#I mean Andrew smokes

[phantom-mp3]

[r0seart]

Who needs a fancast when you can just go back in time

Seriously, I don’t like to rant but I’ve started to get a little annoyed with criticizing the cast for being “too old”

young david thewlis definitely young remus lupin

[gothicprep]

i've been meaning to write something for a while now about how misinformation is not a partisan issue, it's just an issue in general. i was mulling over writing something about how infowars waterboards statistics into saying whatever alex jones wants – i'll still probably do that in the future – but it's not something that exactly supports my thesis here.

but, lucky me, i had a perfect example fall into my lap this week.

so, was andrew tate taken into custody over twitter beef with greta thunberg? the short answer is "no" but i'll elaborate.

here's the primary romanian news report about the cops taking the tate brothers into custody. the way that this has been reported in US news media has basically been that a pizza box in andrew tate's video response to thunberg helped romanian authorities confirm his location. here's a daily beast article that insinuates this:

In a video rant he uploaded to Twitter, in which he smoked a cigar and tried to brush off the online spat, he unwittingly displayed a pizza box from a local pizza chain—alerting authorities looking for him to his presence in the country.

here's the problem with that, though – none of the romanian journalists who reported on this story said anything about the pizza box thing. there's also a huge problem with these stories just... citing each other.

if you dig through the citation loop long enough, you end on this daily star article that cites tweets (jurnelism!) from, of course, alejandra caraballo

According to Alejandra Caraballo, a writer and clinical instructor posting on Twitter: “Romanian authorities needed proof that Andrew Tate was in the country so they reportedly used his social media posts.

(as an aside, if you follow her on twt, i'd heavily recommend against doing that. she spews bullshit like her life depends on it and i think this is inexcusable.)

these are caraballo's tweets in question:

the source for this is the romanian article i linked to earlier in this post. it doesn't say any of this. at least, the english translated version of it doesn't. for what it's worth, i'm not a romanian speaker, and i don't have any benchmark for judging if google's translation service is missing linguistic nuances. here's what it actually says:

Sources close to the investigation stated, for Gândul , that shortly after the completion of the computer expertise, the authorities waited for the right moment to catch the Tate brothers, who were always out of the country.

After seeing, including on social networks, that they were together in Romania, the DIICOT prosecutors mobilized the special troops of the Gendarmerie and descended, by force, on their villa in Pipera, but also on other addresses.

it's also probably worth pointing out that tate's villa was previously searched in april. while the article does say that social media was used to help confirm their location, it doesn't say anything about pizza boxes. and, like, given that tate is a prolific social media poster and was tweeting out videos of romania on sunday, i think it's safe to assume they had a wealth of other information to go off.

and if you don't want to take my word for it, nyt and wapo both reported that the spokesperson for the romanian prosecutor presiding over the case denied the pizza box thing:

Speculation online centered on whether a distinctive pizza box featured in one of Mr. Tate’s tweets to Ms. Thunberg had helped lead the authorities to him, but Ramona Bolla, a spokeswoman for the Directorate for the Investigation of Organized Crime and Terrorism, told The New York Times on Friday that that was not the case.

anyway, ain't it funny how caraballo's made the fuck up pizza tweet got 76 million views, 97k retweets, and 525k likes, while her appended correction got 78k views, 100 retweets, and 820 likes. her initial "source: my mind" tweet is still up. ain't. it. funny.

[andrew-03-minyard]

andrew’s memory means he learnt german wayyy faster than aaron and that kinda makes me laugh. bc them both using nicky to pass means andrew did not give a shit during his lessons that he ended up needing the help. also can you imagine aaron’s frustration when he realised andrew got a hang of the language so much faster than he did??

aaron (at 2am the night before his semester finals, stressing): how the hell do you say “i want” in german

andrew (smoking, half asleep bc he was forced to stay up): ich will you to shut the fuck up and ich will to go sleep

aaron: >:(

andrew: :/

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 12: Please Call Me Only If You Are Coming Home]

A/N: Only 1 chapter left!!! 🥳 Be sure to vote in our final poll, which will be pinned at the top of my blog per usual 🥰

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon™️, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Homecoming” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.8k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

“What the hell do you need that for?” Cregan says to Helaena in the next aisle over, sounding alarmed. You are raiding a Kwik Stop just outside Colusa, California, following Route 20 west towards the Pacific Ocean. But when Helaena replies, her voice is perfectly soothing, lyrical, too serene for the way the world is now.

“It’s not for me. It’s just in case anyone ever finds themselves in need of one.” And this makes sense, even though you can’t see what it is she’s taken off the disorderly, ransacked shelves; Helaena is always picking up trinkets to keep stowed away in her burlap messenger bag until their utility becomes essential.

Cregan is relieved. “Oh, okay, gotcha. Whew, you almost gave me a heart attack there, Miss LaeLae…”

Ice is stretched out and dozing on the cool tile floor. Luke and Rhaena are keeping watch by the front of the store. Aegon is standing by the decommissioned Icee machine and showing Daeron which route he’s marked on his map and why.

“Why do I need to know this?” Daeron is asking.

Aegon snorts. “In case I get killed, dumbass…”

Fluttering pieces of paper hang taped to the glass doors of the empty refrigerators: Don’t go towards Sacramento; People in Santa Rosa killed my brother for his car; Andrew Lounsbury, if you see this we are headed to Aunt Sarah’s house, meet us there! Meanwhile, in your own aisle, Aemond is watching you as your fingers flit through packages of Starbursts and Jolly Ranchers and Life Savers Gummies, separating the trash from the ones that haven’t been opened yet. His expression is wary, uncertain. “What?” you ask him.

“Are you…okay?” Aemond says, low enough that no one else will hear.

Of course you aren’t; you keep walking into rooms and looking for Rio, and he’s not there. But you know what Aemond means. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Did I hurt you? Are you…” He steps closer, the blue of his eye gleaming with attentive, penitent concern, sins he is certain he must have committed. “Are you sore, are you bleeding at all?”

You smile, just the ghost of a curve at the edge of your lips. “No, really, I feel fine.” And in your body, this is true. There is a tension that has vanished from your muscles, a softness in your bones, not shards of glass shifting beneath skin but living things like the branches of trees, flexible, green, damp life awash within.

“I was trying to…you know…take it slow and be super gentle, but then…by the end…”

“Aemond, you did everything right.”

And he exhales all the iron-heavy dread he’s been carrying around since he woke up this morning to find you already gone—showing Aegon how to flip Bisquick pancakes as Cregan browned them in a skillet in the woodstove downstairs—and you realize how much you’ve scared him. “I’m really sorry about…” He touches his chin restlessly. “I should have asked you if you wanted me to pull out, I just got, uh…kind of…distracted.”

Your smile grows; now you can feel it in your eyes, warm and luminous. “It’s alright. I did too.”

He is hopeful. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t have told you to stop. And anyway, I think we’re safe.” But of course you’ve lost track of the days, and in your dark trance of grief and Tramadol you were entirely unaware of the rhythms of your body, pangs of desire or clear ample wetness, biological cues, primal timekeeping.

“Cool,” Aemond says, now trying to sound casual. “And next time…are you thinking that I should try to…maybe…just to be sure…?”

You shrug, then tell him the first thing that comes into your mind, that flashes in your skull like lightning bugs at dusk. “I’m thinking that life is too short and too rare to put effort into preventing it.”

Aemond’s eyebrows go up, but he doesn’t seem disappointed. “So we’ll see what happens.”

“If you’re onboard.”

“I’m totally onboard. I just want to take care of you. I…” He glances down at his palms—open, clean—and then looks back up at you. “I’ve never had anything that felt right before. Not my family, not myself, nothing. But this feels right. And it’s where I want to be forever.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” And this is what everyone thought: Jace, Baela, Rio. But you make the oath anyway, a hollow promise that echoes like a windchime.

“Me either,” Aemond vows.

You turn to leave the aisle and your backpack hits the shelf, knocking something off the top and onto the tile floor, where it lands with a thump. You gasp, and people come running; but it’s only a box of Honey Buns that was stashed somewhere too high for you to see. “It’s nothing,” you assure them. “We’re all okay, no need to get excited.”

“Death by Little Debbie,” Aegon says, chuckling nervously, his heart still racing.

You pick up the box and think of Rio with abrupt, violent clarity: he’s playing with French-speaking kids on the beach outside Djibouti City, he’s drinking cans of Guinness with you under a full moon on Diego Garcia, he’s reaching out from the pier to pet finless porpoises in Chinhae, he’s bleeding to death on a floor in Winnemucca, Nevada. Your vision is blurring with tears; your throat is knotted and scalding.

“I want him back,” Aegon says softly.

“I know. I do too.” You open the box of Honey Buns and pass one to Aegon first, then distribute the rest. There are only six total. Helaena tries to give hers to Cregan, but he rips it in half so they can share; Aemond insists you take the last one. You eat it wordlessly, sugar melting into your bloodstream.

“I think I saw a minivan down the side street,” Luke says as he chews his Honey Bun, waving his binoculars with his free hand. “It’s probably out of gas like all the others, but…”

“We’ll check it out,” Aemond replies, and everyone follows him as he departs from the Kwik Stop.

It’s a green Kia Carnival with a zombie trapped inside: once a young man in a Nirvana t-shirt, now a ghoul that paws at the glass with its oozing hands and licks the windows, long animal drags of a decomposing tongue. But the fuel cap is still closed, and while the van is turned off you can see the keys dangling from the ignition.

“Think there’s any gas left in the tank?” Daeron says brightly. The Targaryen beach house, following the indirect route you must take to avoid the cities, is about 250 miles from where you are now in Colusa. That’s two weeks on foot, or as few as five hours by car.

Rhaena goes for the driver’s side door. “Let’s find out.” She yanks on the handle to discover it’s locked. Cregan uses his axe to shatter the window, and the zombie tumbles gracelessly out onto the pavement, rancid skin and necrotic muscle ripping from its bones. As it crawls towards the siren call of fresh meat, Ice barks viciously and Cregan swings his axe. The blade slices easily through the monster’s skull, and its flailing, murderous limbs go still.

Rhaena reaches through the broken window to unlock the doors, climbs into the driver’s seat, and turns the key in the ignition. There is a blessed sound: the thunder of a living engine. “Half a tank!” Rhaena cheers.

Aegon gags as he opens the passenger’s side door. “Oh, it reeks so bad…”

“We’ll roll down all the windows,” Aemond says curtly.

“There are organs on the floor! What the fuck is that, a liver?!”

Aemond gives it a cursory glance. “Looks like a spleen.”

“I don’t want to sit near a spleen! I don’t even know what a spleen does!”

“Then throw it outside somewhere!” Aemond snaps. “You’re thirty years old, you can’t clean a minivan?!”

Aegon grumbles as he uses sheets of Burger King coupons from the glovebox to toss zombie guts into the grass. Aemond wipes down the hard surfaces with antiseptic. Luke keeps watch and Daeron shoots down several zombies as they lurch out of nearby houses and towards the Kia Carnival. You ask Helaena for the box of 9mm bullets in her messenger bag and she gives it to you. You load your Beretta M9, stow the remaining bullets in your backpack, and take aim at the approaching zombies to make sure you still know how to get into the rhythm, that you can still be a killer when the circumstances require it. You are out of practice, but you’re beginning to feel more like yourself again. Aemond brought you back. They all did.

When the minivan is as clean as possible, everyone hurries inside and Rhaena drives west on Route 20 under the afternoon sun. At the intersection with Route 53, Aegon directs Rhaena to follow it south around Clear Lake, then to take Route 29 west through rolling hills that were once filled with vineyards, wineries, music, weddings, horse farms. Now the land is hushed, and wild, and dotted with silhouettes that sway drunkenly and swipe at vultures when they try to gobble tattered strips of putrid flesh that unravel from bones like the bandages of a mummy.

The Kia Carnival rides Route 175 west and then Route 101 south, where the earth turns dry and rocky and barren, reminding you of northern Nevada and piling stones of heartache in your belly. In a place called Pieta—an old 1800s railroad depot, according to a plaque mounted just off the road—Rhaena slows down to get a better look at something that doesn’t make any sense. There is a souvenir shop of rocks and gems, now long out of business, and in a shed beside the main building hangs a gruesome specimen that you can see through the open doors. It has two arms and two legs, but it’s not a zombie. Its flayed flesh is a vibrant, healthy red; parts of the thighs and chest have been carefully carved away like cuts of meat are sliced from beef cattle. It is suspended on meat hooks. It is being butchered.

Cregan notes uneasily: “That ain’t an opossum or a bison.”

“I think it’s human,” Aemond says, horrified.

“Guess we’re not stopping for the night anytime soon,” Rhaena quips, then floors the gas pedal.

