, living closeted lives as they worked for the state, were targeted by sinister-sounding bodies: the FBI’s Sex Deviance Investigations Unit, Washington DC police’s Sex Perversion Elimination Program and the Department of State’s M Unit. All sought to identify government employees deemed to be security risks vulnerable to blackmail.

Popular culture lost sight of the Lavender Scare until it was brought into the light in the US by Thomas Mallon’s 2007 novel Fellow Travelers. Set mostly in the early 1950s, it told of a tangled romance between two men; Hawkins “Hawk” Fuller, a handsome war veteran and political fixer who steers clear of emotional attachment until he meets Tim Laughlin, a sweet young Catholic newcomer to DC whom he nicknames Skippy and sets up in the office of a Republican senator.

The novel was not published in the UK. But now it has been adapted for television, and one piece of casting in particular feels calculated to get the attention of audiences beyond the US: Laughlin is played by British actor Jonathan Bailey, best known as the Regency heartthrob Anthony, 9th Viscount Bridgerton.

His co-star is the American Matt Bomer, who, like Bailey, professes ignorance of what the New York Times, in its review of the novel, referred to as “the Lavender Hill mob”. “It’s a chapter of LGBTQIA history that I was completely unaware of,” he says.

This is not the first time the novel has been adapted – it was staged as an opera in Cincinnati in 2016. By then it had already caught the attention of Ron Nyswaner, who laboured over bringing the book to the screen for the best part of a decade. Best known for his script for Philadelphia, the 1993 Aids courtroom drama which earned Tom Hanks his first Oscar, it was his stint as a producer of Homeland that persuaded Showtime to fund an expensive eight-part decades-spanning drama. “I’m still in disbelief that we were able to tell this story on the scale that we were able to tell it,” says Bomer, who is also an executive producer on the drama.

The scale is considerable. The period detail of 1950s Washington, in both corridors of power and gay demimonde, is lavishly recreated. And as the story progresses it parts company with the novel, which opens with Hawk looking back at the closure of his career as a diplomat in Tallinn in 1991. Nyswaner’s script expands to take in other pivots in modern US history: the Civil Rights movement, the Vietnam War, and the spread of Aids in the 1980s, when the now-married Hawk and the dying Laughlin meet for a final reckoning.

I met the drama’s two stars in London earlier in the summer, before the actors’ strike in Hollywood put a stop to such encounters. It was the first time they’d seen each other since the end of the shoot. Bomer, though just off the plane and heavily jet-lagged, exudes a chiselled, blue-eyed intensity. Bailey fizzes with puppyish energy. Both are themselves gay and Bailey in particular sees their casting as a sign of progress. “We would not be playing these parts five or 10 years ago,” he says. The highlights of his CV are mix and match. He has played mainly straight characters on television in the likes of Broadchurch, Crashing and W1A, and gay characters on stage in the Sondheim musical Company and Mike Bartlett’s play C--k in the West End.

The career of Bomer, 10 years his senior, looks a little more linear. His most high-profile film role is as an object of ladies’ lust in male-strippers drama Magic Mike and its sequel. But in 2014 he won a Golden Globe playing a closeted journalist in HBO’s adaptation of Larry Kramer’s play The Normal Heart. In 2018, he made his Broadway debut as part of an exclusively gay cast reviving The Boys in the Band, a portrait of gay life in 1960s New York.

Earlier on the day we met, Stanley Tucci had said on Desert Island Discs that he doesn’t see why straight actors shouldn’t play gay characters. “I think it’s incredibly complicated and nuanced,” says Bailey with a sigh. “You just want to make sure that everyone feels there’s enough space at the table. Everyone who is panicking that they’re never going to be able to play outside their own experience is wasting their energy.”

Bomer counters that it ought to cut both ways, that gay actors should be allowed to play straight. He speaks darkly of movie producers who “wouldn’t hire me because of who I was”, of gay actors who “weren’t even given a shot. A lot of it boils down to opportunity. Was everyone given the opportunity for the role? There is something about seeing the most authentic version of who you are represented on screen. It gives you hope.”

