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xmasterofmunsonx · 6 months ago

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Now That We Don’t Talk

Pairing: Steve Harrington x reader + Eddie Munson x reader (ex!Steve mostly)

Not for minors: includes drinking, language, mention of death of family members, etc. not for your eyes if you're under 18, please.

Word count: 13.5k (yikes !)

Author's note: One shot I've been sitting with this one since 1989 TV was released. I'm not 100% on this, but after reading and reading and editing even more, I think it's perfect and as best as I’m going to get. The pacing seems similar to the song, it gets quicker as it goes on, and has a nice abrupt ending. I hope you enjoy it, this one means a lot to me because I’ve put so much time and thought into it. I really thought the quick pacing at the end would ruin it, but like I said I wanted to mirror the quickness of the song. Totally open to some smaller one shots from this ~*universe*~ to elaborate more on any of the years or moments. I’d actually love that if anyone was interested in requesting anything 🩷

“You went to a party, I heard from everybody, you part the crowd like the Red Sea, don’t even get me started. Did you get anxious though, on the way home? I guess I'll never, ever know… now that we don't talk”

Summer 1987

You sighed, kicking your feet at the water in the pool. Your best friend Robin sat beside you, you both were sipping beers you’d practically been nursing all night at this house party you knew you’d have to drive your boyfriend home from. It was your last summer in Hawkins- hopefully forever.

Last spring you’d lost your mom in the “earthquake” of ‘86, and Robin’s family had taken you in until you figured out your plan. You were both reminiscing over the past year living together, and the previous years of the cursed things you and your group of friends had been through in Hawkins and the upside down- the losses, and the victories. Through all of it you’d been on and off with Steve after he’d dropped Nancy- you had her to thank for that one. You’d always had a thing for Steve, ever since middle school, but he only had eyes for Nancy and you knew you never stood a chance. It wasn’t until they broke up, you helped Steve’s wounded heart and then you two became a couple.

You fell in love quick- who wouldn’t? Steve was beautiful, and he was an absolute dream of a boyfriend. Minus the baggage of his stuck up family who hadn’t taken to you so kindly. You two had decided that moving together out of Hawkins would be the best thing for both of you, to leave the memories and nightmares behind, and start a new life somewhere.

You knew Steve was inside of the party, likely hanging out with his “friends,” drunk out of his mind like usual at these. For once he wasn’t hosting, this was a house equally as nice as his, but was some girl’s house from his senior year- but he was still, as always, the life of the party. You looked out across the yard to see that Nancy was rocking in a wooden swing in the back corner of the yard beside Jonathan and Eddie.

“I can’t believe he can still drink like this.” You finished off your beer, crushing the can beside you on the cold concrete surrounding the pool.

“Me neither. He’s doing okay?” Robin’s voice was laced with concern.

“Yeah. I mean, considering… he’s got his good days and bad days, but don’t we all?” Truth be told, Steve had kind of turned into a little bit of a mess. But everyone knew it, and you were all there for each other when you needed extra support.

“I just worry he’s gonna have a breakdown when he gets out of here and he actually has to work for things, aren’t you?” Robin spoke, and the thought had crossed your mind too, but you always seemed to push it out of your head.

“We’ve got everything lined up, thanks to good ole Harrington money.” You chuckled, annoyed but also a little thankful for the fact that he was still supported by his parents, equally just as shitty as they were absent from his life.

“Speaking of, have you laid eyes on him lately?” You checked the gold watch on your arm that had been a Christmas present last year, initials engraved into the inside of the dainty band around your wrist. You realized it had been quite some time since you’d seen him, but that wasn’t unlike him at a party this size. You would tend to be found outside away from everyone, and he would be inside seeking attention from everyone after a few beer.

“Been a minute, I’ll go check on him.” You stood to get up, but felt a hand pulling you up in assistance as your legs climbed out of the warm water of the pool.

“Better come with you, I gotta pee anyway.” Eddie suddenly appeared by your side. You two entered the party, tossing empty cans into the trash can in the crowded kitchen. “Hey, uh…” Eddie stepped in front of you. “Maybe let’s get some fresh air first?”

“Quit being weird, I need to make sure he’s not passed out somewhere already.” You tried to shove past him, but he wasn’t letting you by. “And fresh air? We were just outside.”

“Listen sweetheart, I don’t think-” his voice was deep, and quiet as he gently placed his hands on your shoulders.

“Eddie.” You stamped your foot like a child at your friend. “Move. I’ve seen him really fucking drunk before, we leave in a week, and I knew it was going to be bad tonight, but I can take care of him.” You peered around his frame, seeing what looked like a clear path parting in the sea of people.

It was all leading to your boyfriend Steve, with another girl sitting on his lap. The girl who just so happened to be hosting this party, a brown glass bottle on the coffee table pointed directly at where Steve sat on the couch.

Not only was this girl on top of him, but they were going at each other like feral animals in front of everyone at this party. You stood there, speechless as you watched. Her hands were pulling him in closer by his brown hair, the hair that you loved to absentmindedly play with, and his hands were splayed out across her back and you watched as they slid down to her ass, pulling her into him.

The chatter of the party, hoots and hollers by the shitty old jocks that peaked in high school had stopped, as did your heart as you felt it crumble in front of you. Everyone had realized you’d walked in the room except Steve himself.

“C’mon, I’ll get you home-” Eddie guided you backwards, but you shoved him forward.

“I don’t have a fucking home, Eddie!” You didn’t care who heard you. “HE was my home. How stupid was I to think that Steve fucking Harrington was my home, and we were supposed to start a new one together and leave this godforsaken, cursed, upside down town behind?! But that’s not happening now, is it, STEVE?!” You were screaming at this point. The girl straddling Steve was wiping lipstick and spit off of her face as she smirked at you, and Steve was horrified as he looked at you.

“Honey-” he started, using your favorite name for you that now made you feel more sour than sweet, as he pushed the girl off of his lap and made his way to you, you could see his dick was half hard in his too tight pants, “-it was just a game of spin the bottle, we-”

You kneed him in the balls and walked over to the girl who was still smirking as if making out with Steve was some accomplishment. “You can have him.” you told her as you ran out the front door of the gigantic house.

You had never felt so small. Steve always made you feel small, everything he had was big, but never did he make you feel this small. His house, new cars, big family events- when you only ever had your mom. And now, you didn’t even have her.

You heard the door slam behind you and you assumed it was Eddie, “Eddie, I’m fine to drive home.”

“I-I can’t leave Hawkins.” The voice clamored out.

You turned to see your coward of a boyfriend, well, ex-boyfriend now, “What did you say?”

“I can’t leave.” He ran a stupidly large hand through his stupidly gorgeous hair. “I was going to tell you tomorrow, my parents told me that if I go, I’m cut off forever. Like, from everything.” He gestured in front of him as if he was showing you some grand image of his future.

“And? You decided to make me look like a fucking fool at a party, days before we’re leaving? How long have you known?”

“Just a few weeks.” He said as if it were nothing, as if it meant nothing to him.

“A few weeks, Steve?! You didn’t think you could tell me sooner? All of my shit is packed into boxes- fuck, you’re the one who helped me! And now you made me look like a goddamn idiot in front of everyone, which makes me want to leave even more now but I can’t! Steve, we’ve been planning this for months.”

“I’m really fucking drunk, and she climbed in my lap, and-“ he was slurring his words as he approached you.

“Bullshit, my friend.” Eddie had appeared out of nowhere, yet again. He placed his hand on your shoulder to gently push his way in front of you to keep you out of Steve’s line of sight. “I saw it through the sliding glass doors. You held your hand out like some type of a goddamn gentleman and welcomed her onto your lap like it was a golden throne.” His hands wildly waved in the air as he spoke. “Steve, you’ll never know what it’s like to lose everything. You’re too fucking scared to leave mommy and daddy’s silver platter of life they’ve handed you.” It was true- Steve had everything handed to him, and you knew Eddie had lost so much in his life like you had.

“What, so you’re just gonna turn on me like that, man?” Steve walked up to Eddie like he was intimidating, but Eddie never waivered.

“What am I supposed to do, man?” He mocked. “Nancy, Jonathan, and I all saw it. As soon as I saw she was getting up from the pool to come inside I tried to slow down what was happening so at least she didn’t have to see it, just hear about it, but your dick brain just kept on making out with her.”

You interrupted the boys bickering. “We’re done, Steve. I don’t care how drunk you are, it’s not an excuse. You knew that was fucked up, and we are done. Between that in there, and you being too much of a pushover to your parents, I can’t do this anymore. You can pick your shit up from Robin’s front porch in the morning. I’m still leaving.” You stomped past him to your car, not giving a single fuck about how anyone was getting home that night who depended on you. You knew they’d understand. And for all you knew, Steve had another bed already lined up for tonight.

“Baby, baby. Please. Stay so we can talk and figure this out-” Steve was practically pleading with you.

“There’s no more figuring this out, Steve. We’re done.” You tossed the gold watch onto the dewy grass outside of the window of your car, and drove off.

“You grew your hair long, you got new icons, and from the outside, it looks like you're tryin' lives on. I miss the old ways, you didn't have to change, but I guess I don't have a say… now that we don't talk”

Fall 1988

It had been over a year since you’d been back in Hawkins, and had it not been for Robin’s birthday, you might have gone another year. Or more.

You pulled up to the familiar house that was your home for a short while, to be greeted by her parents with big hugs.

“How’s the big city?” They both asked as they grabbed your bags from you.

“It’s uh, Chicago is a lot different. But it’s good.” You smiled. You were doing great for yourself and had managed to swing a job at a venue/bar that more than enough covered bills, and you had been promoted to a manager position that you proved yourself perfect for once you started bringing in bands that you made commission off ticket sales. “Keeps me busy, that’s why it’s been so hard to get back home. But I couldn’t miss my best friend’s birthday, so here I am!”

“Your bed is already made, so stay as long as you want to. Or can, whichever. Robin’s upstairs getting ready.” You thanked them and skipped up the stairs to her room, the door cracked open and you could hear her on the phone mumbling and then saying goodbye as you chose to open the door.

“Wow, you look-” she turned around with a grin on her face as she saw you appear in her doorway.

“Tired? Old?” You laughed at yourself.

“Hot.” She looked you up and down, and you guess you’d changed your look some since you moved. You leaned more into the style you wanted to in the freedom of your new city, adorning your skin with a few of the tattoos you had always wanted, wearing darker and edgier clothes. There weren’t as many judgmental eyes like you’d been under in Hawkins, especially like when you were dating Steve.

“Thanks. You look the same, but more… you. But of course, not a day older.” You hugged your friend and kissed her on the cheek. “So what are the plans for tonight? Dinner, then…?”

“Dinner, then Hideout? Eddie’s playing a show tonight and it’s almost sold out.” She stated as she finished up her lipstick.

“What?!” Your jaw dropped, you’d kept in touch with almost everyone, including him, but he’d completely left that out of his phone calls updating you on his life. “Sold out? I mean, they’re good but-”

“He just got signed by a small label in uh, in Chicago. So everyone is really excited, it’s kind of a big deal show for them.”

“What?! Why wouldn’t he tell me that?!” You and Eddie had regular phone calls- they had become weekly, sometimes a few times a week just to catch up with each other.

“Don’t tell him I told you, he really wanted to tell you tonight but you know I can’t keep a secret, so I had to tell you before dinner. Also, Steve-is-coming. So the show is basically their congratulations on signing, and my birthday dinner is how we got you back here to celebrate both. Because we knew you wouldn’t come back for any other reason.” Robin couldn’t have talked any faster than she was, and once you realized everything she had said, your stomach sank.

“That’s fine, I kind of expected that he’d be there. I know you guys are still friends.” You’d gotten over Steve- sort of. The guys in Chicago were hotter- way hotter, and you were meeting plenty of distractions to take your mind off of how Steve had broken your heart. You just… hadn’t talked to him in over a year. You knew very little about what was going on with him except for the fact that he was following in his dad’s footsteps, and you didn’t really care to know much more than that either. “Just promise you’ll sit beside me at dinner.”

“Got you covered. That was Eddie on the phone, he’s gonna sit on one side of you, and I’ll sit on the other. Steve is bringing his girlfriend since he’s back home for the show, too.”

“Is it…”

“Yeah, it’s her.” Robin looked sad as she admitted the truth. “Don’t worry. You look way hotter than her, and you’re not a shit person. Steve’s here like once a month anyway just to see her, so-”

“What do you mean by he’s here once a month?”

“He moved to Indianapolis, his dad got him a job there like last fall? I think? It wasn’t long after you left. And he comes home all the time to visit her since she’s finishing out college here.”

“Oh, so he can move to a big city as long as he’s got a big time girlfriend back home? Nice logic.” You rolled your eyes as you two made your way to your car.

Enzo’s was the only nice restaurant in Hawkins, and it had survived the “earthquake,” so they were still in their original location in the center of town. The big booth had been reserved for your group of friends and you were actually buzzing with a little bit of excitement to see them.

“Hi!!” Nancy peeked around the booth, and you stood up to hug her and Jonathan, and they slid back into their spots.

“Damn, look at you!” Eddie held you at arms length with his Cheshire Cat grin on his face before he pulled you in for a hug, and you wrapped your arms tight around him.

“Look what the cat dragged in.” You bickered back at him. You lightly threw a punch to his bicep, “I heard we’re gonna be neighbors?”

“You told her?!” His big brown eyes looked to Robin, who shrugged, as you three slid into the round booth, leaving two spaces on the other side for Steve and his date.

“Can’t keep a secret! You know me!” Robin shouted over you at Eddie as you watched his face turn a light shade of pink.

You patted his leg resting by yours, “I’m really happy for you. If you need a place to play, I know someone that can hook you up, you know that?”

“I mean, I wasn’t gonna ask but-” You let out a chuckle at Eddie’s bashfulness that hadn’t changed one bit. You knew the guy in charge of booking bands would trust you to do anything at this point, so he would definitely get Eddie on the regular schedule to get more buzz going for him.

“I only have one other person to run that by, and I’ve got him wrapped around my finger. Don’t worry about it.” You felt his hand drop down to yours with a squeeze, at the same time Steve was walking up to the table. You took in his looks- his hair had grown longer, his choice of dress that had once relaxed was cleaned up more than ever. “Where’s your date? Or did you think this was a business meeting?”

Everyone held in chuckles as you roasted Steve’s attire and he looked at you with no semblance of a laugh.

“Robin said Enzo’s, so I dressed nice!” He defended himself as he sat down.

“Oh that’s right, daddy still buys your wardrobe too, so you probably didn’t have anything else to wear.”

“Hey, hey.” Eddie leaned in to whisper in your ear, hand still atop of yours, “Let up on him. This is Robin’s birthday. Now, at my show, you can tear him to shreds.” He winked at you as he leaned back into his seat, not letting his grip go.

Dinner went as expected, actually better, you were all laughing and joking like you hadn’t been absent the entire last year. You avoided Steve’s gaze all night, focusing on anyone else who was talking, and you looked at your food when he spoke up.

A small cake was brought out for Robin, and all of you sang happy birthday with smiles on your faces as Eddie put on a complete show for everyone in the restaurant, for which he received applause for. He was never one to care about what anyone thought of him, but it still surprised you he had the confidence to be so loud in such a nice setting.

“Separate or together?” The waitress came around after everyone had finished their meals and cake.

Steve reached for his wallet, “I’ve got everyone.”

“No, I’ll get mine.” You reached for your wallet, but a familiar hand stopped you.

“I’ll get the two of us, and he can get everyone else.” Eddie spoke, handing the waitress cash. The table was awkwardly silent.

“Smoke?” You asked him, and he gladly nodded his head, and you forced Robin to get up, so you two could go outside for a moment. “So what was that check thing about?” You held your cigarette to your lips, and Eddie leaned in with his zippo to light yours for you before he lit his.

“Just wanted to remind him what an ass he can be sometimes. You smoke now, big city?”

“Comes with the territory, I guess.” You rolled your eyes and laughed as you both smoked half of your cigarettes on the quiet sidewalk. You stared down at some of the repaved concrete and traced the cracks where the old met the new. “When are you and the guys moving?”

“Well, I was going to ask you. So Robin must have left out that the label kinda… only signed me. Like just me, and they’re setting me up with a band. So I’ve gotta be there as soon as possible to sit in on auditions and-” he was absentmindedly scratching his head as he was talking 90 miles a minute.

“What? Only you? What about the rest of the guys?”

“They’re actually pretty cool with it. They don’t want to move or anything, they want to stay here. I think they’re too afraid to leave their families after everything, and-”

“What about Wayne?” Your heart was a little broken thinking about him leaving Wayne behind.

“Couldn’t be more thrilled for me. He’s still livin’ off that Hawkins Lab hush money, so he’s part time and can come see me whenever he wants.” He took a long drag, before he looked away, then back at you. “Anyways, I was going to ask, I know it’s last minute but can I crash at your place for a tiny little while?” He now scratched at the stubble on his chin and raised his eyebrows in question.

“Eddie, I only have a studio apartment. It’s like, right above the bar.” You thought of how cramped it might be with the two of you living there. You’d come to love your small studio, and you were never interested in ever really sharing your space.

“I know, you’ve told me. I won’t get in your way, I’ll hardly be home when you are. And as soon as I’m there for a few weeks and figure out where I want to stay, I’ll get a lease. I just need some time to look around for somewhere reasonable. I promise in- in maybe less than a month? They gave me a big enough sign on I can pay for your whole month of rent, too. I’m just-“ he stuttered, “I’m actually pretty nervous about going somewhere I don’t know anyone, and I think having a little piece of home with me would be good to keep me centered.” He dropped and kicked out his cigarette at his humble confession, and raised his hands in surrender. “But I totally get it if you don’t want me in your hair everyday, I’ll just get a hotel and-”

You thought about it for a few moments, and you realized it may not be that bad to have Eddie around. You two got along fine, and you talked about mostly everything already so you could cut out the weekly phone calls if he was already there. “You can stay. As long as you need. I’ve got a pull out couch with a mattress, so you’re in luck. I don’t need help with rent, but you gotta keep the place clean, and no random people coming home. I don’t let any of my dates or the regulars at the bar know I live up there because things can get weird, and I like laying low. So if you wanna get with anyone, you gotta do it somewhere else.”

“Oh yeah, because I’m totally swimming in pussy right now.” He scoffed as you two walked back inside, and you were thankful he led the way in because your cheeks were tinted pink at his sarcastic comment. By now, everyone was standing up from the table to head over to the venue for Eddie’s show. You all split up into your separate cars.

“So, did he ask you about moving in?” Robin couldn’t even wait for the car door to shut before she started questioning you.

“Jesus, do you know everything?” You started your car and drove towards the Hideout.

“Yes. I do.” Robin said, excitedly.

“Yes, he did. I told him he can stay there as long as he needs to. Just no random girls or parties or anything.” You left out the comment he’d made about girls,maybe wanting to save it for another day.

“I told him you’d say yes.” She looked out the window, “so… Steve?” You looked at her and shrugged, “what do you think?”

“He looks different. Like he’s just turning into his dad already. Everything he hated, everything he wanted to get away from with me. He’s turning into it.”

“Yeah, he’s uh, a piece of work. Have you thought about talking to him?”

“I have no interest in that. I don’t need to talk to him.” You shut down the conversation as you turned your radio up, driving the back roads to the sketchy bar you hadn’t been to in what felt like years.

“Shots on me!” Steve slammed down another round of tequila shots on the sticky high top bar table you all had sat at to have a good view of the stage. You grabbed one and toasted as Steve remarked smartly, “Oh, so you’ll take alcohol from me, but not dinner? I see how it is.” Your crew were all feeling a bit loose already, the drinks at the Hideout were cheap and you were all buying rounds back to back. You rolled your eyes and shot him the bird as the tequila burned down your throat.

Eddie’s band started playing moments later, and the whole bar crowd turned their attention to the stage. He introduced themselves, announced his new plans, and everyone cheered for him. You were beaming at your friend, the town “freak” who was finally getting his shot at what he wanted in life, and people were seeing him for who he was and not what he was known for that was never true.

“Grabbing another one, you good?” You asked Robin over the loud music as you nudged her shoulder. She shook her head and you got up, pushing your way through the crowd to the bar. You felt a hand on your lower back as you waited for the only bartender to come over to you and jumped, immediately pushing the hand away.

“Couldn’t let you go alone.” Steve was standing entirely too close to you for comfort.

“I’m a big girl, Steve. I’m just fine.” You told your drink order to the bartender after Steve did, leaving you two with a few moments of silence.

“You look good. Like, really good.” You watched as he ran his hands through his hair while he obviously checked you out, clearly nervous to be seeing you again. You caught him staring at the tattoos peeking through your sheer black top.

“Thanks? I guess now that I don’t have to impress anyone’s parents I get to dress how I want.” You were feeling a little extra sarcastic and snippy tonight, but you were a few drinks in and didn’t care.

“Can you cut the shit like that?” He immediately came back at you with sassiness.

“No, Steve. It’s been a year, I had to move on and you broke my fucking heart and I had to fix it myself. You fucked this up on your own.”

“Can I fix it?” He reached for your hand, but you pulled it back.

“No, you can’t. I don’t need you to make things better.”

“Listen, I know I fucked up. Everything here reminds me about it. I regret it all the time- but just think about all the bullshit we’d been through. I wasn’t in a good place.”

“Think about all the bullshit we went through? Steve, I was there too, and on top of it all, I lost my mom. All the more reason for you to not cheat on me- you do realize that was wrong to do to me after everything we’d just had happen to us? I wasn’t okay either, I’m still not sometimes, but I know cheating on my boyfriend wasn’t going to be the proper way to deal with things.”

“I should’ve told you sooner, I shouldn’t have done anything that I did. But you know how my parents are, honey.” He pleaded with his big, soft eyes as the word made bile rise in your throat.

“You have absolutely no right to ‘honey’ me, Steve.” You scoffed. You suddenly remembered his date had never shown up. “Your girl stand you up?”

“No, she can’t stand metal so she’s going to come near the end of the set so she can hang out. It would be nice if you could be cordial.” Steve scratched at his bicep- he’d taken off his nicer shirt and jacket, and was now just in his solid undershirt and his well fitting pants to not stand out as much here.

“Cordial, Steve!? I have to be cordial to the girl you were fucking behind my back, the girl who attempted to ruin my plans to get out of this town? Because guess what? I found out you were a bullshitter about that too. I don’t know how you can stay here or visit so much Steve. I’m so scared something is going to turn to red and dust falling from the sky before my eyes and I’ve not even been here a full day.” You were immediately mad at yourself for confessing something so big to Steve. “I’m not going to be mean, but I’m not trying to make a new friend.”

“I’m sorry.” He solemnly said as he took a sip from his fresh drink. “I’m scared of those things too, I still see it if I close my eyes for too long sometimes.”

