#His dad did make him bury his own dog

[just-a-fangirl7]

For the @allvalley100 prompt, ♤ Boys Don’t Cry ♤

Terry Silver & Terry Silver’s Father (Does he have a name?)

Terry stood at the foot of the grave, freshly filled with dirt, and his dog’s old and soon-to-be-decayed body in a box. His lips trembled in an attempt to swallow his tears, his hands shook as he held the shovel in his hands, his knuckles white.

“It was just a dog, Terrance. Boys do not cry over the loss of their fellow man and most certainly do not cry over mutts.” His father scoffed, his posture perfect and voice steady with confidence.

Terry shut his eyes tightly, bile threatening to come up if he made the smallest peep.

“Simply pathetic.”

[madamtrashbat]

When I was ten, we lived on a rice farm with a lot of big buildings in the middle of nowhere. One of the shitty employees of the rice farm decided that, because we had barn cats on the premises, it was perfectly fine to dump a litter of very small kittens into one of the barns.

(I hate her I hate her I hate her)

The kittens were not old enough to be on their own, and despite one of the barn cats looking after them, the majority of them did not make it. All except for one, a little tuxedo that let my dad pick it up.

He brought it into the house, and I decided I was going to nurse it back to health. He was mostly black with a white chin, little white toes, and a white belly. He was so small. I fell in love with him.

I named him Pookie.

He would curl up in the crook of my neck and sleep on my shoulder, where it was warm. He was eating the cat food I mushed up with water, and for three days I thought he might make it.

Then, inexplicably, our dog Fancy, a heeler/shepherd mix, attacked him in the laundry room. She had never done anything like that before and never did anything like that afterwards. I never knew why she did what she did.

I begged my parents to take him to the vet. Please, see if there's anything we can do. I want to save him so badly.

But we had very little money at the time, and my mom couldn't justify an enormous vet bill for a cat we'd had for less than a week that there was surely nothing to do for.

I put him in his basket that night with food and water and many blankets. He had no external injuries besides a nosebleed, so I hoped it wasn't as bad as it seemed.

He didn't see the morning. My dad buried him in the flowerbed without much ado.

I cried for two days into the arms of an unsympathetic mother who didn't understand why I felt so strongly over a cat we'd had for three days, bombarded with criticism from a judgmental sister who severely disliked cats. My dad did his best to try and comfort me, but he's not the best with emotions and didn't know what to say.

It has stuck with me for 20 years. I wonder, from time to time, if I did enough. If I'd kept him in my room instead of the laundry room, if I'd looked up how to care for him, if I'd kept closer watch on him and kept the dog away from him, would he have lived. Would he still have been my cat. Would he have known a life of love and warm fireplaces and full bellies and cuddling into my shoulders until he was too big to fit.

I'll never know.

I told Sawyer about this recently, in a moment of emotional upheaval where I was just spewing out a list of things that had happened in my past that I'd never really gotten over. The conviction of my sadness apparently struck a deep chord with Sawyer, who decided to make me a memorial for Pookie to keep his memory close.

No one else had taken my emotions regarding Pookie seriously. Not until now. And not only did Sawyer take it seriously, the emotional vomit of an adult woman still crying over a cat she had for three days in fifth grade, but Sawyer thought it important enough that it should never be forgotten.

It's nice, sometimes, to know the person you've chosen to go through life with is the best person in the world for you.

[rafeandonlyrafe]

the same tv

words: 1.8k

warnings: 18+ only, smut, unprotected sex, p in v sex, parent death, funerals, robbery, redemption/forgiveness, addiction, drinking (wine, not like hard drinking), tickling, cockwarming, they call themselves kids at one point but at no point are reader or rafe under 18, like itll make sense once you read it in context

the first thing you do when you enter your house is kick off your shoes. the next is to stop holding back your tears as they stream down your face. you can't even sob anymore, just silent, steady tears.

you sigh as you look around the entryway. there's been some changes since you moved away, despite only being out of your parents house for a little over a year. they replaced the grand portrait that was of your mom's parents with one of you, now taking the place of honor.

you look away before you get to the rest of the family photos. you've seen enough at the funeral. you walk further in to the house, bare feet against the shiny wood floor.

you pause when you hear something further in. you haven't forgotten how the old house seemed to speak, groaning and settling during strong winds or when too many people were crammed between it's walls.

this sound seems different, but you're also occasionally sniffling, your ears are shot from blasting music in an attempt to distract yourself, so you shrug it off and walk further into the living room.

the sound suddenly makes sense as you see someone stood in your living room, arms holding up your parents flat screen television, awkwardly trying to carry it.

you aren't even mad. you honestly don't care about the tv. or the fact that someone is trying to rob you.

you let out a bitter laugh before you sink to the floor. “of fucking course this happens.” you are glad you still have your purse slung from your shoulder as you pull your wallet out, quite aggressively throwing it at the robber who has now frozen.

