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mrs-stans · 2 months ago

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Sebastian Stan Tells All: Becoming Donald Trump, Gaining 15 Pounds and Starring in 2024’s Most Controversial Movie

By Daniel D'Addario

Sebastian Stan Variety Cover Story

It started with the most famous voice on the planet, the one that just won’t shut up.

Sebastian Stan, in real life, sounds very little like Donald Trump, whom he’s playing in the new film “The Apprentice.” Sure, they share a tristate accent — Stan has lived in the city for years and attended Rutgers University before launching his career — but he speaks with none of Trump’s emphasis on his own greatness. Trump dwells, Stan skitters. Trump attempts to draw topics together over lengthy stem-winders (what he recently called “the weave”), while Stan has a certain unwillingness to be pinned down, a desire to keep moving. It takes some coaxing to bring Stan, a man with the upright bearing and square jaw of a matinee idol, to speak about his own process — how hard he worked to conjure a sense Trump, and how he sought to bring out new insights about America’s most scrutinized politician.

“I think he’s a lot smarter than people want to say about him,” Stan says, “because he repeats things consistently, and he’s given you a brand.” Stan would know: He watched videos of Trump on a loop while preparing for “The Apprentice.” In the film, out on Oct. 11, Stan plays Trump as he moves from insecure, aspiring real estate developer to still insecure but established member of the New York celebrity firmament.

We’re sitting over coffee in Manhattan. Stan is dressed down in a black chore coat and black tee, yet he’s anything but a casual conversation partner. He rarely breaks eye contact, doing so only on the occasions when he has something he wants to show me on his iPhone (cracked screen, no case). In this instance, it’s folders of photos and videos labeled “DT” and “DT PHYSICALITY.”

“I had 130 videos on his physicality on my phone,” Stan says. “And 562 videos that I had pulled with pictures from different time periods — from the ’70s all the way to today — so I could pull out his speech patterns and try to improvise like him.” Stan, deep in character, would ad-lib entire scenes at director Ali Abbasi’s urging, drawing on the details he’d learned from watching Trump and reading interviews to understand precisely how to react in each moment.

“Ali could come in on the second take and say, ‘Why don’t you talk a little bit about the taxes and how you don’t want to pay?’ So I had to know what charities they were going to in 1983. Every night I would go home and try not only to prepare for the day that was coming, but also to prepare for where Ali was going to take this.”

Looking at Stan’s phone, among the endless pictures of Trump, I glimpse thumbnails of Stan’s own face perched in a Trumpian pout and videos of the actor’s preparation just aching to be clicked — or to be stored in the Trump Presidential Library when this is all over in a few months, or in 2029, or beyond.

“I started to realize that I needed to start speaking with my lips in a different way,” Stan says. “A lot of that came from the consonants. If I’m talking, I’m moving forward.” On film, Stan shapes his mouth like he can’t wait to get the plosives out, puckering without quite tipping into parody. “The consonants naturally forced your lips forward.”

“If he did 10% more of what he did, it would become ‘Saturday Night Live,’” Abbasi says. “If he did 10% less, then he’s not conjuring that person. But here’s the thing about Sebastian: He’s very inspired by reality, by research. And that’s also the way I work; if you want to go to strange places, you need to get your baseline reality covered very well.”

A little later, Stan passes me the phone again to show me a selfie of him posing shirtless and revealing two sagging pecs and a bit of a gut. He’s pouting into a mirror. If his expression looks exaggerated, consider that he was in Marvel-movie shape before stepping into the role of the former president; the body transformation happened rapidly and jarringly. Trump’s size is a part of the film’s plot — as Trump’s sense of self inflates, so does he. In a rush to meet the shooting deadline for “The Apprentice,” Abbasi asked Stan, “How much weight can you gain?”

“You’d be surprised,” Stan tells me. “You can gain a lot of weight in two months.” (Fifteen pounds, to be exact.)

Now he’s back in fighting form, but the character has stayed with him. After years of playing second-fiddle agents of chaos — goofball husbands to Margot Robbie’s and Lily James’ characters in “I, Tonya” and Hulu’s “Pam & Tommy,” surly frenemy to Chris Evans’ Captain America in the Marvel franchise — Stan plunged into the id of the man whose appetites have reshaped our world. He had to have a polished enough sense of Trump that he could improvise in character, and enough respect for him to play him as a human being, not a monster.

It’s one of two transformations this year for Stan — and one that might give a talented actor that most elusive thing: a brand of his own. He’s long been adjacent enough to star power that he could feel its glow, but he hasn’t been the marquee performer. While his co-stars have found themselves defined by the projects he’s been in — from “Captain America” and “I, Tonya” back to his start on “Gossip Girl” — he’s spent more than a decade in the public eye while evading being defined at all.

This fall promises to be the season that changes all that: Stan is pulling double duty with “The Apprentice” and “A Different Man” (in theaters Sept. 20), in which he plays a man afflicted with a disfiguring tumor disorder who — even when presented with a fantastical treatment that makes him look like, well, Sebastian Stan — can’t be cured of ailments of the soul. For “A Different Man,” Stan won the top acting prize at the Berlin Film Festival; for “The Apprentice,” the sky’s the limit, if it can manage to get seen. (More on that later.)

One reason Stan has largely evaded being defined is that he’s never the same twice, often willing to get loopy or go dark in pursuit of his characters’ truths. That’s all the more true this year: In “The Apprentice,” he’s under the carapace of Trumpiness; in “A Different Man,” his face is hidden behind extensive prosthetics.

“In my book, if you’re the good-looking, sensitive guy 20 movies in a row, that’s not a star for me,” says Abbasi, who compares Stan to Marlon Brando — an actor eager to play against his looks. “You’re just one of the many in the factory of the Ken dolls.”

This fall represents Stan’s chance to break out of the toy store once and for all. His Winter Soldier brought a jolt of evil into Captain America’s world, and his Jeff Gillooly was the devil sitting on Tonya Harding’s shoulder. Now Stan is at the center of the frame, playing one of the most divisive characters imaginable. So he’s showing us where he can go. The spotlight is his, and so is the risk that comes with it.

Why take such a risk?

The script for “The Apprentice,” which Stan first received in 2019, but which took years to come together, made him consider the American dream, the one that Trump achieved and is redefining.

Stan emigrated with his mother, a pianist, from communist Romania as a child. “I was raised always aware of the American dream: America being the land of opportunity, where dreams come true, where you can make something of yourself.” He pushes the wings of his hair back to frame his face, a gold signet ring glinting in the late-summer sunlight, and, briefly, I can hear a hint of Trump’s directness of approach. “You can become whoever you want, if you just have a good idea.” Stan’s good idea has been to play the lead in movies while dodging the formulaic identity of a leading man, and this year will prove just how far he can take it.

“The Apprentice” seemed like it would never come together before suddenly it did. This time last year, Stan was sure it was dead in the water, and he was OK with that. “If this movie is not happening, it’s because it’s not meant to happen,” he recalls thinking. “It will not be because I’m too scared and walk away.”

Called in on short notice and filming from November 2023 to January of this year (ahead of a May premiere in Cannes), Stan lent heft and attitude to a character arc that takes Trump from local real estate developer in the 1970s to national celebrity in the 1980s. He learns the rough-and-tumble game of power from the ruthless and hedonistic political fixer Roy Cohn (Jeremy Strong), eventually cutting the closeted Cohn loose as he dies of AIDS and alienating his wife Ivana (Maria Bakalova) in the process. (In a shocking scene, Donald sexually assaults Ivana in their Trump Tower apartment.) For all its edginess, the film is about Trump’s personality — and the way it calcified into a persona — rather than his present-day politics. (Despite its title, it’s set well before the 2004 launch of the reality show that finally made Trump the superstar he longed to be.)

And despite the fact that Trump has kept America rapt since he announced his run for president in 2015, Hollywood has been terrified of “The Apprentice.” The film didn’t sell for months after Cannes, an unusual result for a major English-language competition film, partly because Trump’s legal team sent a cease-and-desist letter attempting to block the film’s release in the U.S. while the fest was still ongoing. When it finally sold, it was to Briarcliff Entertainment, a distributor so small that the production has launched a Kickstarter campaign to raise money so that it will be able to stay in theaters.

Yes, Hollywood may vote blue, but it’s not the same town that released “Fahrenheit 9/11” or even “W.,” let alone a film that depicts the once (and possibly future) president raping his wife. (The filmmakers stand behind that story. “The script is 100% backed by my own interviews and historical research,” says Gabriel Sherman, the screenwriter and a journalist who covers Trump and the American conservative movement. “And it’s important to note that it is not a documentary. It’s a work of fiction that’s inspired by history.”) Entertainment corporations from Netflix to Disney would be severely inconvenienced if the next president came into office with a grudge against them.

“I am quite shocked, to be honest,” Abbasi says. “This is not a political piece. It’s not a hit piece; it’s not a hatchet job; it’s not propaganda. The fact that it’s been so challenging is shocking.” Abbasi, born in Iran, was condemned by his government over his last film, “Holy Spider,” and cannot safely return. He sees a parallel in the response to “The Apprentice.” “OK, that’s Iran — that is unfortunately expected. But I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Everything with this film has been one day at a time,” Stan says. The actor chalks up the film’s divisiveness to a siloed online environment. “There are a lot of people who love reading the [film’s] Wikipedia page and throwing out their opinions,” he says, an edge entering his voice. “But they don’t actually know what they’re talking about. That’s a popular sport now online, apparently.”

Unprompted, Stan brings up the idea that Trump is so widely known that some might think a biographical film about him serves no purpose. “When someone says, ‘Why do we need this movie? We know all this,’ I’ll say, ‘Maybe you do, but you haven’t experienced it. The experience of those two hours is visceral. It’s something you can hopefully feel — if you still have feelings.’”

After graduating from Rutgers in 2005, Stan found his first substantial role on “Gossip Girl,” playing troubled rich kid Carter Baizen. Like teen soaps since time immemorial, “Gossip Girl” was a star-making machine. “It was the first time I was in serious love with somebody,” he says. (He dated the series’ star, Leighton Meester, from 2008 to 2010.) He feels nostalgic for that moment: “Walking around the city, seeing these same buildings and streets — life seemed simpler.”

Stan followed his “Gossip Girl” gig with roles on the 2009 NBC drama “Kings,” playing a devious gay prince in an alternate-reality modern world governed by a monarchy, and the 2012 USA miniseries “Political Animals,” playing a black-sheep prince (and once again a gay man) of a different sort — the son of a philandering former president and an ambitious former first lady.

When I ask him what lane he envisioned himself in as a young actor, he shrugs off the question. “I grew up with a single mom, and I didn’t have a lot of male role models. I was always trying to figure out what I wanted to be. And at some point, I was like, I could just be a bunch of things.”

Which might seem challenging when one is booked to play the same character, Bucky Barnes, in Marvel movie after Marvel movie. Bucky’s adventures have been wide-ranging — he’s been brainwashed and turned evil and then brought back to the home team again, all since his debut in 2011’s “Captain America: The First Avenger.” Next year, he’ll anchor the summer movie “Thunderbolts,” as the leader of a squad of quirky heroes played by, among others, Julia Louis-Dreyfus and Florence Pugh. It’s easy to wonder if this has come to feel like a cage of sorts.

Not so, says Stan. His new Marvel film “was kind of like ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’ — a guy coming into this group that was chaotic and degenerate, and somehow finding a way to unite them.”

Lately, knives have been out for Marvel movies as some have disappointed at the box office, and “Thunderbolts,” which endured strike delays and last-minute cast changes, has been under scrutiny.

“It’s become really convenient to pick on [Marvel films],” Stan says. “And that’s fine. Everyone’s got an opinion. But they’re a big part of what contributes to this business and allows us to have smaller movies as well. This is an artery traveling through the system of this entire machinery that’s Hollywood. It feeds in so many more ways than people acknowledge.” He adds, “Sometimes I get protective of it because the intention is really fucking good. It’s just fucking hard to make a good movie over and over again.”

Which may account for an eagerness to try something new. “In the last couple of years,” he says, “I’ve gotten much more aggressive about pursuing things that I want, and I’m constantly looking for different ways of challenging myself.”

The challenge continued throughout the shoot of “The Apprentice,” as Stan pushed the material. “One of the most creatively rewarding parts of the process was how open Sebastian was to giving notes on the script but also wanting to go beyond the script,” says Sherman, the screenwriter. “If he was interested in a certain aspect of a scene, he was like, Can you find me a quote?” he recalls.

Building a dynamic through improvised scenes, Stan and Strong stayed in character throughout the “Apprentice” shoot. “I was doing an Ibsen play on Broadway,” says Strong, who won a Tony in June for his performance in “An Enemy of the People,” “and he came backstage afterwards. And it was like — I’d never really met Sebastian, and I don’t think he’d ever met me. So it was nice to meet him.”

Before the pair began acting together, they didn’t rehearse much — “I’m not a fan of rehearsals,” Strong says. “I think actors are best left in their cocoon, doing their work, and then trusted to walk on set and be ready.” The two didn’t touch the script together until cameras went up — though they spent a preproduction day, Strong says, playing games in character as Donald and Roy.

After filming, both have kept memories of the hold their characters had on them. They shared a flight back from Telluride — a famously bumpy trip out of the mountains. “He’s a nervous flyer, and I’m a nervous flyer,” Stan says. Both marveled at the fact that they’d contained their nerves on the first day of shooting “The Apprentice,” when their characters traveled together via helicopter. “We both go, ‘Yeah — but there was a camera.’”

