#‘colonize me daddy’ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

philmonjohn · 15 days ago

Text

A Call to the Children of the Global South: The System That Made My Father Disown Me

I didn’t write this living testimony for virality. I wrote it because silence almost killed me. Because truth, even when ignored by algorithms, remembers how to survive. If this resonated with you — even quietly — share it with someone else who’s still trying to name their Fracture. That’s how we outlive the system. - Philmon John, May 2025

THE FRACTURE Several months ago, when I, a South-Asian American man, turned 35, my father disowned me.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t cry. He simply stopped calling me his son.

My father is a Brown, MAGA-aligned conservative Christian pastor, born in Kerala, India, and now living in the United States. His rejection wasn’t provoked by any breach of trust or familial responsibility, but by my coming out as queer and bisexual — and by my deliberate move away from a version of Christianity shaped more by colonial rule than compassion.

I became blasphemy made flesh.

My mother and sister, equally immersed in religious conservatism, followed suit. Most of my extended family — conservative Indian Christians — responded with quiet complicity. I became an exile in my own lineage, cast out from a network that once celebrated me as the Mootha Makkan, the Malayalam term for “eldest son”.

This break didn’t occur in isolation. It was the culmination of years of internal questioning and ideological transformation.

I was raised with warmth and structure, but also under the weight of rigid theology. My parents cycled through different churches in pursuit of doctrinal purity. In that environment, my queerness had no safe harbor. It had to be hidden, managed, controlled — forced into secrecy.

Literal, cherry-popping closets.

Even my childhood discipline was carved straight from scripture — “spare the rod, spoil the child” was not metaphor but mandate. I was hit for defiance, for curiosity, for emotional honesty. Control was synonymous with love. The theology: obedience over empathy. Is it sad I would rather now have had a beating from my father, than his silence?

I would’ve taken the rod — at least it acknowledged me.

Instead, Daddy looks through me.

THE INHERITANCE And I obeyed. For a time, I rose through the ranks of the church. I led worship. I played guitar in the worship band. I wasn’t just a believer — I was a builder of belief, a conductor of chorus, a jester of jubilee and Sunday morning joy — all while masking a private ache I could not yet articulate.

In the last five years, I began methodically deconstructing the ideological scaffolding I had inherited. I examined the mechanisms of theology, patriarchy, and colonial imposition — and the specific burdens placed upon firstborn sons of immigrant families. Who defines our roles? Who benefits from our silence? Why is this happening to me?

These questions consistently pointed toward the dominant global structure: wealthy white patriarchal supremacy. Rooted in European imperialism and sustained by centuries of religious and cultural colonization, this system fractures not only societies but the deeply intimate architecture of family.

What my family experienced is not unlike what the United States of America continues to experience — a slow, painful reckoning with a foundational ideology of white, heteronormative, Christian patriarchal dominance.

My family comes from Kerala, home to one of the oldest Christian communities in the world. But the Christianity I inherited was not indigenous. It was filtered through the moral codes of Portuguese priests and British missionaries and the discipline of Victorian culture. Christ was not presented as a radical Middle Eastern teacher but as a sanitized figure — pale, passive, and Western.

In this theology, Christ is symbolic. Paul is the system. Doctrine exists to reinforce patriarchy, to police desire, to ensure control. When I embraced a theology rooted in love, empathy, and justice — the ethics I believe Jesus actually lived — I was met not with discussion, but dismissal.

To my family, my identity wasn’t authenticity. It was apostasy.

THE RECKONING In 2020, the ground shifted.

I turned the triple decade — 30 — as the COVID-19 pandemic erupted.

Remote work slowed life down, and I had space to think deeply.

That year, the murders of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, and countless others triggered a national and personal reckoning.

I turned to K-LOVE, the Christian radio station I grew up with, hoping to hear words of solidarity, truth, or even mourning. Instead, there was silence. No mention of racial justice. No prayers for the dead. Just songs about personal salvation, void of historical context or social responsibility.

As Geraldine Heng argues in The Invention of Race in the European Middle Ages, race was not merely a modern invention void of scientific basis — it was already taking shape in medieval Europe, where Christianity was used to sanctify, encode, and sell racial hierarchies as divine order and social technology.

As Ademọ́la, also known as Ogbeni Demola, once said: “The white man built his heaven on your land and pointed yours to the sky.” That brain-powered perceptive clarity — distilled in a single line — stays with me every day.

With professional routines interrupted and spiritual ties frayed, I immersed myself in scholarship. I entered what I now see as a period of epistemic reconstruction. I read widely — revolutionaries, poets, sociologists, historians, mathematicians, theologians, cultural critics, and the unflinching truth-tellers who name what empire tries to erase.

I first turned to the voices who now live only in memory: Bhagat Singh, James Baldwin, Frantz Fanon, bell hooks, Octavia Butler, Gloria Anzaldúa, and Vine Deloria Jr. Each carried the weight of revolution, tenderness, and truth — from anti-colonial struggle to queer theory to Indigenous reclamation.

I then reached for the veteran thought leaders still shaping the world, starting with Noam Chomsky, Naomi Klein, Shashi Tharoor, Eduardo Bonilla-Silva, Susan Visvanathan, Geraldine Heng, George Gheverghese Joseph, J. Sakai, Vijay Prashad, Vilna Bashi Treitler, Claire Jean Kim, and Arundhati Roy — voices who dismantle the illusions of empire through history, mathematics, linguistics, and racial theory.

In the present, I absorbed insights from a new generation of public intellectuals and cultural critics: Ta-Nehisi Coates, Jared Yates Sexton, Cathy Park Hong, Ibram X. Kendi, Nikole Hannah-Jones, Heather McGhee, Mehdi Hasan, Adrienne Keene, Keri Leigh Merritt, Vincent Bevins, Sarah Kendzior, Ayesha A. Siddiqi, Wajahat Ali, W. Kamau Bell, Mary Trump, & John Oliver. Together, they form a constellation of clarity — thinkers who gave me language for grief, strategy for resistance, and above all, a framework for empathy rooted in history, not abstraction.

I also turned to the thinkers shaping today’s cultural and political discourse. I dreamt of the world blueprinted by Bhaskar Sunkara in his revolutionary The Socialist Manifesto and plunged into Jacobin’s blistering critiques of capitalism. The Atlantic’s longform journalism kept me tethered to a truth-seeking tradition. The Guardian stood out for its global scale and reach, offering progressive, longform storytelling that speaks to both local injustices and systemic inequalities across the world. And Roman Krznaric’s Empathy: Why It Matters, and How to Get It helped crystallize my core belief:

Be a good human. Practice empathy.

That’s the playbook, America. Practice empathy. Do that — and teach accurate, critically reflective history — and we have the chance to truly become the greatest democracy the world has ever seen.

And this empathy must extend to all — especially to trans people. In India, the Hijra community — trans and intersex folk who have existed visibly for thousands of years — embody a sacred third gender long before the West had language for it. But they are not alone. Across the colonized world, the empire erased a sacred third space: the Muxe of Zapotec culture, the Bakla of the Philippines, the Fa’afafine of Samoa, the Two-Spirit nations of Turtle Island, the Māhū of Hawaiʻi, the Sworn Virgins of the Balkans — each of these communities held space outside Western gender binaries, rooted in care, ceremony, and spirit. Some align with what we today call trans or intersex, while others exist entirely outside Western definitions. Colonization reframed them as deviants.

And still, we must remember this: trans people are not new. Our respect for them must be as ancient as their existence.

THE RESISTANCE As I examined the dynamics of coloniality, racial capitalism, and Western empire, I realized just how deeply imperial power had shaped my family, our values, and our spiritual language. The empire didn’t just occupy land — it rewrote moral codes. It restructured the family.

I learned how Irish, Italian, Greek, Hungarian, and Albanian immigrants were initially excluded from whiteness in America. Over time, many adopted and embraced whiteness as strategic economic and social protection — and in doing so, embraced anti-Blackness and patriarchal hierarchies to maintain their newfound status. Today, many European-hyphenated Americans defend systems that once excluded them.

And over time, some Asian-Americans have followed the very same racial template.

At 33 — the age Jesus is believed to have died — I laid my childhood faith to rest. In its place rose something rooted in clarity, not doctrine.

I didn’t walk away from religion into cynicism or nihilism. I stepped into a humanist, justice-centered worldview. A system grounded in reason, evidence, and above all, empathy. A belief in people over dogma. In community over conformity.

I didn’t lose faith. I redefined it.

I left the pasture of institutional faith, not for chaos, but for an ethical wilderness — a space lacking divine command but filled with moral clarity. A place built on personal responsibility and universal dignity.

This is where I stand today.

To those with similar histories: if your roots trace back to Africa, South Asia, Southeast Asia, Central Asia, East Asia, the Middle East, Latin America, the Caribbean, Oceania, or to Indigenous and marginalized communities within the Global North — you are a Child of the Global South. Even in the Global North, your experience carries the weight of displaced geography, the quiet grief of colonial trauma, and a genealogy forged by the system of empire. Your pain is political. Your silence is inherited. You are not invisible. They buried you without a funeral. They mourned not your death, but your deviation from design. However, we are not dead. We are just no longer theirs.

White supremacy endures by fracturing us. It manufactures tensions between communities of color by design — placing Asian businesses in Black communities without infrastructure and opportunities for BIPOC folk to share and benefit from the economic engine. Central to this strategy is the model minority myth, crafted during the Cold War to present Asian-Americans as obedient, self-reliant, and successful — not to celebrate them, but to invalidate Black resistance and justify structural racism. It’s a myth that fosters anti-Blackness in Asian communities and xenophobia in Black ones, while shielding white supremacy from critique. These divisions are not cultural accidents; they’re colonial blueprints.

And these blueprints stretch across oceans and continents and time.

In colonial South Africa, Mohandas Gandhi — still shaped by British racial hierarchies — distanced Indians from Black Africans, calling them “kaffirs” and demanding separate facilities. In Uganda, the British installed South Asians as a merchant middle class between colonizers and native Africans, breeding distrust. When Idi Amin expelled 80,000 Asians in 1972, it was a violent backlash to a racial hierarchy seeded by empire. These fractures — between Black and Asian, colonized and sub-colonized — are the legacy of white patriarchal supremacy.

Divide, distract, and dominate.

We must resist being weaponized against each other.

Every Asian-American must read Minor Feelings by Cathy Park Hong. Every high schooler in America must read and discuss Jared Yates Sexton.

Study the systems. Name them. Disarm them.

Because unless we become and remain united, the status quo — one that serves wealthy cisgender, heterosexual, white Christian men — will remain intact.

This is A Call to the Children of the Global South. And An Invitation to the Children of the Global North: Stop the infighting. Study and interrogate the systems. Reject the design.

To those in media, publishing, and the arts: postcolonial narratives are not cultural sidebars. They are central to national healing. They preserve memory, restore dignity, and confront whitewashed histories.

If you want work that matters — support art that pushes past trauma into structural critique.

Greenlight truth. Platform memory. Choose courage over comfort.

Postcolonial stories should be the norm — not niche art.

Jordan Peele’s Get Out was a cinematic breakthrough — razor-sharp and genre-defying — in its exposure of white supremacy’s quiet machinery: liberal smiles, performative allyship, and the pacification of dissent through assimilation. The Sunken Place is not just a metaphor for silenced Black consciousness — it’s the empire’s preferred position for the marginalized: visible, exploited, but unheard.

A system that offers the illusion of inclusion, weaponizing identity as control.

Ken Levine’s BioShock Infinite exposed white supremacy through a dystopian, fictional but historically grounded lens - depicting the religious justification of Black enslavement, Indigenous erasure, and genocidal nationalism in a floating, evangelical empire.

David Simon’s The Wire exposed the institutional decay of law enforcement, education, and the legal system - revealing how systemic failure, not individual morality, drives urban collapse.

Jesse Armstrong’s Succession traced the architecture of empire through family - showing how media empires weaponize racism, propaganda, and manufactured outrage to generate profit and secure generational wealth.

Ava DuVernay's Origin unearths caste and race as twin blueprints of white supremacy - linking Dalit oppression in India to the subjugation of Black Americans. Adapted from Isabel Wilkerson's Caste, it dismantles the myth of isolated injustice, revealing a global system meticulously engineered to rank human worth - and the radical act of naming the system.

Ryan Coogler’s Sinners — a revelatory, critically and commercially successful film about Afro-Asian resistance in 1930s Mississippi — exposes the hunger for speculative narratives grounded in historical truth.

Across the Spider-Verse gave us Pavitr Prabhakar - a Brown superhero who wasn't nerdy or celibate, as Western media typically portrayed the South-Asian man, but cool, smart, athletic, with great hair, in love, and proudly anti-colonial. He called out the British for stealing and keeping Indian artifacts… in a Spider-Man movie. That moment was history reclaimed.

A glitch in the wealthy white patriarchal matrix.

Dev Patel’s Monkey Man is a visceral fable of vengeance and resistance, where the brutality of caste, corruption, and religious nationalism collide. Amid this chaos, the film uplifts the Hijra community who stand not only as victims, but as warriors against systemic violence. Their alliance reframes queerness not as deviance, but as defiance — ultimately confronting the machinery of empire with what it fears most: a system-breaking empathy it cannot contain.

The vitriolic backlash from white male gamers and fandoms isn’t about quality — it’s about losing default status in stories. Everyone else has had to empathize with majority white male protagonists for decades. Diverse representation in media isn’t a threat to art — it’s a threat to white supremacy. It’s not just a mirror held up to the globe — it’s a refusal to let one worldview define it.