“Yeah? Well, I also still see the smug look on her face when I walked into the house that night.” You grabbed your drink and made your way back to the table, where Robin had been watching the interaction the whole time. Steve quietly joined the table a few moments later looking like a hurt puppy, and then he stepped away, leaving his drink.

“You good?” Your friend nudged you in the side.

“Not really, no. But I got some things off my chest, so at least I can say I talked to him.” You drank the rest of your drink down in a few sips, and looked to the stage to distract yourself. “I did say I’d be… not mean once she gets here. But I can’t make any promises.” You started replaying memories of the last time you saw Steve in your head, and you could feel the resentment surfacing again- you remembered the shame you felt when the whole party was looking at you yelling at him, the proud look on the girl's face when she realized that you’d seen the two of them.

Eddie was looking at you with concern. He subtly motioned for you to come over to him. The stage at the Hideout was barely considered a stage, so it didn’t take much for you to get to him, and since he was in between songs, he crouched down while the rest of the guys checked their instruments.

“We got two more songs, wanna go sit in the back? There’s a couch, and more tequila, and no Steve.” You nodded at him, holding back some tears of frustration. “It’s okay, I’ll be there in a bit.” You nodded as he patted your head, ruffling your hair up a little as he stood tall to continue onto the next song.

You sat on the questionable couch in the back room of the Hideout while the muffled music continued on- you’d been back here a few times before but never by yourself, and “security” knew who you were so you were immediately let back. It felt weird, and you felt bad for leaving your friends but you really weren’t in the mood to talk about the past, or try to reconcile it especially since Steve was still with the girl he cheated on you with. Your thoughts were interrupted by Eddie bursting through the door, and then he quickly shut it.

“Hey.” He was out of breath, almost panting as if he’d run back to get to you as quickly as he could but you knew it was from the performance he was giving on stage. “You alright?”

You wiped a tear that was trying to fall as he walked in. “Yeah, I’m fine. He tried talking to me at the bar and I’m just… I’m not interested in trying to keep any type of friendship going between the two of us.” You watched as Eddie wiped the sweat off his face with the bottom of his shirt, revealing his abdomen that was littered with scars from ‘86. Your stomach sank at the memories. “You would think after everything he’s been through- we’ve been through, he would’ve changed his ways but I guess he hasn’t.”

“Fuck him. I mean- obviously don’t… you already did, but, forget about him.” He poured two shots and handed one to you, you probably shouldn’t take it but the night wasn’t ending anytime soon- they were kicking everyone out of the bar and keeping it open later for the band “and friends”, so you knew you’d be here a while tonight. The tequila burned as it went down, and you wiped your mouth on your am as you handed Eddie the shot glass back.

“It’s hard to forget about him when you guys are still friends with him and I have to hear about him. I always tune it out. I didn’t ever want anyone to take sides. I was an idiot tonight and brought up how I hate being back here, and being so afraid of something else happening from the upside down, and I just feel so dumb for letting him in.”

“You heard me that night, he’s too much of a pussy to leave the comfort of his parents pocket. And I stay away from him as much as I can, I don’t need a charge under my belt after getting my name cleared.”

“Ugh, why does he have to be so fucking pretty though?” Your drunk thoughts were leaving your mouth before you realized it. You thought about his golden blonde highlights, his warm eyes, and how his clothes always fit him just right.

“Because he’s Steve Harrington and that’s who he is.” Eddie plopped down beside you. “You’re really fucking pretty too, though.”

You rolled your eyes and lightly hit Eddie’s arm again, “Stop it. I already said you can crash at my place, you don’t have to get all sweet on me.”

“No, I mean it.” Eddie was looking at you as you looked to your side at him. “You’ve always been pretty, and I’ll be sweet on you if I wanna be.”

“Munson, you don’t have to keep flattering me to make me feel better.” He was one of your close friends too, but he’d been there for you when Steve hadn’t been. He called to check on you all of the time, sometimes more than Robin.

“I’m not just trying to flatter you, I mean it. You’re stunning and you look beautiful tonight.” His hand rested atop yours and gave it a light squeeze, making butterflies appear in your belly.

You mentally told yourself you couldn’t do this again- start crushing on a close friend, and potentially lose them. Especially with him about to be signed to a label and getting better known. Your brain was already running a thousand miles a minute with the way he was looking at you.

“You think so?” You asked with a smirk, and you saw a glimmer in his eye. “Well, you certainly have aged well in the time I’ve been gone too, Mr. Rockstar.”

“Oh yeah?” His voice got deeper as he scooted closer to you and let out a small chuckle. “In one year?”

“I’m too drunk to answer that right now.” You laughed and rolled your eyes.

“Oh no, I love drunk you. I get all the juicy gossip from you after a few drinks. You think I’m not too bad now, eh?”

“You heard me.” You said, facing him and crossing your arms.

“Yeah, I did. And I kinda wanna hear it again.” Was this really happening? In the back room of the Hideout? You’d been a little flirty on the phone with him sometimes, but it was hard to read into what he really meant without seeing him, and you never knew with Eddie because he was always a flirt with everyone.

“I said you weren’t bad, Munson.” You felt your face warming up. “Always thought you were cute, but I was too wrapped up in Steve-”

“‘S just Eddie, sweetheart.” He looked cocky as he interrupted you and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear- a classic, cheesy move that made you blush. He looked… good. His curls were wild and untamed, but you could tell he had started to take better care of them recently because they were more defined. His jaw was sharper, his face was capable of growing some more facial hair. His features were showing a little more- the wrinkles by his eyes, the subtle dimples, more freckles. How were you suddenly this close to him?

“Is this a bad idea?” You asked out loud to him.

“I don’t think so.” He stroked your cheek with his thumb and shook his head. “At least not for tonight, let’s have a little fun, yeah?”

You nodded, and leaned in and kissed him. You never made the first move, so you didn’t know how much to put into the first kiss. You felt hesitant, but once you were pulled in more by Eddie’s grip on either side of your face, all hesitancy fell to the wayside. You felt dizzy from the passion that he kissed you with. Both of his hands were practically squeezing your face, and you took the queue to straddle his lap, and he let out a sigh as you rested your weight on his thighs.

“Been wantin’ to kiss you for years now, Jesus Christ.” He chuckled against your lips. “Harrington was so fucking stupid to lose you.” He leaned in again, and you allowed him to take over.

“Alright people let’s go- oh! Oh! It’s happening!” Robin opened the door, making you pull back from Eddie quickly.

“Shut up, Buckley.” Eddie turned to shoo her away, and you blushed at your seat upon Eddie’s lap. “We were just talking.”

“You look awfully close to me. Listen, Steve’s girl is out there now, and I’d rather watch paint dry than sit out there and talk to them. Come out and have some fun, please!” She whined as the two of you stood up.

“Give us a minute, Robin.” You pushed her out of the door and closed it. As soon as you turned around, Eddie was cornering you against the door. “What?” You blushed.

“Didn’t get to finish that kiss.” He grasped you by the side of the neck and pulled you into his lips, hungrier, and needier than the first two times. You were breathing heavily into the heated kiss as your hands roamed his body, he was sweaty but you didn’t care- you were too, from the crowded room earlier. “We can talk later, just wanted to test the waters first.” He smirked as he pecked your lips and reached for the door handle behind you.

As you exited the tiny room, Eddie’s hand fell to your side, where he laced his pinky finger with yours and guided you through the shrinking crowd to the bar.

“Water?” He asked you, pulling your hand up to the bar and lacing his fingers with yours, proudly.

“Yeah, for now.” You said, a sheepish smile on your face. You felt a pair of eyes on you from the corner of the bar where Steve sat with his girlfriend, and you ignored them and focused on the water that the bartender had given you.

“Just ignore him. They’ll leave soon anyway, she doesn’t feel safe here or some bullshit like that. I gotta go pack up my stuff really quick, you good to stay here?” He had moved his hand to your lower back, and you nodded. “M’kay. I’m out back if you need me.” He placed a quick kiss on your cheek, then jogged away.

“Details, please.” Robin quickly replaced Eddie, turning her body completely to you, giving Steve her back.

“What?”

“Oh, come on! You two were kissing!” She was yelling unnecessarily, used to the loudness of the bar before people had emptied out, and you leaned forward to put your hands over her mouth. “And that, before he just left?!”

“SHHHHHH!! So what? I’m a little drunk, and he looks reeaaally good tonight.” You two giggled, “He’s a really good kisser.”

“Knew he had it in him. He’s been talking about seeing you again for weeks. MONTHS! I figured he would’ve tried kissing you at dinner when you two walked out, but-”

“Robin, how can you not tell me that he had a crush on me?!” You wanted to squeeze your best friend.

“How could you be so blind?! He told me it started in high school. Then you started dating Steve, and he got mixed up into our group and he felt bad about his crush because you were with Steve, so he never thought he’d have a chance but now everything is just… falling into place. Meant to be.” Robin was out of breath again because she was talking so quickly and you just laughed at her spilling the details out so quickly- it reminded you of how Eddie would talk when he got really excited about things too.

“You really thought he had no feelings for you? Why do you think that metal head idiot called you almost every day for the last year? To make sure you were okay? No, he likes you. He really, really likes you.” Your friend told you as you turned around to see Eddie walking out the back door of the bar, catching a glimpse of you before he walked outside, carrying his equipment.

Somehow you found yourselves at a house party, because of course, you always did. And it was at Steve’s girlfriends house, because of course it was. God only knows how late it was now, the Hideout had kicked you out earlier. Eddie had driven your car to the house- he’d had the least amount to drink, and you and Robin had sat in the backseat and giggled the whole way. You completely missed the way he was watching and admiring you in the rear view mirror for the 15 minute drive back to town.

“I can’t believe that I thought this was what I wanted.” You drank the mystery juice out of the red cup and leaned against the kitchen counter, looking at all of the same people you remembered from school. You noticed how more people were high fiving Eddie, or saying hey to him instead of just calling him “freak”, or using him to buy weed while you two stood together.

“It’s comfortable, it’s stable. You haven’t had much stability your whole life, so I can understand the appeal.” Eddie took a puff from his joint and you politely declined, afraid to mix the two tonight since you were already so deep into drinking alcohol.

“I know but still. This house is fucking gorgeous, you know? They never have to worry about anything like bills, or-”

“But look at how unhappy they are.” Eddie said, pointing out the lack of smiles on some of the party goers.

“You’re just saying that because you’re high and happy right now.”

“No, I’m not. I’m saying that because it’s the truth. They’ve got all the money in the world but they’re still so fucking miserable with themselves they’ve got to keep throwing parties to relive the old days and feel like they’re peaking again.” Eddie rambled on for some more time as you caught yourself staring at Steve. The way his mouth turned up when he smiled- why was it so charming still? “Helloooooo?” Eddie bumped your hip beside you, and you stopped staring immediately.

“Sorry. Zoned out for a bit. Can you hold my drink while I go to the bathroom?” You handed him your cup and he took it, but you giggled as he took a sip and almost gagged on it at the sour, bitter taste.

You were doing the thing in the bathroom where you stared at yourself and realized how drunk you really were. Fuck. You fixed your hair, and washed your hands, and as soon as you opened the door, there was another force behind it that opened it and they let themselves into the bathroom.

Of fucking course, it was Steve Harrington. And you were entirely too drunk for this.

“Like what you see? Saw you staring.” You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help but blush. He placed his hands on your waist gently and waited for a reaction from you. When you gave him none, he took a step closer. “Only got a few minutes, what do you say? I saw the way Munson was all over you. Probably tried to get his paws on you backstage, didn’t he?” Steve started kissing your neck and you knew you should’ve pushed him off, but fuck did his mouth feel good, and familiar.

“Yeah, and he did.” You fought a moan, but lost once he reached the spot on your neck that drove you wild. It was a secret spot, Steve had found it one afternoon while you guys were lazily making out in his bed, under the sheets, and he used it all the time.

“Bet he didn’t make you feel this good, did he?”

“Steve, you’ve got a girl-”

“She’s upstairs puking right now. I missed you.” He said as he continued attacking your neck. You draped your arms around his neck and he refocused his attention to you. “Please, can I kiss you?”

You should’ve said no, you should’ve walked out before you leaned in and answered his question without saying a single word. The kiss was hot and heavy, Steve’s lips felt different than Eddie’s- they were smoother, and his kiss was softer. You weren’t sure you liked it anymore, but you kept on. His hands roamed your body, and he moaned as he felt you up, your body feeling different than the last time he’d seen you. Your fingers went to his thick, chocolate brown hair and you ran your nails through his scalp, earning a moan from him.

“Fuck I missed you.” He looked at you, and even though he was also drunk, you could tell he meant it.

“Yeah.” You panted, and dodged his next kiss. “I-I can’t do this, Steve. You completely crushed me. I just got over you, I can’t give this another try. I can’t believe I let myself kiss you.” You still had your arms around him, and your fingers were toying with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“C’mon, honey. You know me better than anyone. I can’t tell her any of this shit I’ve been through, she’ll think I’m fucking crazy.”

“You should have thought about that before you kissed her.” You pecked him on the cheek and left the bathroom, fixing yourself as best as you could as you made your way back to the kitchen. Eddie was making a small deal in there, and his eyes immediately caught yours. You hesitated for him to finish, and he tilted his head to go outside, and you pushed through the familiar sliding glass doors to wait on him.

“Feel good after that?” He asked, his hands tucking into his jacket pockets. “Couldn’t have made that anymore obvious, honey.” The nickname was laced with venom.

“Eddie, I- I really did have to pee, then he came in there to talk and I-”

“The door get jammed? You couldn’t unlock it? Had to make out with king Steve in the bathroom for the door to unlock?” He coughed out a laugh. “I can't believe I thought you might’ve actually been over him.”

“I wish it were you.”

“You know, I know I jumped into the gang pretty late so I missed the beginning history of you two, but-”

You lunged forward at Eddie, shutting him up for once. “Shut up, we made out and all I thought about was how I wish it was you I was kissing, not him.”

“You mean it?” He asked you, his eyebrows raised.

“Yes, Munson.” You rolled your eyes at him.

“Can Robin get a ride home without you?”

“Probably, why?” You asked as the taller, curly haired boy made himself impossibly closer to you- you could still smell the show on him, the sweat, the spilled alcohol, the cigarettes, and you wanted it.

“Because you’re mine tonight, if nothing else. I wanna take you back to my place. Go find her, I’ll be waiting in your car.”

“O-okay.” You nervously answered him and walked back into the house. “Robin!” You pulled her away from a few people.

“Word travels fast. You better get out of here soon, because she already heard about you and Steve.”

“Perfect. Can you get home?”

“Yeah, I can, where are you going?”

“Great, I’ll see you tomorrow.” You jogged out of the house, and towards your car where Eddie was sitting with it already cranked up and running. “She can find a way home, she said.”

“Say less, my dear.” Eddie put his hand on the back of your headrest as he looked back to reverse out of the parking spot in front of the house, then he sped off to the direction of his and Wayne’s shared house. You knew Wayne worked nights still from all of your late night conversations with Eddie.

Your stomach turned thinking about what was going on right now, what was about to happen. And he must’ve known, or been able to read your mind.

“We don’t have to do anything but sleep- I’ll even sleep on the couch. I just wanted you out and away from him. I can’t see you getting hurt by him again.” His hand rested on your knee, and his thumb rubbed gentle circles as he drove.

“But you said-”

“I know what I said, but I’m high and horny as hell, but I can keep my dick in my pants unlike someone else we know. And you look too fucking good tonight, you told me you got some tattoos but you didn’t tell me you had this many? S’driving me wild.”

You blushed as you watched Eddie run a hand through his hair, something he did when he was nervous. “You left out that you were even more handsome than ever, too.” You commented back, but it wasn’t even the top of surface of what you could say about Eddie and how he’d changed over the last year. You got to his house, the porch light was the only one on, and he hurried with you to the front door since the fall air was creeping in and you weren’t appropriately dressed for it.

“What about your van?” You asked as you walked in, and kicked off your black boots.

“I’ll get it in the morning, they’re used to me leaving it overnight sometimes.”

“Thought you weren’t drowning in pussy, Munson?” You joked as you approached him, your arms reaching up and wrapping around his neck, as his pulled you in by your waist.

“I’m not, but I could be if you’d let me. And I told you, quit with the last name shit. I like hearing my name out of those pretty lips.” Alright, he was smooth. You’d give him that. You both leaned in and continued making out, feeling each others bodies over clothes, shedding jackets on the floor, before he broke the kiss and guided you back to his room. “I swear I wasn’t expecting any guests so just give me a few and I’ll clean up.”

“Honestly it’s fine, I think I’m a little bit too drunk for anything tonight anyway, but don’t think I’m not interested-”

“Hey, I told you that’s fine.” He kissed the top of your head. “I am gonna have to shower and take care of some things before I go to bed but I’ll grab you a shirt so you don’t have to sleep in this getup tonight.” He roamed around his room and gathered a soft Iron Maiden shirt for you, and a pair of plaid boxers from a drawer. “Can’t promise the shirt is clean but I haven’t sweat in it, but it’s the softest one I have.” He tossed them at you before he left to shower, and you changed into them and tucked yourself into his bed.

“Hey.” You felt a gentle nudge on your shoulder, waking you up. My god, the sight that greeted you. Eddie was sitting on the side of his bed, his hair towel dried, he was shirtless, in a pair of boxers, and you could see more tattoos on his torso mixed in with all of his scars. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” He chuckled. “Want me to sleep out there? It’s up to you.”

“Nu uh.” You peeled back the comforter and sheets for him and he climbed in, laying down and facing you.

“I need a tattoo tour tomorrow.” He said through a grin. “Show me yours if you show me mine?”

You rolled your eyes, “Fine.”

Eddie tucked hair out of your face and looked at you. “Meant it when I said you were beautiful.”

“I’m sorry I kissed Steve tonight.” You felt terrible about it, honestly.

“It’s fine. I almost expected it. The dude gave you no closure. But I can say it feels good to know you wished it were me you were kissing and not him.”

“I don't have to pretend I like acid rock, or that I'd like to be on a mega yacht with important men who think important thoughts. Guess maybe I am better off now that we don't talk. And the only way back to my dignity was to turn into a shrouded mystery, just like I had been when you were chasing me, guess this is how it has to be now that we don't talk.”

Chicago->Hawkins, 1989

“Hey, babe. I made coffee. You gotta get up, the studio needs me in an hour, then we gotta leave.” You groaned as you were being woken up, you had worked the bar until 3 am the night before and stayed until almost 4 cleaning up the huge mess. Eddie had left the bar around midnight because he had some recording to do today before you left for Hawkins- Dustin and his friends were all graduating this weekend and you couldn’t miss it.

“But it’s only 10, please let me sleep some more.” You rolled over in your cozy bed, letting the comforter swallow you now that no one else was in it.

Eddie’s month-long stay ended up never ending. You had a breakdown at the thought of him leaving and not being in your apartment every day. He’d slept on the couch for a few weeks, and then one night you told him how you really felt.

The two of you’s relationship had intensified quickly, and progressed to dating after a month of being around each other. It was your first relationship that felt right, that fell into place so easily without any drama, and you were happy.

“You know good and well if I leave you asleep you’re not going to get up. I’m only going to be there for an hour, I just have to sign off on a few things. You still have to finish packing too.” He kissed your forehead as he handed you the warm cup of coffee.

“Do we have to go?” You pouted over your first sip. You wanted to see your friend’s graduation, but you dreaded the inevitable. And Eddie had promised to play a show back at home with the guys, so you’d be spending a few nights there.

“Yes. We do. I mean, you can stay, but you’ll get awfully lonely here, dontcha think?” He leaned in and winked, “remember what happened last time I said I was going to leave?”

“I guess so.” You groaned as you sipped the coffee. “What if I see him?”

“What if? Baby, you don’t need to worry about it.” He placed his hand on your thigh, which was covered by your comforter. “It’s been so long ago, and he’s just there to see the kids graduate too. We’ve avoided him any other time we’ve gone back to see them, haven’t we? He’s not like a monster that’s gonna get you or anything.”

“No, but he’s Steve fucking Harrington and he knows how to ruin a good time.”

Eddie sighed in defeat. He knew how anxious seeing your ex made you, there was nothing you or him could do about it. He changed the way your friend group was forever after he hurt you.

“You get to see Robin though, and we get to stay at her new place!” He tried to cheer you up. “Babe, I really gotta go. Finish packing, take a shower, and I’ll be home before you know it.” He pecked your lips before he left you lying in bed with your coffee and a tummy full of anxiety.

“Presenting the class of 1989!” Principal Higgins announced over the loudspeaker in the gymnasium. You both stood up to applaud the class as you watched them throw their hats in the air- something you remember doing, and you felt Eddie’s arm wrap around you as he pulled you in for a hug.

“You know, I would've shot Huggins the bird if I wouldn’t have been in the hospital.” Eddie leaned in to make you laugh.

“I know. You’ve told me, multiple times. At least you got your diploma.”

“Yeah, because he was sick of me and my satanic worship cult.” You rolled your eyes and chuckled as the two of you exited the gym, waiting for your friends to meet up with you.

Robin and Nancy found you both quickly, giving you gigantic hugs, and asking you questions about how you were doing. A few minutes later, the graduates had made their way over and you watched as Eddie’s smile reached his eyes and he almost squeezed the life out of Dustin. You could tell how proud he was of him, even though he was one of the smartest kids you both had ever known.

You gave him a hug next, “Proud of you, kid.”

“I’m not a kid! I’m an adult now, you know that? I’m going to college soon!”

“Still just little dusty buns to us.” You said and you were pulled into Eddie’s side quickly, almost knocking you off balance. You were used to his clinginess by now, so it didn’t make you think twice about it until you saw Steve approaching the group. Everyone else greeted him like normal, but Eddie just kept you by his side as Steve said a quick hi to both of you.

You knew he had to know or have heard about you two dating. Eddie was on the phone with Dustin when he could, and you were always in touch with Robin and Nancy.

“So, we're ready to party, or what?” Steve clapped his hands together to interrupt the conversation.

“Let’s go!” Lucas shouted and you all split up into your groups. You heard your name being called, and you looked back. Steve was standing there and waved you over. Your heart tugged a little at the look on his face- he almost looked somber.

“You can go talk to him if you want, I’m not stopping you.” Eddie said, “We’ve gotta at least make an appearance at the party at his house. He might have something to say.”

“Fine, but watch if I need you to come rescue me.” Eddie pulled you in for a quick kiss as if he were making sure Steve knew that you were his, and you walked over to Steve with blushed cheeks, and butterflies in your stomach.

“Hey, I just wanted to talk.”

“Figured so, that’s why I came over here.” God, you sounded like a fucking idiot. How could Steve still look so good? You quickly checked him out to see he had dressed in pants that fit him perfectly, a short sleeve polo that was fit to his biceps just right, and his hair looked better than ever since he’d still kept some length on it.

“Are we, are we good?” He was stuttering, something you knew he only did when he was nervous.

“I mean, we’re fine? I guess. I’m over it, I’ve moved on.”