In Fellow Travelers that authenticity is portrayed most unswervingly in the bedroom, which the plot requires Hawk and Laughlin to visit often. “I haven’t necessarily really seen gay intimacy in a way that I would want to,” says Bailey. I gently remind him of Linus Roache, who plays a senator in Fellow Travelers but, back in 1994, starred in Jimmy McGovern’s Priest as a Catholic priest struggling with his sexuality – graphically so in a central scene with Robert Carlyle. “Oh yeah, that’s true,” he says. “I looked to that a lot.”

As is on trend for male actors nowadays, both leads look impeccable with their shirts off in low honeyed lighting. “Hawk is ex-military and he also wants to appeal to people in bathroom stalls,” reasons Bomer, who did period-appropriate Royal Canadian Air Force drills and looks no less pneumatic than he did in Magic Mike.

Bailey concedes that Laughlin, who orders milk the first time we meet him, boasts the body of a Greek god for the simple reason that the shoot overlapped with Bridgerton (yes, he confirms, the newly married Anthony is back for the third season). “There’s no way Tim would have had a Bridgerton body, but what can you do if you’re commuting? I was like, I really want to lose weight to tell Tim’s story, but I lost fat and just got really ripped.”

How resonant is the history portrayed in Fellow Travelers to today? It’s easy to play six degrees of separation between now and then. For instance, McCarthy’s closeted sidekick Roy Cohn is a lead character (played here by Will Brill). A ferocious prosecutor of both communists and gays, he would go on to be Donald Trump’s lawyer, before dying of complications from Aids. It was Trump’s three appointees to the Supreme Court who this summer enabled a 6-3 ruling releasing businesses and organisations from the obligation to treat same-sex couples equally. The landmark ruling occurred just days before I met the actors, and has been widely interpreted as a profound attack on LGBT rights.

“There is an entire generation of men and women who suffered and struggled and loved under a government that felt that its morals were more important than their personal freedoms,” says Bomer. “And that’s exactly what we see happening today. Whether it’s McCarthy or the current Supreme Court justices, are morals more important than freedoms?”

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#fellow travelers #jonathan bailey #matt bomer #the telegraph interview #interviews:2023 #jonny bailey #interviews #NEW!

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lumienn · 1 year

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So... Bailey's announcement is up, and I feel a lot of things. He was the fandom's first and biggest crush, one of the best singers and super hardworking.. but after everything, I mostly just feel relieved.

For him, of course, cause he's leaving something with a toxic management and doing his own thing - later in his journey with NU, he barely got any lines or spotlight, and I can't wait to hear his solo music - but mostly because it's finally over. A drama which caused an unbelievable amount of hate and infighting, including getting my friends' fanpages mass reported and banned (by no fault of their own btw, it was all false reports) is... over.

Nothings gonna fuel those flames anymore.

Tbf they're mostly dead, but this is the kill strike. Plus I hope he comes out w the truth about XIX (along with other ex members).

#now united #bailey may

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that-struggling-writer-lh · 2 months

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A Flower For Every Secret Ch. 3 - Basket Flowers

Buckle up my friends because I was giggling and kicking my feet writing this.

WORD COUNT : 1885

WARNINGS: Extreme fluff, mutual pining. MINORS DNI. These guys are sickly in love I can feel it in my bones.

Pair the dancing scene with the song J's Lullaby by Delaney Bailey. ALL THE FEELS.

“You going to Colleen’s wedding tomorrow?” a voice piped from behind the glass window.

“Good morning to you, too. I’m not sure. I feel like it was a tentative invite because I’ve only been here like a month.” I looked up at Agent Carrillo through my lashes, phone on hold between my neck and ear.

Joel hadn’t been home hardly all week. His truck always leaving at dawn and not back until late, Sarah begrudgingly following close behind him. Both of their clothes had been covered in sawdust several of those days.

He hadn’t acknowledged me much since the dinner he had invited me to, the only conversation being passing hello, how was your day? He didn’t have time to play in the streets with the neighborhood kids, much to the dismay of many parents who had to pay extra attention without Joel keeping watch of the street. He had mentioned a big job in the city, renovating an old shop front into a high-end bakery.

