#even if martin had lost weight HE IS NOT A CHILD!!!!

[mxwhore]

who is this sharp jawed twink????? Dont know him

[horizon-verizon]

I've thought about this again because I saw some posts that spoke in favor of Elia, against Rhaegar/Lyanna and many mix the two canons. I personally think they were in love and I've always been curious how Martin would handle it when we had the "ultimate truth" and I have been indifferent to whether Elia knew/agreed/there was bigamy/a secret third option.

I like Rhaegar from the books quite a bit, but among the mountain of horrible things S8 did was make me really dislike the character and fans of Rhaegar and Jon. And I can't blame Elia or Anti Rhaegar fans when they use the show's canon (but I do wish they would acknowledge that that's unlikely what happened in the books).

Every time I remember that show!Rhaegar unilaterally and without notifying anyone ANNULLED the marriage with Elia, transformed his children into bastards and named his new son AEGON I want to strangle him and kill him. According to the show's backstory, Elia died and was held hostage for an engagement that was already void. Rhaenys and Aegon lost their rights, were abandoned and died because of a shitty father (When I have to assume it was relatively good in the books because Rhaenys goes to hide in his room, his daughter associates him with safety). I have no words for how absolutely disgusting it is to throw away a child and give that same name to the 2.0 model.

And all of this was done with the intention of legitimizing poor, innocent Jon Snow and giving him a "stronger"* claim to the throne over his aunt who was going "mad" and "power-hungry when the throne "always" was Jon's "rightful" birthright.

I pray that neither of the two things (Rhaegar annulled his marriage and and Jon's Targ name is Aegon) whatever it ends up on paper because literally any fan theory over the years has been better and it wouldn't feel like the character assassination that I felt that creative decision was.

I have a post explaining why I do not think Rhaegar was THE devil with how he handled stuff w/Lyanna and Elia HERE AND why Lyanna is and never was his "war prize" HERE. And in it, I also make it clear how/why Rhaegar actually did not canonically (bk) abandon his kids...but it was more that he couldn't be at 3 places at once.

*EDIT 1/12/2025* Overall, Rhaegar failed bc he was way too idealistic that he let ideas of heroism carry him away from observing issues with is own acrions or how e implemented a lot of them. So he was both irresponsible in one sense and was obsessed w/fufilling an ultimate level of "responsibility" through a prophecy I think he took as way to justify/redeem te corruption around him. Yes, he wanted to be "authentic", but went about it unfairly & disastrously under that inevitable weight. *END OF EDIT*

🤗. Thank you, anon, another take I agree with! I can't totally blame those Elia stans either for how they feel abt Rhaegar of either book or show when yes his affair with Lyanna--even if he had never loved Elia that way--is an social affront to Elia, and the show made it worse with Rhaegar somehow deciding to fuck over his own kids Henry VIII style in the way you describe (idw to repeat myself or you). And for some reason, I haven't really ever come to the realization that he'd be "giving" his leg son's name to his ileg son in the context of his having emotionally/politically affronted Elia. If it is just about the "sanctity" of marriage and a misunderstanding of what marriage is, I lean towards @faintingheroine's (deactivated) reblog:

I think people also simply emotionally understand cheating more than they understand actual physical violence. Cheating is something people can relate to their own lives. Whereas violence of this kind is something that most of us will hopefully never have to deal with. But it is a very flawed and myopic way to look at high-stake stories like this one of course.

I def understand some's arguments for why Elia WAS totally against Rhaegar for his liasion w/Lyanna both for her own sake and their kids. Aside from just not wantin that shame or to share a spouse. But the show's explanation for Rhaegar and Lyanna being for Jon having legitimacy is not for Elia but for Daenerys and the show's attempt to mitigate her role for said Jon Snow. Because the narrative is about the misinterpretations of the kind of heroism as in who we should love but who is using their power for a "greater good". Rhaegar was trying to balance the immediate political landscapes with future possible events that he likely thought had to be addressed as soon as possible, but it also didn't mean he didn't also make more personal self concerned choices but even this doesn't mean that he was always selfish when we see clearly canon evidence of the reverse.

I do "blame" those who think Rhaegar abandoned Elia and his kids to his abusive father for Lyanna or that he legitimized/tried to legitimize his child by Lyanna BY CANON. That shit's annoying. Neglect for te sake of te prophecy, yeah sure but leave beind to Aerys, no.

I suppose the reason why people like you and I have been "indifferent" to whether Elia knew abt the affair and how she'd take it and whether or not she "agreed" is that:

a) we simply don't know yet/GRRM has only ever said it was a "complex" relationship b/t her and Rhaegar...whatever that means

b) GRRM's handling of age gap relationships IN WORLD reflects both strange medieval-ish ideas of youth and sexuality AND how he's not really "in the know of" how such relationships work, thus they don't really materialize "realistically" in the book as they would other than with Dany and Drogo (Dany and Drogo is a slave-master situation...Lyanna chose Rhaegar under no compulsion from him)...so IN WORLD, it's far more likely that Rhaegar didn't actually seek prey in Lyanna for her youth/vulnerability (as Robert, Craster, some slave masters, Walder Frey, etc. do) nor "hated" Elia. But that he just really fell for Lyanna AND wanted to make sure the prince that was promised prophecy come to fruition at the same time. That he felt torn between these two--

(not that he used Lyanna for the prophecy, but that these two things AS WELL AS HIS KIDS, likely came at odds in terms of "what can I do to make these two things happen without compromising the other"...perhaps, after a life of performing "duty" towards his family, dynasty, the "world", Lyanna is the "love" that NARRATIVELY becomes his "weakness" in a long career of putting "duty" first [when he also has been emotionally distant and set against by his own father's paranoia and abuse for years by this point] bc he finally gets to perform something not intertwined with a sense of this great pressure of "duty". Even though I def headcanon he was attracted to Lyanna for how she views/acts out justice and all that --THIS DOESN'T MAKE HIS ACTIONS NOT "STUPID" OR HIS RELATIONSHIP WITH LYANNA ANY LESS EXRAMARITAL. I'M PROVIDING CONTEXT PEOPLE MAY NOT BE INVESTIGATING IN THEIR ASSESSMENTS AND ANSWERING THE QUESTION THEY MAY HAVE FOR WHY HE WOULD SUCH A THING, FILLING IN BLANKS HERE, PEOPLE AND SAYING THAT THE TRAGEDY HERE IS THAT THE LOVE COULDN'T BE BECASUE OF POLITICAL ARRANGEMENTS)--

bc I think he left Dragonstone with some of his crew to explore some secrets for said prophecy AND to possibly meet up with Lyanna, maybe partly to keep her safe from his own father and/or Robert, and while there are many fans who have cited he was "obsessed" with prophecies and not enough on his own family, I think they forget that the entire series is devoted to what and how one transforms their own privilege or suffering into "duty" towards those needing protection on a wider scale, and the prophecy is critical towards that--to "save the world" has been Rhaegar's most enduring goal. Perhaps there are those affronted by the idea that he was more "torn" abt the prophecy vs Lyanna versus the prophecy/world-saving versus Elia, or as they interpreted was happening

c) even if Rhaegar had stayed with his part of the family, he'd been called to arms for his father and if he didn't that's treason/endangers his part of the family...this is in answer to those arguing how Rhaegar's infidelity puts Elia's and their kids' lives in danger

The prophecy is about saving the world, yes? It's also very possible Rhaegar was "melancholy" all his life bc:

from his birth--connected to Summerhall & the continued Targ search to reconnect with their dragonflame origins and possibly use it to bring about some changes (necessary or not) in the world where they straddle the line between Other and exceptional--he's lived with a continued sense of isolation

he wanted to be a person responsible for "renewing" the world from Targaryen & other Westerosi destructive actions from the past centuries nearly similar to how Dany is now using Dragons to reverse the effects of Valyrian slavery in Essos's current slave system...which is destroying the entire slave system. For Rhaegar, that was bringing about the Prince that was Promised; the specifics, we simply do not know and that's the part of the mystery to be "solved" in WoW.

[mollymauk-teafleak]

just that still sort of quiet

Happy Christmas to the lovely @minky-for-short! Love you sweetie <33

Want more soft jmart dads? I have you covered. Let's not think too hard about why we need this.

Please reblog and comment over on Ao3!

------

Jonathan Sims has always had trouble sleeping, even now he's left most of his demons in the past.

But tonight, he's not the only one.

-----

Jon had given up on asking why can’t I sleep a long time ago.

There were just too many answers to that question, enough that it was pointless to wonder. Like asking, of the entire house that collapsed on top of him, which precise brick had struck him in the back of the head and killed him. 

It used to just be plain old insomnia, a childish fear of what he’d see if he closed his eyes, an inability to give up that much control in a life where he already couldn’t convince people he was a boy and they’d all got it wrong. 

Then he grew and it was the bumps of coke at the weekend parties, the cup after cup of bitter black coffee, the books he’d buried himself in so he’d have an excuse to live in the university library and keep his life neatly organised and Harvard referenced. So at least the myriad ways in which he was falling apart were tucked away and organized. 

When he lost even that small amount of routine, the reasons shifted and became more stark. Suddenly, it was the tangled, hopeless mess between his ears that kept him up. It was the sticky black ink inside him that had soon leaked out and drowned him, no matter how neatly pressed his suit was or how brightly the brass nameplate on his door rang out Head Archivist . He hadn’t slept for days at a time back then, though it had actually been the least of his worries. The paranoia, the concrete certainty that the moment he closed his eyes, the horrors chasing him would sink their teeth in. Rest had been impossible, until his brain had simply boiled over. Sleep caught up with Jonathan Sims so hard he came close to never waking up. 

But now that inky blackness had a name, a neat little label and a prescription ticket. Undiagnosed schizophrenia, autism with no accommodations and a healthy dose of the bargain bin insomnia that had been plaguing him since he was a child. He saw a therapist once a week, a couples counselor once a month with Martin, he took the medications they prescribed him and was honest about when they couldn’t keep the bad thoughts out. The horrors finally crystallized, he realised the things he’d run from had been shadows on the walls of his own mind and, more importantly, there were ways to fight back. 

But Jon still couldn’t sleep some nights and he’d finally given up on wondering why. But he did know what to do about it now.

They slept so tangled together it was impossible to extract himself without waking up his boyfriend. Sure enough, Martin stirred as Jon squirmed out of his arms, threw his legs over the edge of their bed and felt around blindly for his slippers. He made a noise that was almost his name, one sleep glazed eye opening past the bird's nest of auburn curls. 

“I’m okay,” Jon whispered soothingly, putting a hand on his shoulder, “Just can’t sleep, that’s all.”

Martin scrubbed a hand against his face, “Need me? S’okay if you do, I’m up…”

The last part was an adorably obvious lie but Jon had slowly learned to believe Martin when he offered him help. If he asked him to come with him, to sit and watch the rain for a few hours or put the kettle on and talk about the weight on his chest, he would. The certainty of it, the solid, warm presence of his love was enough to make Jon smile as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of those messy curls. 

“I’m okay, I promise,” he murmured, tugging the duvet up over his broad shoulders, “You go back to sleep. I’ll come get you if I need you.”

Martin sank back down into the blankets with a sigh, back to softly snoring by the time Jon had belted his dressing gown. So much of him didn’t want to leave that warmth, ached to be back in the safe circle of his arms, listening to his heartbeat against his ear. But the itch had firmly settled into his brain by now, the restless static that pushed him to close the door and pad as quietly as possible down the hallway to their flat’s little sitting room. 

Shelley was asleep on the sofa, curled up in her favourite place where the sag in the leather was particularly deep. She opened one golden eye to regard her owner as he shuffled past, yawning and stretching to follow him into the kitchen like he should be grateful she’d deigned to get up for him. 

And he was, scooping her up and letting her perch across his shoulders like she always did, scratching behind the one ear she had left until she was purring contentedly.

“I’d feel worse about waking you up too but you have all day to sleep,” Jon murmured softly, smiling when she butted her striped head against his rough cheek.

He flicked the switch on the kettle, wincing at how loudly the old thing rattled, but it was worth it once he had a warm mug between his hands, breathing in the lavender scented steam. He’d insisted stubbornly for years that herbal teas had never helped with his insomnia since he was small until, after weeks of searching, Martin came home with a brand that was almost exactly the blend Jon’s grandmother would give him as a child, the precise ratios of lavender to passion flower to lemon balm. How he’d done it, Jon would never know but after one long inhale, he could feel his muscles unwinding and his nerves settling, if a little begrudgingly. 

Machen and Irving were asleep on the rocking chair, the two kittens curled up so close that it was impossible to see where one began and the other ended, just a lump of soft black fur. Jon felt bad, making them move when they looked so peaceful, though their indignant cheeping settled as soon as they could curl up in his lap and dig their tiny needle claws into the terry cloth fabric of his dressing gown. 

Jon somehow juggled their two newest additions, a mug of tea and the cat around his neck without scalding anyone, settling back and reaching for one of the books on the side table. Not the books he’d usually turn to, just a stack of dog-eared romance paperbacks from the library closest to their flat, but they were perfect for distracting his brain when it wouldn’t slow down. He could send his mind to some far off beach that didn’t really exist or some quaint little fictional town, bemusedly watch two one dimensional love interests fall in cliched, inevitable love. Hopefully, while it was gone, his body could be free to collapse. 

Jon set himself rocking, nudging the chair into a comforting, rhythmic motion, one hand holding the book while the other stroked across Irving’s back. He started to flick through pages, beginning to believe it was starting to actually work, that his eyelids were getting heavy, his limbs getting that lead feeling, his breathing slowing…

Until it occurred to him that tracking his body this obsessively probably meant it wasn’t working at all.

Jon closed the book on the couple’s ridiculous miscommunication before the grand declaration of love, pinching the bridge of his nose with a frustrated sigh. It always went like this, he’d shift all his anxiety from whatever woke him to the act of getting back to sleep, pulling him further away in the process. Whatever had caused his eyes to open, a bad dream or a phantom ache from a long time ago or the new mundane stresses he’d earned, getting them closed again always felt like he was trying to climb an impossibly steep cliff. 

“What’s the matter, daddy?”

Jon jumped so hard he sent the two kittens in his lap skittering away like puffs of smoke dissipating. Shelly dug her claws into his shoulder, hanging on grimly and giving Jon a low rumble of annoyance like it was his fault for having a heart attack.

And of course Gertrude Sims didn’t even blink, just staring up at her daddy like she was just waiting for him to collect himself and answer her question. 

“You’re going to have to stop doing that to me, darling,” Jon wheezed, only just remembering to whisper, “It’s that or we tie a bell to you.”

“Like the kittens,” Gertie beamed that sunshine smile she had, the one that erased any lingering doubt that she was a clone of Martin. 

The only thing she’d gotten from Jon was his eyes.

“I suppose so,” Jon chuckled softly, reaching out and putting his hand on her cheek, “What are you doing out of bed, darling? It’s so late.”

Gertie leaned into his hand, so close her little cheek squished, “Daddy was up so I thought maybe it was time to be up? Time to go to the museum and see the butterflies?”

Jon felt a prickle of guilt, shifting so he could take his little girl in his arms. She clambered up excitedly, sitting in his lap and resting her head against his chest so her fluffy hair tickled his nose. She’d grown so much in the four years she’d been alive, Jon would always miss the days he could hold her in one hand, but his arms had always found a way to fit around her. He’d make sure they always did. 

“I’m sorry, darling, it isn’t time to go to the museum just yet,” Jon sighed, “I should be in bed, I just…I can’t sleep.”

“Oh,” Gertie plucked at his dressing gown, “How come?”

Jon hesitated for a moment before deciding to answer honestly, “I…I don’t really know. All sorts of reasons, I suppose.”

Gertie absorbed that, he could almost hear the gears clicking inside her mind. Jon felt the same sense of needling dread he always did when he’d tried to explain the way his mind worked, to teachers, to doctors, to the therapists he’d tried in the past. That feeling of cracking open his chest for them, having to watch the poorly disguised horror on their faces as they examined all the parts of him that were wrong. 

There was only one person who he was able to open up to without that fear. And fortunately, Gertie was just like her papa.

“Daddy’s scared?” she mumbled, turning her face towards his. 

Jon swallowed, feeling his hands shake as they lay against her back, “Yes. Sometimes I’m just scared, Gertie. And it makes it hard to sleep.”

His daughter shifted, sitting up and craning her little neck to clumsily kiss Jon’s forehead. 

“It’s okay to be scared,” she hummed, her voice bright with that sunshine she always seemed to radiate, “I’m right here.”

Jon felt his throat close, a rush of emotion surging up from his chest. It wasn’t constricting like fear, like panic, it was an embrace, something solid and sure that anchored him when he was drifting away. The kind of tightness that said I’ve got you and I won’t let go.

Because how many times had he said those words, kissed his little girl in the exact same spot on her forehead as he pulled the covers up to her chin and tucked them close around her. On nights she couldn’t sleep because of bad dreams or the rain drumming too loudly on the windows or the colic she’d had when she was small, Jon and Martin had dug furrows in their carpet walking her back and forth, feeling her grow heavy in their arms as sleep finally found her. No matter how early in the morning it was, how long she’d wailed, there would always be that twinge of regret as he’d laid her down in her cot or her bed. 

So Jon had made that promise for both of them. I’m right here. And he’d meant it with every cell of his body. 

“Thank you, Gertie,” he rasped, holding her little face in his hands, “I feel a lot better now.”

Gertie nodded happily, all perfect confidence, “Always does!”

Jon held her tight for a moment, just because he needed to. The kittens came slinking back over, jumping up and curling against Gertie’s side, Shelley began to purr like a busted old engine. Jon rocked them for a long while, listening to his daughter’s steady breathing, feeling his anxious heartbeat slow to match her own. For a perfect half hour, he didn’t need anything more than that.

“We should try and get some sleep, I think,” he eventually murmured, “We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

Gertie gave a little wriggle of excitement as Jon stood with her in his arms, walking her down the hall to her bedroom, “Going to the museum! See the dinosaurs and the butterflies and the big whale!”

Jon chuckled softly. The Museum of Natural History was their daughter’s favourite place, she’d been looking forward to their visit all week. 

