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mariacallous · 5 months ago

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Her trans daughter made the volleyball team. Then an armed officer showed up.

Jessica Norton eased her minivan out of the driveway, and she told herself she’d done what any mother would. Her daughter Elizabeth had wanted to play high school volleyball, and Norton had let her. Norton had written female on the permission slips. She’d run practice drills in the yard, and she’d driven this minivan to matches all across their suburban Florida county.

A bumper sticker on the back said “mom.” A rainbow pin tacked inside read “safe with me.” Norton and Elizabeth had spent hours laughing and singing in this extended cab chariot. But this time, Norton had decided to leave her daughter at home.

“Good luck!” the teenager called. “Don’t get fired!”

Until recently, Norton had worked at the high school Elizabeth attended. But last fall, an armed officer with the Broward County Public Schools Police had told Norton she was under investigation for allowing Elizabeth to play girls sports. District leaders banned Norton from the building. They discussed the investigation on the local news, and soon, everyone in Coconut Creek seemed to know Elizabeth is transgender. (Norton asked The Washington Post to use the child’s middle name to protect her privacy.)

In the nine months since, school officials had talked about Elizabeth as if she were dangerous, but Norton knew they couldn’t possibly be picturing the 16-year-old who stood at the edge of the driveway in Taylor Swift Crocs. This girl loved Squishmallows and Disney World. She had long red hair, and she was so skinny, the principal described her to investigators as “frail.”

Elizabeth didn’t have an advantage, Norton thought. She was a normal teenage girl, and yet her very existence had thrust them into one of the nation’s most contentious debates.

Over the last few years, half the country, including Florida, had banned trans girls from playing on girls teams. Proponents of the laws argued that they were fighting for fairness, and the debate had spilled into the stands with an anger that worried Norton. Critics called trans competitors “cheats.” Crowds booed teenage athletes. And some spectators had begun eyeing cisgender competitors for signs of masculinity.

For all that fury, though, no one had been punished yet under one of the bans. Soon, Norton feared, she might become the first. The Broward County School Board planned to take up her case that afternoon, and the agenda included only one proposed outcome: termination.

Norton drove toward her fate and felt nauseous. This life had not been the one she envisioned, but she’d done all she could to ensure it was a good one for her daughter. And she’d succeeded. Before the investigation, Elizabeth had been happy. She’d been a homecoming princess and class president two years in a row. She had friends, near-perfect grades and blue eyes that lit up when she talked about the future.

Now, Elizabeth stayed home and read hateful comments on the internet. She didn’t play sports. She hadn’t been back to Monarch High School.

Norton wanted the light in her daughter’s eyes back. She wanted Elizabeth to have prom and graduation, senior pictures, all the little hallmarks of a teenage life. But first, Norton told herself, she had to fight for her job. She had to return to the school district that shunned her, then somehow she had to convince Elizabeth it was safe for her to go back, too.

Norton was born in Florida in the mid-1970s. She grew up hearing about gay people and drag queens, but the first time she learned about trans children, she was skeptical.

It was 2007. Norton was pregnant with Elizabeth, and she’d turned on the television. Barbara Walters was interviewing a 6-year-old girl she described as “one of the youngest known cases of an early transition from male to female.”

The girl, Jazz Jennings, was cute, Norton thought, but the dispatch unsettled her. How could someone that young know anything about their gender? How could a parent let their kid change their name and appearance?

When Norton gave birth that October, her husband, Gary, picked out a boy’s name, and she bought blue onesies. But almost as soon as Elizabeth could talk, she told her parents she was a girl.

At first, Norton thought their child was confused or maybe gay. Elizabeth begged to wear pink, and she threw tantrums when Norton called her a boy. They fought over backpacks and lunch boxes, school uniforms, haircuts. Norton tried to explain the difference between boys’ and girls’ bodies, but Elizabeth never relented.

“I’m a girl,” she said.

One day in 2013, while Elizabeth was at kindergarten, Norton turned on the TV, and she saw Jazz again. The little girl had a lot in common with Elizabeth. They both loved mermaids. They liked sports, and they seemed to know exactly who they were. Ever since Jazz could talk, her mother said, she had been “consistent, persistent and insistent” that she was a girl.

Oh my god, Norton thought. My kid isn’t gay. My kid is transgender.

Norton collapsed into her couch and sobbed. She didn’t know how to raise a trans child. What if she let Elizabeth transition, then Elizabeth decided she wasn’t a girl? What if someone hurt her?

Norton kept trying to raise Elizabeth as a boy, but eventually, she grew tired of fighting. One afternoon, when Elizabeth was 5 or 6, she asked to wear one of her sister’s outfits to a concert and Norton said yes.

Elizabeth picked a teal ruffle shirt dress with a leopard print. She pulled on a pair of leggings, and when they got to the show, she skipped down the street. Norton had never seen her look that happy.

Though those early years felt hard, South Florida turned out to be an easy place to raise a trans child. The Nortons live in Broward County, a left-leaning community that includes Fort Lauderdale, and its school district was among the first in the United States to adopt a nondiscrimination policy for gender identity. In 2014, when Elizabeth was in first grade, the district released an LGBTQ critical support guide, a wide-ranging document that affirmed trans students’ right to play on sports teams that aligned with their identity.

The superintendent hosted “LGBTQ roundtables” to help parents whose kids were gay or trans. Norton recalled that at one meeting in 2016, she asked if it was possible to change Elizabeth’s name and gender marker on her school records, and he told her yes. (The superintendent later told investigators and The Post he does not remember this conversation, but other people who attended submitted affidavits affirming Norton’s recollection.)

Norton was so excited, she went to Elizabeth’s school that day and asked the assistant principal to make the change.

Norton has always been an involved parent. She volunteered a few times a week at the schools Elizabeth and her two older children attended, and the experience was so positive, she decided she wanted to work in education, too. In the spring of 2017, Monarch High School posted a $15-an-hour job for a library media clerk, and Norton applied even though the job paid $13,000 a year less than she earned as a cake decorator at Publix.

A few months after Norton started, she learned the school board was considering a resolution to create an LGBT history month. Elizabeth said she wanted to testify, so they spent a weekend writing a speech together.

Norton was nervous as they headed inside, but Elizabeth rocked on her heels, excited. She wore her favorite teal dress and a purple headband, and she smiled with all her teeth showing as she and her parents approached the podium.

“I openly transitioned two years ago,” Elizabeth said. “It was the best time of my life. I got to be who I was born to be.”

Elizabeth was 10 then. She’d always had a beautiful face, and people never seemed to look at her and see anything other than girl, but as the school year wore on, she told Norton she worried what would happen once she started puberty.

Norton found a pediatric endocrinologist, and the doctor prescribed a monthly testosterone-blocking shot. As long as Elizabeth took the injection, her voice wouldn’t deepen, she wouldn’t grow facial hair and her body wouldn’t become more muscular the way a boy’s would.

After Elizabeth finished elementary school, she told Norton she didn’t want people to know she was trans. Her new middle school pulled from three elementaries, and most of the kids there had no idea she had ever used another name. She told Norton she wanted to be “a basic White girl,” the kind who wore leggings and drank pumpkin spice lattes, and Norton understood. Most middle-schoolers want to blend in.

The coronavirus shut down schools the next spring, and Elizabeth spent the rest of sixth grade and part of seventh learning online. But Florida was among the first states to reopen, and when Lyons Creek officials announced students could return, they also welcomed kids to try out for sports teams.

Elizabeth was ecstatic. She went everywhere that fall with a volleyball in her hand. She tossed it in the house, and she used the garage door as a rebounder to practice her jump serve. But when she tried out for the team, she didn’t make it past the first cut.

She came home disappointed and told Norton she wanted to get better. Norton didn’t know how to play, but she offered to help. They spent most of the next year in the street outside their house, running “pepper” drills where two people pass, set and hit the ball back and forth.

Norton’s wrists stung by the end of their sessions, but Elizabeth always seemed more energized. Next year, Elizabeth vowed, she would make the team.

As Elizabeth headed into the yard each night, volleyball in hand, she believed the only thing that could keep her off a team was her own ability.

For much of her life, all the big sports associations allowed trans athletes to compete, and most states did, too. Some required athletes to show proof they were taking hormones or blockers, but a dozen states, including Florida, had no restrictions at all. As long as a student could show their gender identity was consistent, they could play.

Trans people represent less than 1 percent of the country’s population, and for decades, state lawmakers rarely mentioned them. But as gay people won protections and the right to marry, LGTBQ+ rights groups and right-wing leaders began looking for new issues to galvanize supporters. Both turned their attention to trans rights.

The community was slowly becoming more visible. Trans people ran for office and appeared on TV, and 17 million people watched as Caitlyn Jenner came out on “20/20.” Trans athletes almost never dominated. But between 2017 and 2019, two trans girls beat cisgender competitors at state track meets in Connecticut, and leading conservative Christian groups warned that other girls would lose athletic opportunities if trans girls continued to compete.

Over the next few years, Florida and two dozen other states passed nearly identical bans on trans girls in sports. Many Republican lawmakers spoke about trans athletes as if they were all the same — tall and muscular, physically dominant, grown men cross-dressing for the sake of a secondary school athletic win. The bill sponsors didn’t mention trans girls who never went through puberty. They hardly ever talked about children like Elizabeth who tried and failed to make a seventh grade team. By 2023, multiple polls, including one by The Post and KFF, found that two-thirds of Americans agreed that trans girls should not be allowed to play girls sports.