“what?” he questions, lowering the tv to the ground and pushing his hood of his head, a dumb move for someone currently committing a crime.

“this has been the worst week of my life and now you're robbing me. just my fucking luck…” you let out a broken sob. “just take whatever you want and leave.”

the only things that matter to you still in the house aren't actually worth anything anyways. the photos of your parents, your dad's cologne that's half empty, the oak tree that your childhood dog is buried next to.

“i thought the people who lived here died.”

you pick your head up, a look of fury overtaking your face.

“they did. they're my fucking parents! and now they're gone and you're fucking robbing me! get the fuck out!” you stand up, pushing at the robbers chest.

he looks familiar, like you should know who he is but can't place him.

“im-shit. im sorry.” he says, allowing you to shove him away and out the door. 

“im really fucking sorry!” he yells again before you slam the door shut.

-- years later --

you park your car in the driveway instead of pulling it all the way into the garage like you know you should, but you need to know if you're correct about the man sitting on your front step.

“you're the kid that tried to rob me.” you say as you walk the sidewalk to the porch.

“yes.” he says, looking ashamed and a whole lot more grown up. “i was an addict and i owed a debt. my dad had just kicked me out of the house and i was on my own for the first time. it was stupid of me, but when i heard the people living here died, i thought it'd be a victimless crime.”

he sighs deeply, like even just thinking back to that time physically hurts. “i didn't even think that someone could have inherited the house. im so, so sorry.” 

he swallows thickly. “my mom died when i was young. my dad- my dad just died recently. he faked his death and i got him back, but he's actually gone this time. you know what you said about the worst week in your life?”

you think back those years. it's mostly a blur, especially the days surrounding your parents car crash and funeral, but you do remember breaking down in front of the robber. you nod gently, waiting to hear the end of his speal.

“i know what you mean now. and im sorry i hurt you. im sorry about your parents dying.” he pulls something out of his pocket, extending his hand.

you look into his open palm, realizing it's a ornate gold necklace.

“no.” you shake your head. “you keep it. you don't need to bribe me to forgive you.”

“i want you to have it.” he says. “it's… it's not a lot, but it's something. something to help make up for what ive done.”

you reach forward, carefully taking the necklace out of his outstretched hand, carefully not to accidentally bump his skin. 

“thank you.” you say, admiring the way the sun gleams off the metal. 

“im rafe, by the way. rafe cameron.”

“y/n.” you respond, undoing the clasp of the necklace.

“here, let me.” he takes it out of your hands, moving quicker than you can think as he steps around you. your hair is already up in a bun, so rafe is able to reach around and easily place the chain around your neck.

“thank you.” the weight of the necklace feels comfortable against your skin, like it's the last finishing touch you need. you are wearing your mother's earrings, your father's bracelet, and now you have the other piece of what made that time in your life so miserable, your robbers necklace.

“i… i guess ill be going now.” rafe says.

you turn and watch him walk away. you recognize so much of your former self in him, the clear grieving he's going through.

“are you sober now?” you call out before he reaches the end of your driveway.

“sober enough.” he shouts back. rafe doubts he'll ever truly be clean, but he can at least manage now, doesn't need the drugs like he used to.

“then come back for dinner tomorrow. we can talk.”

you can see the smile stretch over his features. “ill be there.”

-- three months later --

“shit.” rafe says, head snapping over to you. “this is the same tv.”

you giggle and nod, surprised it took him so long to realize. “i never really watch tv on the actual tv, so no need to replace it.” you shrug, the gold necklace still draped over your neck. you haven't taken it off except to shower and sleep.

“god, thats crazy.” rafe looks over to you. “imagine if we just talked back then.” 

you shake your head. “you just think you want that because we get along now. we were both in bad places.”

“you don't think we would have been hooking up back then?” rafe asks, raising an eyebrow at you, watching the way your thighs press together at the mere mention of hooking up, already feeling the urge to sleep with rafe even after having sex only a couple of hours ago.

“we were two scared kids. if we were hooking up we definitely shouldn't have been.” you giggle, reaching your wine glass out for rafe to refill, which he is glad to pour a more than healthy amount in.

“and now?” rafe looks down at his lap.

“and now we are two slighty less scared slightly older kids.” you giggle again, taking a deep sip before leaning across the couch cushion to press a kiss to rafes cheek, the movie you had put on long forgotten.

“rafe.” you wait until he looks you in the eye. “im here for you.”