“Clearly.” You could tell the word came out of his mouth faster than he could think about what he was saying, “Are you happy?”

“Y-yeah, I am. He makes me really happy. I’m glad to be out of here, away from all of the past bullshit that happened here. And I’m glad to be away from here, with him specifically. I basically run the bar now, probably going to buy in in the next year or so depending on where Eddie goes with the band, if nothing else it could be some passive income while we’re on the road. What about you?” You kicked at some grass while you waited for his reply.

“Things are good. We just bought a house here, wedding is next year.” That was something everyone had left out of telling you. “Just proposed a few days ago, but the house had been in the works for a little while.”

“Oh wow, congratulations. I’m sure your parents are thrilled.” He looked at you funny, “I mean it this time. I’m not being a sarcastic asshole.” You both laughed a little.

“You look really good. I mean, not trying to be weird but you look like yourself. Like you’ve figured yourself out.”

“Feels like I have, finally. I think getting out of here was the best thing I could’ve done for myself. It feels weird being back here, you know? I wonder how many people really know everything that actually happened. Does she know?” You weren’t sure why you were bringing this up now, but you were curious.

“Hell no, do you know how insane that would sound?”

“I do know, I lived it too.” You said wistfully. You looked back to see Eddie looking at you, and you gave him a small wave of recognition. “I should get back, it was good to catch up.”

“Will I see you both at the house? Still drink tequila?” Steve asked.

“Yeah, still tequila. We’ll be there.” You both exchanged a small hug before you walked back to Eddie, your smile growing bigger as you reached your boyfriend, realizing you’d made some positive progress in your relationship with Steve.

“What was all that about?” Eddie asked as you two walked back to his van. “Took long enough.”

“He was just making sure we were good, and asked if I was happy, apparently he’s engaged and they bought a house together. He just proposed a few days ago.” You said as you hopped into Eddie’s car.

“Weird.” You noticed Eddie’s grip on the steering wheel was tight and you picked at your thumbs out of nerves. You reached up to turn up the radio volume, but he stopped you. He never did that.

“What?” You looked over at him, he was rubbing his face with the hand that wasn’t on the steering wheel.

“I might just drop you off and head over to Wayne’s. I’m really not in the mood for a party tonight.” He said, looking straight ahead.

“Eddie, what? I’m not going without you, I’ll just go see Wayne too. You’re the one who said we needed to make an appearance. It’s for the kids, it’s their graduation.”

“Nah, you seem like you want to go catch up more with your old pal Steve.” Your eyebrows furrowed as you looked at your boyfriend.

“Eddie, what are you talking about?”

“You couldn’t take your fucking eyes off of him. You couldn’t even hide that you were staring at him, basically drooling over how good he looked.” Silence filled the car. “See, you’re not even going to deny it, are you? You played the whole, I don’t wanna come back here card for all the wrong reasons. You didn’t wanna see Steve because you still have something for him, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t! I’m sorry if that’s what you thought, but-”

“Oh come on, anyone with two working eyes can see the way you were practically undressing him.”

“Eddie, I was not. It was a conversation that we needed to have, it was awkward, but at least now we’re on speaking terms. Beyond that, there’s nothing there with Steve. Yes, he’s still attractive- you’ve even said that yourself but if you pulled over on the side of the road right this second I’d fuck you in the backseat, okay? There is nothing about Steve Harrington that I want anymore. I don’t want that lifestyle, I never did, I thought I did- but I don’t. I don’t want to come home to a guy who won’t let me touch his shirt because it might get wrinkled or ruined, I wanna be with someone who doesn’t care what happens to their shirt when I touch it or tear it off of them. I want to be with you, Eddie. You’re it for me.” You were out of breath, and you looked over to see him staring straight ahead at the road in front of him. “You’re the one who told me to go talk to him! God, just take me to Robin’s if you’re going to be a bitch like this today.”

“Was going to anyway.” He scoffed and you turned in your seat to stare out the window and hold back tears. You two never fought like this. Ever.

Hours had passed, and you and Robin got ready together before leaving for the party at the new Harrington house. You’d changed into something more fun for the party- a mini skirt with tights, your black doc martens, and a cut up band tee from one of the local bands that had passed through your bar one night.

“Eddie’s really not coming?” Robin spoke halfway over to Steve’s new house. She knew the way, so you let her drive. She also said she’d be DD tonight, only having one drink at the time of arrival and nothing else.

“I guess not, he was being so not like himself earlier. He swore that I still had a thing for Steve and that I was undressing him as we talked. Robin, Eddie has said he thought Steve was attractive before. Anyone with two eyes can see that.”

“He’ll get over it, he’s probably just feeling insecure about it because of the last time we were all at a party together.” She brushed it off, but you couldn’t as you bit the inside of your lip.

One hour into the party, and you were drunk. You didn’t know how many tequila sodas with lime you’d had, but it was enough that Robin was already giving you the eye. You spent so many of your nights at the bar not drinking, that you wanted to have fun tonight celebrating the kids graduation before the show at the Hideout the next night.

“Having fun?” Steve slid up beside you as you were pouring another drink for yourself.

“Your bar has definitely improved since high school parties.”

“Where’s Eddie?” He was quick to look around for your boyfriend.

“Oh, I don’t know. Robin and I came here together because Eddie was too much of a bitch to me earlier, saying we were- like you and me- were undressing each other with our eyes while we were talking at graduation, and even though I told him if he pulled over on the side of the road I’d-”

“Whoa, whoa, I don’t need to hear all of that. I was just asking where he was because I wanted to talk to him too. Do you know if he’s coming at all?”

You shrugged as you skillfully cut a lime wedge and tossed it into your cup. “No idea. Guess we’ll have to find out later.”

Later came soon enough, and it happened to be when everyone had decided to jump into Steve and his fiancé’s pool, most of you in whatever clothes or underwear you had on under clothes. No one was thinking twice about it either, since you’d all been friends for so long and were a little more mature about this type of thing. And you were all pretty drunk at this point in the night, too.

“Cannonball!” Dustin yelled as he jumped in, splashing you and Robin for the tenth time tonight.

“Uh oh, the fun just got here.” She said to you as she pointed her finger towards the back gate. You watched as Eddie opened the gate and stalked over to the pool, and scanned the pool of bodies for yours. Your back was to him, so you secretly hoped he wouldn’t see you, maybe? You were at the point you would’ve been happier going home alone with Robin and he stayed at Wayne’s.

“How’d he find the house?”

“The uh, invite is probably on my fridge or something. I left a key under the mat in case I wasn’t home yet when you guys came by to drop your stuff off, so I can only assume that’s how he has the address?” You couldn’t hear what she was saying as you blankly stared at her, feeling Eddie’s eyes on your mostly bare back.

You heard him say your name loud enough for you to hear, but you ignored him and took another sip of your drink. He repeated himself, but louder and you felt like a child getting in trouble with their parents.

You slowly turned to look at him, and he was crouched by the edge of the pool. He curled his finger at you to come towards him. You waded through the pool and with each step your stomach felt sicker and sicker- you wish it was from the alcohol, and not your nerves.

“You decided to show up?” You joked, leaning against the pool.

“Why the fuck are you in your goddamn underwear in Steve Harrington’s pool? Get out.” His voice was thick with disgust.

“No, I’m having fun.” You shook your head.

“Come on, we’re leaving.”

“I’m having fun with Robin.” If you could stomp your foot like a child right now, you would have.

“Do you want me to drag you out of there? I don’t want his eyes on you.”

“Not like it’s anything I haven’t seen before.” Suddenly Steve was beside you- a safe distance, but enough to hear the conversation. “Got a problem, Munson? Didn't wanna come party?”

“Fuck off, Harrington.” He spat at him, and you were disgusted by both boys pissing contest. You heard a swoosh of water, and suddenly Steve was pushing against the edge of the pool to climb out. Dripping in water, in his boxer briefs, he stepped closer and closer to Eddie.

“She’s having fun, leave her alone.” Steve stated boldly.

“I can make my own decisions.” You tried to hoist yourself out of the pool and you miserably failed. Eddie stepped over to offer his hands, and you took them to skip having to walk over to the pool steps. Very quickly, Eddie was shrugging off his jacket and draped it over your shivering shoulders.

“C’mon, let’s get you dressed and out of here.” He tried to coax you but you hesitated.

“Why didn’t you come here sooner?” You asked.

“We’ll talk about it in the car.” He said, pulling on your hand gently. Steve looked between the both of you, as his fiancé walked up behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Of course her underwear was more intriguing than yours- it probably had cost Steve a fortune and a half to purchase and it was the type that probably would be ruined in pool water.

“I want my question answered Eddie. I was waiting all night for you to come here, and-”

“I said, we’ll talk about it in the fucking car.” He got in your face and spoke through gritted teeth. You had absolutely never seen him like this- and then you saw it. His eyes were bloodshot- and not from weed, red from crying.

“O-okay.” You agreed and quietly followed, grabbing your clothes on your way out. You didn’t bother putting them on, you just climbed into the car and Eddie turned the heat on as he started to drive off slowly.

“I went to see Wayne and he told me that my dad died. I don’t know why I’m so fucking upset, I hated the man, but-” you put your hand on his leg as he choked on a cry.

“It’s your dad, shitty or not, it’s still your dad.”

“Then, to see you, in your underwear, in the guy who broke your fucking heart into a million pieces pool while I’ve spent the last year of my life helping you put them back together all while falling in love with you, I just- I don’t fucking get it, man.” He was doing the thing where he cries but laughs it off because he’s so upset. “I thought I was past this, thought we were past this but I guess not.” The rest of the ride was completely silent. Eddie took a deep breath as he stopped the car in the parking lot of Robin’s apartment complex. “Please tell me you’re over him.”

“Eddie, I’ve told you a thousand times-”

“I can’t take you lying to me.”

“Do you want me to say I still love him?! What kind of answer do you want from me, Eddie? I’m telling you the fucking truth. I let you move into my place, I sleep beside you every goddamn night and even before we were officially dating, just the thought of you not being feet away from me on that stupid pull out couch was enough to make me realize I wanted you, you’re the one I want. I don’t want that life Steve has, I’ve told you time and time again. I’m so fucking happy with you Eddie. I don’t want the fancy cars, the big trips, the overcompensating with a big house. I want our life we have right now, the one we’ve made over the last year. This is why I don’t like coming back here, because it brings up all of this old shit that has settled like dust already. I don’t want anything to do with Steve Harrington anymore. Okay?”

“Okay.” He answered, and turned off the car. He slowly got out of it, and walked over to your side to help you out- your ass cheeks had stuck to the leather of the seat and he walked behind you to keep you decent.

The next morning came and went quickly, all three of you were far too hungover to do anything more than to eat junk food and watch movies in Robin’s living room. The shrill shriek of her phone made all of your heads pound, and she couldn’t get up off the couch quick enough to answer it.

“Yeah… she’s fine. Uh huh. He’s here too. Okay. Ooooookay, then.” Robin hung up the phone and sat back down. “Steve’s not coming to the show tonight, he said he’s sorry.” Eddie sighed a sigh of relief, and you swallowed loudly enough to make him look at you with wide eyes.

“Sorry, just… feel like I’m gonna be sick.” You hopped up and ran to the bathroom, and slammed the door shut. About ten minutes later, you heard a knock on the door and the door slowly opened and you looked up at Eddie from the seat you’d taken on the floor. He joined you, and asked if you were okay.

“M’fine, just drank too much last night. Don’t let me do that again tonight.”

“Well, Steve won’t be there, so I don’t suspect you’ll have to drink away your feelings.” He muttered as another hurl came up, and Eddie held your hair back for you.

“I cannot be your friend, so I pay the price of what I lost, and what it cost- now that we don’t talk.”

1993

You fixed your eyeliner in the mirror with the shakiest hand you’d ever had. You messed up again, and muttered a “fuck” loudly to the room of your closest girlfriends.

“Let me help, your eye is going to be raw.” Nancy sat down on the bench beside you and you turned to her in your white silk robe to let her fix your makeup.

“Probably going to cry it all off anyway. When I went out to grab drinks, Dustin said Eddie’s a wreck too.” Robin chimed in and you looked at her quickly.

“Nervous? Is he going to call it off?” Your stomach churned at the thought of it.

“The man would do anything for you. I think we’ve all seen that over the last few years. Now, sit still before this eyeliner wing ends up in your hairline.”

It was yours and Eddie’s wedding day, finally. You’d both opted for a small wedding, with his bandmates, old and new, your closest group of friends, small family members, and no one else. Eddie and his band had blown up the music scene over the last few years, and you’d been along for the ride the entire time with him- all of the ups and downs. A big wedding was something you never wanted, and with his newfound fame, it made more sense to keep it small and intimate.

Your hands were shaky as you paced the now empty bridal suite, surely you’d worn the carpet down by how many times you’d walked back and forth. You didn’t know why, but you just felt something was off. You mentally checked everything off on your list and you weren’t forgetting anything. Your handwritten vows were in the hidden pocket of your dress, Robin had Eddie’s ring, and Dustin had your ring.

Then came the knock on the door. You hesitated, not wanting it to be Eddie trying to sneak a peak in your moment of solitude before the ceremony.

“Who is it?” You asked through the thin, wood door.

“It’s me, Steve.” The voice on the other side was shaky as he spoke. You hadn’t seen him in a while, probably a few years actually. He’d gotten married, but Eddie was on tour so you couldn’t make it back home. The weekend of Steve’s wedding was actually one of the only weekends Eddie didn’t have a show, but you didn’t question Eddie when he said he needed to have a weekend off and not go home for the wedding. You didn’t want to go alone, so you stayed back too. “Mind if I come in?” He sounded scared, but he probably was. There had been absolutely no communication between you two in a very long time, and it was all on your side.

“Yeah sure, but not for long.” You opened the door to see him standing there, dressed smart as always.

“You look absolutely stunning.” He took in the sight of your intricate lace gown that showed off your tattooed skin, and complimented your body shape perfectly.

“Thanks, but I don’t think you should-”

“You’re absolutely right. I shouldn’t be here, so I’m not. I’m leaving, but I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.” Your eyebrows furrowed. “Clearly you don’t want us to be friends, so I was shocked to even receive an invitation to your wedding, but after thinking about it more, and now seeing you- I really don’t need to be here. I talked to Eddie, and he had a letter to give to you, so he gave it to me to give to you before I left.”

You paused before speaking, and you looked at the man who stood before you holding a letter from your almost husband with shaky hands. He’d changed a little bit, but you both had. His scars on his face were lighter but still there, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he’d told his wife how he got it yet. Had she even asked yet how he’d gotten any of them, at that? The golden highlights in his hair were still there, shiny as ever. And his eyes were warm, warm like his nickname for you- honey.

You were speechless as you continued to stare blankly at him, your mouth couldn’t form any words, except “Thank you. Bye, Steve.” He nodded, smiled, and walked away, and out of your life forever.

You decided you couldn’t be friends as you watched him walk away, with all the things you’d lost- like the pieces of your heart that you’d never get back, that he’d taken without asking. You watched him through the window as he wiped an eye, hoping it was the wind causing the tear, but by the way his hair stayed in place you knew it wasn’t. But you knew he’d felt the same way, come to the same conclusion.

You couldn’t be friends anymore, you couldn’t even talk.

#eddie munson x reader #steve harrington x reader #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #stranger things one shot #eddie munson #steve harrington #eddie munson x you #Steve Harrington x you #eddie munson stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fic

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crepesuzette2023 · 1 year ago

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photo by Mike McCartney showing Paul after a Cavern All-Nighter, 1961.

"I mainly watch Lennon. He's like a caged animal, never mind a Beatle. Not that I've got anything against my brother, but he's just a brother (you know, the one who picks his nose and won't come off the toilet 'cos he's playing his guitar or reading those nudy books). Lennon just stands there, legs apart, defying you to come up an' hit him, with the odd, razor sharp intro and mongol movement, but Paul gets the girls (and some of the musical lads) going with Till there was you. It' s a most unusual, Dad orientated, melodic song in the middle of all the rock 'n' roll screamers. Then he finishes 'em off with a more than passable Long Tall Sally.

When it's all over and the magic Sesame Street door to the drezy finally opens and SLAMS behind me (to keep out the fans), the inevitable 'the Coke's warm' follows . . . usually from George. After stripping off the dripping black T-shirts and leathers and towelling down their sweat saturated bodies, they dress in blue jeans and black polos. Then the 'Cavern Conga' snakes back through the girls once more and down to the pints of bitter. This procedure continues ad infinitum till the pubs close and then we all sit it out in the drezy till morning.

At daybreak Paul and I climb our weary legs out of the all night cave and headed, tireder but somehow wiser (and certainly happier) for the number 86 bus stop, where we look at the latest winkle pickers in shoe shop windows or sit on pillar-boxes with the wind whipping up from the Mersey, and wait for the first bus home... magic days." from: Mike McCartney, "The Macs: Mike McCartney's family album" (1981)

#paul mccartney #mike mccartney #the beatles #the cavern #early beatles

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maraschinocheri · 1 month ago

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Happy 39th birthday to the London production of Les Misérables (which officially opened on 8 October 1985 at the Barbican Theatre, though previews began at the end of September)! By way of celebrations, scans from the 1985/86 / 1986/87 Royal Shakespeare Company Yearbook, which honoured the success of the Barbican production and its transfer to the Palace Theatre by making Colm Wilkinson and Michael Ball during 'Bring Him Home' its cover stars. The annual RSC Yearbook summarised productions in all of the company's (at the time five) theatres and on tour with production photography and critical commentary from newspapers and other media. Text from the pages above is under the cut below, with bracketed extra information to clarify some references.

Not since Sondheim’s Sweeney Todd back in 1979 has there been a score which soared out of the pit with the blazing theatricality of Les Misérables, and to those of my tabloid colleagues already in print with feeble and fainthearted objections to the show, I have but this to say: remember the demon barber. Sweeney, too, we were once told; was too dark, too savage, too downbeat a theme for a musical. Six years on, that show has won more awards and been acclaimed to more opera houses than any other in the entire history of the American musical. Les Misérables, in a brilliantly intelligent staging by Trevor Nunn and John Caird, will achieve a similar kind of long-term success …

[The Times’/Punch’s Sheridan] Morley went on. ‘… The greatness of Les Misérables is that it starts out, like Sweeney and Peter Grimes, to redefine the limits of music theatre. Like them it is through sung, and like them it tackles universal themes of social and domestic happiness in terms of individual despair.’

[The Financial Times’ Michael] Coveney talked of the allying of ‘Nickleby*-style qualities of ensemble presentation to a piece that really does deserve the label ‘rock opera’, occupying brand new ground somewhere between Verdi and Andrew Lloyd Webber. It was not, he thought, a company celebration like Nickleby, ‘but an appreciation of those values along with the musical experience gathered by the team (Trevor Nunn, John Caird and David Hersey) on Cats and Starlight Express.’ To that extent, he went on, the show was an important one, ‘bridging gaps between musical and opera, and subjecting rock musicians to RSC tutelage while last year’s Clarence [in the RSC 1984 production of Richard III], Roger Allam, is unveiled in the role of Javert as an outstanding performer in the musical idiom.’

[*The RSC's landmark 1980 production of an adaption of Charles Dickens’ The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby]

[The Guardian’s Michael] Billington posited that if you fillet any great nineteenth-century novel, ‘you are left with melodrama.’ Les Misérables, he said, jointly produced by the RSC and Cameron Mackintosh at the Barbican, becomes exactly ‘high class melodrama.’ It was staged ‘with breathtaking panache by Trevor Nunn and John Caird. It is impeccably designed by John Napier. It has a lively score by Claude-Michel Schönberg. But it is three-and-a-half hours of fine middlebrow entertainment rather than great art.’ Billington claimed to have ‘conned’ the novel sufficiently ‘to realise that it is a towering masterpiece about social injustice, redemption through love and the power of Providence.’ What the musical offered, he went on, ‘is the hurtling story of Jean Valjean, the paroled prisoner who becomes a provincial mayor, who is relentlessly pursued by the policeman Javert and who achieves heroic feats of self-sacrifice at the 1832 Paris uprising. What you don’t get is the background of moral conflict that makes this more than a classy adventure story.’ In this he thought, Hugo’s novel was infinitely more dramatic than the musical.

[The Times’ Irving] Wardle spoke of the temptation in such circumstances for anyone who has read the novel ‘to quarrel with any adaptation for its omissions and liberties instead of judging the adaptation on its own merits.’ In this instance, he maintained, Alain Boublil and Claude-Michel Schönberg had done a capable gutting job. ‘They present a clear outline of the epic contest between Jean Valjean, the saintly ex-convict, and his implacable pursuer Javert: including Valjean’s defeated attempt to save the wretched Fantine, and his life-long devotion to her daughter, Cosette, only to lose her to a young love, Marius, amid the Paris barricades of 1832.’

The adapters had cut corners with boldness and ingenuity, Wardle believed, and had found fresh situations where Hugo’s are theatrically unworkable. They had also preserved the essential sense that Valjean and Javert are two of a kind, belonging, as Hugo puts it, to the ‘two classes of men whom society keeps at arms length: those who prey on it and those who protect it.’

Coveney maintained that the organization and placement of the continuously revolving stage was ‘beyond praise’, with John Napier’s design doing as much honour to Hugo’s Paris as he lavished on Dickens’s London [in Nickleby]: ‘Two huge trucks rumble on and form a barricaded wall which, just as Hugo describes, seems to contain a city in itself, a fantastic jumble of chairs, barrels, planks and people, a teeming segment of a revolutionary catacomb.’

This alternative society, Coveney said, was presented without sentiment ‘as indeed are its urchin sentinels, the daughter of Thenardier (a devastating waif performance by Frances Ruffelle) and Gavroche … sweetly and surely sung by an admirable child actor and just when you feel the production is slipping by allowing a [writer of Oliver] Lionel Bart-ish point number, he is shot full of bullets and left to sing plaintively on the wrong side of the barricade.’

The music, [The Sunday Times’ John] Peter though, ‘has a fresh, astringent lyricism and a powerful, ballad-like drive: number after number makes robust contributions to character and drama.’ The best performances, in Peter’s opinion, came from Alun Armstrong and Susan Jane Tanner as the ‘horrible Thenardiers', Patti LuPone (Fantine) and Frances Ruffelle (Eponine). But this was, he pointed out, ‘essentially a company musical rather than a star vehicle. If it transfers to the West End where its masterful theatricality would outshine almost anything else on offer, it might show people that success in this genre doesn’t depend solely on expensive star turns.’ The transfer to the Palace, of course, came swiftly after the Barbican opening.

[The Observer’s Michael] Ratcliffe described Schönberg’s score as ‘all tinselly arpeggios, stabbing staccato, pile-driving trumpets and thinly-disguised hymns.’ In polite terms he said, it was ‘electric, trailing a range of references from high-tech Bizet and Massenet to the air-time acceptable, and Celtic Fringe Folk.’

