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adventuringblind · 1 year

Note

hi!! could you possibly to a max x reader where the reader is mostly blind ( like the one with charles) because of a major traumatic incident when she was a kid and it starts off with max hating her and vice versa but then they fall in love, if she’s best friends with lando, alex and yuki that would be great too! (maybe max got jealous over something and that’s why he hates her?)

thank you!!💕

Passenger Side

Max Verstappen x reader

Genre: The beginning is a little sad and angsty, but the rest is fluff

Request: yes! I had fun writing this one because the reader is kind of sassy. I'm open for Charles, Max, Daniel, Lando, Oscar, and George.

Summary: Max hated her. Couldn't stand seeing her hanging off the guys in the paddock. Until he finds out the truth and it changes his entire perspective

Warnings: car accident, injury descriptions, Max is oblivious, Jos and his behaviors are mentioned

Notes: Third-person perspective. Please remember that blindness is a spectrum and can happen for many reasons. I am blind myself. If anyone has any questions and would like to know more, my inbox is open :)

Masterlist

If he was truly honest with himself, he couldn't come up with a legitimate reason for hating her.

She's kind, smart, gorgeous, and her smile lights up the room. Yet every time he was around her, he couldn't muster up any sort of courage to talk to her.

She was always hanging around Lando, Charles, Alex, and George. The four had almost dragged him to hang out with her, but he couldn't do it.

She was always hanging off their arms. It seemed to be flirtatious to him. Maybe that's what annoyed him.

She's clumsy, touchy, and never goes anywhere on her own. Was he jealous? Probably. But he wasn't about to admit that to anyone.

She seemed to run into things far too often for it to be a coincidence. Maybe it was her way it flirting. If that's the, he was better of staying away. He'd never been one to find that attractive.

She wears sunglasses almost every time he sees her. Unless they’re inside in a darker space.

He didn't understand her, and yet he constantly felt intrigued to know more.

It was an off day in the summer. Max and Lando were doing some sim racing together when the topic of the girl came up.

"I see you make eyes at her all the time. Would it kill you to say hi?"

Max nearly winced. Grateful this wasn't a stream or his strange infatuation and simultaneous dislike if this girl would be found out. "She's just so strange." Was all he could come up with on the spot.

The Brit laughed at him. "Strange? How so? Explain to me how she is stranger then you."

"She runs into everything constantly."

Lando only laughed harder.

"She's always clinging onto someone's arm."

His laughing was irritating him now.

"and she always wears those stupid sunglasses- Why are you laughing so hard?!" Max shouted into his headset.

Lando could hardly breathe. He was laughing so hard. His mouth is not able to form coherent words.

"Mate!- she's blind!" He finally managed, trying to get air back into his lungs.

"She's what?"

"She can't see. Well, she can a little bit, but barely anything really."

Max's entire facade fell apart right before him. Like a tarp being pulled out from underneath his mental walls.

Every reason he found not to like her is because she's blind.

Lando took pity on Max. Obviously, he's clueless. Now is his chance to be the best wingman Max never asked for.

The next GP was too hectic for Max. Mostly because he was finding every reason to avoid Lando. The boy finding it neccecary to make him meet her.

Max felt like a ninja. Marketing though he'd been replaced. Christian was confused at why Max kept hiding behind the cars. His PR manager was convinced he'd contracted a virus. Everyone was confused.

Lando, on the other hand, was not. He knew exactly what was going on.

"I don't understand why we're by the redbull garage." She asked him. The female holding his bicep loosely to let him effectively guide her.

"We're waiting for Max. I have something for him." Little she know it was her.

"And you felt the need to drag me all the way over here for this? Yuki was showing off somthing he cooked." She exaggerated a frown.

"Relax, you'll get to eat his food again."

"I may not be able to see very well, but I can hear your eye roll." Then the two started giggling.

Max had popped around the corner to see the two distracted. He decided to risk getting into his driver room. Darting speedily around the objects.

"Max!" Lando's voice made Max freeze. Grimacing at the thought of having to deal with whatever Lando was planning.

He made his way over to the pair. "What brings you over?" He tried to ask cheerily, but it came out more broken than anything.

He felt nervous. But why?

"I'm delivering a note from Daniel." Lando's cheeky smile did not go unnoticed by the Dutch. His hands dramatically search his pockets. "Damn, I think it fell out while I was changing."

Lando taps the arm of the girl holding onto him. "Are you okay waiting with Max while I go and get it?"

She nodded her head and smiled understandingly at her friend. Lando stands directly in front of Max, removes her hand from his arm, and places it on Max's.

"I'll be right back!" He yells while jogging back the direction of the McLaren paddock.

"Sorry about this. I understand if you're busy. You can point me in the direction of the nearest fence, and I'm sure I'll manage just fine." She smiled again reassuringly. She sensed his unease the moment her hand made sontact with him and his muscles tensed.

"No, it's alright, I was just going to hide somewhere." He confessed.

"Understandable. People tend to be nosy." They were walking now. Max is trying to get her out of the middle of the walkway. Trying and sort of failing.

He could hear her feet tapping the ground at each step. Humming every occasionally to herself.

"I'm Y/N, by the way."

"Max."

"You can ask if you want."

Max was taken off guard by the question. So much so that he almost ran himself into the approaching wall. "Ask you about what."

She laughed and put a hand on the cold metal of the garage. Now facing Max without him having help her. His confusion about her growing g steadily. "About my eyes."

She was still wearing her sunglasses. Despite the overcast weather. He wanted to see her eyes. He read people through their eyes. It's how he could tell what kind of mood his dad was in.

Then it hit him. That's why he'd hated her. He couldn't read her because he couldn't see her eyes. In a way, he was blind to how she was feeling and reacting to things.

"Can I see your eyes?" It was almost a whisper. His tapping his things in anxiousness.

"It's kind gross, but sure." She slowly removed the glassed and lifted her head upwards. His gaze memorizing eyes aspect he could.

One of her eyes was glassed over by a mix of yellow and red. The pupil is a shade of cream white. The other was clear aside from the pupil looking mildly foggy.

She didn't tell him the story that day. Mainly because Lando had come running back, a piece of paper clutched in his hands. "I'm back!" They heard him yell in the distance.

"Let me take you on a date." The words fell out faster than his brain could prosccess what he was saying.

"Sure."

Max still laughed at himself for falling for Lando's master plan. Though he kept the blank piece of paper in his pocket as a reminder of what his friend did to get him here.

The two had been on a handfull of now. It was fun exploring different areas with her on his arm.

The boys who had been guiding her for years now made sure he was properly trained. Three of them were getting protective of their visually compromised friend, unlike Lando, who was squealing about how cute they looked every chance he got.

Now it was winter break. Max had invited her to stay with him in Monaco. An invitation she graciously accepted.

She'd yet to tell him about her story. The traumatic and sudden loss of her vision.

Max had only asked once. When she told him it was hard to talk about, he respected that she would tell him in her own time.

That time was coming sooner than she planned.

Max wasn't able to get her from the airport. But Alex had been on his way to spend time with Lando, so he'd offered to be her traveling partner.

It had gone well. The plane ride was smooth. The night traffic made the car ride easy.

When the light turned green at the intersection, the last thing either was expecting was to be t-boned by a drunk driver.

Max thought she wasn't coming. He'd tried texting her but received no response. Even Alex wasn't picking up the phone.

She'd texted him that she was safe on the ground and would be there soon. That was three hours ago.

He was starting to worry. Panic even.

So he did the next logical move and called Lando. Praying that his friend had heard something.

It didn't take long for him to answer the phone. "I was just about to call you." Max hadn't heard Lando's voice quite so frantic in a while.

"What going on?"

"There was an accident. They're both at the hospital."

Max was driving as fast a caution would let him. He agreed he'd meet Lando there. Both of them hoping to see their friends safe and breathing.

Lando was waiting for him out front. He didn't want to face either of them alone. Unsure the correct way to act in this situation.

The next thing they knew, a nurse was leading them back to where their friends were.

Alex was upright and attentive. Stitches lined a few places on his face. doctors are doing a few tests to make sure there's no internal damage.

Y/N was unconscious, but the moniter tracking her heart was beeping steadily.

Max was at her side instantly. Assessing the damage he could see. The nurse followed him in. Getting a few vitals from the sleeping figure.

"She has a concussion and a few broken ribs, but she'll be fine." The nurse smiled reassuringly at him.

"Why's she unconscious then?" He'd finally gotten to understand her. He didn't want to lose that yet.

"Every time she woke up, she started panicking and hyperventilating. The doctors felt it best to put her under and let her rest." Then the nurse left him alone woth her.

Later, Max, Lando, and Alex were discussing it. Alex had been discharged and could leave whenever he wanted, but the three felt the need to stay until she woke up.

"The truck hit the passenger side of our car. That's probably why she was panicking." Alex pointed at making Lando nod in agreement.

Max's confusion was visible on his face. "Wait, has she not told you?" Asked Lando."

"Told me what?"

"How she lost her vision."

The two boys had refused to tell Max the story. Claiming it wasn't their place. Max respected that, but he was growing more and more curious.

Lando and Alex had left him an hour ago. Alex was exhausted and in need of a new shirt. The one he was wearing now stained with the excess blood from his head wounds.

When she woke up, the heart moniter started to beep faster. Alerting Max that something was wrong.

He gently grabbed her hand and placed it on his arm. Leaning over the bed so he could talk quietly.

It was odd how her hand on his arm had become a comfort for him. He wasn't sure if it was for hers, but he was panicking and needed to do something before she could hyperventilate again.

"It's okay, you're safe now." He soothes. His free hand now stroking the top of her head.

Her breathing calmed down at hearing his voice. "Is Alex okay?" She rasped. Her throat dry from her previous panicked shouts.

"Yeah, he went with Lando. He texted, saying he was safe at his apartment."

It was quiet for a moment before he heard her sigh. "I need to tell you what happened."

Max just shook his head to show he was listening. Grimacing at the horrific details she recounted to him.

There had been a massive crash. Six cars were involved. Her family had been innocent. Yet they suffered the most.

Their family car had landed on its side. Two cars landing on top of it. One crushed the front with the impact, killing both her parents. The other landed over the top of her. Oil leaked out from the bottom of the car, finding its way through broken glass of her mirror. The strong, smelling liquid getting in her eyes.

She screamed, trying to wipe it away as it burned her. Only to push it farther in and make it worse. She had been on the passenger side that day. Waiting thirty minutes for them to get her out safely.

She woke up alone in the hospital. Her parents and vision both gone.

Lando and her hand been friends. So she went to stay with their family. His parents let her into their home like she was their own.

When the car crashed into the passenger side, she was transported back into that moment.

Now she's here, with Max, his voice pulling her into a sense of security.

It didn't take long for her to be discharged after that. Max sent a quick message they the two were back at his apartment.

Max Verstappen embraced the girl he once hated. His lack of understanding eating away at his pride. But he understood now.

"I'm sorry about everything you've had to go through. I can't change the past, but I can be here for you in the future." He leaned his forehead against hers. The innocent affection communicating everything.

He knew how she was feeling through other signals. When blotchy tears rolled down her cheeks, he could feel every emotion rolling through her body. Finally able to get closure on what had happened so long ago.

"I love you, even if you can hardly see me, I love you."

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shadowshrike · 9 months

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Astarion on Halsin Leaving

I can't stop thinking about Astarion's lines when Halsin chooses to leave your party, so have a fun mini-analysis. Note that this text is pulled via datamining because I don't have all the appropriate saves atm. Since the context of your personal story is everything in this game and can wildly change how lines come across, please take my thoughts here as a fun exercise with the text and nothing more.

I think the things that are needed to fully understand where my head is at regarding his lines are two fold:

1. How Astarion talks about other companions leaving

Shadowheart and Wyll can both also leave in Act 2. His responses are as follows.

Astarion: I don't see what Shadowheart got so upset about - it was not that nice of a temple.