“We are…” he settled her back down into the bed, smiling as Shelley immediately unwound herself from his neck to snuggle up next to Gertie, “Sweet dreams, darling, I love you.”

“Love you too, daddy,” she smiled as he kissed her forehead, in just the right place, “And you have sweet dreams too.” 

“I think I will,” Jon waited until her eyes were closed, until the rising and falling of her chest settled into something soft, “I’m right here.”

Jon knew he should go back to his own room, leave the door ajar so the streetlight filtering in from the living room windows would soften the darkness. He should curl up in Martin’s arms, relax into the warmth of the people who loved him most, he should be finally, finally sleeping. 

But he would stay awake just a little longer, perching on his daughters bed and watching her dream of butterflies and blue whales.

There were plenty of reasons Jon couldn’t sleep. But she was his favourite.

[theuniverseawakens347]

Black Africans … ya from America … but when I say it ( or America// anex to Jamaica into Africa west central) …

When I say it ya get all mad..

Ya not mad at the history or the fact I’m speaking it even thought I’m young …

Age is part of the culture fanum ya elders but it’s the fact that

1. Children no knowing need listen to elder

2. Elder disappointed in child bc “I’m a good example why you shit” Kai ya mom ..

3. Their internal dialogue they don’t wana look at themselves they don’t believe in therapy they drink n smoke or party pain away or push it onto someone else ..

4. Colorist. APARTIDE sooooo ingrained in their heads ghandi vs Nelson .. Martin and Malcom ya black “how we think africas shud be I listen there but ya not part of my land but you say n look my feels” … deep core of soul realizing ya white mans mental pet.. ya no wan accept to kids bc then shatter their reality on what is and ya the parent they look up to .. or ya lost time Kai and mom dad an ya won make up so you over extend ddg mom to tee and Aries ya bday girfting soooo extra w the gists “ya do sooo much for me lemme drain my pockets” EXTORTION EMBEZZLEMENT ( tems ya won be touched ya sold self for weight for baby me n you… white dress “baptized” to Satan)

UR KIDS JOB IS TO NOT TAKE CARE OF YOU WHEN THEY GET MONEY DDG MOM AND BUY YA ALL THE THINGS YA NEVER HAD TO GIVE THEM … ya spoil each other w love n comfort NOT MATERIAL THINGS.. the amount of trips ya took for YouTube twitch make up money

AMP KAI YA DID DDG WRONGNAND DUKE .. GIVE BACK MY MONIES … ya spend of Nicki to twerk for ya.. and tyla to sexxx and ya lil “50 vs 5000 incident” girl .. UR A WHORE N ADDICT AND NOT HAPPY W SELF .. YA STOLE SOOO MUCH W WHITE BOY WHO GAVE CAR .. DDG MONEY YA LIL MAN HIM CAUSE HES LIGHT SKIN AND PLAYS STUPIC LIKE DUMMY ASS HALLE HES SMART WE PLAY POSSUM LITTLE DOG ALWAYS WIN.. learn ya place in being respectful… EVEN IF YOU WERE A AFRICAN JAMAIKA KING YOUD SUCK .. looks at ya YouTube ring ice spice YA MISUSE MONEY N WOMEN AND CALL IT POWER YA ARROGENT YA STEALNOFF DRAKE AND THINK YA OWN EM THEN SAY “I APPRECIATE BRO” BUT OPEN AND THROW “gifts” to the side … “ew you cum on this pillow” … ya got fan mail and ur WACK .. if that’s ur “ploy for views” okay .. ya come off ARROGANT AS FUCK AND SPOILED AS HELL SOMEONE WHO SHUDNT BE A ROYLE MODEL ESPECIALLY HOW YA TREAT RAY N ya hart episode … SMOKE OKAY “mom no like” BUT YA DRINK LIKE A DRUNK ..

MAKE IT MAKE SENSE … YA LIKE LIQUOR CAUSE UR A RAPIST AT HEART … I said what I said. Ya viewers are learning NOTHING GOOD FROM YOU… zendaya episode ya teach men how to rape culture and belittle anything that DOESNT LOOK LIKE THEM … ya weird - offset.

Ya condone sex trafficking on ya twitch YouTube Kai.. chrisean rock ya “dad” … yeah no..

Woo hop.. ddg be so influenced by Kai… that is NOT GOOD .. “I want gifts like him” … YA GROOMING THE YOUTH N CULTURE FOR MISSEY WITHOUT GIVING A FUCK CAUSE YA SEE MONEY N MATERIALS YA NEVER HAD .. slow down.. and sit. Ya no need a nothing but the bare minimum to be happy but you no happy w self dislocated from roots n ya dad .. history is trauma for you you never really worked thru and ITS SHOWING “ya randomly streamed 72 hr then got picked up” NO YA SIGNED CONTRSCT W MY SATANIC ADOPTIVE MOM TO SELL YA SOUL N IT AHOWS YA WAS ALREADY LOST BUT WORKING TOWARD LIGHT NOW YA JUST SARK PLACE YA GLOW CAUSE ENERGY SYPHER LIKE HALLE AND YA SAY DDG .. NO CHLOE A RAINDOW CHILD .. crystals .. all that I made post on …

MY STAR SEEDS AND DARKSEEDS MILITARY BRATS FOR EVIL

Demonds vs angels .. ya doing demons dance wrong … demonds crystal children ya suck the negative out the leech so it doesn’t touch another soul it SHUDNT Howard to Lee … why she glow but she no learn so cause confusion and disfuction in my house relationship w dad and her own friend groups … then me ULTIMATE CRYSTAL ( but I relate to Rainbow) I BALANCE GOOD N BAD LIGHT SNOOP AND CHRIS … but we still go thru our days less twins.. and we have APPROPRIATE OUTLETS WHEN NOT BEING CONTROLLed Chris struggled cause young minded Mia guided mom.. but LOOK AT SNOOP N NIP MISERY AROUND BUT NIGGAS STILL SMILE .. EVEN LIVING OUT UGLE CAMPAIGN FOR MEDIA ATTENTION… ya 2pac plane interview.. ya mix stories around to be cool 50 Luda dis hustle n flow taraji Howard … z

[targaryen-slut]

Graemyn's Sword: Dragonbane༉‧₊˚.

ੈ✩‧₊˚Graemyn Targaryen (oc) drabble🗡️🐉

  ‧͙⁺-ˋˏ ☽ˎˊ˚⁺‧͙ no warnings, only minor spoilers from the first few pages of fire & blood📜 ‧͙⁺-ˋˏ ☽ˎˊ˚⁺‧͙

→ how Graemyn came into the possession of Dragonbane.

I'm really happy to see people liking my drabbles, thank you!! 😭 It really does encourage me a lot! He's literally my comfort character and I hope you all will come to like him!

: ̗̀➛

[sketch by me]

The night before Aegon and Visenya's departure to Old Town was filled with winds so strong, the seas had roared and plundered down upon the rocks below, hisses slithering through the cracks of stone and wood and doors rattling upon their hinges.

Many claim it to have been one of the worst east winds Dragonstone may have ever seen. But came morning, and the seas were as calm as smooth stone, the water lapping softly at the sandy shores where a few guards walked upon its sand. They were inspecting all that has changed from the windy night, perhaps some maesters even believing for them to have been searching for long lost treasure to have been undugged from the mounds.

Until a bright silver caught the eyes of one of the soldiers, causing the man to unearth it, revealing an old blade that glimmered in the sun with the hilt formed of a black dragon whose jaws were spread and wide and the tail curled and bound with blackened, twirled wings dipped in red.

Quenton immediately cleaned the blade, inspecting its origins, claiming for it to have been Valyrian made, old and dull yet despite that, it was still sharper than any normal sword. And when GRAEMYN was releasing his frustration upon a training dummy from being left behind once more by his elder brother and sister. Rhaenys had tried her best to calm her down but nothing could ease the anger shimmering within him.

Until Quenton asked him if he wished to see the sword they had uncovered upon the sands.

At the sight of it, GRAEMYN felt his heart flutter and excitement bubble within him, begging Quenton if he could take it while admiring the light weight of the Valyrian sword, twirling it in his fingers as his violet eyes glimmered like that of a curious child's. But Quenton, unfortunately, said it is up to Aegon to grant such a request, this alone did not deter GRAEMYN.

As Aegon and Visenya had eventually returned, he began to ask Aegon for the blade, to which the prince would decline while also finding the sword a beauty, stating that GRAEMYN was young (17 years old) and still in training and to wield such a sword - one has to be truly dedicated to the craft of wielding a sword.

And so, he tried even harder to prove his ability to wield such an ancient weapon - and when he had it in his grasp, his world had never felt lighter and brighter. His hours of training were not unnoticed by his brother, and when it was finally given to him, and he named the sword: Dragonbane.

To which became a known name for Aerion, 'The Prince Who Thought He Was a Dragon.'

©ASOIAF belongs to George R. R. Martin.

© targaryen-slut, 2024, do not steal, translate or repost elsewhere.

[madllamamomma]

The Visitor~ Part 8!!!!

Chapter 8~

The King of Pentacles~

[WARNING: Major trigger warning! Scenes contain physical and mental abuse. My content is also for more mature audience, 18+ please!]

As the arrogant Sir R. Martin Alarie III strolls towards his daughter’s magic shop, Beatrix his familiar, lazily drapes around his neck. With his eyes unable to resist the glimpse around him, he can’t help but continuously be disguised and repulsed by the streets of Vesuvia, despite them being the best they have ever been and the people being as kind as they ever were.

Continuing his walk, the cogwheels instantly turn and tick in his head. With just a day before he was expecting to return to his ship, time was running out. Now, more than ever he felt now that his plans must be in full swing by this evening.

“... Taking Pigeon home tomorrow, Master?” Beatrix murmurs in her master’s ears as she wakes up from her short nap.

Still continuing his proud wide stride, and his nose straight up, the Archamagister quietly replies under his breath. “... Perhaps. The child has been rather stubborn about staying here with these filthy lowlives… But we will persuade her one way or another.” 

The creature shifts her weight uncomfortably in his shoulders, knowing full well about this man's temper when things didn’t go his way. “... Master won’t hurt her… will he?”

“.... I do not plan to, Bea… perish the thought.” He answers, slightly shaking his head. 

Beatrix relaxes her little head feeling slightly relieved. 

“...But then again, we shall see what she makes me do after tonight…” He continues with a small shrug.

The badger glances her blue eyes up towards her master’s face. Feeling uneasy, her fur raised on end. “But Pigeon is nice now… didn’t try to burn Bea’s tail like before…”

“..Yes… well, ‘Pigeon’ doesn’t realize what she’s throwing away… You know that.”

“...B-... But Pigeon’s grown up now…” 

“She is going to have something I never had at her age…. A father to guide her to the right path…she’s still a valuable asset in Charlès. She’ll see that when she is back home.”

Without a second thought, the beast blurts out, “.... Pigeon seems happy here, and Master shouldn’t–”

The archmagister stops dead in his tracks with a cross look on his face as he beams into his familiar’s blue eyes. Beatrix slowly shrinks into herself, getting as small as she can. She couldn’t believe what she had just said, she never questioned him like that, what had gotten into her??

With a sharp annoyed sigh, he softens his gaze and takes a look at his pocket watch before stuffing it back into his silk pocket. “It’s getting rather late... How about you go off to find dinner for yourself, eh, Beatrix?” 

Poor Beatrix's hungry stomach grumbles as she innocently stares at her master. “.... Don’t make me repeat myself.” He quietly grumbles.

Slowly and reluctantly, she climbs down his arm and hops to the ground whimpering sadly, hoping he’s changed his mind. 

But instead he picks up his cane and starts to walk along down the street again without an ounce of remorse. “...Why don’t you go find some rats to eat instead…” He shouts over his shoulder. 

The poor badger whimpers a little more, having a bad feeling in the pit of her little stomach. 

“...You should know better than anyone I don’t need anyone holding me back…” Martin mutters under his breath as he slicks back his hair.

______________________

The shop never felt more apprehensive before. As closing time came, Rhemi swiftly blew out the lantern and preparations immediately got to work on a grand homemade dinner. 

Asra being the ever supported friend, even though hating every second if it, makes his special seafood curry. He cooked it to a mild spice level just in case the old man wasn’t up for the heat, yet it never lost any of its tangy flavor. 

Muriel made fried bread, a special recipe he learned from his cousins back in the south, simple enough to make, but the results were always extraordinary. He was half terrified it wouldn't come out right, but part of him felt like he had been doing it all his life. 

Of course Rhemi was in charge  of the dessert. Her loving Muriel, despite completely hating the idea of having to be in the same room as her father, brought fresh apples from the forest to make an apple pie. Usually she liked to buy her pastries from the bakery, but something about homemade pie sounded good. Luckily Portia and Argippa taught her an amazing recipe which was perfect for the occasion.

After a few hours, dinner was done and set on a simmer and everything smelt amazing. The pie looked absolutely delicious and was ready to be put into the oven, and the fried bread was crispy yet light and fluffy at the same time, the curry was slightly sweet and very savory, probably one of Asra’s best batches yet. Everything was perfect.

Almost exactly on the dot, a knock was at the door, and dread hit Asra and Muriel instantly.

As she hears the much anticipated knock on the door, Rhemi quickly uses her magic to evaporate from the kitchen to the door in seconds before anyone else could answer. “I got it!” She shouts as the sparkles still loom over her while unlocked the door and she tries to fan them away.

“Père!” She overenthusiastically greets as she sees his almost grim face. “Welcome…. A- again…” 

Martin steps into the shop with a polite grin, happy to see his daughter, but also attempting to hide his disinterest about tonight’s dinner.

Muriel and Asra drag themselves towards the door and try their best to be somewhat polite (or at least Asra is successful–The hermit, not so much). 

“Sir Martin, what a pleasure to see you again.” Asra says lying through his teeth with a fake smile.

The old magician bats his eyelashes in a bit of surprise. “Oh, yes…. More of Rhemiela’s… friends…” 

“....Fiance….” Muriel grumples under his breath. 

“Hmmm… So you two will be joining us as well then?” Martin asks, almost annoyed before looking back at his daughter. 

Despite the obvious tension already before the evening got started, Rhemi continued to smile and giggled sweetly, “Of course they are! Why, they both help make dinner!”

As they all feared. Dinner was awkward and slightly dull conversation wise. Luckily, Asra’s curry was the best batch he ever made, and Muriel’s fried bread went with it so well. Unfortunately, Martin barely touched his food, always looking at it suspiciously. He did however seem to like the wine, nearly finishing off the entire bottle himself. 

Stopping before any of them were too full, they all made their way to the velvet couch area as Muriel placed the pie in the oven and Rhemi made a pot of tea, leaving Asra and Martin alone for a moment.

“So…” Asra says to break the awkward silence. “How was your stay so far in Vesuvia, Sir Martin?” He politely asks. 

The archmagister slowly blinks, “As well as one could have expected… Other than finding Rhemielia here, this trip was dull and tedious as ever… The streets stink of low tide and oysters and the palace reeks of incense.”

 As Asra and Martin lock eyes and stare at each other loathingly. Every time this man speaks, Asra continues to just despise him even more. Just before Asra finally gives him a piece of his mind, Rhemi returns with a pot of tea and cups. 

Happy to see the tea, the old man smirks as he reaches down and takes a cup of tea his daughter poured for him“... Good thing we’re leaving tomorrow…” Martin scoffs as he takes a sip.

Seeing a segue, Rhemi decided now was as good a time as ever to ask her father about walking her down the aisle. “... Actually, Père, there is something I wanted to ask of you–”

BANG! – “Owww!” Shout the poor mountain man from the back. 

The three of them nearly leap out of their seats as they hear the poor hermit cry out from pain. Finally ending the staring contest with the old magician, Asra places his cup down to the coffee table and smiles fakely, ���Ummm, sorry… Hold that thought, Rem…” 

He stands to his feet and peers over the corner to see his tall friend clutching his foot. “Muriel? You okay?”

“The hell is this chest doing in the middle of the hallway??” Muriel grumbles, shaking out his stubbed big toe.

“OH! I almost forgot!” Asra suddenly shouts out as he sprints towards the back hallway. He opens the once very enchanted and locked chest. “Hey, Rhemi, remember that chest?”

“The one that was enchanted shut?... And the one that my poor Muri apparently stubbed his toe on?” She shouts back to him.

“Yep!” He replies with a laugh. “—That's the one! I was trying it again today and realized that it finally unlocked!”

“You mean you somehow got it opened?”

“No! I mean, for some reason the lock was just unlatched yesterday afternoon!”

“Huh….” Rhemi’s eyes flutter and she shakes her head curiously. “That's… odd….”

“Anyways…. I was going through it and looking at what happened to stumble upon!” When he returns with Muriel tailing behind him, with a picture frame in his hands. With a large smile, he hands Rhemi a small glass frame about the size of a large book, with a delicate watercolor painted portrait inside. There were two women, both holding each other close and wearing beautifully embroidered clothing. One on the right who looked a lot like Rhemi, the one on the left was taller and had darker skin. Even though their faces were new to her, the apprentice knew exactly who they were.

“Is… is this..?” Rhemi stubbles over her words.

Asra smiles cheerily and points, the tall woman first, “That’s Athena,” he then moves to the other woman, “..and I am pretty sure that's your mother, Rhemi.”

Her mother was so beautiful, her hair was a dirty blonde, her eyes a deep hazel brown. Her frame was a bit skinnier and frailer than Rhemi’s but she did have a nice shape. She looked so kind, so loving, someone you would want to just hold you and sing you to sleep. 

Muriel comes from behind and wraps his arm around Rhemi’s waist with a warm grin. She looks up with her eyes slightly watery and feeling so happy. “My mother….”

“...You were right, you are a lot like her, Rhemi.” He kisses the top of her head and she buries her face into his forearm. “...Even down to her smile.”

Martin just stares blankly at the three of them, feeling somewhat a whirlwind of emotions himself, the only portrait he had of his wife was back in his home in Charlès, and those were nearly two decades old. 

Rhemi untangles herself from Muriel and cheerfully walks over to her father with the portrait, carefully handing it to him. Slowly he takes the portrait in his hands and he carefully studies the painting, nearly holding his breath as he takes in the painted images in front of him.