Some scenes, said Coveney, go straight into operatic form, ‘for example the apprehension by Javert of Valjean at Fantine’s deathbed, or a beautiful garden trio for young lovers in Valjean’s garden hideaway.’ There was also a ‘startling thematic echo of Rigoletto as Valjean ponders the son he might have had.’ Colm Wilkinson’s Valjean was in Coveney’s opinion ‘a remarkable study in impassive acquisition of self-knowledge … He [has] particularly fine and lyrical use of his upper register. Above all he transmits palpable goodness without sounding like a prig or a boar [bore?].’ [The Sunday’s Telegraph’s Francis] King thought Wilkinson not only sang the role with eloquence ‘but – far more difficult – brings out the essential goodness of a much-wronged man.’ The outstanding voice of the evening in King’s opinion, was that of Patti LuPone as Fantine.

The band under the stage and the musical direction of Martin Koch include some rumbling brass premonitions of disaster as well as some very fine work on synthesizers, brass and strings. The score also underpins such exciting production movements as the arrival of the barricade, the suicidal leap (done by the bridge flying up as Mr Allam free falls on the spot) and the descent to the sewers with lots of dry ice and naked banks of light not equalled in impact since Mr Hersey did something similar in Evita.

In short, this is an intriguing and most enjoyable musical, fully justifying the mixing of commercial resources with RSC talent and personnel, even if not all that many RSC actors are involved.* Being now acquainted with the demands of the score, I see why that should be so. [Morley]

[* The RSC members who appeared in the Barbican production were Roger Allam, Alun Armstrong, and Susan Jane Tanner. Other RSC members at this time joined Les Mis in later companies, among them David Delve, who would replace Alun Armstrong as Thenardier.]

#les miserables #les mis olc #revolve 1

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olrinarts · 11 days ago

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Ref Sheet and Background: Narinder

long post ahoy! (i'm serious. do not click that read more unless you wanna scroll for a while, it's even longer than Esriaal's)

A note about AUs: All of my AUs can be considered to be within the same ‘universe-cloud’, for lack of a better word ('multiverse' has frustrating associations, alas. curse you mcu, lmao.) That doesn’t make them directly linked or in any way affect another AU, unless explicitly said to (see: constancy must transpose and chimes of bone in the at the root series.) Otherwise, each is a standalone AU, either diverging directly from the Base Lamb and Base Narinder’s story, or in some way reflecting/echoing it (see: ashes ashes, the yuri rock god AU.) Any completely unrelated AU to this universe-cloud will have it mentioned that it’s not connected.

Name/Titles: The One Who Waits, the One Below, Narinder Base Age: 86 (age he was Crowned, equivalent to around mid-30s developmentally) Gender: He/him Race: Cat, infernal

Background:

Narinder was born as the middle son of a common infernal cat, which were once as plentiful as their cousin race, the black cats. His family were farmers in a time when the Crowns were a relatively new development, a century or two after the first god was crowned. He was about as unremarkable a cat as can be imagined at the time, and could have been anyone. That was why both the Crown of Death and the kernel of what was someday meant to be the Crown of Life chose him: neither had any use for someone special and remarkable, who’d always be apart from the people around them by nature. If he was to be remarkable, it would be by what he accomplished.

A Crown can’t sit on two heads, of course, and normally a head can’t really wear two Crowns. As the Ivory Crown wasn’t crafted, but needed to be ‘grown’ due to being the Crown of Life, both the Red and Ivory Crown were able to coexist. Ivory was essentially slumbering in the unaware Narinder’s soul until its time came to wake up. He was chosen young, not even past his first century – infernal cats lived just as long as black cats, who can live over a millennia or more if they’re smart about it, though they reach adulthood at the same age as other cats (think Forneus still being around a thousand years after Narinder was cast down.) The Crowns made their choice in one of Narinder’s family fields, having sat down from harvesting rye with his scythe to rest beneath the shade of a beech tree. About as humble a beginning for a god as imaginable.

Narinder didn’t aspire to humility, however, let alone as the god of Death, so he built his cult quickly. It was a pretty compelling message, altogether – if everything ends in death, you might as well worship what’s coming, and having the favour of the god of death meant an easier passage through the river of souls to the afterlife. He was already beginning to chafe against the idea of the One Who Waits and the inherent stagnation, however, as well as other limitations. He particularly disliked how souls sacrificed to other gods didn’t come to him in death, as well as other practices that cut lives short needlessly, such as child sacrifice. He was fine with sacrifice in general, that was just how things worked, but there had to be some guardrails, because it was starting to damage mortal trust in all of the Crowned Gods’ care and guidance.

Despite common assumptions in the many millennia to come, it wasn’t War who first raised their hand against another god – it was Narinder, thoroughly pissed off about another god using mass sacrifices to taunt him with the souls that were stolen from him. After that god fell to his scythe, it became clear that the time of peaceful coexistence among the Crowned Gods was growing strained, to put it mildly.

That was when the god of Knowledge went to him, proposing an alliance: Narinder would join their pantheon as their brother, and the souls sacrificed in Shamura and Kallamar’s names would pass into his hands, same as the sacrifices in his own name. He was more than fine with that, feeling a kinship with both Shamura and Kallamar, and so their combined pantheon grew stronger, gaining first Heket and eventually Leshy, who was the last god to ever be crowned. War was eventually inevitable, becoming one of Shamura’s domains when they took on the role of general in a war of gods, and when the dust settled, only the five Bishops remained in the lands. They divided the lands between themselves, with one land to four of the Bishops and unconditional welcome for Narinder in each (as Death ‘belongs’ everywhere), and for a very long time, the Bishops remained at peace.

The longer it went on - the longer Narinder was locked as the One Who Waits - the more restless he became. Shamura, who he was closest to, pitied him for it. They were concerned about allowing the restlessness to continue to grow unchecked, unsure what a Crowned God rejecting his domain’s nature might do to the faith, and so they encouraged him to pursue knowledge, distracting his restlessness with curiosity. That was their first mistake, for all that they were Knowledge from the start:‌ they assumed his curiosity would distract from his appetite for change, that it was the lesser drive between curiosity and restlessness. They were wrong.

The more Narinder sought to know, the closer he became in nature to the mortals, to the Narinder he’d been when he was Crowned; to learn is to change. He grew to sympathise with the natural mortal instinct to fear the inevitable, the cage of death that no one could escape, including Death himself. It grew from sympathy to kinship as time passed – not in the same way the Bishops were kin, but in the sense of a leader rather than a ruler. Part of the group, not apart from it.

Finally, the idea that was to be his downfall occurred to him: if the mortal souls were his in death, then weren’t their souls his while they still lived? And if they were his, living and dead, then wasn’t it his decision whether they died at all – or even had to stay dead?

He was so proud when he first succeeded at resurrecting a mortal that the first person he told was Shamura, because of course it was. They were the one who’d let him grow in the first place, and for the first time since almost the beginning, he felt like he could breathe.

Shamura panicked. Internally, where he couldn’t see it, but they knew they were looking at something that was going to overturn all of their careful plans and comfortable position as the leader of the Bishops, and so they began to put new plans in motion.

Narinder’s growing discontent over the millennia had soured his relationships with his siblings, growing even further apart as he grew closer to the mortals. Other than Shamura, he was mainly friendly with Leshy, but Leshy had no patience or interest in schemes other than the chaos it could cause. Kallamar had long been terrified of him, of the power of Death in the hands of a god growing more bitter by the century. And Narinder and Heket had never gotten along all that well – a mutual dislike born from natures that were entirely too similar.

Hoping to buy themselves time, the other Bishops began to keep souls from him, unmaking them for extra power instead of letting them pass on, especially as Narinder’s new gospel began to spread. By the time he realised this and confronted his siblings, enraged by the betrayal of the ancient deal, Shamura was ready. They gave him one chance to forsake the heresy he’d been preaching, and the Bishops would return to the deal. He rejected the offer, far too angry to even consider it, and if he had, he would have rejected it anyway. They were the ones who’d betrayed him first.

When he refused to forsake his new power, Shamura and the other Bishops cast him Below in chains. Shamura was the only one who knew that it would take Godly matter to chain Death, so they chose to allow him to maim the other Bishops and themself as they do in canon, ensuring the others would only blame him for what had happened. As he was cast down, Shamura cast down the two kittens that would grow to be Aym and Baal with him as well.

What followed was a thousand years of plotting and planning, taking vessel after vessel, because the Bishops foolishly thought he had no power over Death in chains, and no longer unmade the souls they sacrificed in their own names (doing so grants more power, but it’s also much more taxing and fairly gruesome, so it damages their faith base.) Some vessels worked better than others, but Narinder was the One Who Waits, and that had guaranteed his patience could be both furious and eternal at the same time. He would be free, no matter how long it took, no matter how many tries. There would come a day where he finally had the soul he needed, and he wouldn’t find them by doing nothing. So long as he had the Red Crown, he was still Death, and he wasn’t helpless.

Eventually, a prophecy was made:‌ that from the sheep led to slaughter would rise a sacrificial lamb who would be his liberator. He’d been patient, and this was his reward. It took another few decades, which itself inspired a slow, simmering anger over the fate of the sheep; even nearly a thousand years of bitterness and plans for revenge hadn’t withered that old Narinder, and he could only grit his teeth as his siblings committed a genocide that grew crueller by the year. The idea that an entire race was doomed just to spite him was infuriating. It was an unfated prophecy – whoever was the last sheep standing would be his – and so he couldn’t even know what soul he should plan for. This is where the diverging AUs begin.

It did ultimately come to pass, the Sacrificial Lamb’s soul landing in his hands, and he knew the brave little thing had defied his siblings’ hunters for over a decade since the last other sheep died. When he put them back into a living body, things didn’t connect quite right in their head, but they still looked up at him with such fearlessness that all of his anger and hope turned to sentiment. (Diverging AU: untitled politific, where they don’t lose their memory, though he’s not aware of that.)

Instead of just commanding them, he made it an offer (not one they could refuse, but still, even phrasing it differently is a hell of a concession from a god.) He chose to tell them of the sacrifice at the end, again from that sense of sentiment, but mostly because he could tell they weren’t just going to agree to be his vessel, they were doing it wholeheartedly.

From there the events of the game progressed, over the span of around one hundred and twenty years. He saw them as often as possible, after a death or a crusade, and kept them Below to spend time with them for as long as was feasible. As the decades wore on, he grew increasingly unhappy at the knowledge that he was going to be the one to unmake them, and told himself it was just a mild regret over it all, because acknowledging how much he’d come to dread his own freedom was more dangerous than just about any other possible reaction.

One of two things then happens, after the demise of Shamura: either the Lamb fights Narinder and wins (primary AU: ‘constancy must transpose’, resulting in Narinder with the Ivory Crown) or the sacrifice is successfully carried out (diverging AU: ‘chimes of bone’, where Narinder keeps the Red Crown.)

‘Base’ Narinder The above is almost always true in its entirety from fic to fic, though weight might be given to some events over others, or his emotional responses might be different and explored from there. Exceptions are made for reflection AUs (such as ashes ashes, which takes place in a world where the Bishops were never crowned in the first place.) If a reflection AU is different enough, such as a different world setting entirely, then specific things are adjusted or find equivalents, but there’s always strong parallels, and the basic facts of Narinder’s identity are unchanged.

There’s no story to go along with the Base Narinder after the end game on purpose. The closest to a ‘base’ canon for him is the world of the comic fittings, as that one is largely nondescript about the actual way Narinder and the Lamb/Esriaal came to be in the position of Narinder as a more-or-less mortal as part of the cult and Esriaal as the Red Crown’s bearer. It focusses almost exclusively on the culture of the sheep (and some of Narinder’s base backstory, as well.)

#cult of the lamb #cotl narinder #implied narilamb #backstory #lore dump #ref sheet #olrinarts #olrin writes #at the root au

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theunderestimator-2 · 2 months ago

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Hector Penalosa as captured by Melanie Nissen back in 1977 while performing at Larchmont Hall, Los Angeles, with The Zeros, a band of high school teenagers from Chula Vista, CA, who helped create the first wave of punk rock in Southern California (photo included in the photographer's 2002 "Hard and Fast " book with photos previously published in Slash Magazine as well as some never seen before).

cheunderground.site/ : "The Zeros, often referred to affectionately as the “Mexican Ramones,” cannot only justifiably lay claim to being San Diego’s first “punk” rock group but also can brag about being one of the first punk groups in the US. In a brief but brilliant career highlighted by some classic recordings as well as shows with the Clash and Devo, the Zeros played the first big punk shows in both Los Angeles and in San Diego as early as 1977, when they were still high-school students (…) at a time when greater San Diego was both indifferent to and unimpressed by counterculture movements of any kind. Zeros guitarist and lead vocalist Javier Escovedo hails from a musical family… His brother Alejandro founded San Francisco punk band the Nuns, whose pinnacle was opening for the Sex Pistols in their legendary final concert in 1978 at the Winterland, and, was the family member with the most influence upon his musical tastes. Zeros guitarist Robert Lopez and his cousin, Zeros drummer Baba Chenelle grew up together listening to music and learning to play the guitar and drums, respectively. Baba and Hector met in PE class at Chula Vista Junior High School on April 4, 1975, the Monday after KISS made its first appearance on Burt Sugarman’s “Midnight Special.” “I told this kid I had seen this band on TV with a bunch of makeup and platforms,” Hector remembers. “Baba said, ‘Yeah, man, they’re cool. I have three of their records, so I’ll bring ‘em tomorrow, and you can check ‘em out.’ Baba turned me on to a lot of cool music like Aerosmith, the Modern Lovers and the Velvets, and we became friends,” says Hector. Hector decided to switch to bass so that he could eliminate his competition. He began teaching himself to play bass using three albums as guides: “The New York Dolls”; the Dolls’ “Too Much, Too Soon”; and John Lennon’s “Rock and Roll.” During this time, Javier and Robert, who were students at Chula Vista High School, were playing in a band called the Main Street Brats, covering Standells, Seeds, and Velvet Underground songs, alongside Javier’s originals like “Main Street Brat,” “Siamese Tease,” “Wimp” and “Don’t Push Me Around.” They recruited Baba to be the group’s drummer, and later that year, when they needed a bass player, Hector was invited to audition at Javier’s house in Chula Vista. “I didn’t hear from them for a long time afterwards,” Hector remembers. “I finally asked Baba about it, and he told me that they weren’t sure because they thought if I joined there would be too many Mexicans in the band! They were looking for a blonde guy.” The band had now become the Zeros, a nod to a line by Lester Bangs Javier had read in Creem magazine: “I don’t wanna be a hero, I just wanna be a zero.” Founding members of the band Robert Lopez & Hector Penalosa reunited to form The Zeros ’77 and will be performing on a mini So-Sal tour on 17 Sept. in LA, 21 Sept. in San Diego & 22 Sept. in Long Beach. (from 'Getting Nowhere Fas't, a book on the '76-'86 San Diego scene by Ray Brandes of The Tale-Tell Hearts)

(via)

#hector penalosa #the zeros #1977 #punk #punk rock #melanie nissen #chula vista #SoCal #southern california #people

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2015mai24 · 2 years ago

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#alice nine.#rock&read 86 #scans

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hendersister · 1 year ago

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hazy shade of winter

summary: after vecna opens the gates, you and steve decide to stay behind in hawkins to help clean up the mess.

pairing: steve harrington x henderson!sister reader

title 🎵: hazy shade of winter by the bangles

It’s been about a month since Vecna opened the gates to the Upside Down. A lot has changed since that fateful March night. Hawkins is almost unrecognizable now.

As the gates opened, Hawkins was rocked with a 7.4 magnitude earthquake. People died, homes were destroyed. It was so bad that the government had to bring in the Army to help deal with the fall out. They believe what happened in Hawkins was a natural disaster of near-unprecedented scale, but you know the truth. There was nothing natural about it…

Since the gates expanded throughout town, the Upside Down has been slowly seeping into the real world. It’s invading Hawkins. People are fleeing in droves and you don’t blame them.

You’ve changed a lot too. Before Vecna, you were looking forward to leaving Hawkins and going off to college. Now that feels like a lifetime ago. You aren’t going anywhere anymore. Things are getting bad in Hawkins and you want to be close to your mom and your little brother, Dustin, during this time.

You and the rest of the party lost the battle against Vecna. You feel partially responsible and now you feel like it's your job to clean up the mess Vecna made. Vecna may have won the battle when he opened the gates, but the war has just begun. You are not leaving town until the gates are closed and threats from the Upside Down are gone for good.

Your boyfriend, Steve, feels the same way. You and Steve had talked about getting out of Hawkins before everything happened. But now he’s just as committed as you to stay behind and help save Hawkins. You’re so grateful to have Steve by your side. He makes you feel safe.

Even though the world is ending, the show must go on. Your life didn’t completely stop because of Vecna. You’re still moving forward and hitting big milestones, like graduating high school. Today was Graduation Day for Hawkins High. You’re happy and excited that school’s out, but with everything else going on, it didn’t feel like a big deal like it was supposed to.

The graduation ceremony was weird. A lot of people fled town before the school year ended so you only graduated with about half of your class. But at least you had Steve, Dustin and your mom in the stands cheering you on. There were memorials for Chrissy Cunningham, Jason Carver and Patrick McKinney. Sadly but not surprisingly, Eddie wasn’t even mentioned. He should’ve been walking across that stage with you and the rest of class of ‘86.

After Graduation, you went out for a celebratory meal with Steve, Dustin and your mom. Then you and Steve went off to do your own thing.

You’re currently lying on the hood of Steve’s car, stargazing. It’s something that you and Steve used to do all the time. You fell in love under the stars. Unfortunately, you can’t really see the stars in Hawkins anymore. You’re mostly just watching spores of particles from the Upside Down falling from the sky. It reminds you of a hazy shade of winter.

“If things get any worse here, I think we should go to the planetarium next time we want to watch the stars,” you chuckle, trying to lighten the mood.

“Mhmmm,” Steve mumbles.

You look over to Steve, studying his face. You’re trying to get a read on him. You’ve noticed he’s been acting a bit off since dinner ended. He’s a lot more quiet than usual. Something is up with him.

“Steve, what’s wrong? Talk to me,” you try to get your boyfriend to open up.

Steve sighs.

“It’s nothing…. It’s just…. My parents are leaving Hawkins and putting the house up for sale,” Steve reluctantly admits.

Your jaw drops.

“What?! That doesn’t sound like nothing!” you exclaim.

“My mom and dad are moving but I’m not going anywhere,” Steve assures you.

You let out a sigh of relief. Your boyfriend continues venting.

“The worst part is that they won’t let me stay at home even though they will never be able to sell it. My asshole dad is just trying to teach me some stupid lesson…”

“When did you find out about this?” you question Steve.

“Last night,” your boyfriend answers.

“Last night!? Why didn’t you say anything earlier today?” you scrunch your forehead.

“It’s your day, Y/N. I didn’t want to make it about me,” Steve tells you.

Your heart melts a little bit. Steve is so sweet and selfless. Despite all the shit going on in his own life, he always puts you first. You snuggle up closer to your boyfriend, wrapping a protective arm across his chest.

“When are your parents leaving?” you ask with concern.

“They’re trying to leave as soon as possible so I need to find a new place like immediately,” Steve explains, “I don’t think it’s gonna be too hard. With everyone leaving town, I can probably rent a whole house for pretty cheap.”

Some people who fled Hawkins put their homes up for rent because they knew they could never sell it. Most of the renters are people whose homes were destroyed when the gate opened but are too poor to move out of Hawkins and completely start over.

“I don’t like the thought of you being all alone,” you say with a quiet seriousness in your voice.

Steve takes a deep breath and nods, understanding. He can tell that you’re worried. He’s trying to figure out the right words to say, and then-

“I wouldn’t be alone if you moved in with me…”

You pull away from Steve and sit up. You’re in a bit of shock. You weren’t expecting that.

“Huh?”

“I think we should move in together,” Steve repeats with more confidence

Your eyes widen.

“Are you serious? Like we’d live in a house that we both live in?”

Steve nods.

“Yeah. I mean, I’m sneaking over to your place like every other night anyways. Moving in together will mean less sneaking around,” he tries to convince you.

“But I thought you liked sneaking around. You’re stealthy like a ninja, remember?” you tease.

“Just think about it, Y/N! We’ll get a little place in Hawkins and we’ll figure it out. We can be like real grown ups. It would be our house. No stress, no parents. A place just for us,” your boyfriend says.

Just for us. That sounds perfect.

“Okay, let’s do it,” you smile.

Steve’s face lights up.

“Really?”

“Really,” you nod before pulling your boyfriend into a kiss.

You and Steve are making out on the hood of his car when-

GROWL

You and Steve stop kissing immediately as soon as you hear the growls in the distance. You two exchange knowing looks. You have no idea if it's just an animal or a far more sinister creature from the Upside Down, but neither you or Steve want to stick around and find out.

“I think we should get out of here,” Steve tells you.

“Yeah,” you nod your head in agreement.

Steve jumps off the hood of the car and offers his hand. You take your boyfriend’s hand and he helps you off the hood. Steve opens the car door on the passenger’s side and you quickly get in. Steve closes your door and looks around, making sure that nothing is trying to sneak up on the two of you. Then he goes around to the driver’s side and gets in the car.

As Steve drives away, you can’t help but be a little bummed that your moment of bliss was interrupted by a terrible reminder that you’ve still got a lot of shit to deal with…

#stranger things #steve harrington #stranger things fanfic #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x henderson!sister reader

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ladylooch · 5 months ago

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Afterthoughts & Accountability [Liv X Luca]

A/N: I want you all to know, in advance, that I really hurt myself writing this one. I apologize… Um… I’m still crying so, read at your own risk AND REMEMBER THAT WE ALREADY KNOW THEY GET MARRIED SO DO NOT COME FOR ME OKAY LOVE YOU BYE.

Shoutout to @casualhilarity who has ready exactly 4 versions of this chapter that I hated until I got to this point. I literally would have given up without you, so here is the final version you never got to read 😂

Word Count: 4.7k

Part 1 | Part 2| Part 4

(Luca)

Pump It by the Black Eyed Peas booms from a concerning decibel inside USB arena where Luca Fiala stretches out his left hamstring. He moves from a knee bend to a full extension, skate blade pointing up towards the fans to his left. Over in that group of fans is the love of his life, Livia Meier. She stands unassuming with other fans, bopping her head ever so slightly to the beat. Luca grins. He glances over his left shoulder, switching legs. Across the redline, Ryder Hughes stretches in a similar position with a few of his teammates.

“Ry, why is your girl over there? And wearing green?”

"Yeah, usually she is in Isles blue.” Luca pauses with his eyes on that guy, taking in his smirk. Ryder keeps his eyes trained on the ice, ignoring seemingly everyone.

“Hey 86.” Luca tilts his chin up at Ryder when he gets back to a standing position.

“2s.” Ryder acknowledges then rushes off to rip a shot on the goalie.