One of Aegon’s mixtapes spins in the CD player. From the speakers flows Somebody To You by The Vamps.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Do you see anyone now?” Aemond asks.

Luke speaks without looking away from his binoculars. “And for the fourth time, my answer remains no.”

After a night’s rest in a cabin at Camp Liahona Redwoods in Sonoma County, you followed California State Route 1 down the coast of the Pacific Ocean until the Kia Carnival finally ran out of gas just south of Olema, a small town founded in the 1850s. A ten-mile hike has brought you to the cliff where the fabled Targaryen beach house is perched with a few hours left before sunset. The ailing daylight is golden, the wave crests glittering, gulls cawing as they swoop through the salt-lashed air. From the road that twists like a snake through the slopes of Bolinas—thick with redwoods, Douglas firs, oaks, cypresses, tall grass that whips in the wind and tufts of eucalyptus—Luke is searching the property. It is less a house than a mansion, a museum, a monument, a work of art: sharp rectangular lines and glass walls, balconies, fountains, a pool, a garden.

Cregan whistles. “A place like that has to cost a million dollars.”

“Try fifteen million,” Aemond says distractedly, and Cregan gawks at him.

“Well, from what I can see it looks safe,” Luke declares, lowering his binoculars. “No zombies.”

“You really think they’re in there?” Daeron asks eagerly. “Mom and Criston?”

“Yeah, kid,” Aegon says, squeezing Daeron’s shoulder; but his voice is morose, like he knows he has surrendered to something, a path of least resistance, a hostile planet’s gravity. “Of course they are. Let’s go say hi.”

At the end of the driveway, the five-car garage is open. There is an Alfa Romeo, a Porsche, a Ferrari, a Ducati motorcycle, and a white Chevy Tahoe, which Aemond says belongs to Criston. And there are other items of interest mounted on the walls.

“Yes!” Daeron says as he runs to a quiver full of arrows for his compound bow. Aegon lifts a golf club out of its bag and makes an imaginary putt, getting reacquainted with the feeling of his hands on the grip.

“This is an iron,” Aegon says when he catches you watching him. In the shade of the garage, he pushes his neon green plastic sunglasses up into his windswept hair. “It’s metal all the way through and gives you good control over the shot. Drivers are for long-distance, and wedges and putters don’t have enough power. But an iron is just right.”

“Are you going to teach me how to golf?”

Aegon grins, his first real smile all day. “You think you can handle it, SunChips?”

“I don’t,” you answer honestly, and he laughs.

“If you teach me how to shoot, I’ll teach you how to golf.”

“An unfair trade! My skill is useful.”

Aemond knocks on the door that connects the garage to the main house. “Mom? Criston?” There is no response; all of you wait for one, listening intently through the crashes of waves and reverberating gull shrieks. Ice begins to pace agitatedly and nudges Cregan’s hands. He looks at Aemond, half-fear and half-sympathy.

“No,” Aemond says. “No, she’s wrong.”

“She might be,” Cregan replies, steady and ever-agreeable. Helaena is wringing her small, gentle hands. Everyone is watching Aemond to see what they should do next.

He pounds on the door again, this time with a closed fist. “Mom, we’re home! Mom? Criston? It’s me! It’s Aemond!”

Still, there is no answer. Aemond tries the doorknob, and it turns unimpeded. It is unlocked. He opens the door, peeks inside, and then crosses through the threshold. The rest of you trail him like he has eight shadows, the last in the shape of a wolf.

You step into the living room: wide open windows, the ocean breeze breathing through the house. The air tastes like sand and saltwater, sun and blue skies. There are three-story glass walls that overlook the water, a staircase leading up to the next floor, pristine white couches, black end tables topped with vases full of dead flowers, grey marble floors, bejeweled golden crosses that glint cruelly in the bloody late-afternoon light, family photographs on the mantle of the fireplace. There are many pictures of Aemond, and some of Helaena and Daeron as well. You don’t see a single photo of Aegon. He notices you scanning the snapshots in the frames and looks away, ashamed.

“Mom?” Aemond calls, his voice ricocheting through the vast, open space, clinical like a hospital or a morgue. “Criston?”

“Grandpa?” Helaena says meekly. Cregan is clutching his axe and peering around vigilantly. Ice whines and paces, her strange yellow eyes glowing like flecks of gold in a stream. Rhaena tries to soothe her with ear scratches; Ice begins to howl, low long mournful sounds.

You catch Aegon’s attention when he glances at you again. “This isn’t right,” you whisper. “If they were here, they would have heard us by now.”

Aegon turns to his brother. “Hey, Aemond…”

And then there are footsteps from upstairs, slow and shambling. Everyone looks, and it appears at the top of the steps like a mirage or a night terror, like a wrathful god glaring down from Mount Olympus. Long, filthy strands of white hair hang from what is left of its scalp. Its gore-stained teeth are bared. Its eyes are cloudy like the poisoned atmosphere of another planet, one gasp enough to singe your lungs and infect your bloodstream. The snarls pour out ragged and rasping from its disintegrating vocal chords. The man was wearing a suit when he died, and the pale blue shirt is now splattered with crimson and bits of rotting flesh. The black leather shoes on its feet clop as the zombie descends the staircase with staggering, unnatural steps, its decaying arms grasping for the mortals who wait below.

Daeron says numbly: “Dad?”

Aemond’s eye is wide and dazed. Ice is growling. Helaena is screaming and fleeing towards the wall; Cregan embraces her and she clings to him. “Aemond? Buddy?” Cregan shouts. “How do you want to handle this?” And what he means is: Do you want to kill it, or should someone else? Do you need time to process what’s happened? How can we help you?

“Aemond?” you say. You touch his arm; he doesn’t react. Rhaena draws her Ruger but doesn’t shoot yet. She is looking to Aemond for permission. Luke is standing in front of Rhaena and forcing her backwards as the zombie nears the bottom of the staircase. Now you can smell it: dark wet rot, spoiled meat, blood and oily fat and organs putrefying in a threadbare patchwork of flesh.

“Dad!” Daeron wails, and he’s covering his face with his hands because he knows what this must mean for the rest of his family too.

“Aemond?!” Rhaena yells. “Aemond, what do you want us to do?!”

You reach for your M9 as the zombie’s leather shoes settle on the marble floor. This seems to shake Aemond from his paralysis.

“No,” he says. “I’ll do it.” He grabs his Glock and aims, but his finger hesitates on the trigger. And you can see the ghosts of the people who have died by his hands lurking in the crystalline blue of his remaining eye: Alys, Jace, Baela and her baby…and now Viserys Targaryen too.

In the lull, in the indecision, Aegon roars and swings his golf club. The metal head collides with the zombie’s skull. Weak corroded bone collapses; blood and brains the color of black mold leak out onto the polished marble.

“It wasn’t enough, huh?!” Aegon screams, then hits the zombie again. The corpse crumples to the floor, but Aegon isn’t done yet. “You couldn’t just fuck everything up when you were alive, you had to keep torturing us from beyond the grave, you sick bastard, you selfish prick, what is wrong with you?!” He whacks the carcass with his golf club again and again. “I hate you! I hate you! You deserved so much worse than this! We crossed an entire goddamn country, and Jace died, and Baela died, and Rio died, all so we could get back here, and now it’s all for nothing because you’ve destroyed everyone you’ve ever touched! I fucking hate you!”

Aegon strikes the zombie one last time—the skull is a pulverized soup of gore and bone fragments—and before anyone can reach for him, he has bolted up the steps to search the rest of the house. You find them in their final resting places: bones in the hallway interspersed with gold rings and a medallion of Saint Irene of Thessaloniki, bones in the shower pierced with stainless steel surgical screws from hip and knee replacements, bones in the master bedroom entangled with shreds of a bloodstained silk nightgown and long locks of auburn hair. Daeron is sobbing, and Cregan takes Helaena outside to the garden to calm down, and Aemond wanders through the rooms in shock. You don’t know what to say to him; you remember how nothing anyone said made a difference when Rio died. But Aegon is furious. He tears away from everyone and goes to his bedroom: racks full of CDs, neon green blankets, an acoustic guitar propped in one corner. Then he ravages his hiding places—inside drawers, under his mattress, on tiny shelves he carved into the walls behind golf and Green Day posters—and collects mint tins. Then he pours out the white powder inside onto his desk and arranges it into lines like contrails behind airplanes, like wagon trails across the earth.

You try to stop him. “Aegon, wait, please don’t—”

“Get the fuck out,” he hisses, and for the first time you see the cold reptilian sheen of something like hate in his eyes. “You don’t have to pretend to love me. I can be alone. I’m used to it.”

“Aegon, I’m not—”

“They’re gone. You can leave too.” Then he slams the door and locks it.

~~~~~~~~~~

While Aegon is upstairs getting high and Helaena is downstairs inventorying supplies in the massive walk-in pantry, the rest of you use shovels from the garage to bury what is left of the bodies in the backyard, unceremonious shallow graves, the soil too rocky for anything more elaborate. Rhaena uses her jagged sliver of slate to mark stones with their names and a few kind words about each of them; but Viserys’ stone is left blank. Then Rhaena returns inside to help Helaena prepare for dinner, while Daeron inspects the perimeter of the house with Cregan and Ice. Luke uses a telescope near the pool not to gaze up at the rising stars but to study the neighboring properties.

Aemond murmurs as he stands in front of the four graves: “I should have gotten here sooner. Maybe I could have saved them.”

“You still have a family,” you say, begging him to believe that there are things worth living for. “You have Aegon and Daeron and Helaena, Rhaena, Luke, Cregan. And you have me.”

Aemond stares out over the Pacific Ocean. The sky above is red and lavender, fire and dreams. “How do we get to Diego Garcia?” He is only half-joking.

“Well you just find a boat and row about 10,000 miles that way.”

He sighs and drags his trembling fingers through his hair. It has always been his job to know what happens next, and now he doesn’t. Gulls squawk and wheel in the air. His right cheek glistens with tears.

“I never saw the ocean until I joined the Navy,” you say, and Aemond looks over at you, curious but not wanting to react in the wrong way and scare you into going quiet again. He’s always mining for details of your past, and you’re endlessly evading him. But perhaps you have been too secretive. He wants to know these things because he wants to know you, and you have no idea how long you’ll be here to shed your mysteries. If a story dies with you, it dies forever.

“Really?”

“Yeah. My mother…Mama, I always called her Mama…she went to Virginia Beach a few times while I was growing up, and that was her favorite place in the world. But she never took me with her. She’d go with my aunt or my oldest brothers. So when I got to basic training on the shore of Lake Michigan, that was the closest thing to an ocean I’d ever seen, and it absolutely amazed me.”

“Lake Michigan,” Aemond repeats, trying not to sound like he’s mocking you.

You smile. “And then of course I ended up in some more impressive places. But compared to Soft Shell, Lake Michigan was a whole different planet.”

“Soft Shell?”

“Like softshell turtles. They’re one of those animals that are so ugly they’re almost cute. We have a lot of them in Kentucky. Well, we used to. Maybe people ate them all when the food ran out.”

“Soft Shell, Kentucky,” Aemond says. “What was it like? I mean…I know you left, and I know you had good reasons…but I’ve never been to Kentucky. I’ve never really been to Appalachia period.”

“It’s beautiful. You get all four seasons, and you’re out in nature all the time, and it feels old, like hardly anything has changed there in thousands of years. You feel connected to the earth. I loved the forests and the mountains. I don’t think I realized how much I loved certain things about where I’m from until I’d been gone for years. I didn’t leave because I had to get away from Kentucky. I left because I had to get away from who I was when I was there, you know? Someone lonely and helpless. But how my family was isn’t Kentucky’s fault.”

“No,” Aemond muses. “I suppose not.” You begin walking together back towards the house.

“Ready for more bad news?” Luke asks, and gestures for you and Aemond to peer through the telescope. Aemond lets you go first, and immediately you see what Luke means. There are zombies in the surrounding hills, and not just a few. There are hundreds, stumbling around aimlessly and posing no current threat; but you are not safe here.

“We don’t have enough people to defend ourselves,” Aemond says once he’s taken a look, tapping his chin in that way that he does when he’s fearful but trying to hide it.

“No, we don’t,” Luke agrees.

“And there aren’t many natural resources here to subsist on. Even the fishing prospects aren’t great without a boat or a pier.”

“Right,” Luke says.

You wonder if Aemond is thinking the same thing you are. He might not know what has to happen next, but you do.