Stan’s aggressive approach to research came in handy on “A Different Man,” which shot before “The Apprentice.” His character’s disorder, neurofibromatosis, is caused by a genetic mutation and presents as benign tumors growing in the nervous system. After being healed, he feels a growing envy for a fellow sufferer who seems unbothered by his disability.

Stan’s co-star, Adam Pearson, was diagnosed with neurofibromatosis in early childhood. Stan found the experience challenging to render faithfully. “I said many times, I can do all the research in the world, but am I ever going to come close to this?” Stan says. “How am I going to ever do this justice?”

Plus, he had precious little time to prepare: “He was fully on board, and the film was being made weeks later,” director Aaron Schimberg says. “Zero to 60 in a matter of weeks.”

The actor grappled for something to hold on to, and Pearson sug gested he refer to his own experience of fame. “Adam said to me, ‘You know what it’s like to be public property,’” Stan says.

Pearson recalls describing the experience to Stan this way: “While you don’t understand the invasiveness and the staring and the pointing that I’ve grown up with, you do know what it’s like to have the world think you owe them something.”

That sense of alienation becomes universal through the film’s storytelling: “A Different Man” takes its premise as the jumping-off point for a deep and often mordant investigation of who we all are underneath the skin.

The film was shot in 22 days in a New York City heat wave, and there was, Schimberg says, “no room for error. I would get four or five takes, however many I could squeeze out, but there’s no coverage.”

Through it all, Stan’s performance is utterly poised — Schimberg and Stan discussed Buster Keaton as a reference for his ability to be “completely stone-faced” amid chaos, the director says. And the days were particularly long because Oscar-nominated prosthetics artist Michael Marino was only able to apply Stan’s makeup in the early morning, before going to his job on the set of “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.”

“Even though I wasn’t shooting until 11 a.m., I would go at like 5 in the morning to his studio, or his apartment,” Stan recalls. The hidden advantage was that Stan had hours to kill while made up like his character, the kind of person the world looks past. “I wanted to walk around the city and see what happened,” Stan says. “On Broadway, one of the busiest streets in New York, no one’s looking at me. It’s as if I’m not even there.” The other reaction was worse: “Somebody would immediately stop and very blatantly hit their friend, point, take a picture.”

It was a study in empathy that flowed into the character. Stan had spoken to Pearson’s mother, who watched her son develop neurofibromatosis before growing into a disability advocate and, eventually, an actor. “She said to me, ‘All I ever wanted was for someone to walk in his shoes for a day,’” Stan recalls. “And I guess that was the closest I had ever come.”

“The Apprentice” forced Stan, and forces the viewer, to do the same with a figure that some 50% of the electorate would sooner forget entirely. And that lends the film its controversy. Those on the right, presupposing that the movie is an anti-Trump document, have railed against it. In a statement provided to Variety, a Trump campaign spokesman said, “This ‘film’ is pure malicious defamation, should never see the light of day and doesn’t even deserve a place in the straight-to-DVD section of a bargain bin at a soon-to-be-closed discount movie store, it belongs in a dumpster fire.” The campaign threatened a lawsuit, though none has materialized.

Asked about the assault scene, Stan notes that Ivana had made the claim in a deposition, but later walked it back. “Is it closer to the truth, what she had said directly in the deposition or something that she retracted?” he asks. “They went with the first part.”

The movie depicts, too, Ivana’s carrying on with her marriage after the violation, which may be still more devastating. “How do you overcome something like this?” asks Bakalova. “Do you have to put on a mask that everything is fine? In the next scene, she’s going to play the game and pretend that we’re the glamorous, perfect couple.” The Trumps, in “The Apprentice,” live in a world of paper-thin images, one that grows so encompassing that Donald no longer feels anything for the people to whom he was once loyal. They’re props in his stage show.

“The Apprentice” will drop in the midst of the most chaotic presidential election of our lifetime. “The way it lands in this extremely polarized situation, for me as an artist, is exciting. I won’t lie to you,” says Abbasi.

When asked if he was concerned about blowback from a Trump 47 presidency, Stan says, “You can’t do this movie and not be thinking about all those things, but I really have no idea. I’m still in shock from going from an assassination attempt to the next weekend having a president step down [from a reelection bid].”

Stan’s job, as he sees it, was to synthesize everything he’d absorbed — all those videos on his phone — into a person who made sense. This Trump had to be part of a coherent story, not just the flurry of news updates to which we’ve become accustomed.

“You can take a Bach or a Beethoven, and everyone’s going to play that differently on the piano, right?” Stan says. (His pianist mother named him for Johann Sebastian Bach.) “So this is my take on what I’ve learned. I have to strip myself of expectations of being applauded for this, if people are going to like it or people are going to hate it. People are going to say whatever they want. Hopefully they should think at least before they say it.”

It’s a reality that Stan is now used to — the work is the work, and the way people interpret him is none of his business. Perhaps that’s why he has run away from ever being the same thing twice. “I could sit with you today and tell you passionately what my truth is, but it doesn’t matter,” he says. “Because people are more interested in a version of you that they want to see, rather than who you are.”

“The Apprentice” has been the subject of extreme difference of opinion by many who have yet to see it. It’s been read — and will continue to be after its release — as anti-Trump agitprop. The truth is chewier and more complicated, and, perhaps, unsuited for these times.

“Are we going to live in a world where anyone knows what the truth is anymore? Or is it just a world that everyone wants to create for themselves?” Stan asks.

His voice — the one that shares a slight accent with Trump but that is, finally, Stan’s own — is calm and clear. “People create their own truth right now,” he says. “That’s the only thing that I’ve made peace with; I don’t need to twist your arm if that’s what you want to believe. But the way to deal with something is to actually confront it.”

#Variety #Sebastian Stan #Photoshoot #A Different Man #The Apprentice #Thunderbolts*#Marvel #Interview #mrs-stans

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 6 months ago

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1968 [Chapter 9: Dionysus, God Of Ecstasy]

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

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

Word Count: 5.9k

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The October surprise is a great American tradition. As the phases of the moon revolve towards Election Day, the candidates and their factions seek to ruin each other. Lies are told, truths are exposed, Tyche smiles and Achlys brews misery, poison, the fog of death that grows over men like ivy. The stars align. The wolves snap their jaws.

In 1844, an abolitionist newspaper falsely accused James K. Polk of branding his slaves like cattle. In 1880, a letter supposedly authored by James Garfield—in actuality, forged by a New York journalist—welcomed Chinese immigrants in an era when they were being lynched by xenophobic mobs in Los Angeles and San Francisco. In 1920, a rumor emerged that Warren Harding had Black ancestry, an allegation his campaign fervently denied to keep the support of the Southern states. In 1940, FDR’s press secretary assaulted a police officer outside of Madison Square Garden. In 1964, one of LBJ’s top aids was arrested for having gay sex at the Washington D.C. YMCA.

Now, in 1968, Senator Aemond Targaryen of New Jersey is realizing that he will not be the beneficiary of the October surprise he’s dreamed of: his wife’s redemptive pregnancy, a blossoming first family. There is a civil rights protest that turns into a riot in Milwaukee; this helps Nixon, the candidate of law and order. For every fire lit and window shattered, he sees a bump in the polls from businessowners and suburbanites who fear anarchy. Breaking news of the My Lai massacre—committed back in March but only now brought to light—airs on NBC, horrifying the American public and bolstering support for Aemond, the man who has vowed to begin ending the war as soon as he’s sworn into office. The two contestants are deadlocked. Election Day could be a photo finish.

Nixon is in Texas. Wallace is in Arkansas. In Florida, Aemond visits the Kennedy Space Center and pledges to fulfill JFK’s promise to put a man on the moon by 1970. He makes a speech at the Mary McLeod Bethune Home commending her work as an educator, philanthropist, and humanitarian. He greets soldiers at the Naval Air Station in Pensacola. He feeds chickens to the alligators at the Saint Augustine Alligator Farm Zoological Park.