Hollywood, gaming studios, and the gatekeepers of entertainment — if you want to reclaim artistic integrity and still make money doing it, we need art that remembers, resists, and reclaims — stories that name the machine and short-circuit its lies. The world is ready. So am I.

Today, efforts like Project 2025, the Heritage Foundation, and the Federalist Society are not merely policy shops — they are ideological engines: built to roll back civil rights, impose authoritarian values, and erase uncomfortable truths. They represent a hyper-concentrated form of white supremacy, rooted in unresolved Civil War grievances and the failures of Reconstruction.

Miraculously, or perhaps, blessed with intellectual curiosity and natural empathy, through all of this, my wife — a compassionate, steadfast partner and a Christian woman — has remained by my side. She has witnessed my transformation with both love and complexity. While our bond is rooted in deep respect and shared values, our spiritual landscapes have diverged. Her faith brings her solace; mine has evolved into something more secular, grounded in justice and humanism. We’ve navigated that tension with care — proof that love can stretch across differing beliefs, even as the echoes of religious conditioning still ripple through our lives.

I am proud of her increasing intellectual curiosity and her willingness to accept me for who I am now, even if I wasn’t ready to accept myself when we met.

But our marriage has defied the splintering that white supremacy specifically creates: hyper-capitalist, hyper-individualistic, fractured families and societies.

As Children of the Global South — descendants of peoples who survived enslavement, colonization, and erasure — we carry within us the urgent need for stories that do not turn away from history, but confront it with unflinching truth.

In the pain of losing my family, I found a deeper purpose: to tell this story — and my own — any way I can. A sudden rush of empathy, pity, and love struck me: My parents’ and sister’s rejection was not theirs alone — it was a lingering Fracture left by colonization and global exploitation, tearing apart families across generations. As Children of the Global South, we still carry those wounds.

Make no mistake: white supremacy leaves wounds — because it is the system. And unless it is dismantled, both the Global South and North — and their collective Children — will remain trapped in a dance choreographed by empire — built to divide, exploit, and erase. Any vision of democracy, in America, will remain a fragile illusion — if not an outright mythology — built on a conceptually false foundation: white supremacy itself.

A cruel, heartbreaking legacy of erasure — passed down through empire — indoctrinating God-fearing Brown fathers to erase their godless, queer Brown sons. Preaching shame as scripture. Teaching silence as survival.

I reject that inheritance.

Empathy as praxis is how we reject that inheritance. In a world engineered to divide, it rebuilds connection, disarms supremacy, and charts a path forward. If humanity is to survive — let alone heal — empathy must become our collective discipline.

And perhaps what cut even deeper for my father — beyond my queerness — was that I no longer validated his role as a pastor. In stepping away from the faith he had built his life upon, I wasn’t just rejecting a belief system. I was, in his eyes, nullifying his life’s work. For a man shaped by empire, ordained by colonial Christianity, and burdened with the role of moral gatekeeper, my departure from his manufactured worldview may have landed as personal failure. But it wasn’t. It was never about wanting to hurt him. I love my father. I love my mother. I love my sister. It was never about them — it was about the system that taught them love was conditional, acceptance required obedience, and dissent unforgivable. That kind of pain is real — but its source is systemic. I still want to be Mootha Makkan — not by obedience, but by truth. By love without condition. Not through erasure, but by living fully in the open. Not in their image, but in mine.

Yet, and yes, I also carry the wound — but I also carry the will to heal it.

THE CALL I believe in empathy. I believe in memory. I believe the Children of the Global South are not broken. We are not rejected. We are awakening.

Children of the Global North: join us. We are not your enemies. We are your present and future collaborators, business & creative partners, lovers, and kin. We are building something new — something ancient yet reawakened, a pursuit of empathy, and a reckoning with history that refuses to forget.

If this story resonated with you, kindly share it, spread the word and please comment. I’d love to hear from you. Your voice, your memory, your Fracture — it matters here.

You are not alone. All are welcome.

Thank you so, so much for your time in reading my story.

You can also email me directly: vinesvenus at protonmail.com I'll be writing more on Medium as well: https://medium.com/@vinesvenus/a-call-to-the-children-of-the-global-south-the-system-that-made-my-father-disown-me-fecad6c0b862

#queer #exvangelical #global south #colonialism #religious trauma #deconstruction #lgbtqia #longform essay #history #queer history #queer community #queer pride #mental health #agnostic #ex christian #atheist #empathy in praxis #empathy

2K notes · View notes

violetwolfraven · 7 months ago

Text

Wait wait wait remember that post about how Team Starkid/the Lang brothers are going to be comparable to Shakespeare 500 years from now and it was mostly played for laughs like yeah lol you’ll need a paragraph of footnotes to explain the zefron poster but like

I don’t think that’s actually far off from how Starkid’s place in theatre history might play out and here’s why. Just hear me out

Why is Shakespeare so popular today when he definitely wasn’t the only playwright from that era? When he’s not even the only playwright from that era from England that we have surviving works from?

Two main reasons:

1) Shakespeare’s work is (relatively) universally relatable. The characters do things that are so fundamentally human. They make jokes at their friends’ expense. They complain about being awkward in front of their crush. They have daddy issues. The plot lines of the plays aren’t too complicated. The dick jokes land whether you’re watching in 1611 or 2024, and they probably still will in 2637. Shakespeare’s works are timeless because he didn’t try to outsmart his audience. He wrote about things everyone could relate to rather than trying too hard to peacock his intellect in front of the nobility. This is not true of every playwright.

2) Shakespeare was really popular right around the time England started colonizing everything in sight. Copies of his work got shipped all around the world, translated into dozens of languages, performed probably thousands of times. Setting aside the moral implications of this, the important thing to note is that Shakespeare was about the most easily accessible English playwright during a time of rapid, intense globalization.

Meanwhile, Starkid:

1) Invests hard in meaningful, relatable character arcs instead of spectacle and expensive sets or costumes. Also, lowbrow, immature humor and dick jokes that make A Very Potter Sequel funny and enjoyable regardless of if you’ve ever seen any other Harry Potter media in your life.

2) Posts professional recordings of their musicals to YouTube FOR FREE, making their shows about the easiest, best quality musical theatre you can get pretty much anywhere in the world, regardless of if your area has an active theatre scene. Proshots from other companies are rare and usually not free. Bootlegs are all well and good, but even if the video quality is alright (and that’s a big if) the audio is usually garbage. Starkid has been posting the best quality free recordings they can afford since 2009, shortly after the birth of social media, another time of rapid, intense globalization.

In short, I’m not saying that theatre historians in 500 years won’t remember any our current Broadway faves, but I am saying that in my opinion, Team Starkid is probably going to be more accessible for the general public. If you’re a 26th century English teacher trying to teach your class about narrative structure in 21st century theatre, what are you going to show your students? A bootleg of Hadestown with blurry video and garbage audio? Or the professional recording of Twisted, parts of which they will probably even enjoy, because even long after no one remembers Disney’s Aladdin anymore, your class of 26th century 16-year-olds are still going to laugh at “No One Remembers Achmed.”

#oof i really wrote an essay about this #like feel free to disagree this is just my opinion #team starkid #starkid #musical theatre #theatre #twisted #a very potter musical #a very potter sequel #a very potter senior year #holy musical b@man #trail to oregon #the guy who didn't like musicals #black friday #nerdy prudes must die

490 notes · View notes

charlesxavierthirster3000 · 8 months ago

Text

Denim — C. Xavier

Pairing: 60s (First Class)!Charles Xavier x GN!Reader

Summary: Charles takes you out, but you're quite the fussy shopper. (Pls spare me idk how to write summaries 😥)

CW/Tags: suggestive content, pre-beach divorce Charles, no use of Y/N (there never will be on my blog), don't like don't read.

A/N: Huzzah guys I'm finally writing !!!! This prolly won't get much traction bc it's not Logan but fuck it we ball 🔥🔥 This has been rotting in Docs for like a week and I just finished it like 15 mins ago so here we go.. 😁 Also I wrote this as Fem!Reader in mind but I realised it could be GN so I'll just put it as that :3

WC: 461 / Navigation

Divider credits (They're so cute istg bro) here and here

Charles Xavier was not your sugar daddy. He could believe he was all he wanted, but your very minimal amount of dignity drew the line at that title.

The man could buy you everything you ever even thought of — which was fairly easy, considering his mutation — yet you wouldn't admit it even if you had 8 fully loaded AK-47s pointed at your face.

“Just get it, for God's sake,” Charles drawled, nodding at the pair of mid-blue bootcut jeans you'd been fawning over for what felt like half his lifetime.

When you give the gorgeous denim another doubtful up-down, he gets up from his concerningly squeaky stool bordering the men’s section and reaches for your wrist.

“It would take immense effort to make me go bankrupt, sweetheart.” He places his credit card in your palm, gently forcing your fingers over it with a short smile. It's not the first time he's done this, and it most definitely won't be the last.

“I have a pair just like thi—” you try to argue weakly, but the gloved hand over your mouth leaves you no choice but to shut your gob. God, this man was direct.

“Uh-uh, not hearing it. We both know exactly how much you want it. End of discussion. Go pay.”

He carefully nudges you forward in the direction of the distant cashier, but you blatantly refuse to move an inch. He stares incredulously at the back of your head and you have to bite back a laugh beneath the confines of his palm.

You should’ve expected it, but the British in your brain still catches you by surprise. Damn colonizers.

“Get the damn pants. Your ass would look lovely in them,” he pats your ass with his free hand as punctuation, attempting to urge you forward yet again.

“All you care about is my ass,” you retort mentally.

“Yes and no. It's definitely up there.”

“I'm gonna bite you.”

“Kinky. But keep it in your shorts ‘til we get back, yeah?”

He takes his hand off your face and gets out of your head. You whip your head around to silently complain at him, but he's staring right back at you with a smile that, to the normal person, would look as if he'd done no wrong. But to you, it was only making your situation worse.

The same smile which was pissing you off in ways you didn't even think possible morphs into a genuine laugh delivered softly, and for God's sake, you can't keep your stomach from doing a brief flip at the sound.

“Fine. Pretend you don't want them. But you're going to pay with my card, and I'll show you exactly how much you won't regret buying them when we get back to my office.”

#charles xavier #x men #x men first class #professor x #beach divorce #deadpool and wolverine #james mcavoy #x men x reader #charles xavier x reader #charles xavier imagine #charles xavier smut #sugar bae #i need a lobotomy #cherik #Spotify

641 notes · View notes

whowrotethenote · 2 months ago

Text

𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐲

A/N // This is a short story (not short at all lol) from the universe of Biggest Fan. It takes place right before Pt 3 All We Do. If you choose not to read this you’re not missing anything significant within the plot. Just more insight to the characters and their relationships.

Warnings // Minor smut // Consumption of alcohol // Profanity // Adultery // Age gap // Angst // Brief grief

Word count // 8k

Inspo // Company by Trey Songz

Disclaimer // Part Three // Biggest Fan Masterlist // Roman Reigns Masterlist // Join My Taglist // Main Masterlist

Tuesday, March 19, 2024

“Alright, bitches! At midnight our babygirl will officially be twenty-two,” Anthony announces from the front seat. Earning a round of hoots around the black Suburban. Heat rises to my cheekbones. A product of the two shots taken at the hotel, combined with the attention received since our plane landed last night. “First time in Miami. Let’s make it a memorable one. My mission this weekend is simple. Our girl is already paid. So, let’s work on getting her laid!”

“Anthony!” I tug at his wrist, watching the amusement on the face of our Uber, Byron, through the rearview. An older, but definitely not frail, Caribbean man—who if I have to guess is anywhere between sixty and seventy—and to my fascination is seemingly unfazed by the car full of obviously tipsy young tourists. He speeds through the vibrant and crowded streets of Miami, filled with palm trees and half naked pedestrians, without batting an eye.

“Girl, this is Miami. He’s witnessed and heard far worse in this car. Right Byron?” Anthony asks like he’s known Byron his whole life. The older man offers a hearty laugh following a nod. “See.”

At midnight I shed skin. Twenty-one has been without a doubt, a fucking rollercoaster ride. Twenty-two please be good to me.

Birthdays and I have a funny relationship. It was only two weeks before I turned fourteen, that they sat us down to divulge the worst news a daddy’s girl could hear.

“Daddy’s really sick…they’ve caught it early, but if he has any chance they have to act fast and aggressively.”

His own body was betraying him. Cancer cells growing like weeds. Almost too fast to contain and keep the garden pretty. And it wasn’t in his leg, his testicles, his kidneys, or his colon—or some other part where they could just cut it out. His fucking brain. He was literally at war with his own mind. A battle he won, but ended up losing much more in the end.

Nevertheless, the birthday party I spent hours planning with my mom—I ended up just canceling. It didn’t feel right celebrating life when the ghost of death had swept through our household like a plague. Nothing felt the same. My world went from bustling pastels to black and white.

And it stayed that way every year after. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen and then nineteen. He officially rang the bell that year. But I had already grown accustomed to the colorless motion picture of my own life.

Demi always went out of her way to make birthdays special for me. Freshman year, she set up a picnic for us and the fleeting crew of girls we came in with. With only fifty dollars to work with, she snagged a cake from Walmart, supplies and decorations from Family Dollar, and made the pit on the south of campus look like a tourist attraction.