For Shadowheart he gently deflects the crux of the matter. This isn't surprising because he is a master of minimizing other people's grievances when he thinks they're legitimate but inconvenient. Otherwise, he responds fairly mildly.

Astarion: So, that's how the legend ends. The Blade of Frontiers, cast down to the Hells. Hardly a fitting ending. But so few are.

Unlike Shadowheart, Wyll is forced to leave by being dragged to the hells. There's no justification he needs to rebuff for Wyll leaving the party's side, so instead, he uses it to double down on his philosophy that 'nice guys finish last and the world is a dangerous and horrible place.' Which, ironically, is not entirely unreasonable given the circumstances.

2. How other companions talk about Halsin leaving

The Good companions don't blame Halsin for leaving. Wyll even blames himself for not doing enough. Karlach also regrets the loss of another strong person around, reminding us once again that Halsin is physically imposing in the narrative, even if the stats say otherwise because of how D&D balance works.

Gale: Druids will always follow nature's purpose over any mortal threat. Halsin goes where he is needed, as must we.

Jaheira: Halsin long urged the Harpers not to abandon this land to the curse. I cannot blame him, for being unable to bear it a second time.

Wyll: I can't blame Halsin for leaving. We could have, should have, done more for him and for the cursed lands. They may never again feel the breathe of life on them. What a shame.

Karlach: Pity about Halsin. I was getting used to having an extra Strong around. He smelled nice, too. Like outside.

(Fun fact regarding Karlch's comment: Astarion has a line where he refers to Halsin as "musky bear-fellow" - musky is also the word used to describe the attractive smell of corpse flowers - and Halsin's underwear smells like an herb garden according to its flavor text. Apparently, the guy canonically smells really good?)

Even Shar Path Shadowheart expresses regret in losing Halsin. Not because she wants to end the Shadow Curse, but because Halsin's nice to look at.

Shadowheart: This land remains cloaked by Lady Shar's power - good. A shame it cost us Halsin as a travelling companion though. He may have been misguided, but I liked looking at him.

That brings us to...

Astarion's tantrum over Halsin leaving

Go ahead and listen to it yourself first, and then I'll dive into both lines.

Astarion: Just like that hulking bear to stomp off in a huff. I swear, druids care more about the plants of this land than the people.

"Just like that hulking bear to stomp off in a huff."

This first statement is not only indignant and deflecting, it's so factually false that it's laughable. Halsin is always calm and regretful when staying behind no matter how you treat him.

Player: You have to come - I need you. Halsin: This place needs me. I wish it were different - I truly do. As long as the curse remains, so must I.

Player: Do as you wish. Halsin: This isn't what I wish. It's simply the way it has to be - I'm sorry.

Player: The shadow curse was always your burden - not mine. Halsin: Yes, and so it must remain. I wish you success on your path. Had things been different, I might have walked it with you.

Player: Perhaps we can still do something to lift the curse. Halsin: No. If you linger, you'll only jeopardise your own mission. This is my burden alone now until either the curse is lifted, or I breathe my last.

Halsin is renowned for letting people treat him horribly and taking it on the chin. Him pushing back is usually related to calmly setting boundaries or expectations. The only times I can think of offhand where he raises his voice in anger is with Kagha, if you interfere with the portal, and briefly after certain parts of the Evil companion routes, though not as intensely (I might do a write-up on that later because his reactions are interesting). He certainly never "stomp[s] off in a huff", and he's not doing it now either.

However, the way this is worded gives me pause. Because "just like [him]" said so angrily gives the impression that Halsin has reacted this way to Astarion before. Given Astarion's habit of rewriting exactly how events went down to absolve himself of accountability, it makes me wonder if Astarion's tried to get a rise out of Halsin in camp and been shut down. Since Halsin is the only Good companion at that point who is also old and worldly enough to not get flustered by Astarion's cruelty, mind games, and flirting, it wouldn't surprise me if Astarion has built up resentment. Halsin refuses to be manipulated or confirm Astarion's cynical worldview, and Astarion isn't ready to consider changing his mind with Cazador on the horizon.

"I swear, druids care more about the plants of this land than the people."

This is, again, a false statement wrapped in a little more truth than the first. Druids are indeed infamous for putting nature above humans (see: Shadow Druids), and Halsin talks a big game about Balance and Nature. However, Halsin is probably the most people-oriented traditional druid we see in the game, going so far as to cause chaos in his grove by aggressively taking in refugees and personally traveling with an undead and servant of Shar because they need help. He chooses people over Silvanus' classic teachings so often that it's fascinating.

That aside, given what the shadow-cursed lands are doing to anyone on the way to Baldur's Gate, choosing to stay and attempt to lift the curse is hardly serving plants over people - the Absolute and the Shadow Curse are both significant threats to people. What Halsin is doing, however, is prioritizing his own problems over those of Astarion. He's setting aside the tadpole cause, not because he's selfish or duplicitous, but because he's not willing to abandon the other people he swore to help a century ago and has obsessed over ever since.

Some fun implications

Given all this information, there are many interesting ways to read Astarion's language beyond a surface "he hates Halsin and/or druids" level (gotta love his charlatan background making almost every line capable of ambiguity). Some personal favorite interpretations of his feelings:

Begrudging affection towards Halsin. Astarion has no reason to get so angry and make such absurd statements if he didn't want Halsin to stay. He certainly didn't make such a big fuss about other companions. However, since Astarion isn't in an emotional place to be able to consider Halsin's worldview seriously now that he's staring down Cazador, that admiration gets bungled into a "well screw you, I didn't like you anyway" attitude, much like how he handles some partner breakups.

Resentment and fear of being left behind or rejected. Astarion is selfish. He's been fairly consistent that he doesn't want to help others, but he also hates when no one helps him. That self-fulfilling prophecy is a rather large part of how he moves through (un)life and can easily continue through Act III depending on whether your dialog choices give him an opportunity to express it. Seeing a good person that he truly believes is good choosing something else over him makes the 'truth' of this cynical, self-centered worldview sting harder, especially as he is at his most vulnerable heading into Baldur's Gate.

Guilt for not doing more. Halsin has been clear about his priorities from the start. He's one of the most straightforward, reasonable communicators in the whole game. That means Astarion knew he would leave if the Shadow Curse wasn't lifted, especially since Halsin doesn't have a tadpole and, therefore, has no reason to risk his life for them. Since Astarion is almost universally unwilling to take blame for his own actions or inactions, he's trying to push the responsibility onto Halsin by painting him as unreasonable for following through on his stated priorities rather than let himself feel bad about not helping Halsin.

I'm sure there are even more readings you can think of, too. Hats off to this hidden bit of dialogue, the incredible delivery, and how much depth it brings to a relationship which is easy to ignore.

#halsin #astarion #halstarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #analysis

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dyannawynnedayne · 4 months

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Which character parallel do you like the best?

Euron and Bran: art by @seaworthit (1, 2)

Propaganda is encouraged!

Euron and Bran

Flying Dreams

“When I was a boy, I dreamt that I could fly,” he announced. “When I woke, I couldn’t … or so the maester said. But what if he lied?” Victarion could smell the sea through the open window, though the room stank of wine and blood and sex. The cold salt air helped to clear his head. “What do you mean?” Euron turned to face him, his bruised blue lips curled in a half smile. “Perhaps we can fly. All of us. How will we ever know unless we leap from some tall tower?” The wind came gusting through the window and stirred his sable cloak. There was something obscene and disturbing about his nakedness. “No man ever truly knows what he can do unless he dares to leap.”

AFFC, The Reaver

“Fly or die!” cried the three-eyed crow as it pecked at him. He wept and pleaded but the crow had no pity. It put out his left eye and then his right, and when he was blind in the dark it pecked at his brow, driving its terrible sharp beak deep into his skull. He screamed until he was certain his lungs must burst. The pain was an axe splitting his head apart, but when the crow wrenched out its beak all slimy with bits of bone and brain, Bran could see again.

ACOK, Bran II

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Jon and Ramsay

Heir After Their Trueborn Brother

“Mother.” There was a sharpness in Robb’s tone. “You forget. My father had four sons.” She had not forgotten; she had not wanted to look at it, yet there it was. “A Snow is not a Stark.” “Jon’s more a Stark than some lordlings from the Vale who have never so much as set eyes on Winterfell.” “If Jon is a brother of the Night’s Watch, sworn to take no wife and hold no lands. Those who take the black serve for life.” “So do the knights of the Kingsguard. That did not stop the Lannisters from stripping the white cloaks from Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Boros Blount when they had no more use for them. If I send the Watch a hundred men in Jon’s place, I’ll wager they find some way to release him from his vows.” He is set on this. Catelyn knew how stubborn her son could be. “A bastard cannot inherit.” “Not unless he’s legitimized by a royal decree,” said Robb. “There is more precedent for that than for releasing a Sworn Brother from his oath.”… “Jon is the only brother that remains to me. Should I die without issue, I want him to succeed me as King in the North. I had hoped you would support my choice.”

ASOS, Catelyn V

“Ramsay killed him. A sickness of the bowels, Maester Uthor says, but I say poison. In the Vale, Domeric had enjoyed the company of Redfort’s sons. He wanted a brother by his side, so he rode up the Weeping Water to seek my bastard out. I forbade it, but Domeric was a man grown and thought that he knew better than his father. Now his bones lie beneath the Dreadfort with the bones of his brothers, who died still in the cradle, and I am left with Ramsay. Tell me, my lord … if the kinslayer is accursed, what is a father to do when one son slays another?”

ADWD, Reek III

#fave parallel poll #round one #group c

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watchmorecinema · 10 months

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Yukio Mishima has been trending this week for uh, reasons. He was a world renowned Japanese author and all of his work is overshadowed by his actions on November 25, 1970. You might not want to read more about this guy because he is horrible and disgusting, but he's utterly fascinating and the movie about him is brilliant.

He's a really interesting character, to the point that he sounds fictional. He's gay, obsessed with ritualistic death, a right wing lunatic, led a private militia that was halfway to a cult, and also was a legitimately great author. His life is covered in the film Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters and it's easily the most beautiful film I've seen in my life. Look at the stills I posted above; every frame of this movie looks like that. It's all just a series of beautiful paintings with people living in them.

The way the film is structured is that it tells the story of his life in three ways. His past is told in black and white flashbacks with static cameras. This is closer to how a movie from the 50's would look like (specifically ones directed by Yasujirō Ozu). The events of three of his books are told with this beautifully stylized look, with sets that look like stage plays. The events of November 25, 1970 is told in an almost normal fashion, with regular colors and competent camerawork. The past is nostalgic, the present is mundane and only in fantasy can you truly come alive.

Through this movie we see the ideology of Mishima coming through. His nationalism, his sexual feelings and his thoughts on beauty and death all come together. Death isn't just a violent and tragic end, it is in itself a beautiful act. Beauty is the only true goal of life and creating beauty brings honor. Growing old and ugly is an act of hate; to die at your peak is to give love back to the world. It is therefore treasonous to live long enough to die peacefully. He pities what heaven must look like now; when men died young and beautiful it was paradise, but now it is filled with old men.

This is an objectively insane way to view the world but it is also fascinating. How much of this was what he believed, and how much of it was just begging for attention? In one instance when asked why he moved to the right politically he said "because the left was full". It was a joke answer, but he clearly wanted to be in the spotlight. His shield society was a paramilitary group dedicated to living a virtuous life of beauty, honor and old ideals. It was also a group of good looking, athletic young men led by a (barely) closeted, conservative gay man. So much of his life could have gone differently but also he was pretty much in control the whole time; he was independently wealthy and revered on the world stage. He could do whatever he wanted, and apparently the way his life went *is* what he wanted.