“god, what have i done to deserve you?” rafe wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you on top of him as he flops back onto the couch. 

you let out a laugh before it's cut off with his lips. he kisses you heavily, hand against the back of your head, not allowing you to pull away, not that you want to.

you let himself get lost in your kiss. you wish you had someone to support you in the time you needed most, and you're determined to be that person for rafe now.

rafe easily dominates your mouth even though he's underneath you as you quickly work your shorts off, wiggling against him until your bottom half is nude.

you press against rafes crotch, still covered by his sweatpants. you feel his cock straining against the fabric as you rub your pussy against it, wetting the gray material.

“baby, please.” rafe groans. he would pull his cock out himself, but his hands are preoccupied holding you close to him as if his life depends on it.

“oh, now you don't like teasing?” you smile.

“alright, i deserve this.” rafe also manages a chuckle despite his straining erection. “but please. need to feel your pussy ‘round me.”

“alright.” you roll your eyes dramatically. you'll have to get revenge on rafe at a different time for edging you the other night.

you push his pants down his thighs until you're able to reach into his underwear and pull out his cock. you give him a few quick strokes before lining up your entrance and sinking down.

rafe let's out a moan, barely pulling his face away from yours. “you're so wet.”

“it's almost like i like you or something.” you roll your eyes.

rafe laughs before kissing you again, hand moving up to your hair, tangling his fingers between the strands.

you sit on his cock for a moment, adjusting, before beginning to move, up then down, up then down, subtle movements of your hips, not needing anything fast, wanting drawn out, wanting it to last.

the movie is long over by the time rafe finally cums, a hand finally moving down to rub your clit to make sure you get off at the same time as his.

by the time you're both satisfied, you're sweaty and exhausted. you don't even bother to pull off his cock as you rest your head against his chest.

“thank you.” rafe says softly, rubbing his hand over your back. you don't need to ask what for. you know. for being there. you'll always be there.

you look up at him, a small smile on your face. “how are we gonna tell people we met?”

things are quickly getting serious, and while he hasn't breached the subject with you yet, neither of you have been hiding how quickly you're falling.

“what, you think it's a problem that we met when i was robbing you?” rafe says, making you giggle, only intensified by his hand pressing into your side, fingers tickling you as you howl with laughter.

rafe flips you over onto your back so you're underneath him, keeping his cock pushed inside of you.

“maybe we should just tell people we met on tinder.” rafe shrugs.

you roll your eyes. “somehow that's more embarrassing.”

taglist: @drewstarkeyslut @forstarkey @f4ll-for-you @dilvcv @drudyslut @jjmaybankswifes-blog @rafescokenostril @jjsmarijuana @seeingstarks @angelofcigs @cece45450 @babygorewhore @vanessa-rafesgirl @michelleisheres-blog @outerbankspov @drewstarkeyswifehoe @cutielando @sourkittie @rafeyslove @rafeinterlude @bellbottombaby @deeaardiary @rubixgsworld @wearemadeofstardust0 @leighbronk @starkeysheart @pradabambie @tobesolovelysstuff @alexiskirkland @rafestar @brioffthegrid @juniebugg @magicalyoura @cokepewpsii @mysticallystilinski @luvdella @aerangi @vogueprincess @auryyz @raysmayhem-72 @thestarlithideout @marvelfanfics1recs @rafesgiirl @ditzyzombiesblog @chiaraanatra @tobiaslut @drewsephrry @1aarii1 @edszn @theoraekenslover

[diejager]

could I please request some dad Makarov content? there's like none out there and I think he'd actually be a good dad

I just wanna see him with his own cute little babies

Cw: fluff, ballerina, proud dad!Makarov, protective behaviour, tell me if I missed any. Note: every dialogue written in italic is spoken in Russian.

Your father was the loveliest person you knew. Vladimir Makarov may be an initimidating person with all his smarts and slyness, but he was soft and tender, a loving father and a caring provider to your life. He was all you’d known, you didn’t know your mother, your grandparents, your uncles and aunts, or any cousins, but all you needed was him, your father. He gave you all you needed and didn’t need, any wish or after though conjured up with his endless amount of money, pampering you with luxuries and comfort few knew.

You didn’t have friends, but you knew your father’s allies - he insisted that you called them allies because he’d never considered them friends. He told you that they were below him and you, dogs on a tight leash that would follow him as long as he gave them what he promised - they were prominent figures in your life, passing or stopping by Makarov’s well-fortified mansion to speak to him in his office, the one you once compared to a war room when you were young, your nose buried in fantasy books to fulfill your need to explore the world when all that was within your reach was inside your golden cage. 