Sophomore year, she convinced the older quarterback who had access to the Sports Center on campus, to let her hold the key to the pool for a night. It was supposed to be just a mere twenty people, two bottles of cheap vodka and wine coolers. Before midnight even struck and I officially turned twenty, the pool was packed wall to wall. There were empty bottles everywhere, and a fight even broke out between two girls—who discovered they were both fucking the quarterback who gave us the key in the first place. Heads still gone from all the alcohol, we laughed all night long until our stomachs went tender, about pulling the girls apart from damn near killing each other, when Demi was in fact fucking him too.

Last year, we kept it simple. Twenty-one meant no more fake ID. So, I proudly barged into our nearest liquor store to purchase the biggest bottle of Don Julio they had, with my very legit ID. Demi and I barely put a dent in the liter bottle before we went drunk bowling—mostly falling and barely earning spares—before we had to make a swift exit due to me throwing up in the arcade section.

This year I vow to put the fate of my birthday being special in my own hands. With everything that’s happened since my last one, I've developed a new attitude toward my colorless life. It's starting to feel warm again—the color gradually filling back in.

So, in the heat of the moment I booked myself, Demi, Anthony, his twin girl cousins— Indiya and Asia, and my biology lab partner—Aaliyah, tickets to Miami. Seventy-two hours. That’s how long we have to usher in another year of my life, get white-girl wasted, stand on couches in a club section, and potentially get laid as Anthony so scandalously declared.

Three shots each, taken at the grossly expensive W hotel, was definitely setting the tone for the rest of the trip. We exit the Uber—already tipsy and pumped up, singing “get it sexy,” the entire walk down the dock to meet Shiloh—our rented yacht’s captain. Rays from the son maximizing the color of our stringy bikinis and glistening skin. Designer slides scraping over the wood is music to my ears.

I spot the Azimut yacht with the words Dream Chaser emblemed on her side, just as Shiloh described on the phone earlier this morning. Leading the buzzing group, I start to reach in my purse for the money I promised to grant him upon our arrival, when he jumps down with a heavy thud—sweating with sunblock splattered on his nose.

“Sorry ladies! There’s been a change in schedule. A very high-profile regular has requested the boat. And since you all booked just this morning, I’m afraid I can’t hold it for you all.”

All excitement is vacuumed right out and a ripple of shock cascades through the group, as we all blurt out individual confusion.

“Wait, what?” My arms drop at my sides.

“To be fair there was no deposit sent.”

“Yeah, cause I told you I had cash. Remember our phone call?” I protest, but it’s meaningless against the persistent shake of his head. I purposely emptied out a cool five thousand dollars cash—courtesy of my Tribal Chief. I did not plan on swiping my card on this vacation. Too much scamming goes on in cities like Miami.

“I know, but the man has already paid in full. Again, I am really sorry.” I fold my arms across my chest, mouth catching flies, in disbelief still. I thought money could solve all my problems. Now, I know. Money grants access, but only connections can cast you before the next person, who also has a handful of cash. “I have a slot for nine tonight, if you are interested?” He bargains.

“That won’t do. We have reservations for Nobu at nine. Then, it's straight to the section in LIV. I reserved it for eleven.” Anthony reads off the mental itinerary he so graciously made for us on such short notice.

“Maybe he can recommend another boat?” Asia suggests.

“We checked late last night. Everything is all booked up. It's still spring break season,” Anthony informs.

“I told you we should’ve looked beforehand. Like, last week.” I raise my brows at Demi, who since we met, has always been content with just crossing the bridge when we get there. The bridge is usually closed by the time our unconventional asses arrive.

“There’s gotta be something.” Aaliyah pulls her phone.

“We could always just get drunk on the beach,” Indiya proposes.

Amidst the dysfunction and throwing of ideas of how to pass the time, Demi leans into me. “This might be a reach—but I know he has to have a boat out here.”

“No.” I block her shot of a suggestion immediately, upon realizing exactly the he she refers to. “No,” I repeat. Ignoring her poking bottom lip. “I cannot ask that.”

“Oh—but it's okay for him to call in the middle of the week for your company and services?”

With a shake of my head, the bitter taste of the truth she speaks resonates on my tongue. As of late, the texts from Paul have been more frequent and sporadic. It's hardly ever just a weekend anymore. Weekends and day trips have turned into weekdays and flights at the most unimaginable times. I’m fortunate to have such an amicable relationship with my supervisors and professors; otherwise my ass would be failing and jobless.

“Just ask, Lana. The worst he can say is no.”

“You know I don’t communicate with him directly unless I see him in person.”

“So, call the Wise Man and ask for the Big Man.” She speaks low through tights lips, as to not alert the rest of the group. I survey them—all on their phones, brainstorming and scouring the web for an alternative that didn’t exist. My eyes drift back to Demi, awaiting my next move.

“Fine.” I give in.

Byron is gracious enough to have been watching the whole ordeal play out with the Captain who never was. He says he didn’t want to pull off until he knew we were safe and situated, as he’s seen young girls from all over come to this city and get taken advantage of.

I gave him the bizarre task of taking me to the nearest payphone. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but they’ve done away with most of the pay-phones in the city.” His eyes flicker to the phone planted in my grip. “Everyone has a mobile phone now. There might be one in the train station.”

“And where is that?” I inquire, not remembering seeing one on our way to the beach.

“Maybe twenty minutes. It's in Brickell.”

I huff. “Oh, no. That’s damn near an hour to get there and get back.”

“I don't get this whole pay-phone situation anyway.” Demi blurts. “I mean, maybe in the beginning—but it's been a year now.” A dent forms between her brows. “It’s one thing to not be able to get to him. But you can’t just call Paul?”

Another gram of salt on my tongue, courtesy of my outspoken and strongly opinionated best friend. The pay-phone mess is and has always been a pain in my ass. Especially right now, when I just need a quick yes or no.

“I’m calling,” I declare, before I overthink myself into doing nothing. The phone rings in my ear as I watch Demi’s small figure descend back to the group by the dock. Pacing, I hang up mid ring and call again.

“Lana, I hope this is an emergency.”

“Define emergency.”

“A call from a reporter—or TMZ. Pregnancy. A near death situation.” My lips twist as he lists off all the things that are definitely not in relation to why I am calling.

“I need to talk to him.”

“About?”

“I just have to ask him something.”

“Is it in relation to your current arrangement?”

“…No,” I hesitate. I’m sure Paul’s been given his own special course of action to follow, when being contacted by one of his regulars. The man is always moving about for work matters and if he’s not, he has a full house to tend to, that I’d rather pretend doesn’t exist. However, that harsh reality is nearly impossible to be stricken out. A very ugly stain on a pristinely white dress shirt. A huge pimple on an otherwise glass-skin adorned face. Or maybe it is me that is the stain—the pimple. The ugly dot on his perfect life that he pretends for majority of his days, doesn’t exist. Then again, if his life is so perfect and intact—what was the need for me?

“It's a simple and quick question that requires a simple and quick answer. How is it that he can always get through to me and I can’t ever get through to him?”

“I think you know the answer to that.”

The high of vacationing in another city and the thrill of taking on another year begins to dwindle, as thoughts I constantly have to force into a deep pit inside my psyche assault me. Paul’s latest comment—another blow to it.

It seems it's so obvious to everyone that what’s happening here is wrong. Yet and still, it remains. Every encounter making it more intricate.

“Can you just get me him. Please?” I ask in a flat tone. An uneasy feeling resting inside of my throat.

He releases a deep breath after a beat. “I’m only doing this because I think I like you.” Not entirely confident that I’ve been paid a compliment, I don’t bothering extending gratitude.

My leg bounces frantically to the sound of the ringer. I can’t go back to the group with nothing in my hands—not even the answer of no.

“Paul!” His voice—abundant with charm and the comfort of a man at home. Sucking in a sharp breath, the butterflies invade my stomach, but quickly transform to dust, hearing tiny high-pitch screams out of recreation, or whatever other reason a little one would scream. “What’s going on, man?”

“Eh—you might want to get alone.”

Sounds and artifacts of a full house seem to get louder for a second, before fading and dispersing altogether. I breathe again.

“Everything okay?”

“Joey, I have Alana on the line…”

In between making out his background, getting lost in the warmth that is his voice and picturing what he looks like in the light of day—I don’t realize that might’ve been my cue to talk, until there’s nothing to listen to for a while.

“—Hi,” I blurt into the silence of the call.

“Did something happen? What’s going on?”

“No—no. Nothing’s wrong.” I rush to disarm him. Your secret thing on the side, calling midday is grounds for immediate anxiety. “I just really need to ask you something, that’s all.”

“…Okay.”

“It’s—and you can say no.” I offer a disclaimer, but no, is not something I need to hear right now. “It’s my birthday and—”

“Happy birthday.” His deep voice intercepts.

“Thank you…It’s tomorrow—but still, thank you.” The clearing of Paul’s throat, magnifies just how awkward and abnormal this whole exchange is. “Uh, we booked a boat. But when we got here, the captain told us he gave our slot away to someone else, since they already paid a-and they’re a regular customer of his.” Get to the point, Lana. “I guess I’m just—I don’t know—maybe you have a boat or something that we could use?” I wince at the deafening silence. Preparing myself to hear the word—

“No captain? Just the boat?”

There’s an underlying amusement in his tone— a resemblance to the man I’ve spent countless erotic nights with, lying in an unnecessarily large bed, pillow talking.

“Yeah, I would need a captain too.” I bite my lip in an effort to not laugh.

“Right. Where are you?”

“…Miami…South Beach…”

All the times he’s requested my presence, it’s never been this close. I’ve never been this close. We don’t touch Florida. No—Florida is where Joe, happily married with five kids lives.

“You’re in Miami? Right now?”

“Yes,” I reveal—holding my breath in angst for whatever comes next.

“…Alright…I got it. I’ll make something happen.”

If Paul were in front of me, I’d stick my tongue out like I used to when my brother painted me as a villain, just for my dad to wave a hand at any wrong doing from his only daughter.

“Thank you—”

“There is one condition,” he adds.

“Yeah?”

“You’ll come see me later?”

A familiar tingling invades my core and my face grows hot at him doing this in front of Paul. “Where?”

“Not too far from you. Reach out to Paul when you’re ready.”

“Okay—and Joe?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

I stroll back to the group with good news and better plans than we originally had. We wait—and wait—and wait. Buzz from the alcohol and meter of excitement plummeting with every fifteen minute interval that passes us by. We walk down to the beach to get our feet wet and pass the time. To escape the raft of the Florida sun—we all bunch together under a palm tree for a while, before walking back to the deck where I assume whatever captain he sends will meet us.

The time on my phone reads 10:51 A.M. An entire hour and a half past the time we arrived. Releasing all the air in my lungs, I uncross my arms and turn to face the ocean. Demi leans on the rail bars beside me with the rest of our group beside her. Everyone on their phones, heads hanging to the side in defeat. Anthony sits on the cooler we brought, filled with two bottles of 1942, most likely floating in water in place of the ice now.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Naive. And more importantly, delusional. If in their heads they all judge me in this moment, it's well deserved. Expectation invites disappointment. This is not us. It's not apart of this thing we have. Favors, promises and whatnot. I don't know what I was thinking even asking that of him.

A low snicker beside me, pulls me from my dispirited thoughts. Raising a brow, I turn my head at Demi, whose shoulders are shaking in laughter.

“You know when people call their life a movie?” I frown awaiting for her conclusion. “Ours must be a fucking Telenovela.” She nods to the pathway we had to walk to get down here.

The sight that greets me as I turn around has my jaw hitting me the floor. “What the fuck?”

“Hello, ladies!” He beams before he even reaches us. “And gent. My name is Paul Heyman.” He places spread fingers over his chest. Sun reflecting off the brown tinted sunglasses adorning his face. Linen short set flapping from the breeze of the salty Atlantic not far from where we stand. “And I will be your humble captain aboard today.” Clasping both hands togethers he scans the young faces pointing back at him. Not a Telenovela, but a fucking horror movie.

I stare at him. A cloud of angst looming over me hoping—no praying, that no one here has watched WWE within the last decade.

Cutting the lingering silence like a butcher knife, Anthony stands. “Well, it's about time Mr. Heyman. I have a tan and I haven’t shook my ass once. Something is wrong with that picture.”

“It’s shot o’clock bitches!” One of the twins announces, sparking life back into the group. I can breathe again.

We follow Paul down the other end of the dock. The boats growing bigger in size the further we walk. When he stops—holding his hand out like he’s showcasing an antique car for sale—all of our necks crane up to view the masterpiece that makes Shiloh’ s boat look like a canoe. The Last Laugh.

“Oh, this is my kind of carrying on!” Aaliyah cheeses.

My eyes immediately find Demi’s. “A generous Tribal Chief,” she mouths.

Paul lays down the rules of the day. The basics. No jumping overboard when the yacht is in motion, responsible drinking, no items thrown overboard, and life jackets on when he says so.

One by one they file up to the flybridge area. I stay behind and wait until I can only hear the distant hum of their voices, to speak. I clear my throat dramatically to steal his attention.

“What?” He asks with a look of genuine confusion. “All the captains I know were booked and busy. Apparently it's still spring break season.” He moves about gathering things while I stand here dumfounded.

Don't get me wrong, I’m appreciate as fuck, but how is this happening right now? Who even knew he could drive a boat?

He stops his pursuit once he realizes I haven’t moved yet.