Trans athletes remain very rare. A 2021 Associated Press analysis of 20 proposed state bans found that legislators in most couldn’t point to a single trans athlete in their own region. And in Florida, state records show that just two trans girls have played girls sports over the last decade — a bowler who graduated in 2019 and Elizabeth.

Norton doesn’t follow the news, but a friend told her about Florida’s ban the summer before Elizabeth started eighth grade, so Norton went online to read the details. The statute doesn’t list any penalties for young athletes. Instead, it allows competitors who feel they’ve been harmed by a trans athlete to sue that student’s school.

Norton thought Elizabeth might be okay. She had started estrogen by then, and few people knew she was trans. Plus, Coconut Creek still seemed like a safe place. Two weeks after Gov. Ron DeSantis (R) signed the bill, in June 2021, the Broward County School Board unanimously adopted a resolution opposing the ban.

Still, Norton wanted assurance. That summer, with backing from the LGBTQ+ advocacy group Human Rights Campaign Foundation, Norton filed a pseudonymous lawsuit challenging the Fairness in Women’s Sports Act. She didn’t mention any schools. She didn’t use her last name, and she didn’t list Elizabeth’s name.

Norton assumed she’d prevail. A federal judge appointed by President Donald Trump in Idaho had already ruled that that state’s ban was likely unconstitutional and did nothing to ensure the fairness of girls sports.

Norton and Elizabeth never talked about the lawsuit. Instead, they watched the Tokyo Summer Olympics, and Elizabeth fell even more in love with volleyball. As they streamed the Games, Norton researched, and she learned that the International Olympic Committee allowed trans girls and women to compete as long as their testosterone levels were low and they’d identified as female for four years. Elizabeth met all those qualifications. Because she started puberty blockers before her body began making testosterone, her hormone levels looked like any other girl’s.

Though research on the subject remains limited,multiple studies have found that testosterone is the only driver of athletic differences between the sexes. The hormone can give a person a larger physical stature, denser bones and a greater capacity to build muscle. Without it, a trans girl like Elizabeth likely has no physical advantage, researchers have found.

Florida’s new law didn’t make sense to Norton. Elizabeth could compete at the Olympics, but state lawmakers didn’t want her on a middle school team.

Norton had Elizabeth’s birth certificate amended that year, and by the time Elizabeth started eighth grade, she was legally female. When she asked to try out for volleyball again, Norton filled out the paperwork. Next to “sex,” Norton wrote “F.”

When Elizabeth made the cut, she rushed out to tell Norton. She was shocked. She’d been afraid to really hit the ball, she said. She’d tapped it, and the coach had urged her to play harder.

They celebrated at a sports grill, and Elizabeth was too excited to eat. She’d wanted to be on a team with other girls, and now she was.

Elizabeth started high school the next year. She was good enough to make the varsity volleyball team, but she rarely left the bench, and Monarch lost more matches than it won that season. Still, she loved playing. The coach later told the South Florida Sun-Sentinel that Elizabeth “brought an energy” to the team. Other players described her as the team “favorite.”

By then, Norton had become the school’s information management specialist, and she took on a slew of extra jobs to help kids with their student service hours and senior class activities. Norton was so busy, she largely forgot about the lawsuit she’d filed. Her lawyer called her every few months to give her an update, but she didn’t understand much of what he said.

Elizabeth won a starting spot as the volleyball team’s middle blocker her sophomore year. She was 5-foot-8, one of the team’s tallest players, so the coach put her near the net to play defense. She scored a few points over the course of the season, but she wasn’t a hitter. Players need a lot of power to spike a ball the other team can’t return. Elizabeth was 112 pounds and not especially muscular.

Monarch made it to the district semifinals, but its season ended that October with a 3-0 loss to Stoneman Douglas. MaxPreps ranked Monarch 218th out of the state’s 300 girls’ volleyball teams.

Three weeks later, a Trump-appointed district judge dismissed Norton’s lawsuit. The law was not discriminatory, U.S. District Judge Roy Altman found, because it didn’t apply to all transgender students. Trans boys could still play boys sports, he noted.

When the lawyer called to tell Norton the news, she felt the briefest flash of panic. Oh no, she thought. What if they come after me?

Later that month, at the tail end of Thanksgiving break, a work friend asked Norton if she’d seen the email an assistant principal had sent. Norton tried to look, but her school email had stopped working.

There’s a mandatory meeting tomorrow morning, the friend said. It sounds serious.

Norton felt uneasy as she drove Elizabeth to school the next day. She’d heard rumors that some of the boys on the football team lived outside of the district, and she worried she’d be held accountable because her job included overseeing student records.

At the all-staff meeting, an administrator explained that the district had reassigned the school’s principal pending an investigation. Norton felt confused. Everyone liked the principal. He seemed like a stand-up guy, not at all the kind of person who would break district policies.

After the meeting, Norton’s manager told her the school district’s police chief needed to talk to her. Norton met the chief and a school district representative in the principal’s office, and she felt intimidated. The officer was armed. He sat next to Norton, then handed her a written notice and told her she was under investigation.

The notice was inscrutable, just a run of numbers and legalese. Norton told the chief she didn’t understand, and he said she had caused Monarch to break the Fairness in Women’s Sports Act.

Elizabeth, Norton thought. They’re going to ruin my child’s life.

The chief told Norton she was banned from the high school and would have to turn in her keys and laptop, but he assured her the investigation was confidential. No one would know Elizabeth was the reason Norton was in trouble unless Norton told them herself.

Norton spent the next two hours panicking. She called her lawyer, but she was too inconsolable to make out whole sentences. What if she lost her job? What if someone went after Elizabeth?

Just before 11 a.m., Elizabeth texted. She’d looked on the location-tracking app Life360 and seen Norton was at home. Their pet boxer Walter had been sick all weekend, and Elizabeth worried the dog had taken a turn for the worse.

“You’re scaring me,” Elizabeth wrote. “Is Walter OK?”

Norton paced the living room. It took her 20 minutes to work up the nerve, but finally, she called Elizabeth and told her Walter was fine.

Elizabeth asked if Norton had done something wrong, and when Norton said no, Elizabeth asked what happened.

“I don’t want to tell you,” Norton said.

“It has to do with me, doesn’t it?” Elizabeth asked.

She started sobbing before Norton could answer. She asked Norton to pick her up, but Norton told her she wasn’t allowed. A few minutes after they got off the phone, a school employee called. Elizabeth had gone missing.

“Where is she?” the woman asked. “It’s all over the news. Everyone knows.”

Norton checked Life360, and she could see that Elizabeth had left Monarch. Norton asked her husband, Gary, to pick their daughter up, and when they arrived home, Elizabeth ate a pint of ice cream and Gary turned on the news.

A local station called it a “campus controversy.” Reporters said that Norton, the principal and three others had been reassigned because they allowed a transgender student to play volleyball.

News crews showed pictures of Norton and footage of Elizabeth’s team. The reporters didn’t say Elizabeth’s name,but the district released Norton’s, and everyone at school knew Norton had a daughter on the volleyball team.

The phone rang. Norton didn’t recognize the number, so she rejected it, and a man left a snickering voice message.

“So you got a son who likes to sneak into women’s bathrooms?” he asked.

Neither Norton nor Elizabeth left the house the next day. They hid while reporters knocked on the front door, and they watched TV. The local news reported that hundreds of Monarch students had walked out to protest the district’s decision.

Elizabeth was allowed to go back any time, but she told Norton she was scared. What if everyone looked at her, searching for signs of boy where they once saw girl? And what if someone tried to beat her up?

Elizabeth had never been quick to talk about her feelings, but in the weeks that followed, Norton could sense something had changed. Elizabeth spent hours in bed. She told Norton she didn’t care about any of it but pored over online comments about what had happened. That December, Norton’s older daughter came home for the holidays, and she told Norton she could hear Elizabeth through their shared wall. Elizabeth wasn’t sleeping. She was awake, sobbing.

The investigation began that winter. District officials sent Norton to do janitorial work and manual labor at a warehouse, then they interviewed people about Elizabeth. In late January, two officers questioned Norton. They pressed her about the day in 2016 she asked Elizabeth’s elementary school to change her gender marker.

Norton told them every detail she could remember, but she didn’t understand why they were asking. She hadn’t even worked for the school district then. She was just a parent, and as far as she understood, she hadn’t done anything illegal.

A few weeks later, an officer brought Norton a redacted copy of the investigation, then told her a professional standards committee would recommend a punishment within a few months.

Norton read the document at her dining room table, and she felt angry as she made her way through. The then-superintendent had told reporters that an anonymous constituent had called the Tuesday before Thanksgiving and told him a trans girl was playing on the volleyball team. But the informant wasn’t just a constituent, Norton learned. He was a Broward County School Board member. (The former superintendent could not be reached for comment.)

The board had changed considerably in the five years since Elizabeth had testified and thanked its members for keeping her safe. DeSantis had removed several elected board members and replaced them with his own delegates.

The investigation showed that one of DeSantis’s appointees asked the district to investigate Norton. The volleyball season was over by the time Daniel Foganholi reported Elizabeth, but Foganholi told investigators he had received an anonymous phone call “advising that a male student was playing female sports at Monarch High School.” (Foganholi did not respond to requests for comment.)