~~~~~~~~~~

The dining room table—large enough to seat twenty—is illuminated with candles, meticulously arranged with china and silverware, and cluttered with canned soups from brands you’ve never seen before: Amy’s, Pacific Foods, Health Valley. There are cases of Perrier and San Pellegrino to drink, and bottles of Chateau Lafite Rothschild red wine. Everyone else is here except Aegon. You are just about to go find him when he comes rushing down the staircase and into the dining room. He is wearing clothes from his closet here: a salmon pink polo that emphasizes his sunburn, khaki shorts, a white puka shell necklace, Sperry Bahama sneakers. The left shoe just barely fits over the bandages still protecting his healing left leg. There are fingerprints of white powder on the front of his shirt.

“Oh, look!” he announces. “Isn’t this precious? A family dinner?”

“Aegon, please sit down,” Aemond says briskly.

“Come on, it’ll be just like old times. We have all four of us kids, and then…Rhaena, you can be my dear departed Grandpa Otto, you just have to scowl at everyone…and Luke can be Criston.”

Luke is confused. “What—?”

“No no no! Don’t worry. It’s a very easy part. All you have to do is gaze worshipfully at Aemond and talk about how brilliant he is. There’s really not much to it, and honestly you do a lot of that already. And then…” Aegon floats by you, skimming his palm down the length of your hair. Something about the weight of his hand gives you goosebumps: careless, careful, fleeting, intimate. He sighs: “My beautiful, tortured mother.”

“Aegon, sit down,” Aemond orders.

“Father!” Aegon cries out suddenly, spotting Cregan at the head of the table. Cregan looks around the dining room, baffled. “You’ve joined us! How unusual! Did your Titanic replicas spontaneously combust? Did the world end? Well, actually, it sort of did…”

“Buddy, I have no earthly clue what you’re trying to—”

“Now this is a tough part,” Aegon says forcefully. “Patriarch of the Targaryen dynasty, big shoes to fill! But don’t worry, I’m here to help. I’ll give you your lines. All you have to do is repeat after me, okay?”

Cregan studies him and does not assent.

Aegon slams both palms down onto the table. “You’re so fucking stupid, Aegon. You’re a humiliation, Aegon. Why can’t you be smart like Aemond, or sweet like Helaena, or obedient like Daeron? Why did my firstborn child turn out to be such a fucking waste?”

“I’m not going to say that,” Cregan replies quietly.

“Say it,” Aegon seethes.

Now Daeron is weeping between spoonfuls of Amy’s tortilla soup straight from the can. “I want to go home.”

“We are home,” Aemond says.

“This isn’t home anymore, Aemond,” Daeron sniffles.

Aegon is still trying to feed Cregan lines. “Have you found a wife yet, Aegon? No, of course you haven’t. You’ve got hands like a rat and a disposition to match. You’re an overgrown vermin, you’re a plague to every house you enter. Who would fuck you out of anything but greed or pity?”

“Aegon, please stop,” Aemond pleads, wincing and rubbing his forehead.

Helaena folds her arms atop the table and rests her head on them, hiding her face. Luke and Rhaena keep their eyes downcast. Daeron reaches for a bottle of red wine, but Aegon swats his hand away.

“Nope. Illegal. You’re not 21.”

“Aegon, seriously, I’m so over that joke—”

“Shut up. You can’t even get a tattoo without parental consent.”

“Our parents are dead!” Daeron shouts. “They died terrible deaths and they’re never coming back and you’re making everything worse!”

“Then get rid of me! Put me out on the street and I won’t be anyone’s problem anymore! I’ll get murdered or eaten and it’ll be the best thing that ever happened to you!”

Helaena breaks down sobbing, and before Aegon can register what’s happening Cregan scoops him up off the floor and throws him over one broad shoulder. Then Cregan lugs him upstairs as Aegon struggles and yowls and punches at Cregan’s back, all in vain. You can hear a lot of commotion and then finally Cregan reappears, sweat beading on his brow but otherwise composed.

“I tied him to his bedframe with an extension cord,” Cregan says. “I don’t think he’ll be making any more trouble this evening.”

“Thank you,” Aemond replies, defeated.

“If he’s going to be up there all night, he’ll need water and food,” you say. “And enough blankets to make sure he’s warm.” It gets chilly when the sun goes down here, as low as the 50s. You grab two bottles of Perrier off the table and stand to bring them upstairs to Aegon, but Cregan gently takes them out of your hands.

“I’ll make sure he’s well supplied, Miss Chips,” Cregan insists, and you are convinced he thinks he’s doing you a favor. He doesn’t want Aegon to have the opportunity to upset anybody further. And yet a part of you is undeniably disappointed.