What's special about Mishima, both in the film and in real life, is that he's a smart and eloquent guy. In films the guy with a crazy worldview is someone like Travis Bickle from Taxi Driver or D-Fens from Falling Down. Travis couldn't understand the alienation and loneliness he felt and he couldn't find any healthy solutions. D-Fens was smart enough but not emotionally strong enough to confront his problems or deal with them maturely. These are people that could benefit greatly from therapy (other examples include Joker from Joker, Rupert Pupkin from the King of Comedy, Frank Murdoch from God Bless America, Patrick Bateman from American Psycho, Tyler Durden from Fight Club and so, so many more).

These are either 20 something year olds that are lost in the world, alienated and lonely, or 40 something year olds with a mid life crisis when they realize that everything has fallen apart. People who don't know where to go, or realize it's too late to change things. Travis Bickle had basically no friends, no family, no charisma with women and a lot of rage and anger. D-Fens lost his job, his self respect and was estranged from his ex-wife and daughter. These are people who's lives are shit at best (Patrick Bateman is a bit of a subversion. He is rich and successful, but his life is completely hollow, his relationships are shallow and he personally is very, very pathetic. I need to write about American Psycho later that film is great too.).

Mishima is different. He's smart enough to understand his issues and how to find help. He's got the money and means to do so. He's famous and rich enough that he could basically get away with anything weird or eccentric so long as it was harmless. On the world stage he was a popular author, and at home he led a life of political activism. If he was unhappy he could easily find healthy ways to fix it. His self destruction was the most avoidable of any of them, yet he's the only one that existed in real life. You expect these people to have serious personality flaws and unfixable (or seemingly unfixable) problems, not to be poetic writers that adhere to healthy living and regularly journal about their emotions, while enjoying respect from their peers and fulfillment in their work.

It's a hell of a film. Paul Schrader has not written or directed anything better (he actually wrote Taxi Driver too, so he had some experience with this type of character before) and it stands out as an incredible experience to watch. Like, Mishima's life is public knowledge and you can probably guess how it went, but I've purposefully not said what happened on November 25, 1970 because I don't want to spoil it. It's an event that actually happened but it's better for you to find out via the film than some wikipedia page.

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luv4slts · 1 year

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Ultraviolence

- aemond targaryen x f!reader ˖⋆࿐໋₊

tags: targcest, smut, little angst, childhood friends/lovers wc: 1.4k — team black but i love him so bad y'all don't understand. anyways as you can tell by the title, i was listening to ultraviolence while writing this LMAO "...cause i was filled with poison but blessed with beauty and rage. aemond brought me back, reminded me of when we were kids."

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No one truly knew who your mother was, as that would only be known to your father but even he most likely had forgotten her. It wouldn't matter either way as she had died in childbirth soon after delivering you. In the year of 112 AC, two years after the birth of Prince Aemond and two years before the marriage of Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor, you were born. They say your father had gotten drunk that night to soothe his pains and sought out a maid to bed. The result of that night was the birth of a bastard. The beloved bastard of King Viserys Targaryen. Viserra was what your father had named you. For you resembled his great aunt with the same deep violet eyes, silver-gold hair, and fine features that she was renowned for. The similarities ended there though, as you often thought to yourself. However, as you got older your father would often comment on how similar you were with her when it came to things such as vanity. For most of your life you had bore the surname, Waters, as was the custom for all high born bastards. However, at the age of 5, your father had legitimized you as a Targaryen. You were the apple of his eye along with your elder sister. You loved your father dearly but loved your sister far more. When she left for Dragonstone, you followed her. You couldn't stand the Hightower's and they didn't take a liking to you either because of your heritage. Queen Alicent, your stepmother, would often make remarks but you didn't mind it too much. The only Hightower you tolerated was him. The elusive enigma, Aemond. You often pitied him as he was always picked on by your nephews for the dragon that he seemed to not possess. His older brother, Aegon, would often remind him of how unlucky he was if the gods provided bastards such as you and your nephews dragons before they did him. The only memories you have of him before the incident in Driftmark were fond. Often, you would both read stories of Old Valyria under the Godswood tree in the Red Keep. Or when you would take him to ride your dragon, hoping that he wouldn't feel as left out. Maybe you didn't know him well. That day he took the dragon of your cousin's mother who had passed, mocking them after doing so. After that day, any love you had for him was buried deep in you. Or so you thought.

“We’re almost here.” you snapped back from your thoughts as you got shaken from them by your nephew, Jacaerys.

“Good, my back hurts from the ride. I don’t know why she wouldn’t just let us ride our dragons to King’s Landing” you say while stretching out your back

It had been years since you had last visited King’s Landing. Most of your time had been spent on Dragonstone. You preferred the warmth and populace of the city but you would rather die than spend a second alone with the Hightower's.

You went to your chambers that you used when you were younger. Nothing much had changed in it, everything remained untouched. Opposed to the rest of the Red Keep where everything had been renovated in preference to heraldry of the Faith instead of the Targaryen tapestries and decorations. Must’ve been the Queen’s doing, you think to yourself. She was a fanatic of the Faith, after all.

“Your grace, you will be expected to meet for supper later in the day.”

“Thank you, Lelia. I will take a walk for now. You and Roslin may rest after unpacking everything.”

The first place you wanted to visit was the library where you had spent much of your childhood. You took a stroll to where it was located, many nobles passing by. You never liked the pleasantries of court life. Another reason for you leaving the Red Keep.

Finally, you reach the library. No one seemed to be here but that was common. Even as a child, this place was never one to be too lively. Aside from you, Aemond, and a few nobles coming here, no one else bothered. You liked the peace and quiet of it. It was a place to wind down after spending the day in court. You make your way over to the Valyrian Histories section, you probably read every book in here. Your interest in Old Valyria was probably one of the things you had inherited from your father. He was always building his sculptures of it from what you remember.

“Ēza issare iā dorolvie jēdri, mandia.” (It has been a few years, sister.) says a voice that you seem to recognize. Though it sounds much older and mature, the tone is the same nonetheless.

You notice him leaning on one of the shelves. He had grown comely these last years even after the loss of his eye. He was much taller too, no longer the boy you remember growing up with.

“It has. What brings you here? I thought you would’ve been busy practicing your swordsmanship.” you bring your attention back to the books, looking through the different titles and trying to find one you haven’t read before.

“I get tired of it” he trails off before continuing again, “and plus, nyke jeldan naejot ūndegon ao.” (I wanted to see you)

“I didn’t think you would’ve missed me so much, jorrāelagon lēkia. (dear brother) If I remember correctly, last time we were together, you had called me a lowly bastard.” you weren’t bothered by that comment that he had made all those years ago but if it made him feel worse then it would be all the more fun to resurface it.

You notice him out of the corner of your eye walking towards you but continue browsing the books before you feel his hand on your lower back. He seemed to be holding a book in his other hand, it had something written in High Valyrian but you couldn’t decipher as it was cut off by his leg. You straighten your back from your position, taking a look into his face. He was truly handsome, even the scar couldn’t take that away from him. You think it added to his beauty.

He hums before speaking, “I thought you would like this, I know you’re fond of Valyrian history, jorrāelagon lēkia. (dear sister) he says the last words in a mocking tone, imitating your own.

He extends his hand, revealing the book to you. Se jorrāelagon hen Meleys (The love of Meleys), it was the tale of the Valyrian goddess of love and fertility, Meleys. The same name given to the Red Queen. You were always a fan of the mythologies and tales of Valyrian gods. He would’ve known it better than anyone.

You reach out and try taking the book from him but he clutches it closer to him, “Shouldn’t I get some words of kindness and love before giving such a gift that took me ages to find?” he says teasingly while lowering his head to face yours, bringing the both of you face to face.

“Thank you so much.”

“Tsk tsk, that won’t do, my Viserra. Say it with more affection, now.”

My Viserra. You felt your face heat up at those words, the way he said it made you flutter. The years that passed had made his voice sound much more manly than boyish. It was as if it was laced with honey and ale.

You lean in closer, your lips almost hovering over his own, “I am very thankful for the great effort you went through. Is there anything you would like in return?”

“Hmm, maybe if you read the book with me. You know I have a love for the histories as much as you do.”

“Fine, can I have the book now?”

“Of course, my Viserra. You know I would never deny you of anything.”

You control yourself from not rolling your eyes at his comment. Was he always such a tease or had he developed this habit in the years you were gone? Who knows.

You grab the book from him before walking to the exit of the library, “I look forward to reading the book, thank you.”

You wonder back to your quarters, your maids weren’t in the room and your things were unpacked so you assumed they were in the kitchens. You called out to the guards, requesting that they come to prepare you for the supper as it was getting closer to nighttime. You weren't too fond of the idea of seeing your stepmother and other brother but you complied for the sake of your father whom you had missed these past years.

#aemond x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x you #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond smut #house targaryen #house of the dragon #the dance of the dragons #house of the dragon aemond #reader insert #hotd x reader #hotd x you #hotd fanfic #hotd smut

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mommyhelgayanderelover · 2 months

Text

Four times you told the truth and one time you lied

You had a surprisingly large number of problems; but one was big… Very big. You'd even say extremely high and wide.

But the much bigger problem was three short words, each longer than the other.

I love you.

You truly hated those three words, almost despised them. Because Optimus said them. All the time.

You remembered the first time Optimus had said them to her. A huge robot, the leader of an entire race....

And you said: "no." A clear and surprisingly honest one - you'd never told the truth - and you realized at the same moment that Prime wouldn't take no for an answer. Purely physically.

It was the beginning of the soon-to-be-ending. You tried to run, tried to hide, and even made attempts to die, but Optimus was always a couple steps ahead .

...and then one day you found yourself on a date. A date is not strange at all, but definitely not with a giant alien robot. You were almost touched, but another confession completely broke the atmosphere of a pretty good evening.

And you wished you could slam the door and leave, but getting away from Optimus, even to another compartment, wasn't an option. So once again you quietly answered, "no." Optimus barely reacted, only the energy cube cracked. You slumped your shoulders. The evening was irrevocably ruined .

... And then, some time later, you woke up... went offline. And you screamed very long and loud: you couldn't adjust the vocalizer, and you didn't need to in this situation. You hated everything around you, and most of all, as always, you hated Optimus.

And when he once again confessed his love to you, being not so huge anymore, you threw your fists at him, screaming: "no!"

Optimus twisted you quickly and carefully, but he was very sad. You weren't the least bit sorry .

... because Prime didn't deserve pity. And he proved it the moment he merged with you as Spark. Needless to say, you fought back as best you could, but what could you do against someone else's battle protocols? In fact, you couldn't even handle the alien interface protocols.

Optimus didn't talk about love, but his whole essence, which was now intertwined with your essence, screamed unconditional love for you.

And you screamed back, as you always do: "no!"

And then you actually just had to accept it. Like any terminally ill person accepts the fact that the disease has taken its toll and death is on the doorstep.

You didn't like humility because it was completely contrary to freedom. But you had to, and so long - very long - millions of years passed.

And if before it seemed something incredible to you, now, after all these vorns, the past seemed truly insane. Once you were free. Once upon a time you weren't Optimus Prime's Bondmate.

But you were, somehow, right about one thing: everything ends anyway or later. Optimus' love ended too... Or rather, Prime himself ended.

Cybertronians may live to a surprisingly long time, their asset is still finite. Sooner or later every Spark dies out, and Optimus' Spark is no exception.

And one day it did. Optimus Prime's Spark ended its life, leaving behind only a graying hull.

You felt the legitimate pain of a broken connection, but not as much as you could have. And at the same time, looking at Prime's disablement, she realized that she was free. That the moment of freedom had arrived. Optimus was much older than you, and he didn't want to drag you to the other world with him.

Millions of years of living together had taught you to pretend tolerance, and to play the loving Bondmate in public. So standing at Optimus' tomb, surrounded by reporters, you showed grief with all your might through the EM field.

Or something that looked like it.

And when you were finally alone, with the coffin and the atmosphere of suffocating loneliness, you couldn't help but confess once again your complete dislike for Optimus.

And you knew for a fact that he heard you. And you knew he was glad as hell to hear your little unnecessary lie.