The investigators’ report was more than 500 pages long, and it took Norton a few days to finish reading. Nearly every page angered her. The officers had spent considerable time trying to find out what Elizabeth looked like. They asked a district administrator to comb Elizabeth’s files and tell them how much she weighed every year between 2013 and 2017. They pushed multiple adults to describe her physically, and they asked three girls on the volleyball team if they’d ever seen Elizabeth undressed. No, the girls said. No one ever used the locker room.

The investigation included transcripts of every interview the officers conducted, and as Norton read, she saw that the officers had repeatedly called Elizabeth “he” in those discussions. On two occasions, the transcripts showed, one detective called Elizabeth “it.” (The investigation is a public document, and The Post reviewed this document and 200 other pages related to the investigation.)

A week before they interviewed Norton, the file showed, they talked to Elizabeth’s middle school guidance counselor, and they asked her to tell them about Elizabeth’s transition. The counselor said she was worried she’d break the law if she did, but an officer told her she wouldn’t.

“No,” the officer said. “I am the law.”

As Norton neared the end of the document, she realized at least some district leaders had known Elizabeth was transgender long before Thanksgiving break. The investigation showed that in 2021, three weeks after Norton filed the lawsuit, the district’s lawyer asked for Elizabeth’s records.

What changed, Norton wondered? Why was the district investigating her now?

Winter turned to spring, and Elizabeth did not return to Monarch. She’d only go back, she said, if Norton went, too.

Norton enrolled Elizabeth in virtual school, but she rarely did more than an hour of classwork. Mostly, she played “Fortnite.” In the game, no one knew what was going on at her school. She was just a girl, spinning across the screen in pink hair and a Nike jumpsuit.

By spring, she was failing geometry. Norton spent most of her time at the book warehouse where she’d been reassigned, but one day in early April, she called in sick so she could spend time with Elizabeth.

Norton waited most of the morning, but Elizabeth didn’t emerge from her room. Finally, at noon, Norton knocked, then pushed Elizabeth’s door open. She was asleep, tucked into a pair of purple floral sheets she’d bought at Target after seeing the same set in a Taylor Swift video.

“Wake up,” Norton said. “We’re going to lunch.”

They drove to a Cheesecake Factory a few minutes from their house. Elizabeth barely talked. After they finished, Norton asked if she wanted to go to Sephora to buy the pistachio-scented Brazilian Crush perfume they both wore.

“Just in and out, okay?” Elizabeth said. “School is getting out soon.”

They made it maybe 20 feet before two teenagers waved. Elizabeth swung right, then disappeared, but Norton didn’t have on her glasses, so she didn’t notice the girls until they were right in front of her.

“Mrs. Norton!” one said. “We miss you!”

Norton scanned the street, but she didn’t see Elizabeth. She wished the girls luck in school, then she found Elizabeth hiding in a row of eyebrow pencils. The perfume was too expensive, Elizabeth said. She left without buying anything.

On the way home, they drove past Monarch, and Norton teared up. She suddenly understood all that Elizabeth might lose. Every year, the seniors paint their parking spots. Elizabeth had already made plans to decorate hers with lyrics from Taylor Swift’s “You’re on Your Own, Kid,” but now, Norton thought, she might never paint one. She probably wouldn’t go to prom. She wouldn’t take senior pictures. She wouldn’t give the graduation speech she’d already started writing.

When they got home late that evening, a certified letter was waiting. Ultimately, the school board would decide Norton’s fate, but the letter said the committee had reviewed the investigative report, and they’d found sufficient evidence to show Norton had broken Florida law.

“The disciplinary recommendation,” it said, “is a termination.”

Norton’s high school salary had always covered their necessities and little else. She worried she’d soon lose even that, so as the investigation dragged on, she took a side job selling merchandise at concerts across South Florida. The Friday night before her scheduled board hearing, she was working a Carlos Santana show when a friend texted to say the board had removed Norton’s name from the Tuesday agenda.

Norton’s stomach sank. She was tired of being silent. She decided she would go to the meeting. She would sign up for public testimony, and she’d tell the school board what had happened to her daughter.

As Norton and her husband sat in the audience that Tuesday, she could feel her heart rate climb. She looked down at her Apple Watch: 110, 120.She worried she might have a heart attack before she reached the podium.

The board reappointed dozens of employees, memorialized three young students, then finally, two hours into the meeting, they called Norton’s name.

She and her husband walked to the microphone, and Norton smoothed her floral dress.

“We are here to speak for our family and tell you how careless actions by the district’s leadership have affected our daughter and our family,” she said.

She had waited 203 days for an answer, she told them. She had done manual labor. She had answered every question, and she had sat through an interview where a detective refused to use her daughter’s legal name or gender.

Norton teared up as she spoke. Her daughter was an innocent 16-year-old girl, she said. Yes, she had played volleyball, but she had done so much more at Monarch. Her peers had chosen her for the homecoming court and student government. She had been flourishing, Norton said, but the district’s investigation had ruined that.

“It’s okay if I’m the villain in their story,” she said, “because I’m the hero in my daughter’s story.”

Things started to change after Norton’s speech. The district set a new hearing for late July, and a number of school board members told the South Florida Sun-Sentinel they didn’t want to fire Norton.

On her way to the final meeting, Norton fiddled anxiously with the minivan’s stereo. As part of an earlier board discussion, one member had asked for other employee discipline data. A reporter had posted the findings that morning while Jessica did her makeup. Adults who’d abused children had served one- and five-day suspensions. A teacher who’d slapped a child received a letter of reprimand.

“They’re recommending a harsher punishment for me than for people who abused kids,” Norton told her husband as she drove.

A dozen people registered to speak. Former students told the board Norton was the reason they made it to college. Most people asked the board not to fire her, but as Norton watched, she couldn’t tell what the district officials might do.

Some said the investigation was flawed. They described Norton as a scapegoat and said Elizabeth had suffered enough. But the chair, a former stay-at-home mom who joined the board after her daughter was killed in the Parkland shooting, said she believed any employee who breaks the law should be punished.

Like the investigation itself, much of the board’s discussion centered on the day Norton asked Elizabeth’s elementary school to change her records. Though Norton hadn’t worked at the district then, Brenda Fam, a board member who had criticized trans people online and in previous meetings, said she thought Norton “inappropriately requested and pressured” school employees.

“I think what happened is criminal,” Fam said. “Norton’s efforts to change her child’s gender have stemmed back to the second grade.”

Fam repeatedly referred to Elizabeth as Norton’s “son.” After the third or fourth time, Norton started to think maybe she didn’t want to go back to Monarch. How could she work for a school board that intentionally misgendered her child?

Norton walked out of the auditorium. Outside, she loaded a stream ofthe meeting on her phone and waited for a decision. The board members were split on what they wanted, but half an hour later, a narrow majority agreed to suspend Norton for 10 days, then move her to a different job where she no longer has access to records.

A scrum of reporters circled Norton and her husband. Norton was proud she hadn’t backed down, but she told them she wasn’t sure what to do now. She had fought for 11 years to keep Elizabeth safe in school. She would do whatever she had to do next to keep her safe still.

“Am I remorseful for protecting my child?” she asked. “Absolutely not.”

The school district told Norton in late August she wouldn’t go back to Monarch. Instead, she’d do clerical work at a nonschool site. Norton didn’t want to leave Elizabeth, but she needed money, so she accepted the job.

The family spent one of Norton’s last free days at the beach, then that evening, Elizabeth said she wanted to watch her old team play. It was an away game, the second match of the year, so they climbed into Norton’s minivan and drove to Coral Springs.

All the girls hugged Norton and Elizabeth when they arrived, and most of the parents did, too. But once the game started, Elizabeth went quiet. She watched, and Norton knew she wanted to be out there with them. They left after the first set.

Norton wanted to cheer up Elizabeth, so she drove her to the mall after the game. Elizabeth didn’t talk the entire time. They ate Chipotle and wandered around, and eventually Norton found Elizabeth in the kids’ section at Marshalls, running volleyball drills with a toy.

Elizabeth passed out on the couch the second they got home, and Norton knew they couldn’t keep living like this.

In all the months they’d been waiting for an end to the investigation, Norton had never considered moving. She loved Coconut Creek. Both she and her husband had lived there their entire lives, and she’d always imagined they’d grow old on their corner lot.

Maybe it was time to let those dreams go, Norton thought. Maybe they were better off moving to a town where no one knew them. Elizabeth might never want to play team sports again, Norton imagined, but maybe, if they found a new school, she could still have a senior year, one last chance at a normal girlhood and the good life Norton had worked so hard to give her.

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acrossthewavesoftime · 1 year ago

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And sadly, this is an ongoing issue in historical fiction, many years after The Patriot. TURN: Washington's Spies, which is a great deal more recet, did the same thing with their depiction of General Sir Henry Clinton.

An solidly middle-aged man in uniform, there was apparently not much room to make him look what to some 21st century eyes might pass as "effeminate", so he receives an implied affair with the fashion-conscious hairdresser of Margaret Shippen and friends, Freddie.