Aegon has been gone for ten minutes, and you miss him already.

~~~~~~~~~~

In Aemond’s childhood bedroom, a huge, impersonal, spartan space, the very few pieces of furniture all in the same color scheme of white and navy blue, you cannot say anything to bring his family back to life, or his friends, or the possibilities of what his life might have been before the dead began to walk. But you remember what he did for you when Rio died and you were sinking in dark, numb despair, and so you take Aemond’s hands and place them on your body—skimming under your t-shirt, circling around your waist—offering yourself like a sacrifice that you both desperately need, like a shot of antivenom that will only buy you hours. He draws you into his lap, and beneath your palms and your lips and your thighs, you can feel him coming back to you, filling up with light like a horizon at dawn.

“I’m still here,” you whisper as he throws you down onto the bed, eases himself into you, carries you away like a ship coasting out into open water. I don’t ever want to be anywhere but here.

Aemond holds you after, ensnared in sweat-damp sheets and entwined fingers, and he confesses: “I knew it was possible that they might not still be alive. Logically, I knew that. But it was like I never allowed myself to feel it. And now it’s…it’s…it’s all at once and it’s too much. I can’t fathom that I’ll never see them again. But I don’t even have time to mourn. I need to figure out where we’re going next.”

“Aemond?”

His lips to your forehead, his voice a drowsy murmur: “Hm?”

“I have to tell Rio’s family what happened to him.”

He pulls back to look at you. “You want to go to Oregon?”

“What if Odessa really is safe?”

At first he is bewildered; then he begins to consider it. “Criston’s Tahoe is in the garage. If we siphon the gas left in all the vehicles, we might have enough to get us halfway there.”

“That’s a lot better than none of the way there.”

“We’ll all have to vote on it. The trip will be dangerous.”

“Everything is now.”

“Almost everything,” he teases, his hand sliding down between your legs, taking you far away again.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the morning, you find Aegon at the cliffside smoking one of his Marlboro Golds, slow meditative drags, eyes bloodshot with lack of sleep. That’s alright. He can nap in the Tahoe. Rhaena won’t need his directions for a while; you’ll stay northbound on Route 1 for 200 miles before cutting inland as you near the Oregon border.

You sit down on the sandy, shrub-strewn ground beside Aegon and wait for him to speak. It takes a while, but you don’t mind. You’ve always had patience; you’ve always been a better listener than someone who fills silences.

At last Aegon says: “I don’t want to be like this anymore.”

“Then stop.”

He smirks bitterly, glaring out into the sunrise, orange light like fire on his sunburned face. “You make reinvention sound so easy.”

“It’s not easy. But it is simple. You decide to get out, and then you do it. You don’t let anything convince you to give up or change course. The only way out is through.”

“I have a proposition.”

“I’m still not interested in fake dating you.”

He cackles. “No, it’s something else.”

“Okay. Let’s hear it.”

Now Aegon is serious. “I don’t ever want to split up again. Not in a year, not in ten years, not in twenty. Never.”

You smile as you watch the reflection of the dawn in his eyes, murky faraway blue like oceans all across the globe. “I didn’t know you thought so highly of commitment.”

“I want to take care of you until you die. I want you to take care of me until I die. And that’s as far as commitment goes with me.”

“Deal.” You offer Aegon your hand.

He shakes it. “Deal.”

Two hours later, Criston Cole’s white Chevy Tahoe is loaded high with supplies—including several of Aegon’s golf clubs and his acoustic guitar—and heading north on Route 1, a Fall Out Boy song from one of Aegon’s mixtapes blaring through the speakers:

“When Rome’s in ruins

We are the lions, free of the Colosseums

In poison places, we are antivenom

We’re the beginning of the end…”

You rest your head on Aemond’s shoulder and wait for the sapphire-and-gold Bay Area to become the misty, primordial emerald green of the Pacific Northwest.

[andrewminyardsleftfoot]

matt: hey neil have you ever heard of cigarettes after sex?

neil: i mean, andrew and i smoke sometimes afterwards

matt: THE BAND, NEIL, THE BAND

[themiddleofmichigan]

As a math major, I am simply enchanted by the idea of Neil Josten, Math Major. Please enjoy this collection of headcanons I came up with to cope with studying mathematics.

Neil is a pure math guy. There are two big camps of mathematics: pure and applied. Applied math is about applying math to other fields (physics, engineering, finance, etc.), while pure math is like math for the sake of doing math (read: a lot less employable). Neil picking the math major because he's good at math and kind of likes it is a very Pure Math thing to do.

Neil has a whiteboard, possibly multiple whiteboards. Whiteboards are the ultimate tool of mathematics. Sometimes Neil gets stuck on a problem for hours; hunched over his mini whiteboard, working through it over and over again. His fingers get covered in the expo marker residue and it leaves a black mark when he scratches his nose. Andrew huffs that he looks like a chimney sweep and rubs it off with his sleeve (he absolutely does NOT find it adorable, shut up, Nicky). Also, around exams Neil will drag Andrew to the library so he can do his practice problems on the Big Whiteboards. The other people in the library stare at them because this little ginger is filling multiple whiteboards with weird symbols and greek letters; Neil doesn't notice because he's oblivious, Andrew notices and it makes him a smug bf.

One time one of the Foxes asks him for help with their statistics homework and he gives it a shot, because how different could it be? They both quickly find out that he knows absolutely nothing about statistics. "What IS that?" "That's a matrix, it has the variances in it." "Well then why does it have an apostrophe by it?" "That means you flip it around." "That's TRANSPOSING and you notate it with a T" "Aren't you supposed to be some kind of math genius? Shouldn't you know how to do this?" "This isn't math, this is blasphemy."

Aaron has to take calculus for the MCAT and puts it off for as long as possible because he hates math. His TA for the course sucks and he struggles through it for weeks before Katelyn manages to convince him to ask Neil for help. Neil pretends to be annoyed, but he's secretly kind of looking forward to it because calculus is fun and it's nice to do math you already know for a change. When you're an upperclassman in a math degree, though, your brain gets warped by all the theoretical math, and it's hard to get into the mindset to teach something like Calc I. This leads to semiregular hostile tutoring sessions in the dorm, we're talking real Dad Trying to Help You With Your Math Homework at the Kitchen Table type energy. "BUT HOW DID YOU KNOW TO DO THAT?!" "It's a vector space, Aaron, I don't see what you're not understanding here." "A vector WHAT" Andrew chain smokes through these. He has to start leaving the dorm because he's pretty sure the calculus is going to drive him to lung cancer.

The statistics incident gives Neil a totally reasonable grudge against statistics. He eventually gives it up, but only so he can take an elective about sports statistics, because he has exy brain worms.

[sappyspeare]

wymack and kevin hcs post-canon

currently writing a 5+1 of kevin and his dad trying to talk to each other without screaming and crying (mostly on kevin's part). so here are some hcs that i cant fit into it

after Kevin goes pro and Wymack retires and moves in with Abby, there is always obviously room for their foxes, but a small, single room for Kevin. it's unspoken that that is for Wymacks son, Kevin Day. he tells everyone who comes into the house that it's his son's room but they can use it while he's gone. Kevin will always stay there and they never talk about it.

They do eventually talk about Kayleigh. Wymack helps Kevin by telling him stories about his insane girl boss mother and they have a good cry about it.

Wymack Abby and some new foxes are watching a pro game where Kevin is playing and there's a moment where Kevin stands with his hands on his hips and yells at a player and all the foxes are like omg. it's mini wymack and wymack threatens to put them through a marathon

Wymack goes to all of Kevin's games. no matter where it is or when it is, he will be there because he is a proud father first and foremost

There is always a front-row seat kevin keeps for his father

Kevin calls Wymack every week to update him on life and stuff. the new foxes realise that wymack is significantly happier after a 20-minute call in the privacy of his office once a week

Wymack walks Dan down the aisle according to EC but have you considered he does it for Kevin too. because those two are his Kids bro

Wymack loves seeing how close Kevin and Abby are because i said so

Kevin and Abby try very hard to get Wymack to stop smoking and drinking and Abby is nice and patient and Kevin is ofc a bitch about it

anytime its a holiday Kevin Andrew and Neil will always come to see him. the others will come too but those 3 will come first and leave last

when Kevin gets his hall of fame moment he dedicates it to the man who taught him how to love the game and himself aka his dad and lets just say wymack needs a moment

kevin gets more tattoos over the years and also looks more like wymack as he gets older

sometimes when kevins in town wymack lets him run foxes practice and its always fun for the kids to see them standing next to each other, father and son because it just looks so Right until Kevin yells at them to run faster or get off the court

Wymack keeps in touch with all his foxes, but Kevin later learns that he also keeps contact with Jean which makes him. so happy because finally Jean has more good influences in his life

ALSO their first father son heart to heart is after rikos funeral where wymack is like 'so. do you want to get blackout drunk' and kevin obviously agrees

Kevin starts calling wymack Dad or sometimes Father after he graduates . sometimes he refers to him as Coach in interviews or in public but everyone knows who he means

Wymack buys the first racquet for Kevin's daughter (she exists in the EC)

(also i dont like thea. sorry. so smth smth kevin adopts a little baby girl and single-dads so hard that wymack is put to shame)

wymack loves his granddaughter like crazy and spoils the shit out of her

Kevin takes a rough hit during a game and Wymack almost charges into the court to take out the punk who tried to hurt his kid

wymack often gets badgered by media trying to get comments about kevin or the other foxes post-graduating and going pro and if hes in the mood he will give them a line about how proud he is of x kid but in such a cryptic way that only that kid could know what he means

this is especially true for neil and andrew but sometimes kevin calls him the next day like 'did u have to talk about the time i did X when they asked u for a comment on my game' and wymack is like. yes. next question

Wymack and Kevin argue a lot it is their love language

but god forbid you talk shit about David Wymack in front of Kevin or in any public space because not only are you bringing down the wrath of the Foxes on you, Kevin Day is a petty bitch and will ruin your life, your career, and your will to live if you fuck with his dad

and vice versa because who the fuck do you think you are messing with david wymack's kid?

TRAUMA ALERT: in the EC it says neil only cries when he gets the call about wymack. but consider: kevin has to make the call. goodnight

ok im done now i just have a lot of feelings

[criesinliess]

━MARCH 2023; susan's recs

LOCKWOOD&CO

knock knock. who's there? @klineinie

━━ANTHONY LOCKWOOD

a taste of normalcy @websterss

the stray from arif's @↑

everything @frogserotonin

marker mayhem @oblivious-idiot

no one else @vi-trying-to-survive

public displays @↑

the language of longing. looks and stolen glances @fleetingvow

at times like these @teaandransacking

out the window @givemea-dam-break

patch you up @↑

you left me @↑

anthony @↑

i know it hurts @warrenposts

love me, forever, always @klineinie

dancing with our hands tied @bloodcanbehot

i wish you would @↑

you talk too much @helloooofandoms

TOP GUN: MAVERICK

━━JAKE 'HANGMAN' SERESIN

tiktok trouble @ultralightpoe

do you want me to lie, sir? @simpforrooster

the princess and the hangman @↑

howdy, darlin'; part2 @↑

━━BRADLEY 'ROOSTER' BRADSHAW

daddy would say yes @roosterforme

GRISHAVERSE

━━KAZ BREKKER

six months @grimbanes

the king @magpiencrow

bejeweled @honeyfict

━━NIKOLAI LANTSOV

i want you to want me; part2 @sophierequests

the one you think about as you lie awake; part2 @↑

young royals @clairecrive

stars in the night @↑

currents @lantsovsupremacist

august @↑

sick & stubborn @fleurspun

healer’s duties @↑

the art of pretension @↑

speak up @prince-septimus

SPIDER-MAN

━━ANDREW!PETER PARKER

you're not peter parker; part2 @curseofaphrodite

coffee run @↑

caviar and cigarettes @↑

MARVEL

━━DRUIG

unrequired; part2 @givemea-dam-break

MARAUDERS ERA

━━JAMES POTTER

getaway car @curseofaphrodite

mortal enemies @↑

━━SIRIUS BLACK

collide @curseofaphrodite

━━REGULUS BLACK

drunk nights; part2 @curseofaphrodite

the door @↑

words unsaid @↑

the break-in; part2 @↑

wishes and a gift @↑

of monsters and men @↑

the best man @↑

tricks and charms @↑

THE CHRONICLES OF NARNIA

━━PRINCE CASPIAN

my prince @heliads

OUTER BANKS

━━JJ MAYBANK

assigned seat @quin-ns

fiending for something, might just be a meaning @idcntlikedarkness

a visceral feeling, that i can never leave behind @↑

throw another stone at a glass house @↑

went out searching for an angel, then you came to me my darling @↑

━━RAFE CAMERON

whipped @mrsstarkey1

said you’re smoking less, and then you ashed it on your chest @idcntlikedarkness

this too shall pass @probably-writing-x

another? @↑

country club @a-aexotic

rafe defending pogue!reader @↑

no for one night stand @↑

i'd choose you over anyone @↑

cuddle buddies; part2 @fantasylandloser

tear-stained cheeks @sunraies

BULLET TRAIN

━━TANGERINE

safe house @quin-ns-moved

ÉLITE

━━GUZMÁN NUNIER

out of love; part2; part3; part4 @probably-writing-x

THE BEAR

━━CARMY BERZATTO

the way to his heart; part2 @adore-laur

little by little @↑

[gatheringbones]

[“Later in the day, while Heather and I were making the bed and talking about the chores we needed to get through the next morning, she used a male pronoun in regard to me. “Well that’s gonna be weird, huh?” I said. “Not saying ‘he’ for me anymore.” “What do you mean?” she asked. “I mean I want to transition. I want to become a woman… fully.” She paused and fell silent. I think the revelation that I was a transsexual truly hit her in this moment. She slowly started to comprehend that this didn’t mean I’d simply be cross-dressing around the house. It started to hit me, too. I wanted to transition genders, and there was a lot more to that than just hormones and surgery. Neither of us fully understood what it meant yet, or where to start.

The next day Andrew and James met me at the studio to talk about plans around the album and the future of the band. Jordan came, too, as he was again filling in as our manager. Until then, I’d been telling them that I was writing a concept album about a transsexual prostitute—the metaphor behind the feeling of having whored myself out to a record label was thinly transparent since James, Andrew, and I were all processing our own post-traumatic stress disorder from the past couple years of music industry hell. Previously, I’d been able to sneak a few subtle metaphors about my dysphoria in here and there. But an album focused entirely on it? I didn’t know how to explain that, and the new songs were not sticking with the guys.

James could make out a few lyrics to the title track through his in-ear monitors: “You want them to see you like they see every other girl / But they just see a faggot.” “Hey, man,” he said between takes. “Are you saying ‘faggot’ on this song? It sounds like you’re saying it a lot. Are people gonna be cool with that?”

I realized that the reason the words weren’t connecting with them was that they didn’t have the context. So I came out with it. I didn’t mean to, I just wanted them to understand. I couldn’t hold back the momentum of the day before. Once the truth was spoken, it could be contained no longer.