#optimus prime #reader insert #transformers #optimus #optimus x human #optimus x reader #optimus x you #yandere #transformers prime

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nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos · 10 months

Text

Managed to crank out a new chapter.

Only took...literal eons.

Okay maybe not that long but it fckin felt like it 😵

Anywho.

OPLA!Mihawk x OC

Previous Chapter Link

Chapter 1 Link

Chapter 7: Intrigue and Intimidation

Word Count: 4.8k

Tags: Slow-burn, Enemies to Lovers, eventually NSFW, uh, if I think of more I'll add them or something

After having her sloop sunk by the Buggy Pirates and losing most of her worldly possessions in the process, the normally solitary mercenary Karimi Lionne finds herself teaming up with the rag-tag little crew that is the Strawhat Pirates to defeat them. She bonds with them far more quickly than she bargained for, and that quickly turns into a problem for the Kiku Kiku no Mi devil fruit user when she learns of Nami's plans to leave them high and dry, and Zoro issues a challenge at Baratie that he very likely won't live long enough to regret.

At least two more hours passed, as the sparring bordered on legitimate physical torture; there was no way the swordsman couldn’t tell Karimi was bordering on losing consciousness by the end of it, able to do no more than stumble forward and make a half-hearted swipe with one of her daggers. She halfway wondered if this wouldn’t end until she did pass out from overexertion.

“Enough.”

The second he swiped her dagger away with his knife, the second that word left his mouth, she collapsed to her knees and fell backward onto the grass. Mihawk watched her for a moment as he sheathed his own knife and fixed the cord back around his neck again, giving a small scoff at the pitiful sight of her—hair darkened and dampened with sweat, face reddened under her freckles, shoving her daggers back into their sheaths and pulling her hat down over her face as she expelled a heavy sigh.

Nevertheless, she had performed decently—perhaps better than he had expected her to.

“You did well,” he said after a moment. “I’ve seen worse, at any rate.” His eyes passed up and down her briefly, her chest still rising and falling heavily as she lay limp on the grass. “Though your stamina could use work.”

“I’m hung over. And I haven’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours,” she said tersely, still catching her breath. She swallowed. “I…I’m just gonna…gonna stay here.”

“No, you won’t.” She gave a growl of annoyance—and then lifted her arm, extended her middle finger briefly, and let the limp fall back to the ground heavily. Mihawk rolled his eyes skyward—she might be of some use as an associate, but if her attitude didn’t adjust soon he might simply end up pushing her over the side of his boat and watching her sink. “Your dear friend made mention that dinner will be at five o’clock. That gives you perhaps an hour to get yourself cleaned up.”

“Why don’t you go off and play a nice game of hide and go fuck yours—” Her own cry of alarm cut her words off when Mihawk, having heard quite enough, stooped down and pulled her roughly to her feet by her wrist. Her hand flew immediately to that wretched old hat, fixing it back in place atop her head. “What are—excuse me—”

But Mihawk was already lifting her up over his shoulder. “If you insist on acting like a child, you will be treated like one.”

“I’m not a sack of potatoes,” she complained—but there didn’t seem to be enough strength left in her to put up a fight over it with anything more than words.

“Roughly as useful as one,” he said under his breath.

“Potatoes are plenty useful. All the ways they can be prepared, makes for a decent projectile weapon in a pinch—”

“Would you be quiet?”

“If you’re going to treat me like I child I’m going to act like one,” she said, and even had the nerve to make a cruel mockery of his tone. He could practically hear the girl smirking, and for more than a brief moment he considered simply dropping her.

“Or I could end your life right now,” he suggested.

“Just make it quick and painless, if you don’t mind.”

She truly seemed to have an answer for everything—an answer, a taunt, an insult, as if she truly had no reservations at all that he truly could end her life with ease, without an ounce of hesitation. As if she simply didn’t care. Irritating though she was, that had briefly piqued his interest from their first meeting. She had said the same words there on the docks like a joke, to make it quick and painless, but had shown legitimate fear only minutes later when he seized her by her neck.

“Do you not fear death at all?” he asked, almost incredulously, after a long pause.

Karimi leaned back against the front door of the mansion when he set her back upon her feet near the entrance, and gave a slight shrug.

“I’m already living on borrowed time, anyway.”

And, as if that were a perfectly reasonable response, she simply turned and pulled the door open, heading inside without another word on the subject. It took another long moment for Mihawk to process her statement, frowning at the open doorframe as she disappeared into a room off to the left of the sprawling foyer. There was every chance she was doing this on purpose—that she thought he would be less likely to kick her to the curb if he had some interest in her.

There was every chance she was listening to his thoughts to decide exactly how to manipulate him toward that interest. It was impossible to discretely tell whether her haki was active or not at any given time, with her dark green curls covering the black pinpricks just behind her ears that signified it was in use. This was an issue he would have to find a way to deal with—and quickly.

Karimi heard the front door shut several seconds after she had entered herself, reasonably pleased that she had evidently blindsided the warlord. She might not have been able to best him in physical combat, but she had no issue wielding words against him—and the true beauty of it was didn’t even need to use her devil fruit powers to do so.

She found Kaya in the parlor off to the left of the foyer, sitting in an armchair with her feet curled under her and a book open in her lap. Karimi knocked lightly at the doorframe as she spoke up. “We’re done. Finally. Same room as last time?”

“Yes, that’s fine with—oh, heavens,” said Kaya when she looked up and caught sight of Karimi—drenched in sweat, still catching her breath a bit, drying blood caked on her cheek and grass stains on her white shirt and tan shorts. “Are…are you…?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” she said dismissively. “Just exhausted. Wanted to get in a bath before dinner, for…” She looked down at herself pointedly, grimacing a bit at the sight of the stains on her shirt and shorts. She didn’t own many clothes anymore, only what she had managed to salvage from her ship before it sank, and she was fairly certain at least this shirt was ruined now. That was just wonderful. She gave a sigh. “For obvious reasons.”

“Y…yes, of course,” said Kaya, a bit weakly, still staring at her with wide, astonished eyes. “W—were you sparring this entire time?” Karimi gave a nod. “It’s been nearly four hours, how are you still standing?”

“Stubbornness and sheer force of will?” she offered—her legs honestly felt like they were made of jelly at this point, so it wasn’t too far from the truth. She laughed a little. “So anyway…” She nodded toward the stairs. “Bath. I’ll show our local lord the guest quarters. Best you have limited contact with him. He has all the tact of a ill-mannered housecat.”

Kaya’s eyes grew a bit wider at that. Darted, for a fleeting moment, to just over Karimi’s shoulder, before returning to her eyes.

On glancing over her own shoulder Karimi noted that the warlord was standing just behind her, arms crossed, his impatient countenance indicating that he had definitely heard her description of him. She sighed to herself, looking back at Kaya, and gave a quick smile. “Excuse me a moment.” She turned then to face Mihawk, crossed her own arms and leaned her shoulder into the doorframe, quickly glancing up and down him. “You have all the tact of a ill-mannered housecat.”

The warlord blinked at her slowly for a moment, his expression unchanged. Then he rolled his eyes toward the high ceiling for a moment. “And you possess the decorum equivalent of a poorly trained circus ape.” His eyes returned to hers as she raised her eyebrows, pursing her lips. “The guest rooms, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, your lordship,” she said tersely. She turned, gave Kaya a pleasant smile and a wave. The smile that Kaya returned appeared more than a little strained. Karimi was sure the girl was beginning to regret inviting them to stay, even if only for the night. Karimi started toward the stairs, adding, “Right this way for the grand tour, your eminency—”

“Oh for the love of…” She smirked herself as she heard him grumble behind her in irritation. “Why exactly do you insist upon being such an insolent brat?”

“Largely because I resent the entire idea of this arrangement and I would like to be able to go back in time and retract my offer,” she said coldly, gripping the railing tightly as she ascended the grand staircase to assist in pushing her weakened muscles forward. If she could just make it as far as her room and get a bath drawn to soak in for a while, she would be fine. She was sure of it. “But also because it’s entertaining.”

Mihawk didn’t bother speaking to her any further as she led the way through the sprawling mansion. She indicated the door to the dressing room when they passed it, indicated the hall of guest bedrooms, and slipped away into her own room without another word or taunt. The very first thing she did was fall into the queen-sized bed at the center of the room, groaning quietly and setting her hat aside to pull a pillow over her face.

That was where she spent the next several minutes, both unwilling and nearly unable to move, idly hoping that perhaps if she remained lying atop the fluffy comforter she might sink completely into it and simply vanish in a puff of abysmal luck. The exhaustion was far more than only physical. An entire year serving that jackass meant an entire year that she couldn’t focus on her own goal, her only goal, and it would slip that much further away from her. Not that she was remotely close to it, anyway—the longer she searched, the more uncertain everything seemed.

It took every ounce of her will to pull herself back to her feet, trudge into the adjoining bathroom, and begin running a bath.

She was nearly late making it downstairs to dinner, tugging at the low neckline of the shimmering dark green dress she had changed into—off shoulder, but with long sleeves to cover the scars across her arm, a conversation point that she didn’t particularly enjoy taking part in. Kaya at least hadn’t come downstairs yet, so she couldn’t have been too late.

No, the only people in the foyer were a couple of the staff passing through toward the kitchen and dining room, and the new bane of her existence. Leaning one elbow against the banister of the stairs and holding a glass of wine by its stem, the warlord had changed into a white shirt with a ruffled collar, half unbuttoned and tucked into a pair of black pants, a dark red cape draped over his shoulders, though his plumed hat and heavy boots remained unchanged.

Kaya’s whisper from earlier, when she had first introduced the girl to him, rand in her head for a moment—Well, he is quite handsome, isn’t he?—before she shoved it away, rolling her eyes as she passed him and made for the table holding a few bottles of wine and crystal glasses. She set down her tricorne and leather satchel on the table, the latter containing a change of clothes so she could get out of the dress as soon as dinner was done with; and then she uncorked the already opened bottle of Pinot Blanc and set to pouring a glass about halfway full.

“You look like a houseplant.”

Karimi gritted her teeth at the sound of his voice and tipped the wine bottle again, filling the glass nearly to its rim. She glanced at Mihawk as she shoved the cork back into the bottle, as the warlord’s gaze passed pointedly from curly green hair hanging over one of her shoulders to her short green dress—and briefly down the length of her legs, just long enough for her face to heat up in irritation. Irritation, and absolutely nothing else. Karimi mimed the action, her own eyes remaining on the definition of his muscles visible between the open lapels of his shirt for a moment, before meeting his gaze.

“You look like an arrogant prick,” she said, and took a sip from her glass. “But what else is new.”

Quite handsome, isn’t he?

She turned away from him, leaning back against the table and rolling her eyes away from his piercing tallow gaze. No, He was an infuriating jerk, and nothing more.

“Oh, dear, am I—?” Karimi looked over as Kaya hurried into the foyer from the dining room, hurriedly untying an apron from around her waist and glancing at the clock. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting, I thought I’d try to help in the kitchen.”

“I would have helped, too,” said Karimi, frowning. She wasn’t necessarily the best cook, but she had learned more than enough to get by in the past six years on her own, in addition to the basics she had learned from her grandmother.

“Oh, no,” said Kaya, shaking her head as she hung her apron on the coat rack near the door. “You’re a guest here. Besides,” she went on as she pulled her platinum hair down from the ponytail it had been tied back into, “you were half-dead on your feet an hour ago. I’m surprised you even made it downstairs.”

“Ah, few glasses of water and a nice long soak in the tub and I’m right as rain,” said Karimi, waving a hand dismissively. It wasn’t entire true—she was sore all over, and the heels on her borrowed black pumps weren’t doing any favors for the ache and tightness of her calf muscles—but she had definitely endured much worse in far less favorable settings. She glanced behind her and picked up the open bottle of Pinot Blanc, giving it a light shake. “Wine?”