He seemed to take a long time to say anything, either it was the wine or he was in shock, but either way his disposition seemed to have rather shifted. A sense of vulnerability surrounding the man. Happy to finally have an opportunity to talk about her mother with him, she smiles and points to the woman in the painting and he takes a large hard swallow. “Look, Père! It’s Mum and—“

“—Phara…” Martin mutters under his breath behind his gritting teeth before his daughter could finish what she was saying. 

Rhemi then notices that he’s starting to tremble the longer he looks at the picture, slowly baring more and more of his teeth. His icy teal eyes are now somehow colder and filled with malice and it sends a shiver down Rhemi’s spine.

“P—Phara?...” She scoffs tilting her head in confusion and shakes her head. “What? No! Father, that’s not not her, Phara was an evil witch!”  Rhemi couldn't help but defend her poor deceased teacher, and she points to the tall woman with such confidence, tapping on the glass that protected the portrait. “That woman standing right there is—”

Quickly, her words start to die in her throat as she is suddenly overwhelmed with memories—Seeing Athena’s face for the first time in the hallways of the mansion in her nightmares. But she doesn't look like how she remembered her. Without her iconic long locks and traditional colorful clothes—no, instead she wore a bright scarf over her then short curly hair, and a rather plain looking Charlèsian outfit and large ornate earrings.

“....Rhemielia, my sweet dear.” Her mother’s soft voice rings in her ears, and sprouts pain to her temples. “...I want you to meet an old friend of mine… she will be your tutor from now on.”

Rhemi’s then acquaintance kneels down to her level with her sweet patient smile and tilts her head slightly. The woman’s golden yellow eyes stare into her own and extend her hand out to shake it. “Hello, my dear. My name is Phara. It’s lovely to meet you.” Her voice was deeper than most women, and she had a slight accent that she didn’t recognize. But her voice was the kind you wouldn’t mind listening to it all day. 

Rhemi could feel her lips curling up into a shy smile as she reached her small hand to shake this beautiful woman’s hand. “Hello..”     

“Rhemi??” Asra's voice mutter’s through the static.

By the time Rhemi realizes that she was staring off into nothing, it’s been nearly half a minute. 

“....Athena…..” She quietly mutters her hand slowly drawing back to her body, feeling her breath become shallower by the moment.

Martin takes a few steps forwards clutching the picture in his hands, making the leather gloves squeak from his grip and his eyes glued to the frame. “You said…. You said that you didn’t know anyone else other than your mother….” 

 “I…. I…” A pit hits Rhemi’s stomach as if she was thrown off a steep cliff. Seeing the anger in her father’s face sends her absolute dread. 

Muriel and Asra glance at each other, bewildered by these two's sudden change in emotions.

The trembling in Martin’s hands increased, the angrier he seemed to get. “... After all these years….. I scoured over half the world… Offered most of my fortune for her safe return….. I even prayed to the gods that I don’t even believe in to hope she’d return to me…. And what did I get in return?” Martin’s eyes gazed back to his daughter’s striking fear into her heart. “.... She fucking married the stupid frigid cunt of a captor!—”

——CRASSSSH!! 

Without warning Martin hastily slams the picture frame to the ground, shattering the glass on the wooden floorboard. With a quick snap of his fingers the edges of the small watercolor portrait burst into flames. Asra gasps and Rhemi clasps her hands over her mouth in horror.

“—HEY!!” Muriel quickly lunges at him, but Rhemi throws up her hand and stops him.

“NO!” She waves her arm and closes her hand, extinguishing the flames before it destroys the portrait. “Wha—What the hell are you doing?!” She yells still keeping herself in between her father and her fiancè and Asra swiftfully snaches the painting from the ground. Clutching it to his breast for safety and he keeps his eyes peeled to the man as he slips the unprotected watercolor back into the safety of the large chest, and hasility placing a binding spell back onto the box so her father couldn’t destroy it or anything else in there for that matter. 

Martin's eyes are still cold as he just stands there fuming with wrath and hate, starting into nothingness at the wall with his nostrils flared and breathing shallowly. “....I hope those stupid bitches rots in the hottest depts of hell…” he utter to himself, complete resentment painted across his his face.

Rhemi feels so confused and her heart starts to feel heavy filled with so many emotions and she grabs the sleeve of his long silk shirt. “—What?! That's the only portrait I have of my mother and Athena!! You told me this Phara person was evil…. But… if she was Athena– she… she never–... I.. she always was…. But you– …. And why the hell would you—” 

Finally her father whips his head violently towards his daughter. “—You fucking knew about this, didn’t you?? You lied about forgetting things didn’t you?!” Her father raspily accusations just above a whisper, aggressively pointing his finger at her.

His rage is eerily similar to the man in Rhemi’s dream from before back in the south with Ezavior. For a moment Rhemi also seems to recall hearing that tone in his voice before. It’s so abrupt, and violent, and it feels toxic, dark, and resentful… 

“You knew what that witch was doing behind my back, didn’t you?! What did that bitch tell you about me, HUH?? WHAT LIES DID SHE SAY ABOUT ME?!?” He continues to accuse her.

“Père, I never lied–”

—Smmmmack!!!

Dead silence engulfs all the shop for a few seconds, making the noise ring in everyone’s ears. 

Rhemi’s cheek starts to dreadfully sting.

The archmagister slapped his daughter’s right side of her face so hard with the back of his hand, it nearly knocked her over. The uter smoothness of his actions rather sickening, as if it was almost a reflex. What was worse, he was so quick and unfazed by his terrible action.

Shocked and appalled, she stumbles backwards and lightly brushes her fingers on her stinging cheek, completely shocked and breathless. Why do I know this feeling of my cheek burning like this….. she thought to herself.

“RHEMI!” Asra and Muriel shout simultaneously.

Muriel’s eyes widen then he lunges forward to him again, intent on following through this time, but Rhemi quickly grabs his wrist with both hands, “—MUR, NO!!”

“WHY?!” He barks looking like he wants to rip the man in two. 

“I-I have to know what’s going on!!!!” She desperately shouts back, tugging his arm harder. He stops reluctantly, fist clenched, putting himself in front of her, his arm blocking her body, but allows her to speak with him safely.

“What did Aunt Athena have to do with any of this?” Asra interjects standing tall next to Muriel and in front of Rhemi and just as furious as he. Athena was once his teacher too. She took him in from the streets, clothed him, educated him. He cared about her just as much as Rhemi did and wouldn’t stand for anyone trying to soil her memory. She was such a kind woman. A good woman.

Martin sneers at Asra, and just glares in disbelief. “…Athena?.....Aunt Athena?!?” A bone chilling laugh erupts from his lungs as with a matching crazed expression as he shakes his head. “This entire time… She was actually under my nose. So that’s what the bitch called herself all these years?? Of course she changed her name. But the ancient Augustan goddess of goddamn wisdom?? What a fuckin’ cunt you were, Phara....” 

“No… No Athena was Rhemi’s Aunt! Not this Phara person!”

The confused expressions on all of their faces just infuriates Martin even more and his anger grows. “...Is that really what they told you, Ass-rat? That she was Rhemielia’s Aunt?” He laughs, despicably throwing back his head, strangely entertained by this. “Oh…. My! Is that rich!! I’ll tell you tha’! That is goddman FUCKING rich!!” He slicks back his hair with his hand. Traces of an arrogant, shrewd, high and mighty nobleman melt away. Exposing this angry, yet hurt and vulnerabile and even almost fear mix with his sadistic and toxic ego. It is off putting to see this side to the man, but he now felt more dangerous than ever.

“HEY! Don’t insult him!” Muriel growls, leaning his upper body over Rhemi’s shoulder.

Her father finally stops laughing, but keeps the same malicious grin as he looks at her. “.... My little pigeon... You really don’t remember anything at all. Do you??”

Rhemi squints her eyes and shakes her head slightly, unsure of what he is inferring to. But the way he says that, she’s almost afraid to know. “What—What am I supposed to remember exactly?..” She clutches onto Muriel’s forearm that’s blocking her from him.

Martin’s grin falls as he tilts his head sadistically beaming at her. “... Don’t you remember that your mother was a damn unfaithful slut?!” He mutters in a low vicious tone.

“W-What?!” Her face twists, not believing his disgusting insult. Muriel growls through his gritted teeth holding back the urge to pick him up, and throw him out the door. “How….. —How dare you call my mother th—”

“—Don’t you get it you stupid girl?? That fucking woman you for some reason or another, called your ‘Aunt’ was the witch who stole you and your mother away from me!”   

“B-but….. A…. Athena was never evil…. She was kind…and…. She… She taught me magic–”

“–She’s the one who taught you what women should never learn! I told that bitch to help you control your magic! NOT TEACH YOU MORE! Magic is no place for a noblewoman in Charlès!! It would have absolutely destroyed our standing in the court! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THEY CAN DO TO PEOPLE LIKE US?”

“... What?!”

Silence chokes the shop once again, but the air now feels even heavier somehow. 

Rhemi just stares at Martin’s face and an ice cold shiver runs down her spine once again. 

Suddenly, she remembers his expression. “...Wha—?....”, she mutters as another flash of memory creeps in. 

Her father is looking down at her the same exact way he is right now, but he’s much taller and only purple in his hair. She’s looking up, laying on the ground, blood trickling from her nose and forehead. Rhemi’s mother is trying her best to breathe. And Athena….. or was she Phara then…?? She’s fighting Martin with her magic... it’s all coming back so quickly— too quickly—It’s just.. too much! Make it stop!!!

A sharp pain hits Rhemi’s temples and spreads all the way over her forehead. This migraine…. it’s happened before, many times in fact, but not since Asra last told her about coming back to life. He’s always erased her memory to make this pain stop. She holds her head with both hands lightly, staring at the floor feeling more confused and disoriented by the second.

Martin trembles with fury as he continues ranting. “...Why do you think we haven’t seen each other since you were a damn child?! Why do you think you are called by a different name than the one you were given??”

A flood of emotions and memories pour inside her head all at once, the pain is just agonizing. She braces her temples harder, desperately wanting the pain to just stop. Her vision starts to even become hazy; In the corner of her eyes, for a brief moment, she can see her past self before she died, with her sick pale skin and blood red eyes just glaring so angry at her father. Her mouth is moving like she's giving him a piece of her mind, but she can’t hear anything coming out.

As Rhemi drops to her knees with a hard Thud, the old Rhemilia is gone. Muriel and Asra now turn their attention to the sound. “RHEMI !!” Muriel falls to the ground behind her and clutches her shoulders. “Rem!!! What’s wrong?!”

“It…. hurts….” She whimpers gritting through her teeth, eyes tightly closed shut, the light someone making it even worse. “It—it hurts so much!..... Muri-.....  A-Asra!..... Fuck!!” tears overwhelm her eyes. “IT FUCKING HURTS!!!! Pleaaaase!…. Make it stop!!!!”

Muriel cradles her in his warm arms trying the best he can to comfort her. “.....I’m here, Rhemi.” He utters to her, fighting back his own tears. He’s never seen her in this much agonizing pain before in this realm. This is even worse than the dream with Ezavior back in the Steppe before the winter solstice. It's so hard for him to watch her be in misery like this, he just wants to take the pain away, but is left helpless as well. 

But Martin just presses on and on, not even caring about his child’s obvious suffering. “Ugh! You blubber and complain just like your mother did…. I have had enough of this!!! We are leaving this godforsaken shit hole!”

“Stay away from her!!” Muriel growls.

Asra squints his eyes suspiciously towards her father and shakes his head. “Can’t you see she’s in pain?”

“I know my own daughter! She’s fine–” With a quick flick of his wrist his cane is suddenly in his hand. “Get up this instant, Rhemielia! We are going home.” 

Muriel’s brow furrows even more as he stares a hole in his face. “What are you talking about?”

Martin’s nostrils flare as he glances back to his daughter and he presses his lips together angrily. “... Oh, so you mean you didn't tell them, Mielia? Why am I not that surprised.”

“... Tell us what??” Asra asks, staring at Rhemi with his purple eyes with hurt behind them. 

“I….. I…” Rhemi’s bottom lip trembles, unsure what to say, she lied to them. All of them for the past few days hoping that she’d fix it. “I was gonna fix it, I swear–”

“–She’s coming home with me!” Martin finally says, cocking his head to the side. “Back home to Charlès where she belongs.”

“No…..” She whimpers through the pain and grasps her fiance’s arm. She could tell he was furious, she could only hope it wasn’t at her. “Muri… Muri I never…I tried to tell him–”

Feeling her tremble, he glances back towards her and takes her off guard to see his surprisingly understanding face. “Rhemi… It’s ok…” He gently strokes her hair, trying his best to soothe her through this terrible situation. She nearly collapses into his arm, wishing she was just honest with him to begin with. What was she really afraid of before??  

“Oh for fuck sake—This game has gone on long enough, Rhemielia!!” Martin's angry voice interrupts, making her tremble all over again. “...So far, I was willing to play along, but I have now lost all of my goddamn patients!! Now get up, we are leaving!!!”

“.... LIKE FUCKING HELL!” Muriel aggressively grunts as he wraps his arms around Rhemi's, determined to never let her go. He still didn’t understand why she lied, but then again, this man was crazy… Deep down, she must have been terrified of him. 

Asra stands in a wide stance, hand up and ready to do whatever he has to keep Muriel and Rhemi safe. “I believe you’ve overstayed your welcome, Sir Martin. Don’t you see that she doesn't want to go with you?...”

Unable to respond to a single person, she continues to wriggle around in pain clutching her head. It feels like hundreds of hot needles are pricking her eyeballs while simultaneously being hit with cold hammers in her temples as if she were a bell. The pain was absolutely agonizing. 

But her father wasn’t apparently convinced as he started to hiss and spit with each word that came out of his mouth. “What little pigeon? Does the truth hurt? WELL HOW DO YOU THINK IT FELT FOR ME?!!—My family was ripped apart because of some FUCKING WITCH WHORE BRAINWASHED YOU AND YOUR MOTHER! And you and your mother was stupid enough to believe her! Then that STUPID BITCH TURNED YOU BOTH AGAINST ME!!! SHE EVEN ATTACKED ME!!” 

Pulling up his right sleeve, he shows to everyone the terrible old burn marks across his entire forearm. “—THAT WITCH SET OUR HOME ABLAZE!!–EVERYTHING I WORKED FOR!! EVERYTHING I DID, BURNED DOWN ALL AROUND ME!! ALL OF IT WAS FOR YOU AND YOUR UNGRATEFUL MOTHER!!! Do you have any idea what I had done to get in the position I’m in, Pigeon?! HMMM??? What I had to do to secure your future?? And then your mother and that cunt threw it all the fuck away! AND FOR WHAT?! To live in a piece of shit like this??” He shouts guestering to the shop with his left hand. 

“... I GAVE HER DIAMONDS! I GAVE HER SILKS! A MANSION! STATUS! EVERYTHING SHE EVER WANTED!!!!”

Asra eyes widen and he starts to panic as he watches Rhemi slump over in agony on the floor. “R-Rhemi!!” Confronting the Archmagister, he summoned magic into his hands about to strike. “You need to leave! NOW!!! You're no longer welcome here—”

“—STAY OUT OF THIS, YOU QUEER SACK OF SHIT!!” Martin shouted, holding up his cane pointing it at the white haired magician.

 But Asra refuses to back down and starts to make a whip from the water in the air. “I said…. Leave. GET. OUT!” Asra shouts back, threatening him with his weapons. “Don’t make me hurt you in front of your own daughter!”

Martin looks him up and down with a sneer. “Do you really think an Archmagister fears water, you goddamn idiot?”

“She SAID, she doesn’t want to go with you, Martin!!!” 

“... And I was not asking…” Martin hisses as the jewel in his cane starts to illuminate, his dark metallic magic quickly summoning to his fingertips.

In one swiftful move, Martin throws up his walking stick, the strange stone brightly illuminating, green and purple magic pours out of the stone handle, opening a barrier spell around him just as Asra conjures sharp ice sickles a half second too late. This barrier was the kind that would get stronger the harder someone from outside would hit it and the sharp sickles break instantly after impact.

With a smug look on his face, Martin starts to take a few steps closer toward walking past the magician no matter what he did. Now standing over Rhemi and Muriel, the barrier shielding just himself. “.... Get your disgusting monstrous hands off my daughter and give her back to me, you bloody creten.”

“Over my dead body.” Muriel grunted, holding his lover even tighter in his arms, refusing to let her go. “LEAVE HER ALONE!!” Muriel glances up at him hatefully and growls as he protectively tucks Rhemi closer to his chest and covers her body with his arms. “—GET. THE. FUCK. OUT!!” He shouts with his booming voice loudly cracks like thunder. 

“What?... Are you gonna kill me? Indeed you were rather good at killing back in the colosseum, weren’t you, Scourge of the South?” Martin smirks once again. “....Are you going to cut me down with your ax?”

His sharp words make Muriel shudder, shaking him from his core. It’s been over a year since he has heard that name—no one dares to call him that after everything he’s done for this city.

Suddenly, Muriel can feel himself being ripped away from Rhemi like a powerful wave of dense, heavy water. Despite his strength, and tried as he might, he could feel himself being whisked away. “No! RHEMI!” It’s no use as he is overwhelmed with the force and is thrown towards the staircase. 

“Muriel!!” Rhemi weakly cries out as she falls face first to the floor, her hand outstretched for her lover, tears streaming down.

SMASH!!! The poor hermit’s grunts out a heave of pain as he crashes into the staircase, breaking some of the wooden steps underneath him and ripping up the back of his shirt. His forehead is trickling blood slightly from the cuts. It takes a moment to get up, but he recovers himself, realizing that Martin expanded the small barrier, and pushed him out, leaving Rhemi alone with her father unprotected on the inside. 

“R-...RHEMI!!” Muriel cries out, chest filled with dread as he scrambles to his feet, ignoring the pain that he’s in. “NOOO!!!” He yells, ramming his large right shoulder into the barrier as hard as he can, but it just makes a Thoom sound as he makes contact with it.