“It’s about me, and how I’m a transsexual. This is something I’ve been dealing with for a long time,” I told them. Once I started explaining it, I couldn’t stop. It was like an out-of-body experience where I saw myself, but was powerless to hold back the flood of words. “I want to start living as a woman, and to be referred to as Laura. This is something I’ve thought about a lot and isn’t going away, so I might as well embrace it.”

No one knew what to say once I finally stopped rambling. The three of them just sat there in the studio control room, looking down at their feet or at whatever lit-up piece of audio equipment their eyes could find, focusing anywhere but on me. We’d had some heavy conversations over the years—emotional moments where we’d told each other off or outright quit the band—but nothing compared to this. Andrew’s usually warm smile was locked in since I started talking, and it looked like it was going to melt off his face. His skin flushed red, trying not to flinch. There was nothing any of them could say. I broke the silence by asking them to come smoke a joint with me. We got high standing in a circle in the open back doorway. “OK, well,” I said. “I guess that’s all we’ll do today. How about we try again tomorrow?”

We shared the most comically awkward group hug, a horrible mess of pats on the back and overly extended stiff arms. They left, and I locked the door behind them. Oh fuck, I thought. I called Heather and told her that I had just come out to them. It felt unreal to speak these secrets aloud, hearing myself verbalize thoughts that had only ever existed in my head.

The guys had an hour and a half back to Gainesville to think about all that had just been unloaded on them. James has since told me that as he sat there stoned on that long drive home, a lot of memories over the past 15 years suddenly started to make sense for him. My lyrics, my behavior on tour; one by one, he had tiny flashes of realization about me in this new light.”]

laura jane grace, from tranny: confessions of punk rock’s most infamous anarchist sellout, 2016

[quintessential-candles]

HAHAHAHAAAA

“Look at this cigarette :)”

“Did you take my cigarette just to hold it like a baby.”

“You do it too now :)”

NOO!! BEE!! LOOK!! REGULAR FANFIC!!

(They r gonna destroy their lungs </3)

I'd like to think they're both taking turns gently cradling a lit cigarette in their hands

[touratoura]

TV Show idea: A Christian woman named Juliet moves into a new neighborhood, hoping to find a husband and have a child. After moving into her new home, she goes to meet her next-door neighbors - and is horrified to find out it’s a loud, party-girl, dirty mouthed black lesbian named Maggie Dalene and her smart, CEO girlfriend Mary (played by Laverne Cox). Juliet does everything she can to try and turn them to Christ. She does it both forward and subtle. While she does this, she also meets and falls in love with a man named Paul, and starts visiting the local orphanage to bring the kids there to faith.

The main plot points of the first season:

Juliet’s (failed) attempts to convert Mary and Maggie. They keep running into each other. Maggie goes the opposite way and tries to get Juliet to relax a little. Juliet is especially concerned when Christmas comes around and they bring out the Menorah.

Juliet meets three triplets at the orphanage named Jesus, Emmy, and Susej. Susej is the only girl. Juliet tries to get the three Jewish kids to convert, but they refuse. She also tries to get Emmy to go by his full name, Emmanuel - but he finds it stupid.

Lucifer and Abbadon (Lucy and Abby) are a gay gender-unconforming couple who have extremely random jobs everywhere. They seem to be working everywhere. Cashiers, fake-Gucci boot sellers, librarians, janitors, shelf restockers, anything. They���re there. No one else mentions it. It drives Juliet insane. She finds the idea of them being feminine men disturbing, but she can’t call them anything but Lucy and Abby as she refuses to say the Devil’s name. She also finds Abby being black disturbing.

It’s often hinted at that Susej is the Antichrist. And by hinted at I mean she’s always staring piercingly into empty space, whispering threateningly, and is always there when things go wrong. Also her eyes occasionally go black and she starts floating and speaking ancient curses. Juliet is terrified. No one else notices.

Jesus is friends with a group of 12 boys from the orphanage, named Peter, James, John, Andrew, Phillip, Judas I, Matthew, Thomas, James A, Bart, Judas T, and Simon. Jesus goes by Jeezy-boi. The others go by Peezy, Jazzy, Jozzy, Azzy, Pheezy, Jewzy, Meezy, Teezy, Jameezy, Beezy, Yeezy, and Seezy. They’re all played by 12-year-olds, except Yeezy, who’s played by a Kanye West-lookalike. It’s never remarked upon. He talks like Kanye.

Juliet tries to get Mary to turn to God. She will often compare her to her “namesake”, Mary of Jesus fame, to show her the “right side”. Mary takes none of it and points out that Mary and Jesus were Jewish. Mary is very no-nonsense when it comes to these things. Mary is heavily implied to actually BE Mother Mary as she knows things the church doesn’t.

Paul keeps accidentally calling Juliet Jennifer. She doesn’t notice. He’s often drunk and rude to waiters and retail workers. Juliet is too, mind you. He hides his phone and yells a lot. He complains about Juliet’s decision to “wait until marriage”, but doesn’t mind her being anti birth control.

At the end of season 1, Juliet gets married to Paul. He barely gets the vows right at the wedding. Mary and Maggie go out for an unknown trip. There’s a time skip of a few months. Maggie and Mary are celebrating outside of their house, because Maggie just won a Noble Prize in Chemistry. Maggie is yelling “I won! I won!” Juliet smiles and says, “No. I won.” She’s holding a baby in her arms. Maggie paused for a moment and responds “No baby, I won. Paul’s gonna leave yo ass in 3 seconds. You gon have to raise that baby alone. And who says we ain’t got kids?”

Jesus skates by on a skateboard with a cowboy hat. He tips his hat to them as he passed. Emmy is running behind him in a pink skirt. Juliet places her baby down momentarily to talk with them, as Susej comes up and starts whispering to the baby. It nods, and she smiles, before disappearing in a cloud of black smoke. She reappears behind Mary. End of Season 1.

This isn’t a prompt but I would gladly accept criticism and more ideas. And characters. I’m open.

[dysfunctionalcreature]

so in my opinion personally for an aftg omegaverse au, Andrew is an alpha, whose scent is like leather, cigarette smoke, and asphalt. Kevin is an omega, whose scent is like green apple and mint candy with a hint of brand new plastic. Jean is an omega, whose scent is like ocean, musty dusty blankets, and a hint of unspecified pastry. And Neil is a beta (and I know betas are often thought of as boring but I truly don't mean it that way, it just fits him imo, like he "doesn't swing" so idk what else he would be), so I don't have a clear scent in mind for him because I don't think beta's usually have very notable scents, but if he has one at all it's definitely spicy like cinnamon with maybe a hint of wood smoke

[athanasius-symposium-of-writings]

Could you write something for vocalist Itha? He's so pretty ^u^

I wish they did grudge with them tbh

Rated: Explicit | Warnings: smoking, older!reader, afab!reader, talk of pregnancy (doesnt happen), use of protection

Everyone in the band has their shit about them. Norton (the one called Fool’s Gold) sleeps with his fans. Luca is a sugar baby to some old guy. Andrew is such an introvert he sucks at interviews, somehow his fans think he is a bad boy. Aesop likes dead people, no he really likes to keep his emo appearance and likes dead people. Mary, you are pretty sure she is good at looking like her nose is clean. 

Then there is Ithaqua, Ithaqua is sleeping with the manager and everyone knows— Knows and doesn't care so long as you do not end up leaving like the last one (to be fair that was Norton’s fault for fucking both the manager and manager's sister).

You did not mean for this to happen, to be visiting a hotel every other week to sleep with the vocalist of the band you manage. Every day you regret going to the one after party (you never go to after parties), getting drunk with Ithaqua who was having a pity party for himself (never found out why), and then going to his hotel room and sleeping with him.

Tours are stressful both before, during, and after— Bills, bills, and payouts.

Ithaqua, you were warned, has a thing for older people. Not like Luca who only wants one older man, Ithaqua likes to have older partners. He likes you, kinda borders on obsessive, possessive but he only likes you. Keeping it strictly a physical needs-being-met relationship is for the best, mostly for you as you do not want to show favoritism towards the vocalist.

The current concert you attend is an announcement tour, every one showing off their skills by redoing fan favorites and performing a new song to be released. These are all indie bands, underground bands, and a few new up-and-coming bands.

Ithaqua is standing beside you watching one of the new bands perform. A French vocalist named Joseph with four other members, ‘Jack’, Michiko, Charles, and Trace.

You are tapping your foot to the beat.

“Like them?” Ithaqua is the one who is quick to be jealous when it comes to you liking other band's music.

“They have style. The lyrics are too dark for my taste but it leads well to their theme.” You are not entertaining the childish behavior from him, “You should take notes.” Turning around to walk away, “People like the darkness in romance.” Shrugging, “Good luck, Nightwatch.” Saying his stage name. Being the manager, you want your band of misfits to reach the charts but you have to be real with them. Especially Ithaqua who has talent but has a chip on his shoulder.

A twin who is a hot shot in the music business. You know because Nathaniel tried buying you out for himself.

The music from the new band stops by the time you are outside in a dingy alleyway taking a smoke, you inhale a puff before blowing it into the cool night air. You close your eyes as the song starts with an acapella from Cheer.

Lily is the second vocalist and one of few who matches with Ithaqua well. Both are opposites which is perfect for several dynamics in their songs. You smile when the music jumps in with Ithaqua's scream, the battle of voices is in perfect harmony as they sing.

This song of the hunter-prey dynamic was created after Ithaqua discovered something about himself a night with you. The song is not sexual by nature though you hear a few fans like to fuck to it. Sets the mood well.

You cannot blame them, you have touched yourself to a couple of songs Ithaqua has sung. Particularly one about the story of a creature struggling to not succumb to his instincts. The tempestress is blood and flesh. It was a dark album written by both Ithaqua and Aesop.

You go back inside to watch your group, there you see Joseph watching with eyes on Aesop. You cannot help but laugh that the two are dating and hiding it terribly, among the other bands at least.

There are going to be four more bands playing but you know there is no way Ithaqua will let you watch after he is finished performing.

The dressing rooms are dingy, you love dirty indie backrooms as everyone is not uptight. Sex, drugs, and a lot of drama. Fool’s Gold pissed off someone's boyfriend because he offered to fuck him too if the guy feels left out. Cheer went home with her friends Emma and Trace, good idea plus those girls are too clean for this.

Meanwhile, Ithaqua has you in his dressing room bathroom. His mask and hoodie were in the other room, your blouse ripped open the second you entered the only quiet room. Your lipstick smeared, stockings ripped, hands cling to the edge of the sink; heels scraping against the tile, Ithaqua's hands squeezing and playing with your breasts. With his teeth on your neck and shoulder blades, you moan as he pulls down the cups of your bra to pinch and tug your nipples.

“(Name)—”

“Don't start.” Because if he starts talking possessively again you will have to stop this midway to speak to him. You just need a good fuck, Ithaqua needs inspiration. “Just fuck me.”

“Fine.” Growling as he presses your face against the marked-up mirror, hiking up your damn pencil skirt. You wore the hottest business outfit knowing it made things easy for him. The rustle of his pants, a zipper unzipping, you reach a hand between your legs to push your soaked panties to the side.

“What a dirty old woman you are,” The tip of his cock sliding up and down your glossy moist lips, “Fuck.”

“Condom.” Reminding him, “Unless you plan on getting this dirty old woman pregnant?” Raising an eyebrow when you look behind you. The blush on his cheeks makes you laugh a little. Cute.

Of course, he has one in his pocket because Luca does not play when it comes to protection.

“Good boy.”

“Shut up,” Not happy, “Platinum.” You moan when he slowly enters you, “I'm going to have you all to myself.” Promises, he swears when he reaches the charts, when he gets platinum, and ruins his brother— He is going to marry you. It is the possessive talk of a young man who needs to go date someone his age. Sure you like the man because he is a man but you are not one to settle down… Not yet.

The vocalist fucks you hard so you do not have to reply to his nonsense. The echoing moans between you both in this small space. One round is not enough with him, thank God.

You are grateful for the condoms he keeps in hand with how much he likes to fuck you, you fear he would impregnate you three times over. You reach behind you as he lifts your leg and holds it there allowing him deeper access.

That's so much skill from a guy who lost his virginity to you, FG must have given tips. Nosy asshole. You'll let him get that new drum set he wanted so badly later.

[hunnysnoops]

˗ˋ𝕎𝕙𝕚𝕥𝕖 𝕋𝕖𝕖𝕥𝕙 𝕋𝕖𝕖𝕟𝕤ˊ˗

Chapter Seven: You Are Going to Hate This

Kyle Broflovski x fem reader

Blackout and I need to sit and I wrote this, but it don't mean shit. Why can't I be like you? I miss you and I let you down and your voice is the perfect sound. Why can't I be so cool?

Also available on Ao3 and Wattpad!

Premise: No one thought the school lock-in would go well, they just didn’t know poorly it would play out.

Warnings: mentions of blood and injury / mentions of disease / crude language and humour

MASTERLIST

There wasn't much you had been looking forward to about the school lock-in, the only thing that had slightly piqued your interest was competition. While various activities were being hosted in numerous classrooms, you were prepping yourself for the volleyball tournament in the gym.

A large sum of your friends were on the volleyball team and were also warming up. They had all paired up with each other and as you arrived at the school late, everyone already had a partner, leaving you with Andrew who was talking himself up but didn't have the skills to match.

"What's straight edge?" Annie asks from next to you where she spikes the ball across the net to Nichole, her eyebrows furrowing as she reads your shirt "You're not straight."

"No, it's like a punk movement from the eighties that was against drinking and smoking," You toss the ball high into the air and send it over the net with a satisfying smack. Andrew fumbles the return, the ball bouncing off his forearms and rolling away. He jogs after it, muttering an apology.

"So why are you wearing that?" She's even more confused at the answer. You were wearing a black loose T-shirt made of soft, high-quality cotton. The front of the shirt prominently features a bold white 'X' across the chest, above the 'X' where the words 'STRAIGHT EDGE' in bold lettering. The design includes a small graphic of a broken cigarette and an overturned bottle beneath the text. The back of the T-shirt has a minimalist design with the phrase 'LIVE CLEAN'. Anyone who knew you well had been casting you questioning glances.

"It's a thing for my dad's work, he asked if I could wear it and I said yeah," Your dad worked at a non-profit youth center and that week they were promoting drug abstinence. Weston was also given a t-shirt though he threw it at the back of his closet where it would never see the light again.

"But you aren't actually quitting smoking?"