Kaya bit her lip a moment, hesitating. “Well, I…haven’t ever really…”

“Oh, then you have to,” said Karimi, setting her own glass down and pulling the cork from the bottle. She picked up an empty glass, “How else can we toast your newfound freedom from oppression?”

She chuckled a little at that. “Oh…fine, then. But not too much?” She glanced at Karimi’s overfull glass, lifting her eyebrows pointedly.

“Just a drop,” agreed Karimi, filling the glass just short of half-full before passing it over to Kaya.

“You shouldn’t overdo it, either,” said the younger girl, taking the glass with a small, concerned frown. “As much as you overexerted yourself earlier. I would hate to see you sick all night.”

“Oh, no,” Karimi laughed as she shoved the cork back into the bottle once more. ”If I managed to get sick after one glass of wine my grandmother would rise from her grave just to laugh in my face.”

Mihawk glanced over at that, as she and Kaya clinked their glasses together in their toast. This wasn’t the first time she had mentioned her grandmother—she had said in passing that the woman had perhaps trained her in haki, or at the very least used it herself to dampen Karimi’s devil fruit power.

Kaya saved him the trouble of pressing the subject himself after taking a small sip of wine. “Your grandmother sounds like quite an interesting woman,” she said, smiling. “You said she raised you?”

“Mmhmm,” hummed Karimi, through the swing of wine she had just taken the moment her grandmother was mentioned. Mihawk kept his eyes trained onto her face as she swallowed; onto her eyes, as she turned them downward for a moment.” Taught me everything she knew. She was a tough old broad. Wouldn’t be here without her.” She leaned back against the table, lifting her gaze again. “So what are we doing for dinner? I recall you mentioning you hadn’t been able to eat fish since your so-called illness,”

And just like that, as though it had never even been mentioned, the subject was a moot point. The way the girl evaded subjects she didn’t wish to discuss was practically artful, revealing just enough to allow her a chance to deter the asker in another direction. Regardless of how long she had spent on the sea, it was clear she had spent some great deal of time burying her past.

Throughout the dinner, and throughout the wine shared in the parlor after, Mihawk remained mostly silent. He spoke when spoken to, made niceties where necessary with their young host, but for the better part of it all he stayed at the desk in the parlor, quietly drafting out the contract and observing his new associate from the corner of his vision; gauging her interactions, observing how she spoke with and behaved around someone she considered herself friendly with.

Listening for discrepancies in her stories and claims.

It wasn’t long at all before Kaya turned in—though she was no longer actively being poisoned, her constitution was still far less than average, and she said she didn’t dare risk more than a small glass or two of wine. That left himself and Karimi alone in the parlor, left with Kaya’s insistence that they were welcome to enjoy the wine themselves.

“Oh, yeah, such enjoyable company…” Mihawk wasn’t surprised to hear his subordinate mutter under her breath once Kaya was out of the room. He sighed to himself and rolled his eyes toward the high ceiling, definitely not for the first time today.

“Have you always been such an insufferable brat?” he said irately, glaring over his shoulder at her. She scoffed in response, leaning back a bit further into the plush sofa and propping her boots up on the coffee table in front of her, looking more than a bit ridiculous with that tattered tricorne of hers contrasting so hideously with her off-shoulder green dress that he found himself resisting the urge to rip it from her head and toss it out the nearest window.

“Takes one to know one,” she said loftily.

He didn’t need to see her face to know the girl was smirking. It only irritated the warlord more that he found her remotely interesting—he could, and likely would, have killed her well before the day had drawn this near its end.

And yet, this did present the perfect opportunity to question her. “Do tell me.” He set his pen down lightly and pushed his chair away from the desk, standing slowly. “Six or eight?”

“Excuse me?” she said amid a sigh, swilling her wine glass around a little before taking a slow sip of the deep burgundy liquid.

“Eight,” he said, slowly approaching the back of the sofa, “or six? I recall you mentioned having six years’ experience on the sea…” He stopped just behind the sofa, crossing his arms as he looked down at her, her face concealed by that ridiculous hat, “and then saying it was eight a few hours earlier.”

“I said I have six years’ experience as a mercenary,” she corrected. “And eight at sea in total.”

“Then you didn’t jump straight into a life of murder for hire?” She gave another small sigh, this one of clear irritation. She swiped her hat off of her head and pinched at the bridge of her nose as she set it on the end table beside the arm of the couch, tilting her head back to look up at him.

“No,” she said firmly, “I didn’t.”

Her answers were as short as her small stature, as usual. She scowled a little when he lifted an eyebrow, lowering her head and her gaze from his once more as he spoke again. “And what were you doing those first two years?”

“I was with a crew.” She crossed her arms, and while she still lounged back in the couch, there was a small degree of tension in her voice, in the slight squaring of her shoulders. “We parted on decent enough terms, but I had my own plans and they had theirs. I haven’t been in contact with them since.”

“What crew?”

“No one important.”

Mihawk stared down at the girl for a long moment, his eyebrow still quirked. The way she deflected questions, his questions, without a flicker of discernible fear, still astounded him. He turned just enough to grab his wine glass from the desk behind him, giving a small scoff, a small shake of his head. “You either have nerves of steel or the intelligence of a thumbtack, little one,” he commented, and downed the last sip of his wine. He circled slowly around the sofa, to were the open bottle of cabernet sat upon the coffee table where her feet were propped up, slipped out of her black shoes and covered by dark nylon stockings.

Her eyes turned to him briefly in a glare, before she finished off her glass and tilted her head back, pointedly looking away from him.

His eyes remained on her, however.

The short, form-fitting dress accentuated her figure far better than her usual loose-fitting shirts and shorts, a figure was certainly easy on the eyes. His gaze drifted up the length of her slender legs covered in sheer dark nylon as he filled his glass; over the curve of her hip, the swell of her breasts and the slope of her bare shoulders as he set the bottle back down lightly. Perhaps part of it stemmed from the few glasses of wine he had consumed since dinner, but the thought passed through his mind that he wouldn’t object to having such a pretty little thing warming his bed that night.

He picked the wine bottle back up, his sharp eyes lingering on her neck as he rounded the side of the sofa again—more particularly, on the grizzly scar spanning across the pale skin, from her throat to perhaps an inch short of a major artery. He hadn’t noticed it before now, hadn’t really paid the mercenary’s appearance much mind, and the scar would have normally been shadowed by her thick hair and her chin.

Perhaps an inch further, and whatever blade had inflicted that scar may have also taken her life.

Interesting.

Karimi jumped slightly, glancing over sharply, when Mihawk tilted the bottle over the edge of her own glass where she had it resting at the arm of the sofa and refilled it himself. He set the bottle down on the end table by her hat, leaning against the sofa with an elbow draped over the back, the stem of his wine glass resting between his middle and index fingers, his eyes still glued to her neck.

She tensed when he reached out and brushed his knuckles across the soft skin, growing stiff as a statue and pulling in a sharp breath as they grazed lightly over the scar. “And what precisely,” he said, his voice low, almost intimate, “is the story behind this, little bird?”

“First and only time a Marine got a hold of me,” she said stiffly, gritting her teeth against the words.

And more interesting by the second—perhaps an explanation for why she so despised Marines, why she had grown more and more obviously uncomfortable the closer they drew to Garp’s ship earlier in the day.

“And where is this Marine now?” he inquired, his tone tinged with the slightest amusement at how some of her tension lifted the moment his touch moved away from her scar, a slow sigh parting her dark red lips. She closed her eyes as he brushed a few locks of her dark green hair behind her ear before lowering his hand back to his side.

She swallowed, and said, just as curtly, “Dead.”

“Your doing?”

“His own actions resulted in his death.”

“Hmm.” It wasn’t a real answer—of course it wasn’t. She might have killed him, or she might not have, and it seemed she had no intention of clarifying. That was fine for now, he decided, watching as she straightened her posture and took a long drink from her glass.

A little more wine and her tongue might begin to loosen.

She set her glass down on the end table, and his eyes followed the movement…and landed on that tattered old leather tricorne.

“And what of this eyesore?” He lifted the hat, turning it over in his hand, briefly taking in the patch on the front brim, two more on the back. “Looks as though it could use replacing—”

And in one quick and frankly graceful motion, Karimi was on her feet, one of her daggers drawn from her belt laying on the coffee table, the point of the blade poised just under his chin.

“Hands. Off,” she growled, snatching the hat away with her free hand, her emerald green eyes boring a deadly glare into his own gaze. For a long moment, he could only stare at the girl, utterly taken aback at her audacity as she shoved the hat back down onto the end table. Maybe the wine was already showing its effect on her, if she was stupid enough to physically threaten him.

He scoffed as his initial astonishment broke, shaking his head at her and setting his wine glass down lightly.

And then he grabbed hold of her wrist, twisting it aside with enough force that she winced in pain and dropped her dagger, where it landed with a muffled thud a few inches to the right of her foot.

Just as quickly as she had drawn her blade, Karimi was shoved down to the sofa—one of his knees held down both of her legs, one hand pinned both of her delicate wrists over her head and against the armrest. His other gripped the hilt of kogatana, pressing the flat of the blade against her neck, aligned with the scar already spanning across it. She swallowed, glancing down at the blade, before returning her gaze to his eyes—and while her stare remained defiant and her jaw set, there was the smallest flicker of fear evident in how her breathing quickened just a little.

Once more she swallowed as he leaned in closer, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her trembling sigh brush across his own lips, smell the wine on her breath, the wide brim of his hat casting a shadow over her face.

“You might find it in your best interest to never threaten me again, little bird.”

Despite his low and threatening tone, and despite the growing anxiousness in her emerald eyes, she kept up her act of defiance.

“Then don’t touch it,” she said through her teeth.

“Oh?” She drew in a slow quivering breath as he pressed the flat side of the blade a bit more firmly to the delicate skin of her neck. “In case you have forgotten already,” he said slowly, “for the next year you belong to me.” He lifted kogatana from her neck, turning the knife in his hand. She openly flinched as he brought it down toward her face, turning her head away slightly and finally breaking her gaze away from his. He smirked, and simply brushed a few strands of her hair away from her forehead with the edge of the blade. “You are in no position to be giving me orders.”

“Fine.” Though she still spoke through gritted teeth, her voice shook the slightest bit, and the rosy flush growing beneath her freckles seemed to be from more than just the alcohol she had consumed. “Then please don’t touch my hat, sir.”

Sarcastic, of course—Mihawk had more than expected that. It seemed to be her go-to defense mechanism, even in situations where it could get her into more trouble than it could pull her out of it. It was her obvious unease that was the true reward here. He gave a brief nod, pulling his blade back.

“Better.”

And with that he released her hands, standing from the sofa and straightening his hat as he strolled back over to the end table and lifted his wine glass again, taking a sip as he watched her draw in a deep breath and let it out as a slow sigh, her eyes closing for a moment. She swallowed, and stood abruptly herself.

Picked up her wine glass, downed it in a few gulps, and refilled it.

Retrieved her belt and satchel from the coffee table, her hat from the end table, her dagger from the floor, and glared straight into his eyes, her pale complexion still tinged with an almost scarlet flush.

“Good night,” she snapped.

And she stormed out of the parlor without another word or glance toward the warlord.

#mihawk #mihawk opla #opla #one piece #mihawk one piece #opla fan fiction #one piece fan fiction #mihawk x OC #fan fiction #dracule mihawk

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clangenrising · 5 months

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i absolutely adore this blog and story but everytime i read it i am filled with a deep frustration that canon warriors isnt written this well. granted its not a very high bar to top but the way you take this universe and flesh it out so well and make it feel so real is truly like... really really good. the depiction of goldenstar loosing her lives one by one was legitimately so chilling, the second one being ripped out of her and each manifesting in its own ghost and she can only beg for her life and Wait.

also loved razors death. perfect way for him to go out, powerless and throwing a tantrum and desperate to stay alive. makes me almost pity him in a weird sort of way.. like Yikes, what a pathetic, sad excuse for a person. he deserved it and it was incredibly satisfying but ouch. yeah i will be thinking about these updates for a while.