Luca takes a similar trajectory, but winks at Liv every lap he takes. He loves seeing the pink blush fill her cheeks at his attention. He hates that he has to leave right after the game. He will only have time for a hug and a smooch before he needs to join his team on the bus. Okay, maybe two kisses.

As one of the last ones to get off the ice, Luca peers over at the opposing team. Him and Ryder are the last two to get off. Luca won’t be giving in first. The Hughes boy flips one more shot at the net, then skates towards the opposing team’s tunnel. The entire skate, Ryder’s eyes remain on Liv. An uneasy feeling trolls down Luca’s spine. There is something about that look that doesn’t sit right with him.

But he has a game to play.

Luca always gets antsy when he is part of the starting line up. In opposing arenas, he can’t help but chuckle at the boos raining down when they hear his name. He swivels back and forth on his skates, looking up at the rafters. He goes through his pre-game visionary exercises, picturing exactly how he wants the game to go. He loves playing in front of Liv. He wants to score a goal or two tonight for her. He might even toss a celebration her way in the form of a bow and arrow.

But from the moment the puck drops, the whole game feels off. Luca is getting constant shoves in the back and hard checks from the opposing team. Nothing he can’t shake off, but it rocks him off his initial game plan. Then, the comments start. It’s light razzing at first.

“Minnesota boy in the big city.”

“You speak English, Fiala?”

“Heads up, shrimp dick!”

Luca chuckles confidently at that one. No way that is true. But in the second period, the theme shifts.

“Livy looks better in our colors.”

“Your girl fits in perfectly with our WAGS. Might just keep her.”

“You’re so fucking ugly, no wonder Hughesy is dating your girl on the side.”

That one makes Luca stare 33 down over his shoulder. He is wearing a full face shield and has dark black stitches diagonally across his cheek.

“What did you say?” The guy starts to repeat himself. Luca cuts him off. “What? Can’t hear you through that fish tank, pal.” Luca chirps back then makes a fishy mouth at him. He smirks as he heads off the ice.

But next time 33 is out there with Luca, he ups the ante.

“Livy Hughes has a great ring to it.” 33 chuckles as he skates back to the home bench for the TV timeout. Luca grabs a water bottle, squiring some in his mouth. He watches the opposing bench, zeroing in on Ryder as he steps out for the next play. Luca decides it’s time to take this taunting up with the source.

“Real cute having your teammates heckle me about my girlfriend, Hughesy.”

“I didn’t tell them to say shit. You’re the one who told Livy not to speak to me.” Luca laughs, genuinely. First he is hearing of this.

“I’ve never said that. If she isn’t speaking to you, it’s something you did.” Luca rests his weight on his stick, preparing for the face-off. Ryder scoffs.

“She asked me to stay the night. I was going to go home.”

The ref blows the whistle. Luca’s mind stutters like he slammed into a brick wall. The puck drops. It takes Luca three whole seconds to react. Then he is off, rejoining the play as an Islander’s defenseman pushes the rush into the Wild end. A rocket is launched from Luca’s guy, his positioning is off, and the puck ends up in the back of the net.

“Fuck!” Luca yells, hitting the puck into the back boards in frustration. Ryder is the last to leave the celebration. “Hey!” Luca screams at him. “What the fuck do you mean you stayed the night?”

“She was upset about the publisher thing and I was just trying to be there for her because you can’t be. She didn’t want to be alone.” His girlfriend’s lies spill out of another man’s mouth.

Publisher thing? He doesn’t know anything about that. Luca feels completely out of control. All the anger and confusion burst out of him in the form of slapping his stick onto the ice.

“Let’s go.” Luca snaps, shaking off his gloves. He springs forward, grabbing Ryder’s blue jersey and landing the first punch. Ryder is knocked off balance. He struggles to shed his gloves, ducking each one of Luca’s punches as best he can. Luca is in such a fit of rage, he doesn’t notice his knuckles cracking open and bleeding with each hit of them against the blue helmet. Luca shakes the collar of Ryder’s jersey, mad that he isn’t connecting with Ryder’s face.

This punk ass bitch is going to make a move on his girlfriend and think he can get away with it? He’s going to act like he was doing Luca a favor when he was weaseling his way in between him and Liv? Luca’s fist is gonna righten that wrong. Luca shakes Ryder again.

“Square up!” Luca screams at the other player. He wants a fair fight.

Ryder hits Luca in the cheek, then pulls back, exposing himself for a returned favor. They battle, growing tired, but throwing blows like it’s old school hockey. Luca won't relent. Ryder steps up to the challenge continuously until Luca’s 15 pounds wins out and he throws Ryder onto his back. He kneels on top of him, rage in his brown eyes as he looks down at Ryder’s bleeding cheek.

“Wuss.” Luca scoffs.

“Fuck you.” Ryder snaps, shaking off the refs hand on him. “It’s not my fault you weren’t here for her!”

“I should have never trusted you!” Ryder skates towards him, but the ref grabs his jersey again.

“Boys! Get in the box!”

“I didn’t mean to fall in love with her.” Ryder’s voice is sincere, aching. “Loving her while she loves you is way fucking worse than anything you can do to me out here.”

Luca glides off the ice into the penalty box. The crowd roars in appreciation for their nightly entertainment. A few teammates bring the rest of his equipment over, giving him stick taps on his shin pads.

“Good tilt, FiFi!”

“Hell of a fight, Fifs!”

“Yeahhhh luuuuuuuc!”

Luca doesn’t respond. He is too busy trying to catch his breath and stop the fragmenting of his heart in his chest.

Luca looks up to where he knows Liv is sitting. His shoulder pads rise and fall with his heavy breathing as he works them back into place. He can see her from here, laying over her thighs, hugging her knees as she looks in his general direction. He shakes his head, going back to wiping off his visor, thinking the same thought over and over again:

How could she?

- - -

(Liv)

A whole world of production moves around Liv, completely oblivious to the turmoil within her body. She isn’t sure what she just witnessed on the ice but it couldn’t of been a hockey game between her boyfriend and friend. Because down on the ice in front of 18,000 people, Luca beat the shit out of the Hughes kid.

Liv’s arms have been wrapped around her body since she saw Luca angrily turn towards Ryder after the first Islander’s goal. He seemed to lose it out of nowhere. They had been talking before the face-off and suddenly, after the goal, Luca was dropping his gloves. A wariness has Liv’s eyes shifting to both sides of her for either boy coming down to greet her. She wasn’t expecting Ryder tonight, but she isn’t naive enough to think he won’t show now.

As if on queue, he appears between a sea of event and security staff. They seem to part for him so he can see her standing alone next to a white pillar. Ryder comes strolling across the large space towards her. Liv glances anxiously over her shoulder the opposite direction where Luca would be coming from. She has no idea how to handle this. Will the tension from before spill over off the ice?

“Hi.” Liv greets him. She grimaces at the laceration on his cheek. It is red and angry, covered by a liquid gel to seal it.

“You didn’t tell him.”

“What?”

“You didn’t tell him I stayed over.”

“I… No.” Liv shakes her head. “I was going to, but there was never a good time.”

“He knows now.”

“What!” Horror spills onto her face, dropping her bottom jaw open.

“I told him, accidentally. Because I figured there was no way you would not have told him. You tell him everything. But then I thought, maybe you didn’t because you felt something?” His eyes rapidly search hers. Liv’s blue eyes widen nervously.

“Ryder, I haven’t been able to talk to Luca yet.” She shakes her head. “I’ve been trying to tell him, but we haven’t been able to have a phone or in person conversation. That’s it.” She can see him collapse inward at the truth.

“Livy…” Obvious emotion clouds his eyes. “I can’t. I can’t do this. I can’t be friends with you anymore. Not like this.” The words tumble out like he is desperately clawing for relief. “I think I need some space.”

“Ry.”

“No, you don’t have to say anything. You were right, I shouldn’t have ruined this.” He closes his eyes, Adam's apple bobbing hard as he swallows. “But I thought…” He shakes his head. He glances to the left, seeing Luca charging towards them. Ryder is not interested in a second fight, so he backs away, giving Liv an apologetic look as he goes. Liv furrows her eyebrows then turns towards her boyfriend. She can’t read his face, which frustrates her further. Hot turmoil sears against the cavity of her chest as she replays what happened on the ice tonight.

“Hey, wanna tell me what’s going on?” Liv pauses, pushing her lips for a moment and drawing in a deep breath through her nose.

“Sure, do you have time for me?”

“Oh that’s fucking hilarious.” Luca spits at her. “Do you have time? Might need to go catch up with your little fuck buddy over there.” Liv balks, blinking in shock at his words and tone.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. So how was he Livy? Was he so much better than me? Did he make you wetter? Did he stroke you just right with his tongue to wake you up in the morning? Did he make you cum harder?”

“Luca.” Liv snaps, grabbing his wrists to pull him out of his rambling. He turns her hands over, taking control by gripping hers in his tightly, holding her in place.

“Tell me all about it. I’m all ears.” He is seething, shaking even as he tries to keep her still, looking him in the eye.

“Nothing happened!” She insists, feeling panicked. This is not how she wanted him to find out. She wanted it to be a conversation about what happened and why and how they could move forward from this. She has needs he isn’t meeting and as much as Ryder has tried to fill in for him, he isn’t and will never be Luca.

“Nothing happened but I’m hearing about this in front of 18,000 people while I’m beating the shit out of your most recent lay?”

“Luca, how many times do I have to say this. We did not have sex!”

“Ryder said he stayed over and that he is in love with you. All his fucking teammates are calling you his girl. But sure, I totally believe you. What is happening!” He says incredulously, eyes searching hers. What he is looking for, Liv can’t be sure, but she knows he can see her agony swimming in the blue orbs she got from her father. “Are you in love with him, baby?” The pet name he loves to drawl out to her is short and painful this time. Tears rush into Liv’s water line.

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me. Not when the stakes are this high.”

“I haven’t lied to you at all! I’ve been trying to tell you! As per usual, everything else is more important than me!” Luca scoffs, disgusted.

“Nothing is more important than you!” Luca yells, tightening his grasp on her hands again.

“Then why don’t I feel that way!?” Liv screams back at him, losing her cool completely. People look, staring in concern at the couple who grips at each other both lovingly and angrily.

Liv’s cheeks are flaming red, blue eyes wet with tears and hard with distress. He is right here, clutching her hands but Luca, her Luca, seems a million miles way. Her chest rises and falls quickly as she tries to steady herself. She didn’t mean to yell, didn’t want to either, but he wasn’t letting her get a word in. She needed to be heard. Luca slowly straightens back up. One by one, his fingers fall away from her hands.

“Are you saying this is my fault?”

“No.” Liv shakes her head, responding quietly. “I didn’t cheat on you.” She says shakily. “Yes, Ryder came over. Yes, he slept over in the same bed as me. But that is all. We slept. He left in the morning. I called you to try and tell you and I texted you. I didn’t want to tell you over a text. I wanted to have a conversation, but so many other things have come up with our schedules. So now you found out this way and I’m sorry about that, but you have some part in that too.”

Luca grins, a wicked and angry curl to his upper lip.

“Okay, I’ll be sure to make myself more available next time you want to tell me you’re fucking someone else on the side.” Liv closes her eyes, wincing at the judgmental and accusatory tone of his words.

“Nothing happened.” She reiterates to him.

“Bullshit, Livy. Bullshit nothing happened!” He snaps. “Why did you ask him to stay!?”

How could she tell him why? How could she tell him that the loneliness and unworthiness had created a gaping hole in her chest and she wasn’t sure how she could survive the night alone? How could she tell him about all the ways that Ryder shows up for her when Luca isn’t? How could she tell him how much he is falling short when they’re supposed to be forever? She’s never done this before, but as much as this is all breaking his heart, she thinks these next words might hurt more.

“Because he cared enough about me to show up. And I haven’t been getting that from you.”

“Wow.” Luca steps back, shoving his hands into his pocket. He looks over Liv’s shoulder, jaw becoming cemented together as he considers. “Maybe Ryder isn’t the only one to catch feelings here.” Luca accuses.

No matter how hard Liv tries not to, she can’t help but look away at such a pointed statement.

The pause between them is long. Too long for Luca to believe her when she gently shakes her head no. Her blue eyes return to his. Luca curls his hands up into fists, looking completely blindsided by this entire interaction. His chest heaves like he is still battling on the ice. Liv feels like a truck went straight through her body, destroying everything inside of her before it continues on like the rest of the world around them.

“Fiala!” A member of the Wild organization calls out. “Bus is leaving in 5!” The team is flying back to Minnesota and has a short turn around to make their flight before their pilots time out for the evening. He can’t stay any longer.

Tears fill Liv’s eyes as she scrambles for the right words to say in her brain. The wheels spin and spin and spin like a hamster on a wheel but all she comes up with is:

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.” She pathetically shakes her head and shrugs sullenly.

“Fuck.” Luca yelps. He stands up straight, shifting his weight from foot to foot incredulously. He stares at her, brown eyes filling with sadness as he takes in her face. He bites his lip anxiously then opens his mouth to speak. “I gotta go.” Liv nods like she understands because she does. She always does.

With nothing more, Luca turns and walks away.

There is no hug and kiss.

There is no “I love you”.

There is no “I’ll call you when I get home.”

All that exists is the staff cleaning up after the game.

Families from the home team greeting each other.

And Luca Fiala walking away from her without looking back.

- - -

Three days. 72 hours. 4,320 Minutes. 259,200 seconds.

The exact amount of time it has been since Luca Fiala left New York City on a Delta flight back to Minneapolis. ¾ of that time, Livia Meier has been confined to her bed. She has cried loudly, silently, achingly, and numbly. None of the droplets that rolled down her cheeks alleviated the pain in her heart.

Her cheeks sting from the wetness as fresh ones roll down from her swollen eyes. She lays on her side, staring out at the flakes that fall outside of her window. It was bitterly cold this weekend. Or at least it seems to have been by the frost collecting on the window. Liv wouldn’t really know. She hasn’t left her apartment since she went to the game. Her phone lights up, showing the notification she got from Luca a half hour ago.

I’ll call you when I get back from practice.

That message is the first she has received from Luca since Wednesday. A simple text with no emotion, no inclination of what is going to happen when they connect virtually. Liv wants to get herself presentable for the call. But gathering the strength to get up and into the shower has felt impossible for the last hour. She knows her time is running out.

Under the harsh, hot spray of the shower head, Liv allows the water to consume her face. She scrubs at her irritated skin with a gentle face wash. As she does the basic steps of bathing, she continues to stop and let the water roll over her skin, seeking relief. New tears join the fresh water. Liv gives up, turning the shower off and getting out. She goes through her routine robotically, moisturizing and detangling, opting to skip the makeup because her skin is already irritated enough.

She forces herself to eat a granola bar and drink a cup of coffee while waiting for his call to come through. She is on her second, apathetic bite of food when the FaceTime ring disturbs her apartment. Her reflection morphs with the picture of them this past summer in Switzerland after brunch with her parents. They look so happy; a stark contrast from her current situation.

“Hi.” Livy answers.

“Hey.” He responds. His face has an angry set to it. “Did Ryder just leave?” He snips at her arms crossed over his chest tightly. He looks huge. Liv thought that at the game too. It’s clear he has spending a lot of time in the weight room this season, getting his body to where it needs to be. Normally, she would be drooling over it. Now it just makes her sad she doesn’t have those arms around her, protecting her from all of this.

“Okay, we got that out of the way. Do you feel better?” She asks, irritation making her eye twitch three times before she presses her finger to stop it.

“No.” He shrugs his big shoulders. Liv sighs. She really doesn’t want to fight. She wants to talk to him and find a path forward.

“I understand that you are angry and you want to make this about Ryder. But this isn’t about him. It’s about us and all the ways that we are not working right now. He is a symptom of the problem.”

“What’s not working? On my end, everything has been fine.”

“That’s also part of the problem, Luca. I’m over here drowning and you think everything is fine. I feel like, everything in your life is so much more important than me. Like we barely talk now when you’re on the road. You go hours without answering my texts. You don’t call when you say you will anymore. I have been feeling so lost and unimportant.” Luca runs a hand over his days old stubble. He contemplates before responding.

“I appreciate you sharing with me how you were feeling, but the time to do that was before you invited someone else into your bed with you. I can’t get over that right now. Nor can I look past the fact that you didn’t tell me; he did.” Liv gasps, shaking her head furiously.

“That’s not fair, I tried to call you that night and several times the next day. Things came up and suddenly you’re hearing about it from Ryder. This isn’t just on me.” Luca rolls his eyes.

“Liv, take some accountability here.”

“I am! It shouldn’t have happened in the first place, I acknowledge that. It was inappropriate. But don’t sit there and act like I didn't try to make this right. You didn’t have time for me. You were with the team and at practice and at a concert and I was supposed to what, Luca? Fucking text you? And pray for an answer?” She can feel herself losing the battle to not cry. She takes in a deep breath, looking up to collect her tears on her finger tips before they fall down her cheeks. “I apologize for how this happened. I apologize for being inappropriate and crossing boundaries with a friend. That is not okay. I own that. But that is all he is to me. A friend.”

Luca visibly relaxes after that, nodding his head. He uncrosses his arms, leaning back more towards the camera like he is ready to engage in the conversation.

“I’m sorry for Wednesday night. I was really upset and reacted poorly. I said some crude and mean statements to you. I’m sorry for that. That type of behavior isn’t okay and it won’t happen again.” Liv nods.

“I appreciate your apology.” She says genuinely.

“I’m sorry I didn’t make time for you.” He whispers, getting soft and vulnerable with her. “A lot of things feel not… normal right now, including my position with the team. But I thought we were fine, so it was easy to brush you off because…” He trails off, shaking his head. “I thought you’d be okay with it.” He looks her over. “I can see now that it isn’t okay and I’ll do better at making an effort. You deserve that, babe.”

Liv feels the knot in her throat grow. From hearing that he willingly pushed her aside. From the realization that he has done this in the past and she’s allowed it. From the negative ways it effects her and how she has responded so poorly this time. She feels ashamed for all the previous instances she has allowed this behavior that brought them here, where it now feels like a mountain to climb instead of a bump in the road.

“That’s really hard to hear.” She says, trying to clear her throat so she speaks clearly. “Like I felt that way, but hearing you say that sucks.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Luca looks at her regretfully through the phone. “So where do we go from here?”

As much as she wants to, Livy knows she can’t forget about what has transpired in the last few weeks. She can’t go back to pretending that her and Luca are perfect. That there has been no tension or no underlying issues that lead to what happened with Ryder. Partly because it’s burned into her brain, but also because if they still have a chance at the future they have been dreaming of, it can’t be on the foundation of this unsteady ground. Her eyes tear up again, knowing what she has to do.

“I think we should take some time apart.” She responds sadly, keeping her eyes on the counter. Heavy silence takes over the line. When she gathers the courage to look at Luca, she can see the tears in his eyes. His hand is over his mouth, pointer finger slightly pushing his nose up. When his tears fall, he pushes his hat off his head and runs a hand through his hair. He looks to his right, towards the window Liv knows looks out at the city. She swallows hard, wanting to say more but not trusting herself to speak clearly.

“That’s what you think is best?” She nods, tears falling down her cheeks, dripping onto her t-shirt. Her chin wobbles hard which makes Luca sigh heavier, clearly upset by her reaction. “Livy, I never meant to make you feel that way, baby. I’m so sorry.” He starts so say. “I don’t want to lose you. I love you so much.” His voice cracks when he says he loves her.

“I don’t see how we can keep going like this, babe.” She cries. “I can’t. I’m also really hurt and maybe you don’t think I get to be, but I am. I’m not happy with how things are and I-I need some time to figure out what I need in a relationship. I feel like this is how I can be accountable to myself and to you.” Luca drops his face into his hands. When his shoulders shake, Liv thinks she might fall off the chair from how badly her heart crumbles in the wreckage of what they were.

The hardest part? It’s not that she doesn’t love him. It would be so much easier if she didn’t. But she loves him too much for things to continue this way. For them to fade away into nothing while she tries to figure out who she wants to be and what she needs and how to ask for it.

Liv’s tears begin to fall faster. They cry together on the phone, sobbing to each other how much they love one another.

They’re shredding apart at the seams.

But Liv feels more loved by Luca in this moment, as he gives her the space to be free, than she has in the previous six months of their relationship.

Maybe that’s a sign she should be running faster and farther from him than she is.

Instead, Livy feels like they’re more meant to be than she’s ever believed before.

Read more Liv and Luca here.

#liv x luca #hockey writing #NHL imagine #nhl fan fiction

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haveyouseenthishorrormovie · 8 months ago

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*breaks fingers* Let's go, mod Sus' rant on 247°F (2011)

Talking from the viewpoint of a finnish person, while the movie itself is American, and no I haven't actually watched this one but I did read the plot summary and watch a little bit for proper arguments.

TLDR: Characters are freaking idiots and physics don't work in this world, apparently.

For the reference, 247° fahrenheit is about ~120° celcius. So yes we're talking about hot sauna. I personally can stand 100°C for a while at best but anyways.

I guess we could start by inspecting the sauna itself first. It's supposedly electric sauna (which, it doesn't even look like a proper one but more spa/steam sauna than an actual good one) but also with this large rock pillar stove in the middle of RELATIVELY LARGE ROOM. With no leveled up seats, just one seats on same level + you could sit on the backrests for more space and height I guess. Compare that to actual proper finnish sauna:

This is a bit of a mix of modern and traditional sauna but only by the looks. Pay attention to seats on different levels, you want to have seats near the ceilings because that's where it's the hottest. Hot air raises up so it's cooler at the floor level, if not even very cold after getting used to the temperature at standing level.

Now the stove in the movie is supposedly the kind you throw water onto to release the steam and more heat. And here comes the fun part. In the beginning, they set the temperature to 187° F AKA ~86° C???? AND THEN THEY SAY IT'S "CRAZY HOT"???? IN THIS VERY LARGE ROOM WHERE HEAT SPREADS OUT A TON? BITCH THAT PLACE IS COLD and they act like they're already toasting in there???? Weak ass americans. AND THEY DIDN'T EVEN TOSS WATER ONTO STOVE BEFORE THAT, they have just this one huge heat source in the middle of LARGE ROOM that's like WARM at best??? You're supposedly to throw water on that thing, or otherwise it'd be same as you'd just stand next to a hot cooking stove. You don't even start sweating properly without the steam which helps with the heat releasing from your body. You're just cooking yourself with that thing.

Okay, so just? Turn off the electric heater (which becomes a major plot point of the movie, so that's not an option here for some reason?), and don't toss water onto stove. LAY DOWN ON THE FREAKING FLOOR??? WHERE IT'S COOLEST OR EVEN COLD BECAUSE IT'S ASSUMINGLY MARBLE/ROCK/WHATEVER FLOOR. Sure if the average temperature in the room is 247°F aka ~120°C it is hot, but it's still cooler at floor level far away from the stove.