"No, he was just so excited about it and I felt really bad because no one wanted to wear these goofy ass shirts." You serve the ball again, but Andrew misses the return once more, the ball sailing past him and thudding against the gym floor. A small knot of frustration begins to form in your chest.

"Oh my god, you're learning empathy," Annie turns her gaze back to Nichole, when the ball is headed for her, she braces her arms and bumps it perfectly back over the net.

Everyone else participating in the tournament seemed to have no issues with their partners while they practiced rallies. You take a deep breath and serve again, but this time the ball barely grazes his fingertips before hitting the ground. "Do something, bitch!" You throw your hands out, glaring at Andrew.

"Okay, never mind," Annie sucks a breath through her teeth, taking back the words she said just moments prior. She had been wearing her pink pyjama shorts with little daisies on them and a white tank top, curly hair pinned back into a French braid. Almost all of the students had arrived in their pyjamas which was the majority of some form of flannel pants and a t-shirt.

Despite your efforts to stay calm, Andrew's repeated fumbles and missed returns chip away at your composure. Each errant ball hits the gym floor with a dull thud, amplifying your growing irritation. "Andrew, get your balls in order."

"Jesus, it's not that easy," He tosses the ball up, smacking it in a feeble attempt. His hand lands on the top and sends the ball flying below the net.

"You're supposed to hit it over," You walk over to pick up the ball. Earlier when you had been looking for a partner Andrew couldn't stop talking about how good he was at volleyball but now that you were seeing him in action, you wanted to wrap your hands around his throat or maybe spike his head over the net instead of the ball.

The bandage over your nose was finally gone and the bruising was almost gone completely, all that was left was a little nick on your nose. Without the painkillers making you lethargic, you were back to being hostile.

He rolls the ball back over to you after missing another perfect serve. You move slowly to make sure he's ready for the next pass. You take a deep breath, focusing your energy on the perfect serve. You toss the ball high, your eyes following its arc. As it descends, you leap slightly, making contact with a resounding thud. The ball grazes over the net in a graceful, powerful trajectory, spinning slightly as it cuts through the air.

It's the kind of serve that you know is perfect the moment you hit it.

Instead of moving to meet the ball, Andrew freezes. His eyes widen in a moment of panic, his feet glued to the spot. The ball hurtles past him, as he shrugs away from it. You watch as the ball lands just past him with a thump. "I want a new partner, Andrew fucking sucks."

"Well, you aren't giving me much to work with here," He shoots back.

Slowly, your head turns to look at him "The only thing I would give you is a handful of antidepressants so no one else has to put up with your bitching," You say, pointedly "Get out of here."

"Eat shit and die," He stuck up his middle finger.

"Eat shit and live, Andrew," you returned the gesture, dropping the volleyball and hurryingly scattering to the whiteboard that held every pair's names. With your forearm, you wipe Andrew's name off and think of another replacement to fill the blank space. You glance around the gym seeing Stan on the bleachers and immediately mark down a name with the pink pen.

He was locked in on watching his girlfriend, he sat with Jimmy, the two chatting amongst themselves until you strolled up at record pace "Hi?"

"Hey," you smile, hands on your hips.

"W-what's with the sh-shi shirt?" Jimmy was the fifth person to question the straight-edge shirt laid over your torso.

"Where's Kyle?" You ask abruptly, ignoring the question.

"I'm pretty sure he's in Mr Dubois's classroom," Stan had been wearing thick grey sweatpants and a hoodie layered over a long sleeve despite the warm weather. You could only imagine he was suffocating under there "Why?"

"Thanks," You look towards the large digital clock mounted above the entrance of the gym, ten minutes until the tournament starts.

You sprint out of the gym, your footsteps echoing in the deserted hallway. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz softly as you race past the rows of lockers and closed classroom doors. You dart around a corner, narrowly avoiding a collision with a group of students heading toward the gym.

Pulling your phone from your pocket, you dig around for his number while rushing through the hallway.

New Message-Kyle Broflovski

You: Mf where r u??????????????

You: This is super urgent

You: Right hand to god

You: I'm gonna keel haul you

You read each number carved into the plaques on the doors, searching for room 116 where Mr Dubois taught French. In almost every room there was a different group of kids doing different activities, you pass the drama room where people are huddled up in the dark and watching movies.

The art room had of course been doing pottery and miscellaneous forms of art where everyone had their headphones stuck in their ears and didn't utter a word to anyone else in the room. There were always the kids bumming around in stairwells and corners, scrolling on their phones or hitting their vapes. There was an absurd lack of chaperones.

Finally, you reached classroom 116 where the door was decorated in prints of the French and Canadian flags as Mr. Dubois hailed from Quebec and would never let you hear the end of it if you asked.

Prying the door open, you were slightly taken aback by the sight. You had anticipated it would be a couple of guys sitting around and doing nothing in particular but you were met with the sight of six desks pushed together in the center of the class to form one table and eight guys pulled around it in chairs. They all had a plethora of sheets and colourful dice lying between them.

No one noticed you come in, they were deep in a game of Dungeons and Dragons and chatting amongst themselves. Butters noticed eyes on the back of his head and turned to face you, a smile on his face "Hey," He was one of the few people who turned up in a matching pyjama set, it was light blue and satin almost matching the stark paleness of his eyes "We already started but you can join if you want."

"No, she can't," Cartman countered immediately, he was taking the role of dungeon master. He turns his attention from Butters to you "You can't play."

"I don't wanna play your gay-ass game," You wrinkle your nose "Where's Kyle? Stan said he was in here."

Glancing around at the guys sitting down at the makeshift table, there wasn't even a lock of ginger hair in sight. "Oh, he went to the bathroom," Butters said "So you're not playing?"

"No, I'm not," You say, turning and leaving the door ajar behind you while you continue your way down the hallway once again.

For a beat you stand outside of the boy's bathroom and debate whether or not to enter, glancing around to make sure no one can see you. You rush into the bathroom, slipping through the door and immediately hearing the faint sound of music. You follow the noise, rounding the corner to find Kyle standing in front of the mirror, phone in hand, filming himself lipsyncing.

The very second you laid eyes on the scene before you, you erupted in laughter like a hyena. Eyes wide and mouth agape, Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she gasped for breath between fits of laughter. "What are you doing in here?" Kyle quickly turned his phone off, tucking it into his pocket while heat rose to his face.

"Are you making a thirst-" You couldn't even finish your sentence before breaking into giggles again. Still laughing uncontrollably, you stumbled backward, your legs giving way beneath you. You reached out instinctively, hand grasping the edge of the bathroom counter to steady yourself. Your body shook with laughter, and you leaned heavily against the counter, your face flushed and eyes sparkling with mirth.

"It's not that funny," Kyle said with a straight face.

Your hand moved to clutch your stomach where your ribs were beginning to hurt from laughing so hard, a single tear spilled from your eye. "Can I watch?" You say between chuckles.

"Fuck off," he muttered under his breath and moved to push past you.

You quickly straighten up, rushing to block the door "Woah, woah, woah."

"What do you want?"

"Let's just talk for a second," Slowly you put your hands out in front of you as carefully as a bullfighter would.

"You're in the boy's bathroom," He points out.

"What? Would you rather talk in the girls?" You retort and the annoyance is clear across his face as he reaches past you for the handle but you put your hands on his chest in an attempt to keep him away from it "Okay, sorry. My volleyball partner bailed last minute," You lied, trying to make yourself sound as convincing as possible "And the tournament starts in like, five minutes. Can you fill in?"

"No," His body language was slightly tense, his shoulders hunching forward as if trying to shrink away.

"What?" You sound genuinely shocked "Why?"

"Why would I want to play volleyball for two hours?"

"Because it's with me," You try for a sweet smile but it comes off insincere. You could tell Kyle wasn't buying it as his face remained unmoved and unimpressed "Okay, well, why would you want to play DnD for like eight hours?"

"Oh my god," He turns away from you, running one hand through curly locks while he does a small pace before stopping to face you once more. Kyle hadn't anticipated making a fool of himself in front of you "No."

"Please?" You clasp your hands together like it's going to do something.

"You're friends with everyone on the volleyball team, ask one of them."

"I did and they have partners and I already put your name down to play," you suck a sharp breath through your teeth.

"Just find someone else," He dismisses and you were suddenly wishing you had knocked and avoided embarrassing him entirely. Not only was he naturally athletic but part of you just wanted to be partners with him.

"I'm actually really sorry for laughing at you, I'm learning empathy."

"You don't learn empathy, it's something you're born with."

"I'm defying the norms," You say "I swear to god I will never laugh at you again. You're right, it wasn't even that funny just a little, not a lot."

"Christ," He mutters, one hand pinching his nose bridge.

"You're the only person I trust to actually give it a shot. Please, Kyle?"

Kyle presses his lips into a thin line, rubbing the back of his neck. You can see the gears turning in his head. All he does for a minute is look at you with narrowing eyes before he finally speaks again "Okay, sure."

"Thanks," You smile brightly, opening the bathroom door and ushering Kyle out.

"When does it start?"

"Like three minutes," You shrug.

The two of you pass the door of Mr. Dubois's classroom where Cartman glares at you and Kyle "Kyle, get back here." Cartman pushes himself from his chair "We're in the middle of a campaign!"

"I don't fucking care!" You call back. When you notice Kyle pauses for the briefest moment to look into the room, you grab his wrist and pull him along. He seems a little taken aback but doesn't argue as you drag him through the hall even though he's perfectly capable of finding the gym without contact with you.

"Oh my god," Cartman utters, sitting himself back in his chair, a look of disbelief on his face. "First we lost Stan, now Kyle."

"And Kenny," Butters adds.

"And Kinny," Cartman repeats in solidarity.

"Are you straight edge now?" Kyle furrows his eyebrows as he reads the back of your t-shirt.

"No. God, why does everyone keep asking that?"

"Maybe because you're wearing a straight-edge shirt." He states the obvious.

"Oh shit, yeah," you turn back to briefly to face Kyle and crack a small smile.

You step onto the polished gym floor, the bright lights overhead casting a warm glow that reflects off the glossy surface. The chatter and laughter of other students echoed through the room.

The second you were noticed you were met with odd glances like you were dragging a corpse behind you. Everyone was already beginning to take their places for the tournament or finding a spot on the bleachers "Shit, hurry up, Goliath."

"Goliath?" He narrows his eyes at you as you begin to walk away.

"Dude, just get over here,"

Stan quirks an eyebrow, watching the two of you settle in the center of a court while Coach Dawsey barks out the rules of the tournament. "Alright, everyone, listen up!" Coach Dawsey's voice booms across the gym through the crackly microphone, immediately silencing the chatter. "Before we get started, I want to make sure everyone understands the rules for tonight's lock-in volleyball tournament."

You glance over at Kyle, who's focused on trying to decode whatever Stan is mouthing to him, his eyebrows are drawn in. You nudge him lightly, and he straightens up, shaking his head at Stan and turning his attention to the coach.

"First and foremost," Coach continues, "This is a friendly competition. Sportsmanship is key. No trash-talking or unsportsmanlike conduct will be tolerated unless I can't hear it. Understood?"

A chorus of "Yes, Coach" echoes around the gym.

"Good. Each match will be played to ten points, win by two. We're using rally scoring, so a point is scored on every serve. You all know your positions, but remember to rotate clockwise after winning the serve."

Kyle nudges you back, whispering, "You got all that?"

You shoot him a look but can't suppress a small smile. Coach Thompson's eyes narrow in on the two of you, and you quickly return your attention to him.

"Communication is crucial," Coach emphasizes. "Call for the ball, and make sure you cover your zones. Stay alert and work as a team."

You nod, glancing around at your teammates. Their faces reflect a mixture of determination and nerves, but there's also a spark of excitement. You catch Kyle's eye again, and this time he gives you a serious nod, signalling that he's ready to contribute.

"Lastly," Coach Dawsey says, "Remember to have fun. This is about building teamwork and enjoying the game as well as winning, which is of the utmost importance. So erm, do your best out there."

With that, Coach blows the whistle, signalling the start of the tournament. Each of the four courts is split in two with two teams in each of the half courts. From the other side of the net Heather and Jenny stand, Jenny regards you with narrowed eyes "Isn't Andrew your partner?"

"What the fuck, no," You huff a laugh like the accusation was ridiculous. Jenny looks at the bracket scrawled across the whiteboard for confirmation.

The referee signals the start of the match, and the first serve comes sailing over the net from the opposing team. You spring into action, bumping the ball up to Kyle, who's already moving into position.

"Kyle, yours!" you shout, setting the ball perfectly.

Kyle leaps into the air, his form impeccable, and smashes the ball over the net. It hits the ground just inside the line, scoring the first point for your team. In truth, you hadn't expected him to be so good, the last time you played volleyball with him, you were on a family camping trip and in a continuous loop of trying to beat each other. You can't help but grin.

"Nice spike," you say as Kyle jogs back.

"Thanks, Captain," he replies, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

The game quickly turns intense. Heather and Jenny are good, but you and Kyle find a rhythm, communicating effectively and covering the court with dexterity. Kyle's spikes are powerful and precise, while your sets and saves keep the ball in play.

"Cover left!" you call as the ball comes over the net.

Kyle dives, saving it just before it hits the ground, and you quickly set it up for another attack. The back-and-forth rallies are exhilarating, each point hard-earned. Despite the competitive edge, there's a surprising synergy between you and Kyle.

As the score nears the winning point, tension mounts. It's 14-13, and you need one more point to secure the win. The opposing team serves, and the ball comes at you fast. You manage a perfect pass to Kyle.

"Yours!" you shout, adrenaline pumping.

Kyle takes to the air, his spike aimed with an almost lethal precision. The ball slams down on the opponent's side, untouched. The final point is yours. A few of your friends on the bleachers give you little cheers as the whistle blows, signalling the end of the match.

You turn to Kyle, breathless but elated. "Good shit, man."

"Thanks," He grins.