The world on the other side of the wall was a stranger —a danger, your father mumbled to you at night, promising that he’d protect you as long as he still breathed. You were homeschooled, the bests academics invited to tutor you since you were young, from mathematics and literature to language and politics, you were taught by the best, in the little office Makarov kept renovating as you aged. He changed the desk, then the chair, and when the paint started yellowing, he had the whole room repainted in a soft sage to compliment your bright mind. You father was such a perfect parent that you hated disappointing him, you did all you could to reach his expectations and listened to his orders. 

“Мой изящный Лебедь,” he clapped his hands, his eyes gleaming proudly as he watched you twirl and dance in the polished floor of your home studio, “That was beautiful.” [My graceful Swan.]

Your black tutu rose as threw your leg up, twirling on the hard pad of your toes, giving your father a practice show for Cinderella. You always danced for him, letting him probe and give you advice and critiques of your form. Finishing the dance off with a low bow, your legs crossed and feet spread horizontally, you smiled joyfully at him when his claps grew louder. Rising up, your met him halfway, jumping into his arms when he spread them open, peppering your face with sweet and loving kisses, his scruffy beard itching you. 

“It was perfect, you make me so proud,” he held onto you, his warm hands running smoothly over your biceps, herding you out of the studio he had built to let you practice, “You deserve a gift, my little Swan. Is there anything you want?”

“Nothing you can buy me, papa, ” you shook your head, burying your face in his chest when he sat you down on the regal, red couch.

“Then?”

“I want to go see the flowers again, papa, when they’re in full bloom. Can we?”

A soft chuckle rumbled out of his chest, he breathed in your comforting scent, nose nuzzling your hairline with a smile, small and adoring for his sole child. 

“Yes, of course.”

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami

[hellishjoel]

delicate - chapter one: someone new

3.4k / pairing: joel miller x f!reader

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

summary: Sarah decides it’s time for her dad to start dating again. Joel isn’t sure he needs to, but decides if it’s for Sarah, he’s willing to give it a go. After a few failed attempts, he finally stumbles across someone new. 

A/N: This is the first chapter of a new fic co-written with @thetriumphantpanda - we’re both so excited for you all to finally read what we’ve been working on. You’ll be able to find the masterlist on both of our Tumblrs, and we’ll be taking turns in posting chapters, so if you want to keep up to date with posting, please make sure you’re following us both! 

warnings: Joel being terrible at dating apps, mentions of being a single parent, flirting, rom-com vibes, allusions to more mature themes but nothing explicit as of now, foul language, mentions of food & alcohol, Sarah & Tommy being menaces. 

“Dad, have you thought about settling down soon?”

Joel had nearly just sat down at the dining table, a warm bowl of chili stinging his hands as he set down a glass of water with a quiet huff. 

“Am settled down.” He grumbled, diving straight into the warm bowl with ferocity. 

Sarah sighed quietly and circled her fingertip over the rim of her water glass. 

“I mean,” she tries again, “settled down with someone.”

Sarah knows this is a weird topic to bring up over dinner. She can see it in the way her father stops chewing on his food, his water glass halfway to his lips now frozen midair.

Since she was a small girl, her father’s world revolved around her. She put the sun in the sky and the smiles on his face. He put her through years of soccer practice and clarinet lessons, drove her across the state for tournaments, and made her favorite dinner when it was her birthday. She was his little girl. 

Sarah knew she had a very loving father, always lucky in that regard, but that love felt a little lost when she started attending university. All she could think about was leaving her dad in an empty house with no one to cook for, no one to bug about cleaning their room. He didn’t have anyone besides Uncle Tommy. And Sarah was sure that was the last person he wanted to spend his free time with.  

Fresh from graduating with a bachelor’s degree in biology from Texas State University, Sarah opted to live at home for a year in the hopes of saving up money for med school. And perhaps she could complete the side quest of finding a potential date for her dad. 

Joel clears his throat and wipes his hand on a paper towel, smearing it a reddish-orange from the chili.

“Don’t need anyone else when I’ve got you, peanut.” He gave a lopsided smile and continued eating. 

Why would she ask something like that? Why was she thinking about finding someone for him? 

Joel thought of himself as an independent man. Never went looking for love, going on about his business, so why start now? 

Sarah looked unsure of what to say next, wanting to push the conversation and letting that uncertainty fill the air between them. 

Joel sighs, his spoon sputtering in the bowl and listening to it clang around the rim. 

“You don’t gotta worry about me, kid. I’m fine on my own.” He insisted, shrugging casually.

“Uncle Tommy and I were talking about you, more specifically about you dating-”

Joel buried his face in his hands, letting out a loud, exasperated sigh as he ran his hands down his face, calloused palms scraping against beard stubble. 

“Sarah, what did I tell you about talkin’ to Uncle Tommy? Take nothin’a substance from those conversations.” 