“Consider it a birthday gift—”

“From my Tribal Chief. I know.”

“Oh, no.” He places a chubby hand to his chest with that smile that usually predates mischief on television. “This one’s all me.”

“Thank you, Paul.” The gratitude is deeper than anything that’s transpired today. Although, a hassle and a piece of work in his own right—Paul has served as the glue to this whole arrangement. Seemingly, going unnoticed since he is not the object of my affection.

“Don’t mention it.” I nod, turning away to join everybody else upstairs. “No seriously. Don’t mention it. He’d die if he knew I came myself.” Lovely. No one told me adulthood is just burying yourself in endless secrets, until you’ve curated a web so intricate and endless you get tangled and stuck in it.

Reaching the top of the steps, the fever of Miami greets me along with a bottle of 1942. Anthony holds it up with a hand under my chin. “Let's go, bitch. We running behind!”

The wait for our mystery captain was worth every sun soaking minute. From the very second he revs up the engine and leads us into the unforgivable blue Atlantic, the spirit of vacation hits us hard.

Cover-ups go flying off, more than enough drinks are distributed, while hips sway in hypnotic motions and ass shakes to the ongoing rotation of Sexyy Red, Bossman D Low, and any other artist who gets us in that mode. We bring the club to the boat, and even sneak a piece of that relentless east coast swag onboard, as the powerful beat of Jadakiss’ Knock Yourself Out, derives from the speaker.

“And, yeah, here go a blank check, rock yourself out! But in the mean time, girl, knock yourself out!” Demi and I scream the lyrics in each other’s faces, hand going, while liquid spills from the full cups in our other. I have officially reached that pinnacle in my twenties where I can relate to the lyrics of the music I fill my head with. Artists painting pictures of luxury, celebration, wealth and nights to remember. It’s times like these I remind myself just how blessed I am, and I swell with gratitude.

“Oh, you modeling, momma?!” Anthony—the missing piece to our chaotic puzzle—joins in matching our energy. Vintage VHS Camcorder glued to his hand, to ensure this moment lasts longer than us.

When Paul comes up to inform the party that we’ve stopped and can swim, it's game over. Bright bathing suits on brown skin, jumping into the glistening blue waters from both sides of the sea-ridden vessel.

The whole scene is something from a 2000’s R&B music video. It’s young, it's wild, it’s reckless, it's free.

My heart nearly snaps in half as we dock back where we started at South Beach. We arrive earlier than expected. Not quite ready to head back to the hotel to get ready for our next venture. So, we decide to explore South Beach to kill the time.

The alcohol and excitement still lingering on us. Aaliyah finds somewhat of a gym on the beach. Swinging on bars and allowing a man built like an action figure to assist her in pull-ups by pushing from her round ass. Anthony and the twins play volleyball with a group of fine ass women in G-string bikinis, and even finer men with six, seven, and eight packs.

In between it all, Demi and I find a hammock to unwind on. Enjoying the afternoon breeze and magnetic view of the cerulean sea kissing the clear sky. It's a sight. Being by the ocean always feels so liberating. The freedom in the waves swishing and dancing whichever way they please, a reminder to human life that we can always change and we have free will.

When my dad’s cancer progressed and he found himself more depleted and sicker than he had ever been, he’d pack me and my brother up and drive all the way to the shore in Jersey City. He never went in the water, for his body was too weak. He’d watch us. And for hours he’d study the ocean. Ogling at the waves—mighty and unforgiving, but also majestic and seductive in a way. As a teenager I didn’t really understand. But right now…I get it. In this moment—Daddy I get it.

We lay in serenity. The seagulls singing to us combining with the crashing of waves, and hum of activity further down the beach where the bigger crowd is.

Demi begins to twist and play with the costume heart-shaped ring on her finger. A footprint of her late sister’s brief life. The fiddling of it, an indication—that I've picked up on over the years—that something is weighing on her.

“What’s wrong, Demi?”

"Nothing just…thinking about how much things are gonna change after graduation. How much things have already changed…”

“What do you mean?”

“Our lives are just gonna look different is all.” She shrugs. Her jaw flexes a bit as I focus on the side of her face I can see. “I'm just—I don’t know.” Witnessing the single tear slide down her cheek has a storm brewing inside of me now. “I don’t know if I'm ready for this next phase. I just really like the way things are now. We're all together. We're young. Everyone's healthy—and happy…and I just know that won't always be the case, you know?” Too scared to interrupt up her—I just listen a little harder. “The day—” Her voice cracks so she clears her throat. “The day I lost them—things were just like this. And then it just all went to shit so quick.”

“Demi.” I pull her closer as a river flows from her eyes. The tragedy that came of her father and little sister, lives in that same box I’ve housed my father’s battle with cancer. We’ve pushed that box in the attic and put a bolt lock on it together.

Demi has always been the stronger of us. Unfortunately, a side effect of always appearing strong, means a lot of things get barricaded inside, until it becomes too much and you're left with no choice but to release. The sight before me is devastating. It's my turn to stand firm so she can lean on me as I do her.

“Look at me,” I instruct. Our teary eyes meet. “I'm not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever. Things aren't going to change. They're just going to get better. We're getting older—we’ll find better ways to live life, is all.” I knock her apprehensions down even though mine build a house and grow comfortable in my own head.

Time is a scary concept. The future is just so unclear. No one really knows. We can only hope. I don’t have a crystal ball. I can only pray that the words I speak align with what’s to come.

Timestamps and transitions from one destination to the next, seem to blur as the day progresses. The frequency of the continuous alcohol casts a shield around us to keep us lively and afloat. The Liquid IV’s we’ve consumed before leaving the hotel this morning, working double time to keep us up.

Walking through the doors of club LIV was like entering a portal to a different world. One where everybody’s religion was euphoria, and alcohol is the holy water to ascend us. The atmosphere is charged and intoxicating. Miami nightlife is top two and it is not number two.

Florescent beaming lights switching from red to blue to purple and beyond, blind me. We sit high up at a table overlooking the rest of the club. Bottles of overpriced tequila and chasers making their way back and forth, spilling with every song that gets us up out of our seats. Confetti falls and covers everybody like snow, creating a dream-like effect.

Letting the liquor possess me, I swirl my hips, shut my eyes, and shake my head side to side to match the nostalgic beat. Hair swaying with my cup held high, I get lost in the moment. Forgetting everything for just a minute. Syllabi, bills, the haunting future, and whatever else bullshit awaits me back at home—all forgotten. It doesn’t exist here.

At some point in the night I find myself venturing off to release the barrier that is my bladder. Sneaking off and subtly stumbling away, I zero in on the lit sign sticking out with the little female cartoon, indicating the girl’s restroom. I look down and realize I still have a cup in my hand. Drunk shit.

With liquid pushing on my bladder, my steps become more frantic in the Tom Ford heels, knocking me off balance for a quick second.

“Woah, woah!” A deep voice emerges amidst the pumping bass. I collide into a hard chest as strong arms brace my shoulders, preventing me from falling any further.

“Oh my god!” The stain of liquid on his crisp white tee can’t be missed, even under the blue light we stand in. “I’m sorry—I am so sorry—”

I snatch my eyes from the stain to acknowledge the stranger that just saved me. His sharp jaw flexes as he looks down at his white tee, fingering the wet spot. He shakes a hand out beside him to remove the excess liquid on it, still holding onto me with his other.

When his eyes meet mine, they almost look translucent in this light, but it's only me who feels sheer. They’re hypnotic, like he can read my mind and bend it to his will. My gaze jumps to his mouth. Pink and plump, with a sharp outline of hair over his top lip, connecting to a goatee. The light hits him at a different angle and something in his ear flashes like a camera. I squint at the 23 earring.

I clear my throat, snapping back to reality. Stop staring, Lana.

Like he actually can read my thoughts, he flashes a sparkling smile, revealing two picture perfect rows of teeth. It's then, I begin to drink him in, in his entirety. Goddamn.

“You keep moving like that, I might have to recommend you to my coach.”

My own smile cracks through. “I was just trying to get to the bathroom.” I explain. An infestation of intrigue of the fine ass mystery in front of me, replacing the urge to pee. "I'm sorry," I repeat.

“Don't be.” In the smoothest fashion and still with only one hand to himself, he reaches behind to remove the tarnished tee up and off his body, showcasing a row of keen defined abs covered in graphic ink—just as his solid arms are. “You got us both.” He nods down to my white tank. A splash of liquid covering the left side. The thin fabric soaking, giving full view of my erect nipple. Oh god. I rush to cover it, pulling a laugh from him. He nods in the direction of my original pursuit. “Why don’t you go ‘head. Meet me back out here. I think I got something for that.”

After handling my business, he leads me to the entrance of the club. The cloudy and intoxicating atmosphere dispersing as we enter into the fresh night air.

His bare back is strong and I take advantage of being able to watch without disturbance, while he looks through the glove compartment of his matte black Mercedes AMG. He just reeks of new money. Probably newly drafted or something.

He turns, undoing the plastic of a brand new pack of white undershirts. He takes one for himself and then holds another out.

“You keep an extra pack of undershirts with you?” I eye him crossing my arms.

“Yeah. For when pretty girls get too drunk in the club and start spilling shit.”

“I’m not drunk.” My tongue rests on the inside of my cheek, fighting back the smile as I take the crisp white undershirt. “Thank you.”

We switch places. I sit in the passenger as he stands in front of me, scanning my entire body. I make wide eyes and twirl my finger.

“Girl.” He sucks his teeth chuckling, but still turning away. His large frame shielding me from the crowd not too far from us on the sidewalk. I remove the soiled tank and replace it, tying a knot in the back to maintain the cropped look.

“I know you ain't traveling solo?”

“Nope.”

“Where is he?”

I smirk to myself, picking up what he puts down. “They are inside. Probably going crazy, thinking I got snatched up.” I adjust the top of the tank so the right amount of cleavage is exposed. “Good now.” I inform him.

“Well, did I?” He turns in place, dangerously close to my face.

“Did you what?” My eyes bounce back and forth between his tranquil eyes and those lips.

“Snatch you up? I mean you tried to tackle me a few minutes ago. So, I think that’s a fair trade.”

A giggle escapes me as I return his intense stare. The alcohol giving me a much needed boost. “Is that what you do for a living? Tackle people?”

“Yes ma’am.” He confirms. “Number twenty-three.” He angles his head to the side to flash the earring I caught in the club earlier. “Green Bay. You into football?” I shake my head.

“I don't know the first thing. My best friend is a die hard Bird though.”

“All them Eagles fans are die hard. She must be intense.”

“That she is.” I grin.

“And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“You seem pretty chill.”

“Frick and frat. We balance each other out, I think.”

“Is that what you do for a living? Balance people out? Cause you didn’t have much balance back in there.” He chuckles pointing behind.

I playfully nudge his arm. “Oh shut up. And no, I’m in school.”

“For?”

“I’m a Bio major. I wanna be a neuro-oncologist.”

“Damn. So, you like real smart, huh?”

“I do alright.”

“Beauty and brains? Where you been hiding all my life?”

We do this dance with our eyes. Lips twitching in threatening smiles. The world fades away for a bit. I snap out of the trance and slide down and off the leather seat, landing right in his space.

We spin, trading places as I make my way back to the entrance. If anyone is witnessing this, they’d probably think we were shooting a damn music video.

“Wait—that’s it?” I raise a brow. “I stop you from busting up that pretty face—pretty knees unscathed. Gave you a fresh one and that’s all I get?”

A warmth spreads inside me. His amusement contagious. Then his face clouds my mind and I’m reminded of my night’s premeditated destination.

My shoulders go up and then down, not being able to muster the words no to combat his persistence. “Alright look.” He leans up and off the car, reaching inside again for a moment. He backs out with a pen and paper in his hand, scribbling something while taking the necessary steps to me. “How about I give you my number.” He holds the paper out for me. “That way the ball is in your court. No pressure lil’ mama.” No pressure? There’s nothing but pressure building up in my chest at the sight of you.

My eyes flicker down to the paper. I weigh my options. Brain still cloudy from tequila and the thrill of the night’s festivities—I accept it. “I’m Jaire by the way.” I’ve never met this man before and somehow the way he speaks his own name to me is familiar. Comforting. Like a hug from a distant relative you see on Thanksgiving that you used to be thicker than thieves with when younger.

“Alana.”

“Alana,” he repeats. Something deep lurches within me like it's reaching for him. I nod taking a deep breath. We both just stand in each other’s space for what feels like forever. I’m the first to step back. “Thank you, again.”

He watches me struggle to backpedal toward the building. “You be careful. Alana.”

Lights. Thirty years from now, when my kids ask me what I remember from partying in Miami for my twenty-second birthday— that’s what I'll tell them. I remember the lights. Neon, flashing and oh so bright. And the palm trees. They're everywhere.

They cascade upon the window I have half-way rolled down in the back of this black suburban. It's three in the morning and the city is still as awake as it was when we docked from the boat. The wind and humidity hitting me all at once. My gaze training on the groups of pedestrians. Women in high heels and cut out dresses. Men in the kind of cars you only see in music videos. I could get used to this.

“Here you are, miss.” The driver drops me in front of a condo building I can’t even see the top of, even if I crane my neck all the way up. Just the outside looks like they’d charge me to do a walk-through. The colorful sports cars lining the round drive way serve as a testament to this theory.