And speaking of the heater. At first I thought it was like, they set the heater to get hotter and hotter on purpose but why would you do that if you can't handle shit??? I guess the thermosthat malfunctions or some shit or because the heat keeps rising??? That's not how electronics work as far as I'm aware but suspend my disbelief I guess. I can't tell too much what the characters decide to do without spoilers but let's say they're all massive idiots with their choices. This is all on them. (BTW if this was a traditional wood-heated sauna, just stop putting more logs in the fire, lol).

Okay, let's assume it's all because uh physics broke or something. It's getting hot in there. You got a small window there, and even in trailer we see characters manage to break it. But apparently??? THE HEAT DOESN'T ESCAPE ENOUGH FROM IT???? WHAT. You can this huge room with one heat source, it's cold outside, and the heat still doesn't escape enough to make it more managable in there or at least near the window to cool them off??? Physics, hello???

Like legit the entire point of the movie is it's getting too hot in there but there's so many things that help you to stay cool in there until something gets fixed. The characters aren't even drunk which would've made this so much more belieable because alcohol is probably the main reason (aside sudden health problems like cardiac arrest) people would die in saunas because they pass out in there. But no, this is just idiot characters being idiots.

Also take your freaking clothes off, cowards. You can't even call yourself a sauna movie if there's no bare butts and peenors and natural hanging booba in non-sexual bathing setting through entire movie smh.

#mod sus #not a poll

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zeciex · 5 months ago

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A Vow of Blood - 86

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 86: A Vow of Fire and Blood

AO3 - Masterlist

The incessant ringing in Daenera’s ears drowned out the clamor of the throne room, its persistence mimicking the relentless crash of ocean waves against rocky shores. A debilitating nausea twisted through her, churning in the pit of her stomach as she forced herself to remain poised and unyielding. Her eyes, sharp and blurry, swept across the gathered nobles–a sea of faces etched with varying expressions.

Her thoughts churned like a turbulent sea, threatening to engulf her from within. Aegon’s voice reverberated in her mind, each word a piercing echo of cruelty and mockery. His taunts were deliberate, designed to provoke and inflict pain-–‘what did you say, brother? You feed him to your dragon and you’ll feed the rest of them to Vhagar as well now that she has gotten a taste for bastards?’

Whatever Aemond had once claimed about what happened in the skies above Shipbreaker Bay now seemed a faint echo to the harsh truth laid out by Aegon’s cruel words–a bitter truth that sliced through Daenera more sharply than she had anticipated. It gnawed at the already tattered remnants of her heart, for had he not claimed, with a voice bordering on repentance, that it had not been his intention to kill her brother? That he had never meant for it to happen?

Had that confession been nothing but a lie? Was his semblance of remorse merely a facade crafted to soothe the sting of his actions?

Aemond’s face bore no sign of regret or guilt as he was being celebrated for his deed. Instead, Aemond maintained a composed, chilling demeanor. The corner’s of his lips were slightly upturned in what was almost a smirk, his eye sharp and discerning, as he bore the weight of what he had done with his head held high. And somehow, this managed to tear even more at the remnants of her heart–betrayed by love for someone more beast than man.

Daenera swallowed hard, her throat parched as she clenched her teeth, her eyes brimming with tears she refused to let fall. She fought to maintain his composure, even as her heart pounded loudly, its beats echoing in her ears like the relentless drum of war. The turmoil within her threatened to spill over, yet she held herself steady, by driving her nails into his hand–she could almost hear the crack of thunder in the depths of her mind and the haunting sound of wings beating against the tumultuous winds as her brother attempted to flee. The sharp, metallic taste of despair lingered on her tongue, as she thought of the terror her brother must have felt, and for a fleeting moment between heartbeats, Daenera thought she caught sight of him among the gathered guests–his dark curls matted and sticking to his skin, his pale blue eyes, flecked with hints of brown, catching hers. His skin appeared ghostly pale as if he had emerged from water, watching her with a deep frown. He was there, and then, he was gone.

Was there even anything left of him for her mother to find? The thought lodged itself like some terrible blade driven between her ribs, twisting and burrowing deeper with each passing moment. She could only imagine her mother’s agony, scouring the rugged coastline of Shipbreaker Bay, her eyes scanning every cliff and rock, her pleas directed at the stormy, unforgiving sea to relinquish what remained of her son. She imagined her mother’s despair, begging the waves to return even a trace of him so she could be certain, so she could properly lay him to rest.

‘A bastard in life, a Velaryon in death.’

The words reverberated in her mind, a haunting refrain amidst the cruel taunts of Aegon, who seemed to revel in her torment.

Laughter filled the grand hall, an echo of heartless mirth that mingled with the clinking of glasses and the swell of music, and Daenera felt as though she was going to be sick. They toasted the death of her brother as if it were a cause for celebration–a grand feast, complete with wine and song, treating his demise with a festivity that suggested his life had been devoid of any worth, as if his death were deserved.

Aemond was a monster, and Aegon, sharing in the revelry, was no different. None of them were. They had usurped her mother’s throne, they had killed Joyce and Darvin, they had hung Kevan and Sithric. They still held Fenrick, Eddin and Patrick in the dungeons, pawns to be used against her. They had coldly murdered Lord Beesbury and Lord Caswell for refusing to bend the knee. They had conspired, stolen and murdered to put a monster on the throne. And now, they exalted the slaying of her brother as if it were a heroic deed, celebrating his killer as though he had won a great battle. But it was neither great nor a battle. It was murder. What chance did a mere boy have against a dragon like Vhagar?

Every cheer, every toast added weight to her condemnation. They were all complicit, every last one of them–and the Greens most of all. Daenera damned them, her heart seething with rage and despair.

Daenera stood abruptly from her seat, unable to remain any longer. Her voice trembled, tinged with emotion as she excused herself, “If you’ll excuse me, I fear I have worn myself out.”

Aemond immediately rose to his feet as she did, a frown etching itself onto his brow as he watched her intently. His hand stretched out towards her, pausing mid-air to reveal shallow cuts across the palm of his hand, and the bruising indent of her nails on the surface of it, “Let me escort you to your chambers…”

“No,” Daenera responded coolly, her eyes fixing upon him with a chilling detachment. He still bore the visage of the boy she had once loved, yet now he seemed nothing more than a monster disguised in the remnants of that past affection. “This feast is in your honor; you shouldn’t leave. I have Edelin, she will escort me back.”

His reaction was immediate; his jaw clenched, muscles tensing as he gritted his teeth. He looked away, clearly stung by her rejection. Daenera turned her back on him, her movements graceful and deliberate as she gathered the heavy fabric of her skirts and moved around the table, descending the few steps from the dias and onto the floor.

Daenera drifted into the shadows cast by the columns, skirting the edges of the throne room where the dim light enfolded her like a shroud. Lacking the strength or inclination to take the same way back from which she had come, moving through the festivities, she chose a path less noticeable, one that avoided piercing through the throng of revelers. The thought of every eye upon her, scrutinizing her trembling form, was unbearable. It was already enough to have his gaze on her–she had felt it from the moment she had entered the throne room. His gaze had lingered on her, skimming across her skin like a gentle caress, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake. Once a thrilling sensation, it now felt invasive, as sharp and unwelcome as a cold blade pressed against her throat. She had refused to meet his gaze, fearing what she might find there–feared finding the cold cruelty of his mask, more monster than man. Or worse, she feared that if she looked at him, she might find some semblance of warmth there, a flicker of something once familiar–something terrible and loving. It had been almost a relief to find the mask he wore with such seamless perfection that Daenera had been left wondering if his visage of steel and ice was not a mask at all but rather his true self, sculpted to slice through whatever lay in his path. She had once believed she could see beneath his mask of steel, foolishly finding something genuine and tender lurking beneath. But had there ever truly been anything there other than the darkness?

As Daenera retreated into the shadows, she could feel his gaze trailing her every move, its weight cruelly tearing at her heart. The sensation was disquieting–and she loathed it, despised the way her heart still responded, still tore itself apart under the burden of his attention.

Daenera’s heart seethed with hatred. She hated Aemond for murdering her brother, for the lies he had woven with such ease, each one a silken thread that tied her hands together. She hated him for the mask he wore–if any–and she hated herself for the inability to discern where the facade ended and the man began–if there was a man at all beneath the facade. She hated him for the deep, aching pain that gnawed at her day and night, for the accolades he received with smug arrogance, as though self satisfied. She hated him for ensnaring her heart, for making her love him.

But above all, amidst the swirling tempest of her hatred, a dark, insidious thread wove itself through–the hatred she harbored against herself for still feeling, for still aching, for still loving the shadow of a man who might never have existed at all. She hated herself for it, and this self-loathing gnawed at her as deeply as any betrayal.

Amidst the tumult of her thoughts and emotions, which threatened to shatter her fragile composure, a figure suddenly blocked her path. The man, tall and lean, was adorned in a dark green robe edged with black fur lapels, his chest bearing the sigil of the Hand of the King. Otto Hightower stood draped in the shadows cast by the revelry, his gaze imposing as he looked down at her, effectively halting her retreat. His voice, carrying a measured weight, broke through her thoughts. “Princess…”

As Daenera faced the man whose machinations had brought them to this, she clenched her jaw tightly, struggling to maintain her composure. A strained breath escaped her as she fought to keep her voice steady, her fingers curling into fists at her sides while a surge of bile burned in her chest. His discerning eyes wept over her with a cold, meticulous gaze, always analyzing, always assessing.

“I offer my condolences for your brother,” Otto began, his voice low and even, stepping forward with deliberate calm, his hands clasped behind his back. “It is a shame, had your mother agreed to our generous terms, it would never have come to this. Your brother would still be alive and the heir to Driftmark.”

Daenera’s voice was sharp with scorn as she addressed Otto, her eyes wide with indignation and disbelief. “Do not lay the blame at my mother’s feet for the actions of your grandson. He has marked himself a kinslayer, and that stain is his alone to bear. And don’t dare pretend that the terms you offered were anything but a mummer’s farce.” She paused, her gaze cutting through the space between them. “Do you truly think the realm is blind to your machinations? That it will not see through your schemes? That it will not condemn him?” Her hand swept towards the ongoing celebration, where the clamor of conversation melded seamlessly with the lull of festive music. “Condemn you for celebrating the death of a child, honoring the very man who murdered him.”

“And yet, it seems we are not the only ones who may face condemnation,” Otto replied, his gaze steely and chillingly calculating–filled with intent. “You’ve made a spectacle of yourself, and your attendance here will not go unnoticed by the realm.”

Daenera’s hand glided down the bodice of her dress, fingers tracing the cool, beaten metal of the dragon adorning it. The head of the dragon nestled snugly against her lower abdomen, its wings sweeping up to her shoulders and tapering to gleaming points just past them. The dress was elaborate and elegant, crafted from a heavy fabric designed to fall in perfect, graceful drapes around her form. It was dramatic and to that effect, was why she had chosen it–because of the spectacle it made of her.

“My mother’s colors are not only black,” Daenera asserted. They were also red. While the Hightowers had seen to the removal of all her black dresses, they had not thought to take the red ones as well. It was their mistake. “She will understand.”

“Will she?” Otto questioned, eyes flickering across her face. “Your grief is known–Maegor’s Holdfast has heard your cries. Yet here you are, adorned in finery, participating in the celebration. You sat by his side, holding his hand…”

The accusation twisted her stomach–that she had been there in support of him, that she had declared for Greens–draining the color from her face as dark spots danced at the edges of her vision. Through a sheen of tears, she met his gaze firmly. “My mother will know the truth of my heart.”

“Will Daemon? Will the realm?” Otto pressed, tilting his head slightly, his voice carrying a challenge.

Daenera felt a surge of nausea as the bile rose in her throat, her stomach churning–turning in on itself. A coldness nipped at her fingertips and crept up her spine, her limbs growing heavy and her chest tightening as if her ribs were constricting around her lungs. With effort, she swallowed the bile and responded with a bitter edge, “My presence will be spoken of as defiance–a spectacle. You may weave your web of lies, and some may indeed become ensnared, but the truth will stand firm; I wore red. I am the daughter of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, and I did not bow to your usurper king. The realm will recount my grief and my defiance, and it will also recount your cruelty.”

Otto inhaled thoughtfully–unconcerned–his eyes scrutinizing her intently, as if trying to peel back her skin and reveal the bloodied and broken girl beneath, and answered measuredly, “What is certain, is that you attended the celebration of your brother’s murderer. Your presence here will be noted across the realm, and whether you wore red or not, your intentions will remain in doubt–a grieving sister or a girl celebrating her betrothed…”

He stepped closer, his tone sharpening, “This is a dangerous game, Princess, one that I believe you do not fully understand. Remember, you hold no power here; you are playing on our side of the board, and it is only by our grace and mercy that you remain. I would advise you to think carefully about which… comforts you are prepared to forego, should you decide to defy us again. Or more pressingly, which of your men you are willing to sacrifice…”

With that, Otto stepped aside, making a sweeping gesture with his arm, indicating that she was free to pass. His demeanor suggested that the conversation was over, dismissing her with a finality that echoed the coldness of his warnings.

Daenera was certain that Otto would spin his web of deceit. He would craft the narrative to suggest that her presence at the feast was their decision–that it symbolized her endorsement of their regime.

Clenching her teeth tightly, Daenera forced herself forward, barely suppressing the urge to scream and expose the true depths of her grief and hatred and rage to the court–to the realm, to her mother across the sea. She managed to hold herself together, teetering precariously on the brink of madness. The abyss seemed to yawn open before her, beckoning her to succumb to its depths. It was unclear whether it was rage or grief that gnawed at her, but the sensation of unraveling was unmistakable–she felt an overwhelming sense of powerlessness envelop her.

Otto’s web, spun with masterful grace, ensnared her–tying around her lips, weaving through her intentions, and tightening its embrace with each breath she drew. She could not move without the tightening of the strings, she could not breathe as it strangled her, she could do nothing. She was lost–lost and suffocating.

Daenera's mind was a tempest, relentlessly revisiting the cascade of events that had shattered her world: from Viserys's untimely death to the usurpation of her mother’s crown, the myriad humiliations she had endured at their hands, and the grim reality of the position they had forced upon her. She agonized over all that she had lost, all that she still stood to lose, and the relentless barrage of insults and cruelty she had faced–years of mockery and taunts, years of belittling and undermining. Aegon's cruel words echoed ominously in her head, her ears pulsing with the rush of her own blood, effectively drowning out the raucous sounds of the feast.

Edelin was waiting at the doors of the throne room when Daenera emerged from the shadows cast by the columns. Her expression was tight with worry as she quickly fell into step behind Daenera. Her pace was quick, hand pressing against her bodice as she felt the harsh burn of bile rising in her esophagus, threatening to choke her.

As she moved through the dimly lit hall, her movement was silent, her footsteps absorbed by the swish of her skirts and the steady, oppressive pounding of her heart. Each step carried her further into the shadows, away from the light and laughter that seemed so grotesquely out of place, isolating her in her grief and fury.

Bile invaded her mouth, and Daenera quickly turned towards a secluded corner, away from the view of people, as she heaved, emptying her stomach onto the floor. Her body convulsed, her skin clammy and hands trembling as she braced herself against the cool stone wall. The sound of her sickness hitting the floor was harsh, and the acrid stench filled the air immediately. The ringing in her ears persisted as her stomach churned again, expelling more bile and partially digested food. Her eyes ached with the weight of unshed tears. Amidst the turmoil, she barely registered her name being called, but she felt the presence of a gentle hand at the small of her back, drawing soothing circles, comforting her with the tenderness usually afforded a child.

“Princess,” Edelin murmured, her voice laced with concern, yet it wasn’t her touch that drew Daenera’s focus. Instead, another hand gently pressed against her back, steadying her as she lifted her eyes.

“Princess,” Finan said softly, greeting her with worried eyes–gray as a gloomy day.

“I’m fine,” Daenera managed to croak, and with a trembling hand, she wiped away the residue of spite and bitterness from her lips. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she swallowed, her throat still burning from the acrid sting of stomach acid. “It’s nothing…”

“I should fetch the Maester for you, Princess,” Edelin suggested, her hands persistently soothing Daenera’s back. Her expression of concern somehow made her appear older than her age.

Swallowing hard again, and placing a hand on her unsettled stomach, Daenera answered, “No, that won’t be necessary. It’s just a minor upset, nothing serious enough to bother the Maesters with. A cup of mint tea and some crackers should help settle it, I’m sure.”

Tears of indignation and embarrassment threatened to escape as they prickled behind Daenera’s eyes. Her throat constricted as she swallowed hard, her mouth dry even as the bitter taste of bile lingered on her tongue. Her heart thudded loudly, the pulsing in her temples and the continuous whooshing in her ears contributing to her dizziness.

“Let me escort you back to your chambers, Princess,” Finan offered, his hand poised near her back–not touching, but ready to offer support if she faltered again.

“Thank you, Ser…”

“Finan Pyne, Princess,” He formally introduced himself, maintaining the pretense that they did not know each other. There was almost a palpable insistence in Finan’s posture–his silent urging for her to allow him to escort her, and perhaps, for a moment alone to speak.

“Ser Finan, that would be most kind,” Daenera accepted, feeling the weight of his unspoken plea. She then addressed the attentive Edelin. “Edelin, would you please see to cleaning up this mess? I wish to avoid any further embarrassment.”

“I am not to leave you alone, Princess,” Edelin responded, her voice tinged with hesitation. The conflict was evident in her eyes, a desire to comply with Daenera’s request despite it conflicting with prior instructions. She was kind, Daenera thought and she appreciated that, even as the girl was wary to comply–it was understandable, and showed that she was not too foolish in her kindness to be blind to the world around her.

“She won’t be alone,” Finan quickly assured, giving Edelin a comforting smile. “I will ensure the Princess’s safe return to her chambers.”

Edelin paused, considering the situation for a moment before finally relenting. “Very well, see the princess back to her chambers,” she directed Finan with surprising authority. Then, turning her gaze to Daenera, she added, “I will join you shortly and bring some tea to ease your stomach.”

Daenera expressed her gratitude to Edelin and watched cautiously as she departed, presumably to fetch a bucket and cloth to cleanse the stone of the unpleasant evidence of her sickness. The acrid smell would linger, even after being cleaned up–a minor inconvenience that time alone would erase. Beside her, Finan offered his arm, which she gratefully accepted, leaning on him for support as they moved through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep. They passed through the main doors into the cool embrace of night.

The sky was overcast, heavy clouds masking any sign of the stars or the moon, shrouding their path in darkness. The night air was crisp, biting gently at her clammy skin as they crossed the courtyard towards Maegor’s Holdfast.

“How are you?” Finan asked, his voice low to ensure their conversation remained private. As they walked, the crunch of gravel and stone beneath their feet gave way to the solid, smooth surface of the steps leading to the Holdfast.

Daenera’s expression tightened slightly, her brows furrowing as she moved up the steps, her hand clutching her skirts to avoid tripping over the heavy fabric. “Alive… if you can call this being alive.”

“It is more than what others can claim,” Finan replied, his tone equally solemn. He quickly caught the harshness of his words, adding hurriedly, “Forgive me, that was cruel of me to say.”

Daenera remained alive, yet it was a bitter mercy–if a mercy at all. She was not dead, but her existence hardly felt like a life at all. To her, it felt more a burden than a privilege at the moment. Being alive hurt, and she was so awfully tired.

“No, you’re right,” she said, her voice raw and constricted. As she swallowed, the scratchiness at the back of her throat mirrored the jab her emotions took at the reminder. “I am better off than my men…”

I am better off than my brother. A sharp pang of grief twisted her heart and she averted her gaze from Finan, attempting to shield herself as though the acknowledgement of it would be too much. She blinked rapidly, fighting to keep the surge of sorrow at bay–a sorrow that threatened to break free from its confinement, threatening to engulf her and pull her back to that sea of emptiness where she had been adrift, lost in another world. “What news of my men?”

They made their way along the sheltered path of the inner courtyard, where shadows cast by the columns deepened and stretched across the floor and the opposite walls. The feeble light from distant fires did little to dispel the encompassing darkness. Maegor’s Holdfast was wrapped in an eerie silence, devoid of any other souls–a peace that was both soothing and unsettling, though not unexpected given the ongoing festivities in the throne room. This solitude offered them a semblance of privacy, albeit one that still required vigilance.

Finan stole a glance at her, his eyes nearly as dark as charcoal, framed by a brow furrowed with seriousness. “They survive. The boy is frightened and longs for home. And Fenrick worries for you.”

They ascended the grand staircase of Maegor’s Holdfast, their path illuminated by flickering torches that cast long shadows against the ancient stones. Finan matched his pace with her’s, giving her the time she needed to move up the steps. Her body was weary, weakened by the turmoil of the evening, her stomach hollow and head light and throbbing with a persistent ache. Each step seemed to demand more of her than she felt capable of giving, yet she moved with determination.

“He ought to spare his worries for himself,” Daenera muttered. “Will you be able to free them?”

If she could free her men from the clutches of the Hightowers, Daenera knew she could finally breathe easier. No longer would the lives of her men be held over her, a noose tightening around their necks with every defiant move she made. Yet, with each man she lost to their cruelty, the noose seemed to loosen, a bitter form of freedom–freedom through the absence of anyone left to threaten. She might be trapped, but perhaps there was a chance for them to find escape.

As they continued their ascent, the harsh light from the torches cast eerie shadows on their path, Finan’s head shook slightly, his expression somber. “The guards are vigilant, especially after the escape of Princess Rhaenys. Even if it were possible to free them from their cells, sneaking them out of the Keep is another matter entirely. All exits are either locked tightly or kept under guard. There are too many eyes, too few allies.”

Daenera had assumed as much. The usurpation had ushered in a regime of fear and uncertainty, with anyone daring to oppose or resist bending the knee finding themselves imprisoned or worse. The Keep now thrummed with an undercurrent of uncertainty and distrust, as people concealed their true opinions and allegiances close to their chest, wary of crossing invisible lines and finding themselves at the end of a noose.

“Perhaps you could use your influence–”

“I have no influence,” Daenera interrupted him sharply, her voice trembling with bitterness and indignation. “I am powerless. The friends that I had won’t go near me in fear that any association with me might brand them traitors.”

As they continued through the corridor, the flickering torches sputtering around them, Daenera’s mind turned to the faces of those she had once considered allies–friends, even. She recalled Trish Caswell’s averted gaze after her father had been hung, her eyes finding the floor or a sudden turn away whenever Daenera drew near–a clear sign of fear and caution she couldn’t blame her for. Lady Fell had suffered a harsher fate, thrown into the dungeons for her refusal to submit, alongside other defiant lords and ladies. Kaylys Merryweather had left the city to visit her mother, and Alan Beesbury had gone home to Honeyholt long before his grandsire’s death.