With the thrill of your first win still buzzing, you and Kyle barely have time to catch your breath before the second match is called. The gym seems even more charged now, the energy from the first game amplifying the anticipation for what's to come.

Coach Dawsey gives you both a thumbs-up from the sidelines as you step onto the court for your next match. This time, you were against Jason and Daniel. You knew Daniel was on the volleyball team, you had seen him a handful of times and he was good but you couldn't speak for Jason who seemed much more out of place than his friend. You glance at Kyle, who glances back at you.

"You good?" you ask, a competitive gleam in your eye.

Kyle gives you a little thumbs up, one hand resting on his hip. The two of you watch as your names are moved up the brackets on the whiteboard while Heather and Jenny's get erased.

The referee blows the whistle, and the game begins. The first serve from the opposing team rockets over the net. You move quickly, receiving the ball and passing it to Kyle. He leaps and spikes it down hard, but the other team manages a quick save, returning the ball with a strong hit.

"Got it!" you call, diving to keep the ball in play. You manage to pass it back to Kyle, who sets up for another spike. This time, the ball hits the ground just inside the line, scoring the first point for your team.

The match is fast-paced, the ball flying back and forth as both teams fight for dominance. You dig, set, and spike with precision, each point driving you a little more.

At one point, the score is tied at 8-8, and the tension is palpable. The opposing team serves, and you receive the ball, setting it perfectly for Kyle. He slams it over the net, but the other team is ready, sending it back with equal force.

You dive to save it, barely managing to keep it in play. "Kyle, heads up!" you shout, scrambling to your feet.

Kyle jumps, twisting in mid-air to adjust his spike. The ball flies over the net, too quickly for the opponents to react. It hits the floor. This was the part of Kyle that you admired, the competitive nature and the drive, on occasion the hot-headed insults even though you spat them right back at him.

As the match progresses, you both dig deep, pushing through the fatigue. The score inches up, point by point, each one harder to earn than the last. Daniel is relentless, but so are you and Kyle.

Finally, it's match point. The score is 14-13, and you have the serve. You take a deep breath, focusing on the target. The ball leaves your hand, sailing over the net. The opponents scramble to return it, but Kyle is already in position.

He jumps high, timing his spike perfectly. The ball slams into the floor on the other side of the net, and for a moment, there's stunned silence. You turn to Kyle, a huge grin on your face, almost vibrating with excitement.

For a brief moment, he catches himself smiling at you, the thought that an act as simple as hitting a ball over a net would make you so happy when he had seen you surrounded by everyone you've ever known with a cake in front of you and still frown.

"Got a couple more rounds in you?" You ask.

"What did you just say?"

When the match ended you had settled back into your separate groups on the bleachers and pretended that you weren't sneaking glances at his little group while you were looking at Wendy. What had really been grating you was that the doors of the school had been locked as per the name of the event, this meant that there wasn't anywhere to smoke without getting caught and you were increasingly growing desperate for that nicotine buzz, so much so that you had chewed you lip until the taste of iron flooded your mouth.

"You don't like Miles anymore?" Nichole looks towards Lola with furrowed eyebrows. Last week she wouldn't stop talking about him.

"What?" This was news to Annie "Why?"

Lola shrugs "Because he's weird, he's an asshole."

"What did he do?" Heidi asked. Everyone paid their full attention to Lola who seemed to squirm a little more with every pair of eyes on her.

"Nothing, he's just, I dunno- he's a dick."

You and Red share a look, this was code for Lola liked him a lot and he didn't return the feelings.

"Where did Wendy go?" You ask abruptly, noticing the disappearance of the girl and glancing around the gym for her.

Nellie sucks a sharp breath through her teeth, quickly looking to Lola for unspoken confirmation if she should say or not "She's with Bebe and Jenny."

"Oh, okay," You say and silence falls over the group, waiting for a bigger reaction. "I don't really care."

"It's okay," Annie nods and places a hand on your shoulder.

"Yeah, I know?"

"Yeah," Lola draws out slowly.

"Um," You brush Annie's gentle hand off and push yourself to your feet "I need to ask Kenny something, I'll be right back."

Feeling more awkward than you should've, you walked over to the group of boys enamoured in what was seemingly a deep discussion until you heard a snippet of the conversation "You're saying that if you could only eat one animal for the rest of your life it would be fish?" Kenny asks with quirked eyebrows and a slightly wrinkled nose.

"Yeah," Kyle says with a knit brow, not understanding why the boys seemed so disapproving.

"Dude, he said animal not sea creature," Cartman says bluntly.

"A fish is an animal."

"Don't start," Cartman's voice is accusatory, you can see him getting riled up already.

"I'm not starting, a fish is an animal," Kyle retorts.

"I'm talking animal-animal."

"And I'm saying fish-fish."

"That's like saying ant, that's not an animal." His face is flushed a stark contrast to the pale, blindingly bright lights overhead.

"Ants are animals, they're arthropods," Kyle's voice raises just the slightest.

Cartman huffs laugh "No they are not, fish and ants are not animals that's like saying bugs and insects are animals."

"Cartman, you are in AP biology," Tolkien throws in as a reminder.

"Yeah, that's how I know what I'm talking about."

"We are in the same class," Kyle says slowly to be sure that it sinks in.

"At least one of us was paying attention."

"A fish is an animal."

"Yeah alright buddy, you don't go to the zoo and see fish hanging around. There aren't zoo fishes."

"There's actually so many fish at zoos-

"There's fish zoos?" Cydle abruptly cuts him off, voice raising "You go to fish zoos?"

Kyle regains himself "There's so many fish at zoos that they have their own attraction called an aquarium."

Cartman shakes his head "Nope, not the same thing, that's for sharks and shit."

"Yeah, for fish."

"A shark is not a fish," Cartman starts laughing. "And an animal is something with paws and shit."

"Is a lizard an animal?"

"No, it's an insect."

"Jesus Christ," You mutter "Cartman, what's a reptile?"

"What's a human?" Cylde asks "Are we animals?

"They are literally classified as Cartilaginous fishes," Kyle ignore Cylde, his jaw is clenched tight and it's easy to tell that such an idiotic argument is grinding at his skull.

"Define fish," Cartman leans back and crosses his arms, waiting for the answer.

"You did not just say that," Kyle deadpans.

"Define fish," He says again.

"You define fish," Kyle almost spits with how fast he's speaking.

"Aquatic."

"Aquatic what?!”

"Aquatic creatures."

"So by your definition, fish are aquatic creatures but a shark isn't a fish?" Kyle asks. The vein in his forehead became so prominent you thought it might burst.

"Please tell me how a shark is a fish," Cartman tilts himself forward, closer to Kyle "Tell me what a fish is."

"They're aquatic vertebrate animals that have gills but lack limbs."

"So I was right."

"No, you aren't, lobsters are aquatic creatures, do you think they're fish?" Kyle asks and Cartman falls silent "Cartman, lobsters are not fish."

"Then what are they?"

"They're a sub-group called decapoda in the malacostracans class but they also classify as phylum Arthropoda."

"I thought they were Crustacea?" Stan chimes in for the first time since you came over.

"They are," Kyle glances back at him then to you then back to Cartman.

"So then how are they all that other stuff you just said?" Cartman asks this like he's finally got Kyle in a corner.

"Because animals are classified under taxonomic categories."

"What is that?"

"Oh my fucking god," Kyle runs his hands down his face.

"Hey, Ken," You put one hand on his bicep and leaned in to whisper into his ear "Do you have any Zyn?"

He turns to face you, looking down at your choice of clothing "There is no way you're in a straight-edge shirt and you're asking me for Zyn."

"Do you though?" With a sly smile, you straightened your posture.

He ran a hand through his shaggy blonde hair, cut into a mullet "Pretty sure I left it in my car,"

"Fuck," Your face drops immediately, unintentionally forming into something of a pout for the first time in what must've been years.

"If you come with me we can grab it."

"Erm, I'm pretty sure all of the doors are bolted closed." You raise a brow, hand still absentmindedly resting on his arm.

"Don't worry about it," He waves you off. "But what do I get in return?"

"How about my undying gratitude?" You offered, your tone laced with mock seriousness.

"Oh, word?" He cracks a grin "I'll be back in a minute," Kenny addresses the group.

"Cool," Stan doesn't even look up at him but Kyle's eyes are trained on the way your fingers trail Kenny's arm, the touch light but lingering as you begin to walk away.

Kenny's beaten-up sneakers squeaked as the two of you crossed the polished hardwood floors of the gym and made your way into the somehow even brighter hallway "So what are your plans for the summer?"

"Mostly working I guess, I haven't made any plans so I guess I'll just figure it out as I go." You really hadn't thought about it. You knew that your parents planned a trip to Mexico to which you and Weston were not invited so the only thing that had come close to a plan in your mind was the thought crossing that you would take Weston on a camping trip while your parents were away.

"Same over here," He shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie "You still working at that restaurant?"

"Yeah, you still working at that gas station?" It had been a hot minute since the last time you had really talked to Kenny and with that simple question, you were beginning to feel guilt pile onto your shoulders.

"Yup, been thinking about picking up a second job for the summer, got nothing better to do."

"Oh, you should apply at my work, I know we're hiring prep and dishwashers," You peeped up. It would make your summer just a little better if you got to work with Kenny. Even if you weren't anywhere near to how close you used to be, it might make those tiring serving shifts covered in steak sauce, garlic butter, and tears just a little better.

"For real? Maybe I will."

You had always thought Kenny was handsome in a scrappy way like a stray dog, it was his disjointed manner that made him so endearing. "So how are we leaving the school?"

He tilted his head, gesturing for you to turn down the hallways with him "There's an emergency entrance in the woodshop but you need to stay by the door and keep it open because it'll lock me out."

"Sweet," You smile up at him, the thought of a nicotine pouch resting on your gums brought you a little bit closer to satisfaction. "We should hang out soon, it's been a while."

"Jeez, I guess it has, a month is kinda long for us or has it been longer."

"I dunno, I lost track," You narrow your eyes, trying to think of the last time you had been with him one-on-one.

He acknowledges this with a hum "There's something I had to grab from my car at some point tonight anyways so this kinda works out."

"What is it?"

"You'll see," He shrugs.

"Kenny, what is it?" Your stomach drops a little bit. Whenever he was cryptic like this you knew there was something in the works within his brain.

"Don't worry," Kenny brushes you off, seemingly unbothered as he usually was.

"Dude, I'm worried."

"Okay, well I think the Zyn will help you with that," He jiggles the handle to the wood shop and holds it open for you.

Immediately you're greeted with the smell of woodchips and little particles of sawdust finding their way into your eyes, you clamp them shut and squeeze until the burning goes away. There isn't a single person inside, you didn't really expect the dusty woodshop to be a popular place to hang out during a lock-in.

"Don't make this a regular thing, I don't wanna see you abusing nicotine."

"I love nicotine, I would never abuse it," You reach for the phone in your pocket to turn on the flash. You wanted to be as discreet as possible, Kenny quietly shut the door behind the both of you.

The woodshop was eery in the darkness, it felt like you were in a horror movie where something would crawl out from beneath the table saw and maul you into a bloody mass of flesh pulsing on the floor.

"This shit is creepy," Kenny muttered, voicing your thoughts.

"I fucking know," You answer, "You think this is where Jigsaw makes his death traps?"

"Oh, definitely."

Kenny had a hand on your back to guide you to the exit door after you had almost knocked over a shelf of students' unfinished projects. Finally, you saw the exit sign hanging above a grey door, illuminated by your flash.

"Okay, just hold the door open but if anyone comes in, shut it and text me when they leave," Kenny yanks it open and the cold air hits you, forcing a shiver out of you.

"Just be quick, please," You take a spot standing in front of the heavy door while you watch Kenny jog away and disappear into the darkness. Kenny's car was what was referred to as a shit box. Every moment you spent in it you just kept thinking 'Okay, now it's going to give out' but it proved you wrong by pushing through with every rusted turn of the wheels.

His car was at the front of the school while you were stationed beside it, arms hugging yourself as the straight-edge t-shirt wasn't helping much to protect you from the cool night that hung on the other side of the doorframe.

Every passing second that Kenny was out of sight you grew just a little more concerned, constantly glancing back at the door of the woodshop. All of the blades and intricate machines seemed menacing when the only light that gleamed off the razor-sharp edges came from your phone.

"Keep the door open!" You hear Kenny's voice off in the distance.

You squint at the dark silhouette that is coming towards you full throttle with something being carried in front of him "Ken, what is that?" As his figure gets closer you can see the item he's holding is moving and squirming in his grip "What the fuck is that?"

The second Kenny steps foot inside you back away from him and let the door lock. He has a huge smile on his face while holding a raccoon underneath its armpits, his bottom half swaying slightly with every movement.

"That was the thing you had in your car?!" You can't help but shout, face contorted in horror at how easy-going Kenny was about holding a wild animal.

He grins mischievously. "Thought it'd be funny to let this little guy have a stroll, he's chill, he'll probably just walk around. Just a harmless prank."

Before you can protest, he loses his grip, and the raccoon drops to the ground with a thud. For a split second, it looks stunned. Then it bares its teeth, hissing angrily. Panic sets in as the raccoon charges toward you both.

"Fuck!" You shot away, weaving through the rows of workbenches and tools, careless not to knock anything over. You kept looking back at the feral animal charging you, bumping down projects and bottles of wood-blinding glue.

It was moments like these when you were glad that you ran track, not that you had ever been pursued by a feral animal before. You had started track initially to be sure you could run in a zombie apocalypse scenario and this was similar enough.

You throw the door to the woodshop open, Kenny follows behind you, regret obvious on his face. The hallways echo with the sound of your footsteps and the angry chittering of the raccoon. You glance back to see it gaining on you, its eyes glinting in the dim light.

Kenny splits down another hallway while you keep running straight, the raccoon chooses to follow you. There isn't anyone in the halls, all you can hear is the chatter within the classrooms. While you were sure you could fight a raccoon, you didn't want to risk the chance that it could bite you and you would forever be the girl who got rabies from a raccoon.

Kyle casually walks down the hallway in your direction, waving when he spots you "Why are you running?"

"Fucking run!" You shout gesturing for him to move in the other direction. He doesn't fight you on this, instead running next to you, trying to decode why you were frantically shifting your gaze all over the place.