My heels clack slow against the marble floors. Completely out of place, eyeing the businessmen in suits and women with evening attire— I make way to what looks like the elevators, like Paul instructed. I stand and wait until I hear the ding. The steel doors open and my breath is stolen. Dressing in only a fitted tank and black basketball shorts, he looks superior to all the men I just passed.

The ride up is silent, but stimulating. Every time I’m in his space, it feels like the first time. A tornado brewing in my stomach mixing with the flirtatious acts of a first date. Subtle touches—like his pinky grazing against mine. Shifty eyes—like how ours snag every once in a while and I have to prevent myself from jumping right on him in the enclosed space. The alcohol now settling in more sensitive areas. The hand he places on the small of my back to guide me around isn’t helping.

“Let me show you around.” He maneuvers his large frame ahead of me, holding a hand back for me to take. My stomach does summersaults once we connect.

I don't know if it's the alcohol, but the condo feels like a palace. He leads me further and further, exposing a different room, a different space, so extensive almost like it shouldn’t fit. Everything pristine and cream colored. Appliances either a white marble or steel so sleek, I can see my reflection in the dark. The blue lights from the pool, glow through the sliding door that leads to the balcony. He drags me out and the view looks like a piece of heaven. The whole skyline is lit up. I can see everything from up here, almost like I’m on top of the world, mirroring the feeling in the center of my chest when I feel him staring. The wind blows my hair in my face slightly as I turn to meet him.

“What?”

He shakes his head. Those big eyes sparkling. “You straightened your hair again?”

“I did.” I run a hand through it. “You don’t like it?”

“It's perfect.” Heat ensues as we stay focused on one another. “How was the boat?” He inquires, leading us to the cream chaise lounge chairs set up.

“The boat—” I have to take pause, remembering the Captain Who Wasn’t Supposed To Be. “Um, it was amazing. Thank you, again. I know it was real short notice.”

“Captain was alright? Treated you good?” I move to sit on the one next to him, but he pulls me into his warm lap instead.

“Mmhmm.” I hum. He nods while, leaving a trail of goosebumps where his slightly rough hand rubs my bare thigh.

“That’s good. It's past midnight. Officially twenty-two?”

“Yup. I don’t feel any different yet. What did you feel at twenty-two?”

He blows a big breath past those luscious lips, raising his brows. “Shit. That was a lifetime ago. I wouldn’t even recognize a twenty-two year old Joe if he walked up on me.”

“I feel the same way about my teenage self. I guess that feeling never goes away then?”

“Not really. Time is…”

“Scary,” I finish for him. Just this time last year, we were the most unlikely pair. Me on one side of the map, him on this side. Me, completely enthralled by his character and even more captivated by the wee flashes of the man behind the pyro lights he chose to share with the world. “You ever—You ever feel like life is moving too fast? Like you almost can’t keep up?” The alcohol pushes me through translating my thoughts to my mouth. The conversation with Demi on the hammock has been poking at the back of my mind.

He takes awhile to answer. The pause makes me feel uneasy. Have I said something wrong? I should’ve just kept my drunk thoughts to myse—

“All the time,” he whispers just inches from my face. I hone in on the distant look in his eyes. I’ve never wanted to get inside of another person’s brain so bad. He has his own thoughts—his own internal strife that he’ll probably never share with me. It's unfortunate, because I’ve come to adore him so much, that I’d hold his hand the whole way as he tackles them.

His eyes switch to mine and instead of shying away like I usually would, I fall deeper into him. I don’t know how it happens. I don’t know who leans in first. Our lips crash into one another’s. This kiss is passionate. Lustful, with a hint of something else lingering. It accelerates like a glass rolling down the steps. Breath hitching and faces meshing into one another. It's all a blur, but the feeling is distinct. Pleasure. Bliss.

I rise slightly to straddle him. My sequin skirt rising, granting him the opportunity to grab two handfuls of ass. “I could kiss you all day,” he mumbles after nipping my bottom lip.

A smirk plasters my face as his comment ignites something in me. My mouth finds his again and then his thick neck, ready to come undone for him.

“Not while you’re drunk. Okay?” He puts a big red stop sign up.

“I’m not drunk. I swear.” I try to muster up the most convincing tone possible. “I can walk in a straight line. Look.”

I rise in the six inch Tom Ford heels. His eyes following my every movement as I put one foot in front of the other. That unnatural, warping focus only alcohol can bring takes over me and on the fourth step, my ankle almost gives out. He rises in my peripheral and is at my side in a flash.

“Let's—let's just take it easy. Okay?” I don’t miss the smirk pulling at his lips.

He guides me back to the seat by my hips. Crouching down and undoing the strap of my heels one at a time. “Thank you.” He nods.

“The last thing I need is you falling in the pool, babygirl.”

“It's the heels, I swear.”

“Of course it is.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle, accessorizing the grin covering the bottom half of his face. He has the prettiest smile. I love how it always reaches his eyes.

“What?”

“Your eyes…”

“What about them?” His lips twitch almost in a smirk. They’re fucking beautiful. But there’s no way he doesn’t know that. Years of being hassled by erratic fans and almost a decade of marriage. He’s probably been paid every compliment there is. So, instead of answering what he must already know, I lean in again. Pressing my lips to his. Softly as first, but the more our lips meet the more urgent it becomes. Tongues colliding and hands gripping. And somehow I end up on top of him again. I feel his member jump under me, and I slip a hand down to show it attention, earning something between a growl and a groan from him.

“Lana.” He strains, breathless, breaking the kiss. A firm hand gripping my wrist. So much for birthday sex. Anthony will not be happy to hear that his mission has failed.

“What’s next for you?” I swirl my feet in the cool water of the infinity pool, creating ripples. “I see you took a step back.”

“Can’t tell you that. Then you wouldn’t watch when it's time.” He sits next to me on the edge of the pool.

“That’s not true. I watch even when The Tribal Chief is not in attendance. Of course you’re the main reason I watch. The Bloodline story really is a sight to see. Y’all really came a long way. Especially you.”

“What do you think my best match was?”

“Mm,” I hum. Eyes rolling up to rake through my brain. “Probably you and Brock. Wrestle-mania 38.”

“Really?” His face twists.

I nod. “You don’t think so?”

“I mean—I’ve had better.”

“That was Brock Lesnar. And you literally buried that man. Everybody likes to talk shit about how you didn’t do it yourself. How the Usos helped. But I think that’s the whole point of the Bloodline story. Y’all do what y’all love and you always do it together. Always show up for each other.”

“I never looked at it like that.”

“What do you think your best match is?”

“Honestly— I don’t think I have one.”

“Awe come on. There has to be at least one. One that you always think about?”

“Hell In A Cell. Me and Josh. It was like a rebirth. It was the match that really jumpstarted this whole Bloodline thing…”

In the wake of diving into the topic of his career, his eyes light up—like a child recapping their favorite animated movie. A writer describing their favorite novel. An artist letting you hear their favorite artists’ catalogue.

Seldom. When most people are probed about their career path, there is a subtle dread that spells I didn’t choose this—it just happened. A more than unfortunate symptom of adulthood. Choosing the path you had to, not the one you wanted.

Not him. No— he loves what he does. He’s one of the lucky few. Watching his eyes sparkle, I almost lose sight of the words coming out of his mouth. Too busy admiring him, I have to force myself to pay attention as I catch the last bit of his words.

“It was a crazy time, really. So much was happening even behind the scenes.” His eyes reach mine. “I wish we could’ve me—”

His words trail off and silence controls him like he’s possessed. “What?” My eyebrows dent.

He shakes his head. The energy that was previously lighthearted and carefree feels heavy. I develop chills even though it's humid as fuck out here.

The sound of the water is loud as he rises from the edge. “I think I’m gonna call it a night.” He holds a hand out.

“Um…I think I’m gonna stay out here for a little bit longer…”

He looks like he doesn’t want to leave, but something is pulling him. And I don’t believe it's sleep. “Alright,” he finally says. “You can come in when you’re ready.” I lean back on my palms, admiring the scenery. “Don’t drown please.”

I laugh to myself. “Are you gonna take your shirt off and come save me?” I tease with one eyebrow raising, looking back at him. He flashes that Colgate commercial smile before disappearing inside.

It seems the better it gets—the more experiences we convey to each other—the deeper into each other’s minds we dig—the darker the end seems. The more severe the unorthodox circumstances surrounding this thing seems.

But I can’t worry about that shit right now. Not when I’m sitting on the twenty-seventh floor, of a Downtown Miami condo, overlooking the skyline of one of the most lively cities ever, at just twenty-two. Bank account ornate with commas. A drop-dead gorgeous superstar in the bed waiting for me.

Happy birthday to me.

A/N // I thought I’d share this. Y’all deserved it. 250+ followers is crazy considering I just started posting my work. Forever grateful and I appreciate every single one of you! (Also, I heard that allegedly Papa will be at work for two more weeks so I got a little excited)

I realized by doing so many time jumps, I kind of robbed you all of seeing the little moments and progression of the characters and their relationships. With that being said, this most likely won't be the last short I post. I'll try to actually keep them short lol

- What are your thoughts on the relationship between Paul and Lana?

- Any extra thoughts about Jaire and Lana now that you see how they met?

- Any thoughts about the conversation between Demi and Lana on the hammock? Do you agree with her perspective?

- What do you think Joe was about to say before he stopped himself?

As always, if you read it or even just a portion, I am forever grateful and appreciative.

˚.🎀༘⋆ taglist // @trippinsorrows @minsingular @luvrsluxe @vynaissance @cyberdejos2

@cuttteeee @rose-bliss @skyesthebomb @mikaylathenerd5 @li-da-savage

@fearlesschimera @fame-ass-ers @imhiswifey @fairy-cores-world @brwnsugababe

@reginawhorge01 @ilovejeyusoooo @keyerajackson @baybehkay @alexis2686

@destroyslonelyblog @raya-hunter01 @annfg8 @trentybenty @rollinssection

@izzythenaive @scarlettnoir @jaded-human @juicypinksblog @magnificentbouquetmusic

@partypoison00 @slvttyfied @sheswritingg @mohawkmama @piscesdashcam

banner credit — @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

182 notes · View notes

cherry-pop-elf · 4 months ago

Text

Shark-Dad

Namor x Reader

Can be read as platonic because ya know. Namor is a flirt lmao

AN: Was inspired by @chosentragedy s drawing of Namor helping Jeff dress up and just be an over all proud dad. So now time for some fluffy DILF action

SUM: While people were off to save the world, there was an incident that had left Jeff rather hurt. As one of the few ‘civilians’ that could be trusted you were in charge of taking care of him. Who would know Jeff The Shark was with you? His daddy, of course

Warnings: Canon typical violence, Namor being a number 1 dad, Flirts out the asssssss

“Poor baby. Hurt your fin real bad didn’t you?” You would sooth the poor little land Shark. Poor baby had gotten pretty hurt out there. From what Doreen told you he had jumped into the air to block an ultra pulse. How the hell was he alive?

Don’t worry about it.

You made sure he was as cozy as cozy could be in your living room. Found every pillow you could find, grabbed your softest blankets, and even let him pick out a stuffy to snuggle with. He’s going to have a long recovery ahead, but he’s a brave and strong boy. He’s got this.

He just needed a little hide out to recover in. They figured a civilian would work best. Hard for anyone to find out a little creature like him would be huddled in some humans home. Who would ever be able to find him? Besides maybe like Kraven.

A knock at the door said there was a person who could.

You looked over from the couch, having played a Disney movie for Jeff to enjoy, and tried to think back on if anyone was suppose to come over today. If it was someone like Doreen or Luna they would have texted you so you knew.

You would quickly turn down the TV, and listened again. Maybe you misheard? No, it seems you didn’t. There was another knock. This wine was a teeny bit more aggressive now.

Great. Who would want to see you now? Probably no one good. So, here you are. You were reaching under the couch for the gun that Miss Black Widow gave you. Wasn’t a gun with bullets, this thing shoots plasma bursts. A good way to knock someone out.

Step by step you reached towards your door, with the gun whirling to life. With it on full charge you would yank the door open. The barrel instantly pushed against the persons chest.

“Excuse me-?!” The man blinked, with his hands up at more so surprise than anything else. Who would expect a gun like Black Widow’s pointing at your face in the late evening? Not Namor.

NAMOR?!

“Oh! Sorry your royal Highness! Uh-!” You quickly flipped the safety on the gun, and lowered the weapon down to cool off. Whoops. That’s one way to make an impression.

“What are you doing here? Is something wrong?” You asked, while he more so just stepped right into your home. You didn’t really take offense to it. He’s from a exteremly different culture, and not to mention he’s well…Namor. You have plenty of friends who have socializing issues. A little patience goes a long way.

Before you could ask the question again, you soon saw him kneeling down to Jeff. In turn Jeff made little noises or excitement at the sight of him. He couldn’t move much from the pain, but Namor did it all for him. Laid himself right there on the floor. Didn’t care if he got his tank top and shirts dirty. No sir. Jeff came first. Curled up with him then and there.

He was saying something to the land Shark, but you couldn’t understand it. It sounded like Spanish but it wasn’t? Maybe old Spanish? Pre colonized? Better not to touch a sensitive subject like that. You just knew that Jeff was finally smiling. That’s all that mattered.

You would close the door, locked it, and put the gun away, before going to sit cross legged next to the cuddling pair. To see Namor give such gentle touches to him. Perfectly mindful of the bruises and cuts. Just doing whatever he could to comfort him. Anything to have Jeff happy.