Now seemingly getting his way, her father seems to have slipped back into his prim and proper self as if he did just lose his temper. He clears his throat as he slicks back his slightly disheveled hair as he strolls over to where poor Muriel is struggling to break down the barrier with his bare hands. Somehow Martin looks down his nose at Muriel, despite him being much taller, sneering. “.... I thought I recognized your ugly botched-up mug, you bloody bastard…” 

Muriel gnashes his teeth, so angry and terrified at the same time. 

Martin glances down to his gloves to adjust them as he continues to speak, almost insanely calm, considering the situation. “.... Back in the day…. His Majesty liked to come here to this shit hole of a city for the tournaments and I would frequently accompany him… He and I won a lot of bets on you when you killed for a living in the colosseum….. I am right about that, aren’t I, Scourge of the South?” 

The hermit could feel his jaw clenching as he slams both fists on the barrier like a gorilla, getting angrier and angrier by the moment and nearly only seeing red. But all his effort was no use as he was constantly being pushed back by the barrier. If he got his hands on this man right at this moment, he'd most certainly tear him to ribbons.

The Archmagister’s viscous smirk curls up wider. “Judging from your reactions, I am….. And to think…..  someone like you believed they were going to marry my daughter…” 

“FUCK. YOU!!!” Shouts Asra as he does his best to try and open the barrier with his own magic.

 Muriel just stands there silent, showing his bare teeth before starting to pound on the barrier harder and harder. 

“M-Muriel… Asra..” Rhemi whimpers as she opens one eye and still clutches her head, unable to think straight from all the pain. She tries to stand, but stumbles right back down again. Out of the corner of her eye she can see her sweet Muriel’s head trickling with blood. Quickly, anger swells in her chest, making her heartbeat ring hard in her ears. No one hurts my Muri. No one calls my Muri the Scourge. “...Get…. out…. of my house...” she mutters furiously. “L-... Leave…. us… alone…” 

Martin turns himself back around to see the sight of his pathetic looking daughter on the floor. In just a few steps is standing over in front of her. “.... I don’t think you understand, child... You and I are leaving this place. You no longer live here. You and I are getting on that ship and we are never coming back here!”

“No… No I am not!” She hisses, trying to get through the pain. But then a sharp tugging sensation on her scalp makes her shrek yet again.

Suddenly, he snatches the hair on the back of her head and jerks her up to her feet. She cries out painfully, trying to hold his wrist as he peers down with such deep loathing into her eyes. “Look at what you are making me do, Rhemielia. I don’t want to hurt you, child, but you leave me no choice! You will get on that ship! Even if I have to drag you all the way there!” 

“—Let me go!” She squeals pitifully.

“GET YOUR HANDS OFF OF HER!!!——LEAVE HER THE FUCK ALONE!!!” Muriel keeps punching, kicking, and ramming himself into the barrier repeatedly to no avail. His poor arms start to bruise under his shirt and his knuckles and elbows even start to bleed.

Asra cries out, “RHEMI! HANG ON!!!” As he desperately tries various spells to try and break it, but nothing is working. This is no ordinary magic… Asra inner thoughts scream in panic, completely confused at how this barrier was so strong for a simple spell. Soon, his fingers start to bleed him trying to claw the barrier open, but it's still no use.

Completely disinterested in Muriel or Asra, Martin leans his face into hers as she grimaces and bares her teeth in pain as he gruffly mutters. “I will never let you out of my sight ever again... You are my daughter and you will obey me! Now… We. Are. Leaving. Now—HOOOOF!!!!” 

Finally, Rhemi musters up the energy into her right knee and shoves it into him with all her might. Just nearly misses his groin, she knocks all the wind out of his lungs and makes him release her, but the barrier still is holding strong. 

She stands to her feet taking a wide stance, tightening her hands into fist by her side. “I said…. get out… of my shop!” She says through her gritted teeth, somehow now bearing the pain and fluid by pure fury. 

Martin regains himself and starts to lurch forwards towards her angrily, about doing something drastic and violent. But she picks up her head, eyes wide and wild, revealing that irises have brightened to a fiery orangey-red and her body starts to steam with searing heat. Her father hesitates, sensing her power quickly building and Rhemi feels her magic suddenly stick in her throat. 

“Père……. Get… the fuck….. OOOOUUUUUT!!!!!” Her voice amplified, making a god awful loud shriek like a banshee from her lungs as she continued to scream.

Suddenly, the unnatural screech shatters the barrier from the inside, breaking apart along with all the glass in the front of the shop that bursts into thousands of shards across the ground. Forcing Martin backwards slamming him against the front door. He holds his stomach as he tries to get to his feet.

 Muriel and Asra are forced to cover their ears with their hands, and Faust covers her little head with all of her snake body. It’s so loud, feeling their eardrums wanting to rupture as their ears as they continue to ring loudly. The awful sound even disrupts all of their equilibrium, making them feel off balance as they attempt to stand.

Finally, she stops her awful howling, and sharply takes in a breath of air as if she came up for air in the middle of the ocean.

Martin coughs hard and it turns into a cackle, somehow amused by all the pain, or perhaps he’s still a little drunk. “That witch really was a piece of work teaching you that kind of shit magic…” He mutters trying to get himself off the floor.

Rhemi breathes shallowly trembling head to toe as she glares at him. “...You hurt my mum…... ” She mumbles to herself. Asra and Muriel finally regain their balance and they rush over stepping in front of Rhemi once again. “You tried to kill her…”

Martin barks a laugh and a little blood oozes from his head. “Phara made you think that didn’t she?! I never tried to kill her—”

The poor girl’s lip trembles as tears stream down but her forehead narrows so angrily. “—I… I never want to see you again.” 

Martin pauses for a moment, his face stricken with pain. Not from the injuries, but what she had just said. “.... I want you to leave… and never…. EVER come back!!!” 

His eyes seem to water for a moment, but then he shakes his head and pushes aside the sadness with a sadistic smile. “ Nooo…. No, no no.... You really don’t get it do you, Pigeon? I’m here to stay, whether you like it or not!! You are my daughter!!... YOU ARE MY CHILD!! Now that I have found you—I refuse you to end up like those lowlifes that stole you away from me!!!” He sticks his thumb into his chest hard. 

Asra conjures a whip out of water finally getting to his feet with a ferocious wrathful expression. “Rhemi told you—you're no longer welcome here, Martin!!!” Quickly, he cracks it at him, breaking down the front door. He stops the blow by forming a small shield with his walking stick, but he’s still forced outside, shattering the wooden door from its hinges onto the cobble street. “... SO, GET OUT AND STAY OUT!!!!” 

He stumbles to his knees, still laughing in amusement. “Interesting… You really are just like your fucking mother, Pigeon… she always had to run and hide behind people who are stronger too.” 

Muriel and Asra stand their ground as Rhemi becomes breathless and suddenly feels so weak. Realizing that she was just hiding behind them. She’s never done anything by herself, ever. She had help with the courtiers, the battle with the devil, and even now. She’s always had help. So… what can I do?....

Martin slicks back his hair with his head, and wipes away the blood oozing from his head, slowly realizing that he is no match for two magicians and a nearly seven foot tall ex-gladiator. 

He finally stands to his feet and brushes off the dirt from his clothes and straightens his neck tie, and summons his cloak and hat and dramatically bursts the door wide open. “I’ll be back.” He shouts before turning walking away down the street. 

“WE’LL BE READY!” Muriel retaliates hitting the door frame with the side of his tight fist wishing it was the man’s face. He and his best friend watch as the man disappears into the night and onlookers just stare at the drama unfolding. 

As soon as the tension calms down, and his anger subsides, Asra hastily fixes the now bellowed door back straight with his magic and places the locking spell on the door. 

Muriel swiftly turns himself back around his beloved. Rhemi is just standing in the shivering, on the verge of hyperventilating and tightly digging her fingers into her scalp. Muriel rushes over to her and gently places his hand over her’s, letting her know that he is there. “.... Rhemi?”

“.... I—I let...him in my home—I-In our lives!… I let that bastard in here, Muri...” She whimpers through her tears.

She grabs his shirt with her trembling right hand and he pulls her into his chest. He winces slightly, her skin is hot to the touch—Not like a fever, but like a hot kettle under a fire. Despite this, he brings her close, and she goes willingly, immediately her skin cools down to normal. 

“This is my fault...” Feeling something wet, she glances through her tears and sees the blood on his head and arms. “My god, Muriel, honey! Y-you—y- you’re b-b-bleeding!….”

“T-They’re just scratches—I’m fine.” 

Burying herself in his chest, she cries even harder. “T-...t-this is all my f-f-fault… You tried to tell me…”

“Rhemi….it’s alright. He’s gone.. and he won’t ever lay another finger on you again… Not if I have anything to say about it.” Muriel mumbles looking furious and heartbroken at the same time.

“T-this is all my fault… this is all my fucking fault…..” She keeps repeating over and over again. 

“What?? No! Rem—This isn’t your fault!!”

“—I let that—that— monster in here!!..... That’s what—what she’s—trying to tell me!!!—She was warning me!! Everyone tried to tell me—-but I didn’t—I didn’t listen….”

“What?? Who?—”

“That….. other me!! The o-o-ne in my dreams!!—AHHH!” She shuts her eyes tightly as a huge wave of pain hits her temples and travels down her neck and she can feel her heartbeat throbbing with the pain.

“...Y-....you couldn’t remember, that's not your fault, Rem!”

“I-I-I-I can’t handle this. This fucking hurts so fucking much!”

“I—It’ll be ok. You-…. You just need to breathe—”

“—Muri, I— I can’t…do this…...I-I-I—I can’t—I…. I—” Out of nowhere, a high pitch ringing in her ears takes over and her vision starts to fade into a dark gray nothing. 

“.... I-... I...can’t….” She utters one last time. Without warning, her body collapses into Muriel’s chest, complexly boneless. 

“Rh—Rhemi??” Muriel catches her before she sinks down all the way to the floor and his heart sinks sickenly. Gently, he shakes her, but she doesn’t respond in the slightest; She’s like a little ragdoll in his arms, and he soon realizes that she’s no longer conscious, her eyes half shut, and her pupils blown. 

“Rhemi…… Rhemi???—RHEMI!!!!!!” His voice echoes farther and farther away like she’s being aimlessly transported into the darkness. 

Tar-like hands reach out for her and pull her down into the mucky sickness, before she could cry out, her mouth is covered with black oozing hands as she is sucked into the darkness. 

✨To be continued…

[WOW. Just.... fucking wow....

It's been more than a fucking year since I have posted. I am so sorry! I have had an incredibly tough year, between my own medical issues, selling a house, and moving, life has been getting away from me. I also know I'm kinda beating a dead horse here since the fandom has kinda died and I have no idea what even happening in the fandom lately. But whatever! Here this is! I still really for some stupid reason really want to tell this story, no matter how cringe or hyper-fixated it is. I really want to tell this story *shrugs*

Anyways! Thank you for all the lovely trash pandas that are still here <3. As always, enjoy my hot garbage!]

[obscureoperations]

martin, but high on painkillers after he got a major injury during his job? his s/o visiting him? like this for example: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0x9lPk1pZzI&ab_channel=edvardsoalictic

it'd be so cute! ☆*: .｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆

With adrenaline coursing through your veins, you make your way down the hospital corridor. Just like in the middle of a nightmare, the ones where running felt like wading through jelly. The faces of random passersby and personnel were starting to whirl together in a grainy blur. Where on earth was room 236?!

Not even six hours ago, you received the worst phone call of your life. Apparently Martin had gotten injured on the job and was being rushed off to surgery. Everything went silent, and you pretty much filtered out the rest of what the nurse was saying. The oddest sense of dread settled at the pit of your stomach as images of the two of you flashed through your mind.

The beginning of your relationship had been tumultuous..to say the least. He was still in the midst of battling his sickness. The weight of his secret, the need to sneak around to avoid his cousin--all the deep seeded trauma. You were just so greatful to get him out of that place for starters, let alone marry him. Things were going so well.

Within a few weeks of moving into your new apartment, Martin landed himself a job at a meat packing plant. A bit rugged, but he had a knack for tools. The moment you received the phone call you were silently praying that he didn't manage to lop his hand off. From the sounds of it, he slipped on a bit of condensation on the floor and one of the blades that he was carrying sliced into the femoral artery.

It was just a small tear, and he hadn’t lost nearly as much blood as would have been expected. They were simply whisking him off to repair the tear, and give him a transfusion.Even then, the idea that it cold have been so much worse-- you could have lost him. All negative thoughts were dispelled from your mind the moment you stepped into the room. 

Martin sits upright on the bed, as the nurse gently attempts to feed him a cracker. Twisting his head left and right, his movements were slowed. A clear sign of his sedated state..

How ironic

“Y/n.. I want y/n!.. these crackers are gross!”

He coughs just a bit and the nurse rushed him some water.

“I want and ice cream sandwich!”

He sounded so much like a petulant child you had to bite down on the insides of your cheeks.You clear your throat before stepping into the room.

“Are you y/n?” the distressed nurse immediately asks.

“Yes.”

She was instantly relieved. 

“Have at him.. and please ensure that he finishes the rest of these. We dont want his blood sugar dropping any lower.”

She shoves the packet of half eaten crackers in your hand before hastily exiting the room. All that was left was you and Martin, still babeling inchoherrantly from the hospital bed. With a sigh, you move to join him. It was just so nice to see his face. A playful smile spreads across his face from the drugs.You actually wanted to kiss him silly.

You move to stand at his side at the bed, your fingers instantly weave through his hair. Martin jolts alive, immediately leading into the familiar touch. Large brown eyes move over your features as another broad smile spreads across his lips.

“P-pretty..”

You resist the urge to kiss his forehead.

“S-so pretty.. you look just like y/n..”

You run your fingers through your hair out of habit. Briefly glancing down at your actual wardrobe. It never ceased to blow your mind when he spoke about you in such a way. His compliments always caused you to blush, they had since the very beginning.

“Who’s y/n?” you ask with a laugh.

“Wife...she’s my wife.” His smile grows broader despite his eyes fluttering shut. He begins to absentmindedly nip at the cracker.

“You have a wife?”

“Yes! I- I love her so much.. sh-es”

A bit of cracker spills down the side of his mouth, which you quickly dab up with the corner of the napkin. He was so cute. Absolutely precious as he struggles to chew the rest of the contents in his mouth. 

You reach for the glass of water, gently adjusting the straw to meet his lips.

“Here lovely, drink this...”

Delayed reactions. He manages to ingest a few decent sized sips before spitting out the straw. Giggling to himself, and covering his face with his hands. 

“Lovely...she likes to call me that.”

In the midst of his fit of giggles, you finally push the glasses  further down your nose. You didn't wear them all the time, only to drive.It was so rare that Martin got to witness you on your commute. The loss of blood, trauma, and the gas, it wan no wonder why he didn’t recognize you.

Still in the midst of a giggle fit, you lean in, pressing your lips to his forehead.

He seems to stall momentarily, wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand in disgust.

“I already told you lady.. I’m married!”

You struggle to suppress your grin as he anxiously reaches for the distress button. Patting at the sides of his legs to reach the remote,frantically glancing over his shoulder. This was too much, you didn't want him to freak out. With a sigh, you remove your glasses, and head tie, letting your hair fall to your shoulders.

“Martin.. Baby, it’s me.”

The sound of his name immediately gains his attention, he looks at you like you've grown a second head. You can see the wheels spinning in his brain as he skimms you over. A startled gasp before a huge smile spreads across his lips. “Y/n?”

“Yes!”

You couldn’t wait to get him home. You lean down and his arms fling around you instantly, peppering your cheeks with sloppy kisses.

“A-are we gonna go home soon..the food is awful..” 

“Soon, Martin. You’ll see!”

[coulson-is-an-avenger]

kisses 21 jm!

For the prompt “we’ll face this together” kiss. TY SAHAR!!! OKAY I accidentally had one (1) jonbinary idea and then it ended up being SO FUCKING LONG (like 2.5k long) so uh. yeah. Warnings for descriptions of dysphoria, mentions of kidnapping and self loathing, and Jon getting pretty close to a panic attack. Also disclaimer, although I am nonbinary, I’m not transfem, so if there’s any critiques surrounding that, don’t hesitate to let me know. Stay safe y’all!

Jon’s face itches as he faces the mirror like an old foe. It’s long held an image that hurts him to see; aged by unfathomable horrors and dotted with marks like a canvas before a child’s paint tipped fingers, and these days he can’t even be sure that his reflection looks away from him when he turns his head. But, the devil it holds at the moment is the simple reflection of his short beard, and his face itches at the reminder of it.

It isn’t a physical itch. It lurks under the skin, poking and prodding at his senses, rubbing him the wrong way as he lays his cheek on his pillow, leaving a distracting echo when his chin brushes against Martin’s during a kiss, scraping at the inside of his skin as he stares at himself and takes in the sight of it covering his chin.

He scrubs his fingers over his eyelids. He isn’t ignorant, he realizes the discomfort he feels is most likely somewhat gender-related, but it’s… his relationship with his gender is complicated. In a lot of ways, it’s been such a mundane concern recently that he’s somewhat lost track of where he stands with it, but he remembers how it felt to first wear a skirt into the archives, all those long years ago. How gentle Sasha had been with him back then, even if the memory pinches the back of his head and grins with too many teeth and a short haircut that he knows now was wrong. But the Stranger cannot take that act of kindness away from her, even if it took away the face he remembers sharing it with.

He had felt like he was becoming something new, then, staring at a new path, freshly paved in his life, open to the possibilities of self discovery and certainty. Then his life had been riddled with worms and his friends had been carved out, one by screaming one, and he was on the run and set alight and kidnapped and disabled and nearly killed and kidnapped again and nearly killed and—

Jon remembers, vaguely, a flash of what had happened in the month he was… gone. He doesn’t remember most of what happened in that place. Probably for the better, he tells himself, but he does recall one thing. One very simple thing, really; that he hadn’t been able to shave, and he remembers the itch being all he could focus on for days at a time.