"What's going on?" He asks, confusion clear across his face.

You ignore him, eyes catching on a classroom door which is slightly ajar, you snatch his hand and make a B-line for the class, yanking him in after you and shutting the door. You run your hands down your face, chest rising and falling with every shaky breath.

"Is there a shooter?"

"No," you say "It's a raccoon."

Any worry on his face drops immediately "Be serious for a minute."

"I'm so serious Kyle and that thing is insane, it's out for blood."

"Did it bite you or something?"

You yank out a chair from beneath a desk and plop yourself down in it "No and thank god." A scream sounds from somewhere down the hallway and Kyle's eyes widen "We gotta let them fend for themselves, don't be a hero."

"I wasn't planning on breaking any doors down and fighting a raccoon," He retorts "How did it even get inside?"

"Pfft, I wouldn't know man," You shake your head, making forceful eye contact.

"You let it in?"

"Kenny did."

"Mother fucker," he mutters. "That asshole."

"It's really not that big of a deal," You cross your arms and lean back in the chair, quick to defend Kenny even though you weren't thrilled about a wild animal set loose in the school you would pretend to be for his sake.

Kyle turns to face, jaw clenching tightly and you already regret your words "It's not that big of a deal?"

"Yeah," You say, firmly "It's really not."

His voice steadies, the rise of anger ringing clear in his tone  "Do you have any idea how many people could be hurt because of this?"

"It's fucking funny, Kyle," You exasperate, standing up from the chair and taking a stride toward him.

"How is this funny?"

"It's a raccoon that terrorizes a school, how is that not funny?"

"What if it had rabies?" 

"Kyle, that's life. Sometimes a raccoon is gonna break into a school and attack teenagers," You try to sound nonchalant but there's agitation clinging to your words "Life ain't all cookies and cream, lil fella."

"Do not ever call me lil fella."

"Sorry, lil fella," You shrug.

"Don't act like you weren't shaking in fear two minutes ago."

"I was and two minutes later it's hilarious, I would be laughing my ass off right now if you weren't about to punch a wall."

"I'm not going to punch a wall," Kyle sneered. 

"Are you gonna make a TikTok about it then?" 

"Jesus fucking Christ," He uttered looking away from you. 

"Acting like you've never done stupid shit before," You spit, moving closer until you're inches away from him. You felt that familiar surge of anger catching fire in your lungs, one that was sure to never be smothered "Pulling the fire alarm, punching Stan, taping porno magazines on Mr. Garrison's car-

"Those were ages ago," He cuts you off "At least some of us actually grew up."

"It's a fucking raccoon!" You throw your hands up in the air "And you're seventeen, you should think this is funny because it is and one day you're going to be an old wrinkly boney fuck with rotten testicles and wish that you revelled in this a little more."

"You aren't listening," His voice raises. Every few moments, he runs a hand through his hair in a quick, jerky motion, adding to the sense of barely contained rage.

He was right, you weren't listening. Kyle was hastily spitting out words while you just stared at him like his words were muffled to your ears. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, muscles tensed with barely contained frustration. His brows are furrowed deeply, casting a shadow over his narrowed eyes that stay trained on your face. His jaw is clenched so tightly that a muscle twitches in his cheek, and his lips are pressed into a thin, hard line.

The sleeves of his hoodie are rolled up and you can see the veins and the muscles flexing. His face was almost flushed red with rage, for the first time you had noticed the light dusting of freckles spread over his nose. You remembered him having them as a kid, they came around in the summer when he would spend hours in the sports court and chasing his friends through the woods. His face was spotted like a fawn, though they dwindled with age they always got dark after he bathed in sunlight. 

"What?" He snaps, breaking your immersion "Are you going to say something?"

"Your freckles are coming in."

"What?" His eyebrows draw together even further. "What are you-

He is cut off by a sudden, sound of a heavy thump and metal hitting the linoleum and clattering in its place. You turn towards the sound and see that the vent covering has fallen off and something dark scuttles across the ground, catching only glimpses of it between rows and rows of desks. "Holy shit, it found me!" Without warning, the raccoon crashes against a desk with a ferocious growl, causing you to scream. Acting purely on instinct, you leap towards Kyle, wrapping your arms around him in a desperate bid for safety. His eyes widen in surprise, and for a moment, his anger is replaced by shock as he catches you. "What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck."

"What are you doing?" he exclaims, but his voice is less harsh than before, more surprised than angry though the irritation still hangs in his tone.

"I don't want to look at it," You squeeze your eyes shut and bury your face into Kyle's collarbone. "This is gonna be really funny in a week but I'm actually really fucking scared right now."

Kyle has one protective arm over your midriff as he leans forward the slightest to look at the raccoon that stands between the pair of you and the door. The raccoon hisses and bares its teeth at you, slobber foaming around its mouth "It has rabies," He says, backing away "It actually has rabies."

"Fuck!" You shout, breaking away from Kyle and trying to scramble onto a desk, so panicked your legs keep slipping until Kyle lifts you by your waist until your feet are flat on the surface and hops on a desk himself. "What the fuck do we do?"

The raccoon circled around the door, staggering like it had just drunk a forty. You fumbled for your phone in your pocket, looking up what to do when you encounter an animal with rabies. "What are you doing?"

"Okay, um, Reddit says to shoot it dead, bag it, and burn it," you look over at Kyle.

"Do you have a gun in your pocket?" He says with an antsy sarcasm.

"No."

"Well, that's super helpful, thank you," His face flat and voice mocking. 

"Not the time to be an asshole," As the raccoon snarls and regains its footing, you fumble for your phone, your hands shaking. "I'm calling the police," you tell Kyle, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and adrenaline.

Kyle nods, his eyes never leaving the raccoon. "Fucking hurry."

With trembling fingers, you dial 911, praying for a quick response. The raccoon begins to inch closer, its eyes locked onto you. "911, what's your emergency?" comes the operator's voice.

"We're trapped in a classroom with a rabid raccoon at Park County High," you say, your voice cracking. "It's really fucking gross looking like it's covered in mud and it had matted fur and shit." You shudder as it nears you "And it's pretty fucking fat, it jiggles when it walks."

"Okay, ma'am, I need you to stay calm," the operator replies, her voice steady and professional. "Can you confirm your location one more time?"

"Park County High, room 112," You wrinkle your nose as it begins to sniff up the desk you standing on "Its hands are dirty as shit, probably from being greedy and eating too much."

The operator starts to ask for details, but the raccoon lunges forward, coming dangerously close. Panic surges through you. Without thinking, you scream and hurl your phone at the animal. The device smacks the raccoon on the head, causing it to stumble and momentarily back off. Upon impact, your phone shatter, the screen glitching with colour before going black completely. 

The raccoon stumbles for a second before hissing and lunging at your ankles again. You retract your feet, trying not to tip onto the ground. You can tell the raccoon is charging up to attempt another jump onto the desk, you leap down in a moment of panic and kick the desk into it. The desk drops to its side and squashes the raccoon which lets out a yelp before squirming it's way out.

You ran to the front of the class grabbing any stray books off of desks and chucking them at the raccoon. Snatching the metre stick from the spot where it rested against the whiteboard, you begin to swat at the raccoon "I actually will not survive if I get rabies," Your voice shakes with every word.

"Yeah, no shit!" Kyle retorts, his hands flying arounf frantically and his mind paniced to do something. 

The metre stick only seems to make the raccoon more angry  "This feels like animal abuse!"

"It is!"

"Should I stop?"

"Do you want rabies?"

"No."

"Then no!" Kyle climbs down from his desk and frantically looks around for something to throw at the raccoon, he grabs a thick textbook from the teacher's desk and throws it down at the rabid creature. It squeaks, staggers, and snaps its jaws, ignoring Kyle and staying focused on you.

"Kyle, open the door!" You shout, prodding at the raccoon in a feeble attempt to keep it away from your flesh. 

He jiggles the handle to no avail, it doesn't budge. There's nothing but a familiar snigger on the only side of the door. "Cartman, open the door!" 

"If you pay me twenty bucks right now." His irritating voice answers. 

"What? I don't have money on me." He lifted the little shade that covered the glass panel on the door and of course, there was the back of Cartman's head.

"You're Jewish, that's impossible."

"I'll fucking Paypal you the money just open the door," Kyle's voice rises with every word. 

"Jewrat, I know you have your little gold pouch on you."

"Did you put the fucking raccoon in the vent?" 

"That depends," His voice is as smug as ever.

"I'm gonna kick your teeth in!" He slams his body against the door but Cartman is without question the heavier one leaning on the other side.  "Open the door!" 

"Is it ethical to kill it?" You crawl on top of the teacher's desk, kicking random items down every time the raccoon attempts to jump. It hits the creature's head with a little thud though it's only stunned for a moment before it goes back to attacking like it shot up some kind of drug.

“That doesn’t really matter,” Kyle does a run against the door, it looks like it's going to cave inward.

You had run out of supplies to knock on the raccoon's head, it grabbed hold of your shoe, getting more agitated with every attempt to shake it off. "Fuck, fuck, shitballs, fucking cunt licker!"

In mere seconds Kyle grabs a chair by its legs and bashes down onto the raccoon which claws into your shoes in an attempt to stay on you but the force of the chair brought it barrelling to the ground. It twitches under the chair, ragged breathes and squeals. "Did it bite you?" 

You shake your head, a hand slapped over your mouth as you look down at the animal writing below. "Where the fuck are the police?" You scream. Kyle helps you down from the desk and you immediately spring towards the door, banging on it with all of your force "Eric, open the door or I'm gonna throw rocks through your window, you dumb whore!" 

"Tell the jew to slide a bill under the floor," He says nonchalantly. Through the glass panel on the door, you can hardly see the rest of the hallway past Cartman's head which appears to be vacant. You turn back to Kyle who throws his hands up in exasperation then look to where the raccoon begins to stir on the floor and find its footing. 

"I'm going to ask one more time, open the fucking door," You try to keep your voice as still as possible despite shaking with rage and biting the inside of your mouth so hard that blood mixes with your saliva.

"I'm going to ask one more time, tell Kyle to-

You ball your hand into a fist and rear your elbow out, connecting your knuckles to the glass panel that was once separating the two of you from Cartman. It shatters on impact, sending a spiderweb of cracks radiating outwards. The sound of breaking glass fills the room, echoing off the walls. You reach your other arm through broken glass and wrap your hands around Cartman's pudgy neck.

The panic is evident, his hand moving quickly to try and pry your hands away from him. You refuse to let go, holding him against the door despite his choking sputters and the urgent tapping over your hands. 

"Open the fucking door!" You shout again, wringing Cartman's neck like a soaked towel, ignoring the little shards of glass stuck in your hands and the jagged edges of the frame cutting up your forearm. You were a lot less scared of Cartman than you were of the raccoon carrying a deadly illness.

He coughs, each breath becoming shallower and more desperate than the last. His hand fumbles for the door handle and the second you see the light from the hallway spill through a crack, you let go of Cartman and slam your body on the door which finally lets out.

You stumble through the door and into the hallway, watching your shaking hand engrained with little shards of class. Cartman's breathing heavily against a wall, his face the brightest shade of red you had ever seen on a human.

Kyle walks through, eyes wide and brows furrowed at the sight before him.  He looks at you, shutting the door behind him "Is it funny now?"

"Kinda actually, yeah."

[otdiaftg]

The King's Men - Chapter Seven

Day: Wednesday, January 17th Time: 8:30 PM EST

"And he says it isn't a righteous streak," Andrew mused, more to himself than to Neil. "If it was righteousness I'd ask you to give up drinking and smoking, too," Neil said. "I'm only asking for this one thing. It doesn't have any effect on you anyway and it's an unnecessary risk. You don't need a third addiction." "I don't need anything," Andrew reminded him, right on cue. "If you don't need it, it'll be easy to give it up," Neil said. "Right?" Andrew thought it over a minute, then flicked his cigarette at Neil. It singed the material where it bounced off his shirt. Neil ground it out under his shoe when it hit the asphalt. The cool look he flicked Andrew was wasted; Andrew's gaze had already drifted past him in search of something more interesting. "I'm going to take your temper tantrum as a yes," Neil said. "I'll bring the money by your room tonight." "Will you?" Andrew slid his stare back to Neil's face. "Rather, can you? Aaron doesn't want you in the room anymore, Nicky says. Something about you inviting yourself to fights that aren't your concern?" He waggled his hand in a so-so kind of gesture. "This phone tag nonsense has left the message a little unclear. Perhaps you'll explain to my face why you're suddenly so interested in my brother's life." "I'm not," Neil said. "Without the lies," Andrew added. "I'm not," Neil said again. "I can't stand him, but we're out of time. I told you last October we can't make it to finals if we're a fractured mess. You two are holding us back. I had to start with one of you. Since everyone bets on Aaron and Katelyn, I thought he'd fight you for her." "Wouldn't that be an interesting change of pace," Andrew said. "See also: a waste of energy and effort. He might try, but he won't win." "You have to let him go." "Oh," Andrew said, as if this was news to him. "Do I?" "You'll lose him if you don't," Neil said. "He'll keep pushing Katelyn away if you tell him to, but he'll resent you for it. He'll count down the days until graduation and when it comes you'll never see him again. You're not stupid. I know you can see it. Let him go now if you ever want him to come back." "Who asked you?" "You didn't have to. I'm volunteering my opinion." "Don't," Andrew advised him. "Children should be seen and not heard." "Don't dismiss me for lying to you then ignore me when I tell the truth." "This is not truth," Andrew said. "Truth is irrefutable and untainted by bias. Sunrise, Abram, death: these are truths. You cannot judge a problem with your obsession goggles on and call it truth. You aren't fooling either of us." "If you ask for half the truth, you'll only get half the truth," Neil said. "It's your fault if you don't like the answers I give you, not mine. But as long as we're talking about obsession and Aaron's life, what are you going to do about his trial? She's going to be here for it, isn't she? Cass, I mean," Neil said, though he was sure Andrew knew who he was talking about. "You're going to have to face her." "Seen and not heard," Andrew reminded him. He sounded bored, but Neil knew a warning when heard one. Neil let it slide and went back inside.

Art used with permission by ouijacine. Thank you @ouijacine.