I think I need not elaborate on why that doesn't sit right with me, even more so because the historical Clinton was nothing like this gregarious, unashamedly gay (both for handsome hairdressers and in the old-fashioned sense of the word) on-screen portrayal who occasionally oversees a British defeat in a badly-staged battle from afar; historically, the man had a spotless prior military record from the 7 Years' War, 11 biological children by 3 women (not counting his de facto adoptive son John), because of whom he repeatedly threatened to desert as he was homesick for them, and had difficulties socialising with others to the point he described himself as a "shy bitch" in his diary.

None of this information is particularly hard to find; Clinton has a thorough, if somewhat old, biography to his name that can be accessed digitally, and free of chage via archive.org.

As a non-American consuming American media set in this period, what irks me most is that the tactic of using these harmful stereotypes of the "effeminate" or even outright gay man as shorthand for lacking in moral values, strength and cleverness on the battlefield, persists, both because, to repeat myself here, these stereotypes are harmful and indicative of issues our modern-day society has with its image of men and masculinity, and because it's narratively unappealing.

"The bad guys are the bad guys because they shave and use perfume, and maybe also kiss other men!!1!!!" Just isn't a convincing antagonist or villain backstory for me. As an addition to this, yes to OP's point that this way of treating male characters also shines a light on modern-day misogyny.

Furthermore, it justs shows the need of US filmmakers to 'justify' the actions of the same set of male historical figures who verifiably weren't that great as people (or larger-than-life flawless altruistic freedom fighters) after all (think e. g. of slavery, to name but one important point here). Setting a British antagonist whose character is compelling while also displaying posittive traits against Washington and co., one might run the risk of 'devaluing' the Founding Fathers by setting up a character who would make for an equally appealing alternative to them.

TURN tried to work more into that direction with the sympathetic and kind British Major Edmund Hewlett, but failed by making him a) somewhat incompetent in military matters (as compared of course to Patriot characters of a similar rank) and b) a decidedly fictional character, when a great deal of his personality traits were actually lifted from the real life Lieutenant-Colonel John Graves Simcoe, whose name then in turn (hah) gets slapped on a comedically evil, and entirely fictional British arch-villain-type whose main goal in life is to be evil and sadistic, just because he can.

Ideally, filmmakers would at last be courageous and attempt more nuanced displays of the Revolutionary War, bidding adieu to the old "Good Guys vs. Bad Guys" narrative and attempt a more nuanced portrayal of the period and its people, who were no more than that; people. People who, as we all are, were not without fault and had their own reasons to participate; some out of ideological conviction, others for some sort of personal gain, and yet others because being the son of a second son and yet expected to keep up a certain living standard is hard, so you need to take up a job and make money somehow in order to raise your kids with the financial security you never had at their age because your own parents weren't exactly competent keeping the family money together; but the crucial thing is, all of these kinds of people existed, and existed on both sides. Nuance matters.

all the ladies love that I have so many thoughts on the vilification of male effeminacy in popular thought about the American Revolution

it's soooo sexy that those thoughts are half-formed because my research specialty is actually 19th-century social history (with focuses on women's, queer, and dress history)

I'm actually very hot for doing all of this, in fact

#p s why not go for a man who loves to dress and/or is gay as the mc for a change #that could be interesting if well done #anyway we should not forget to work on our modern perceptions and prejudices regarding masculinity too #and to american film makers: henry clinton was technically a new yorker so give me the sir henry multiseason series i crave #reblog #vankeppel #american revolution #amrev #american revolutionary war #revolutionary war #18th century #history #the patriot #turn amc #turn washington's spies #henry clinton #r rambles

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lefteagleblizzard · 2 months ago

Text

𝔄𝔩𝔩 𝔢𝔶𝔢𝔰, 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔰, 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔢 Until dawn males x male reader

Summary: No plot, no games. Just you, Mike, Matt, Josh, and Chris. All at once. Pure, chaotic indulgence.

Tags: He/Him pronouns used for the reader. Pure smut. Fivesome M/M/M/M/M. Mike Munroe x male reader; Matt Taylor x male reader; Josh Washington x male reader; Chris Hartley x male reader. Set before the events of the game. Matt and Emily broke-up before the events of the game. Mike and Jess are not together in this. Bottom male reader. Smut. Gay smut. Dom Mike Munroe. Gentle dom Matt Taylor. Dom Josh Washington. Anal sex. Blowjob. Riding. Rimming. Multiple orgasms.

Words counts: 5000 words

You had them all wrapped around your fingers, and it was an immense joy to play with them. Not out of malice or cruelty, of course-but there was a certain satisfaction in seeing the way their gazes lingered, their breaths hitched and their confidence faltered when you leaned in just a little too close or said something with just the right amount of weight to keep them guessing.

There were moments, little instances, that made it clear you had each of them hooked. It wasn't your intention to drive them mad… at least not at first. But the way they reacted was too delicious to resist.

You’d spent weeks playing with fire but tonight, the tables had turned. This time, you weren’t the one in control. They’d had enough of the games, and now they were going to show you exactly what happens when you push four people past the point of restraint.

The lodge was quiet save for the sound of labored breaths and soft murmurs, the air thick with heat and longing. You were at the center of it all, the warmth of their bodies pressing in on every side, their touches drawing electric shocks along your skin. It felt dizzying. Four pairs of hands, lips and eyes focused entirely on you, each man contributing something unique yet utterly in sync, a symphony of raw passion and mutual understanding.

Mike's lips were on your neck, teasing and tasting, his breath warm as he hummed lowly against your skin. His grin, that infuriatingly cocky smirk you both loved and hated, was unmistakable. "You look like you're about to melt, babe," he murmured, his voice teasing but with a sharp edge of desire.

His hand caught your chin roughly, turning your face toward him with an assuredness that made your stomach tighten. His lips crashed against yours, the kiss demanding and hungry, his tongue boldly invading your mouth to taste every inch of you.

Behind you, Josh's hands were languid and exploratory, sliding down your spine with a deliberate, almost lazy sensuality. You shivered as his fingertips slipped beneath your shirt, pushing the fabric upward to expose more skin before lowering his head to place a soft kiss at the nape of your neck. His free hand moved lower, cupping your ass firmly, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. He knew exactly how to make you arch into him as his fingers pressed and prepped you with an expertise that left no room for hesitation.

Chris knelt in front of you, his glasses slightly askew as he focused on undressing you. His hands were careful, reverent even, as he tugged your pants down, leaving your thighs bare. His lips brushed against the sensitive skin he revealed, soft kisses trailing upward. Mumbling things to himself with a sheepish laugh.

Matt's hands, meanwhile, took a grip on your cock was firm, his strokes deliberate, but there was a boyish nervousness in the way he watched your face, as if gauging every reaction, his thumb brushing over the sensitive tip to coax a groan from your lips. "Is this good?" he asked, the vulnerability in his tone endearing even as his hand tightened around you, his pace quickening slightly as he grew bolder.

And then there was the maddening sensation of their erections, hard and insistent, brushing against your body no matter which way you shifted. Mike's cock pressed against your hip as he deepened the kiss, grinding subtly against you while his hands slid possessively over your waist. Josh's was hot and thick, nudging against your lower back every time his fingers dipped lower, a teasing reminder of how ready he was. Chris's arousal was obvious against your things as he adjusted himself, his lips faltering momentarily as his need became more apparent. And Matt pressed himself against your own hardened length he was workshopping so delightfully, his breath hitching each time you shifted even slightly.

"Look at you. Completely wrecked already, and we haven't even gotten started." Mike growled, his voice rough with want as he finally pulled back from the kiss, his lips red and slick. He ran his thumb across your bottom lip, his grin widening as he noticed the way you shuddered under his touch.

The four of them moved you as one. Their hands, lips and bodies guide you seamlessly across the room. Your head spun, heat coursing through every inch of your body, amplified by the way their combined attention stripped away any sense of composure.

Mike seized his moment with a predatory grin, his arms circling your waist in a rough pull that left you gasping. His chest pressed against yours, the heat of his body seeped into you, breath hot against your ear as his hands roamed across your back.

"You're not going anywhere," he growled, his voice dripping with satisfaction. His teeth sank into the tender flesh of your neck, a sharp flash of pain igniting a gasp that turned off any reply you were trying to formulate.

Your head fell back, the sensation radiating through you as his tongue followed, soothing and savoring the mark he left. "Fuck, you taste so good," Mike muttered, his voice muffled against your skin. He bit again, a little softer this time, his lips curving against the bruise as if reveling in your reaction.

Mike didn't linger long. His grip shifted as he spun you around, your back colliding with his solid frame. The sudden contact left you breathless, his hands strong on your hips as he pressed his arousal firmly against your ass, bending you over the couch. "Think you can handle this?" he teased, his voice low and dripping with challenge.

The plush cushions yielded under your weight as your arms sank into them, your chest heaving against the fabric. Your head hung low, your breathing ragged as Mike's hands pinned your hips in place. Every nerve in your body was on fire, heightened by the faint, tantalizing sound of a zipper sliding open behind you. The anticipation was dizzying, making you arch instinctively.

From the corner of your eye, you caught sight of the others close by, their gazes fixed on you with a hunger that sent your heart racing. Their hands moved to their own clothes, slowly stripping away the last of their barriers.

You couldn't help the grin that broke through your panting as their clothes joined the pile already scattered across the room.

"Enjoying the show?" Chris asked with a crooked smile, his voice laced with nervous humor that somehow made the moment even hotter.