One of the first things he had done after stumbling through Michael-now-Helen’s door-not-deathtrap was drag himself to a sink and shave his face raw, burned hand be damned. His skin had suffered afterwards, nicked and irritated beneath its smoothness, and he had taken some strange, morbid comfort in the blemish he was able to inflict, after so many days of hearing hollow voices sing of its beauty.

This is a dangerous line of thought, he realizes, hands pressed against the bathroom sink, his heartbeat starting to pound in his ears. He desperately does not want to think about that, not here, and preferably not ever again, if he can help it.

He tries to bring himself back to the here and now, grounding himself in the feeling of porcelain under his palms, but the victory over his mind is a hollow one, unfortunately, as it brings him right back to the itching under his skin.

He’s not sure if this itch is exasperated by his own self consciousness, or by the lingering sting of the Lonely that threatened to separate him from himself, but it builds until its all he can feel in his skin, on his face, and he finds himself lunging across the counter, knocking things over in an attempt to hunt down Martin’s razor.

Jon had lost his own somewhere in the chaos of living in the archives, but he’s sure he saw Martin trim his own short beard when they first arrived at the safehouse, so it must be here, he thinks, ripping open drawers, it must— aha!

His fist closes around the razor, hidden under the sink next to a small bottle of shaving cream and Martin’s testosterone shots, and he barely gives a thought to what he’s doing before raising it to his dry cheek, just needing this thing off, and—

“Jon? You know that’s not how to do that, right?”

Jon whips around like lightning, his back to the sink and the razor clenched in his fist against his chest like a talisman, breathing heavily.

Martin had been smiling slightly as he entered the bathroom, but the expression quickly falls from his face as he takes in the panicked look on Jon’s face, and the erratic motion of his free hand, clenched into a fist at his side and twitching in an attempt to calm himself. Martin steps forward quickly, outstretching a hand.

“Jon, love? Are you alright?”

Jon fixes his eyes on Martin; kind, beautiful Martin who still goes a bit grey at the fingertips and the eyes when anxiety seizes him, Martin who has always been there, always been there, ever since the beginning. Jon anchors himself as he looks at that familiar, beloved face, and tries to take a breath.

“I-I don’t know,” He manages, because this all feels very silly now. He’s a grown person standing in the center of a bathroom, clutching his boyfriend’s shaving razor like it’s a weapon, for God’s sake, all because of what? Some facial hair? Good Lord, he’s being ridiculous. “Probably, I just… um.” He trails off, gut sinking as emotions spiral through him, too fast to pin down and name.

“Okay,” Martin says gently, shuffling a step closer. “Why do you have that?” He gestures to the razor in Jon’s hand, and Jon twitches, holding it closer.

“I need to borrow it,” He explains, stumbling. “I can’t- I need-“ He makes a frustrated noise and tries to get his thoughts to align. He inhales deeply and tries again. “I need to …shave. This-“ he gestures jerkily towards his face. “This is too much.”

Martin nods carefully, eyes glued to Jon’s face. “Too much?” His question is as gentle as his eyes, and Jon has to glance away for a moment, overwhelmed by being seen.

“It’s… complicated,” He begins, the fist pressed to his chest beginning to lighten up. “It… it just itches, all the time. Like- like a thousand ants under my skin, w-which is ridiculous because it doesn’t actually hurt or itch or- or anything, it just…” he glances back to Martin’s eyes, furtive and desperate for him to understand. “I need it to stop.”

“Oh,” Martin softens even more before Jon’s eyes, his face melting with understanding and sadness. “Oh, Jon. I didn’t realize you were having dysphoria.”

At the word dysphoria Jon glances sharply up, uncertainty fraught on his face, and Martin backtracks quickly.

“Or- s-sorry, I didn’t mean to assume. Is it-”

“N-no, Martin, it-it’s fine.” Jon waves Martin’s nerves aside and finds that he finally has a decent enough hold on his own to lower the hand that had been pressed against his chest. He turns around in the bathroom and sits down on the edge of the bathtub, sighing heavily. “It might be dysphoria, I don’t…” He hesitates, chuckling slightly. “I’m not quite sure I know it well enough to place it. Gender hasn’t exactly been… a priority these days.”

Martin nods and follows him deeper into the bathroom, setting down the lid of the toilet so he can sit on it and listen to Jon blunder through his feelings.

“It might be? I mean… I know I’m not a man, per say, but it… I mean, it could also be so many other things at this point. It’s just- I know it’s stupid to overthink, but—“

“Hey, hey,” Martin cuts him off, extending a hand to brush against the side of his knee. “It isn’t stupid, Jon. You don’t have to have a label or a reason in order to be uncomfortable. It’s- you’re allowed to call it just that; uncomfortable.”

Jon nods, looking down at the hands clasped in his lap.

“I know. It just hit me so suddenly, I-” He sighs, rubbing a hand over his forehead, careful to avoid brushing any of the hairs on his face. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Martin murmurs, and his hand rests more solidly on Jon’s knee. “Is this alright?”

Jon nods mutely, and lets himself expel some more of the tension in his shoulders as he focuses on the motion of Martin’s thumb sweeping softly over his knee.

“It reminds me of the circus,” Jon breathes after a moment of silence, and Martin’s hand stills against him, attentive and horrified. “When- when they…” He inhales sharply, willing his voice not to break. “Well, I couldn’t very well shave it,” He clenches his hands into fists again, still holding the razor tightly in his right. “Got it off as quickly as possible once I could.”

Martin exhales. “I remember that. I thought you just… I dunno, just really nicked yourself. I didn’t think about… yeah.”

“Yes,” Jon agrees, keeping his gaze on the hand on his knee. “I-I mean, I definitely did, nick myself that is. I wasn’t really thinking about doing it properly, I suppose.”

“Like just now?” Martin asks, kindly, gently, not judging. Jon feels his chest pinch anyways.

“Yes.” He admits quietly. Martin leans down to press a careful kiss to Jon’s knee.

“Okay, well, this time we’ll do it properly,” Martin raises himself from the toilet seat, reaching down into the cupboards to pull forth the shaving cream and a towel, and holds them out towards Jon.

Jon blinks, looks at the objects and then up at Martin, unsure of what’s being offered. “Sorry?”

“You still want the beard off, right? Let’s just make sure you don’t upset your skin,” He cracks a humorous smile. “Then it’ll actually start itching.”

Jon takes the can from his hand, but still frowns. “Us?”

“I- yeah,” Martin shifts his weight, fidgeting with the towel. “I can help, if that’s alright with you. You don’t… always seem to handle mirrors the best? And I’ve helped shave another person before so… yeah. If you want.”

Jon’s world stutters to a blushing halt. Martin’s right, he doesn’t like to linger on his face in mirrors even on the best days (of which today is certainly not one) and as much as he’s accustomed to doing this himself, what Martin is promising is intimate; an extension of vulnerability and the promise of a care that he hardly takes with himself. The more he considers it, the more finds himself tentatively wanting it, and he nods carefully. He trusts Martin, he’s decided a thousand times by now.

“Alright,” He agrees, and smiles.

Martin smiles in response. “Alright. Do you want me to um-” He gestures with the towel in his hand, and Jon nods.

Martin makes quick work of running the towel under the tap until it’s warm, and then wringing it out so it’s ready to actually use. He takes his seat again and tips Jon’s head back with a hand to lay the towel gently overtop, letting the warmth seep into his skin. It’s more effort than Jon usually puts in, or used to, when he did this more regularly, but he finds it’s a nice feeling, and he almost misses it when Martin takes the towel away again.

“Right,” Martin continues, looks pointedly to the can of shaving cream in Jon’s hand and Jon hesitates.

“Ah. Maybe not that part? Th-the actual shaving is fine, but-”

“Oh! Yeah, of course,” Martin nods, not questioning, and reaches forward instead to gently take the razor itself from Jon’s fist so he can use both hands to get the shaving cream on his face. Jon surrenders the razor, forcing himself to trust it in Martin’s hands, to trust that Martin won’t just leave him hanging.

He tries not to think too hard about the feeling of the cream on his skin. It’s a far cry from lotion, so it doesn’t bring up any sense memories, thankfully, but it’s still an uncomfortable texture, and he focuses on the sound of Martin’s breathing to keep himself from slipping.

Fortunately it doesn’t take long; soon enough Jon’s finished, wiping his hands on his trousers, and then Martin’s shifting closer, taking Jon’s face in his hands like it’s something precious, something to be loved and cared for. He is very close, his dark brown eyes nearly black with focus as he gently reaffirms that Jon’s sure about this, and then the cool razor swipes across Jon’s cheek.

Jon’s heart lurches in his chest, a messy combination of nerves and gratefulness, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move at all, and just watches Martin focus with gentle certaintly as the blade passes over his cheeks again and again in careful, confident strokes. His fingers whisper at Jon’s chin when he tilts up his head and swipes the blade carefully up the top of his throat, brow furrowed and tongue poking out of his lips in concentration.

Jon holds his breath, wills his heart to still, but it’s alright, with Martin it’s always alright. His hands are warm as they cup his cheeks, tilt him this way and that, thorough in their task, and his fingertips are gentle as they lift his chin and brush away foam and ghost over his throat. He never even comes close to nicking him, and Jon feels a great warmth unspooling in his chest, stinging his eyes.

“All done,” Martin finishes triumphantly, his face breaking into a grin as he hands Jon the towel again, lets him wipe off his own face.

There’s no coarse texture as the fabric touches his face, no itching or discomfort as it drags over his chin, and the steady drumbeat of wrongness that had pervaded him for weeks finally, finally dissipates, unblocking his lungs and releasing the tightness from his shoulders. He runs a hand over his chin, and finds a shy smile quickly taking over his face, affection and relief filling him up from the inside out and spilling onto his features.

“Thank you,” He breathes, and Martin matches his smile with one of his own, and nods, nothing but respect and affection in his eyes.

“Any time,” Martin says seriously, before reaching out to take Jon’s hand and slowly bringing it to his lips, giving Jon ample time to pull away. “You don’t have to struggle with this stuff alone,” He murmurs against Jon’s knuckles. “It’s easier together.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Jon’s response is quiet, and Martin kisses his hand then; gentle, and full of reverence. Jon finds that he could melt right into the floor and be happy for the rest of his life.

He reaches up to pull Martin down into a kiss, gentle and insistent and grateful, lacing his hands in his hair and sighing against his lips at the sensation, noting how nice it feels to kiss his boyfriend without his itching skin pressing at his thoughts.

The kiss stays chaste, and eventually Jon pulls back just enough to press their foreheads together, keeping his eyes closed, reveling in it. “Together, then.” He affirms, and Martin smiles.

“One way or another.”

[ajkal2]

the essay: childhood trauma, responsibility, and tma. part 1: jon

in a tma fic i published like six months ago, i left an authors note that promised an essay on jon and tim’s trauma to anyone who asked. several people asked, and so here i am!

the fic is called a deeply annoying child. it’s about being a kid and seeing something horrible, and it’s about jon and tim’s rocky relationship. 

this post isn’t actually about the fic. it’s a breakdown of jon’s mental state through s1-3. im going to make another post about tim, and then a final one linking it all back to the fic. i’ll chuck links to those on here when they’re posted!

but first, let’s talk about my boy, JON ‘JARCHIVIST’ SIMS.  

(fair warning- this isn’t a fully backed up meta post, it’s my interpretation of canon. any thoughts/queries/additions welcome! my askbox is always open <3) 

part o: a note on guilt

hey, you know what’s fucked up? an eight-year-old kid with survivors guilt. 

as a child, jon watched someone he knew die, due to circumstances that, while they were not his fault, were set in motion by his actions. children (and often teens!) think in black-and-white. complex logic often just doesn’t occur to them.  jon, at 8, looks at what happened, and says that’s my fault. i did that. jon didn’t like his bully, and wanted him to go away, and then he did. that instinctive reaction is something i think he never grows out of. when you already hate yourself, it’s easy to pile more fuel onto that flame.  he doesn’t think about risk, not to him, because he deserves whatever happens. he let someone die. he doesn’t ever forgive himself for that.

part i: belief (precanon+s1)

now, i have a headcanon about why jon doesn’t believe statement givers, and imma lay it all out for you right here. 

when jon was 8, and freshly traumatised, i think he tried to tell someone what happened. beneath all the layers, jon is compassionate, and tries to help people. now, picture this. a kid, one with a history of troubled behaviour and an atypical home life, goes up to someone (a police officer, his carer, a teacher) and tells them a giant spider ate someone. what’s that person, someone who is a rational adult, someone who doesn’t believe in silly things, going to say back? are they going to believe that kid? 

no. no way. they’re going to tell that kid that they’re making up stories, that they had a nightmare, that they should stop making jokes about someone who actually disappeared, jon, you need to be more sensitive about these things. 

now, that kind of dissonance- ‘this did happen, it was real’ and ‘everyone i talk to is telling me it’s not real’- is hard on adults. to a kid? devastating. 

jon, because he’s jon, would have been desperately searching for a way to explain this, and i think the thing he grabs on to is evidence. if he had some evidence of what happened, if he could prove what happened, people would believe him.*

but he doesn’t have evidence. and he resents that, and he resents that so much that by the time he’s an adult he’s settled into a mindset towards the supernatural somewhat akin to ‘i didn’t get believed, but you think you should be believed? what’s so good about you? you think you’re better than me?** fuck you! i don’t believe you!’   this is also a way of keeping himself safe. if the monsters aren’t real, they can’t hurt him.

and then, through s1, that mindset is chipped at. the statement givers start being real people, who come into jon’s office and cry when he dismisses them, and that clearly makes him uncomfortable. martin gives his statement, and martin has evidence. jon knows martin, and knows that he’s a good person, so martin having evidence isn’t likely to be an attack at jon. 

jane prentiss attacks the institute, and then suddenly jon’s shield of denial and anger is ripped away, because the monsters are real, and they can hurt him. 

*would they? i don’t know. people can be very attached to believing that the world is good, and kids are misguided, and there are a hundred thousand ways to explain away a piece of evidence, as jon comes to know well. 

** this ties into jon’s self hatred, as people saying they are better than him kicks him right in the Issues. 

part ii: paranoia (s2)

after prentiss attacks, jon is left floundering. his old I Do Not See It mindset has been smashed to pieces, and underneath all the trauma he’s been brutally suppressing is bubbling up. jon has no real experience in judging threats, because for the last 20 years he’s been burying his head in the sand and yelling he can’t see any threats. so he overcompensates, and assumes everything is a threat. his experience re:not being believed tells him that everyone around him is stupid and wrong and the only person he can rely on is himself.  

so he investigates. he’s convinced that his life is in imminent danger, that everyone around him is plotting to kill him. he doesn’t hold back, because you don’t hold back in a life-or-death scenario.  he knows something is wrong. something is very wrong. he’s sure it’s a threat to him, a threat to his life. but he can’t put a finger on what it is.

this is when his friendship with tim breaks down. i’ll talk about tim in a minute. 

jon spirals, and obsesses, and wrings answers out of the ether until it all falls together. he understands what is wrong, that it’s sasha that wants him dead. or, well, not sasha. he’s been winding up tighter and tighter all series, and he lets loose by striking out, acting for once instead of reacting. it is remarkably easy to buy an axe in central london, after all.

and then, well, that doesn’t go well. 

 part iii: desperation (s3)

after what jon did backfired so badly, he goes to georgie, because he has no other option. and he thinks, what went wrong? and the answer he comes up with is i didn’t know enough.* that’s why it all went wrong, because he didn’t know what he was dealing with. and so the solution is to find out more.

he’s starting to realise that he’s changing.** he wants to find out more about that as well, to control it. 

so he goes and finds out more. or, tries to. he doesn’t have many leads.*** jon is not good at judging threat, and doesn’t know the danger he is putting himself in. he’s stubborn, and locked onto getting more knowledge like a dog and a bone.****

and then he does get more knowledge, but it’s the knowledge that the world is ending, and he’s the only one who can fix it.***** he can’t process his trauma. he doesn’t have time. the world is ending. 

in late s3, jon is desperate. he’s overworking himself. he feels alone: daisy’s at his throat, elias is dangling information over his head, tim... 

we’ll talk about tim later. 

basira doesn’t trust him, georgie isn’t happy with him, melanie’s never liked him. he gets kidnapped for a month, and no one notices. the only person jon has firmly in his corner is martin.****** and he doesn’t have time to talk to martin, because he’s getting kidnapped, and jetting across the world chasing shadows, and desperately, desperately trying not to fuck everything up again. 

and he doesn’t! they build a plan. it’s dangerous, sure, but jon doesn’t even know what that means anymore. his whole life is dangerous. jon going into the unknowing is cautiously, waveringly hopeful. maybe this time it won’t go wrong. this time they know what to do, they know what they’re dealing with. 

and, the tragedy is, it doesn’t go wrong. they save the world. they send elias to prison. it all goes to plan. and tim is dead, and daisy is buried, and jon is lost in dreams. 

*👁️ **👁️ ***👁️ ****👁️  ***** he’s not the only one, of course, there are a whole team of people working on stopping the Unknowing, but jon is the Archivist. he’s the heir to gertrude’s legacy. 

****** this is where they fall in love, after all. which is a good thing, of course, but it adds an extra weight to every interaction they have, guessing and double-guessing how the other feels, until jon actually can’t talk to martin, not how he wants to, because he’s not sure if they’re there yet. (martin is there. jon doesn’t have time to be.) 

see yall next time 

i would like to cover s4 and s5, but this post is 1.5k already, and i’ve covered up to when the fic takes place! next time i will be ranting incoherently about timothy stoker, punctuated by bursts on uncontrollable sobbing. when that’s up, i’ll chuck a link here, and on the author notes of the fic i’m doing this for. see you then!

[aster-aspera]

It’s just my skin

@badthingshappenbingo

Prompt: loss of hearing

Pairings: (platonic) jonmartim

Warnings: claustrophobia, hospitals, hearing loss

Masterlist

If you liked it please reblog <3

The aftermath isn’t as quiet as Tim thought it would be.

Maybe it’s the fact that he isn’t dead even though he should be, maybe it’s the dreadful ringing in his ear, maybe it’s the way his chest is heaving in gasping breaths he can’t hear.