“Still nice to get to know people better, you’re kind of in your own world over here.” he shrugged, leaning past the barrier to peek at my desk space.

I covered the note I was writing, waiting to get it sent out to a patrol unit. A welfare check on an elderly woman, I hung up the line when I was confident my message went through, and sighed. “I don’t have a date. So I won’t know anyone, and I’ll be alone. You have a wife, Carrillo. You have a buffer.”

He seemed to consider, “Find one. I mean this in the most platonic way. You’re pretty. Someone would want to go with you, even if it’s some shitty blind date.”

I chewed the end of my pen gently, the only person that came to mind being the neighbor I’d been pining over for the last week, “I think there’s someone I can ask.”

Joel’s truck was surprisingly in the driveway when I pulled into the cul-de-sac, Sarah in the front yard with one of her friends, laying in the grass with a neatly folded fortune teller. They played the game with smiles on their faces, even from across the street I could hear the flip, flop, flap of the paper with the swish of their hands.

I tentatively walked across the street, “Hey, Sarah. Your dad home?” I questioned.

“In his office, just walk inside and let him know I said it's okay.” She looked away from me and smiled at her friend again, “Pick a number one through four.”

“Joel?” I called into the silent house, “Joel, it’s me, Sarah said to come in. I have to ask you something.”

A shuffling noise and a door opening came from down the hallway and Joel appeared, phone pressed to his ear, he motioned for me to follow, using his spare hand to silently shush me, “Again, it’s not possible with the current price of lumber, tools and extras. I gotta pay my guys, I gotta feed my kid. I’d love to continue offering the labor rate I had five years ago when I previously did work at your home, but I am a small business.” he was rolling his eyes, rolling up his long sleeved shirt to his elbows.

I watched him as he sat at an l-shaped desk, stuffed into a corner of the small room, a window directly in front of his chair. A few photos of him and Sarah framed, dusted. A tiny cactus potted, and neat stacks of binders with printed labels. Money In, Money Out, Project Portfolio, Current Client List and Job Sites, Employee Records/Handbook.

He pinched his brow, exhaling slowly so as not to let the person on the other end hear his frustration, “I offer very competitive rates, you won’t find someone cheaper than me right now, I don’t think. I’ve held off on raising prices again… I understand your frustration, times are changing for everyone. Yes, just let me know. I’d love to be of help to you, have a great weekend Bob.” he put the phone into its cradle and groaned aloud, “Sorry, Sweetheart.” he drawled as he spun on squeaky wheels to face me.

“Sarah let me in, I wanted to ask something pretty big of you this weekend. I understand if it's a no, I just have nobody else I’d like to ask.”

He pressed his elbow into the desk, resting his chin in his palm, “I’m all ears.”

“There’s this… Thing.” I started, looking up at the ceiling.

He waited for me to continue, “Gosh, I’m nervous.” I huffed a laugh.

“Don’t be nervous, just ask.” he had started grinning at this point.

“The chief’s secretary is getting married tomorrow. I was a last minute invite, I wasn’t planning on going, but was given the option of taking a plus one and-” I froze, trying not to stammer over my words, “I was hoping that maybe you’d like to come. With me. As a favor. It doesn't have to be like…” I trailed off.

His ears turned a soft shade of pink and he looked out the window, now to the side of him, “Let me make a call.” he turned back to the phone and in moments, “Maria.” a pause, entirely too long as he stared directly in my eyes with the phone to his ear. I began wringing my hands together in anticipation. My heart thrumming wildly in my throat, “Nothing serious, just a favor.” he started, “I have uh… A date tomorrow… Need someone to feed Sarah dinner, make sure she’s okay.” he was chewing his lower lip nervously, that eye contact still unbreaking, “Of course,” he was grinning now, the pink in his ears flushing through his cheeks, “I really appreciate you guys. Thank you.”

The phone clicked back into its home on the desk, and Joel stood from his chair, “It’s a date.”