“Looks like someone missed you, your majesty.” You whispered. A means to not interrupt the moment for them. Jeff needed so much TLC right now. Seemed Namor being involved was needed. Little baby was able to smile. He hurt, but he could hurt a little less now.

“Yes. Yes he has. And I to him. He is my little world. He is my little Paal.” He smiled a grin that made you think of Jeff. His teeth weren’t quite as sharp, but you could still see the happiness that reached his eyes. He had been so worried for Jeff. You could tell. You wouldn’t be surprised if he had been hunting him down. You knew people can get attached to Jeff, but something told you this was more than just a cute shark being hurt.

“What does that mean? Paal?” You asked, as you would adjust the blanket that was on Jeff. Help him stay warm since he was a shark that needed warmth. You swore you saw the man’s hand twitch. As if he was gonna attempt to swat you away. Territorial.

“Hm? Ah. It means child. He is my little ‘child’ if you will. My little boy.” He explained, as Jeff gave a weak wag of his tail at such a compliment. There was a tight bond between them. One that could Rival the tether between him and Gwenpool. Now THATS saying something.

“That’s so sweet. A perfect nickname for him.” You agreed, before finally getting up. Welp, you now had a second guest to deal with. No big deal. Jeff was the main priority right now. Jeff clearly was safe and comfortable with Namor. Trusted him enough to curl up into him. That kind of mental relief does more for the body than people can credit it for. Jeff deserved to feel safe.

Everyone does.

You would fill up Jeff’s water bowl, so that he can remain hydrated, and also grabbed one of your larger water bottles for Namor as well. Should you offer food? What would he even eat? Fish as well? Would it be insulting to offer him sardines? Were you over thinking this?

Maybe just communicating with him will solve it.

You returned back over to the smuggling pair, seeing that now Namor was sitting up and leaning against the couch. Jeff was curled up in his lap, having abandoned all the pillows for such a safe haven. Namor really brought Jeff comfort. He was better than a pillow fort even! That’s love right there.

You would set the bowl near Jeff’s head, and then offered your bottle to Namor.

“Oh, thank you my dear.” He would take it from you. You then curled up on the couch and rested your head on its arm. Your arms were under your chin as you looked at the aquatic boys. The intense scent of salt water, sea weed, and something else was deep in your lungs. The third scent was hard to pin point. Maybe it’s just something you’ve never smelled before? He is from the bottom of the ocean. Fascinating.

“Jeff really likes you…..You two just hit it off?” You asked, as you would go to mute the TV for him. To your surprise Namor had the remote, and if anything had turned it up.

You’ll keep his dirty secret of loving The Little Mermaid.

“I suppose so. I’ll never forget the day. Lady Squirrel had come to ask me a question about if I could ‘speak to fish’ for she had a problem with this little land Shark here. Had himself quite a tummy ache he indeed did. Had to reach my arm in there and pulled out a slingshot. She wondered where that was. As the surface people say ‘the rest is history’ hm.”

That didn’t surprise you in the ever slightest. You found it rather sweet. He just shoved his hand in to save the day. No worry about the grossness and the sharp teeth. A shark was in trouble and he thought of their health first.

Why did everyone say he was an asshole again?

“So, is this just you and Paal?” He asked you, as he would keep gently rubbing the sharks head. Little thumb circles to sooth the headaches that were to come. His other hand would bring the water bottle to his lips. Taking in a much need drink.

“Yeah. Just me and the little guy. I’m one of Doreen’s friends. We’re pretty close but the friendship is kept under the radar. So who better to take care of him than a nobody?”

That got a scoff from the king.

“A nobody? Well then, you are a very beautiful nobody.” He would flash those shark teeth of his, and you promptly slapped a pillow into his face. Made him give a huff against the material.

One of Squirrel Girl’s besties is literally Loki. You can handle a sassy and flamboyant man.

“Focus on the child-“ You warned, as he happily did so. Gentle little pets and soft kisses to that big head of his. Got sleepy little mrr’s out of him. Oh you swore you would loose a tooth. Little Jeffy. Oh he saved so many lives and was still kicking. Truly the best boy.

“He is such a strong little shark.” You sighed, as Namor would give a small nod to what you said.

“It is a lonely life, for him. Not many like him after all. He and I relate to such. Land and sea, yet neither welcome us with ease.” He would admit, as he gave a small squeeze of comfort. For himself or for Jeff is for speculation.

“I bet….Well you got each other. That’s one extra person. Right?” You offered that positive view point for him. “-And this whole multiverse time line thing. Endless time lines of people like you guys. Different versions of you even….Wonder how many time lines have you and Jeff close? Endless if you think about it. Endless time lines where you and Jeff find each other. Right?”

That’s a heavy topic to swallow, but it seems he was able to digest it. Smiled even.

“That is a lovely thought, my dear. I like that thought….I hope there is time lines I’ve met you as well.” You rolled your eyes at such a comment. Flirts. Flirts will flirt.

“Pay attention to your child-“ You chuckled, as you would look back to Jeff. How safe he seemed curled up in his arms. Just fast asleep, and blowing little bubbles between his snores. The most relaxed he’s looked since he got to your place.

He needed that.

His little snores were soothing honestly. Like a whale song. You didn’t know when you fell asleep, but it happened. The three of you knocked out cold together. The trio taking a much needed nap all together.

Your hair nuzzled into green hair, his arms secure around Jeff, and that baby shark snoozing away. Little bubbles left to fly into the air, and pop like little stars.

A very well earned nap.

206 notes · View notes

varteeny1234 · 2 months ago

Text

i think we're going to get to see avid "colonize me daddy" "i've been milked" "bottom is a state of mind" "anyways, back to the pee topic" mc in the same room as mythicalsausage and i am absolutely losing my mind at the thought of it

#v thoughts #PLEASE. PLEASE I NEED THIS #AVID ON NEW SMP..........................#misadventures smp

71 notes · View notes

just-some-random-blogger · 2 years ago

Text

Accidental Targ

Scene II: he kinda looks like my ex boyfriend | Masterlist

Daemon Targaryen x Modern!Reader

Summary: After coming to terms with the fact you were in King's Landing some two thousand years before your birth, you get reunited with your friend and try to manifest your way back to the present. For the meantime, Harwin Strong is your bodyguard.

Word Count: 5k+

Warnings: fem!reader, time travel au, descriptions of reader's hair, incestuous gremlin!daemon, generally gross!daemon, harwin 'big daddy' strong, crackfic, typos, etc.

A/N: Following the events of our mighty poll 😁😁😁😁 im excited to say what won was was always my intention and im glad you lovely readers have synced with me on it BWHWAHA sorrows sorrows prayers

"Fucking Seven," I sigh and gather my thick skirts, running up to the blue haired girl. The servant who escorted her promptly curtsies then walks away. I release the fabrics to grasp her face. I sigh in relief, "thank the gods you're here, Libby."

"What the fuck are you wearing?" she asks groggily, eyeing my dress.

I shake my head, "fuck, shit, I mean Lilibet."

"And how did you braid your hai-" Libby speaks the same time as me before freezing and raising a finger, "fuck you."

I growl and grab her hand, "no, no, no. Listen to me," I push her hand down, "you remember running through that damned arch?"

Libby wrangles out of my clutch and rather exasperatedly glares at me, "what?"

I release a shudder then grab her face again, "listen to me, Libby!" I sigh, "remember that stupid urban legend?"

Libby's face contorts as she groans. She pushes my hands off her à la 5-year-old tantrum; her blue hair, in turn, flies to her face.

"We crossed that arch," I grab her arms, "and now we're in fucking first century Westeros, Libby," I hiss, pulling her to the bed, "which is why I have to call you Lilibet-"

"Fuck you."

"-and you have to change and cover your hair," I release her to grab the clothing on the sheets, shoving them into her chest.

"What ABOUT my hair!"

I shake my head, "it's a dead giveaw-"

"You're closer to dead. You look like a fucking grandma and you have problems with my hair?!" Libby throws the clothes back on the bed, "listen, I know I got wasted and shit, and I'm sorry, but if you want me to cosplay as a peasant, just say that and get me coffee, please-"

"LIBBY!"

Libby's ear's ring, "bitch, the fu-"

"THERE IS NO COFFEE!" I grab her arms and shake her, "we're being held hostage by Daemon Targaryen and this hair," I manically point to my head, "is our fucking lifeline!"

Libby's face pinches, the initial grogginess in her expression is expelled, "Ok, calm your tits, YN-wannabe. I told you reading fics of him would fuck with your head. Imagine reading fics about King fucking Charles-"

"IT'S NOT THE SAME!"

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT'S NOT THE SAME?! IT'S FUCKING WORS-"

"THAT'S NOT THE POINT, LIBBY!"

"HE'S THE COLONIZER OF COLONIZERS!"

"IT'S NOT A FANFIC!" I pinch my fingers together, "THIS IS NOT A FANFIC! I AM telling you we fucking crossed that arch and now we're FUCKING-"

My words cease when a creaking sound of the heavy door fills the room. The both of us turn to the door as it opens. My heart begin to race.

Lo and behold, Daemon Targaryen walks in, one hand on his hilt, eyes looking us both up and down. Libby shifts in her spot as Daemon approaches. Her demeanor immediately changes when she sees him. She straightens up and pushes her hair back, dusting off her hot pink top. Aint no way.

"Do I look good?" Libby mutters to me before Daemon is in front of us. My eyes blow wide and my jaw slacks. Be so fucking for real. She fixes her radioactive blue hair and my upper lip curls in disgust and annoyance.

Libby and Daemon lock gazes; the former smirks, "hey, cutie pie."

I slap my hand to my face. The sound reverberates in the room.

"What is a cutie pie?" Daemon asks stoically.

Libby leans on one leg, "you."

"Seven fucking hells," I quip, roughly dragging my palm down my skin.

Daemon turns to me before tilting his head. He mirrors Libby's stance and his lips faintly curve upward, "in this era, girl, pies are food. What would I have in common with a type of pie?"

Libby lets out an airy chuckle, "you ren fair boys really like roleplay, huh?"

Daemon raises a brow, "I assure you, nothing about me is boyish."

Libby bites her lip and claws the air, "rawr."

I am unable to mask the sound I make. Daemon pulls his head back at Libby's actions.

I grit my teeth and grab her arm; she shakes me off, making sure to giggle as she does this. Daemon chuckles as he turns to me, "I see why you are keen on keeping her."

"You can keep me if you like," she blurts, stepping in front of me to garner his attention. Daemon steps back.

I grab Libby's arm again. This time, with much force that the ends of my hair whip around. I whisper-yell, "you do know that is Daemon Targaryen, right?"

Libby barely turns to me as she mutters, "what?"

"You're flirting with the Daemon Targaryen," I sneer, "first of his name," I lean in and whisper, "manwhore."

Libby looks at me from over her shoulder to me then back to Daemon, "ahhhh. A cosplayer."

"Libby, I swear to g-"

"It's pretty good," she crosses her arms then points, "is that a wig or hair dye?"

Daemon furrows his brows, face contorting at her words.

My eyes widen and suddenly the silver hair on my scalp itches like it doesn't belong to me. Well, see-- it doesn't! Not in a way that counts to the incestuous gremlin!

From the way his composure tightens, I could tell he was no longer amused. I yank Libby back, shooting her a glare, "literally shut the fuck up."

She scowls at my pressed tone, "what? I was just asking-"

"Hair dye?" Daemon blurts way too loud, shutting us both up.

We turn to him as he looks between us. He tilts his head and adjusts his grip on his sword. He straightens his posture. In that moment, his expression was changed dramatically. He reaches out for Libby's hair, inspecting it in his hand. His violet eyes dart to hers, "so, your hair is blue because of dye?"

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, fuck.

I grab Libby's hand before she can think of saying some bullshit. She does not move a muscle as I squeeze her palm.

Daemon raises his brows impatiently.

"What?" she mumbles.

I clench my jaw at her ditzy response.

Daemon narrows his eyes, "are you so dimwitted not to understand me the first time?

Fucking fuck. A shiver runs down my spine. Libby raises her brows and turns to me as I stare at Daemon. I blurt, "it is a right of passage for her family."

Daemon eyes me hotly.

I release Libby's hand and scramble to the bed where my clothes were folded into a small sack. I go through my things and pull out my phone, opening my gallery, showing Daemon a photo of Libby and our friends with bright colored hair. I lie, "these are her cousins."

Daemon pulls his head back at the sight of the photo on my phone; it was the exact reaction he had when I showed him a screenshot of the maps of this very place.

Libby blinks rapidly as Daemon comes to my side. The man basically breathes down my neck as he looks a the screen like a boomer. He narrows his eyes and pulls back his chin.

I point to Sandra, who had pink hair, "they do this to... commemorate the war-- of their people."

Daemon looks at Libby again, seemingly expecting more of an explanation. I look at Daemon and begin to panic at the aloof expression Libby held. I place my hand on his arm and rub it gently. Thankfully, he's still a simple man and it seems to diffuse his unbelieving demeanor, "it's hard for her to talk about. It was a war over dye and trading. A lot of her family... were casualties."

Fuck. WELL, real wars have been fought for WAAAY less.

Daemon turns to me, "I find it hard to believe such traditions exist two thousand years from now."

"And yet," I wave my phone, "you could not also believe you were listening to music with me moments ago."

He hums and turns back to Libby. He nods, "well, have her dress," he turns back to me, "I want to break fast with you before the tourney, dragonling."