There’s a thousand pounds of stone pressing down on his back and somewhere far above him he can feel the ground rumble and shift. He can’t even find it in himself to worry about the whole place coming down. He wasn't planning on making it out alive either way.

He thinks he floats in and out of consciousness for a bit. Time seems to wind and stretch and loop back, only the rubble on his back and the incessant ringing to keep him company.

Something shifts eventually, a change in the air at first, the darkness becoming just a bit softer, a bit less cloying.

And then there are hands and stretchers and needles and people pulling and prodding him and over it all is still that high pitched ringing, rising higher and higher into an impossible crescendo. He thinks they ask him things, he is sure he sees their lips moving and their expectant gazes. He thinks he tries to say something, but his lips feel awkward and unwieldy.

Everything goes dark after that. A cool blessed darkness where he just floats, no stone, no rubble, no dust, just peace.

He thinks about Danny for a while, and the ritual and the burning collapse of it all and the way Sasha smiled at him every morning when he came into the archives. Then he just sleeps.

He wakes up a bit more coherent the next time. The ringing isn’t gone yet, but at least his brain doesn’t feel like it’s through different planes of dimensions at a hundred kilometres per hour anymore. At least now he can breathe without the dust clogging his lungs.

He looks around the overbright hospital room, the disconnected monitor and the IV dripping a clear fluid into his veins. There’s a bouquet of orange flowers on the bedside table. Probably from Martin, he thinks bitterly. There’s no one else who would go through the trouble.

Martin walks into his room at some point and Tim wonders why he’s here and not hovering around Jon like some lost puppy. Maybe Jon didn’t make it out of the explosion.

Something sharp and painful shoots through Tim’s chest at the thought and he does his best not to examine it too closely.

He looks up at Martin, whose lips are moving as he fusses with the flowers on the little table. Tim stares up at him uncomprehendingly, waiting for sound to come through, waiting for that unbearable ringing to resolve itself into something he can understand.

It doesn’t.

“I can’t hear,” He says, his lips forming the words, his vocal cords vibrating, but no sound comes out, not to him at least. Martin looks up at him with concern, his mouth moving in shapes that should have been familiar, had they been accompanied by the right noises.

“I can’t hear,” Tim says again. And this time, it doesn’t come out half as controlled. He can feel something very close to panic crawling it’s way up his throat and he doesn’t quite manage to swallow it down.

Martin presumably says something else, before giving up and typing something on his phone, shoving it into Tim’s hands before stalking out of the room.

Getting a doctor, stay here

Well of course he’s going to stay here, does Martin really think he’s going to wander around London when he’s just survived an explosion? He isn’t Jon.

He waits impatiently in his bed, rubbing the uncomfortably thin hospital sheets between his fingers and trying to adjust the flat pillows so he can sit up.

Eventually the doctors come in and once again, it’s back to being poked and prodded. Doctors examining his ears and brain and all the million scans they take, with Martin occasionally coming in to hover over him, bringing along coffee from the cafeteria.

In the end, the verdict is predictable. Permanent damage from his proximity to the explosion. Figures he couldn’t just walk out of that unscathed.

And most people would probably consider being permanently deaf better than being dead. Tim wasn’t too sure he agreed with them  yet.

They let him go home eventually, with a whole laundry list of instructions on how to care for himself. Tim throws the papers into a corner as soon as he gets home. He’ll be fine, he’s survived Jane Prentiss, he can survive this. And it isn’t like it matters much.

His phone buzzes to life when he sticks it into the socket, all the messages he missed streaming in at once, a tidal wave of promotional mails and push notifications. He’s half tempted to just shut it off again when he notices one text notification between all the others.

Jon

Martin had told him he was alive, of course. But something about seeing his name displayed black on white on his phone screen drives the point home in a way Martin’s scribbled notes hadn’t done. Something sharp and hot shoots through his chest and he wants desperately for it to be that familiar anger that carried him through the last few months.

But as he lets his head fall back onto the couch, he can’t quite feel it burn the same, and without its familiar warmth, he feels hollow in a way he hasn’t since Danny died.

He swipes away the message without reading it and curls up on the couch, pulling an old, dusty blanket over himself and shutting his eyes. He tries not to think too much of the darkness after the explosion, of the plaster dust swirling through the air and settling in his lungs, of the stone crushing his limbs at awkward angles.

A dark apartment isn’t much like a collapsed building but his brain doesn’t care when it brings up vivid images of his time under the rubble. Despite it all, he does eventually drift into the comforting darkness of sleep, his slumber taking the pain and weariness out of his bones for just a moment.

It’s peaceful, till he wakes up gasping from a nightmare.

His desk rattles slightly when a heavy book is dropped on it and Tim looks up in annoyance, ignoring the painful squeezing in his chest when he meets Jon’s tired, regretful eyes.

‘Learning sign’ The book proclaims and Tim feels irritation bubbling up.

“Fuck off,” He says, focusing his attention once again on his desk.

‘I know sign, I can help, or at least recommend you some classes/books’ Jon informs him through the notes app on his phone.

“I don’t need your help.”

‘I know you don’t, but I’d like to'

“Why? So you can feel better about everything that happened? You think this is going to fix it?”

‘I’m sorry Tim’

“Sorry is too late,” he bites out, shoving out of his chair roughly. He tries to move past Jon, make it out of this stifling, dusty room, get somewhere it doesn’t feel like the walls are watching him.

A rough, calloused hand shoots out, wraps around his wrist like a vice. Jon’s eyes are dark with concern and Tim feels an odd anger at the expression. How can he show so much empathy after everything that happened?

He looks at the hand wrapped around his wrist and suddenly, it’s all just too much.

The deafening ringing in his ears, this wretched place that trapped him and choked him and took his best friend from him. And Jon, eyes still hopeful, still compassionate, after Tim had blamed him and hurt him for months on end.

“Go away,” He tries to say and he doesn’t even make it to the first syllable before his voice betrays him with a choked sob. A shudder runs through him and he looks down at the wooden floor, trying to compose himself.

The grief has never felt as all consuming as it does in this moment and it chokes and burns and pulls him under all at once.

And then, there are arms around him. A familiar touch, a familiar weight, from days so long ago Tim can barely remember them. The first touch that isn’t hostile, the first comfort he has felt in so long.

And it’s all from the man he’s tried to hate for months.

His hands curl themselves tightly into Jon’s cardigan and he buries his face in his shoulder, biting back tears with all his might. It doesn’t do much good against the tidal wave of emotions sweeping through him and soon he’s shaking all over with the sobs that wrack through his body.

Jon’s hand comes up in a familiar movement, brushing through Tim’s messed up curls. It’s hesitant at first, as if Tim will yell at him again, but when he makes no motion to do so, only melting deeper into the hold, the fingers carding through his hair become surer.

There’s a rumble against his cheek as Jon says something and Tim wishes desperately he could still hear it, hear Jon’s sure and steadying voice.

He remembers when, near the beginning of it all, he would stand in the corridor outside of Jon’s office and listen as his voice drifted through the halls, all the pain and fear and emotions painted so clearly on it. He’d always thought Jon a bit ridiculous for the way he read those statements. Now he just wished he could hear it one more time.

He closes his eyes as the loss of his family and his friend and even his hearing tear through his chest, leaving him shattered and shaking.

Jon’s chest rumbles again and Tim presses his cheek into it, pretending for just a moment he can hear a sound that isn’t the awful ringing.

Another pair of hands close around him, softer ones, broader ones. They pull him up gently and he’s not entirely sure how they both ended up on the floor, it probably has something to do with how broad he is and how skinny Jon is.

He’s pulled close against a soft, broad chest and relaxes into it almost immediately. Martin’s safe, he always has been.

He’s deposited gently on the cot, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a warm mug of tea pressed into his hands. He feels a bit like a child, being coddled and carted around. But right now, he can’t find it in himself to care.

He thinks Jon and Martin are saying stuff. Martin’s chest is rumbling against his back and he tilts his face so he can feel it better. Martin runs a comforting hand along his face, brushing away the tears that stick to it.

A hand settles on his knee, comforting and grounding and he’s sure it’s Jon’s. Both of Martin’s hands are occupied holding him together after all.

He closes his eyes. He can deal with the mess of it all tomorrow.

Right now, he just feels safe. His friends are here and that’s enough.

[tcm]

FATSO and THE HONEYMOON KILLERS by Susan King

Being overweight is a traumatic experience both physically and emotionally. There’s depression, lack of self-worth, loneliness and the fear that no one will love you because of your size. Even if you lose weight, it’s still hard to believe in yourself due to past limiting beliefs. Over the years, filmmakers have explored this sensitive subject, including John Waters (Hairspray, 2007), Jane Campion (Sweetie, 1989) and P.J. Hogan (Muriel’s Wedding, 1994).

Oscar-winning actress Anne Bancroft came up with the idea for FATSO (1980), her only feature film as a director, at AFI’s Directing Workshop for Women in the mid-1970s, where it was developed as a short film. The first film produced by her husband Mel Brooks’ Brooksfilm, FATSO is a comedy about Dominick DiNapoli (Dom DeLuise), an overweight New York shopkeeper whose late mother always fed him as a child whenever he was upset. Now, his eating is out of control. He still lives at home, and his nagging sister (Bancroft) and her family reside downstairs in a two-family brownstone, while Dominick and his brother, exasperated Frank Jr. (Ron Carey), live upstairs. When their 39-year-old extremely overweight cousin Sal suddenly dies, Bancroft’s Antoinette harps and nags her brother to see a diet doctor. When the diet doesn’t work, she enrolls him in a “Chubby Checkers” support group.  It’s only when he meets Lydia (Candice Azzara), a neighboring shopkeeper, that he tries to turn his life around.

Critics basically trounced FATSO when it was released 41 years ago. Roger Ebert actually gave it a one-star rating. Gene Siskel declared it “an emaciated script idea. Two basic dramatic approaches to fatness are to regard it as comic, or tragic. Anne Bancroft has somehow avoided both approaches in FATSO, a movie with the unique distinction of creating in its audiences an almost constant suspense about how they are supposed to be react.”

However, the film has grown in reputation over the years and was even included in a retrospective on liberating Hollywood women directors in the 1970s at the UCLA Film & Television Archive in 2019, describing the film as a “hilarious, heartwarming comedy.” That’s a bit of hyperbole. DeLuise, who rarely got a chance to really show his comic brilliance in film and television, is the best thing about FATSO. He’s funny and poignant and has chemistry to spare with Azzara.

And Bancroft does show just how hard it is to lose weight. In one sequence, Dominick convinces his brother to padlock the fridge and the pantry only to threaten him with a knife in the middle of the night to unlock them. Depressed at his behavior, he calls the Chubby Checkers (Richard Karron and Paul Zegler) for help. But when they start talking about food, the trio goes crazy in the kitchen and eats everything in sight.

When he decides to propose to Lydia only to discover she’s not home, Dominick goes crazy and eats $40 worth of Chinese take-out. Just as Siskel noted, Bancroft tries to make these scenes funny but, in fact, they are incredibly sad. Though Bancroft excelled at comedy as an actress and was married to a comic genius, she had problems writing and directing comedy. Though he’s considered fat in the film, DeLuise is just pleasingly plump. He’s nowhere near the 325 pounds he was later in his life. FATSO did change the lives of the two Chubby Checkers played by Karron and Zegler. They both lost a substantial amount of weight over the years.

Just like Bancroft, the shockingly riveting thriller THE HONEYMOON KILLERS (1970) was the sole film written and directed by composer Leonard Kastle. He actually wasn’t the first director on the film; however, Martin Scorsese was given the pink slip after the first week because he was taking too long. Noted as Francois Truffaut’s favorite American film, THE HONEYMOON KILLERS vividly depicts the self-esteem issues many have when being overweight.

A grim nurse, Martha (Shirley Stoler, the Nazi guard in Seven Beauties, 1975), lives at home with her nagging friend Bunny (Doris Roberts) who keeps telling her to lose weight. The more stressed Martha gets, the more she eats. In fact, eating has almost become sex to her whether she’s devouring chocolates, cookies or even a pretzel. But she desperately wants to fall in love but fears her weight will prevent her from finding a man.

Unbeknown to Martha, Bunny has submitted her name to a “lonely hearts” club and soon she gets a letter from Ray Fernandez (Tony Lo Bianco) from New York City. He soon visits Martha in Alabama where he seduces her and convinces her to give him a loan. After he leaves, Ray writes her a Dear Jane letter. Threatening to commit suicide, Ray allows her to visit him in New York where he reveals he’s a gigolo/con man who seduces and swindles lonely women. Because she is so lovesick and doesn’t want to lose him, she accompanies him on his jobs posing as his “sister.”

THE HONEYMOON KILLERS was inspired by the true story of Raymond Fernandez and Martha Beck, the legendary “lonely hearts killers” of the 1940s, who were executed at Sing Sing in 1951. Even 51 years after its release, THE HONEYMOON KILLERS is very disturbing. Not only are the murders gruesome, but Martha’s mistreatment as a “fat girl” has turned her into a psychopath. She will do anything and everything to keep her man even attempting to drown herself when she hears Ray trying to seduce one of his conquests at the riverbank. In an interview, producer Warren Steibel stated “we wanted to do an honest movie about murders. These are not charming people. They are sleazy people-but fascinating. You won’t come out of the theatre feeling sorry for the killers like in some movies. It is not romanticized.”

While these films aren’t necessarily positive portrayals of body weight, and it should be noted that each were made by directors who themselves were not overweight, both are iconic in their focus on fatness and its perception during the time in which these films were made.

[smallmediumproblems]

My Soul to Keep

“You know you shouldn’t stay,” said Jon. Callum Brody slouched resolutely before him in the middle of Night Street. His arms were wrapped around his middle, and his face was dominated by a truly world-class pout. Jon knelt down in spite of his protesting knees. “The Dark will have to chase something. As soon as we leave, you’re all it has left.”

“Don’t think so,” said Callum. His eyes fixed on a nearby stub of grass that had grown all the way up through the concrete only to wither in the darkness. “You’ve been out there, yeah? Past the end of the street? There’s still people, right? I can use them.”

“There are,” said Jon. “Some might even consider it a welcome distraction.”

“Long as it’s not me, that’s fine,” Callum shrugged. “Maybe fun, even. This place was getting boring.”

Jon studied him for a long moment. He’d expected him to be angry when they started their work. He had been fully prepared to fend off a supernatural tantrum. Instead, Callum had gone immediately to sulking. Jon could Know why, of course, if he really wanted to.

But it never hurt to ask, first.

“Do you think you’ll be alright?”

Callum finally met his gaze. He finally looked upset, and frightened and hurt, and all of the other things that he’d managed not to be in front of the other children. “Are you stupid? No. Nothing’s alright. Not anymore.”

“I know that,” Jon said softly. “I just… You shouldn’t have to do this alone. If there’s any way we can help, I-”

“Get out.”

Jon made no move to get up.

“I said get out, we’re done here,” Callum repeated, louder, as if perhaps Jon hadn’t heard. “I’m not coming with you. You want to help, let me have this. It’s all I’ve got.”

“Alright.” Jon stood slowly. “Alright. I wish I could promise that we were coming back,” he said.

Callum’s expression softened. It occurred to Jon that he probably hadn’t considered his unlikely guests being in danger; either because he didn’t care, or because he tried not to think of the world outside of his domain.

“Thanks,” said Callum. To Jon’s surprise, it sounded like he meant it. “Um. Don’t die, I guess. Or, whatever happens to people now.”

Jon laughed slightly. “You too. I guess.”

They both turned on their heels and paced back to their respective parties. Callum went into the darkness, unflinching at the hungry shadows that followed him. Jon retreated into the light.

“Did he change his mind?” asked Martin. He took a second to shift the weight of the bodies in his arms. Marnie had gone sleepily boneless in the soft expanse of his jumper, but Gavin still clung to his shoulder like an especially squirmy bandolier.

“No,” said Jon. He glanced down in surprise as little Jeremy took his hand, but didn’t pull away. “No, this… It’s best for all of them, him included. He understood that.”

“D’you think he wanted to come?” Martin asked.

“I don’t know,” said Jon, “I don’t think he would have admitted it. I certainly wasn’t about to make him tell me.”

Martin nodded, running a hand over Gavin’s back idly. “Kay. So, what now?”

“Now, we go back,” said Jon, loud enough so that some of the crowd around them could hear. “Back to the Lonely. I can get us there faster, now that we’ve already been. If that makes sense?”

“Nope!” Martin said brightly. “Never does. I’m dead certain you’re just making this stuff up half the time. But if it works, does it reeeeally matter?”

“I suppose not,” said Jon.

“What’s the Lonely?” asked a small voice from his side. He looked down to see Katya keeping pace with Jeremy, still eyeing Jon suspiciously. She wasn’t in the business of trusting strange adults.

“It’s like a big, awful haunted house,” Martin explained. “But instead of fun and cool, it’s sad and the worst. There’s still fog, though, so it’s got that in common.”

“Is my mum there?” asked Kayla.

“Yes,” Jon assured her, “In fact, I think… both of them, yes. That’s why we’re going. There are a lot of mums there, and I expect they’re missing you very badly right now.”

The first thing they’d learned about Night Street was that none of the parents were real. Their fear was far too valuable to let them waste away here until their children were of age.  Instead, the houses were populated with crude fabrications, stitched together from flickering television light and the muffled vibrations of shouting behind closed doors. They just needed to be hostile and sharp enough to drive “their” children away, into the arms of the Dark. Nothing more complicated or less horrible than that.

Accordingly, that was the first thing they’d explained to Michelle when they finally caught her. She was not easy to catch. She was faster than should have been possible, and ran from what she thought were two new spectors sent to torment her. Her downfall was that she preferred to hide. Not even the Dark could keep her from the Archivist’s sight. Unlike the shadows that prowled her house, Jon and Martin had every intention of actually catching her, not just letting her run and find a new place to simmer in her fear. When she darted to avoid Martin, she was caught up in the tangle of Jon’s arms, and the constant, quiet stream of words that spilled from him the moment he held her.

It’s alright. This is safe. They won’t get you. They can’t hurt you with me here.

Michelle screamed and cried and begged to be let go, but with each word, she knew more closely that he wasn’t lying.