“I have no friends left, no allies, no influence,” Daenera’s voice broke through the silence of the hallway, tinged with a profound sense of isolation. “Too many of my men have been hanged. I am utterly trapped and alone. I have nothing…”

She was acutely aware of the confines of her invisible cage–sensing the web of intrigue that coiled around her neck like a noose, poised to tighten with the slightest misstep. It was as if she were balanced precariously on a tightrope, hands bound behind her back, every movement fraught with danger. She had been reduced to nothing more than a pawn to be wielded cruelly against her own mother in their sinister game.

As they reached the solitude of her chambers, a bitter taste of anger and shame filled her mouth. With a voice sharp and laced with frustration, she confessed, “I can’t protect anyone, Finan. I don’t know how to free them.”

A profound sense of powerlessness settled over her, a pressing weight that made her footsteps falter as her remaining strength ebbed away. She staggered, barely a few steps from the doors of her chambers, her hand reaching out to the cold stone of the wall for stability. Slowly, her knees buckled, and she found herself sinking to the floor, the harsh reality of her circumstances once again pressing down on her with unforgiving weight.

Seeming to sense her distress, Finan reacted swiftly. He slipped one arm supportively around her back and the other beneath her knees, lifting her with a quiet display of strength that nonetheless betrayed the effort required. Her dress was heavy, the fabric adding to the burden of her weight, and she could sense the strain it imposed on him as they approached the doors.

Using the hand supporting her knees, Finan deftly maneuvered the door open. The metallic head of the dragon adorned on her dress pressed uncomfortably into her lower abdomen, its snout poking against her upper thighs, creating a persistent discomfort–promising to leave a bruise. Clinging to him, Daenera’s fingers dug into the leather of his doublet, seeking stability in the warmth of his grasp as they crossed the threshold into the sanctuary of her chambers.

They moved through the quiet expanse of her chambers to the hearth, where Finan gently lowered Daenera into a chair positioned before the crackling fire. The warmth radiated from the lively flames, seeping over the cold stone and gently warming her chilled skin.

Daenera swallowed hard against the tightness constricting her throat, the sense of desolation and powerlessness wrapping tightly around her chest. As Finan knelt before her, his gray eyes were murky, reminiscent of the sky heavy with the promise of snowfall. He gazed at her with a depth of sympathy and something more–something that strained her already burdened heart with its intensity: faith.

“You possess more power than you realize, Princess,” he said, his voice soft yet earnest. “I could offer a poetic analogy about nature’s resilience–how even in the midst of the fiercest storm, flowers may be battered but still stand, grow, and survive. But I suspect you might find such platitudes wearisome.”

A small, fragile smile crept onto her lips, breaking through the solemn atmosphere–a fleeting moment of lightheartedness. “It does grow rather tiresome to be compared to flowers…”

As he rose from his kneeling position before her, a smile briefly brightened his features. Finan hooked his thumbs into his belt, a gesture so reminiscent of Fenrick that it momentarily caught her off guard–and though they didn’t share a drop of blood, it was clear that Finan had taken after the man he considered a father figure. The smile faded into a solemn frown again.

A pause filled the space between them as Daenera turned her gaze towards the hearth. The room was bathed in the warm, flickering light, illuminating the darkened space. When she spoke again, her voice was faint and weary. “Are there any news from Dragonstone?”

Finan shifted uncomfortably on his feet, his gaze also drawn to the flames. He spoke gently, his voice a low lull, as if trying to soothe her worries before they could deepen. “Your mother has left Dragonstone. It is said that she is searching Shipbreaker Bay for your brother…”

Daenera gritted her teeth, struggling to swallow against the overwhelming surge of pain that threatened to wash over her. Aegon’s cruel taunts echoed hauntingly in her mind, battering against her resolve like rain lashing against a windowsill: ‘‘With each passing tide, the rumors swell that our dear half-sister has lost her senses and is searching the coast of Shipbreaker Bay for her bastard’s remains… It appears she hasn’t realized that she ought to be searching a pile of shit just beyond the city walls if she wants to bury her son, but I suppose what Vhagar didn’t consume, the sea claimed. A bastard in life, Velaryon in death.’

Was there truly anything left for her mother to find, or would she be searching the sea for the rest of her life? The thought pierced her heart anew.

Her hand rose to her lips, fingers brushing lightly over the delicate, chapped skin, trying to hold back the sob that threatened to escape as tears blurred her vision. Daenera struggled to steady herself against the overwhelming tide of grief and fear that tightened around her heart. The image of her mother, alone and heartbroken, searching the cliffs of Shipbreaker Bay for any trace of her son, was almost too much to bear. “She shouldn’t have gone alone–she shouldn’t be alone…”

The chilling cascade of ‘what ifs’ flooded Daenera’s mind, each more harrowing than the last. What if the Hightowers had dispatched men to hunt her mother down? What if an arrow found its mark? What if an ambush awaited her at every turn? The most terrifying possibility of all crept into her thoughts: what if they’ll send Aemond after her?

Each thought tore her heart further, rekindling the embers of fear and anxiety that she struggled to contain.

Her mother, now a queen fighting to reclaim her throne, had to recognize the gravity of the risks she had taken by going to Shipbreaker Bay alone. Without her, the losses would extend far beyond the throne itself; the greens would not hesitate to annihilate her siblings, erase their names from history, and in doing so, destroy House Targaryen from within. Moreover, her mother was with child, making her safety and well-being paramount–not only for her own sake but for the unborn childs. She’d have to consider Jace and Joffrey, Aegon and Viserys.

“If she’s anything like you, I wouldn’t fear for her,” Finan reassured her, his voice steady as he turned his eyes from the flames and back to her. “No man can withstand a mother’s rage, especially not one who commands a dragon. Anyone foolish enough to challenge her would quickly be reduced to nothing more than ash.”

Daenera’s hand dropped from her lips as her eyes met Finan’s. A flicker of hope ignited within her at his words–her mother was a force to be reckoned with, that much she had always known. If they dared send men after her, she would surely turn them to ash before they could even notch an arrow. And should they send Aemond after her…

“You may think you have no power here,” Finan continued, his eyes reflecting the intensity of the fire before them, flames casting a dramatic light that seemed to lick against one side of his head. “But you are Daenera Velaryon, daughter of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon. Your name and blood speaks for itself.” He paused, taking a breath as if to gather his thoughts, brows furrowing slightly before adding, “You are held in high esteem both by the smallfolk and the nobility, and the Hightowers are aware of this. Your refusal to bow to them—that alone takes strength, far more than many can claim for themselves. They would be fools not to fear you–they do fear you, and rightly so.”

A thoughtful frown settled on her face as she turned her gaze from Finan and to the flames. The wood in the hearth popped and sputtered, glowing white-hot with orange tongues lapping voraciously at the air, consuming everything in their path. Within her, something stirred–resignation and acceptance seemed to twist and turn, growing teeth in the process, a latent ferocity that had always lurked beneath the surface. They had cornered her, confined her to a place from which escape seemed impossible, leaving her few options. Like a mistreated animal driven to desperation, she understood the dangerous lengths which such creatures would go to secure their freedom, even if it meant gnawing off its own limb to escape the trap.

They intended to use her as their pawn–and a pawn she would be. Daenera resolved to play her part in their game, biding her time with calculated patience. Once freed from the leverage they held over her–the lives of those she cared for–she would become a thorn in their side, she would make them suffer as they had made her suffer. Even a caged animal had its claws.

A twist of ruthlessness unfurled within her, coiling like a serpent ready to strike, as an inking of a plan began to form at the periphery of her mind. Daenera’s gaze remained on the flames as they devoured the wood, fierce and unyielding. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Finan turning to leave, perhaps interpreting her silence as an end to their discussion. Finding her voice, she spoke in a low, measured tone. “Can you arrange to be assigned as one of my guards? I am in desperate need of someone close whom I can trust.”

Finan paused and turned back towards her, his expression lighting up with a gleam of satisfaction–bordering on smugness. The corner’s of his lips curled slightly. “I can and will, Princess.”

Daenera adjusted her posture in the seat, straightening up as a renewed sense of purpose filled her. “I need you to reach out to Joyce’s informants,” she instructed, her voice carrying a quiet authority. “I’m certain she shared some of their names with you. We need to ascertain who still remains loyal to me. But tread carefully,” she added, her eyes narrowing slightly with the gravity of her words. “There are eyes and ears everywhere–spiders, worms, fireflies… Your safety is paramount. Do not expose yourself unnecessarily.”

Finan acknowledged her directive with a simple, resolute nod, straightening his own stance in a subtle mirroring of her determination. “And what shall we do about Fenrick, Eddin, and the boy?”

Daenera absently picked at the dry, chapped skin of her bottom lip, lost in thought. “The Hightowers are unlikely to release them.”

“Fenrick–” Finan started to say, but quickly stifled himself, stopping short of speaking out of turn. In that moment, it became apparent why he had come to her side this night; he wished to free Fenrick from the dungeons. “We must get them out.”

“Concern yourself with getting assigned to my detail and making contact with the informants,” Daenera instructed with a measured calm. “And there’s a girl in the kitchens–Cerys. Ensure her safety and well-being. Inform her that she must not take any action without my explicit command; reckless moves could doom us all…”

A look if inquiry flickered across Finan’s features, though he held back from voicing his questions. Nevertheless, Daenera responded, “It’s not my story to share, but understand this–it’s not easy for her to watch her tormenter ascend the throne. I need her to know that my life could very well be in her hands. If she acts impulsively to spill blood, she risks spilling mine as well.”

Finan regarded Daenera with a solemn expression, offering another cut nod. He refrained from pressing her for more details or demanding explanations, a restraint for which she was grateful. The intricacies of Cerys’s past and her incident with Aegon was hers to disclose, should she choose to share them with him. For now, Finan was left to his assumptions.

“Your dagger,” Daenera said, her gaze finally shifting away from the flames. “I would have it.”

At her request, Finan’s initial reaction was one of hesitation. His hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of the dagger at his hip, a protective gesture born of reflex. His gray eyes searched her face, seeking an understanding of her intentions and perhaps gauging the gravity of the situation that would warrant such a request.

“It would provide me a small sense of assurance that should the need arise for me to defend myself, I would have it.”

Finan responded with a firm tone, “I cannot give you my issued dagger.”

However, his hand moved past the weapon at his hip to a smaller blade discreetly concealed within his boot. With a skilled motion, he drew the hidden blade, its steel catching the light from the flames and gleaming with a cruel sharpness. He then expertly turned it around, extending the handle towards her. The dagger was slender and designed for precision, ideal for piercing rather than slashing.

As Daenera’s hand wrapped around the hilt, a modicum of comfort washed over her. “Thank you, Finan.”

“I trust you know how to use it?” Finan asked, taking a step back to give her space, his expression a mix of solemnity and curiosity. Behind his gaze, Daenera sensed a flicker of concern–perhaps fear that she might use it on herself.

“I know how to use it,” Daenera responded firmly, leaving no room for doubt. She then nodded towards the door, a silent signal for him to leave. Finan acknowledged her gesture with a respectful bow of his head before turning on his heels and exiting through the doors. The doors closed softly behind him, sealing her within the solitude of her chamber.

Clutching the blade firmly, Daenera rose from her chair and moved toward the hearth, drawn irresistibly closer to the flames. As she knelt down, the skirts of her dress spread out around her, pooling like a puddle of blood on the cold stone floor. The warmth of the flames caressed her skin, almost an embrace. The fire’s glow was brightest near the wood it devoured, white-hot and all-consuming.

What brought her here, she couldn’t say; it seemed almost instinctual. This feeling was inherent, both familiar and dangerous, wrapping around her like the heat radiating from the earth.

It was as if the flames echoed the same ancient song that coursed through her veins–a visceral melody of destruction and devouring, of death and rebirth, of fire and blood.

Daenera lifted her hand, her gaze falling to the array of wounds that marred her palm. Some of the deeper gashes were held together by a few precise stitches, while others were healing naturally. Amidst this intricate web of healing wounds, one stood out–a long-healed cut that traversed half of her palm, a permanent reminder etched into her skin.

Love, it seemed, was either a shrine for worship or a lasting scar. For Daenera, it was more akin to a bleeding wound–still fresh, unhealed, and raw, inflicted by the sharp blade of his love.

Daenera carefully positioned the point of the blade against the curve of one of her stitched wounds, its sharp edge slicing through the tread with ease. As she removed the stitch, the wound parted slightly, revealing a fresh vulnerability. She then pressed the blade deeper into the opening, parting the flesh anew. Blood welled up at the incision, the sting of the blade making her teeth clench. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, she watched as the blood began to flow, tracing a crimson line to the center of her palm where it pooled ominously.

The pain, though sharp and unwelcome, had become an almost familiar companion. How many ties had her blood been spilled? How many scars marked her body? How much had she endured?

Echoes of the tumultuous events following Viserys’s death reverberated through her mind–the usurpation of her mother’s rightful throne, her own imprisonment, the haunting image of Joyce’s body swaying alongside Lord Caswells, being forced to bow before the usurper, the vigil she kept over her men whose lives ended at their orders. She could almost sense their presence, specters standing among the shadows, silent and judging, aligned shoulder to shoulder with the other ghosts haunting the Red Keep. The firelight flickered, catching a glimpse of dark brown curls and blue eyes flecked with hazel–features set in a face she would never see again. The memory twisted inside her like a cruel blade, each flicker of the flame reflecting a moment lost, a face forever gone, stirring a deep and relentless ache within her heart.

They had killed her brother, mocking him even in death, dismissing him as a bastard as if his life held no value–as though he didn’t come from the womb of Rhaenyra Targaryen and had her blood flowing through his veins, as though Laenor Velaryon hadn’t claimed him as his own, as though he wasn’t a dragonrider, as though he deserved his cruel fate. Her brother, who was nothing but good and brave and kind, had been cruelly ripped from this world.

And it had been by the man that she loved.

The boy with the stars in his eyes.

Tears burned Daenera’s eyes as she felt the familiar tearing of her heart—a raw and relentless pain. Within her, a fierce wrath burned, fueling a desperate desire for retribution–vengeance–against those who had caused her such loss and suffering. She blamed them all, each one who played a part in her brother’s demise and her torment.

Daenera murmured a curse under her breath, her voice low and resonant against the hymn of the flames–her blood seemed to sing along with it’s own evensong. “I curse you, Larys Strong. May your deceitful nature lead to your downfall–may you meet the sword’s edge, and may the earth upon where your body lies barren. May the wolves feast upon your flesh and may you be forever remembered only for the worst of your actions.”

She extended her hand over the flames, allowing the heat of their flickering tongues to sear her skin–intense yet not enough to burn her flesh. And then, after a moment, she tilted her palm, causing the pool of blood that gathered at its center to cascade over and dripple down into the fire. The droplets sizzled as they struck the hot wood, sending up a scent of smoke and ash and burning blood that clung to the air and filled her nostrils.

With bitterness edging her voice, Daenera continued her dark litany of curses. “I curse you, Ser Criston Cole,” she declared, her hand curling into a fist above the flames. She allowed more droplets of blood to fall into the fire below. May you meet your end as you have lived, without honor. No songs shall be sung to commend your name, for you will be remembered only as the disgrace you truly are–a man who has sullied his white cloak with blood, whose vows mean nothing, a man bereft of any decency.”

Pressing her fingertips into the reopened wound, Daenera barely felt the sting, distant against the heat that licked at her skin from the flames below. The pressure coaxed more blood forth, dripping steadily into the fire. “I curse you, Otto Hightower. “May your ambition lead your house to ruin, and may you be stripped of the power you so desperately seek, and may you face the executioner’s block as the traitor you are.”

The shadows around her seemed to writhe and swirl, deepening as if alive, responding to the dark timbre of her curses–her heart beat discordantly within her chest, a strange litany that filled her with a sense of power. Her hand trembled slightly as she stretched it out above the flames, then curled it in on itself again, squeezing more blood from the wound.

“I curse you, Aegon Targaryen, second of your name,” she intoned, her voice solemn. “May history remember you as the usurper. May you know the fear and humiliation you seek to instill in others. May your existence be besieged by pain and torment–may you endure suffering at every waking moment.”

Her words emerged deliberate and somber, a dark incantation reflecting back the agony he inflicted, their resonance hanging in the air as densely as the smoke curling from the fire. The firewood crackled and popped lousy, sending up a gust of embers as the structure of wood collapsed inward. A muffled noise momentarily drew her attention away from the flames, her eyes searching the dimly lit room. The hairs on the nape of her neck stood on end, giving her an eerie sensation of being watched by countless eyes, though the room held only shadows. She was alone, accompanied solely by the flickering light and her own echoing curses. Finding only silence, she quickly dismissed the disturbance, refocusing her gaze on the fire.

“I curse you, Alicent Hightower,” Daenera continued. “May the weight of your decisions forever burden you, leaving you unable to flee the consequences of your own ambition. May your heart swell with regret as you come to understand the depths of the pain you have inflicted. May you lose all that you love, and may you endure the agony you have inflicted upon my mother.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks, tracing lines to the corners of her mouth where they mingled with the salty taste of her anguish–a bitter flavor of heartache, grief, and wrath. Each tear seemed to carve deeper into her soul, as the words lodged in her throat seemed to slice her heart open. With a voice quivering with emotion, she spoke her curse into the flames, a dark wish mingled with the blood that dripped from her palm, sealing her bitter hopes for his fate.

“I curse you, Aemond Targaryen. May you get a taste of that which you desire and may it turn to ash in your mouth–may it be forever beyond your grasp. May you know the sting of betrayal, and may you lose that which you have taken from me…” Her heart ached painfully within her chest as tears continued to stream down her face. “May you suffer as you’ve made my mother suffer.”

Blood dripped from her clenched fist, falling into the eager flames, sealing her curse. For a moment, Daenera held her hand suspended above the fire, indifferent to the heat that licked close to her skin, the flames that hungered for more than just the wood they consumed. She stared intently into the fire, feeling her heart beat a discordant rhythm within her chest–an ancient, chaotic hymn that felt beyond her understanding.

The world seemed to pause, caught between light and shadow, in a quiet so profound it felt like a breath held. Her voice broke the silence, a careful lilt of finality, “With fire and blood, I curse you all.”

Then, slowly, she withdrew her hand, uncurling her fingers to reveal the blood-smeared skin of her palm and the gaping wound from which it came. The act, though simple, felt immensely significant, if only to her.

Daenera rose, stepping back from the warmth of the hearth. As she moved away, she immediately felt the retained heat radiating from her skin, sharply contrasted by the cold air that lashed against her. She walked over to the table behind the settee, bending down to tuck the dagger into a previously unused hiding spot. The dagger couldn’t just be hidden anywhere lest the servants find it.

A wave of sheepishness washed over her as her gaze drifted back to the flames for a moment. It felt almost childish to believe she possessed the power to truly curse anyone–childish to think that speaking words into the fire and feeding it blood could actually wield any effect. And yet, she had done it, if only to soothe herself with the thought that one day, they’d face the consequences and come to understand the pain they have wrought. But she couldn’t rely on mere curses; if she truly wanted retribution, she would need to seek it for them. It would require time, planning, and sacrifices.

As Daenera secured the dagger beneath the settee, the doors behind her swung open, revealing a slightly disheveled Edelin, whose cheeks were flushed red. Their eyes briefly met before Edelin’s gaze dropped to Daenera’s hand, noticing the blood dripping from her fingertips onto the floor.

“Princess!” Edelin exclaimed, stepping quickly into the room. She set down the tray on the side table, which held a plate of dry crackers, some bread, and a steaming mug of tea, then swiftly grasped Daenera’s hand to inspect it closely. “What happened? Was it the man? Did he do this to you?”

“No,” Daenera reassured, gently extricating her hand from Edelin’s soft grasp. “Ser Finan was quite helpful. He carried me here after I stumbled on my skirts while ascending the steps. The fall simply reopened the wound.”

Edelin gave no indication of doubt; if she harbored any, she kept it to herself. Instead, she took a deep breath, brushing a stray strand of red hair from her face with a sense of urgency. “We should clean and bandage this.”

Picking up the tray once more, Edelin carried it across the room, setting it down on a table and gesturing for Daenera to sit, then quickly turned and disappeared into an adjacent room. Daenera obeyed, seating herself at the table, raising a hand to rub against the ache that prickled at her temples. Moments later, she returned with a small chest, setting it on the table.

As weariness began to claw at her once more, Daenera felt it nibbling at the edges of her consciousness, her eyes heavy and scratchy. The ache in her body returned gradually, accompanied by a creeping chill.

Earlier, when she had donned her dress and walked down the aisle of the throne room to face her captors, she hardly felt the ache. Her spine had been straight as a sword, her heart aflame with hatred, and the fire within her seemed to dispel all sensation of pain. It had burned away the aches in her muscles and the creaking in her joints, masking the weariness that now overwhelmed her, leaving her dizzy and exhausted.

Edelin meticulously cleaned the blood from the wound, and Daenera barely felt the sting of the water as her eyelids grew heavy with the struggle to remain awake and in her body. As her gaze drifted from her hand to the young woman tending to her, Daenera observed the freckles scattered across Edelin’s button nose and the youthful plumpness still evident in her rounded cheeks. She seemed about Daenera’s age, though at the moment, appeared younger.

“We should have the Maester look at this,” Edelin commented, her voice laced with concern as she dabbed at the blood that continued to well from the cut. “It is deep and needs stitches.”

Daenera traced her fingers along her forehead, feeling the onset of a headache beginning to throb within. “I do not want to disturb the Maesters at this hour. They’d insist on milk-of-the-poppy, and I do not want it.”

“But it will help with the pain.”

“The pain I can endure,” Daenera responded firmly, pinching the bridge of her nose to starve off the encroaching headache. She left the sentence hanging without further explanation, though her distrust of the Maesters was implied. The Maesters at the Red Keep were, first and foremost, loyal to the Hightowers, bound to do their bidding. She did not trust them, acutely aware of how simple it would be for them to administer poison under the guise of medicine–the line between medicine and poison was perilously thin, dictated only by dosage and deception.

Daenera offered a slight, reassuring smile. “You can do it.”

“Me?” Edelin’s face paled, her eyes widening with uncertainty as they flickered between Daenera’s bleeding hand and her face. At least she wasn’t squeamish, Daenera thought, if she was, she’d have fainted long ago.

“Yes, you. You know how to make a stitch; it’s much the same.”

“It’s not much the same at all! It’s flesh and–and it will hurt.”

“It will, but I trust you to do it gently,” Daenera answered. “It will hurt far worse if you don’t stitch the wound and it festers. I might even lose a hand…”

Edelin narrowed her eyes, a look of exasperation crossing her face. Nonetheless, she picked up the needle and thread, cutting a suitable length before expertly threading it through the needle’s eye. With hands that betrayed a slight tremor, Edelin took hold of Daenera’s outstretched hand. The needle hovered uncertainly over the tender flesh. She looked up at Daenera, her eyes flickering through her eyelashes, seeking affirmation to continue.