But it is not the senator the crowds cheer loudest for. It is his wife, his future first lady, here in her home state where she staunched her husband’s hemorrhaging blood and appeared before his well-wishers still marked with crimson handprints. In Tarpon Springs, she and Aemond attend mass at the Saint Nicholas Greek Orthodox Cathedral and pray at an altar made of white marble from Athens. Then they stand on the docks as flashbulbs strobe all around them, watching sponge divers reappear from the depths, breaking through the bubbling sapphire water like Heracles ascending to Mount Olympus.

~~~~~~~~~~

You kick off your high heels, tear the pins and clips out of your hair, and flop down onto the king-sized bed in your suite at the Breakers Hotel. It’s the same place Aemond was almost assassinated five months ago. He has returned in triumph, in defiance. He cannot be killed. It is God’s will.

You are alone for these precious fleeting moments. Aemond is in Otto’s suite discussing the itinerary for tomorrow: confirmations, cancellations, reshufflings. You pick up the pink phone from the nightstand on Aemond’s side of the bed and dial the number for the main house at Asteria. It’s 9 p.m. here as well as there. Through the window you can see inky darkness and the kaleidoscopic glow of the lights of Palm Beach. The Zenith radio out in the kitchenette is playing Satisfaction by the Rolling Stones. No intercession from Eudoxia is necessary this time; Aegon answers on the second ring.

“Yeah?” he says, slow and lazy like he’s been smoking something other than Lucky Strikes.

“Hey.” And then after a pause, twirling the phone cord around your fingers as you stare up at the ceiling: “It’s me.”

“Oh, I know. Should I take off my pants, or…?” He’s only half-joking.

You smile. “That was stupid. Someone could have bugged the phone.”

“You think Nixon’s guys are wiretapping us? Give me a break. They’re goddamn buffoons. They’re too busy telling cops to beat hippies to death.” You hear him taking a drag off his joint, envision him sprawled across his futon and enshrouded in smoke. “Everything okay down there in the swamp?”

You shrug, even though Aegon can’t see you. “It’s fine.”

“Just fine?”

“My parents were there when we stopped in Tarpon Springs. They kept telling everyone how proud they are of me, and I just felt so…dishonest.”

“Of course they’re proud. If Aemond wins, the war ends and more civil rights bills get passed and this hell we’ve all been living in since 1963 goes away.”

“I miss you,” you confess.

“You’ll be back soon to enjoy me in all my professional loser glory.” He’s right: Aemond’s entourage will spend Halloween at Asteria. You’ll take the children trick-or-treating around Long Beach Island—with journalists in tow, of course—and then host a party with plentiful champagne and Greek hors d’oeuvres, one last reprieve before the momentous slog towards Election Day on November 5th, a reward for the campaign staffers and reporters who have served Aemond so well. “What are you going to dress up as?”

“Someone happy,” you say, and Aegon chuckles, low and sardonic. “Actually, nothing. Aemond and Otto have decided that it would be undignified for the future president and first lady to be photographed in costumes, so I will be wearing something festive yet not at all fun.”

“Aemond has always been somewhat confused by the concept of fun.”

“What are you going to be for Halloween?”

You can hear the grin in his voice as he exhales smoke. “A cowboy.”

“A cowboy,” you repeat, giggling. “You aren’t serious.”

“Extremely serious. I protect the cows, I comfort the cows, I breed the cows…”

“You are mentally ill. You belong in an asylum.”

“I ride the cows…”

“Cowboys do not ride cows.”

“Maybe this one does.”

“I thought you liked being ridden.”

Aegon groans with what sounds like genuine discomfort. “Don’t tease me. You know I’m celibate at the moment.”

“Miraculous. Astonishing. The Greek Orthodox Church should canonize you. What have you been doing with all of your newfound free time?”

“Taking the kids out sailing, hiding from Doxie, trying not to step on the Alopekis…and playing Battleship with Cosmo. He has a very loose understanding of the rules.”

“He does. I remember.”

“He keeps asking when you’ll be back.”

“Really?” you ask hopefully.

“Yeah, it’s cute. And he calls you Io because he heard me do it.”

“Not an appropriate myth for children, I think.”

“Cosmo’s what, seven years old?”

“Five.”

“Close enough. I think I knew about death and torment and Zeus being a slut by then.”

“And you have no resulting defects whatsoever.” You roll over onto your belly and slide open the drawer of the nightstand. Instead of the card Aegon gave you at Mount Sinai—you’ve forgotten that you’re on Aemond’s side of the bed—you find something bizarre, unexpected, just barely able to fit. “Oh my God, there’s a…there’s a Ouija board in the nightstand!”

Aegon laughs incredulously. “There’s a what?!”

“A Ouija board!” You sit upright and shimmy it out, holding the phone to your ear with one shoulder. The small wooden planchette slides off the board and clatters against the bottom of the drawer. “Why the hell would Aemond have this…?”

“He’s trying to summon the ghost of JFK to stab Nixon.”

“Oh wow, it’s heavy.” You skim your fingertips over the black numbers and letters etched into the wooden board. There’s something ominous about the Good Bye written across the bottom. You can’t beckon the dead into the land of the living without reminding them that they aren’t welcome to stay.

“Aemond is such a freak. Is it a Parker Brothers one, like for kids…?”

“No, I think it’s custom made. It feels substantial, expensive. Hold on, there’s something engraved on the back.” You flip over the Ouija board so you can see what your hands have already felt. The inscription reads in onyx cursive letters: No ghosts can harm you. The stars were never better than the day you were born. With love through all the ages, Alys.

“What’s it say?” Aegon asks from his basement at Asteria.

You’re staring down at the Ouija board, mystified. “Who’s Alys?”

Instead of an answer, Aegon gives you a deep sigh. “Oh. Yeah, she would give him something like that. Fucking creepy witch bullshit.”

“Aegon, who’s Alys?” She’s his mistress. She has to be. It fills your skull like flashbulbs, like lightning: Aemond climbing on top of another woman, conquering her, owning her, binding her up in his mythology like a spider building a web. And what you feel when the shock begins to dissolve isn’t envy or pain or betrayal but—strangely, paradoxically—hope. “She’s his girl, right?”

“Please don’t be mad at me for not telling you,” Aegon says. “There wasn’t a good time. When I hated you I didn’t care if he was fucking around, and then after what happened in New York I didn’t want to hurt you, I didn’t know how you’d take it. It’s not your fault, there’s nothing wrong with you. She was here first. He’d have kept Alys around if he married Aphrodite herself.”

“I’m not mad.” You’re distracted, that’s what you are; you’re plotting. “Where is she?”

“She lives in Washington state. I’m not sure exactly where, I think Aemond moves her a lot. He doesn’t want anyone to see him around and start noticing a pattern. Neighbors, shopkeepers, cops, whoever.”

“Washington.” Just like when Ari died. Just like when Aemond didn’t come back. “Who knows about her?”

“Just the family. Fosco and Mimi found out because when they married in, the fights were still happening. Otto and Viserys demanding he give Alys up, Aemond refusing. It’s the only thing he ever did wrong, the only line he drew. He said he needed her. She could never be his first lady, but she could be something else.”

“His mistress.”

“Yeah,” Aegon says reluctantly. “Are you…are you okay?”

“I’m okay. What’s wrong with Alys?”

“What?”

“Why couldn’t Aemond marry her?”

“I mean, she’s the type of psycho who gives people Ouija boards, first of all,” Aegon says. “And she’s…she’s not educated. Her family’s trash. She’s older than Aemond. Hell, she’s older than me. She would be an unmitigated disaster on the campaign trail. She unnerves people. But Aemond, he…”

“He loves her,” you whisper, reading the engraving on the back of the board again. “And she loves him.”

“I guess. Whatever love means to them.”

A thought occurs to you, the first one to bring you pain like a needle piercing flesh. “Does she have children?”

Again, Aegon sounds reticent to disclose this. “A boy. Aemond’s the father.”

“How old?”

“I don’t know, I think he’s around ten now.”

And that’s Aemond’s true heir. Not Ari, not any others he would have with me. That place in his heart is taken. He couldn’t mourn the loss of our son because he already has one with the woman he loves.

Out in the living room of the suite, you hear the front door open. There are footsteps, Aemond’s polished black leather shoes.

Aegon is asking: “Are you sure you’re okay? Hello? Babe? Hello? Are you still there?”

“I’m fine. I gotta go.”

“Wait, no, not yet—!”

“Bye.” You hang up the phone and wait for Aemond to discover you. You’re still clutching the Ouija board. You’re perched on the edge of the bed like something ready to pounce, to kill.

Aemond opens the bedroom door, navy blue suit, blonde hair short and slicked back, his eyepatch covering his empty left socket. He’s begun wearing his eyepatch in public more often—not for every appearance, but for some of them—and whoever finally convinced him to concede this battle wasn’t you. His right eye goes to you and then to the Ouija board in your hands. He doesn’t speak or move to take the board, only studies you warily.

“I know about her,” you tell him.

Still, Aemond says nothing.

“Alys,” you press. “She’s your mistress. You’re in love with her.”

“I did not intend to hurt you.” His words are flat, steely.

“I’m not hurt, Aemond.”

“You shouldn’t have ever known about this. I apologize for not being more discrete. It was a lapse in judgment.” But what he regrets most, you think, is that his secret is less contained, more imperiled.

“What we have is a political arrangement,” you say. The desperation quivers in your voice. “You don’t love me, you never have, and now we can be open about it. You need me to win the White House, but that’s all. Your true companion is elsewhere. I want the same thing.”

He steps closer, eye narrowing, iris glinting coldly, puzzled like he couldn’t have understood you correctly. “What?”

“I want to be permitted to have my own happiness outside of this imitation of a marriage.”

“No,” Aemond says instantly.

Your stomach sinks, dark iron disappointment. “But…but…why?”

“Because I don’t trust you to not get caught. Because I need to be sure that I am the father of the children you’ll give birth to. And because as my wife you are mine, and mine alone.”

Tears brim in your eyes; embers burn in your throat. “You’re asking for my life. My whole life, all of it, everything I’ll ever experience, everything I’ll ever feel. I get one chance on this planet and you’re stealing it away from me.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees simply.

“So where’s my consolation?” you demand. “You get Alys, so where’s mine?”

“What do you want?”

You don’t reply, but you glare at your husband with eternal rage like Hera’s, with fatal vitriol like Medusa’s.

“You think I don’t know about that little card you keep in your nightstand?” Aemond is furious, betrayed. “You used to hate him.”

“I was wrong.”

“Because he was at Mount Sinai and I wasn’t? Three days undid everything we’ve ever been to each other? Our oaths, our ambitions?!”

“No,” you say, tears slipping down the contours of your cheeks. “Because he’s real. He doesn’t try to manipulate people into loving him, he doesn’t pretend to be someone he’s not, when he’s cruel it’s because he means it and when he’s kind that’s genuine too. And he wants to know me, who I really am. Not the woman I have to act like to get you elected. Not who you’re trying to turn me into—”

Aemond has crossed the room, grabbed the front of your teal Chanel dress, and yanked you to your feet. The Ouija board jolts out of your hands and lands on the carpet unharmed. Your long hair is in disarray, your eyes wide and fearful. You try to push Aemond away, but he ignores you. You can’t sway him. You’ve never been able to. “Aegon has nothing to his name except what this family gives him,” Aemond snarls, hushed, hateful. His venom is not for his brother but for you. You have upended the natural order of things. You have dared to deny Zeus what he has been divinely granted dominion over. “You would jeopardize his wellbeing, his access to his children? You would ruin yourself? You would doom this nation? If you cost me the election, every drop of blood spilled is on your hands, every body bag flown home from Vietnam, every martyr killed by injustice here. What you ask for is worse than being a traitor and a whore. It is sacrilege.”

“Let go of me—”

“And there’s one more thing.” Aemond pulls you closer so he knows you’re paying attention. You’re sobbing now, trembling, choking on his cologne, shrinking away from his furnace-heat wrath. “Aegon isn’t capable of love. Not the kind you’re imagining. He gets infatuated, and he uses people, and then he moves on. You think he never charmed Mimi, never made her feel cherished by him? And look how she ended up. I’m trying to carve your name into legend beside mine. Aegon will take you to your grave.”

Your husband shoves you away, storms out of the bedroom, slams the door so hard the walls quake.

~~~~~~~~~~

Parading down streets like the victors of a fallen city, jack-o-lanterns keeping watch with their laceration grins of firelight. Hecate is the goddess of witchcraft, Hades rules the Underworld, Selene is the half-moon peeking through clouds in an overcast sky. The stars elude you.

The children—ghosts, pirates, princesses, witches—dash from doorstep to doorstep like soldiers in Vietnam search tunnels. They smile and pose in their outfits when the journalists prompt them, beaming and waving, showing off their Dots, Tootsie Pops, Sugar Daddies, Smarties, Razzles, and candy cigarettes before depositing them in the plastic orange pumpkins that swing from their wrists. Only Cosmo, dressed as Teddy Roosevelt with lensless glasses and a stuffed lion thrown over one shoulder, stays with the adults. He is the last one to each house, approaching the doorway reticently like it might swallow him up, inspiring fond chuckles and encouragement from the reporters. He clutches your hand and hides behind you when towering monsters lumber by: King Kong, Frankenstein, vampires with fake blood spilling from their mouths.

Aemond wears a black suit with orange accents: tie, pocket square, socks. You glimmer in a black dress dotted with white stars, clicking down the sidewalk in boots that run to your knees, silver eyeshadow, heavy liner. You almost look your own age. There are large star-shaped barrettes in your pinned-up hair, bent glinting metal. As the reporters snap photos of you and Cosmo walking together, they shout: “You’ll be such a great mother one day, Mrs. Targaryen!”

Fosco is Ettore Boiardi—better known as Chef Boyardee—an Italian immigrant who came through Ellis Island in 1914 with a dream of opening a spaghetti business. Helaena, Alicent, and Ludwika are, respectively, Alice, Wendy, and Cinderella; Ludwika clops along resentfully in her puffy sleeves and too-small clear stilettos. Criston is Peter Pan. Aegon wears a white button-up shirt, cow print vest, ripped jeans, brown leather boots, a cowboy hat that’s too big for him, and a green bandana knotted around his throat. He stays close to you and Cosmo because he can, here where the journalists expect to see him being a devoted father and active participant in the family business of mending a tattered America. Teenagers are fleeing their families to join hippie communes and draftees in Vietnam are getting their limbs blown off and junkies are shooting up on the streets of New York and Chicago and Los Angeles, but here we see a happy family, a perfect family, a holy trinity that thanks the devotees who offer them tribute. Otto, who neglected to don a disguise, glares at you murderously. You have failed to give Aemond a living child. You have dared to want things for yourself.

Back at Asteria in the main house, the children empty their plastic pumpkins on the living room floor and sort through their saccharine treasures, making trades and bargains: “I’ll do your math homework if you give me those Swedish Fish,” “I’ll let you ride my bike for a week if I can have your Mallo Cup.” While the other adults ply themselves with champagne and chain smoke away the stress of the campaign trail, Aegon gets his Caribbean blue Gibson guitar and sits on the couch playing I’m A Believer by The Monkees. The kids clap and sing along between intense confectionary negotiations. Cosmo wants to share his candy cigarettes with you; you pretend to smoke together as sugar melts on your tongue.

Now the children have been sent to bed—mollified with the promise of homemade apple pies tomorrow, another occasion to be documented by swarms of clamoring journalists—and the house becomes a haze of smoke and indistinct conversation and music from the record player. Platters of appetizers have appeared on the dining room table: pita, tzatziki, hummus, melitzanosalata, olives, horiatiki, mini spanakopitas, baklava. Women are chattering about the painstaking labor they put into costumes and men are scheming to deliver death blows to Nixon, setbacks in Vietnam, Klan meetings in Mississippi. Aemond is knocking back Old Fashioneds with Otto and Sargent Shriver. Fosco is dancing in the living room with drunk journalists. Eudoxia is muttering in Greek as she aggressively paws crumbs off of couches and tabletops. Thick red candles flicker until wax melts into a pool of blood at the base.

Through the veil of cigarette smoke and the rumbling bass of Season Of The Witch, Aegon finds you when no one is looking, and you know it’s him without having to turn around. His hand is the only one that doesn’t feel heavy when it skims around your waist. He whispers, soft grinning lips to your ear, rum and dire temptation like Orpheus looking back at Eurydice: “Let’s do some witchcraft.”

You know where Aemond keeps the Ouija board. You take it out of the top drawer of his nightstand in your bedroom with blue walls and portraits of myths in captive frames. Then you descend with Aegon into the basement, down like Persephone when summer ends, down like women crumbling under Zeus’s weight. You remember to lock the door behind you. You’re not high—you can’t smoke grass in a house full of guests who could smell it and take it upon themselves to investigate—but you feel like you are, that lightness that makes everything more bearable, the surreal tilt to the universe, awake but dreaming, truth cloaked in mirages.

Aegon has stolen three red candles from upstairs. He hands one to you, keeps a second for himself, and places the third on his end table beside a myriad of dirty cups. You glimpse at his ashtray and a folded corner of the receipt that’s still tucked beneath it, and you think: I have my card, Aegon has his receipt, Aemond has his Ouija board. I wonder what Alys likes to keep close when she sleeps. Then Aegon clicks off the lamp so the only light is from the flickering candles.

He tosses away his cowboy boots, hat, vest and is down on the green shag carpet with you, his hair messy, his white shirt half-unbuttoned. He’s taking sips of Captain Morgan straight from the glass bottle. He’s lighting a Lucky Strike with the wick of his candle and then giving it to you to puff on as he places the planchette on the board. “Wait, how do we start?”

You exhale smoke, setting your candle down on the carpet and then tugging off your own boots with some difficulty. “We have to say hello.”

“Okay.” Aegon places his fingertips on one side of the heart-shaped planchette and you rest yours lightly on the other. He begins doubtfully: “Hello…?”

“Is there anyone who would like to send us a message from the other side this evening?”

“You’ve done this before,” Aegon accuses.

“I have. In college.”

“With a guy?”

You chuckle, taking a drag as the cigarette smolders between your fingers. “No, with my friends. It’s not really a date activity.”

“I think it’s very romantic. Candles, darkness, danger, who’s gonna protect you when the ghosts start throwing things around…”

“You’d fight a ghost for me?”

“Depends on the ghost. FDR? You got it. I can take a guy in a wheelchair. Teddy? No ma’am. You’re on your own.”

“Which ghost should we summon?”

Aegon ponders this for a moment. “John F. Kennedy, are you in this basement with us right now?”

“That is wrong, that is so wrong.”

“Then why are you smiling?” Aegon says. “JFK, how do you feel about Johnson fucking up your legacy?”

“That is not the kind of question you’re supposed to ask. We’re not on 60 Minutes.”

“JFK, do you haunt the White House?” Aegon drags the planchette to the Yes on the board. “Oh no, I’m scared.”