Okay MOOD. I wanna engage with warriors more but I tried reading the books again and I just can't haha. Fun fact though, The thing with the souls each having their own ghost was inspired by when Firestar lost his first life. I went back to read it just to check what the canon version of that looked like and thought that was a cool concept.

And yeah, I think that's a good impulse, like it IS a tragedy that Razor had to die this way. But he refused to change and so he had to die (if you've seen God of War: Ragnarok, that is also a huge influence on me and the way Odin goes out is similar). Like man, imagine a world where Razor wasn't an unrepentant monster and he changed his ways?? but he wasn't and so he went out kicking and screaming.

#not art #asks and answers #anon asks #Razor #Goldenstar #Battle with Razor

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lemonluvgirl · 1 year

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Okay, Chica - A G rated prompt: Katniss gets goosebumps when she holds Peeta's hands.

Thank you to the INCREDIBLE @mega-aulover for this prompt :) I hardly get the excuse to try and write fluff and I have to say I enjoyed the entire exercise!

She'd like to say that getting close to Peeta again was as easy as breathing, but that would be a lie.

It wasn't easy. It was difficult. Full of false starts and awkward interludes and enough unsaid words to fill a shelf of books. Katniss understood this because she knew there was no way to ever truly start over with Peeta Mellark, even if she truly and deeply wished she could erase the past year of him being captured, tortured, and everything that followed until the end of the war.

There were layers of history and trauma in between them, and Peeta wasn't always aware of the context or meaning that colored their interactions, but neither was he oblivious. He felt things and picked up on things and he could still read the room with startling precision.

He remembered odd snippets sometimes, and the major events of their history together but the day-to-day workings of their relationship (which was still stuck in some strange place between cautious allies on good days and distrustful antagonists on the bad ones) seemed to puzzle him at first when he came back if not downright confuse him.

He legitimately didn't understand why Gale hadn't come back to District 12 with her after she had been exiled.

They got into it one night after seeing his face pop up on the nightly newscast. He asked questions with an internal compulsion that she had come to recognize. It was an extension of his 'Real or Not Real' mechanism.

The coping strategy he defaulted to when something just didn't sit right in his mind. And she knew that it was finally time to tell him why Gale hadn't come home, why she hadn't wanted him to accompany her back, why it might be better if he just stayed away indefinitely. Or at least until the still razor-sharp pain she got inside her chest every time she thought of him lessened somewhat.

So she told him about that day outside the president's mansion. She told him about the bombs and about what Snow said in the rose garden. About Coin and her tests of loyalty at the victor's meeting. She told him about Gale and Beetee's bombs and how no one knew for sure how it had happened, who had given the authorization, or what design they had used.

But the implication hung heavy in the air as it had that day that Gale had come to bring her the final arrow to end the war.

"So that's why he's not here." That had been his only reply. Katniss had nodded, not looking at him, lost in her thoughts about how far they had all come from the people they had once been three years ago.

Peeta had taken her silence and had wadded through it, unafraid to confront the dark waters that threatened to drown out the moment of honesty between them.

"There are a hundred reasons why he's not here." Katniss finally replied looking at him and finding his blue eyes dark, sad, and full of that special kind of empathy that never felt inconsequential, or cheap. Even as lost in his own mind as he tended to get sometimes, Peeta's reactions to other people's pain were the same as they used to be. Pure and noble, and not stemming from any misguided sense of pity.

His hand reached over to cover hers, and he enfolded her own small hand into his grasp. Goosebumps spread from the place where his skin touched hers.

"I'm so sorry Katniss." He said, tone even and quiet. "We were all forced to do horrible things in the games, and in the war, but that really is something terrible to try and come back from. But maybe with time you and he could—"

"There's no coming back, Peeta." She said cutting him off.

"But, if you could find it in your heart to forgive me after I tried to kill you then surely you and Gale can work this out. You two have been through so much together."

Katniss nearly recoiled at not only his words but the earnestness with which he said them.

"Everyone's been through a lot these past two years. You included. I don't need to work out anything with Gale. He can stay right where he is for the foreseeable future."

"But you love him," Peeta said quietly, but his eyes were confused and his brows were pulled down and tight together.

She shook her head slowly at him, recognizing immediately the familiar tone of his voice. It usually preceded a barrage of questions in the real or not real vien.

"No, Peeta. I don't. Gale was never the one I loved. Not like that. "

"Well, my memory isn't the most reliable but from what I've pieced together about you two before the games, and then everything that came after, I was sure..." He trailed off and she reached out and hesitantly placed her hand over his. He looked down and frowned slightly, but in a way that illustrated his confusion.

"I wasn't. When I came home after the first arena all I wanted was for things to go back to the way they had been before, clear-cut and easy. But I couldn't go back. And trying to feel something for Gale beyond friendship was one of the biggest mistakes I ever made. I just didn't know how to let go of that part of my life, where all I needed was my bow, the woods, my sister, and my best friend. I might have loved him once, the way you love someone who is like family to you. But I was never in love with him. I've finally learned the difference between real and not real when it comes to that. " She said it with such surety, such conviction, and the way she stared at him. It was like her gray eyes were trying to press some kind of message into him.

He looked startled by her words at first, then he blinked, and it was like he was seeing her clearly for the first time.

Well, maybe not for the first time. There had been many moments where the secret and mysterious nature of the inscrutable Katniss Everdeen was revealed to him in snapshots and quick glances. Like catching sight of something that arrests your eyes right before the door snaps shut.

But looking at Katniss at that moment Peeta knew the door wasn't going to close this time.

No, the warmth of her hand in his, and the look in her eyes told him that this time the door was open for him, as long as he was brave enough to walk through it.

#thg #everlark #fanfiction #lemonluvwrites #peeta mellark #katniss everdeen #writing #the hunger games #lemonluvanswers #fluff #gbt #gbt phase #real or not real conversations

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 2 years

Text

North To The Future [Chapter 2: The Distance]

The year is 1999. You are just beginning your veterinary practice in Juneau, Alaska. Aegon is a mysterious, troubled newcomer to town. You kind of hate him. You are also kind of obsessed with him. Falling for him might legitimately ruin your life…but can you help it? Oh, and there’s a serial killer on the loose known only as the Ice Fisher.

Chapter warnings: Language, discussions of sex, discussions of drugs, discussions of murder, very indecent discussions in general, alcoholism, incompetent flirting, taxidermy, Taco Bell.

Word count: 5.3k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @elsolario @meadowofsinfulthoughts @ladylannisterxo @doingfondue @tclegane @quartzs-posts @liathelioness @aemcndtargaryen @thelittleswanao3 @burningcoffeetimetravel @b1gb3anz @hinata7346 @poohxlove @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @travelingmypassion @graykageyama @skythighs @lauraneedstochill @darlingimafangirl

Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

The answering machine beeps. “Bitch, pick up,” Heather says through the speaker. And then: “Bitch!!! Pick up!!!”

You dive for the phone on the kitchen counter. Your dad gets there first.

“Hey, Heather!” he booms cheerfully. He takes a bite of a gooey chocolate chip cookie and swipes crumbs from his beard with the back of his hand. Your mom, smiling and sly, sips her Earl Grey tea at the dining room table. “Yes, yes, well I am loath to remind you that I live here too. Uh huh. Okay. Did you want to speak to my daughter? Or were you secretly hoping to get me? I could tell you about my riveting mailbox renovation project. There’s also a cow moose that’s been coming around recently, she’s a princess, I got a big ol’ salt lick and put it out in the backyard for her. No, Heather, no, a cow moose is just a female moose. It’s not a new species or anything. Lord have mercy. Okay, here’s ladybug.”

He passes you the phone. You pretend to glower at him, not very convincingly. “Hi, Heather,” you say.

“I am mortified.”

“I wouldn’t beat yourself up about it. He was in the Marines, he’s probably heard worse.”

Your dad bellows: “I sure fucking have!” Then he guffaws in a baritone rumble as he meanders over to the table, polishing off his cookie. Your mom chuckles and shakes her head as she flips a page in the latest issue of Alaska magazine. There’s a salmon on the front cover. No points for originality.

“Anyway,” you tell Heather. “What’s up?”

“Are you finally going to go tonight?”

“Go where?”

You can hear the hopeful, baiting smile in her voice. “Ursa Minor.”

The bar. The bar Aegon asked me about. He came by the clinic yesterday afternoon to pick up Sunfyre and the Nova, that’s what Jen said; a work friend dropped him off and he dashed inside and left just as quickly. You had been busy in the exam room vaccinating Ms. Finnegan’s Saint Bernard—no Cujos allowed in your neighborhood—and thoroughly unavailable to socialize. Still, he hadn’t bothered to wait around to say hello. This bothers you. This bothers you a lot more than you wish it did. He doesn’t care about me, he doesn’t remember me, he’s too busy being a serial killer to talk to me, the possibilities are truly endless. You twirl the mint green phone cord around your fingers. “Umm…”

“You have to go,” Heather begs. “Everyone’s going to be there. Joyce, Kimmie, our whole clique from high school. And Trent! And Trent’s hot friends! He really wants to buy you a drink. Like really, really wants to buy you a drink. He’s been asking about you constantly since you moved back home. It’s pathetic, actually. Take pity on him. Let him spend his whole paycheck on your Bacardi Breezers, and then if you’re still not interested you can ignore him to your heart’s content. I wouldn’t blame you. I know he’s a dumbass.”

Trent. Heather’s brother is two years older than you and a peripheral figure of your life—like a comet that clips by Earth every few decades—for as long as you can remember. He even called a few times when you were at Colorado State for vet school. He’s tall and popular and buoyant, a long-haired former quarterback who took your high school to the state championships and still holds semi-legendary status in Juneau. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with him, nothing at all…except that Heather’s right. He’s kind of a dumbass. You don’t feel any particularly ardent yearning to see Trent, no gnawing curiosity. But if Aegon might be at Ursa Minor… “I do love Bacardi Breezers.”

“Yes, I remember,” Heather says, her words warm with the memories: her bedroom floor at 2 a.m. surrounded by Just Seventeen magazines and nail polish bottles, picnics on the summertime shores of Dredge Lake, your parents’ backyard on early-autumn nights illuminated only by the crackling firepit. She’s a thread woven through your life like a vein through flesh.

“Okay. I’ll go.”

“Booyah!” she hollers through the phone. “8:00?”

“8:00.”