Josh chuckled darkly, his eyes locked on your bent form. "He’s definitely enjoying it," he said, his tone dripping with confidence as his fingers trailed down his own chest.

Matt didn't speak, but the way his eyes roamed your body, his lip caught between his teeth, said more than words ever could.

Mike's hands tightened on your hips, pulling you back against him with a deliberate grind that left no room for doubt about his intentions. His weight settled over you, his firm chest pressing into your back as he leaned down, his breath tickling your ear.

The heat radiating from his body was almost overwhelming, the hardness of his cock pressing insistently against your entrance. You couldn't stop the sharp intake of breath as he shifted, his hips grinding forward enough for you to feel just how big and hot he was.

"Shit, you're shaking already," Mike muttered, his voice low and laced with amusement. "We haven't even started yet."

You could hear the faint wet sound as he spat into his hand, his free hand gripping your hip firmly to keep you in place. The anticipation was a tangible thing, winding your muscles tight as you felt him align himself, the blunt head of his cock pressing against you. The stretch was immediate as he began to push in, the size of him forcing a gasp from your lips. He was hot, the heat of him searing as he sank deeper, every inch a mix of pain and pleasure that left you trembling. By the time he bottomed out, you were already lightheaded, the fullness of him overwhelming as he stilled for a moment, letting you adjust. The pressure was intense, toeing the line between pleasure and pain.

"Goddamn," Mike groaned, his voice a low, guttural sound as his hands gripped your ass firmly, his rough palms spreading you wider to take him in even deeper. He didn't wait long before he began to move, pulling back only to slam into you again with a force that had your fingers clawing into the cushions beneath you. Each thrust was deliberate, his pace building as he set a rhythm that left you breathless.

His cock stretching and filling you with every stroke, hitting that perfect spot inside you that made your vision blur. His hands stayed firm on your ass, gripping and kneading as he fucked into you, his hips snapping with a precision that made your brain go blank with each thrust.

The rhythm he set was relentless, each thrust driving deeper, the friction making your entire body sing. Your knees trembled, your head dropping forward as your hands scrambled for purchase against the cushions. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, mingling with your soft gasps and his gruff moans.

"You feel that?" Mike said, his voice ragged as he thrust particularly hard, making you cry out. "Tight as hell. Makes me wonder if Josh even did his job right," he added, throwing a glance over his shoulder at the others. His smirk was audible, and the teasing in his tone was unmistakable. "Doesn't feel like you prepped him at all, man."

Josh let out an irritated huff, shifting in his seat, his voice rising in protest. "Oh, come on, man. You know I did—" Josh's words faltered for a moment, his frustration bleeding into his tone. "Just shut up and enjoy yourself."

Then Josh leaned in closer, his breath warm against your other ear. "It's not fair," he whispered, the edge of a whine in his voice. "I wanted to be the first one to wreck you." His words sent a shiver down your spine, his hands brushing lightly over your lower back as if to remind you he was still there.

Mike, hearing the way Josh's voice dropped, chuckled darkly, his grip on your hips tightening as he picked up his pace, his thrusts growing rougher, more insistent. "Quit whining, Josh. You'll get your turn. Right now, he’s all mine." he shot back, his words punctuated by a particularly deep thrust that had you moaning loudly. His tone was taunting, the kind of playful arrogance that only made him more infuriating—and irresistible.

His pace quickened as he adjusted his angle, hitting a spot that made your vision blur.

Meanwhile, Chris was sitting beside you, his lips brushing your cheek in soft, fleeting kisses. His touch was a stark contrast to Mike's roughness, grounding you even as your body trembled. "You're doing so good," Chris murmured, his voice gentle and full of warmth. "Just let go, okay? We've got you."

The kindness in his tone, paired with the way his fingers traced soothing patterns along your arm, made your chest ache in the best way.

Matt, on the other hand, was silent. You could feel his gaze from across the room, wide-eyed and transfixed. When you risked a glance in his direction, his lips parted as if to say something, but no words came out. His mouth hung slightly open, his gaze darting between your trembling body and the other men, a mix of awe and arousal evident on his face. He shifted slightly, almost like he wasn't sure what to do with himself, but his attention never wavered, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths as he watched, enraptured.

A broken moan passed through your lips as Mike's thrusts grew sharper, each one sending waves of pleasure that left you teetering on the edge. Even in this state, you were still capable of hearing Josh and Chris’s teasing retorted toward Mike.

Chris chuckled softly, his arm draped over the back of the couch. "You're like a kid that doesn’t want to share his favorite toy. We're here, man. Share the wealth."

Mike's breath was still heavy as he slowed his relentless pace, the sweat on his brow glistening in the dim light of the lodge. He reluctantly pulled back, groaning as he did, his cock sliding free with a slick sound that left you shivering from the sudden emptiness.

"Christ," he muttered, dragging the back of his hand across his forehead as he turned toward the others. "You all are so impatient. I'm making him feel good, alright? Can't leave him aching and wanting more."

Josh smirked from his place on the couch, his eyes sharp and teasing. "Sure, Mike. Real selflessness of you to hog him like that. Totally about his pleasure."

Mike opened his mouth to retort, but you used their banter as your chance to slip away. Shifting slightly and carefully, you pulled your leg over the edge of the couch and crawled across the cushions, the soft material sinking under your weight. Your gaze locked onto Matt, who sat slightly apart from the others, his wide eyes and flushed cheeks making him look almost overwhelmed.

As you approached, his knees shifted apart instinctively, giving you room to straddle his lap. The warmth of his body greeted you immediately, his erection pressing firmly against your own, the friction making you gasp quietly. Matt froze for a moment, his hands hovering hesitantly at your sides as you cupped his cheeks with your palms.

His brown eyes searched for yours, a mixture of shyness and awe written across his face. A nervous grin broke through his expression as his hands finally settled on your hips, squeezing lightly as if testing the waters. "You alright?" you asked softly, your voice tinged with teasing. "You've been sitting there so quietly. Hurts my feelings, y'know."

Your teasing seemed to loosen something in him, the tension in his shoulders melting away as his lips curved into a shy grin. "No! No, it's not that," he said quickly, his hands tightening slightly on your hips as his gaze finally met yours. "I just… didn’t really know what to do…" He trailed off, his eyes trailing down slightly before he managed to add, "You're really handsome."

His honesty made your chest ache in the best way. You chuckled, the sound soft and warm as you leaned in closer. Slowly, you closed the distance between you, giving him plenty of time to pull away if he felt overwhelmed—but he didn't. Instead, Matt met you halfway, his lips pressing against yours in a tentative kiss.

It deepened quickly, his nervousness giving way to something more heated. His hands gripped your waist more firmly, guiding you closer until your chests were flush against each other. Your fingers slipped from his cheeks to the back of his neck, threading through his hair as the two of you melted into each other.

Breaking the kiss with a soft gasp, you braced yourself on his broad shoulder, your other hand sliding between your bodies to wrap around his cock. Matt groaned immediately, his head falling back slightly as his grip on your waist tightened.

You angled his cock carefully, positioning yourself above him before slowly sinking down. The stretch was intense, the heat of him filling you inch by inch until he was fully seated inside of you. A broken moan escaped your lips, your forehead dropping to rest against his as you adjusted to the overwhelming sensation.

Matt's hands roamed your sides, his touch grounding you as he whispered your name like a prayer. "You feel… amazing," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. His lips found your jaw, then your neck, trailing kisses along your skin as you began to move.

The rhythm you set was steady at first, each lift of your hips sending a jolt of pleasure through both of you. Matt's hands guided your movements, his fingers digging into your flesh as his breaths turned into soft groans. The friction between your bodies was electric, every thrust driving you closer to the edge.

As your head rested against Matt's shoulder, lost in the haze of pleasure, a new presence appeared in front of you. Josh leaned over the back of the couch, his hand cradling your cheek with playful intent. "Hey, beautiful," he said with a smirk, his other hand stroking his cock slowly as he watched you.

The invitation was clear and you didn't hesitate. Shifting slightly, you leaned forward, your lips parting as you took him into your mouth. Josh hissed sharply, his free hand tangling in your hair as you moved, the taste of him filling your senses.

The combined sensations of Matt's cock buried deep inside you, stretching and filling you with every thrust, and Josh's cock sliding over your tongue, his groans of approval, sent heat coursing through your veins.

"Fuck," Josh murmured under his breath, his voice strained as his hips bucked gently. His hand tightened in your hair, guiding you with just enough pressure to make your stomach twist with want.

Matt's thrusts grew more erratic beneath you, his grip on your hips almost bruising as he chased his release. "Fuck," he gasped, his lips brushing against your ear. "You're gonna… make me…"

His words dissolved into a groan as he came, his cock pulsing inside of you as he spilled himself completely. The warmth of him, combined with the vibrations of Josh's groans above you, sent you hurtling toward your own climax.

Josh wasn't far behind, his hips stuttering as he held you in place, his cock twitching on your tongue as he finished. The taste of him flooded your mouth, Matt’s deep groans echoing in your ears as you swallowed around him.

There was no reprieve for you, not even a fleeting moment to catch your breath.

Mike's hands were firm as they gripped your shoulders, the warmth and strength of his touch pulling you from the hazy cocoon of pleasure you'd settled into against Matt. The sudden pressure made you lift your head, your eyelids heavy, your breaths still uneven. Your body felt like a live wire, every inch of you tingling as you turned to face him.