“Dad, please.” His little girl was frowning now, desperate puppy dog eyes searching his own. “How bad would it be if Uncle Tommy and I put you on a few dating apps, y’know? You could meet a nice woman, take her out for dinner, do whatever you want, but you can’t not try anymore.” 

Joel snuffed out a scoff, quickly dialing it down once he was receiving daggers. 

“Peanut, ya just… you get to a certain age where you give up on that type of stuff. Love n’all. M’an old dog, been outta the game for too long.” Joel returned to his dinner, thinking the conversation was done and over with. 

Sarah let out a heavy breath through her nostrils and crossed her arms. “Dad, we’re finding you someone,  or at least we’re going to try. You can’t just-just shrug off your feelings!” 

Sarah’s chair scraped backward, standing up suddenly and commandeering the room. 

“It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. What happened with Mom was a long time ago. You can’t shut off trying to find love. I saw you go on two dates when I was growing up. Two! You can’t say you’ve tried, you can’t say you don’t want it, everyone wants to find their special someone. And you,” she said with wide, frantic eyes. “You are not done trying. Not if I have anything to say about it.” 

Joel sat in silence as Sarah retrieved her bowl of chili and glass of water, fleeing up the stairs to her room. He sat back in his chair, shifting his jaw from side to side in thought. 

Guilt festered in his chest. Seeing Sarah so adamant about something like his love life was telling it was something she thought a fair amount about. She worried about his happiness, his life alone. 

Though he thought a life of solitude worked well for him, he couldn’t deny that small part of him that wished he had someone to share the little moments with. Sarah wouldn’t be living at home forever, and she would never be replaced in Joel’s heart, but maybe she was right that it was time for him to start trying again. 

“Okay, so I downloaded Tinder, Hinge, Bumble, eHarmony, and Farmer’s Only.” 

Sarah paraded around Joel’s smartphone, downloading different online dating apps left and right while he watched helplessly beside her on the couch. He could feel a headache spark in his temple already. 

“M’not a farmer.” 

Sarah simply shrugged and opened up the first app, Tinder. “True, but we’re trying to keep our options open.” 

Joel sighed and leaned back into the couch cushions, hearing the front door open without a knock. His brother, Tommy, paraded inside, a six-pack of beer in his hand and a jean jacket in the other. 

“The hell are you doin’ here?” Joel asked as he saddled his hands on his knees and pushed himself off the couch, eyes narrowed on his younger brother. 

“What? You think I would miss Sarah putting you up for auction?” 

“Hey,” Sarah said defensively, disliking that her Uncle Tommy was making fun of her genuine attempt to find Joel a woman. “Don’t make him feel bad. It took several hours of convincing just to get him to hand me his phone.” 

Tommy sneered and plopped down into Joel’s recliner, cracking open a beer despite it only being late afternoon. Hell, he might need one too. 

“Okay, Dad, focus. We need to fill out some of the Tinder prompts.” Sarah patted the section of the couch beside hers, Joel joining her after a few grumbles of resistance. 

“Prompts? What sorta prompts?” He asked, craning his neck to look at the phone screen she held up in her hands. 

“Prompts to get to know you better. You know, like, what are your likes and dislikes, what are you looking for in a relationship, where would you want to take someone for a first date,” Sarah continued the list until Tommy’s chuckle broke her concentration. 

“Ain’t Tinder for hookin’ up with chicks?” Tommy asked, making Joel’s head snap to Sarah. 

“Sarah, the hell are you doin’ to me?” 

“It’s not just for hookups, dad-”

“Yes, it is.” Tommy snicked, making Sarah glare at him. 

“C’mon, we’re trying everything to see what sticks.”

Joel felt rather hopeless about the whole ordeal. They added pictures, and Sarah crafted answers for his prompts. He didn’t really know what the hell he was doing with the whole left, right, swiping action. At one point, he expanded the age search by accident and didn’t realize it the next morning until he got a very forward message from a young woman. 

Hey, good looking ;) you look like a big man in more ways than one, if you catch what I mean… how about you come over to mine and show me a good time, I bet we can make it fit if we try hard enough. 

Joel storms into the kitchen, shoving his phone at Sarah’s face, “Take that damn app off,” He demands, “It ain’t for me.” 

“What did she say to you?” Sarah snorts, taking the phone from him, Joel watching as she holds her finger on the icon until it wobbles. 

“That ain’t for you to know,” Joel shakes his head, “Just delete the damn thing off my phone.” 

He watches as Sarah presses the cross in the corner of the icon, making a mental note of how he can delete the rest of them later when she’s not watching, she hands his phone back to him, taking a sip of orange juice, whilst he pockets the phone. 

Despite his first attempt at dating apps failing horribly, he was intrigued. A lot of the women out there were beautiful, some with children of their own from past relationships just like him. 