I nod rapidly. Daemon gives a smile and heads for the door, "you remember your way to the solar?"

"I do."

He eyes Libby as he walks off then turns to me, "very good."

The moment the door closes, Libby explodes, "WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!

"WE'RE IN FUCKING FIRST CENTURY WESTEROS," I whisper-yell, "now keep your voice down, you stupid fucking bitch, and change!"

It took me explaining everything that happened in detail as she got in her dress AND getting lost in the fucking castle then actually finding our way to the solar for Libby to believe I wasn't playing the most elaborate prank on her.

And when we got there, a servant informed us that the prince had been summoned by the king and that we should eat by ourselves.

Libby and I sit across each other. We decide to forfeit the fact the food could be poisoned because we were way too hungry not too eat. This blue haired rat, however, couldn't fucking stop saying the food could use salt and pepper. We were mortified when a servant came to us with a mortar of just that.

Before we could even say thank you, she runs off.

I snap at Libby, who scratches her headscarf for the nth time, "do you fucking understand you're a terrifying aristocrat right now?!"

"I'M SORRY!" Libby makes a repentant expression.

"You should be!"

"It's just that everything is fucking boiled and-"

The sound of the door opening ends Libby's yapping. We both snap to see who was entering.

In walks the dark haired man from the night before. Gold cloak, armor, and all. He steps in front of us and bows, "good morn."

"Hubba hubba," Libby tucks imaginary hair behind her ear.

"Fucking," I snap to her, "stop."

I look back at the man trying to remember his name, I can't seem to.

"Wait! Is this the madly good looking guard you were talking about?!" Libby speaks WAY to loud for a conversation between two people across each other.

The man makes a sound as he wipes his lips. My eyes widen and I sink in my chair.

"You clearly have a type," Libby mutters as she unabashedly eyes him. He is undeterred. She tilts her head, "he looks like your ex."

I snap back at her, "w h a t?"

"Or I mean he would look like him," she points her thumb, "if he wasn't so whiny, short, and pathetic," Libby turns to me.

"He literally looks nothing like Jon."

"He does!" she leans in, "dark curls, thick brows!"

I shove a bread roll into her mouth.

"Prince Daemon tasked me to be your chaperone for the day," he says, clutching his hand in front of him.

"I've always wanted a hot bodyguard," Libby smiles and leans back on her chair, "well, don't just stand there," she beckons him, "come join us for breakfast."

I pretend to fix my silver hair as I clear my throat, "breaking fast."

"Breaking fast," Libby corrects with a grin, "and what was your name again, pretty boy?"

I groan as I shove a bread roll into my mouth.

"Harwin Strong, my lady," Harwin mutters with another respectful nod, turning to me, "and please, forgive me for last night's encounter, Lady Gryffindor."

Libby titters and slaps her hand on her mouth.

"If I came off as impertinent or-"

"No, please, sir Strong," I raise a hand to him, "you were doing your job-- I mean your duty. Nothing needs to be forgiven."

"By the way," Libby raises a finger, "I'm Lady Hufflepuff and I would love it if you sat down next to me."

Harwin turns to Libby and I resist the urge to facepalm. My face twitches and I watch as Harwin shifts in his spot. I blurt, "you can call her Lilibet."

"Fuck you," Libby snaps.

I snap back, "well, that is your name, is it not?"

"I'm not entering my nun era."

I make a throaty sound and grab a goblet, "clearly," I take a sip, "but with that getup-"

"Hey!" Libby bangs on the table, "you're the one who made my cunt levels drop with this milkmaid outfit."

Harwin begins to cough.

"What? Like I chose that for you?"

"No," she props her elbow on the table, "but Daemon gave you a city girl-"

"Prince Daemon."

"-outfit and he made me look like your ugly handmaiden."

"Again," I brush my platinum hair out of my face, "that wasn't my choice, Lilibet."

"My ladies-" Harwin interjects, making us both turn to him. He clears his throat and offers pinched smile, "I am honored by the invitation, but I will stand watch out-"

"Oh, don't be rude and just sit down already," Libby presses with a playful look, "there's way more food than the two of us can eat."

And though she was correct, I kick her underneath the table.

Libby yelps and eyes me. I dodge her when she kicks me back.

"I don't think it appropri-"

"Nonsense!" Libby calls, turning back to Harwin as she fails to kick me again, "please, just join us."

"LILIBET!" I whisper-yell.

"UGH!" she turns to me with disgust and whisper-yells back, "stop fucking calling-"

"You do know he could literally be like your great-great-great-great-"

She raises a hand and cuts me off with a guttural groan, "oh miss me with that bullshit! You're LITERALLY a Targaryen!"

"I will wait outside," the man calls, making us turn to him.

Harwin walks off and Libby raises the bowl of bread rolls, "THE BREAD ROLLS ARE ACTUALLY REALLY NICE THOUGH!"

I wipe my face, "Libby, we're going to fucking die."

"Not before I try myself some Harwin Strong."

"SIT BACK DOWN."

"I'M SAT!"

When we finished eating, Harwin escorted us to the arena to watch the tourney.

"Are you married, Harwin? Can I call you Harwin?" Libby asks.

I shoot her a look, "Lilibet."

Libby ignores me. The man we were following keeps walking, not bothering to look back at us, "you may call me whatever you like, my lady."

Libby and I turn to each other with a gasp. No, cause why he playing like that?

"And I am not married," he looks over his shoulder, eyes locking with mine momentarily.

Libby's jaw drops and begins to shake me. She mutters loudly under her breath, "bitch. why he looking at you, and not at me?"

"Probably because you're fucking stupid!" I retort quickly in the same manner, unable to mask my giddy tone.

Harwin clears his throat again as he looks front. Neither of us catch this.

"Libby, be so fucking real though," I grab her arm and whisper, "that's someone's grandpa."

"Yeah, well, today, he's my daddy," she mumbles then bites her lips, as if it could minimize her grin.

Harwin makes a face and whispers under his breath, "daddy?"

When we get to the arena, the sound of the cheering crowds make both of us excited, up until someone screamed in terror and the crowds continued cheering anyway. Harwin gave us spots quite near the front, and the sight of the horses and their long-ass sticks left me feeling uneasy.

Libby shoves into me as she points to the far right. I, in turn, collide into Harwin's bulky armor. Before I can apologize for it, she squeals, "LOOK, IT'S DAEMON!"

"Libby, he's the prince!"

"TAKE A PHOTO! He looks so good!"

I give her a look as I straighten up, "girl, shut the fuck up."

Without another thought, she pulls out her phone from her bosom and wipes the moisture off the screen.

Harwin looks away, eyes wide, pretending he did not just see that happen.

"Stop it! You have no idea how bad this could-"

"Oh, shut up, you showed Daemon your phone!" Libby makes a face.

"THAT'S BECAUSE HE WOULDN'T LET ME GET REUNITED WITH YOU IF I DIDN'T CONVINCE HIM I WAS FROM-."

"Shush," she opens her camera and begins to take photos of Daemon. She shouts his name along with the other spectators and I beg her to at least call him prince.

"What is that contraption," Harwin asks, eyes glued on Libby's cracked screen.

I turn to Harwin, to Libby's phone, back to him, "it's, err... an image capturing... box."

Harwin nods at me though his face is visibly confused. He furrows his brows as Libby switches to front cam and puckers her lips out, "SAY CHEESE, DADDY!"

The color in Harwin's face drains when he sees himself on the screen. I clutch his arm and give him a look, "it's okay. It's not dangerous."

"Will it capture my image?" he mutters and covers his face. He mutters under his breath, "I'd like to keep my face."

Fuck. "N-not like that. It's... it's not black magic."

All the while, Libby is pressing the buttons on her phone, rapidly taking photos no one asked for.

A few people around us begin to mutter to themselves. I find myself looking over my shoulder, catching a bunch of men staring right at us. I eye Libby, nonverbally telling her to quit it. She gives me a look and snaps a few more pics of Daemon before shoving her phone back in her cleavage.

I release a breath when she does, that, and ser Harwin's arm that I did not realize I was still latched on to. I offer a look, "sor- apologies."

He nods, "all is well, my Lady."

And yeah sure, maybe it was. Maybe all was well. Daemon was winning the tournament-- or tourney, I guess; I have no idea what the difference was. I mean I could barely watch because they were fucking gladiator-ing each other, but I knew he was winning because after every crash, came a trumpet and the announcement of it.

So yeah. Maybe it was fine then, in its own sick way, but then Libby pulled me by the arm and said, "I have to take a shit."

"What?"

She gives me a look, "I need to take a shit."

"Libby," my eyes widen.

"I know!" she grabs my shoulders as the crowd cheers over whatever barbaric brawl was happening this time, "you think I want to know what their loos look like?" she shakes me, "am I going to have to shit in a river?"

I wipe my face and turn over to Harwin. His eyes turn from the match to me when I pull at his cloak, "mmm.... Lilibet has to... ... to poop."

Libby slaps my arm. I turn to her, frazzled. She hisses, "he doesn't know what poop is."

"You think I don't know that?!"

"I beg your pardon, my lady?" Harwin shifts to us, his thick brows knitting.

"Yeah, one second," I raise a finger at him, looking back at Libby, "I don't fucking remember the word."

Libby sighs, "Just tell him I need to sh- I NEED TO SH-"

I slap my hand on her mouth, "QUIT IT!"

Libby pushes my hand off, "WHAT?!"

"HE'S NOT GONNA KNOW WHAT THAT-"

"EVERYONE FUCKING KNOWS WHAT TAKING A SH-"

"NO, THERE'S A TERM THAT THEY USE! Think about it! Have you never watched a BBC period drama?!"

"BITCH, YOU KNOW I ONLY WATCH NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC!"

"OK, THEN THINK OF WHAT DAVID ATTENBOROUGH SAYS WHEN THE ANIMALS ARE POOPI-"

"DO YOU GENUNINELY BELIEVE THEY SHOW FOOTAGE OF ANIMALS POOPING ON TELEVISION?!"

"I DON'T FUCKING KNOW. IN ALL TV HISTORY THERE HAS TO BE AT LEAST ONE TIME WHERE-"

"HARWIN," Libby shoves me to the side and grabs the man, "I HAVE TO SHIT."

Seven father fucking hells. I dig my fingers into the roots of my light hair and to Harwin, whose lips part and brows furrow. He nods, "I will lead you to the privy," he turns to me, "stay here in the meantime."

We both nod. Libby walks to Harwin's and makes a face at me, "they call it a privy on the BBC, do they? Sounds like an office."

"Libby- Just- if push comes to shove, tell him you'll shit in the river."

Libby groans as Harwin leads her off. She shoots me a glare, "I am not shitting in a river with Harwin watching!"

I shriek in shock when there is a loud crashing sound. My hands dart to my ears just as the crowd roars. A loud voice announces the victory of Prince Daemon from House Targaryen.

I drag my hands down my cheek and clutch my chest.

I dare to look at the casualties on the playing grounds, but to my horror, I see something far worse. Daemon's horse is galloping over to me. He rips his helmet off, tosses it, and sighs through a grin. He points his stick to me and loudly calls, "might a fair woman like you reward me something sweet?"

My eyes widen and I feel the entire stadium turn to me. My heart races and my jaw loosens inch by inch.

Daemon shoves his stick to the side and reaches his arms out to me, "a kiss perhaps?"

Rat, I wasn't even watching you play. Why should I reward you for winning a game I didn't watch?

I cannot help the sound that leaves me when the other audience members begin to spur me on and nudge me. Fuck. I hate peer pressure. I walk towards the railing and eye Daemon as if I had laser vision.

"I CANNOT REACH YOU!" I scream back, momentarily shocked by the ferocity and fury of my voice. I gulp and clear my throat, rubbing my neck that I would so like to keep. I raise my hands, "I must then stay here!"

Daemon, face shining with sweat, colored with dirt and blood, beams as he looks up. He chuckles and dismounts his steed. He walks closer to me and begins to remove his armor, "then come down to me, woman!"

The crowd loses it. The women around me scream that I should come down to him.

Maybe if I jump head first, I'll be done with all this bother.

Fuck, but then Libby would be all alone.

I groan under my breath, "fucking Libby. This is all her fucking fault!"

I look back at Daemon, who had two men helping him out of his armor at this point. His eyes are on me; they probably didn't leave. His lips are curved higher, "fear not," he smirks deeper, "did I swear to protect you?"

The crowd is feral. I glance around the place. Isn't the fucking king right there?!

"No!" I look down at him and shake my head, "you swore not to harm us!"

Daemon laughs, "is there a difference?"

"YES!" I blurt, eyes wide.

Daemon stands alone bellow me, free of his upper body armor. He raises his hands up to me, "then believe me when I say you will not be harmed when you jump."

"Oh gods," I grip the railing and screw my eyes shut, "I fucking hate this man."

"Will you make all of King's Landing wait days for you, girl?"

I growl as the people around me continue to pressure me to jump. Had there not been people around, maybe I would have spit at him. And yet - I climb the railing - I am nothing against peer pressure.

Daemon steps forward, arms higher, laugh louder.

The stadium gasps while heart leaps into my mouth when I let go of the railing and drop straight down. The collision is just as messy as I had dreaded it to be and the next thing I know, I've smack dabbed atop the fucking prince of the realm, crushing into the fucking dirt. So much for catching me.

Yet somehow, Daemon manages to let out giggles while the crowd cheers. His arms tighten around me as I push myself up on his chest, "my," he blows silver hair out of his face, "I didn't actually think you'd do it."