Daenera gave a nod, gently guiding Edelin’s efforts, instructing her on how to position her hand and where to insert the needle. The sharp point hesitated at first as it touched the tender skin, then decisively pushed through to the other side. The needle emerged through the parted flesh, drawing the edges of the wound together as Edelin pulled the thread through.

The sharp bite of the needle made her grit her teeth. Edelin, following Daenera’s guidance, pushed the needle through the opposite side of the wound, threading it carefully and tying off the ends with a simple knot. She then snipped away the excess threat. The stitching wasn’t as precise as the work Daenera might have done herself, but it was competent and held the wound closed effectively.

Daenera brought the tea to her lips, savoring the calming blend of chamomile with milk and honey, yet her voice was hoarse with fatigue as she asked, “What happened to your cheek?”

Edelin’s face flushed, her hand instinctively rising to touch the tender, reddened skin of her swollen cheek. “Lady Mertha wasn’t pleased with your presence at the feast. And she was even less pleased that I wasn’t with you…”

A twist of pity coursed through Daenera as she softly said, “I’m sorry.”

Edelin looked up, her expression settling into a frown that creased her brow. She continued to wrap Daenera’s hand with bandages, securing the dressing with a knot similar to the one used for the stitches.

“Don’t be,” Edelin replied, standing up and beginning to tidy away the medical supplies. “It wasn’t right to keep things like that from you…”

Silence enveloped them as Edelin assisted Daenera in removing her dress, the heavy fabric slipping from her form like a layer of armor. It felt almost surreal, as if the fabric itself had been what held her together, as though it was made of something more solid and impenetrable–fabric made steel. The dress pooled around her feet like a spill of blood, the metal dragon ornament on the bodice clattering against the stone floor, then scraping slightly as Edelin carefully lifted the garment.

With each layer removed–first the dress, then the crimson underdress and then finally the chemise beneath–it felt as though Daenera was shedding more than just clothing. And yet, despite getting lighter, her body felt heavier and heavier with each removal. A chill seeped into her bones, gooseflesh dotting her skin and prickling at the nape of her neck. The light blue nightgown she donned offered little in the way of warmth. Swiftly, Edelin wrapped her in a silk robe and guided her to the dressing table, the movements methodical and protective.

The intricate process of styling Daenera’s hair, brading it into a crown and weaving a ruby hairnet through it, was just as laborious to undo at the day’s end. As Daenera wiped her face with a damp cloth, removing the minimal powder and lip color she had worn, Edelin carefully removed the hairnet. One by one, the pins were taken out, and the braids loosened. Daenera watched her reflection wearily in the mirror, her gaze distant, barely recognizing herself. Her dark curls, finally released from their confines, cascaded over her shoulders, prompting her to emerge slowly from her reverie.

Edelin then assisted Daenera to bed, tucking her in with a tenderness that evoked the care usually reserved for a child. “Sleep well, Princess.”

“Wait,” Daenera called out, halting Edelin’s departure. “Would you… would you lay beside me?”

Edelin paused at the threshold, her red eyebrows lifting in surprise, her eyes widening slightly as she contemplated the request. It was an unexpected childlike plea, and Daenera felt a rush of embarrassment warming her chest.

Without uttering a word, Edelin returned to the bedroom, her footsteps echoing softly in the quiet room, accompanied only by the gentle crackling of the fire in the hearth. She sat down on the bed, carefully removed her shoes, and then lay down beside Daenera, bringing an unspoken comfort to the dimly lit room.

“You are kind,” Daenera murmured, lying on her back and gazing up at the canopy where a carved dragon chased dragonflies and birds in a perpetual dance. “Kindness is a rarity.”

“I try to be,” Edelin responded softly, her voice carrying the honest tone of children whispering secrets under the covers in the dark of night. “I try to keep my head down; it’s easier, I think. But I am not as stupid as Mertha would claim. I see things, hear them too, and I know when to pick my battles…”

“And yet, you are kind, even when you don’t have to be, even if it might put you at the hands of those who are cruel.”

Edelin shifted slightly, turning her head to meet Daenera’s gaze directly, and Daenera did the same. “Perhaps it is because I like you… You are kind too, even if your kindness is sometimes an act of deception.”

A tightness lodged in Daenera’s throat as she averted her gaze back to the canopy. A wave of shame suddenly enveloped her, burning beneath her skin. “I don’t have anyone I can trust.”

“I know.”

“But,” Daenera continued, turning her gaze back to Edelin, her eyes searching, “I do consider you a friend…”

Edelin’s face tightened, and she suddenly confessed, her eyebrows drawing together in a furrow of concern. “I report to Prince Aemond.” Her eyes held Daenera’s, filled with a plea for understanding. “He wishes to be kept informed of your health and well-being, and has ordered me to report to him. Mertha keeps the Queen Mother informed, and the guards report to the Lord Confessor.”

Daenera wasn’t exactly surprised to learn that Mertha was a pawn of Alicent, nor was it shocking that Larys had his spies within her staff too. Yet, hearing it confirmed aloud still seized her with a visceral tightness. She felt the bars of her invisible cage draw tighter, the intricate web woven by the Greens constricting around her neck. She blinked rapidly, struggling to suppress the tears threatening to betray her emotions.

“I wish to consider you a friend too,” Edelin continued, her voice carrying a gentle sincerity. “I do not have many of those, but I wanted you to be aware of my obligations. I do not wish to deceive you, and I thought it right that you should know. The prince… he cares for you. Deeply.”

Daenera turned her gaze away, the weight of Edelin’s words pressing down on her.

“Mertha insisted on having you removed from your chambers,” Edelin continued, her voice trembling slightly. “When you refused to eat or drink, she wanted to force it… but the prince stopped her. He told me that we should let you mourn in whatever way you needed, to leave you be until you were ready to rise. He was confident that you would… He was greatly concerned about you.”

Edelin’s words lingered in the air, resonating with sincerity that filled the silence of the room. The words twisted inside of her like a cruel blade, invoking a tightness in her chest and a tremor of grief in her heart that she detested.

“I understand,” Daenera finally managed to say, her voice steadying as she turned back to face Edelin. “Thank you for telling me. I understand the position you are in–I realize you must keep him informed… However, I would ask you to consider the information you share with him. Not always, but at times, discretion would be appreciated…”

“Of course,” Edelin responded, her agreement quick and earnest.

“Thank you, Edelin.”

Alicent sat silently before the hearth, her fingers deftly pushing the needle through the fabric as she added another stitch to the shirt. She had begun mending her husband’s shirts shortly after their marriage–a task he had once praised, claiming he favored the way she repaired his garments above anyone else’s. She had smiled and thanked him then, and from then on, had tended to every single shirt.

This act had evolved into a routine, another quiet way of caring for her husband, even as his appreciation waned, replaced by an indifferent expectation. This ritual had crystallized into habit, and habits, she knew all too well, were seldom acknowledged or thanked, and yet, she continued to do them.

On the fourth night following his death, Alicent found herself mending his shirts when it dawned on her with sudden clarity, and the sudden weight of desolation had settled on her. There was no longer a husband for whom to mend shirts; the expectation, like his presence, had vanished. She was a wife without a husband, a queen without her king.

How strange it was, to no longer bear such titles. It had been all she was for so long–it had shaped her existence for longer than the years she had lived without those titles. How much she had sacrificed and suffered for them, only to lose them with her husband.

The freedom that came with shedding her previous titles felt less like liberation and more like the burden of finding a new role to fulfill. Alicent had diligently preformed her duties as wife and queen, but now, in the absence of carrying such titles, she found herself assuming another set of responsibilities–that of the widow and Queen Mother. These new titles and the expectations accompanying them were chafed at her. Yet, despite the discomfort, she continued to carry them with the poise that was expected.

A part of her missed her husband. Over the years, she had found purpose in caring for him, attending his needs as a wife does, overseeing his well-being. This had become second nature to her. It wasn’t the love she had envisioned in her childhood fantasies, nor was it the love she had once envied in others, but it was something–companionship, a sense of duty.

Now, with her husband gone, Alicent had taken up the task of the mending of her son’s shirts.

The needle slid smoothly through the white fabric, and the gentle hiss of the thread pulling through was a strangely comforting sound in the quiet of the room. The fire cracked softly in the hearth, radiating warmth into her chambers–chambers that would soon become her daughters. Alicent rested her bare feet on the footrest, drawing warmth from the fire’s glow.

She had departed the feast earlier that evening. Her exit was timed carefully–not so early as to openly display her displeasure, yet not a moment longer than necessary.

The feast was an affair of excess, which Alicent found wholly inappropriate. She had voiced her objections clearly, both when Aegon had first proposed it and then again when it was brought up during a council meeting. The death of Prince Lucerys was a grave enough matter; to celebrate it was to compound the tragedy with insult. Aegon, however, insisted on the feast, deaf to her protests, and Aemond had not opposed his brother. Both her sons disregarded her warnings, failing to recognize the folly in the demise of a prince–bastard or not, and their nephew no less. Such actions, Alicent feared, would only invite trouble and scorn.

Alicent was certain that once news of the feast reached Dragonstone, Daemon would mount his dragon, fly to King’s Landing, and unleash fiery vengeance upon them all. There was also a part of her, a deeply unsettled part, that dreaded how Rhaenyra would react upon learning that her son’s death was being celebrated so brazenly.

She had harbored the hopes of avoiding a war and bloodshed, clinging to the belief that there was a path through this that did not end in death. The letters she had sent to Rhaenyra expressed as much, though there had been no word in return.

A seed of anger still grew within her. She had explicitly warned her son not to undertake any action that would invite scorn–to refrain from drawing first blood and ignite this war.

Alicent held her son responsible for the grave turn of events. There had been a chance–a chance to avoid a war, a chance for peace without bloodshed. Yet, he had extinguished that possibility when he killed Lucerys Velaryon in an act of vengeance. Any hope for surrender and peace had sunk to the ocean depths along with the boy her son had slain.

Her condemnation extended beyond the mere act of vengeance; it was what it wrought upon her son that distressed her most deeply. He had become a kinslayer, a man cursed by the gods.

Amidst her reflections, a troubling thought nagged at her–was she, in some way, to blame for his actions? This question lingered in her mind, adding a layer of personal torment to the already heavy burden of her son’s deeds.

For years, Aemond had been the son she could trust, the dependable one that she could rely on. While her eldest had shrugged his duties, succumbing to his own indulgences and vices, her second son had strived to uphold his responsibilities, bearing them with determination and integrity. He had always listened to her guidance–until now, until her.

The needle pierced through the fabric and unexpectedly pricked the soft pad of her finger, the sharp sting pulling Alicent from her thoughts. She glanced down at the small droplet of blood that had formed and drew her finger to her lips. The bitter taste of blood filled her mouth for a moment.

A knock at the door cut through the silence. She looked up at Lady Talya, who met her gaze and then nodded in understanding. She rose from her seat, carefully setting aside the dress she had been mending. Talya’s footsteps were soft as she crossed the room to answer the door.

Alicent could hear the door open, followed by low murmurs.

Returning to the room, Talay stood at the steps, smoothing her hands down her dress. “The Lord Confessor is here to see you.”

“At this hour?” Alicent responded, her tone tinged with surprise. She straightened up, withdrawing her feet from the footrest, and then slipped them into her slippers, letting her nightgown and robe fall over them neatly.

The rhythmic tapping of a cane echoed through the room, each click sending a spike of apprehension through Alicent as she rose from her seat. Lord Larys Strong entered, pausing beside Lady Talya, leaning heavily on his cane. He offered Alicent an apologetic smile.

“Apologies, Your Grace,” he said with a slight bow of his head. “I bring news from the feast.”

“What is so important that it cannot wait till morning?” Alicent asked, setting aside the shirt she had been mending and crossing her arms over her chest, suddenly conscious of her attire. She was clad in a long, silken nightgown with a thick robe of silk and green velvet wrapped snugly around her–and yet, it seemed not enough beneath his gaze.

Despite not having been invited to proceed further, Lord Larys advanced towards her, ignoring the customs and the discomfort of Lady Talya, who shifted uneasily at the edge of the steps.

“I thought you might wish to be informed of what has transpired at the feast in your absence,” he explained, his tone suggesting the urgency and significance of his news without revealing what he might bring. The tap of his cane against the stone floor punctuated his approach, drawing him down the steps into Alicent’s sitting room. While his demeanor remained friendly and unassuming, there lurked an undercurrent of something more calculating, a subtle assertion of dominance that filled Alicent’s stomach with dread.

Larys settled himself into the chair that Lady Talya had just vacated, his cold gray eyes meeting Alicent’s with an expression that was unassuming yet expectant. Reluctantly, Alicent looked up at Talya and gave a subtle nod, signaling her dismissal. Talya, her loyal lady-in-waiting, curtseyed gracefully before departing, effectively closing the doors behind her. The act seemed to seal Alicent within her chambers, leaving her in the company of a man, who despite his unassuming exterior, held a sickening twist of cruelty to him.

“Let it be quick, my lord. I wish to retire to bed,” Alicent stated, resettling herself in her chair with a visible hint of irritation flickering beneath her composure.

“Do you recall, years ago, when you first took to wearing green?” Larys began, his voice smooth, tinged with an amusement that seemed to taunt her. He always kept the true purpose of his visits hidden, only to be revealed once he had played his game. His manner was polished, akin to the deceptive smoothness of a well-honed blade. It always left her dirty.

“I remember it vividly–the entrance you made during the king’s speech, and the immediate silence that followed. It was then I knew I had made the right choice in serving you–”

“Where are you going with this?” Alicent interjected, her voice sharp with impatience, too wearied for such games at this late hour.

Larys offered a cold smile in response. “It is said history has a habit of repeating itself. Tonight, it appears, such repetition has indeed taken place. The Princess decided to attend the feast.”

For a moment, Alicent could only stare at him, perplexed, her heart pounding tumultuous before sinking into the pit of her stomach. Her brows furrowed in a frown, her head shaking slightly in disbelief. “The princess hasn’t been well these past few days. She has scarcely moved, or so I’ve been told…”

“It seems she found the strength,” Larys remarked casually, his fingers rhythmically tapping against his cane. “The princess was quite a sight to behold, clad in a dress as red as blood, adorned with a dragon on the bodice. She made quite a spectacle of her presence, refusing to bow to the king.”

Alicent turned away with visible irritation, her gaze settling on the flickering flames of the hearth. She absentmindedly lifted her hand to trace her finger over her lower lip as she contemplated the news, muttering under her breath, “Insolent girl.”

The dress, Alicent knew, was more than mere attire–it was a statement, a bold declaration for her mother as much as it was a direct indictment against their own actions. It was a declaration of war.

Honoring Aemond with a feast for the death of Lucerys Velaryon was contentious enough, but for the sister to attend such a celebration would be seen as exceptionally cruel. Yet, that very implication was why Daenera had chosen to appear. She knew how the realm would be likely to perceive her forced attendance at such a celebration as not just cruel but a calculated indignity.

Daenera had manipulated her grief into a public spectacle, wielding it as a weapon against those who orchestrated the event. In doing so, she wasn’t just mourning her brother; she was condemning those who celebrated his death.

“It is not all,” Larys interjected, recapturing her attention with his deliberate tone. “The king held a speech to commemorate his brother for his victory…”

The implication of Larys’s words hung heavily in the air between them. Alicent closed her eyes, a gesture of resignation as she rubbed her brow. She didn’t need Larys to elaborate on the details; she could well imagine them herself. Yet, he continued, and despite her expectations, the actual recounting of her son’s actions shocked her with its cruelty. Aegon had always possessed a certain callousness, a trait she had longed hoped he would outgrow.

Another knock at the door broke the tension-filled silence, followed by the creaking sound of a door swinging open. A low, urgent voice called out, “Your Grace?”

“You may enter,” Alicent responded, straightening herself in her chair. After all, hadn’t her chambers turned into an audience already?

Lady Mertha appeared at the doorway, descending the steps into the sitting area with measured steps. She moved to stand by the hearth, casting a brief, wary glance at Larys before her eyes settled on Alicent. And with a respectful curtsy, she spoke, “I beg your forgiveness for intruding. I have urgent matters with you that cannot wait until morning.”

Alicent, her tone sharp with reproach, responded, “I’ve just been informed of the princess’s decision to attend the feast…” She paused, her gaze fixed sternly on Lady Mertha. “Were you not tasked with ensuring that she did not leave her chambers unbidden, let alone make a spectacle of herself?”

Alicent stared at the older woman, her eyes sharp and discerning, as a flicker of annoyance twisted within her chest. This woman had been entrusted with the responsibility of keeping the princess compliant, tasked with keeping a vigilant eye on her to prevent precisely the kind of spectacle that had occurred. Did no one heed her any longer?

Lady Mertha had been part of Alicent’s staff ever since she’d moved from Oldtown to King’s Landing, when her father had assumed the role of the Hand of the King. For years, she had served her well and without complaint, a respectable woman who had always demonstrated faithfulness to the gods, to House Hightower, and to her duties. Alicent’s expectations had been clear, and the breach was not taken lightly.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Mertha responded, her hands folded in front of her. Her posture did not suggest cowering; rather, she bore the weight of Aliceent’s reproach with firm shoulders. “I left the princess in Lady Edelin’s care. She hasn’t moved in days, doing nothing but staring into the flames. She has scarcely taken food or drink, accepting it only when offered directly by the Queen herself. I did not expect that she would choose to leave her chambers, much less attend the feast–”

“But she did,” Alicent interjected sharply. “And she made a spectacle of it.”

“I will see to it that the girl is reprimanded for her lapse,” Mertha responded, her gaze briefly flickering towards Larys before settling back on Alicent. She shifted uncomfortably, an air of urgency and discomfort stiffening her movements. “But… that is not why I have come, Your Grace. I would prefer to speak alone if you would allow it.”

Alicent drew in a deep breath, the onset of a headache beginning to throb at her temples. She glanced towards Larys, intending to dismiss him with a silent look. However, Larys met her gaze with an expectant, almost challenging expression and made no move to leave. Instead, he shifted his attention back to Mertha, who remained standing, effectively ignoring Alicent’s unspoken command to leave. Feeling the invisible strings of influence Larys seemed to have tied around her tighten, Alicent’s irritation churned in her stomach. She gritted her teeth in exasperation, exhaling sharply before turning her full attention back to Mertha.

“The Lord Confessor has my confidence,” Alicent stated, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. Although she didn’t look at him, she could sense Larys’s satisfaction radiating across the room, palpable through the web of control he had woven around her. She supposed that his presence, though oppressive, was perhaps a lesser evil compared to other demands he might impose.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Mertha responded in deference. “Not long after the princess had excused herself from the feast, I too took my leave. I had intended to look in on her when I encountered a most unsettling scene…” Her voice trailed off, tinged with hesitation, and her expression twisted into a deep, almost fretful frown. “The–the princess was sitting before the hearth…” Her gaze faltered from Alicent as she took a deep breath, seemingly gathering her composure. She reached up to touch the seven-pointed star resting against her chest, a gesture of seeking reassurance. “The gods protect me, the princess was spilling her own blood into the flames and uttering curses into the fire…”

“Curses?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Of what kind?” Alicent pressed, feeling the weight of dread settle in her stomach like heavy stone, her heart pounding painfully against her ribs. “What did she say?”

“It was the most vile of curses, those that are made in blood,” Mertha replied, voice laced with fear. She clutched the seven-pointed star necklace more tightly, as if seeking protection from the gods. “She condemned that your name alongside those of the Lord Hand and the King, invoking a life of anguish and despair for you—Your Grace, she cursed you to endure the same pain and suffering her mother has faced, to face the same loss as she has…”

Fear clawed at Alicent’s heart, its grip tightening, nails digging into the tender flesh as dread seeped into her veins. Her throat constricted, tears burning at the back of her eyes as her gaze shifted from Mertha to the flames of the hearth.

Alicent swallowed the rising tide of fear, steeling herself against the disturbing revelations, even as her heart trembled within her chest. Striving for composure, her voice emerged measured but with a discernible tremor. “Lady Mertha, thank you for bringing this to my attention. It is clear that the princess is suffering. Your guidance and the sanctity of the gods may be what saves her soul.”

And what saves us from her, she thought silently, the weight of the responsibility and the potential threat pressing heavily on her mind.

With a solemn nod, Alicent dismissed her. “Let us discuss our course of action on the morrow.”

Mertha hesitated, her eyes flickering uncertainly between Alicent and Larys. She released her tight grip on the seven-pointed star pendant and placed her hand against her chest briefly, taking a deep breath to steady herself. She then smoothed the fabric of her dress with a composed gesture and replied, “Yes, Your Grace.”

As soon as the door closed behind Mertha, Alicent rose from her seat and walked over to the hearth. Her fingers brushed anxiously over her lower lip, the impulse to bite down, to tear at the skin beside her nails, itched beneath her skin. She began to pace the floor, her mind racing with the weight of the night’s revelations.

“I wouldn’t concern myself with curses,” Larys spoke up, breaking the tense silence.

“What do you know of curses, my lord?” Alicent asked pointedly, pacing back and forth in front of the hearth. Her fingers pressed against her lips as she nibbled at the skin, the urge to bite down growing stronger still. Was this her punishment?

“They say Harrenhal is the most cursed place of all,” Larys answered, slowly rising from his chair. His cane tapped coldly against the floor as he leaned on it for support. “The only real curse is the one we forge for ourselves…”

His footsteps echoed heavily across the floor as she moved towards her, each step deliberately closing the distance between them and subtly invading her personal space. “If such things as curses exist, they are not brought into being merely by speaking them. If that were so, we would find ourselves cursed long ago.”

Sooooo the new episode is out and I've gotten A LOT to work with; so I've decided to go back to DS the next chapter, but the chapter will likely be wedged between existing chapters which means that while there might not appear to be a new chapter, there is, it's just added between ch. 82 and 83--so 83 will become 84 and so forth. You can also expect some events to be changed in order to fit with this story, as there's just about 7 months from the pregnancy reveal to B&C--which means in that time, we'll focus on characters and some minor events; a battle over the blockade, a battle near Harrenhal, trying to win House Tully and the Riverlands to each side + House Tyrell, 2 assassination attempts, trying to establish alternative trading routes to get food to KL which gives the Blacks chances for guerrilla warfare, and growing tensions between Daemon/Rhaenyra as Daemon presses for escalating the war while she tries to keep it together because the Greens has her daughter. I will do my best to finish next chapter by Friday, but I can't promise anything, it's a long one that stretches from the moment Daemon received word of Luke's death to the day after and contains multiple scenes. Some things will also be stretched because it didn't make sense how fast they all travel between great distances and I just need it to make sense. I will say, we will also get a chapter following Rhaenyra as she searches for Luke because I'm a glutton for angst, and I will add more details because I need it. But this chapter will likely be chapter 87? I think. or 88---we'll get a KL chapter before it and after.

#a vow of blood #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #house of the dragon #hotd #aemond one eye #hotd aemond #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen x oc

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