Joel was trying to watch the first Dallas Cowboys pre-season game with Sarah when his phone buzzed with a notification. It was just one of those that stated he had potential matches out there on Bumble. 

He chewed at the inside of his cheek, flicked his eyes up to the television screen, and clocked he wasn’t missing anything before he opened his phone. 

A few profiles later, he landed on a woman he found with a nice smile. He read through her profile, even letting out a quiet chuckle. 

Sarah’s eyebrows were drawn together with curiosity, watching her father smile goofily at his phone. 

“What’s goin’ on with you? You’re scaring me.” She teased as she pushed herself off the couch and leaned over his shoulder to see he was actually on one of the dating apps. A small sense of pride filled her. 

“I like ‘er. Got a nice smile, funny too.” Joel affirmed with a nod. He swiped like he was directed to, but then there was nothing. 

His face fell, smile and happiness swirling down the drain as he grew frustrated. 

“How the hell do I message ‘er?” He asked, neck craning as he held up his phone to Sarah, his silent way of asking for support. 

“You can’t message women first on Bumble. They have to like you back and message you first.” Sarah said with a shrug, snagging her dad’s beer from his hand and taking a quick swig. 

Joel was only scowling in disappointment and frustration. “Y’mean, I can’t even talk to ‘er? I can’t be a proper gentleman and make the first goddamn move?” 

He grunted in annoyance, swiped back his beer, and threw up the glass bottle to drain the last of its contents as he deleted the app. “Sick of these damn datin’ apps already. None of them are worth a damn.” 

Sarah sighed quietly and found her way back to the couch, nervousness settling inside of her. He wasn’t a very disagreeable person, in fact, her dad was neutral about a lot of things. What did he want to have for dinner tonight? Anything was fine. Which movie did he want to watch? He didn’t care, said she could pick. So why was he finding so many excuses with the apps? Not even the women, but the apps. 

Part of her thought about him trying to find a woman the old-school way, but he was maybe too out of the game to brush up a conversation with a random stranger. He might fail miserably, but maybe it would help with his confidence. He only had a few apps left, ticking off one by one. 

Joel stared at the ceiling, encapsulated by the slow-circling fan overhead. Darkness laid a dark veil over his bedroom, a sliver of moonlight being cast through the window. His head laid back into the pillows, jaw ticking from side to side as he lay wide awake. He lightly scratched his chest, feeling the dark hair that clustered at his sternum as his head rolled to the side and read the digital numbers on his clock. 

Another sigh left his parted lips. It was late, far too late for someone who worked the early mornings to be awake. At least tomorrow as Friday. 

His phone vibrated gently on his nightstand, a little chime he wasn’t accustomed to. He plucked his phone from the charger and squinted at its brightness, sitting up on his forearm to read the text. It was a message from a woman on Hinge. They had matched. 

Joel grunted and stared blankly at his lock screen until it went black with inactivity. No. Just go to sleep, Joel. Forget about it. He set his phone on the bed and laid on his side, digging his cheek into a pillow and forcing his eyes closed. Well, what was she doing awake at this hour? 

He opens his phone, clicking on the ‘H’ icon with its tiny red notification dot. He pays no mind to reading the message yet, instead clicking onto the mystery womans profile. The first picture is one of her wrapped up in a big coat, plaid scarf wrapped around her neck with a bobble hat and something warm clasped in her hands - it looks like she’s in a big city from what he can tell from the blurry background behind her, but he notices how happy she looks - big grin plastered on her face that reaches all the way to her eyes. 

Scrolling further down her profile, he finds the first prompt ‘Best Travel Story’ - her answer reading about a time she’d been hiking with her family. She likes the outdoors Joel thinks - something he and Sarah also enjoy, but he shakes his head before he thinks too much about a third person he can take hiking. There’s another photo then, clearly taken in the summer - she’s in a lovely dress, sitting at a table with a young boy on her lap, perhaps a nephew? He tries not to imagine that he’s stumbled across another single parent, what good luck that would be. 

Joel doesn’t make it much further down her profile - just to the section with all of her basic information. She’s around his age, shorter than him but not by much, she’s got a yes next to drinking, but a no to smoking and drugs, and she works in marketing. A steady job, he thinks. He’s praying, silently, that when he clicks back to her message, she’s sane. 

Good evening Joel! Sorry for such a late message, I’m a slight insomniac. I love your profile, you seem lovely! How are you doing this evening? (Or this morning depending on when you read this!) 

The corner of his mouth twitches into a small smile. A slight insomniac who thought he was quite lovely. Her words, not his. Maybe asking Sarah for help on his profile wasn’t such a bad idea. His fingers twitched above the keyboard, but he was unsure of what to say next. 