"Fuck you," I snap and shove myself off him.

I don't even know where I'm even going, but I storm off anyway, feeling like the biggest idiot in the known galaxy.

But of course, Daemon is quick to get up and grab my arm. He speaks some High Valyrian bullshit, but I care little for it and pry my limb out of his clutch.

It seemed that was the wrong course of action though, cause the next thing I knew, he grabbed me and threw me over his shoulder. The audience flourishes over the way he took me like a piece of meat.

I fucking hate it here.

Make no mistake, I did my due diligence and tried to wrangle out of his grip. But he was pumped with far too much adrenaline, and his inflated ego would not let him let me go.

Eventually, I got tired and just let it happen. The moment he put me down when we arrived at his chambers though, I shoved him off and distanced myself as much as I could, "what the fuck is wrong with you?!"

Daemon responds in High Valyrian, which effectively pisses me off more.

"I don't have TIME to decode your dragon-heir bullshit, so quit it! I am not a toy!"

Daemon chuckles as he takes a towel and wipes his face, "no?"

"Look," I snap, "I know you're, like, touch deprived and emotionally constipated," I stretch my arm out, "I mean, your family-- our family is a fucking wreath, so you're bound to be fucked up in the head, but please," I press my palms together, "PLEASE just be normal until the end of the day, Dae- Prince Daemon."

Daemon laughs as I go off on him. He watches me for a moment, throws the towel to his bed, and tilts his head.

My chest heaves as we stare at each other. Instead of relaxing, I begin to grow more tense with every passing second. I take a deep breath, but it does nothing for my nerves when Daemon walks forward.

"The truth in the matter is," he raises a hand, "you need me."

My stomach drops when he yanks me by the waist. His violet eyes dart down to my heaving chest. He places his one hand on my collarbone, "shhh."

The feel of him pressing onto my flesh does the exact opposite of what he wants. But no-- with how the corner of his mouth curves upward, I think it's actually the exact reaction he wanted.

When I try to push him off, he pulls me tighter into him and repeats, "you need me."

My nostrils flare but I stop repelling him.

"You need me," he lifts his gaze, "but I don't. I want you, but you need me."

I clench my jaw tightly. I am unable to contain my flinch when his hand strokes my side. He continues, "you need me to open the gate for you and your friend come midnight, do you not?"

I turn away from him.

He nudges me and asks louder, "do you not?"

"Yes," I whimper as I shut my eyes.

He hums, "then," he takes my chin in his fingers, "you'll be what I want, riñītsos." Little girl. He raises his brows. "If say you are a toy, then you say, 'yes, my prince'. If I say you are a rug, then I expect you under my heel. If I say you are my dog, then you ought to bark," he releases my chin, "now, bark, my sweet."

I glare at him, "if you want a dog, I suggest you go up North." I push him by his chest.

He laughs. He grabs my arms and pushes me back. I panic when I fumble on my feet and find myself pressed against a wall. "You're right, riñītsos. How wrong of me to liken dragon fire to dog breath."

I gasp when my back hits the wall.

"A shame," he tucks my silver hair behind my ear, "your parents did not give you violet eyes."

I am frozen in my spot when his lips brush against mine. My breath hitches when he simultaneously presses me back with his chest and pulls me forward with his hands.

I don't kiss him back. My brain was in a glitch. He doesn't seem to mind and feasts on my lips. The moment I have the wits to move, he pulls away and whispers, "worry not," he kisses my jaw, "I'll give your babes violet eyes."

Hearing that really snapped me out of my trance.

I finally turn away from him. It does not deter him though, and he makes due with kissing my neck. He moans against me, "you smell divine."

"I-it's called," I push him back, "personal hygiene."

He snakes his arms around me, "you were sent to me by the gods."

"I travelled here by accident!"

"And I plan to make good of this happy accident."

I fight him off when he claws my skirt up. I weigh my chances with screaming and with talking sense into him. I ponder of telling him my vagina is cursed, but then I think he'd be into that.

"Don't fight it," Daemon grabs my wrists, "I will quench the fires of the Targaryen blood in you that calls out to me."

"My blood does not call out to you!" I whimper.

"You may be Gryffindor by name, but you will be a Targaryen once I am done with you."

And then the doors slam open. "Your grace!"

"Harwin," I call out to the man that burst in.

Daemon growls and but does not pull away or turn, "I'm busy."

"It's Lady Hufflepuff," Harwin speaks through strained breath.

"Who?"

My stomach drops, "wait!" I push Daemon harder, "what happened to Libby?"

Daemon finally looks over his shoulder with annoyance, "what happened?"

Harwin takes a moment to respond. The dread that courses through me makes me strong enough to shove Daemon off. He grunts as I do so. I walk over to the dark haired man, "Harwin."

He clenches his jaw and turns to his feet, "I took her to the privy. She said she was having... trouble using it and that I should call a servant to help. So... I fetched a servant, but when I returned," he clears his throat, "she was gone."

I bring my hand to my mouth.

Daemon walks up behind me, "you lost a woman in King's Landing, Strong?"

"I- I did not think much of it at first," Harwin turns to Daemon, "at first I thought she may have just finished and was playing a trick on me," he glances to me but looks away at once, "but then I saw her contraption on the ground-"

I gasp.

"And then I saw a shoe... and then her headscarf-"

"Dear gods, Libby," my voice strains.

"She was taken by a group of three men," Harwin speaks sternly, "I know not for, but they've since regret their decision."

"And Libby!" I jump and grab his arm, "where is she now?!"

Harwin feels guilt eat away at him when he catches my distraught expression. He turns to me, placing a hand on my shoulder, "she's being attended to by the maesters in the ward-"

I dash to the door, intent on reaching her, though I had no idea where I was going.

"It's this way!" Daemon calls.

When I turn to see where he meant, he was already right behind me. He grabs my arm and leads me down the hall.

The moment we get to the ward, I run around and look for Libby. I am shocked solid in my place when I see the cot she is laid upon. My hands slap to my face upon catching her messy hair, dirty skin, and tattered clothes. Her waist was bound in bandages, but that didn't prevent the red to seep through from her side.

I drop to my knees and crawl all the way over to her. I yelp when I feel how cold her hands are. Hot tears burn down my cheek, "Libby, please!"

My breathing becomes more erratic.

"I've spoken to the maesters," Daemon's voice sounds from behind.

"Fucking tetanus, fucking bacterial shock-"

"They said she lost some blood but she will recov-"

"SHUT UP!" I snap and get to my feet, "YOU GET A FUCKING FEVER HERE AND YOU DIE!" I point an accusing finger, "THIS IS ALL YOUR FUCKING FAULT!"

"ME?" Daemon snaps back, "that Strong fool was the one that took his eyes off her!"

"If you had just let us stay in your chambers like I begged you to-- but no! You wanted us to watch your stupid fucking game, you EGOTISTICAL BASTARD!"

He steps forward and barks back, "she still would have needed to go to the privy, you whining nitwit!"

"Why did they even take her?!" I whine.

Daemon does not respond.

"I do not contest that the fault is mine," another voice speaks.

Daemon and I turn to Harwin. His hands are linked in front of him, and only then do I realize they were bloody. More tears gush down my face when the man continues, "it was my duty to keep her-"

"It doesn't matter now, does it!?" I wail, waving my hands around. I fall back on my knees and turn to Libby. Her blue hair was stuck on her sweaty skin. And as I wiped her forehead, it felt like a rehash of last night, except worse. I sob, "nothing's gonna change the fact she got fucking stabbed."

Daemon looks from me to Harwin, "what of the men that took her?"

"I killed them."

My expression drops as I turn to Harwin.

The two stare at each other for a moment.

"Well, we can't question the dead, now can we," Daemon mutters, "feed their corpses to Caraxes."

"W-wait," I feel bile rise up my throat, "did- did you actually kill them?"

Harwin looks at me but doesn't respond. He walks off when Daemon orders him to get a chair. I turn to Daemon and whimper, "he didn't actually kill them... did he actually kill them?"

Daemon nods, "he did," and grabs my arms, "do not insult yourself by sitting on the floor."

For once, I do not fight him back. I let him bring me to my feet. The moment I'm stood before him, he takes my cheeks and wipes my tears.

I shake my head, "I have to take her back."

Daemon raises his brows, "you would dare to move her in such a state?"

"It's the only way she will survive," I mumble through trembling lips.

The prince looks at me for a moment. Harwin finally brings a chair. He places it beside us then stations himself by the door. Neither Daemon nor I make a move for the chair. The former asks, "and you think you can carry her all the way back?"

"Daemon," I grab his arms, "I just have to get her back. Once I'm there, it'll be half the work done."

Daemon releases a breath. He takes my silver locks and fondles with the ends, "and what if I do not want you to leave."

Fuck. "Please," I beg, "please. We both know I don't belong here."

I can see it clearly. It was so clear that those words meant nothing to him. It was talking to a brick wall. I sigh and wipe my face, "I'll do what you want. Whatever it is, I'll do, as long as you let us go by midnight."

Daemon narrows his eyes.

I muster up the most sincere expression I am capable of.

"You will give me whatever I want?"

I close my eyes and shake my head, "yes... my prince."

He does not respond. Daemon turns from me to Libby. He pulls away and calls, "Strong."

"Your grace," Harwin responds.

"She could manage on the back of an ass, could she not?"

Harwin thinks for a moment then nods, "she could."

"Then fetch me an ass," Daemon says. Harwin promptly complies.

Daemon doesn't make me do anything besides sit on his lap while we watched Libby for the rest of the night. I knew in my gut that was not what he wanted out of me, but he didn't say otherwise and I didn't bring it up. Soon enough, it was midnight and there I, Daemon, Harwin, and Libby, sat on a donkey, stood before the open gate of the castle.

Rather than thinking this was stupid and it wasn't going to fucking work, I prayed under my breath to the Seven that we be delivered from this nightmare.

But every time I felt tranquil, the donkey made a sound and I just knew it had to go. What the hell was I going to do with the donkey when I got back to the city anyway?

I clutch the satchel containing our things around my shoulders, "I'll carry her instead."

Daemon and Harwin turn to me and mutter at the same time, "what?"

"I don't want to be responsible for the donk- the animal when I get there."

"Just leave the ass behind," Daemon mutters, rather annoyed.

I grab Libby, who I was already keeping upright, and wrap her arms around my shoulders, "I can carry her."

"No, you can't," Daemon mutters.

Harwin adds, "you are not in the right mind to do this."

"Just," Daemon add, "set the beast free when-"

"I can't just let a donkey loose in King's Landing, Daemon!" I snap, "now please! Help me-"

The bells begin to ring.

I immediately panic.

A surge of adrenaline helps me gather Libby onto my back. "Fucking hell," I grunt and try to fix her on me.

Daemon shakes his hand, "here, let me-"

"I GOT IT!" I scream as the sound of the bell tolling makes my entire body burn with agitation.

I shift Libby on my back one last time and beeline to the gate.

Harwin and Daemon watch. It's impossible to tell which of them is more skeptic in the moment.

I begin to struggle and nearly trip on the annoying skirts hindering my feet. Harwin steps forward, "watch your step."

Daemon eyes him in annoyance, "how helpful."

"Fuck," I panic and begin to walk faster towards the gate, "fucking hell, it's not even that far!"

I reach the large, tunnel-like gate and can't help but close my eyes, afraid that if I could see where I was going, it wouldn't work.

Then SPLAT! I fall face down on the ground.

I scream and immediately roll Libby off me, uncaring that it hurt me, that it hurt her, and quickly get on my feet. I drag her corpse-like body across the expanse and cry as I do so.

I was manic. I was delirious. The sound of the echoing bells did not help the situation at all. I couldn't stop pleading to the gods as I tugged my best friend across the ground. I couldn't even open my eyes because I didn't think my prayers were heard.

"Enough!" a voice calls.

No. NO! That was fucking Daemon. GET THE FUCK AWAY!

I feel someone mess with Libby's body. I screech and refuse to let her go, "LET US GO, DAEMON!"

"THAT'S ENOUGH!"

"NO!" I squeal, finally opening my eyes. I release Libby and lunge at Daemon when I spot him. We crumble to the ground. Once he's on his back, I begin to beat him. It unfortunately doesn't take long for him to overpower me.

"ENOUGH!" he barks, both my hands now trapped in his.

"LET US GO!" I cry.

Daemon shakes his head, "STOP IT!"

"WE'RE GOING BACK!" I try to punch my way out of his grip. It doesn't work.

"Look at me!" Daemon yells, "you dragged her through."

"Get off me!"

"You've done it!!"

I flinch when he shakes me.

"You did it!" Daemon exclaims as he sits up, hands cradling my shoulders, "we're in your time now."

I finally register his words. Daemon looks around, "when you said ruins, I expected an empty castle, not... ruins."

A gasp leaves me when I hear a loud roar from the sky. Daemon looks up when I do, and I calm down when I realize it was only an airplane.

"Was that a dragon?" Daemon asks.

"No," I pull away from him, "that's an-" wait. I stare at him. Daemon fucking Targaryen came back with me?

#daemon fanfic #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon angst #daemon fluff #daemon targaryen fluff #daemon x reader #daemon x you #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen angst #daemon targaryen x you #daemon x modern!reader #hotd time travel au #hotd au #daemon crackfic #harwin fanfic #harwin strong fanfic #house of the dragon fanfic

899 notes · View notes