“You are a cheater, this is a fraudulent Ouija board session.” You put your cigarette out in the ashtray and then take a swig from Aegon’s rum bottle. “JFK, are we gonna make it to the moon before 1970?”

Aegon pulls the planchette to the No. “Damn, Io, bad news. Guess the Russians win the Space Race and then eradicate capitalism across the globe. No more beach houses. No more Mr. Mistys.”

“Give me the planchette, you’re abusing your power.”

“No,” Aegon says, snickering as you try to wrestle it away from him. In his other hand he’s clutching his candle; scarlet beads of wax like blooddrops pepper your skin as you struggle, tiny infernos that burn exquisitely. Red like paint splatter appears on Aegon’s shirt. You grab the green bandana around his throat, but instead of holding him back you’re drawing him closer. The Ouija board and all the world’s ghosts are momentarily forgotten.

“You’re dripping wax on me—”

“Good, I want to get it all over you, then I want to peel it off and rip out your leg hair.”

You’re laughing hysterically as you pretend to try to shove him away. “I’m freshly shaved, you idiot.”

“Everywhere?” Aegon asks, intrigued.

You smirk playfully. “Almost.”

“Okay, let’s get you cleaned up.” Aegon sets his candle down on the carpet and strips away tacky dots of red wax: one from your forearm down by your wrist, another from your neck just below one of your silver hoop earrings, wax from your ankles and your calves and right above your knees. His fingertips are calloused from his guitar, from the ropes of his sailboat. They scratch roughly over you, chipping away who you’re supposed to be.

Then Aegon stops. You follow his gaze down. There is a smudge of wax on the inside of your thigh, extending beneath the hem of your dress, glittering black and white fabric that hides what is forbidden to him. Aegon’s eyes are on you, that troubled opaque blue, drunk and desperate and wild and afraid. With your fingers still hooked beneath his bandana, you say to him like a dare: “Now you’re going to stop?”

His palm skates up the smoothness of your thigh, and as he unpeels that last stain of red wax his other hand cradles your jaw and his lips touch yours, gently at first and then with the ravenousness of someone who’s been dying of thirst for centuries, starving since birth. You’re opening your legs wider for him, and his fingers do not stop at your thigh but climb higher until they are whisking your black lace panties away, exploring your folds and your wetness as his tongue darts between your lips, tasting something he’s been craving forever but only now stumbled into after four decades of darkness, trapped in you like Narcissus at his pool.

You are unknotting his green bandana and letting it fall to the shag carpet. You are unbuttoning the rest of his shirt so you can feel his chest, soft and warm and yielding, safe, real. The candlelight is flickering, the thumping bass of a song you can’t decipher pulsing through the floor above. Now beneath your dress Aegon’s fingers are pressing a place that makes your breath catch in your throat, makes you dizzy with need for him. He looks at you and you nod, and he reads in your face what you wanted to say months ago in this same basement: Don’t stop. Come closer.

Aegon lifts your dress over your head, nips at your throat as he unclasps your bra, and you are suddenly aware of how the cool firelit air is touching every part of you, how you are bare for him in a way you’ve never been before. You catch Aegon’s face in your hand before he can see the scar that runs down the length of your belly and say, your voice quiet and fragile: “Don’t look at me.”

Pain flashes in his eyes, furrows across his brow. “Stop,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead as you cling to him. Then he begins moving lower and you fall back onto the carpet, no blood on Aegon’s hands this time, only your sweat and lust for him, only crystalline evidence of a betrayal you’ve long ago already committed in your mind.

You’re combing your fingers through his hair and gasping as Aegon’s lips ghost down your scar, not something ruinous or shameful but a part of you, the beginning of your story together, the origin of your mythology. Then his mouth is on you—yearning, aching wetness—and you thought you knew what this felt like but it’s more powerful now, more urgent, and Aegon is glancing up to watch your face, to study you, to change what he’s doing as he follows your clues. And then there is a pang you think is too sharp to be pleasure, too close to helplessness, something that leaves you panting and shaking.

You jolt upright. “Wait…”

Aegon props himself up on his elbows. His full lips glisten with you. “What? What’d I do wrong?”

“No, it’s not you, it’s just…it’s like…” You can’t describe it. “It’s too…um…too intense or something. It’s like I couldn’t breathe.”

Aegon stares at you, his eyebrows low. After a long pause he says: “Babe, you’ve come before, right?”

I’ve what? “Yeah, of course, obviously. I mean…I think so?”

He’s stunned. He’s in disbelief. Then a grin splits across his face. “Lie back down.”

You’re nervous, but you trust him. If this costs you your life, you’ll pay it. He pushes your thighs farther apart and his tongue stays in one spot—where you touched yourself in the bathtub in Seattle, where you wanted him when he slipped his fingers into you for the first time—and suddenly the uneasy feeling is something raging and irresistible like a riptide in the Atlantic, something better than anything you knew existed, and you keep thinking it’s happened but it hasn’t yet, as you cover your face with your hands to smother your moans, as your hips roll and Aegon’s arms curl under your thighs to keep you in place so he can make you finish. It’s a release that is otherworldly, celestial, terrifying, divine. It’s something that rips the curtain between mortals and paradise.

It’s always like this for men? That’s what Aemond has been getting from me, that’s what I’ve been denied?

As you lie gasping on the carpet Aegon returns, smiling, kissing you, running his fingers through locks of hair that have escaped from your pins. “Not bad, right little Io?” he purrs, smelling like rum and minerals, earth and poison. Now he’s taking off his jeans, but before he can position himself between your legs you have pushed him onto his back and straddled him, pinning his wrists to the floor, watching the amazement ripple across his flushed face, the desire, the need. You tease Aegon, leaning in to nibble at his ear and bite gingerly at his throat, never harming him, never claiming him, grinding your hips against his and listening as his breathing turns quick and rough. Then you slip him inside you, this man you once hated, this man who was a stranger and then a curse and now a spell.

Aegon wants to be closer to you. He sits up as you ride him, hands on your face, in your hair, kissing you, inhaling you, shuddering, trying not to cry out as footsteps and laughter and thunderous basslines bleed through the ceiling. You know he’s been high on so many things—things that corrupt, things that kill—and you hope you can compare, this brief clean magic.

He can’t last; he finishes with a moan like he’s in agony, and as the motion of your hips slows, you take his jaw in your grasp and gaze down at him. “Good boy,” you say with a grin. Aegon laughs, exhausted, drenched in sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead. He embraces you so tightly you can feel the pounding of his heart, racing muscle beneath bones and skin.

He’s murmuring through your disheveled hair: “I gotta see you again, when can I see you again?”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t have an answer. You unravel yourself from Aegon and dress yourself in the red candlelight: panties, bra, dress, boots, all things that Aemond chose for you, all things he bought with his family’s money, all things he owns. Aegon has nothing to his name and neither do you. You are—like Fosco once said—pieces of the same machine.

“Where are you going?” Aegon asks, like he’s afraid of the answer.

“I have to go back upstairs to the party before someone realizes I’m missing.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am.” You kneel on the carpet to kiss him one last time, your palm on his cheek, his fingers clutching at your dress as he begs you not to leave. “I have to, I have to,” you whisper, and then you do.

You grab the Ouija board and planchette off the green shag carpet, hug them to your chest, and hurry up the steps. The first floor of the Asteria house is a maze of cigarette smoke and clinking glasses, guests who are dancing and cackling and drunk. From the record player strums Johnny Cash’s Ring Of Fire. You slip unnoticed to the staircase.

In the blue-walled bedroom you share with Aemond, you carefully place the Ouija board and planchette in the top drawer of his nightstand exactly as you found them. Then you go to your vanity to try to fix your hair. As you’re rearranging clips and pinning loose strands back into place, the door opens. Aemond is there, feeling beloved and invincible, looking for you. He crosses the room and closes his long fingers around your wrist. He wants you: under him, making children for him, possessed by him.

“Come to bed,” Aemond says.

“Not right now. I’m busy.”

“You aren’t busy anymore.”

“I told you no.”

He wrenches you from your chair. Instead of surrendering, you strike out, hitting him in the chest. You don’t harm him, you’re not strong enough, but genuine shock leaps into his scarred face.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you hiss. You can’t let Aemond undress you; he will find the evidence of your treason, he will see it, feel it, taste it. But that’s not the only reason you stop him. “Every goddamn night I give you what you want, and exactly how you want it. Tonight I’m saying no. You want to take me? You’ll have to do it properly. I’m not going to give you the illusion of consent. You remember what Zeus did to all those women, right? Go ahead. Act like the god you think you are. But I’m going to fight you. And if those people downstairs hear me screaming, you can explain to them why.”

Aemond stares at you in the silvery light of the half-moon. You glare boldly back. At last he leaves and descends the staircase into an underworld of churning smoke, returning to the party to sip his Old Fashioneds and decide what to do with you.

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justinspoliticalcorner · 3 months ago

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Jason Wilson at The Guardian:

In a December 2023 speech, JD Vance defended a notorious white nationalist convicted over 2016 election disinformation, canvassed the possibility of breaking up tech companies, attacked diversity, equity and inclusion (DEI) efforts and talked about a social media “censorship regime” that “came from the deep state on some level”.

The senator’s speech was given at the launch of a “counterrevolutionary” book – praised by the now Republican vice-presidential candidate as “great” – which was edited and mostly written by employees of the far-right Claremont Institute. In the book, Up from Conservatism, the authors advocate for the repeal of the Civil Rights Act, for politicians to conduct “deep investigations into what the gay lifestyle actually does to people”, that college and childcare be defunded and that rightwing governments “promote male-dominated industries” in order to discourage female participation in the workplace. Vance’s endorsement of the book may raise further questions about his extremism, and that of his networks. The Guardian emailed Vance’s Senate staff and the Trump and Vance campaign with detailed questions about his appearance at the launch, but received no response.

‘Congratulations on such a great book’

Vance’s speech was given in the Capitol visitor center in Washington DC last 11 December, according to a version of C-Span’s subsequent broadcast of the event that is preserved at the Internet Archive. The occasion was the launch of Up from Conservatism, an essay collection edited by Arthur Milikh, the executive director of the Claremont Institute’s Center for the American Way of Life. In his introductory remarks on the day, Milikh said the book “maps out the right’s errors over the last generation … on immigration, on universities, on the administrative state”.

The book, however, appears more directed towards supplanting an old right – seen as too accommodating – with a “new right” focused on destroying its perceived enemies on the left.

In the book’s introduction, Milikh writes: “The New Right recognizes the Left as an enemy, not merely an opposing movement, because the Left today promotes a tyrannical conception of justice that is irreconcilable with the American idea of justice … the New Right is a counterrevolutionary and restorative force.” Also in that piece, Milikh offers a vision of the new right’s triumph, which has an authoritarian ring: “We like to say that one must learn to govern, but a truer expression is that one must learn to rule.” In his speech, Vance first offered “congratulations on such a great book, and thanks for getting such a good crew together”, and then warmed to themes similar to Milikh’s. “Republicans, conservatives, we’re still terrified of wielding power, of actually doing the job that the people sent us here to do,” Vance said, later adding: “Isn’t it just common sense that when we’re given power, we should actually do something with it?”

Brad Onishi, author of Preparing for War, a critical account of Christian nationalism and the host of the Straight White American Jesus podcast, said: “Vance, many Claremont people, including some folks in this volume, and especially the ‘post-liberal’ conservative Catholics that he hangs out with, have advocated for a form of big government that will wield its power in order to set the country right.” He added: “And you may think, well, OK, that doesn’t sound so bad. But here the common good is rooting out queer people, making sure non-Christians don’t immigrate to the country and outlawing things like pornography that are currently a matter of personal choice. “You end up with this conservatism that promotes an invasive government conservatism rather than a small government.”

[...]

‘Free our minds … from the fear of being called racists’

In the book, commended by Vance, a series of authors take reactionary – or “counterrevolutionary” – positions on a number of social and economic issues. In one chapter, John Fonte writes of disrupting narratives of civil rights progress: “The great meaning of America, we are told, comes from liberating so-called oppressed groups and taming the power of privileged groups. Thus, our history is one of liberation: first of Blacks, then of women, then of gays, and now of the transgendered.” Fonte retorts: “Not only is this narrative false; it will take us further down the path of national self-destruction … On the questions of slavery, American Indians, and racial discrimination, the progressive narrative is not a historically accurate project designed to address past wrongs, but a weaponized movement to deconstruct and replace American civilization.”

Like other authors in the collection, Fonte offers policy recommendations. He proposes heavy-handed federal intervention into education: “[T]he US Congress should prohibit any federal funds in education to support projects … that promote DEI (“diversity, equity and inclusion”) and divisive concepts such as the idea that America is ‘systemically racist.’” In his chapter, David Azerrad tells readers: “We need to free our minds once and for all from the fear of being called racists.” The assistant professor and research fellow at rightwing Hillsdale College, and former Heritage Foundation director and Claremont Institute fellow, also claims that conservatives have been too conciliatory on race: “For too many conservatives, the goal is to outdo progressives in displays of compassion for blacks … yet blacks continue to vote monolithically for the Democratic Party and progressives have only ramped up their hysterical accusations of racism.”