It’s okay. You don’t have to be scared. We won’t hurt you, and neither will anything else, I won’t let them.

Michelle cried more softly, and pleaded for him not to leave.

I’m right here. You’re alright.

We’re not leaving without you.

Michelle knew that they wouldn’t.

She asked if they could help wake her father. Every now and then, she was able to dart across the house into his bedroom while the monsters weren’t looking, but he never gave her more than a mumble of annoyance for her efforts. Jon told her that no, that wasn’t her father at all- he could even show her the empty bed, the supposed bulge under the covers just a trick of the light, the muttering a creak of the floorboards. Her father was somewhere else entirely. (Jon had to look first, because he wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to tell her what he found). He was in the Lonely. He was there because he was looking for her.

This discovery brought a new layer into their plan. In some ways, it actually made things simpler. The proof of concept was the important bit - if they could rescue one child, it was theoretically possible for them to rescue the rest, that was just maths and a matter of time, so very much time - but they had always gotten stuck on what to do with them. They couldn't take them all the way to the tower. The other Fear domains were arguably much more dangerous. Jon could keep a watchful eye on them all, but protecting them was another matter. Using the children to rescue their parents didn’t just free more people. It would provide shepherds who were uniquely willing and able to care for their newly acquired flock. Some children had parents in other domains. Some didn’t have parents left to find at all. But the overwhelming majority were in the Lonely, and it was such a number that all of them combined could hang on to the lost children until a more permanent solution was found.

So they told Michelle that they would get her to her parents.

Then, they told Sam.

And Chris.

And Briana.

And they did not stop until there was no one left to tell.

“I miss my mum,” said Ron, who was trailing close behind Martin. He yawned over an envious look up at Marnie. “When can I have a turn?”

“Ten minutes,” Martin said sternly, “That’s what we negotiated. Except that time doesn’t work, so, um, whenever Mr. Sims says so.”

“Excu- don’t bring me into this,” said Jon. “I will not be made into a hug trafficker.”

“I thought you were Mr. Sims,” Ron said faintly to Martin. Martin went very red, and Jon arched an eyebrow.

“Is that so?” asked Jon.

“Hmm,” Martin made an interested noise, like Ron had just shared a new and exciting fact about an obscure topic. What he did not do was offer any correction to Ron’s statement. Jon raised the other eyebrow to match.

“I wonder where you got that idea?” Jon pressed.

“Julia said that Mark said that you two kissed,” said Ron.

“Gross,” Jeremy commented. “Kisses are gross.”

“It wasn’t a gross kiss, it was nice,” Ron argued. “Like on the cheek, and then the other person smiles a lot.”

“All kisses are gross,” Jeremy repeated adamantly.

“Here, I’ll show you-”

“Ah-ah-ah, absolutely no kissing without permission,” Martin yelped. “Here. Jon?”

“I mean, as long as it’s not gross,” said Jon, struggling very hard to keep a straight face. Martin rolled his eyes.

He kissed Jon on the cheek.

Jon smiled quite a lot.

[haberdashing]

A Kindred Soul

An asexual Martin struggles with his identity and learns that he and Jon have it in common.

on AO3

Nothing about Martin’s identity has ever been simple, ever been easy to explain to others. Not that it was a surprise, really; nothing in Martin’s life ever seemed to be simple or easy, so why should this be any different?

First off, there was him being a boy--a man, really, but he’d started as a boy, and it had taken some years for him to figure even that much out after being told otherwise all his life. Coming out to his mother had been... a struggle, but she did call him Martin now at least, even if there always seemed to be a sneer on her face when she said it, even if her eyes went cold every time she looked over him.

And not only that, Martin was a boy who loved other boys, and soon enough a man who loved other men. Before any of it came out, it was easy enough for him to talk to others about his crushes, to be assumed just another schoolgirl with a crush on some boy that was probably out of her (out of his) league, but after... after was more difficult. Martin never discussed that part of his life with his mother, never had her meet any of the men he dated, though sometimes he feared she knew his orientation all the same and was judging him all the more for it.

Just that would have been tricky enough. Just that was tricky enough, really. It was hard enough navigating his love life with that information in mind, remembering what he could and couldn’t tell his one remaining relative about any relationships he might have, trying to find other men who would see him as one of them and love him just the same for it.

But that wasn’t all that made Martin’s love life difficult, truth be told.

There was... something else going on there. Something he was missing that everybody else seemed to have: being drawn to others on a physical level, wanting to end a perfect date by going to bed with the other person. Something about the idea of himself having sex made Martin’s stomach queasy, though he had no problem with it when it was anyone else involved. Even kissing was hit or miss for him--what was the appeal of French kissing supposed to be, anyway, were you supposed to like swapping saliva, potentially exchanging diseases, rubbing tongue against tongue and tasting the scraps and tartar in the other person’s mouth?

Was he broken? He must be, right? Part of him was gone, missing, lost to the abyss, and that part seemed to be so important to most of the men he dated that Martin began to feel its absence by proxy himself. Maybe it was because he hadn’t been loved properly as a child, because his mother had never talked to him about bedroom matters, because he didn’t see how anybody could fancy him that way... or maybe he’d just always been broken, from the day he was born, and nothing anybody did could fix it.

Martin’s mother probably wouldn’t mind that part of him so much, but he never dared to breach the subject, not when he could barely understand it himself.

When Martin got a crush on Jon, a crush that proved to be a lot more long-lasting and resilient than he had expected, that missing piece was just another reason Martin knew it would never work out. Even if Jon was up for dating an employee, dating another man, dating a trans man, dating Martin... he’d want what all Martin’s past crushes ended up wanting, and that was something that he just couldn’t bring himself to supply.

When Martin began to fall to the Lonely, he wondered if perhaps the Lonely had always been a part of him, deep down inside, that perhaps it had taken the place of that missing piece before it could ever form in the first place. At least that was one less thing to lose along the way, he supposed...

And then Jon saved him from the Lonely, brought him to the safehouse, and he seemed interested in Martin, interested in a way that wasn’t simply platonic, and Martin knew, Martin knew that that interest would lead to a discussion that would break his heart all over again...

That discussion came soon enough, five nights into their time at the safehouse. Martin and Jon were together in the place’s lone bed, ostensibly trying to get to sleep but both more focused on furtively glancing at one another when each thought the other wasn’t looking. They weren’t quite touching, but they were close, and Martin kept wondering when the other shoe would drop, when Jon would bring up the elephant in the room, when he would ask for something Martin couldn’t give him...

“Martin, I... there’s something I want to tell you.” Jon’s voice was barely above a whisper, but Martin heard it clear as day, his heart sinking as he processed the statement and its implications.

“R-right. Go ahead.”

“And it’s not your fault, you didn’t do anything wrong or anything like that-”

Oh. That talk. Well. At least they were getting it out of the way now, Martin supposed. At least Jon was breaking things off before Martin could mess them up any further.

“It’s alright, Jon. I... I understand.”

“No, I...” Jon let out a sharp huff, the warm air from his nose tickling Martin’s chin. “Not like that... hopefully not like that, anyway, that’s, that’s up to you I suppose...”

Martin tried to unclench the pit that had formed in his stomach, but with little success. “What is it, then?”

“I, er. I’m not interested in sex. Not with you, not with anyone. I’m asexual.”

The pit in Martin’s stomach evaporated without him even noticing it, replaced with butterflies and a faint, fervent hope.

“Asexual?” Martin echoed.

“Right. It means not feeling sexual attraction, not being interested in that kind of physicality... but that doesn’t mean I’m not romantically interested in, in you, because I very much am, I’ve just always been this way, and I don’t want you to-”

“There’s a word for it?”

Martin’s voice was under his breath, but he could tell that Jon heard it just the same, could feel the weight of Jon’s gaze falling upon him.

“There is, yes. So you, uh...?”

Martin let out a soft, shaky laugh. “Yeah, I never heard the term before but I, I think I must be asexual too. That all sounds like- like me.”

“Oh!” Another soft, warm exhale from Jon. “I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t either. About you, I mean. Or the term, I suppose, but I’d never known anyone else who was...” Broken? No, Martin could accept that word for himself, but not for Jon, not for the man he loved. “...like me in that way.”

Jon shot Martin a small smile. “Well, now you do.”

“Now I do.” Martin said with a nod.

A brief pause, then: “...tell me more?”

Jon nodded, his grin growing as he began to speak.

[lovelucybradford]

I Pretend You’re Mine (All the Damn Time).  One

Tumblr’s hottest new Derek HalexOC fic is “I Pretend You’re Mine (All the Damn Time)”. Fueled by one too many rom-coms and the author’s thirst for Tyler Hoechlin, this fic has EVERYTHING: childhood friends to lovers, fake engagement, mutual pining, Derek Hale’s family alive and well, and SLOW BURN (oh so slow). 

One: get me with those green eyes, baby.

“Yo Rosie, you better go over there. Cinderella’s about to steal your man,” Stiles commented nonchalantly, sipping on a Coke from a paper cup. He was trying to hide his smile, but Rosalie could see right through him. 

 “Shut up, Stiles. He’s not my man.” Rosalie rolled her eyes, but didn’t stray her focus from Derek, Cinderella, and her niece, Charlotte. The young girl who was playing Cinderella couldn’t be older than twenty-one. (Way too young for the man.) Sure enough, she had her dainty hand on Derek’s bicep, likely commenting on his muscles. (That had happened with Ariel, an hour before. To which Rosalie thought that she’d be able to fill out those seashells much better.)

  Derek laughed, scratching the back of his neck—a sure sign that he was uncomfortable with all of the attention. It had been his tell for as long as Rosalie had known him—verging on twenty-five years, give or take the time that they’d spent apart in college and Rosalie’s four-year stint living with her father’s family in New York City (a mistake, big mistake).

 That had been a change; Derek used to eat up all of the attention from women when they were younger. A lot had changed with the two friends through the years; lovers had come and go, lessons learnt the hard way—but the one thing that hadn’t changed was their connection to each other. No one quite understood Rose the way that Derek did, and she’d like to think that nobody understood Derek like she did. 

 Charlotte pointed one blue-painted nail towards her aunt, and suddenly all eyes were on her. “Auntie Rosie! Come here!” she called loudly.

 Rosalie obliged, excusing herself from Lydia and Stiles to join Charlotte, Derek, and the princess. Cinderella smiled kindly at Rosalie, eyes briefly flicking up to her hair. She turned to Derek and asked, “Is this your princess?”

To which Rosalie flushed a bright shade of red. Cinderella was likely referring to Rosalie’s elaborate updo. Her red hair was covered in green glitter, complete with a sparkling, emerald-encrusted tiara. Charlotte, ever the shy child, had been nervous to go to the Bippity Boppity Boutique by herself, and convinced her aunt to play along. So, Rosalie had gotten the works, and Derek and Stiles teased her incessantly all day. She didn’t mind, really. She’d do anything for the kid, whether that be to sell her soul or literally become her childhood moniker.

Derek chuckled apprehensively and ducked his head. Charlotte answered for them both, giving Stiles Stilinski more fodder for his jokes.

“Yeah! This is my Auntie Rose. Uncle Derek calls her princess,” Charlotte smiled proudly. In the distance, Stiles guffawed, and Lydia leaned her head on her boyfriend’s shoulder. Likely hiding her own laugh, for Rosalie’s benefit.

Rosalie stumbled over her own words. “I…um…childhood nickname. Anyways, Char, do you want a photo so the nice people behind us get a chance to meet Cinderella, too?”

The four posed for the photo, Derek and Rosalie on either side of the princess and Charlotte, curtseying, in front. Lydia snapped a quick photo on her own phone and on Rosalie’s. Then, Rosalie graciously thanked Cinderella and the photographer, eager to get the hell out of the awkward situation.

Derek swept Charlotte up on to his shoulders, giving a polite nod before he turned to leave as well. Cinderella tapped him on the arm, and added, “Have a magical day! Your girlfriend is beautiful.”

Rosalie lost her footing at Cinderella’s words, almost crashing embarrassingly to the floor if it weren’t for Lydia’s supportive hand on her wrist. She let Lydia lead her out of the building, feeling quite lightheaded all of a sudden.

The sun had set in the near hour that they had waited to meet the princesses. The stars in the sky sparkled above, bringing a whole new sense of magic to ‘The Most Magical Place on Earth’.

“Oh my God, this picture is so cute. I’m def posting it on Instagram,” Lydia said, smiling down at her phone. She moved closer to her cousin so Rosalie could see the photo as well.

Rosalie cringed. “Um, no you’re not.” Charlotte looked adorable, as she always did. Rosalie, well—Rosalie looked exactly as she felt in that very moment. The pink in her cheeks perfectly matched the tapestry behind them, and she couldn’t blame that shade of red on a blossoming sunburn. And Derek—he looked like a deer in the headlights, wide-eyed with a tight-lipped smile. Even when mortified he still managed to look gorgeous.

It hurt Rosalie’s heart just a little bit to think that Derek was mortified because someone thought they were together. But she buried that feeling once she saw Stiles saunter towards them, Derek and a chattering Charlotte in tow.

“Too late. I already did,” Lydia announced, lips tilting into a playful smile.

“Already did what?” Derek peeked over the women’s heads.

He groaned loudly, making Charlotte laugh. “Please tell me you didn’t just post that on Instagram. God, Laura’s never going to let me live this down.”

Rosalie tilted her head upward and smirked at her best friend. “Just wait until I tell her that you got hit on by Cinderella.” She laughed at Derek’s flared nostrils and pursed lips. He smacked her on the shoulder blade with the hand that wasn’t supporting Charlotte, who was clutching Derek’s black baseball-cap covered head with both little hands.

Charlotte tilted her head, befuddled. “What does ‘hit on’ mean?”

Rosalie and Derek stayed silent, neither one wanting to answer. Stiles replied for them, winking up at the little girl. “It means that Cinderella liked your Uncle Derek. Anywho, I’m thinking that we hit that Millennium Falcon ride.”

Rosalie checked her phone. “Can’t, Stiles. We have to head to dinner.”

Stiles sighed. “Please God, tell me your father won’t be joining us, Rosalie. I already have to deal with him for a whole week. If I have to spend more time with him than that, I might chop off my arm with a lightsaber.”

Lydia checked the map, and the group began their trek towards the restaurant.

“What’s Stiles talking about?” Derek asked as he hiked Charlotte further up his shoulders.

“The Martin Family Reunion,” Lydia commented, looking pointedly at Rosalie. Rosalie, who had forgotten all about it. And furthermore, forgotten about the little white lie she’d made when she RSVP’d. “A weeklong cruise hosted by Rosalie’s father.”

Lydia pursed her lips, green eyes flitting back and forth between her cousin and the path in front of her. “The one that Drew will be at… with his new fiancée, Ashleigh.”

The mention of the two made Rosalie sick. It had been a blow to Rosalie, when she’d seen that Instagram post on her sister’s profile. She was stupid to think that it couldn’t get worse than her ex and her sister sleeping together behind her back. Then they had to go and get engaged, a sure reminder to Rosalie that Drew, the one love of her life, would never really be gone from it.

“Gross,” Charlotte said. “Drew the Douchebag.”

Rosalie’s mouth gaped in repulsion. She glared scoldingly up at her niece. “Charlotte Marie Martin, who told you that?”

Charlotte had the nerve to not look guilty at all. She innocently smiled back at her aunt. “Daddy… and Uncle Derek.”

Rosalie turned her glare to Derek, whose shoulders were shaking, and not because of the weight of the five-year-old perched on them. “You’ve never even met Drew,” she hissed.

Derek kept his gaze straight forward. “I didn’t have to, not with what he did.”

“Can’t argue there,” Stiles chimed in, and Rosalie smacked him on the back of the head.

Derek stopped, and Rosalie thought he was going to apologize. Instead, he crouched down. “Ok, Charlie. Why don’t you walk with Auntie Rose for a while? Uncle Derek’s shoulders hurt.”

Charlotte clambered off of Derek and into the welcoming hand of her aunt. Rosalie couldn’t stay mad at Charlotte. It wasn’t her fault that Rosalie’s brother let things slip. Charlie just mimicked what her father said.

Rosalie didn’t speak the rest of the way. She was too angry with what Derek and her brother had been saying behind her back. (Even though she knew they spoke the truth.)

“Rosalie? Lydia?” came a call from behind the group. Rosalie didn’t have to turn around in her beach chair to know who it was. She shifted the sleeping little girl in her lap slightly so she could sink down in it, ducking her head.

Derek snorted a laugh. “What are you doing?” His stare flickered between Rosalie and Lydia (who was in a similar position in her own chair), green eyes full of amusement.

“I’m invisible. I’m not here. I don’t exist,” Rosalie whispered, eyes scrunched shut and wishing it into reality.

Derek crouched, meeting Rosalie’s line of sight. “Why are we hiding?”

“Shh!” she shushed him with a finger to her lips. “You remember my crazy Aunt Susie?”

“Your dad’s sister? The one who looks like the female version of Donald Trump?”

“Yes. Also known as the family gossip. She will undoubtedly say something shitty about Drew and Ashleigh’s engagement.”

Derek scoffed. “Fuck them.” As an afterthought, he added, “You know what, fuck her too.”

Rosalie swatted him on the forearm. “Children, Derek. There are children present.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “I didn’t say it that loud… and the kid is asleep.”

“Yo Lydia, Rosalie, Derek. I’m back with the contraband.” Stiles weaved between chairs and the standing crowd, arms full of paper drink cups and soft pretzels.

Lydia kicked him in the shin. “Shut up, Stiles.”

Stiles looked amused. “Why are you whispering?”

“Yoo Hoo! Rosalie Anne! Lydia Isabella! You can’t hide from your Aunt Susie!” Rosalie’s aunt yelled, words slurred with her southern drawl, and likely a bit of alcohol.

Stiles’ eyes widened, and he too ducked down. “Forget I asked.”

A slim, bony finger poked Rosalie on her bun-topped head. Aunt Susie shuffled around the chairs to stand in front of the group. With no escape in sight, Rosalie and her friends sighed and straightened themselves up.

“Oh, my,” Aunt Susie chirped, grabbing hold of both Rosalie’s and Lydia’s cheeks. “Look at how much you two have grown!”