Mike was on one knee on the couch, his eyes dark and focused, silently commanding you without uttering a single word. He gave your shoulder another insistent tug and though Matt's hands tightened protectively on your hips, you allowed yourself to be guided. The slight shift made you clench unintentionally around Matt's still-hard cock, earning a sharp hiss from him. His fingers dug into your sides, his reluctance to let you go written plainly in the way his grip lingered.

You turned back to Matt briefly, leaning forward to plant a soft kiss on his lips, the tenderness of the gesture contrasting the heat still thrumming through your veins. When you pulled back, Matt chased your lips and you couldn't help but chuckle softly at the look on his face, brushing a thumb against his flushed cheek.

Matt's lips curved into a nervous smile as he exhaled slowly, his fingers releasing their hold on your hips with obvious reluctance.

Mike, ever impatient, didn't wait a second longer. His hands moved to your arms, pulling you toward him with a force that left no room for protest. His arms wrapped tightly around your frame, drawing you flush against his body.

"Miss me already?" Mike teased, his voice dripping with cocky amusement as one of his hands slid lower, palming your ass with an unapologetic squeeze.

His lips claimed yours rapidly. His mouth moved against yours with a hunger that left you breathless, his tongue pushing past your lips to tangle with your own. One of his hands tightened its grip on your ass before he pulled back slightly, just enough to raise it. The sharp smack that followed echoed in the room, the sting making you gasp against his lips.

Your protest muffled against his lips as he leaned in to kiss you. His mouth was relentless, his tongue claiming yours with an urgency that left you breathless. The sting of his earlier smack still lingered, the sensation heightened by the way his lips curved into a grin against yours before he deepened the kiss again, hands roaming greedily over your skin.

He maneuvered you easily, his hands guiding your upper body forward until you were on all fours on the couch. Mike's lips never left yours, his kisses growing fiercer, his tongue exploring every inch of your mouth like he couldn't get enough.

Your body trembled as you felt someone's breath ghosting over your entrance, the sudden contrast of cool air against your heated skin making you shiver. Before you could process it, Josh's tongue made contact, the first deliberate stroke sending a jolt of pleasure racing through you. The first deliberate swipe drawing a broken moan from your lips. His tongue teasing as it circled your entrance, alternating between soft, exploratory licks and firmer presses that made your breath hitch.

His lips wrapped around you as he gently sucked, his tongue swirling in deliberate circles. Every stroke of his tongue, every gentle graze of his teeth, was designed to make you lose yourself in the sensation. He just loved the way you reacted, the way your hands gripped Mike’s shoulders in an attempt to ground yourself.

Josh slowly pulled back, his lips swollen and wet, his breath heavy as he looked up at you.

"Relax," he murmured, his voice low and rough, as his hands slid beneath you, cupping your butt softly. His fingers gently squeezed, his touch firm yet tender, as he spread you open, exposing you completely to him.

His tongue was on you again, gently circling around your entrance and moving in slow, deliberate strokes, gradually pressing deeper, pushing past the tight ring of muscle with a groan of satisfaction.

You couldn't hold back the moan that escaped your lips, your body arching slightly as Josh’s tongue worked deeper, exploring you from the inside out. His hands gripped your hips tighter, holding you steady as he pushed further, his tongue curling inside you in slow, rhythmic motions.

You could feel the heat building inside you, the pressure growing as his tongue moved in and out of you with practiced ease, his exhaustion only adding to the unhurried pace.

Meanwhile, Mike's kisses didn't falter. He tilted your head slightly to deepen the connection, his teeth grazing your bottom lip before his tongue swept back in. One of his hands slid up your back, tracing a path of heat that left your skin tingling, while the other continued to grip your ass, keeping you steady for Josh.

As if the two of them weren't already driving you insane, a third sensation joined the mix. Chris's hand wrapped around your cock, his grip firm but careful with strokes deliberate and measured.

Behind you, Matt hadn't been idle. His lips found the curve of your shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin there before pressing gentle kisses that trailed down your back. Every inch of exposed skin was claimed, his mouth alternating between soft bites and soothing licks that left you gasping.

Chris’s thumb brushed over your sensitive tip, smearing the bead of pre-cum that had gathered there, and your whole body shuddered in response.

The four of them worked together seamlessly, their movements perfectly in tune as they pushed you closer and closer to the edge. Josh's tongue delved deeper. Matt’s teeth sank into the sensitive spot on your neck. Mike's kisses grew more fervent, his teeth scraping against your lips as his hand slid down to join Chris's, adding pressure to your already overwhelmed cock.

Chris's strokes quickened, his hand tightening ever so slightly as he watched your face for every reaction. "You're so close, aren't you?" he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear. "Just let go."

The words were your undoing. Pleasure surged through you like a tidal wave, your climax ripping through you with an intensity that left you gasping. Your cock pulsed in Chris's hand as he continued to stroke you through your orgasm, his touch gentle yet persistent.

Josh's tongue slowed as you came down, his hands rubbing soothing circles into your hips as your body sagged against the couch. Mike pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours as he caught his breath, his lips brushing against yours in a softer, lingering kiss.

Josh's warm hands left your skin, his mouth trailing off your body with one final swirl of his tongue that sent aftershocks rippling through you. His absence left you trembling, your body still taut with pleasure. You barely registered the squeeze he gave Chris's shoulder as he passed, the playful grin he shot his best friend accompanied by a teasing, "all yours, man. I think you'll appreciate how well I prepared him for you."

Chris swallowed hard, his eyes darting between Josh and you, his cheeks flushed. "Yeah… uh, thanks for that," he muttered, his voice tinged with nervous excitement as he moved into position. His hands were gentler than Josh's, cupping your ass softly as he knelt behind you. His touch lingered on the marks Mike had left, fingers tracing over the now faint red prints as though marveling at the sight of you so thoroughly claimed.

Mike's lips finally broke away from yours, leaving your mouth swollen and tingling from his relentless assault. His hands slid up to cup your cheeks, his thumbs brushing over your skin with surprising tenderness. "You good?" he asked, his voice rough with desire but carrying a genuine note of care.

You nodded, your breath hitching as his hands moved to the back of your neck, guiding you downward with a firm but steady pressure. Your gaze dropped to his cock, the thick length stood achingly hard, the head glistening as he brought it closer to your lips. "That's my boy," Mike muttered, his breath hot against your face. His lips quivered into a grin as he positioned you. "Show me how much you want it."

His hand buried itself in your hair, not forcing but guiding, his movements deliberate as he groaned low in his throat.

Your lips parted, taking him in slowly and the way he hissed above you only spurred you on. Mike's hand tightened in your hair as you worked your tongue over him, the salty tang of pre-cum mingling with the slick heat of your mouth.

"Fuck," Mike groaned, his voice gravelly as his hips began to move, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he began thrusting gently against your lips. "That's it. Just like that."

You slid your tongue up one side and down the other, slowly sucking him in as you began to take him deeper. You moaned around him, the sound vibrating against his dick as you kept moving, taking him deeper with each bob of your head.

Mike's hips began to move in time with your motions, his breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps as he fought to keep control, to keep from losing himself entirely to the pleasure you were giving him. But it was a losing battle, his control slipping as he let out a series of low, guttural grunts, his hands tightening in your hair as he pushed you closer, his need for release becoming more urgent.

You could feel him throbbing against your tongue, the tension in his body building with each passing second. You doubled your efforts, taking him as deep as you could, your hands gripping his thighs for support as you moved faster, more insistently, wanting nothing more than to push him over the edge, to hear him cry out your name as he came.

From behind, you felt Chris lining himself up, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance. The anticipation made you gasp around Mike, your breath hitching as Chris slowly pushed forward. The stretch was exquisite, your body adjusting to him as he eased inch by inch. Chris's hands gripped your hips tightly, his touch steadying as he finally bottomed out with a soft, shaky moan.

"Holy shit," Chris murmured, his voice breaking as he began to move. His thrusts started slow, almost tentative, as though he was testing how far he could push you. But as you adjusted, his movements grew bolder, the rhythm of his hips building as his moans turned into barely suppressed curses.

The dual sensations were overwhelming. Mike's cock sliding over your tongue, his groans vibrating through your body, while Chris thrust into you from behind, filling you completely. Every movement sent sparks of pleasure shooting through you, your senses drowning in the intensity of it all.

Mike's hips bucked slightly, his pace growing more erratic as he chased his release. "Shit, you're so good at this," he panted, his hand tugging lightly at your hair as he thrust deeper.

Chris, behind you, wasn't faring much better. His hands tightened on your hips as his rhythm faltered, his thrusts becoming less measured and more desperate. His lips brushed against your back, leaving scattered kisses as his groans turned into soft whimpers.

The mix of groans, gasps, and whispered curses filled the room, blending with the wet, rhythmic noises of their bodies moving against yours. It was dizzying, the way they overwhelmed every sense, every nerve ending.

Matt had been close the whole time, his breaths uneven as he watched you unravel beneath Mike and Chris's relentless attention. His wide eyes tracked every movement, every gasp and groan that left your lips. His hand was wrapped tightly around himself, his strokes unsteady and desperate as he tried to keep up with the overwhelming heat of the moment.