“Wear something slutty.” And then Heather hangs up.

~~~~~~~~~~

You don’t wear something slutty. You wear a very uneventful chunky teal sweater. Aegon is dressed in a black crewneck sweatshirt, cuffed jeans, and Doc Martens combat boots. He’s sitting at the bar when you walk in, the bells on the back of the door jingling. Ursa Minor is drowning in an ocean of multicolored lights, tinsel, garlands, tiny ceramic Santas, at minimum three medium-sized Christmas trees; Dale must have gotten into the holiday spirit early this year. The taxidermy deer heads on the wall have ornaments suspended from their antlers. The whole place smells like pine and peppermint. Shania Twain’s Any Man Of Mine is piping from the stereo. You and Aegon exchange a microsecond glance as you hang your parka on the coatrack—there’s a girl perched on the barstool beside him, you recognize her from around town but can’t recall her name—and then you cross the room to join Heather in her booth.

“I don’t know what I expected,” she sighs defeatedly upon seeing your apparel. Heather is wearing low-rise jeans, a chainmail halter top, and no bra. She has arranged her hair with numerous butterfly clips.

“Wow, you’re basically JLo!”

“Wow, you’re basically retired.” She sips her Sex On The Beach and shoves an ice-cold glass bottle towards you, dewy with condensation and conveniently already opened. “I ordered you a Bacardi Breezer. I had to take a guess on which flavor you’d be in the mood for, I know it changes several times per minute. Is coconut okay?”

“Coconut is awesome.” You start chugging. You steal a glimpse of Aegon and his…friend? Girlfriend? Date? Booty call? Fiancé? Wife? She’s chatting away obliviously. He’s nursing a rum and Coke and staring at you with his bleary, black-ringed eyes. “How’s it going, Joyce?”

Joyce is nestled in the far corner of the booth and engrossed in a fantasy novel. There’s some hunk riding a horse on the front cover. “Hey,” she says without looking up. She flips a page.

“Do you want anything?” Heather asks her.

“Yeah, a lobotomy.”

You say to Heather, smiling: “If I’m retired, what’s Joyce?”

“Dead,” Heather replies. All three of you laugh. Then Heather props her elbows on the table and tinkers with her rhinestone choker so it can catch the Christmas lights, glittering and casting scintillations. “You like my new bling?”

“Oh yeah, it’s super, it’s off the chain.” You half-listen to her lament the lack of shopping options in Juneau—Ketchikan has a Walmart now, apparently, but that’s nineteen hours away—while conducting covert reconnaissance on Aegon and his unspecified companion. It is genuinely baffling that you care this much, but that doesn’t make you care less.

“Um, hello? Hellooooo? Earth to grandma? What the hell are you staring at…?” Heather twists around to see Aegon at the bar, very sloshed and very obviously still watching you. “Him?!”

“Do you know him?”

“I know of him. He works on the same boat as Trent. I’ve never really talked to him. But I’ve heard plenty of things. Very…intriguing things. Titillating things.”

“What have you heard?”

“The bottom line?” Heather grins, conspiratorial. “He’s a mattress.”

“A mattress…?”

“Good for sleeping on and not much else.”

This bothers you, it sends hot blood to your face and your stomach into freefall, though if asked you wouldn’t be able to articulate why. Heather notices and backpedals rapidly.

“I mean, he’s cute, I guess. If you’re into guys who look like they live in a dumpster and have scurvy. He sort of reminds me of Kurt Cobain…except I think the hair is real.” She gasps. “He could give you little Kurt Cobain babies! Cobainbies!”

“I don’t want his Cobainbies.” You down the rest of your Bacardi Breezer.

“You are kind of acting like you want his Cobainbies.”

Aegon says something to the girl beside him. You gaze at him morosely. “He’s a drunk.”

“Great, Alaska has one of the highest rates of alcoholism in the nation, he’ll fit right in.”

“He’s not staying.”

“Just because it won’t be a long time doesn’t mean it can’t be a good time.” Heather wiggles her thinly-tweezed eyebrows, then observes your lack of amusement. “Alright, forget it. I’ll shut up. I wouldn’t be your best friend if I wasn’t trying to help you get laid, you know.”

“Go help Joyce get laid.”

“I’d have better luck with Pope John Paul II.”

“Go help Kimmie get laid.”

“Kimmie’s probably getting laid right now.”

As if a demon summoned by a Ouija board, Kimberly Barbieri gusts into the bar. Every friend group has a Kimmie. She is dramatic and irritating and captivating, she is effortlessly carnal, she is forever regaling you with the volatile ebbs and flows of her love life and enlisting you in her schemes: who to ensnare, who to shun. The rest of you are the supporting cast of characters and have been essentially since kindergarten. You all pity her and yet are viciously envious of her.

“Ugh!” she huffs as she throws her Kate Spade bag down on the table. You, Heather, and Joyce peer up at her with anticipatory smiles. The main character has suffered a new development. Aegon tosses Kimmie a casual appraisal and then turns back to his rum and Coke.

“Yes?” Heather prompts.

“I’m so done with Brad. I mean, I’m really done with him this time. Our three month anniversary? And he takes me to Taco Bell? Taco Bell?!”

“As if!” Heather offers, urging her along.

“As if!” Kimmie echoes in vehement agreement.

“Was Brad aware of the aforementioned anniversary?” Joyce says.

“He should have been!”

“I love Taco Bell,” you say, purposefully incendiary. Heather winks at you. This is the game you’ve played since before you could spell your own names.

“Really?” Kimmie has one hand on her hip, the other gesturing erratically through the air. “You’d be happy if your boyfriend of three long months took you to Taco Bell? You’d be real fucking psyched about that? You’d be planning the goddamn destination wedding in Barbados?”

“Oh yeah.” You are stone-faced; you are the best at feigning earnestness. Joyce is biting back giggles from behind her book. “I would do some very unwholesome things to a man who bought me Cinnamon Twists.”

“Are you on drugs?” Kimmie says. “Are you smoking crack? Are you huffing paint? Have you turned into that kid with the LSD stickers that they warned us about in high school?”

You reply, deadly serious: “I’m just a slut for Cinnamon Twists.”

“I can’t talk to you right now. I need a beer.” And that’s something else that guys unfailingly love about Kimmie: she drinks beer. She flees to the bar.

Heather’s smile dies as her eyes drift to Aegon. She sips her Sex On The Beach meditatively. She asks you, her voice low: “You think he’s the Ice Fisher?”

“No,” you say immediately.

“Oh come on, he showed up right before the murders started happening, that’s a coincidence that bears discussion.”

“It’s not him.”

“And how could you possibly know that?”

You scramble for an explanation. “He’s not big enough,” you decide. “The Ice Fisher is someone who can throw a dead body over one shoulder and lug it for miles through the wilderness.” And that’s probably accurate, but it’s not the real reason you don’t think Aegon is a killer. You couldn’t put the real reason into words if you had years to work on it. At the bar, Kimmie is shamelessly flirting with Dale, who is your parents’ age and closely resembles Robin Williams when he was first rescued from Jumanji. Aegon imparts some final words to his companion and she leaves him, not entirely thrilled.

“How did you two ever cross paths?” Heather asks, mystified.

“He has a dog.”

“Oh, right, that makes sense.”

“Why is it so unbelievable that we might have bumped into each other once or twice in this oh-so-charming, close-knit little haven of a community?”

“Well,” Heather says. “Because you’re so freakishly smart and successful and mature and responsible, and he’s…” She smirks. “Definitely not any of that.”

You glance over at Aegon. He glances back. You both look away. “He’s not so bad.”

“You should go talk to him.”

“Is Kimmie somehow not enough entertainment for you?”

“Dayum, he’s watching you again,” Heather marvels. “You should definitely go talk to him. You know, if you’re totally sure he’s not a serial killer.”

“Should I really?”

“Yes.”

You consult with Joyce. “Should I really?”

Joyce speaks without halting her reading. “Yes.”

You look at Aegon. He gives you a teasing little half-smile. Are you gonna? That smile says. And as Kimmie is coming back from the bar, you go up to sit two stools away from Aegon.

“Dale, can I get an appletini?”

“Appletini?” Dale’s brow wrinkles with confusion. You may not be a frequent Ursa Minor attendee, but you know Dale reasonably well. He’s a casual friend of your parents and a familiar face at holiday parties, town events, and trips to the grocery store and post office. “No offence, ladybug, but what the hell is that?”

“An appletini,” you repeat, crushed. “I saw it on tv. It’s a new cocktail, it’s this neat bright green color, they have it in New York…and Los Angeles…and…and…”

“Do you know how they make it in New York and Los Angeles?” Dale asks.

“No,” you admit sadly.

“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“Forget it. Just get me a mango Bacardi Breezer.”

“That I can do,” he says chipperly, pops the cap off, and slides the bottle across the bar to you. You take a swig.

Aegon chuckles. “Embarrassing.”

“What’s embarrassing?” you fling back, smiling despite yourself.

“Your drink of choice is a Bacardi Breezer, that’s really fucking embarrassing.”

“I like all the tropical flavors! It makes me feel like…” You close your eyes, momentarily dreamy. “Like I’m on a beach somewhere. Like I’m in some gorgeous, warm, exotic place.”

Aegon finishes his rum and Coke and spins the empty glass absentmindedly with one hand. Dale fixes him a new one. “Where’s your favorite beach? Besides that one.” He points towards the harbor. “That one doesn’t count. Nothing in Alaska counts.”

“Then I’ve never been to a real beach,” you confess.

“What!” Aegon gapes at you. “Never?!”

“Never. Not yet.”

“Jesus Christ.” He blinks dazedly and drinks his rum and Coke. He is profoundly, unmistakably drunk.

“Did you drive here?” you ask.

“Nah. I walked.”

“Stumbled, you mean.”

He grins, showing his teeth. “I crawled, like the rat that I am.”

“Maybe you should try being sober sometime.”

“I don’t do well when I’m sober.”

“You work like this?”

He shakes his head. “Just enough to take the edge off. I can’t lose my job. Then I’d be in real trouble.”

“Have you always been a…?” What’s a diplomatic word for alcoholic? Before you can make an attempt, Aegon understands what you mean.

“Since I was fifteen, yeah. More or less.” He shrugs and stirs his drink with the little plastic toothpick with a maraschino cherry speared on it; the ice cubes clink in the glass. He bites into the cherry and slides it off the toothpick with his teeth, chews it, swallows, licks the glistening red juice from his lips. “I’ve been better than I am now. I’ve been worse.”

“How much worse?”

“Why would you want to know that?”

I want to know everything about you. “No reason.”

He evades you. “How’s the mailbox?”

“Mid-renovation. My dad is making a new one that looks like a moose.”

“That’s cool of him.”

“He’s a pretty cool guy.”

“You like your parents,” Aegon says, as if this is something curious, noteworthy. “You get along with them.”

“Yeah.” You pause before continuing, not knowing what he’ll think of it. “I still live with them, actually.”

“Oh, wow.”

“Well, I mean, it makes sense for now, because I just moved back to Juneau over the summer, and their house is right next to the vet clinic, and my dad’s always there when I need advice, and I’m the only child and they’re sort of really attached to me and maybe I’ll start looking for my own place soon but I just figured that in the meantime—”

“Hey, Appletini,” Aegon interrupts, smiling. “I think it’s awesome that you like your parents.”

“Really?” you say, hopeful.

“Really.” He drains his rum and Coke. Dale hesitates; he doesn’t make another until Aegon thumps his empty glass against the counter, wordlessly demanding one. “Why didn’t you take some time off to travel after you finished vet school? California is just a quick plane hop from Colorado. You could have spent a week or two in one of those gorgeous, warm, exotic places you’re so enamored with.”

“I thought about it…but the scheduling didn’t work out. My dad was retiring from the clinic, I was taking over for him, it was more important for me to be here.”

Aegon seems to find this incredibly entertaining, like there’s some joke you aren’t in on. “You took over your dad’s business.”

“Yes, I did.”

He nods, strangely wise, his blue eyes on you. “And you’re kind of happy about that, but you’re kind of stuck too.”

Goddamn, isn’t that the truth. “You see a lot.”

“20/20, baby.”

You study him. His white-blond hair is tucked behind his ears, except for that one undomesticated lock that always seems to escape to rest on his cheek. His eyes are hazy and swimming yet intelligent, almost cunning. He’s staring right back. He’s studying you too. He’s beautiful, you think. He’s sad and funny and magnificent and ruined all at once. How is that possible?

“What were you gossiping about with your friends over there?” he asks, flicking his thumb towards the booth where Heather, Kimmie, and Joyce are currently gawking at you.

Sex, love, drugs, whether you’re a serial killer. “Taco Bell,” you reply.