Joel promised to wear his best. Based on what I’d seen I’d hoped it was a little more than a blazer and nice pants. But he could show up in anything and I’d be happy just to hear his laugh again.

I wasn’t sure exactly what to label my feelings for my neighbor as, other than when I look at him it feels like the breath has been taken from my lungs for a moment. I spent all evening laying everything out, he promised to pick me up by three p.m for the four o’clock ceremony in the gardens of the event center. The reception would follow in a large barn. From what I had heard, Colleen’s family spared no expense. I opted to wear a lilac, solid colored dress that ended at my ankles, off shoulder sleeves and tulle underneath the skirts to plump up the whole thing, paired with silver heels. My hair in a french twist with pieces left out to frame my face, my makeup bright, blushy and glossy.

The knock at the door as I put an extra coat of lipgloss on and stuffed touchup stuff into my clutch almost sent me into a panic. I rushed to answer the door, careful not to trip over myself before opening the door. I was not prepared to see him look so-

“Wow.” we said in unison, wide-eyed.

“You look-” we both started,

“Handsome.”

“Perfect”

Joel really pulled it off. Hair neatly parted and slicked, facial hair trimmed. He sported a full tux, perfectly tailored. He offered me his arm and I graciously accepted, the cul-de-sac was bustling with life, but it was as if he was the only one there with me. Drowning out everything else in a haze of warm, woodsy cologne and perfect smiles. The warmth made each vein in his large, rough hand rise. It was nearly impossible to keep my eyes trained on any single spot of him. He cleaned up good.

He led me to his truck, opening the door and helping me up.

The ride was near silent, only the radio covering the thrumming of my chest. The nerves electrifying my every fiber.

He kept his hands off of me through the entirety of the ceremony, though our eyes often drifted to each other through the vows. The soft music.

The reception was dimly lit, candles gracing every surface they made sense on, baskets overflowing with blooms of every shade to mark doorways, placed on tables as centerpieces, a chandelier of candles with wildflower blooms laced in every spare beam.

Joel was seated firmly beside me at a table full of strangers. Eventually his hand found a spot to rest on top of mine, our fingers tentatively lacing together. Both of us obviously nervous. It was different than last week on the walk back to my house from his. I was keenly aware of his every movement, the feeling of his skin. The flush of my face, and each beat of my hammering heart.

Eventually I heard the slow, soft guitar and words sung so softly it was like a private prayer.

Darling I’d wait for you

Even if you didn’t ask me to.

Tie a lasso around the moon

And bring it on down to you.

His eyes found mine again and he rose from his seat, keeping our fingers laced together, glancing around at the other couples slowly moving along to the beat, “Normally I’d say I have two left feet… But this time… Dance with me?”

It took a moment for the words to leave after the nod of confirmation, “Of course.” I whispered as he took me toward the middle of the room. One hand pressed into my lower back, bringing our waists together, his other holding mine so delicately I was sure I must be dreaming. The candlelight illuminated his face in a golden haze. Surely things like this are only in fairytales

Cause, Baby, when your arms are around me.

I’d swear that I’m holding the sun.

“Joel,” I started, “Thank you - for coming with me.” his eyes were so warm I could have melted in them.

“There isn’t a way I’d have missed something like this.” he squeezed his hand at my back, bunching up tulle and soft fabric.

You could have the stars and the trees.

When dividing up the universe.

My breath hitched as words failed me entirely; and my hand, pressed firmly onto his shoulder, loosened, slipping further up and around to the back of his neck, burying in the soft hair at his nape.

His brows furrowed, almost a question. Almost a hope. We studied each other as everything else fell around us. Deeper and deeper. Until all that remained on the crowded dance floor was Joel. Me. And the words of a lullaby.

Darling, I wish that you

Could give me some more time.

To herd the whole sky in my arms,

And release it when you’re mine.

At the same moment he leaned in, so did I. It was hardly even a kiss. More like a tentative brush, testing the waters before making a full swan dive in deep water. He pulled away only to look at me again for confirmation. I nodded and he sealed his lips to mine.

I’d put the beach in your backyard

In hopes to be enough for you to stay.

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