Joel sat up in bed, about to shove the covers off his lap and ask Sarah for help, when he took another look at his digital clock. It’s too late to wake her, he thinks. He’ll have to craft a response on his own. He dreads it, words never really being his strong suit. Would he look creepy if he replied this late back? 

Looks like we’re both slight insomniacs. Besides being unable to fall asleep, my evening was fine. How are you doing tonight, ma’am? 

Joel sighed and stared at his response, picking it apart and cursing under his breath. Now, he was wide awake. 

Ma’am? Way to make me feel 101… charming though, I like it ;) I’m doing okay, thank you. Just enjoying the only peace and quiet I get before I go to sleep. What’s keeping you up then, Joel? 

Joel’s face crumpled, pushing a hand through his hair after reading his response over and over again. He meant it in a gentlemanly way, not to make her feel old. He really screwed the pooch on that one. Nipping at his lower lip, he tried again. 

No offense intended ma’am, I’m just a Southern man is all.  Don’t mind about what’s keeping me up, I want to know about you. You don’t get much peace and quiet until midnight? How’s that?

None taken, just not used to someone being a gentleman on these things - normally at this point someone would be asking for a picture of my tits so you’re doing well so far. It’s usually my son that keeps me up, he’s been asleep a while but I only get so much time to clear up after him, so midnight is me time once that’s all done. You sure you don’t wanna tell me what’s keeping you awake? 

Joel’s smile only grew larger as she responded, and rather quickly, too. He imagined they looked quite similar right now. Different towns, different houses, both curled up in bed and staring at their phones, waiting for the other to reply. He wondered if she was smiling like he was, trying to push away an undeniable flutter in his stomach. Making him feel like a damn teenager. 

His face softened at her response. My son, she said. That boy on her profile, with chubby cheeks and a toothy smile, a head full of hair, and glee all over his face, was her son. She was a mother, just like he was a father. He wondered if she saw the young woman in his pictures and knew that was his daughter, Sarah. How could he subtly drop the hint? 

Those aren’t gentlemen, just boys. Sorry to hear they were wasting your time. I understand your limited personal time. When my daughter Sarah was young, my alone time consisted of sitting in the truck during her soccer practices and after she went to bed. It’s not easy. What’s keeping me up is partially Sarah’s fault. She’s the one who urged me onto Hinge. I don’t really know what I’m doing, to be honest. Just know a pretty flower when I see one. 

Is Sarah the young girl on your profile? She’s beautiful if so, you must be so proud of how she’s grown up. Well Joel, you don’t seem clueless, you’re keeping my attention pretty well, especially calling me pretty, I might be blushing. What made her decide now was the time for you to start dating? 

He’d never admit it if anyone asked. But it looked like he still had that Southern charm, you never really grow out of it. He reached over and plucked the string to his lamp, sitting up against his bedframe and sipping on a glass of water as he read over her reply again and again. He had a fondness for the way she complimented his baby girl. She got extra points for that. 

Yep, that’s my Sarah. She’s going to med school next year, couldn’t be prouder. I suppose she graduated from college and thinks she knows everything now. Thinks I need a love life. I think she’s felt this way for a while, but she knows I’m stubborn. What’s your son’s name? Looks like a good kid. 

Smart and beautiful, you must have very good genes Joel. That’s incredible though, I can imagine how proud you are of her. Well, I for one am pleased she’s pushed you here, you seem a really nice guy Joel. My son is Noah, he’s seven so full of beans, I’ve never known anyone have so much damn energy! 

And you seem like a real nice woman, ma’am. Sarah had so much energy at seven, that’s when I put her in soccer to run all that damn energy out of her. 

His fingers hesitated, typing out the message but not quite pressing send. He liked her. He liked how sweet and funny she was. Plus, she understood what it was like to have a kid, someone who would always be put first. 

Since it’s technically 12:57, are you doing anything tonight? Is having a drink okay for a slight insomniac? 

Well, thank you very much Joel. I have a feeling Noah and Sarah would have gotten along well if they were the same age, he’s just started soccer practice for that very reason. And, lucky for you, Noah has an evening with his grandparents tonight, so a drink sounds lovely. Just let me know a time and a place.

His heart was thumping in his chest, a tired little grin on his face as he offered to take her to The Aristocrat Lounge on the North side of Austin. They settled on seven, enough time for Joel to get home, shower, and convince Sarah to help clean him up a bit. A daunting feeling pressed into his chest, making his breath snag tight in his lungs. He was nervous, those strange butterflies still fussing around. He shoved them down, persistent on ignoring the feeling. 

It’s a date. Try to get some sleep, I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight, ma’am. 