Azerrad continues with white nationalist talking points on race, crime and IQ, writing: “It is not racist to notice that blacks commit the majority of violent crimes in America, no more than it is to incarcerate convicted black criminals … There is no reason to expect equal outcomes between the races … In some elite and highly technical sectors in which there are almost no qualified blacks, color-blindness will mean no blacks.” Elsewhere, Azerrad writes: “[C]onservatives will need to root out from their souls the pathological pity for blacks, masquerading as compassion, that is the norm in contemporary America … This is most obvious in the widespread embrace of affirmative action (the lowering of standards to advance blacks) and the general reluctance to speak certain blunt but necessary truths about the pathologies plaguing black America – in particular, violent crime, fatherlessness, low academic achievement, nihilistic alienation, and the cult of victimhood.”

[...]

‘Do not subsidize childcare’

Helen Andrews, meanwhile, offers “three things we could do right now that would put a big dent in the multiplying lies that have come from feminists for the last forty years about women and careers”. Her first proposal is to “stop subsidizing college so much”, since, according to Andrews, in the 22-29 age group, “there are four women with college degrees … for every three men. That is going to lead to a lot of women with college degrees who do not end up getting married.” “Second,” Andrews continues, “the Right can do more to promote male-dominated industries. Reviving American manufacturing and cracking down on China’s unfair trade practices isn’t just an economic and national security issue; it’s a gender issue.” Her third proposal is “do not subsidize childcare” – since the fact that “many working moms are struggling” with childcare costs “might actually be good information the economy is trying to tell you”. Andrews is the print editor of the paleoconservative magazine the American Conservative and has previously written sympathetically about white supremacist minority regimes in Rhodesia – renamed Zimbabwe after white rule ended – and South Africa.

Scott Yenor claims in his chapter that before the 1960s, America lived under a “Straight Constitution, which honored enduring, monogamous, man-woman, and hence procreative marriage. It also stigmatized alternatives”. Yenor is a political science professor at Boise State University and a fellow at the Claremont Institute. He then claims: “We currently live under the Queer Constitution”, which “honors all manner of sex”, and under which “laws restricting contraception, sodomy, and fornication are, by its lights, unconstitutional”. Yenor claims: “These changes in law are but the first part of an effort to normalize and then celebrate premarital sex, recreational sex, men who have sex with men, childhood immodesty, masturbation, lesbianism, and all conceptions of transgenderism.”

Yenor says the state should intervene in citizens’ sex lives: “In the states, new obscenity laws for a more obscene world should be adopted. Pornography companies and websites should be investigated for their myriad public ills like sex trafficking, addictions, and ruined lives. The justice of anti-discrimination must be revisited.” In a separate essay co-written with Milikh, the editor, Yenor advocates in effect destroying the current education system and starting again. The essay includes a recommendation for school curriculums: “Students could start building obstacle courses at an early age, learning how to construct a wall and how to adapt the wall for climbing … Students could learn to build and shoot guns as part of a normal course of action in schools and learn how to grow crops and prepare them for meals.”

The Guardian reports that Trump VP pick and Ohio Senator JD Vance promoted far-right extremist views from Arthur Milkh’s Up From Conservatism essay book.

#J.D. Vance #Arthur Milikh #Up From Conservatism #Douglass Mackey #Postliberalism #Claremont Institute #Scott Yenor #Helen Andrews #Society For American Civic Renewal #David Azerrad #Antifeminism #John Fonte

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abstractpenny · 4 months ago

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Okay, so I've been thinking about it and I don't think we're actually all that cooked with Joe Biden dropping out.

If you don't know, Joe Biden dropped out of the 2024 presidential election. He is no longer running. BUT Kamala Harris, the current VP, is taking his place as the Democratic candidate for this election.

Looking at this, you may say something like "Oh no, we're done for. We're doomed." But if you think about it, this is actually an unbelievably intelligent and strategic move. In fact, this gives me a lot of hope that I didn't have before.

Obviously, this move is a last resort. They knew if they kept running with Biden they would lose. It means the Democratic party is pulling out a final weapon. But it's honestly a damn good one.

Before this happened, it seemed hopeless. Our two options were two old rich white men, one of which is an awful public speaker and the other is a literal criminal. And, because of that, you got people choosing not to vote or choosing to vote for Trump. Because which of the two evils is more appealing?

Donald Trump is a wonderful public speaker. He is charismatic and charming. He knows how to get people on his side. He's spent his whole life learning how to be a strong public speaker. That's what makes him scary. That's what made it so he won the 2016 election, so he almost won the 2020 election, and why he's still in the conversation today. He knows how to speak in an appealing way.

Joe Biden is honestly an awful public speaker. He struggles with gathering people to be on his side. Whether it's because he has a stutter/speech impediment or because he's dealing with dementia, he's still not good at public speaking. That makes him weak in things like debates and in politics. We saw that with our own eyes during the last debate.

Kamala Harris, while maybe not as strong of a speaker as Donald Trump, is very knowledgeable and self assured. She knows how to debate, she knows how to be a politician. She knows what she's doing. She's strong and confident. She may be our final hope.

A lot of why people aren't going in to vote is because it felt useless to do so, especially to people on the left. Donald Trump is out of the question for a lot of people, but Joe Biden isn't much better to many. They're both old as fuck, about 80 years old. They're both straight white cis men who have higher incomes. They're not aligned at all with what a lot of people on the left view.

Harris is significantly more relatable to a lot of people. She's a woman of colour. A good percentage of the United States population is one of those, either a person of colour or a woman. She's also younger than both Biden and Trump by almost 20 years. Yes, she's still 60 years old, but that's absolutely nothing compared to our other candidates.

Another thing that brings Biden out of favour with the left is how he handled and backed specific foreign wars (Ukraine and Palestine specifically). The Palestine Israel war is a very strong thing on the left, it's very talked about, and a lot of people view Biden as 'om the wrong side' of it. And, although Harris was the VP of the Biden administration, she's not very tied in to the wars from public view.

Harris is a great candidate other than a few minor minor minor things. She's leagues better than our dropped out ex candidate and our currently running candidate. One of the biggest hurdles for her, though, is going to be racism and sexism. It's always there. Oh, and the fact that her opponent had an assassination attempt on him, but that's a whole other can of worms.

Kamala Harris coming into this race may change things completely. We're not as screwed anymore. There's hope.

You. Whoever may read this. Go vote. It's crucial. Vote if you can. If you can't, get people to vote who can. This is the most important election in a long time.

We can win.

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deadpresidents · 4 months ago

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On the cliffs of Normandy, in a small holding area, the President of the United States was looking out at the English Channel. It was only six weeks ago, on the 80th anniversary of the D-Day landings, and President Biden had just finished his remarks at the American cemetery atop Omaha Beach. Guests had been congratulating him on the speech, but he didn't want to talk about himself. The moment was not about him; it was about the men who had fought and died there. "Today feels so large," he told me. "This may sound strange -- and I don't mean it to -- but when I was out there, I felt the honor of it, the sanctity of it. To speak for the American people, to speak over those graves, it's a profound thing." He turned from the view over the beaches and gestured back toward the war dead. "You want to do right by them, by the country."

Mr. Biden has spent a lifetime trying to do right by the nation, and he did so in the most epic of ways when he chose to end his campaign for re-election. His decision is one of the most remarkable acts of leadership in our history, an act of self-sacrifice that places him in the company of George Washington who also stepped away from the presidency. To put something ahead of one's immediate desires -- to give, rather than to try to take -- is perhaps the most difficult thing for any human being to do. And Mr. Biden has done just that.

To be clear: Mr. Biden is my friend, and it has been a privilege to help him when I can. Not because I am a Democrat -- I belong to neither party and have voted for both Democrats and Republicans -- but because I believe him to be a defender of the Constitution and a public servant of honor and of grace at a time when extreme forces threaten the nation. I do not agree with everything he has done or wanted to do in terms of policy. But I know him to be a good man, a patriot and a president who has met challenges all too similar to those Abraham Lincoln faced. Here is the story I believe history will tell of Joe Biden. With American democracy in an hour of maximum danger in Donald Trump's presidency, Mr. Biden stepped in the breach. He staved off an authoritarian threat at home, rallied the world against autocrats abroad, laid the foundations for decades of prosperity, managed the end of a once-in-a-century pandemic, successfully legislated on vital issues of climate and infrastructure and has conducted a presidency worthy of the greatest of his predecessors. History and fate brought him to the pinnacle in a late season in his life, and in the end, he respected fate -- and he respected the American people.

It is, of course, an incredibly difficult moment. Highs and lows, victories and defeats, joy and pain: It has been ever thus for Mr. Biden. In the distant autumn of 1972, he experienced the most exhilarating of hours -- election to the United States Senate at the age of 29. He was no scion; he earned it. The darkness fell: His wife and daughter were killed in an automobile accident that seriously injured his two sons, Beau and Hunter. But he endured, found purpose in the pain, became deeper, wiser, more empathetic. Through the decades, two presidential campaigns imploded, and in 2015 his son Beau, a lawyer and wonderfully promising young political figure, died of brain cancer after serving in Iraq.

Such tragedy would have broken many lesser men. Mr. Biden, however, never gave up, never gave in, never surrendered the hope that a fallen, frail and fallible world could be made better, stronger and more whole if people could summon just enough goodness and enough courage to build rather than tear down. Character, as the Greeks first taught us, is destiny, and Mr. Biden's character is both a mirror and a maker of his nation's. Like Franklin Roosevelt and Ronald Reagan, he is optimistic, resilient and kind, a steward of American greatness, a love of the great game of politics and, at heart, a hopeless romantic about the country that has given him so much.

Nothing bears out this point as well as his decision to let history happen in the 2024 election. Not matter how much people say that this was inevitable after the debate in Atlanta last month, there was nothing foreordained about an American President ending his political career for the sake of his country and his party. By surrendering the possibility of enduring in the seat of ultimate power, Mr. Biden has taught us a landmark lesson in patriotism, humility and wisdom.

Now the question comes to the rest of us. What will we the people do? We face the most significant of choices. Mr. Roosevelt framed the war whose dead Mr. Biden commemorated at Normandy in June as a battle between democracy and dictatorship. It is not too much to say that we, too, have what Mr. Roosevelt called a "rendezvous with destiny" at home and abroad. Mr. Biden has put country above self, the Constitution above personal ambition, the future of democracy above temporal gain. It is up to us to follow his lead.

-- "Joe Biden, My Friend and an American Hero" by Jon Meacham, New York Times, July 22, 2024.

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artfulacrostic · 1 year ago

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had my second high definition viewing of atsv in the theater today and here are my favorite details that i missed due to being overwhelmed on my first viewing:

LONG AF POST:

-gwen is literally wearing a rainbow shaped trans pride pin on her jacket with her prom outfit. she's soooo so canon trans <3

-captain stacy HAS A TRANS FLAG PATCH ON HIS POLICE UNIFORM JACKET?????? when i'm telling u my eyes popped out of my head 😳 SHES SO CANON TRANS!!!

-poster outside miles's guidance counselor's office reads: "visions sciences: telling you your story".

-parallel of miles's and gwen's dad kicking things out of general exasperation towards the beginning and end of the movie respectively

-when miles as spidey is talking to his dad and giving him advice (for himself) there's a reference to miles possibly reading vonnegut? (maybe in class??) "if this isn't nice what is" is a collection of kurt vonnegut's commencement speeches. (literally subtitled "advice to the young". the writers were extremely clever for this reference. if not reading it in class, miles has been searching up life advice on his own)

-i barely caught this but i'm PRETTY sure that in miles' room near his door there's a MICHELLE OBAMA presidential race sticker??? was president obama in the earth-1610 dimension michelle obama?? iconic if so

-fedex on earth-1610 is REDEX

-gayatri seems like they took elements of both gwen (police dad) and mj (young model) for her background as i believe i caught her visible on a "zomato" ad billboard (which appears to be the earth-50101 version of ubereats)

-i spent all of hobie's scenes trying to pick up the details of his many pins; but the only one that i could really make out with the quick shot changes besides the union jack pin was the one right above it, which is a three-leaf clover. i wondered if maybe it had some kind of significance to maybe irish independence or smth but i couldn't find anything online that backed that up so not sure what it means. if u know pls drop it in the replies.

-hobie's boots are definitely NOT ladder laced. i KNOW there is concept art and poster art of him with ladder laces but in the actual movie they are 100% crossed. also unlike the poster art, both boots have blue laces, not one blue, one yellow/orange. i wanted to be all on board the ladder lace code train but i'm pretty sure they just made his laces blue so that they could contrast against the red boots and be spidey colors. they probably abandoned the ladder lace part of the visual when someone realized what blue ladder laces meant in lace code. "HAS hobie killed a cop," you ask? given his comic backstory i'd say the odds are HIGH. but i would bet they didn't want people to think that since he's gone through canon event asm-90 ("a police captain close to spider-man is killed by falling rubble during a battle with a nemesis") that there's any possibility THAT was the cop he killed and he's proud of it (since it's supposed to be all abt character development from the ✨trauma✨ of the event)

-during the whole "intervention" scene, while all the other spider-people are facing directly in towards miles and miguel from wherever they are standing in the circle, hobie is the only one whose back is turned. he watches most of the scene over his shoulder. also, during a couple shots facing miles before the entire society of spiders show up, hobie is separated in the shot from all the other main spiders (Peter B, Gwen, Jess, etc) BY MILES. he is visible over one shoulder and everybody else is visible over the other. these two details are great signals of hobie having already MORALLY turned his back on miguel's authoritarianism, as well as giving a nice inverted "devil/angel on the shoulders" nod.