As Chris's thrusts grew erratic behind you and Mike's cock throbbed against your tongue, Matt shifted forward, unable to stay on the sidelines any longer. He knelt beside you on the couch, his free hand hesitantly finding the curve of your waist, thumb brushing over your skin in slow, grounding strokes as his other hand quickened its pace.

The sight of your trembling body, the way you moaned and took everything the others gave you, pushed him closer to the edge. His soft groans filled the space around you, the tension in his movements palpable as his hand gripped you tighter, anchoring himself as he chased his release.

When he finally came, his head dipped forward, his breath hitching as warmth spattered across your skin. His release painted your back and sides in hot, sticky lines, each pulse accompanied by a low, barely suppressed moan. His touch lingered over the mess he'd made almost reverently as he muttered something incomprehensible under his breath, his voice low and hoarse.

Even as his breathing began to steady, Matt didn't pull away completely. He stayed close, his hand smoothing over your skin in soft, soothing circles, his presence grounding as the rest of the room spun with heat and noise

Chris was the next to reach his limit, his body tensing behind you as he buried himself deep, his cock pulsing inside you as he came. The warmth of his release sent a final jolt of pleasure through your body, your own moans muffled around Mike's cock.

Mike wasn't far behind. With a sharp tug on your hair, he groaned loudly, his hips jerking as he spilled himself into your mouth. His cock twitched against your tongue, the salty taste of him flooding your senses as he held you in place, his breaths ragged and uneven.

The room fell into a quiet hum, broken only by the sounds of heavy breathing and the soft rustling of bodies shifting against the couch. Mike's hand gently slipped from your hair, his fingers brushing against your cheek before he leaned back, still catching his breath. Behind you, Chris withdrew carefully, his touch lingering as though reluctant to let you go.

Matt’s hands made contact with your shoulders as he helped you sit. You sank onto the couch, your limbs trembling and your body still buzzing from the overwhelming sensations. A comforting warmth surrounded you as Chris wrapped an arm around your waist, his lips pressing a tender kiss to your shoulder. Josh, who had been watching the final moments with a mix of amusement and satisfaction, crouched beside you, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your damp forehead.

Mike stretched out beside you as he traced lazy circles on your thigh. "So… any regrets?" he asked, his tone playful but his gaze soft, almost vulnerable.

You shook your head, a tired smile tugging at your lips. "None."

"Good," he said, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your temple before settling back.

Chris rested his head on your shoulder, his fingers lacing with yours as he let out a content sigh. "We should probably clean up," he said, though the reluctance in his voice suggested he wasn't in any hurry to move.

Josh laughed softly, standing up and stretching. "Yeah, good luck with that. I'm just gonna sit back and enjoy the view for a little while longer."

Matt chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I.. I can grab some towels or something."

The easy banter filled the room, the intensity of earlier fading into something warm and familiar. As you leaned back against the couch, surrounded by their presence, you felt a deep sense of contentment settle over you with this new connection between all of them.

Note: Consider this my (slightly late) Christmas gift to all of you! Writing this was an absolute blast, and I hope you had just as much fun reading it as I did creating it.

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 9 months ago

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1968 [Chapter 9: Dionysus, God Of Ecstasy]

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

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

Word Count: 5.9k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just fine?”

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

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

“I miss you,” you confess.

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

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

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

“What are you going to be for Halloween?”

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

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

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

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

“I ride the cows…”

“Cowboys do not ride cows.”

“Maybe this one does.”

“I thought you liked being ridden.”

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

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

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

“He does. I remember.”

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

“Really?” you ask hopefully.

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

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

“Cosmo’s what, seven years old?”

“Five.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“His mistress.”

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

“I’m okay. What’s wrong with Alys?”

“What?”

“Why couldn’t Aemond marry her?”

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

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

“I guess. Whatever love means to them.”

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

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

“How old?”

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine. I gotta go.”

“Wait, no, not yet—!”

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

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

“I know about her,” you tell him.

Still, Aemond says nothing.

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

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

“I’m not hurt, Aemond.”

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

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

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

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

“No,” Aemond says instantly.

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

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

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

“Yes,” Aemond agrees simply.

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

“What do you want?”

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

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

“I was wrong.”

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

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

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

“Let go of me—”