The front door flies open and a boisterous gaggle of young men flood into Ursa Minor: flannel, cologne, cigarette smoke, heavy thuds of work boots. You recognize most of them. There’s Matt, and Rob, and Gary…and Trent. He spots you and beelines for the bar.

“Hey!” Trent greets you enthusiastically, flipping his lustrous hair out of his eyes with a toss of his head like a horse. Then he addresses Aegon. “Sup, bro?”

“Sup.” They bump fists. Aegon nearly misses.

“Congratulations on finishing vet school,” Trent says to you, beaming a bit too dazzlingly. “I don’t think I’ve really seen you since you got back. How are things? How are your folks?”

“Things are good. My parents are good. Everything’s good.”

“Good!”

“Totally.”

There is an awkward silence. An increasingly awkward silence. Trent is not deterred. “Can I buy you a drink or something? A Bacardi Breezer, perhaps?” His gaze drops to your nearly-empty bottle. “Um, another Bacardi Breezer, perhaps?”

“So Heather has been disclosing all my secrets.”

“I’m sure you still have some,” Trent replies, flirtatious. Aegon’s eyes widen as he gnaws on his plastic toothpick.

“That’s a tempting offer,” you say. “But I’m stopping myself at two drinks tonight. It is a Wednesday, after all.”

“Yeah, a Wednesday,” Aegon agrees, slurring. “What kind of loser gets wasted on a Wednesday?” Then he bursts out laughing and almost falls off his barstool.

“Definitely another time though,” you tell Trent. Like when pigs fly.

“Oh, okay, yeah. Sounds good. See you around.” And Trent, former football star extraordinaire, saunters off to join his friends at the pool table. There’s a massive bull moose head mounted on the wall right above it; it’s adorned with a red Santa hat. That Don’t Impress Me Much plays from the stereo.

Aegon leans over the counter. “Hey, Dale, would you happen to have anything that’s not Shania Twain? Please and thank you.” Dale grunts, then reaches beneath the bar to get his 6-inch-thick binder of CDs. He scans through the transparent plastic pages and eventually makes a selection. CDs, not cassettes. Very high-tech.

“So you go wherever you want to,” you say to Aegon. “Anywhere. Everywhere.”

“Just about, yeah.”

You gulp down the last of your Bacardi Breezer. And next comes your theory: “But you never stay longer than six months.”

He smiles sheepishly. “Exactly.”

“What happens if you stay in the same place for more than six months?”

“My ghosts start catching up with me. One ghost in particular.”

“Is that a metaphor, or…?”

“Oh, I love this song!” Aegon shouts, slapping his palm on the bar and then lurching out of his seat. You listen: it’s The Distance by Cake. He sings along loudly, out of tune. “The green light flashes, the flags go up, churning and burning, they yearn for the cup—”

“This song?! The NASCAR song?!”

“It’s not about NASCAR, it’s about a journey!” His hands reach for you but stop short. They hover in the space between you, open and inviting. “Sing it with me, come on. As they speed through the finish, the flags go down, the fans get up and they get out of town.” He holds up an index finger. “The arena is empty except for one man, still driving and striving as fast as he can. Let’s go, Appletini, sing it!”

“No way, not happening.” But the ice of your face has thawed and melted into a massive, flush-cheeked grin. People are staring as he staggers around the floor: your friends from their booth, his friends from the pool table, Dale from behind the bar, the assorted middle-aged locals from their tables cluttered with Budweisers and bar snacks: peanuts, pretzels, Chex Mix, mini bags of Utz chips.

“The sun has gone down and the moon has come up, and long ago somebody left with the cup, but he’s driving and striving and hugging the turns, and thinking of someone for whom he still burns.” Aegon claps his hands. “Sing it, sing it, sing it!”

You leap off your barstool and join him on the floor. “Yes!” Aegon cheers, pumping his fist in the air. Heather, Kimmie, and Joyce are shellshocked, their mouths hanging open. Who says you can’t be the fun, spontaneous friend on occasion?

You and Aegon sing together, stomping clumsily around the floor: “He’s going the distance, he’s going for speed, she’s all alone—”

“All alone!” Aegon adds, cupping his hands around his mouth like a bullhorn.

“—All alone in her time of need, because he’s racing and pacing and plotting the course, he’s fighting and biting and riding on his horse, he’s going the distance…”

You use your empty Bacardi Breezer bottle as a microphone. Aegon plays air guitar oddly realistically, his fingers scaling an imaginary fretboard. You are reminded of his jade green electric guitar, pummeled and unused and slumbering in his dreary apartment. He stays near you but never touches you, never even tries to. His hair shags over his eyes. His cheeks are pink, gleaming, healthy-looking. The song ends and you stand there together in the sudden quiet, still breathing heavily, your eyes on each other, planning out which places you would touch first if such a thing was in the cards.

At last, Aegon speaks. “You want to go to Taco Bell with me?”

“What, right now?”

“Yeah. Right now.”

“Okay.” After two Bacardi Breezers, you’re probably alright to drive, but you are not in the business of taking chances. Fortunately, there is another option. Juneau’s only Taco Bell is just a few blocks from Ursa Minor; you can easily walk there, and you’ll certainly be fine to drive after a half hour and some food. You fetch your parka off the coatrack. “Where’s your coat?” you ask Aegon.

“Captain Morgan keeps me warm.”

“You are unbelievable.” You leave him momentarily to say goodbye to your friends. They sit in the booth gazing up at you with stunned wonder. “I’m going to Taco Bell with Aegon. I probably won’t be back. I’ll drive him home afterwards.”

“Aegon…?!” Kimmie exclaims.

“It’s Greek.”

“Uh. Okay.” Heather’s words are halting. “Um…have fun, I guess? Use a condom. Be safe.”

“Yeah, don’t get murdered,” Joyce says.

“I don’t think he has the requisite hand-eye coordination for strangulation at the moment. But thanks for your concern.”

You pay your tab, collect Aegon from the bar—he’s guzzling down one last rum and Coke, wiping escaped drops from his chin with his knuckles—and walk with him under dim streetlights and infinitesimal stars to the glaringly florescent, green-red-yellow beacon of the Taco Bell. Aegon insists on paying. His bills are rumpled and stained. Five minutes later, you’re sitting in an otherwise empty dining room doling out menu items like Christmas gifts, the labeled wrappers crinkling: a Mexican pizza and tacos for Aegon, a Gordita and Cinnamon Twists for you, a Nachos Supreme to share, two large Mountain Dews.

“What’s your favorite beach?” you ask him as you eat.

“San Diego,” Aegon replies, drowning his Mexican pizza in hot sauce. “Sapphire water, golden sand, cliffs you can climb all over, sea lions everywhere. They’re adorable, they bark like dogs. But they’ll attack humans. Trust me, I know.” He sucks hot sauce noisily from his fingers.

You consider him, crunching on Cinnamon Twists. “So this is what you do. You get a girl in every city and leave as soon as you’re bored with her.”

He is amused, mischievous. “Are you applying to be my Juneau girl?”

“No. And you didn’t answer my question.”

“You’re half-right.”

“Which half?”

“The girls don’t usually last six months.”

“So more like two girls. Or five, or ten.”

Aegon smiles and says nothing. He shoves a loaded nacho chip into his mouth, never taking his eyes off you.

“You’ve told me a lot of things that don’t paint you in an especially flattering light,” you say. “Why?”

“I’m not honest with many people. Figured I’d try it out with you.”

“How’s it feel so far?”

“Not too bad, actually.”

Seconds tick by. The hushed lull—punctuated only by chewing and straw slurping—is not awkward at all. “You could stay, you know,” you say. “Here. In Juneau. Not forever, but for a while.” Long enough for me to figure you out. Long enough for me to decide what to do with you.

“No.” Aegon is resolute.

“Why not?”

“I just can’t,” he says, then pivots. “Besides, if I was going to stay anywhere it wouldn’t be freaking Juneau, Alaska. There’s nothing here. You have one decent bar, you have one Taco Bell. You don’t have a mall, or a movie theater with more than three screens, or an arcade, or a Barnes & Noble, or a halfway decent beach…for Christ’s sake, you don’t even have a friendly neighborhood scam psychic with a neon sign in their living room window.”

You’re smiling. “So that’s something you’re into. Scam psychics.”

“I’m just saying it adds to the ambiance.”

“Okay, but anyone could do that. I’ll be a scam psychic, there, boom, that box is checked.”

He chuckles, incredulous. “Oh really? You? Reading palms and tarot cards?”

“Yeah, totally. Give me your hand.”

He lays his left hand flat, devouring a taco with his right. Shredded lettuce rains down onto the table. “This is going to be good.”

You trace the lines of his palm with your fingers, skimming them like a whisper. His fingertips are calloused, you notice. Goosebumps rise up on his arm. “Hm. Hmmmm. Yes, yes, I can see many things.”

“Tell me, oh clairvoyant Madame Appletini.”

“Your liver is sad.”

He explodes into laughter, pushing his hair back from his forehead with his right hand. “Truly a singular insight.”

“And! You love dogs because they don’t judge you for your many shortcomings.”

“Right again. Okay you only get one more, you’re cutting close to the bone here.”

You draw a feather-light circle around the perimeter of his palm. He shifts in his seat, watching you, abruptly serious. “You’re not the Ice Fisher. And it hurts you that people think you are, because you’re actually—somewhere underneath all that disturbingly delinquent, self-destructive behavior—kind of a decent guy. In fact, you’ve never hurt anybody.”

“Wrong.” He snatches his hand away and changes the subject. “Here, here, let me do you.” He motions to your left arm. You oblige him, stretching it across the table. He begins by massaging your palm, kneading it with both hands. You are suddenly warm all over, feverishly warm. Then he cradles your hand in his and inspects the lines of your palm, his thumb gliding weightlessly over them. “You possess a supernatural sense of responsibility. This is both a blessing and a curse.”

“That’s probably accurate. Aim for a more shallow observation next time.”

“You would marry a Cinnamon Twist if you could.”

You giggle, almost inhaling a mouthful of Mountain Dew. “Yes, totally. I would take it to Vegas. Elvis impersonator and everything.”

“Now this,” he says, pointing to a crease that cuts your palm in two. “This is fascinating. Groundbreaking. Revolutionary.”

You lean closer. “What does it say?”

Aegon is still clasping your hand, but his eyes are fixed on yours. They are groggy yet bright, so bright. He is smiling. “You want me so fucking badly it’s eating you alive.”

Your jaw falls open, but you don’t say anything. Neither does Aegon. You just stare at each other from across the table, not hearing the wind outside, not feeling the time passing. He’s right, you realize; it dawns on you like a dream remembered from the night before. I think he’s right.

Someone clears their throat. A Taco Bell employee has approached the table with a broom in one hand and a dustbin in the other. He is wearing a psychedelic striped shirt: lavender, aquamarine, pink, white. He looks sick of life. “Hey, we’re closing the dining room in five minutes.”

“That’s fine,” Aegon says nonchalantly. He drops your hand and starts in on his last taco. “We were just leaving anyway.”

Carrying your half-full cups of Mountain Dew, slurping and chatting about the attributes of Juneau, the two of you wander back to Ursa Minor without acknowledging what Aegon said. You drive him home through a sea of cold, black nothingness, everything beyond the Jeep’s windows silent and still. His apartment building is only a few minutes away from the bar. The ride ends much too soon. A lyric from The Distance is wheeling around in your skull: In his mind, he's still driving, still making the grade. She's hoping in time that her memories will fade.

“How’s Sunfyre?” you ask, your Jeep idling outside his apartment. You are genuinely concerned, but also making conversation so he won’t leave yet.

“He’s great. Want to come up and see him?”

You almost say no, because of all those cautionary tales women are told from childhood about men, strange men, drunk men, too-kind men, all men: that they’ll get you alone and off-guard and then they’ll paw at you begging for things you don’t want to give. They’ll lull you into a false sense of security—compliments, feigned vulnerability, hot chocolate, Taco Bell—and then strike like lightning, quick and flare-hot. But when you say yes and follow him upstairs, Aegon doesn’t try anything. He stands in his tiny, drab living room with his hands in his jeans pockets, a whisper of a smile on his face, just watching you as you check Sunfyre’s stitches and tease him about his cone and scratch his soft floppy ears. Sunfyre wags his tail and then rolls over on the scuffed hardwood floor so you can rub his belly.

“He’s in heaven,” Aegon says.

“Yeah, dogs really like me.”

Aegon drags his hands through his strange silvery hair, staring at the wall. “So do alcoholic Greek guys.”

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