Rosalie smiled kindly, as she was taught to do from a young age. She hoped if she obliged in conversation, then Aunt Susie would leave quicker and they could enjoy their night in peace.

Aunt Susie’s smile fell when her eyes swept over Lydia’s boyfriend. “And Steve…nice to see you again.”

Stiles scratched his chin, mumbling, “It’s um…Stiles. Stiles Stilinski.”

But Aunt Susie paid no mind. Her attention was completely on the man that sat to Rosalie’s left. Her eyes scanned him, seemingly sizing him up. Or checking him out. Likely the latter, Rosalie thought, knowing her aunt.

“Well, Rosalie. Who’s this?” she drawled, looking quite like a cat watching its prey.

Derek straightened out and forced a smile. He held out a hand for her to shake. “Derek Hale, ma’am.” Derek’s mother had instilled politeness in her son, even if he didn’t like the person. And Rosalie knew that Derek wasn’t fond of Rosalie’s father’s side of the family.

She took it, shaking too enthusiastically. A sense of recognition washed over her plump face, and her hand stilled. “Derek Hale… little Derek Hale? Why, you’ve grown, too. When was the last time I saw you? Ten years ago?”

Derek smirked, fire in his eyes. Rosalie prepared herself for the inevitable shit talking, already planning damage control. “Actually, it was fourteen years ago. At the second wedding of Jason Martin. When your brother married his mistress and left Rosalie, Levi, and Ms. Hart.”

Stiles snorted noisily, placing a hand over his mouth to cover up his laughter. Lydia cracked a smile, too. Rosalie kicked Derek, hard. Well, as hard as she could with a child still sleeping soundly on her lap.

Aunt Susie’s mouth opened and closed in shock, for once at a loss for words.

Charlotte woke at just the right time, deterring the awkward silence. She stretched and yawned loudly, then sat up in Rosalie’s lap. Her tiara was crooked, and her eye makeup was smudged, but she still looked cute. Rosalie wished she looked that nice after sleeping in her makeup.

“Aunt Susie!” she cried at the sight of her great-aunt, wrapping the woman in a hug. Ah, childhood innocence. Charlie didn’t know what the real world was like, what her extended family was really like, and Rosalie preferred to keep her naivety.

Charlotte easily engaged Aunt Susie in an excitable conversation. Rosalie, eerily conscious of eyes on her, shifted her ring between the fingers of both hands. It was an impulse buy, the vintage sapphire with the white gold band. She’d seen it on display in one of the shop windows and absolutely had to have it, even if it was way more than she’d ever spend on herself.

“Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you on the cruise in a few weeks.” Aunt Susie turned to leave. Her eyes caught something, and she halted, wide-eyed.

“Oh, my stars,” she commented, hands on her heart. “I… I thought after Drew you were a hopeless case, but…”

Rosalie couldn’t comprehend why her aunt was getting choked up. And the ‘hopeless case’ comment stung more than she would have liked.

Sweet, sweet Charlie reached up to dry her great-aunt’s tears. The damage was already done—white tear tracks contrasted starkly with the tangerine of the older woman’s self-tanner. “What’s wrong, Aunt Susie?”

Aunt Susie, so overwhelmed with emotion, didn’t register the little girl’s words. Instead, she grabbed Derek’s hand. It hung limply in hers. Derek looked alarmed. “Oh, Rosalie’s father will be absolutely thrilled to see you… both of his baby girls… first Drew and Ashleigh…”

Aunt Susie shook her head and dabbed at her eyes with the bottom of her red Mickey Mouse t-shirt.

With her resolve back, she straightened. “Well now, please tell me you’re coming on the cruise?”

“I, um…” Derek stuttered, looking to his best friend for help. Rosalie had no idea what was going on either, and just shrugged in response.

“Well, you absolutely must go now! Of course, Lydia and her wild boyfriend are coming--”

Stiles quietly muttered something along the lines of “I may be wild, but at least I’m not one step away from the loony bin, lady.” Rosalie leaned her elbow on the armrest and laughed into her palm.

“--and Rosie, you absolutely have to bring your fiancé,” Aunt Susie pleaded, looking straight at Derek.

Rosalie couldn’t look at him. She froze, stock still, staring in horror at the sapphire ring that had migrated from her right ring finger onto her left. Where an engagement ring would go. And her new piece of jewelry sure as hell looked like an engagement ring.

“YOU’RE GETTING MARRIED?!” Charlotte squealed loudly, clasping her hands in glee.

Rosalie was about to deny it, let the little girl down easy, when Charlotte began to cry.

“Char, why are you crying?” Rosalie asked, voice shaking. She couldn’t look anywhere else but at her niece, heart beating heavily in her chest.

“I’m just… I’m so, so, happy,” Charlotte sniffled. “I love you so much, Uncle Derek.” The little girl climbed over Rosalie and hopped into Derek’s lap, engulfing him in a huge hug. Derek didn’t hug her back, but only for a miniscule moment. He shook his head, coming to his senses, and then wrapped his arms around the girl, patting her back stiffly.

“You didn’t tell her?” Aunt Susie asked Rosalie, accusingly. Rosalie looked to her right for help. Stiles and Lydia were silently sharing a soft pretzel, looking just as stunned as Rosalie.

“No… um, we were going to tell Charlotte during the fireworks. Right, Rosie?” Derek mumbled, saving face. Rosalie thanked him silently for his quick wit.

Rosalie’s head whipped in the opposite direction. She met Derek’s apprehensive eyes. It was almost as if he was asking permission, like he actually agreed to go along with this whole charade.

It was the perfect ruse if Rosalie could ever think of one. A month ago, she’d drunkenly RSVP’d with a plus one to the family reunion cruise, as a way to save her pride and spite her family, who likely thought that she’d come alone and pine for her ex.

No way in hell, she’d thought. Even though there was no one in her life that she could even remotely think of to bring as a date. Derek was out of the question, before…

But now…

She subtly raised a brow, wordlessly asking, are you sure?

Derek subtly nodded back, lip quirking in a reassuring half smile.

Rosalie cleared her throat and straightened herself to her tallest seated height. She wasn’t confident at all, so she was going to fake it till she made it. “That’s right. We were going to wait until the fireworks, make it more magical for Charlotte.”

The speakers on the green lamppost next to them announced that the show was starting. Aunt Susie left them all with a wave and a ‘see you soon’.

No one spoke during the show, except for Charlotte, who was oblivious to the mess that she’d inadvertently got them into.

“So, I guess you’re my fiancée now,” Derek joked, lightly shoving Rosalie in the side. She smiled shyly up at her best friend. Amusement shined in his eyes. He wasn’t mad or appalled like Rosalie suspected him to be. Thank God.

“I, um, I guess I am,” Rosalie replied, swinging her now free arms beside her. Stiles had taken over the task of carrying a sleepy Charlotte to the car. He and Lydia trailed behind them, whispering. Likely about Derek and Rosalie’s… predicament.

“Dude, you two are fucked,” Stiles said, appearing suddenly on Rosalie’s left.

“So fucked,” Lydia affirmed after checking to see if Charlotte was still sleeping.

Rosalie couldn’t help but agree.

[lyledebeast]

It’s interesting that of all the characters in The Patriot whose most important relationship is a father/child one, which is most of them, the only one who has any lasting anger towards their father is William Tavington.

Gabriel is blamed by his father for his own brother’s death and is so deeply affected by this that he apologizes to his father with his dying breath, but he is never angry about that.  The only time he id angry is when his father chooses protecting his six siblings over joining the war effort.

Susan’s anger over Benjamin’s abandonment is more palpable, but it dissipates apropos of nothing for the sake of an emotional father/daughter moment. “Don’t leave, Father!  I’ll say whatever you want me to say!”

But when Tavington says “My late father squandered any esteem in which we were held, along with my inheritance,” he is seething.  This is the most emotionally vulnerable we ever see him. In other scenes, his emotionality feels calculated; in this one, he seems almost embarrassed at having been caught feeling something so real by General Cornwallis. Even though he has had a very successful military career since this loss, his anger is as raw as if it had happened yesterday. He is literally going to die mad about it.

This does represent an enormous failure on the part of his father.  What goal does a member of landed gentry have that is more important than keeping the estate intact to pass on to an heir? Moreover, this is the only fatherly failure in the movie that is recognized as having lasting repercussions.  If Tavington’s father had not lost his inheritance, he would not even be in the colonies.

And he is hardly the only father to have made mistakes.  Most of the militiamen’s children do not survive their father’s failures to protect them. Martin’s children’s anger/fear in response to him is well-justified; it is their sudden forgiveness that remains a mystery. So, why is the only character who does not forgive his father’s failure the villain? My guess is that Martin’s children grant their father the forgiveness Tavington denies his not only because he is a good man, allegedly, but because they are good people.  Lasting anger with one’s father is presented as the real moral failing here.

If that is the point the writers are making, they are not very successful because the other obvious difference between Tavington and Susan--besides that he is evil and she is good--is that he is an adult and she is a child.  He can understand how his life has been devastated by his father’s choices in a way that a six year old could not possibly.  Gabriel is, as his name implies, more of an angel than a man.  He exists in the movie more as Benjamin’s conscience than as a fully fleshed-out, human character. Meanwhile, Tavington’s anger with his father is the most human thing about him and the only case of a father’s failure being given any real weight at all in this movie.

[innuendostyles]

Your from the UK right??? Not to make u sad but imagine going to Asda with Ben at 2 in the morning (u only went for some milk) and u end up coming out with almost the entire shop in ur trolley 😂😂 Happens to the best of us

YAY

“We’re only going for milk.” He quietly mumbled as he aimed the keys at the car and pressed the lock button, hearing the sound of the mechanisms working to ensure the car wouldn’t get stolen from the car park. He held his hand out for you to take before he crossed the zebra crossings, giving a silent nod to a car that’d stopped so the two of you could pass.

It was a gentle reminder but also a jest at himself, considering the last time he’d gone to Asda this late, he’d returned home with a new DVD player for your living room, an abundance of on-sale Easter chocolate, and a DIY friendship bracelets set (it was located in the 6 years and over section, but he wouldn’t tell anyone that part.)

The bracelets aforementioned had been tied to your wrists for a month and a half now, yours was a braided black, white and yellow band while his was black, white and red. He somehow matched his outfit, black jogging bottoms, a red Nike hoodie and the best part of all…. socks with sliders. You’d claim that if he wore those out of the house, you’d pretend not to know him, but later decided that it was more endearing than embarrassing. His socks were black with red love hearts printed all over them, some you’d got him for Valentine’s Day as he claimed that “a pair of socks is the best present you could ever buy a man.”

You, on the other hand, wore a pair of black leggings, paired with an extremely worn “Rolling Stones 1979 Tour” acid wash t-shirt. Ben had insisted that you wear one of his jackets, given the fact that your local Asda always seemed to be freezing around this time, so it was topped off with a navy blue Nike Air Max windbreaker. Your fluffy bed socks really pulled the outfit together.

You each had one of Ben’s AirPods in your ear, currently listening to a song by The Lumineers, one that Ben described to you as making him feel as if he was “running down a sandy beach trying to get to you.” His pinky finger slid around your pinky finger as he strayed to the shelter where all the trolleys (shopping carts) were located.

He always pushed the trolley, claiming his driving skills were better than yours, but you knew the only reason he enjoyed pushing them so much was so he could “fly down the aisles”, an act in which he would push the cart extremely fast when there was nobody near you, and lift his feet from the ground, letting the cart take all his weight.

The song ended and changed to a Snoop Dogg song, to which you quirked an eyebrow, asking, “What fucking playlist is this?” with a laugh.

You walked through the sliding doors, Ben already getting distracted by some plants that were on clearance at the front doors, silently placing 2 small plant pots with some sort of pink flower in the middle into the cart.

There was a display as soon as you entered the shop floor, a large green cardboard cut out of the grinch, next to it sitting a handful of Christmas DVD’s, letting all the customers know that they could “Buy 1 Christmas DVD and receive a free 9” pizza”. Ben’s eyes immediately lit up, turning his head towards yours as he exclaimed that Christmas films and food are two of his favourite things ever. You shook your head in disbelief as you picked through the DVD’s, most of them being new and animated films you’d never heard of.

You were looking for one in particular, though you had little faith that it would be in the same pile as these cartoon ones. Ben loved The Nativity, one of the funniest Christmas films in the world, he reckons. He thought Martin Freeman was one of the best actors ever, and that along with Marc Wootton, it had to be the best film ever.

You rifled through the array of cases, finally picking out a white cover that read, “The Nativity!” You placed it in the cart, seeing Ben’s eyes light up as he bounced up and down in excitement, like a child.

“Can we get pepperoni on the pizza? Please!” He whined, earning a “yes” from you, to which he skipped down the aisle and giggled like a schoolboy.

You reached the fridges, Ben picking up 2 pints of milk and putting them in the trolley before giving an accomplished nod.

“Can we ‘ave a look at some vinyls?” He asked, with a pleading pout that he knew always won you over.

“Ooh, yeah actually, Gwil said he wanted the Hamilton vinyl a couple of weeks ago. Might be a good present, yeah?” You suggested, knowing it would result in Ben realising he hadn’t yet bought Christmas presents for any of his friends yet, something you’d been trying to gently remind him of for the last couple of weeks.

You made your way to the music section, getting distracted by anything and everything you could find. Ben was clinging onto a t-shirt with a green dinosaur on it, lit up by Christmas lights with a star on top of its head, the phrase “Tree-Rex” printed underneath it.

He held up the knitted fabric to you, and you both whispered, “Joe.” at the exact same time. It was folded and placed into the cart.

A pack of 250 small Christmas cards was the next thing to grab your attention, Ben telling you that the two of you “had to send the neighbours a card this year, considering the amount of times they’ve had to endure foolish giggles and the  creaky bed really late at night!” You’d simply nodded with a chuckle, though he didn’t put them in straight away. He noticed the box had been busted open at the top and went on a hunt for an unopened box. He reached his arm all the way back into the shelf, jokingly asking you to hold his hand so he didn’t get lost. He finally grabbed a pack, throwing them into the trolley from about a meter away and doing a celebratory dance when they went in.

One of the lights overhead flickered, which caused Ben to turn to you with an over-exaggerated gasp, claiming “Asda is haunted!!!!” and running away from you frantically. You guffawed at his antics, lightly jogging after him while trying to catch your breath from laughing.

After collecting your pizza on the way to the music section, Ben made a quick turn down the homeware section. He browsed the cushion cases, holding up a few colours and patterns that he thought may match your living room sofa, all of which received a horrified glare from you (this was the exact reason you didn’t let him take the lead when you decided to start decorating your flat together… his first suggestion was warm brown walls with a stripy turquoise and black sofa…)

He reached the mirror section, finding an extremely large plain mirror, with no frame, slowly running his finger over the edge of it.

“Might buy us this for Christmas.” He stated.

Your brows raised in confusion, tilting your head to tell him you were unsure why he’d said it.

“One of them naughty mirrors…… when you put it on the ceiling so I’d be able to see everything when you’re ridi-“  your hand quickly shot over his mouth, your eyes widening as you took in what he meant. You could feel his lips sporting a smirk beneath your palm. You shook your head and giggled along with him.

“C'mon babe… know you’d love seeing this juicy cheeks every time I’m on top of you…” you lightly smacked his chest and delivered a sharp, yet humorous, “enough!”.

Once you’d finally made it to the music section, Ben appeared to be in his element. He’d picked up the Hamilton vinyl for Gwilym, as well as a new Ariana Grande record for Lucy. He was eyeing up Taylor Swift’s newest release, hoping you wouldn’t notice when he slipped it into the cart. He groaned when you looked him directly in the eyes and shook your head with a knowing smile on your face.

“I was gonna give you that for Christmas! Now you’ve ruined the surprise!” He whined with a pout.

“You are all I want for Christmas.” You replied, already cringing wondering if anyone else had heard you.

He, too, shook his head, but still gave you a quick kiss on the cheek to show his appreciation for you.

The next aisle was the clearance aisle. This was a dangerous one for Ben. His Mum had always taught him “never to pass up a bargain, cause you’ll see it one day, regret not buying it, go back the next day and it’ll be gone!”.

Within 5 minutes of browsing the shelves, he’d picked up a large Christmas-themed Yankee Candle gift set for his brother, a turkey-shaped dog toy for Frankie (this one you’d suggested) as well as a pack of 3 photo frames and a new flower vase for his mum.

Walking to the checkout was always a dangerous game, as the bakery part of the shop was located right next to all the tills. He’d always claim to be “just looking” while you unloaded the trolley onto the moving belt so the cashier could scan your items, and most times he only came back with a box of flapjacks or at the most, 2 jam donuts and a reduced fat chocolate eclair cake.

What you weren’t expecting today, however, was for your boyfriend to return with a basket he’d picked up from somewhere, filled with pastries and cakes that made your mouth water.

“These’ll be alright til Christmas Eve won’t they? Can watch Nativity with our little pizza ‘n then fill ourselves wi’ these after? Yeah?” You didn’t really get a chance to reply before the food was placed down onto the belt. You’d never seen him so happy with himself, thinking he’d just come up with the best idea in the entire world, even though you’d done basically the same thing for the last 2 years of spending Christmas together.

The cashier gave you your total, a whopping £110, even though you’d originally come in for 2 pints of milk, which should’ve brought your total to around…. £3.

He shook his head with a small smile as he took his card out of his wallet, swiping it over the reader and thanking the lady when she gave him his receipt. He rolled the trolley out onto the car park, you following closely behind telling him to unlock the car so you’d be able to hear the beep it made and find it, considering how dark it was outside. After locating the vehicle, he gently placed all the items in the backseat, taking extra care to make sure the pizza was cushioned by Joe’s new shirt and Frankie’s new toy. He dropped the trolley back off at the shelter before getting into the car, strapping his seatbelt and turning the radio on.

Paul McCartney’s “Wonderful Christmastime” filled the speakers, causing Ben to let out a quiet, “What a fuckin’ banger!”.

You couldn’t resist the urge to lean over and give him a peck on the cheek and a ruffle of his hair. You simply were having a wonderful Christmas time.