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

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

~~~~~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have. In college.”

“With a guy?”

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

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

“You’d fight a ghost for me?”

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

“Which ghost should we summon?”

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

“That is wrong, that is so wrong.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re dripping wax on me—”

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

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

“Everywhere?” Aegon asks, intrigued.

You smirk playfully. “Almost.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You jolt upright. “Wait…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you serious?”

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

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

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

“Come to bed,” Aemond says.

“Not right now. I’m busy.”

“You aren’t busy anymore.”

“I told you no.”

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

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

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

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii fanfic #aegon ii x reader #aegon targaryen x you #aegon ii x y/n

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burnednotburied · 6 months ago

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Chapter 6: A Dagger In One Hand

AO3 Link | Masterlist

Pairing: Abby Anderson x fem!reader

Fic Synopsis: Abby goes looking for Owen and ends up on the wrong end of your knife.

Tags/CWs: angst; slowburn; mutual pining; enemies to friends to lovers; talks of purity culture/ideals and “sin”; internalized homophobia and some comp-het feelings (they’re both so gay but so dumb about it); animosity between WLF and Seraphites; blood/gore; descriptions of being hanged; religious/cult-like ideas

Note: I'm really sorry for how long it took for me to write this chapter. Life's been a bitch lately. Keeps kicking me while I'm down, so to speak.

Someone asked about a taglist, so I'm starting one! Please comment if you want to be added :)

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Abby fell asleep surrounded by Scars but woke up alone.

She sat up, blinking away the stubborn remnants of her dreams. Images of her father, alive, and simpler times.

Sunlight shone in from nearby windows, indicating that it was probably already late morning, if not early afternoon, meaning that she’d slept much later than she’d meant to. Much later than she normally would.

But the last couple of days had been anything but normal.

The sound of voices in the hallway brought Abby to her feet and out the door.

Lev and Yara stood just down that hall, arguing, their voices low and insistent.

“Even if you make it, she’s not going to come with you,” Yara said.

“I can convince her.”

“We broke the rules, Lev! That’s all she’ll care about!”

Abby didn’t know who or what they were talking about, and she wasn’t nearly awake enough to begin to decipher it. Behind her, a door opened, across the hall from the room she’d come from.

“Abby?”

Your voice was quiet. Almost surprised. Like you hadn’t expected to see her standing there.

She shivered, as if you’d touched her.

She wished you would touch her.

Jesus. She really needed to get her thoughts in check.

She turned to face you.

You smiled, a stark contrast to the tense words being exchanged just around the corner. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Abby might have just woken up, but she could’ve sworn there was a halo of light surrounding you.

Maybe she was still dreaming.

Her too-recently-conscious eyes could only take in one thing at a time. First, your eyes. She was stuck there for a while. Probably much longer than what was socially acceptable. You had beautiful eyes.

Then, your mouth. Lips still slightly upturned in a warm smile. She wanted to know if you greeted everyone like this. If that smile was a common sight to those around you or if it was just for her. She couldn’t imagine she’d done anything to deserve special treatment from you, but looking at you smiling at her felt like a gift. One that she couldn’t possibly have earned.

It was at that moment that Abby remembered that she was looking at the Seraphite Prophet.

Isaac had warned her about you just over forty-eight hours ago. He’d said that the greatest threat you posed was in your ability to win people over, earning their loyalty even at the cost of their own morals. Their life-long allegiances. Their people.

She understood now why you had been chosen to be the new Prophet. There was something about you that drew people in – had them letting their guard down – with or without all of the Seraphite brainwashing.

Hell, Abby met you two days ago and she was already prepared to leave the certainty and security of the Washington Liberation Front to follow you wherever you wanted to go.

There was something magic about you. You must have a similar effect on everybody.

Abby was momentarily relieved, feeling like she’d solved an equation. She wasn’t losing her mind. (At least not any more than anyone else around you was.) This wasn’t her fault. It was yours.

Even as she thought it, it sounded stupid to her. But the only alternative was that these thoughts and feelings were uniquely, inherently her own. And that could only lead to the hope that you might feel the same way about her.

She finally managed to pull her eyes away from your face and noticed that you were carrying a small, neatly folded pile of clothes.

“Mel gave these to me,” you said, following her gaze. “She said that they don’t really fit her anymore.” Abby only blinked at you incredulously, not understanding. If she hadn’t just woken up, she would’ve known what you meant. “You know. Because of the–” You trailed off, using your hand to make an arching motion over your own stomach, as if to represent a pregnant belly. “–the baby.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Abby looked away, running a hand absently over her braided hair. “Makes sense. That was… nice of her.”

You nodded, falling quiet as Lev and Yara’s voices grew louder just around the corner, the two of them still arguing.

“I can’t believe she’s on her feet already,” Abby said after a minute.

Your worried look gave way to another small smile. “Yes, well, Yara’s always been tough.”

There was so much that Abby didn’t know about you. And Yara and Lev. And about your history together. She’d been picking up on bits and pieces of it, especially yesterday with Lev. It had taken some time, but he definitely started opening up to her as they traveled to and from the hospital.

He had even turned things around on Abby and asked what was going on between you and her. And he seemed to find it funny when she got flustered and dodged the question entirely.

But you had not been such an open book. And Abby wanted to know more. She wanted to know everything.

She just didn’t know where to start.

“What are they fighting about?” she asked instead.

“Lev is worried about their mother,” you explained, just loud enough for Abby to hear. “About what’ll happen to her because of them.”

“Should he be worried?” she asked.

“He needs to focus on his own safety right now.”

“What could happen to her?” If she had to guess based on what she knew about the Seraphites, it couldn’t be good.

You looked away. “Sometimes parents are held responsible for their children’s sins. But their mom is so devout that she’ll probably be fine.”

“Are there options? For helping her?”

You frowned. “Lev wants to go back to the island to get her. But he would never be able to convince her to leave. I’m not even sure that I could, and I’m–”

“The Prophet?” Abby finished.

You moved on without acknowledging that truth. “Yara and I are more worried about what she might do to him.” Before she could think of a response to any of that, you looked back at her, shaking your head like you were shaking those thoughts away. “They’ll work it out. Lev’s not unreasonable.”

“He’s a kid,” she said frankly. “I’m not an expert, but aren’t kids supposed to be hard to reason with, especially when they’re emotional?”

“He’s a Seraphite,” you corrected her. “Seraphites are never really kids.”

Again, Abby felt the urge to ask you to explain, to tell her more about what you meant by that.

“I could use your help with something–” you said, hesitant, “–if you wouldn’t mind. I would ask Yara, but she’s occupied. And she’s also down one arm.”

“Yeah,” Abby said, sincere and probably far too eager. “Of course. What do you need?”

You smiled gratefully and gestured for her to go back into the room where you had all slept. She followed without question, shutting the door behind her.

“It’s kind of embarrassing.” The look on your face told her that you wouldn’t be asking if you didn’t have to. “It’s this dress,” you said. “It isn’t meant for me to be able to take it off myself. One or two of my attendants would always have to help.” And then you turned, just enough to draw Abby’s attention to the back of the dress, where there was an admittedly overly complicated looking corset thing going on. It looked cool, but yeah, she could see how it would be difficult, if not impossible, for you to undo it by yourself.

“They might as well have sewn me into it,” you added, doing your best to look at it over your shoulder. Then you turned back to face her.

She took a beat before she found her voice. “You have attendants? Like maids?”

You shot her an exasperated look. “I had attendants. But they are on the island and I am here, and it’d be really great if someone would help me get out of this thing once and for all.”

“Yeah yeah, I got it,” Abby said, smiling now. “Turn back around.”

You sighed but did as you were told, tossing the pile of clean clothes on the couch for the sole purpose of being able to cross your arms over your chest. Abby chuckled, surprised but amused by your sudden attitude.

She stepped up behind you, taking a closer look at the fabric contraption that had you trapped in this dress. It suddenly occurred to her that, in order to help you with this problem, she would have to get very close to you… And that she’d have to touch you… And that this would inevitably end with you taking off your clothes. Hell, she was (technically speaking) the one who would be undressing you.

She cleared her throat and tried – not for the first time that day and probably not for the last – to get her thoughts under control. You weren’t coming on to her. You just needed help. You probably would’ve been just as likely to ask Mel to do this.

Abby shifted on her feet behind you, lifting her hands to start what was sure to be a very long untangling process, but she paused before actually touching the fabric that hugged your back. “Can I…?” she asked. It felt important to have your permission before she touched you.

“Hmm?” you hummed, glancing over your shoulder before you realized what she meant. “Oh. Yes. Please.”

A thrill shot through her at the sound of you responding to her request to touch you with please.

God, there had to be something wrong with her.

No one – genuinely not one single other person in her whole life – had ever had this effect on her.

She got to work on the dress, trying to convince her stupid, horny mind that the ribbons and fabrics beneath her fingers were not, in fact, attached to your body. She was unsuccessful.

“Jesus, they really did not want you getting out of this thing,” she huffed. “What? Was trapping you in your clothes their way of keeping you chaste?”

Since when did she say shit like chaste? It did sound like some bullshit the Seraphites would do though.

To her surprise, you laughed. “I think the idea was more likely to keep me dependent on others. Trapped both physically and mentally, you know? … It’s a dress, Abby. You don’t exactly have to take it off to have sex.”

Abby’s fingers stilled, her eyes went wide, and her face warmed. And she was glad you were facing the other way so you didn’t see any of it.

She changed the subject before she did anything stupid, like ask you literally anything else about that subject. “So… have you always worn this dress?”

It was a stupid question, but it’s the first thing she could come up with under these conditions.

“This exact dress, no,” you said. She could tell from your voice that you were smiling, and she couldn’t be sure but she thought you might be teasing her. “But some version of it, yes. Since the day I turned twelve. New ones were made for me as I grew and if they tore or got dirty, but it was always something like this.” You paused for a few seconds before going on. “It’s strange. I haven’t worn pants in eight years. I’m kind of excited.”

Abby couldn’t imagine being excited to wear Mel’s hand-me-down pants. But she also hadn’t been forced to wear the same virtually inescapable dress for nearly a decade. The thought alone made her chest feel tight.

She had made a small amount of progress with the dress, but not as much as she would have wanted, and she was getting frustrated with the whole thing. She yanked on something that she thought would loosen it, but ended up making it much tighter. You let out a sharp hiss.

“Sorry,” Abby said quickly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do tha–”

“Do you want to just cut it off of me?” you asked, spinning around to face her again, clearly even more eager and annoyed than she was.

“Umm.” Abby thought her brain might be shutting down entirely. “Yeah. I can do that. If you’re sure you’re not gonna want to wear it again.”

“I’m not going to want to wear it again,” you confirmed.

Neither of you had taken a step back when you turned around, which left very little space between you. Something that Abby was painfully aware of.

“Okay,” she said, voice low. “Then I guess I’m cutting you out of the dress.” But she didn’t move from where she stood, just a breath away from you.

You were the first to move, walking over to where you had all dropped your stuff yesterday and returning with your dagger.

“Here.” Face unreadable, you offered the deadly blade to Abby handle-first. She took it as you spun back around.

She gripped the dagger’s hilt in her hand tightly. The trust that you must’ve had in her, to hand over your weapon and willingly turn your back to her… It made her feel brave.

Or maybe she had bravery and stupidity mixed up.

Abby began carefully cutting through the same ribbons that she’d previously been attempting to untie.

“Are there rules,” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant, “about abstaining from sex? I’ve read about a few Old World religions that were strict about that.”

You were entirely unfazed by the question. “Seraphites have rules for everything. Some of them always made sense to me. But most of them are ridiculous. Meant only to ensure that our Elders are able to maintain complete control.”

The top of the dress loosened and began to sag as Abby continued to slice through the offending constraints, until it was only held up by the straps. She had done enough for you to be able to easily get out of it. If you were to let those straps fall from your shoulders, the whole thing would fall to the floor, gathering at your feet.

She looked away from the smooth expanse of skin in front of her and tried to force that image out of her mind.

“Should be able to get it off now,” she said, deciding that it would actually be better for her to take several steps away.

An earnest ‘thank you’ came from your lips as you grabbed the new clothes from the couch. You didn’t ask her to turn around, but she did anyway. And she was decidedly not thinking about what was going on behind her.

“To answer your question from before,” you began as you got dressed. “Yes, there are rules about that, but they’re wildly unimaginative. We are not permitted to be alone with someone of the opposite sex – outside of our family members – until a spouse is chosen for us. At which point, that person becomes a family member. So technically, we’re never allowed to be alone with someone of the opposite sex.”

“That sucks,” she threw out, not knowing what else to say as she stared at a random stain on the wall and forced herself to wonder how it might’ve gotten there.

“Probably. For most people. But I never really had a problem with it.” Your voice was much closer now, just behind her.

“Why not?” Abby’s question of if it was safe to turn around yet was answered with the light touch of your fingers against her wrist, trailing down to meet the dagger still grasped in her palm. She relinquished the knife to you, letting her hand linger against yours as she turned to face you, taking it all in.

You were, indeed, wearing pants. And also a shirt. And they both fit you pretty well.

And you were beautiful. There was always that.

You passed the dagger from your right hand to your left, and the look of determination on your face was nearly the same as it was moments after she first saw you. When Abby was hanging by her throat and you were going to kill her. Only this time the feeling coursing through her body wasn’t fear. It was anticipation.

Whatever you were planning to do next, she wanted it.

“Why not?” Abby had asked a minute ago.

“Because I’ve never had any interest in the opposite sex,” you answered as your right hand found its place against her jaw.

Time slowed as you stood there for a moment, holding a dagger in one hand and Abby’s face in the other.

She thought you might kiss her. She was hoping you’d kiss her.

And then the door flung open and your hand fell to your side.

Yara was crying or yelling or both, and it took Abby way too long to process the words she was saying.

“Lev’s gone! He took a boat! He’s going back to the island!”

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Note: This chapter is a bit shorter than usual, but it felt good to end it here for now. Also, I want you to know that I'm dedicated to finishing this fic, and I know exactly where I want to go with it, so expect more updates soon!

Taglist: @h0meb0dyi @lmaoo-spiderman @quinnsadilla @rew1nds @sapphicontherun

#the wolf and the prophet #my writing #abby anderson #abby anderson x fem!reader #abby anderson x reader #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby tlou #tlou2 #abby anderson fanfic #abby anderson fic #abby anderson x seraphite

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