-peter b asks miguel to take a picture of him and mayday since it's her first chase; miguel brushes him off but mayday understands and uses her webshooter to click the camera button on peter b's phone and take a selfie without him noticing 😂😂😂 shes everything to me

-when miguel is pinning miles to the train, after gwen and peter b have caught up, there is a very fast moment when miles calls for help ("PETER!!") and peter doesn't reply to him, but calls out to miguel to calm down (smth like that) instead 🥲 peter for the love of god step up your mentor game and look out for this kid i can't handle it anymore

-when gwen takes the watch hobie made her out of the box, the screen is briefly visible and reads "project botleg". bootleg -> bot -> "botleg"; I SEE YOU HOBIE. people think he's so cool (and he is!!) but he's also just as much of a dork as all the other spiders. what a goofball

-in miles-42's room, a speed bag/speed ball/maize ball is attached to his wall near the door. there are other substantial differences to their rooms, but i think this is clearly a reference to uncle aaron-42's large presence in miles-42's life, given the association from both movies of aaron with the punching bag and miles getting guidance from him/looking to him for support.

-in addition to all the miles-1610 vs miles-42 prowler vs spidey reflection imagery in the end credits, guess who else has several moments of flashing from spider-man colors (red and black at least) to prowler colors (purple and green)?? miguel, that's who. miguel and miles-42/uncle aaron-42 team-up in beyond the spiderverse? or just an extra parallel for the antagonists sharing goals/possibly methods?

OKAY ANYWAY if ppl want i can try and dig up images of some of these but i figured that would make this post long af so that's all for now folks!! go see across the spider verse again and marvel at how much more fine detail you find like me 🕸🕸🕸

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warabidakihime · 4 months ago

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Rules and Roses Chapter 5

★ characters: kibutsuji muzan x reader x akaza

★ plot summary: Kibutsuji Muzan has finally decided to expand his empire, and the way he intends to do so is by running for the highest political position. With you, his darling wife, at his side, he believes he can achieve and have everything the world has to offer. He is, after all, the Phoenix of Phario.

★ fic playlist: sometimes, same day, as time stops, wolf’s song (this is also the vision board for the fic).

★ content warnings : implied violence, self-harm and abuse, profanities, toxic relationships, smut.

★ Previous Chapter

a/n:

i MIGHT have indulged this chapter ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

and i most definitely had a change of heart as to where this story will go ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა

as always, comments are always welcomes and super appreciated!

"Good day, Azudellin! Thank you so much for the warm hospitality you bestowed upon us. It's truly an honor to stand before you today in this beautiful province, surrounded by such a passionate and vibrant community."

Muzan said proudly as he stood at the stage with the rest of his political party sitting just behind him, who were also gazing at the huge crowd that gathered today in the city proper to attend the party's town hall. He stood there with a dashing smile on his face, patiently waiting for the applause and cheers to subside before speaking again.

Meanwhile, you were sitting in the front row, mirroring your husband's smile as you listened intently to his speech. For a brief moment, he turned to you, and a giggle slipped through your lips as you witnessed his smile getting bigger.

"Good luck," you mouthed to him, to which he subtly and cleverly responded with a wink before turning to the vast crowd once again.

"I’ve traveled far and wide across our great nation, but each time I come here, I am reminded of what makes our country truly special. It’s the people—the heart and soul of our nation. And tonight, I want to speak to you not just as a presidential candidate, but as someone who deeply believes in the potential of every single person here."

Since you were at a fairly far place from home and currently a part of a really huge crowd, Muzan took it upon himself to double up the security in the vicinity, not just for your safety but for everybody's as well. Not that he has enemies (he's aware of) that are out to get him; it's just that elections in general are a time where anything can happen, and so it's still better to be safe than sorry.

Akaza and Kokushibo are standing on each side of the stage upfront so that they have a fish-eye view of the whole venue, and god forbid something happens. Your two most trusted allies are just a few feet away from the both of you.

"I’ve heard your voices, your concerns, and your dreams. From the stories shared with me in the fields, to the struggles faced by our small businesses, to the aspirations of our young people yearning for a brighter future—your voices have been a guiding light for my campaign.

Azudellin is a province rich in history and potential. But like many places, you’ve faced challenges—economic downturns, educational disparities, and the need for better infrastructure. I know that these challenges are not just statistics; they are real issues that affect your daily lives. And I am here to tell you that change is not just a possibility—it is a certainty if we work together."

As your husband got into his speech, his passion for his cause was evident in his face, and the crowd started to clap for him. Some of them even stood out and cheered loudly for him. Chills went down your spine as the cheers got louder and louder.

Then, Muzan raised his hand to calm the applause and cheers, despite feeling elated at their passionate support for him. His smile never left his face as he continued his speech, his voice laced with passion and strong will.

"Thank you. We must remember that real change begins at the grassroots level. It begins with our children having access to quality education, with our farmers getting the support they need, and with every worker having a fair opportunity to succeed.

When I think about Azudellin, I think about resilience. I think about the community spirit that binds you all together. It’s in the way you come together to support each other during tough times and how you celebrate each other’s successes. That spirit is what will drive our nation forward."

The crowd broke out into another round of cheers and applause, and this time, you were cheering with them. You stood up proudly and gave your husband a warm round of applause. Your eyes were slightly misty because you were also incredibly moved by Muzan's speech. So much pride surged within your veins as you continued to watch him in awe. You were so damn proud of the man he's become all through the years.

Images from the past flashed through your mind when you and Muzan were still in college. You could still remember how his eyes would twinkle each time he would share his dream to you and how much his voice carried so much hope.

From the stage, Muzan saw you wiping your tears. You were so immersed in your little trip down memory lane that you couldn't help but get emotional. His eyes and overall expression softened, while his heart swelled with so much joy that he himself was this close to getting emotional himself. And the cheering crowd wasn't helping; they kept getting louder and louder as the seconds went by.

Once again, he raised his hand to calm everyone down, taking a deep breath to ground himself before facing the crowd again.

"I see the hope in your eyes, and I feel the determination in your hearts. This election is not about one person; it’s about all of us. It’s about what we can achieve together. Every vote you cast, every voice you raise, every action you take—it all contributes to shaping the future of our province and our nation.

I promise you this: I will not be a president who stands apart from you. I will stand with you, listen to you, and fight for you. Together, we will build a future where no one is left behind, where opportunity is abundant, and where our values of unity and compassion guide every decision we make."

From his post, Akaza glanced subtly at Muzan, who's clearly reveling in the love and support he's getting. Then he looked at the crowd; everybody was now on their feet, applauding loudly and chanting his name. Akaza couldn't help but feel immensely impressed by his boss' charisma and command on stage. It's like it was written in the sky that Muzan was born to be on stage. Born to be in the spotlight.

At this point, Muzan couldn't help but flash everybody with the biggest smile he has ever worn in front of everybody, but to you, that was a smile you'd fallen in love with twelve years ago. You already saw that smile a bunch of times. From the day you said yes to him when he was courting you, the day you celebrated your first anniversary, when you said yes to his proposal, and when the priest announced you as husband and wife.

'Hakuji Soyama x L/N Y/N - Just got engaged! (03/03/2015)'

As that flashed in your mind, you stopped dead in your tracks. It has been a few days since that day, and sadly, it has continued to haunt you. From time to time, either the photo or the words scribbled at the back would flash in your mind, making you rather uneasy and agitated. As much as you wanted to deny it, it was clear as day as to who you saw in that photo.

"Thank you, Azudellin. Your spirit has filled me with renewed strength and conviction. Let us walk this path together, with hope in our hearts and determination in our souls. The future is ours to build, and I believe with all my heart that we will build it together.

Thank you, and may we continue to forge ahead with courage and unity!"

As Muzan finished his speech strongly, the crowd erupted into cheers and applause once again, many of them even coming forward to shake hands with him and express their utmost support for him. The loud cheers woke you up from your stupor. Looking up, you saw your beloved husband get showered with so much love and support. Meanwhile, Akaza and Kokushibo were doing their best to do crowd control.

At that moment, your eyes darted from your husband to your personal bodyguard multiple times before Muzan's voice called out to you. From his point of view, you must be feeling quite overwhelmed given that there's a high volume of people walking and running from all sides, and so he took it upon himself to call you to him, but the loud crowd made it impossible for you to hear him.

"Madam," Akaza said while reaching out to you to guide you to Muzan.

You gingerly took his hand and let him guide you away from the roaring crowd. Akaza couldn't help but frown a little upon seeing the rather unusual look on your face. He knows you tend to get overwhelmed with crowds, but he can't help but assume that something else is plaguing your mind.

Muzan shared his sentiment as well, and so he called out to Akaza, "Escort her inside! I'll be right there."

Akaza bowed and uttered a 'yes, sir.' before proceeding to guide you out of harm's way.

"Are you okay? Do you need something?" Akaza asked you while you took a seat.

You smiled sheepishly and said, "A glass of water would be nice."

Akaza nodded politely and excused himself so he could fetch you your drink. While waiting, Muzan emerged from the door along with his political party. You could hear the noise from outside subsiding, which meant the people were gradually leaving now that the townhall was over.

Muzan immediately went to you, kneeling in front of you while wearing a worried expression on his face.

"Hey, darling, are you okay?" he said, one of his hands cupping one side of your face and his thumb caressing your cheeks tenderly as he tends to you.

You nodded and smiled fondly at your husband.

"I'm fine. I was just a bit overwhelmed earlier. You did a little too well back there with your speech that everybody was on their toes shouting their hearts for you," you joked.

Muzan snorted and chuckled at your joke, "Did I?"

"Mhm. Show off~"

Your husband smirked at your joke, pinching your cheek playfully as he replied, "How can I make it up to you then?"

"Madam, your water," Akaza said, unknowingly disrupting your sweet moment with your husband. You gratefully took the water bottle and mouthed a thank you; meanwhile, Muzan got up and sat next to you.

After taking a swig of your drink, you turned to Muzan and said, "Since it would take us six hours to get back to Areswood, can we stay the night here, my love?"

"Hm? Sure. I don't see why not."

Smiling gratefully at this, you leaned forward and gave your husband a peck on the lips, to which Muzan audaciously chased after your lips when you pulled away and captured them again for another sweet kiss.

"I was also hoping we could go on a date with just the two of us, like without Akaza or Kokushibo tailing behind us."

Muzan was slightly taken aback by your request; his face was rather unreadable. There were a lot of things racing in his mind, mostly your safety, but you woke him up from his stupor when you pressed on, "Please?"

After a few seconds of you doing your damnedest to give your husband the cute puppy face, he yielded. A fond smile danced on Muzan's lips as he looked pointedly at you.

"Your wish is my command."

You broke out into a huge smile and tackled your husband into a tight hug, almost pressing your whole body against his, totally not caring people were around.

"You're the best!" you exclaimed, to which Muzan responded with a fond laugh as he reciprocated your hug with just as much passion.

He then placed a kiss on top of your head before pulling away from the hug to face both Akaza and Kokushibo. As much as he wanted to revert back to his stoic self, the smile that was tugging at the corners of his lip was winning, as you and the townhall had put him in such a good mood.

"Tomorrow, have the day off. Azudellin is vastly big, so take the opportunity to roam around. I'll give you some pocket money. Just have your phones open just in case of emergencies."

"Yes, sir. Thank you." Both Akaza and Kokushibo responded politely.

Muzan nodded. "We're done here, so have the car ready so we can all return back to the hotel."

He was met with another chorus of 'Yes, sir.' before the two of them hurried back to the parking lot to get the car ready to escort you back to the hotel.

Muzan watched as Akaza and Kokushibo walked off. When they opened the door, the two of you noticed that the noise from outside had completely died down and the ambiance in the entire place had become more peaceful.

With a soft sigh of contentment, Muzan turned his attention back to you.

"Ready to go?"

You nodded happily and said, "Yes."

As you both stood up, ready to leave the venue, Muzan placed a protective arm around you. "I must admit, I am looking forward to our date. Thinking about it now, it really has been a while since we last went on a proper one, no?"

You nodded in agreement, letting Muzan guide you through the now-thinning crowd. Akaza and Kokushibo were already waiting by the car, the vehicle's engine rumbling softly in anticipation of the journey ahead.

While walking side by side, you gave his waist a loving squeeze and even stopped him for a moment to give him another kiss on the lips, and your husband immediately picked up on the longing that lingered in the sweet gesture.

"It really has. To say that I've been missing you is an understatement, to be quite honest."

Before stepping into the car, Muzan glanced at you one last time, his expression a mix of excitement and tenderness. "I feel the same way, Y/N."

"Let's make the most of our free time here, hm?"

"Of course, and I'll also see to it that we go on dates as much as we can when we get back home."

You smiled at this, clearly happy and thankful for Muzan's thoughtfulness. You really are the luckiest woman in the world.

"I'd love that."

With that, Muzan opened the car door for you, and as you both settled inside, he turned to Akaza and Kokushibo. "Take us to the hotel, please. And remember, enjoy the day off. I trust you’ll keep things under control."

"Understood, sir," Akaza responded as he slid into the driver's seat, and Kokushibo took the front passenger seat.

As the car began to move, you turned to Muzan, your eyes shining with pride. "Your speech today was incredible, my love. You really have a way of connecting with people. I could see how moved everyone was."

Muzan smiled, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. "Thank you, darling. It means a lot to hear that from you. I put my heart into that speech, hoping to reach everyone in the crowd."

"You did more than reach them," you said softly. "You inspired them. I’ve never been prouder of you. Seeing you up there, speaking with such passion and conviction... it reminded me of why I fell in love with you."

Muzan's eyes softened, and he leaned in to kiss your forehead. "I’m glad I could make you proud. Your support means everything to me. I couldn’t do any of this without you by my side."

You blushed at his words, feeling the sincerity behind them. "I’ll always be here for you, Muzan. No matter what."

The car glided smoothly through the evening, and Muzan couldn’t help but glance at you with a satisfied smile.

"Tonight, let's celebrate. Not just the success of the town hall, but us—our partnership, our love. I promise, tonight will be special."

You smiled back at him, feeling a warmth spread through your chest.

"I’m looking forward to it."

From the driver's seat, Akaza's eyes remained focused on the road, but a faint smile was dancing on his lips, but it immediately disappeared the moment he realized what he was doing.

But he couldn't help it.

He couldn't stop himself from feeling genuinely happy for you at this very moment. And he couldn't help but feel admiration for the man he swore was the bane of his and your existence.

He bit his lips as he continued to drive back to the hotel. On the outside, he remained stoic, but from within, in the depths of his heart, he feels incredibly conflicted.

"Akaza, what's wrong?" Muzan asked from the backseat. It was dark in the car, so no one could see how piercing his gaze was.

Akaza merely shook his head, not wanting to lose focus on his driving. "Nothing, sir."

Muzan's eyes narrowed slightly, his intuition telling him otherwise. "Are you sure?"

Akaza shook his head rather sheepishly.

"It's just... I noticed Madam seemed a bit off earlier. I wanted to make sure everything was alright."

Muzan glanced at you, his expression softening as he saw the concern in Akaza's eyes.

"She was a bit overwhelmed, but she's fine now. You know how these events can be."

Akaza nodded in agreement.

"Of course, sir. I just wanted to be sure. We can't afford any mistakes."

Muzan's gaze softened a bit as he saw the genuine concern in Akaza's eyes. "Your vigilance is appreciated, Akaza. But sometimes, it's just the weight of the moment. Thank you for looking out for her."

Akaza relaxed slightly at Muzan's reassurance.

"Understood, sir. I'll keep a close watch."

Kokushibo, who had been silent until now, chimed in from the passenger seat. "Akaza's right to be cautious, but I agree with you, sir. It seemed like a momentary lapse. We have everything under control."

Muzan nodded, feeling more at ease. "Very well. Let's focus on getting to the hotel. We all need some rest after today."

As the car continued its smooth journey, Muzan squeezed your hand gently, offering you a reassuring smile. "We're almost there, darling. Just a bit longer."

You smiled back.

"Thank you, Muzan. And thank you, Akaza. I appreciate your concern."

Akaza glanced at you through the rearview mirror, his expression softening. "You're welcome, Madam."

The car finally pulled up to the hotel, and as you stepped out, Muzan wrapped an arm around your shoulders, guiding you inside. Akaza and Kokushibo followed closely, their watchful eyes ensuring your safety.

Once inside your suite, Muzan turned to you with a tender smile.

"Now, let's enjoy our evening and tomorrow. Just you and me."

You nodded, feeling the stress of the day melt away.

"I couldn't ask for anything more."

The date was fantastic.

Azudellin was a feast for the senses. Grand, old structures lined the streets, their intricate carvings whispering tales of Phario's glorious past. You and Muzan, both art lovers, wandered hand-in-hand, marveling at the architecture.

At one point, a group of tourists recognized you, but instead of rushing over, they gave a polite nod and a smile, respecting your privacy. You sent them a grateful smile in return.

The bustling market was your next stop. Unlike the grandeur of the historical sites, the market was a riot of colors, sounds, and smells. The air hung heavy with the aroma of spices and sizzling meat. Muzan chuckled as you excitedly dove into the throng, bargaining for souvenirs.

You emerged with a delightful mix of treasures: a hand-painted fan for Kokushibo, a woven scarf for Akaza, some trinkets for the maids and guards back at home, and of course, presents for your friends as well.

"Don't forget about me," Muzan teased, his voice warm.

You winked. "Of course not."

Your fingers brushed against a rack of clothes, and then you spotted it—a button-down shirt made from a fabric that seemed to shimmer in the sunlight. It was a perfect shade of blue, and you knew exactly who it would look good on.

Muzan slipped the top on, and your breath hitched. The rich blue brought out the vibrant contrast with his scarlet eyes, and the fabric skimmed his toned physique.

A blush crept up your cheeks as you stammered, "It looks amazing! Absolutely perfect."

Muzan's lips curled into a satisfied smirk. He struck a pose, eliciting a giggle from you. The rest of the afternoon was spent exploring hidden alleys and sharing stolen kisses, the joy of the day bubbling over in every interaction.

Dinner was the perfect ending to a perfect day.

The restaurant, renowned for its seafood, boasted a breathtaking view of the Azudellin coastline. As you savored the melt-in-your-mouth fish and the tangy local salad, you couldn't help but steal glances at Muzan across the table.

Gratitude filled your heart for this man, who brought so much love and laughter into your life.

The fairy lights strung across the restaurant balcony twinkled like captured stars, casting a warm glow over the table. The gentle sea breeze carried the murmur of waves and the scent of salt, creating a serenely romantic atmosphere.

You took a sip of your mango iced tea, letting the cool sweetness dance on your tongue.

"This has been such a fantastic day," you said, leaning back in your chair with a contented sigh. "Azudellin is simply amazing."

Muzan, seated across from you, mirrored your smile. His warm, scarlet eyes sparkled with genuine affection. "Absolutely," he agreed, taking a slow bite of his fish. "Though the scenery pales in comparison to the beautiful sight before me."

A blush crept up your cheeks at his unexpected compliment. "Muzan," you chided playfully, "you always know what to say."

He chuckled, making a rich, rumbling sound. "Flattery? No, sweetheart. It's the truth. Seeing you so happy and so engaged with everything today...it brings me a joy I never thought possible."

His words sent a thrill through you. It wasn't every day that Muzan, a man known for his sharp intellect and driven nature, spoke so openly about his emotions, but then again, behind closed doors, you always see this side of him, but even then, when he speaks from his heart, it never fails to sweep you off of your feet.

You reached across the table, your fingers intertwining with his. "Me too, Muzan. I wouldn't have wanted to spend this day with anyone else."

A comfortable silence settled between you for a moment, punctuated only by the soft clinking of silverware.

"Remember that little market stall overflowing with fans?" you asked, a smile tugging at your lips. "I almost forgot how much you struggled with the heat."

Muzan's lips twitched. "An astute observation, my love. Although witnessing your bargaining prowess was...interesting, to say the least."

You laughed, the sound tinkling like windchimes.

"Oh, come on now, it wasn't that bad! Besides, you can't deny the satisfaction of getting a good deal."

"Perhaps," he conceded, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Though, I daresay the look on that vendor's face when you countered his offer was priceless."

You both dissolved into laughter, the memory of your playful haggling warming the night air. As the laughter subsided, Muzan leaned closer, his voice dropping to a tender whisper.

"You know, Y/N," he began, his scarlet eyes searching yours, "this day has been exactly what I needed. Honestly, it was a brilliant call suggesting this date."

A blush crept up your cheeks. "Really?"

He squeezed your hand, the warmth radiating through you.

"Absolutely. The campaign has been all-consuming lately, and quite honestly, there have been a few times where I felt overwhelmed. As much as I don't want to admit it, but as the day of the election draws closer, I can't help but feel nervous."

His gaze softened further.

"So seeing you so happy and so carefree today... it reminded me why I'm doing all this."

Your heart ached with a mix of joy and a touch of sadness. "I know this election means the world to you, Muzan. It's always been your biggest dream."

A flicker of regret crossed his features. "And it is, darling. But maybe I haven't been as good at showing you just how much you mean to me in all the craziness. These past few weeks, I've missed..." He trailed off, searching for the right words.

Taking a deep breath, you placed your free hand over his. "You've missed us, haven't you?"

You weren't accusing; you were just stating the truth.

A faint smile touched his lips.

"Yes. I've missed us. I've missed these quiet moments, these shared laughs. Truth be told, I've missed you terribly."

His voice softened further, tinged with a hint of apology.

"I know you've been holding back a bit, wanting to be supportive, and for that, I apologize. But please, don't ever feel like you can't tell me how you're feeling, even when things are hectic."

His words washed over you like a wave of relief and understanding, and as cliché as it sounds, you're almost certain you've fallen for him all over again.

All the wariness and anxiety that damn photo has been giving you these past few days have completely vanished. That old lady must've mistaken you for someone else, and there's also the possibility that the woman in that photo was just someone who resembles you, because you honestly could not picture yourself being in love with someone else.

Muzan is the love of your life, and he will always be. You've built a life together, filled with shared dreams, laughter, and moments like these that reaffirm your bond. The thought of anyone else simply doesn't fit into the picture of your heart.

You pushed the doubts aside, focusing on the here and now.

The truth was in the way he looked at you, the way he held your hand, and the way he spoke with such sincerity.

Nothing else mattered.

You were certain of your love and of the future you were building together. As you squeezed Muzan's hand a little tighter, you knew that no photograph or fleeting worry could ever shake the foundation of the life you were creating.

You looked at your husband with misty eyes and a huge smile on your face and said, "I love you so much, Muzan."

His expression softened, his thumb gently stroking your hand. "And I love you more than words can express, my love."

With a tender smile, Muzan rose from his seat and walked around the table to stand beside you. He took your hands and gently pulled you to your feet. Under the fairy lights, with the ocean as your backdrop, he wrapped his arms around you, drawing you close.

"Let's make a promise," he murmured, his breath warm against your ear.

You tilted your head back to meet his gaze. "What promise?"

"No matter how busy life gets, no matter what challenges come our way, we'll always make time for moments like this—moments that remind us of why we fell in love in the first place."

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but they were tears of happiness. "I promise," you whispered.

He leaned down, pressing his lips to yours in a tender, lingering kiss. The world around you seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in your own little bubble of love and contentment.

When the kiss ended, you rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

"Thank you for today, Muzan. I had so much fun."

He held you tighter and mirrored your smile.

"Anything and everything for you, Y/N.”

“What did you just say?”

Muzan's voice was dangerously calm as he looked at Akaza, his expression unreadable. But as the words sank in, his face turned sour.

“You're resigning? Why?”

Akaza winced but held his ground.

“No reason in particular, but I’ve been doing some thinking, and I figured it’s time for me to look for other opportunities elsewhere.”

Silence enveloped Muzan’s personal office in your mansion. Your husband stared pointedly at your bodyguard, clearly flabbergasted by the sudden decision to resign from his post. It was all too sudden, and rather... unexpected.

Akaza shared the same sentiment.

He hadn’t planned on resigning anytime soon; he was hellbent on seeing everything through, even if a bitter end awaited him. But after last weekend in Azudellin, an epiphany struck him.

Maybe it was for the best that he stood down and gave up.

He didn’t want to, but seeing you so happy and in love, maybe... Just maybe, it was okay to give you up as long as you were happy.

“I’m not allowing it.”

Muzan’s commanding voice snapped Akaza out of his thoughts. He looked up and finally noticed the fury on Muzan's face.

“We’re in the middle of the election season. You know damn well Y/N’s safety is at stake because of my candidacy, and you know how risky it is to entrust your job to someone else, Akaza. You’re the best at what you do, and you’re the only one I trust to keep her safe.”

“Sir Muzan, I understand, but—”

“No, you don’t understand!”

Muzan's voice rose, echoing through the office.

“You don’t get to walk away just because you’re having second thoughts. Your loyalty is not something you can just toss aside on a whim.”

Akaza took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

“It's not on a whim. I've thought this through. I just—”

“You just what?”

Muzan interrupted, his eyes blazing.

“You think you can just leave and everything will be fine? You think I’ll find someone who can protect her like you do? I demand your commitment, Akaza. And I will not let you walk away when we need you the most.”

Akaza’s resolve wavered under Muzan’s intense gaze. He had never seen his employer this furious. “Sir, I—”

“No!” Muzan’s voice was thunderous now.

“You’re not resigning. You’re not leaving. You will stay, and you will do your job. Because if anything happens to Y/N, it will be on your head. Do you understand me?”

Akaza’s shoulders slumped, the weight of Muzan's words crashing down on him. He couldn't argue with the man because, quite frankly, he did have a very valid point.

Not just you, but Muzan also has a target on his back solely because of the elections, and this is not the time for any big changes, especially with everything so volatile. His resignation could create a significant gap in your security, jeopardizing not only his safety but yours as well.

Any disruption could have far-reaching consequences.

“I understand, sir,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll stay.”

Muzan’s anger slowly dissipated, but his gaze remained stern.

“I'll let you go once the election is over and only once the coast is clear. But until then, I expect you to do your job and maintain the highest level of vigilance and dedication. ”

Akaza nodded solemnly. “Understood, sir.”

Muzan took a deep breath, his voice softening but still carrying a sharp edge. “I know this isn’t easy for you, and I appreciate your commitment. But I need you to understand that this isn’t just about personal preference. It’s about the safety of everyone involved, especially Y/N.”

Akaza met Muzan’s gaze, feeling the weight of his words. “I get it, sir. I won't let you down."

Muzan nodded, though his expression remained serious.

“Good. Remember, this isn’t just about duty. It’s about trust. I trust you to handle this responsibility, and I expect you to honor that trust.”

Akaza straightened, his resolve returning to his stance. “Yes sir."

As he turned to leave the office, Muzan watched him with a mixture of frustration and reluctant respect. The door clicked softly behind Akaza, and he was left alone with his thoughts.

Muzan sighed deeply, turning back to his desk, though his gaze lingered on the door where Akaza had just exited. The mounting pressure was more than he could handle, and in a moment of frustration, he struck out.

Against his will, the weight of exhaustion and doubt crept into his veins. He had always prided himself on his strength and capability, but the constant pressure of running Obelisk Kibutsuji, combined with the relentless demands of his political campaign, had worn him down.

The accumulated fatigue was making him question his ability to keep everything under control, and Akaza’s sudden resignation attempt pushed him to his breaking point.

It felt like a slap in the face, and Muzan simply couldn’t afford the added stress.

The fatigue was beginning to overwhelm him, while imposter syndrome whispered doubts that he was failing and couldn’t manage the responsibilities tied to his ambitions.

“Ah, this isn’t good,” Muzan said to himself, shaking his head in an attempt to rid himself of any unwanted distraction.

But the frustration was too much.

With a surge of anger, he brought his fist down hard on the table, leaving a nasty dent in the furniture and a painful bruise and cut on his knuckles. He winced at the pain, clenching his jaw as he tried to regain his composure. His heart raced, the pain amplifying his frustration, and he felt a moment of regret for not finding a healthier outlet for his emotions.

Just then, you appeared at the doorway, your face etched with concern.

“Hey, are you okay?”

At the sound of your voice, Muzan forced a small smile onto his face, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Your timing always amazed him, even in moments like this. He turned to see you standing there, your worry evident on your face. You gasped as you saw the blood seeping through his clenched fist, your heart sinking.

His gaze fell to his injured hand, still throbbing from the impact.

"You’ve hurt yourself," you said, rushing over to him with a frown. "What happened?"

Muzan tried to downplay it. "I'm fine. It’s nothing. Just... got caught up in the moment."

He tried to brush off your concern with a wave of his hand, but his pained expression betrayed him. Gently, you placed a hand on his shoulder, your touch tender and soothing. The sight of his injured hand and the distressed expression on his face had alarmed you.

"Oh, God, your hand is swelling." You winced as you examined his injured hand, and then you turned to him with a disapproving frown, but more than anything, you were hurting for him. "Care to tell me what happened?"

He quickly covered his hand with his other, though the damage was evident. "It's nothing, really. Just a moment of frustration," he explained, his voice calm but with a hint of weariness.

"It's nothing, but you look like that? Muzan, what if you got seriously hurt?" you scolded him, your voice laced with concern. "You know I worry about you."

He sighed, avoiding your gaze. "It’s just... the stress. The campaign, Obelisk Kibutsuji, everything. It’s been a lot, and I didn’t handle it well."

You gently cupped his face with your hands, brushing a thumb over his cheek.

"I understand that you're under a lot of pressure, but hurting yourself isn’t the answer. If you need to let out some steam, you can vent to me, you know?"

Muzan closed his eyes briefly, savoring the comforting touch. The warmth of your presence helped ease the tension in his shoulders and the gnawing stress that had been building.

"I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. It’s just been overwhelming."

You nodded, giving him a reassuring smile. "I know, and I’m here to help. But please, stop resorting to things like this, my love. I wouldn't know what to do if you seriously get hurt."

Muzan opened his eyes, meeting your gaze with a mixture of relief and gratitude. "Thank you. I really appreciate your support. It means more than you know."

You leaned in and kissed his forehead softly. "I’ll always be here for you. If you need a break or just a moment to breathe, let me know. We can go for a walk or just spend some quiet time together."

Muzan wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. "I’m grateful for you. I promise to take some time to rest and not let the stress consume me."

You held him a little longer, feeling the weight of his stress ease slightly in your embrace. "Good. And remember, if you ever need to talk or just want to escape the chaos for a bit, I’m always here for you."

"Thank you, Y/N," Muzan said wholeheartedly, his voice reflecting the sincerity of his gratitude.

You smiled, feeling the depth of his appreciation.

"Well, I’ve got a few errands to run today, but if you need anything, just call me." Your voice sounded anything but resolute as you hesitated, glancing at the dented desk and his swollen hand.

The pang of reluctance to leave him alone in this state was evident.

“Actually, maybe I should stay a bit longer and help you get settled. I’m really not comfortable leaving you like this.”

Muzan shook his head gently, a reassuring smile returning to his lips. "I appreciate it, really, but I’m fine now. I don’t want you to miss your commitments because of me."

You looked at him with a mixture of concern and understanding. “Alright, but promise me you'll be careful and take it easy. If you need anything or just want to talk, don’t hesitate to call.”

“I promise,” Muzan said, his voice steady.

“Thank you. I’ll call Aoi to help you treat your hand,” you said, with a last, lingering look at him before turning to leave.

“I’m fine, darling. I have a first-aid kit here in my office. You can have her bring me ice instead.”

You nodded, smiling at your husband before giving him a kiss on the lips, hoping it would somehow relieve some of the burden he’s carrying on his shoulders. “Alright.”

With a final, affectionate glance, you gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze before heading towards the door. As you left, you couldn’t shake the feeling of wanting to stay longer, but you trusted him to handle things.

Muzan watched you go, feeling calmer and more grounded. As the door closed behind you, he gingerly walked to the corner of his office where he kept a first aid kit for emergencies.

With a determined sigh, he bandaged his hand, mentally steeling himself to face the rest of the day with renewed resolve. After treating his hand, he returned to his desk, ready to tackle the tasks ahead with renewed clarity and determination.

taglist: @bffrrufr @unadulteratedhandsbanditdreamer @unlikelybananawerewolf

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yesterdayiwrote · 11 days ago

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Trick or treat gewis edition pls?🧡

This is part of a (currently) abandoned WIP, and so I will reward you with a longish (albeit unbeta'd and unedited) excerpt under the cut...

This was my Tour Manager George/Music Superstar Lewis AU...

Waking up with a headache was never a great start to the day.

Waking up with a headache naked was always an even worse way to start the day.

George clutched his forehead tightly, pressing his face deeper into the soft pillow and willing the dull throb behind his eyes to dissipate sooner rather than later.

He groaned softly, the room filling with the distant sounds of honking horns, revving engines and rush hour traffic, his mind racing faster as he contemplated waking up and facing reality.

His phone vibrated on the nightstand and George groped around blindly, cursing under his breath as a discarded bottle of Dom Perignon rolled onto the carpet, luckily already drained of its contents. He peered at the screen, hundreds of notifications paling into insignificance as he read the latest text from his boss, reminding him of their meeting scheduled later that day.

George rolled onto his back, finally taking in the sight of the room around him, snapshots of the previous night flooding back to him, leaving him with an impending sense of dread as his memories assembled into a somewhat more lucid sequence of events.

He sat up slowly, rubbing roughly at his eyes with his fingertips, letting out a soft groan as he confirmed his worst fears.

The Presidential Suite of the Central Park Ritz Carlton looked like a crime had been committed within it, ransacked in the midst of some kind of smash and grab robbery gone wrong. Clothes lay strewn across the floor, in a Hansel and Gretel-esque breadcrumb trail from the door to the bed. One set noticeably more expensive looking than the other.

A half drunk bottle of Grey Goose stood on the coffee table beside two shot glasses, one tipped over, spilling liquid across the glass tabletop. Three more bottles of champagne sat unopened and amongst them all stood four shining Grammy Awards. A sign of victory and success and the culmination of years of hard work. It had been worth celebrating.

If only it had been his name on them.

XNDA was at the top of his game right now, finally reaping the rewards of hours of blood, sweat and quite literally tears. Weeks away from home and loved ones on the promotional trail, long nights in recording studios and on video shoots, smiling through the lows to ensure every interview was his best. When he'd stood on stage at Madison Square Gardens the previous night, glowing under the lights as he accepted the Album of The Year award for his debut album +44 (along with Best New Artist, Best Progressive R&B Album and Best R&B Performance ), finally accepted and validated by his peers, George couldn't have felt prouder.

He'd never set out to be a personal assistant, but his organisational skills and his eye for detail had made it a perfect fit for him. It never felt like a chore, instead he felt privileged to be part of the inner circle. In awe of the other man's abilities, but an integral cog in the machine making sure everyone else got to appreciate them too.

To him he wasn't XNDA, global music superstar and icon in the making. To him he was just Lewis. They were friends but more than that they were a team. A deep, complex understanding of each other that had been borne of hours on the road in enforced company. Learning to work together but also learning how to support each other. They had boundaries, although George was somewhat concerned that what had transpired after Lewis invited him into his hotel room to celebrate and delivered a sweet, heartfelt and maybe somewhat tipsy thank you speech to him, had maybe crossed those. He hoped not irreversibly.

George slid slowly from between the soft sheets, rolling his neck and relishing in the soft click. He felt a scratching sensation across his stomach, glancing down in confusion. A tut of disgust escaped his lips as he peeled a torn condom foil from his abdomen, his skin still sticky with dried champagne and, he was sure, "other residue".

He padded softly across the floor, scooping up his discarded boxers from where they were hooked across the back of the armchair, unable to hide his smirk as a vignette of the previous night reappeared in his mind. Deep in the throes of...passion? Lust? Ill-advised drunken stupor? He wasn't quite sure which yet, but the gorgeous sight of Central Park and New York at night had served as a beautiful backdrop that even his hangover couldn't quell the memory of.

George collected his other remaining clothes, balling them up into his arms as he tiptoed across to the bathroom, stepping over at least two used condoms on his way. He paused in the doorway, glancing back at the bed and sighed, taking in one last look at Lewis still sleeping peacefully in the sheets and knowing that when he came back out, last night had to be consigned to history and it was back to reality.

It had to be. For his sanity at least.

He locked the bathroom door behind himself and groaned, dropping his clothes down on the tiled floor, resisting the urge to drop down and join them. The shower cubicle on the other side of the room was ridiculously large, in keeping with the rest of the room, and he fiddled with the water taps, trying to get the temperature just right.

He caught sight of himself in the large mirror, his hips mottled with the soft bruise of fingertips. His collarbone littered with the purple mark of hickeys. He was pretty sure he had a turtle neck in his suitcase, provided he could get to it without anyone seeing.

The shower had done nothing to ease his mind, seemingly incapable of slowing the racing thoughts through his brain or of banishing them entirely. The dull throb in his forehead persisted and he wasn't sure anymore if it was a hangover or just the sheer amount of over thinking his brain was doing.

As he pulled the previous night's clothes back on, the soft wrap on knuckles against the door broke him from his procrastination.

"George?" Lewis' voice was soft, laced with an evident concern. "Are you in there?"

George swallowed down a smirk. Any other day he'd have shot back with a sarcastic jibe, but right now it didn't seem the time. He fumbled with the lock and pulled the door back, plastering on a smile.

"Hey," He croaked, the sight of Lewis in his boxers suddenly far more distracting than he'd realised previously. He grabbed his phone from his pocket and began tapping on the screen, bringing up the day's itinerary. "You'll be happy to hear I planned ahead for you winning." He announced, his smile widening as he walked back into the room. "We have a late start. Nothing planned until 1. Toto's in town as well and wants to meet up so I booked Carbone. You have the interview for radio at 3 and then we fly back to London at 7 but need to be at the airport by 5."

"George."

Lewis' tone had changed, more stern than before. George turned back to face him.

"We need to talk about last night." The older man sighed, stepping across the room but leaving a noticeable gap between them.

"Do we?" George mumbled, dropping his arms to his sides, his feet suddenly becoming incredibly interesting. Lewis tutted, sinking down onto the end of the bed.

"Yes." He insisted firmly, seemingly undeterred about having this conversation dressed only in a tight pair of black Calvin Kleins. "Neither of us were exactly sober last night and I don't want to think I overstepped or..." He tailed off, twiddling his fingers together. "I need to know that I didn't..."

George suddenly realised what he was getting at.

"Oh... bloody hell... Lewis, no." He muttered, stepping closer and closing the gap, the words rushing out of his mouth in his haste to diffuse any misunderstanding. "I'm totally fine with everything that happened last night. You have nothing to worry about." He mumbled, his lips pulling into an awkward smile. "I had fun."

It felt dangerous to admit the full extent of how much he'd enjoyed it. It felt like career suicide to admit he'd maybe even... wanted it? He still couldn't process quite where those thoughts had come from

Lewis glanced up at him with a nod, his lips slowly pulling into a matching devious smile. "Yeah, I did too." He swallowed heavily. "I don't think we should do it again though." He added frankly.

"Oh god no. Definitely not." George agreed with a nervous chuckle, happy to agree to whatever scenario would make things the least awkward. Just two friends doing something dumb together. No complications.

"Okay, well... that's good." Lewis nodded, rising to his feet and grabbing a towel from the sideboard and making towards the bathroom. He stopped suddenly, turning back. "Oh, before I forget." He bit his bottom lip. "I'm really sorry to do this, but I'm going to need you to sign that." He sighed, gesturing towards the desk, a piece of paper laid out with a pen placed neatly on top.

George stepped towards it, his heart sinking as he saw what it was, recognising it instantly. An NDA. He'd stood by enough times as he'd watched other people sign them. He'd smiled awkwardly at all manner of people, trying to hide his own discomfort as they'd signed it all away for just one night with Lewis. He'd just never figured he might be one of those people himself.

"Yeah, sure." He mumbled, waving a dismissive hand in the air. He wanted to seem as cool about the whole thing as possible. "I'll sort it out."

Maybe it was going to be awkward after all.

#gewis #There is more of this and I only discovered the other day I had saved it #I still love the concept I just got lost with the way I was taking it and was struggling to bring it back around...#Maybe one day I'll rescue it

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