[zzeraphilm]

little white lies

Shinsou Hitoshi x GN!Reader word count: 2,517 summary: shinsou and y/n's childhood dream was to become heroes, side by side. but as you grow up, reality hits hard, and sometimes lies make the pain easier to bare.

Tiny pitter pattering feet crunched the granite beneath them. Two little children, imagining their powers, capturing villains and saving the world. With their school jumpers tied around their necks, their makeshift capes fluttered in the wind as they ran around the monkey bars. 

“Ah ha! Stay back villain! The twin heroes Étoile and- Hitoshi, did you think of a hero name yet?” Y/N, the taller of the duo, snapped at the little boy beside them. 

“Uhm, not yet I’m still thinking about it.” He mumbled.

“You should do some research! My dad showed me all of the ways heroes can be named! I picked mine because it means star in French! One day I hope to be a shining star that saves people!” 

The thick head of purple hair bobbed up and down, nodding along to the ramblings of his friend. Since his first quirk manifestation, he has been scared to show Y/N his ability, brainwashing isn’t particularly associated with heroism. In Shinsou’s eyes, Y/N was blessed with the perfect quirk to become a hero unlike him. He remembers the day their quirk manifested, they were on their way to school and the scatterbrained Y/N tripped on the cracked pavement, bracing for impact they felt a beam of light pushing them upwards in the air. From their fingertips, the rays of sunlight had curved into a little cloud for them.

They were smiling ear to ear, their happiness so infectious that Shinsou couldn’t help but cheer. From then on, in class Y/N would mould the various rays of light from a lamp or fire into a multitude of objects, shapes and weapons. Their class praised Y/N, knowing their future success as a hero was guaranteed. Shinsou couldn’t continue to be petty around Y/N, his friend was quite literally the light of his life, and he just wanted to remain by their side. 

Towards their second year in Middle School, Y/N’s life took a drastic turn. Their family had to relocate out of their town, meaning Shinsou would be left for the dogs in his high school who would torment his dreams of becoming a hero alongside Y/N. They promised to continue to talk everyday, Y/N would send extensive messages, updates about their life in their new town. How they befriended many people and have started their own Hero Appreciation Club at their new school.

Shinsou buried his jealousy like second skin. He lied through his teeth like it was biological to him. Y/N knew of Shinsou’s quirk, they reassured him that despite everything, he could become an incredible hero. But with the world around him painting him to be the perfect villain to Y/N’s hero, he despised the thought of being a hero. So when on their weekly phone call to each other, as Y/N rambled about attending a hero school and how they wanted to live up to their childhood dream. Shinsou agreed, said he felt the same and promised to live up to Y/N’s wishes. That was when the lies first started. 

Shinsou got into UA’s General Studies course, his grades were excellent and the prestige of UA’s reputation around the world was enough for his parents to agree in his admission. Despite knowing that he had tried so hard to get into the hero course. It was futile, because a useless quirk as his would never work in a battlefield situation. 

Y/N succeeded in getting into the hero course at Shiketsu High School, at the news of their admission into the hero course, Y/N cheered endlessly on the phone with Shinsou. So excited to finally see their dream come to fruition. Upon asking if Shinsou held up his end of the plan, he said he did. That he got into UA. He just didn’t mention which class, so Y/N assumed that everything was fine. That they would soon be reunited as heroes. 

Being a part of the hero class meant Y/N was constantly busy, unlike Shinsou. His high school life was as ordinary as one could have it, he had thought multiple times to drop out and go to a regular school. It would’ve made no difference, yet whenever him and Y/N spoke, he felt guilty. A sticky, black tar-like feeling at the pit of this throat. He didn’t want to disappoint them. He wanted to be the boy that was always by their side, in every dream and every thought. He just wanted to be beside them again. And if that meant he had to maintain this facade of a hero-to-be, then so be it. As long as it remains just between him and Y/N. 

“Then we had to do these 2v2 fights in a hypothetical villain attack. It was crazy, I think I really got into the character of a villain!” They laughed through the screen, as they tilted their head at Shinsou’s nonchalant hummed response. 

“Toshi, how’s your hero studies been going? Do you guys have a lot of written content to cover?” 

Shinsou stopped scribbling in his notebook, he couldn’t have Y/N think that they failed to get into the hero course, and was merely a general studies student. He broke his train of thought with a cough.

“Yeah kinda. Uhh, Mr Aizawa is getting us to make notes on past rescue missions for an assignment.” He had lost count over how many lies he had said, maybe this was the 100th one but he couldn’t remember. Just as long as Y/N believes him. 

“Oh wow! To think Eraserhead would be such a strict guy. My teachers think it’s best to learn through doing, so my hands are too sore to even pick up a pen nowadays!” Before they could finish their sentence they yawned loudly. “Ah, I’m so sorry Toshi, I’ve been so tired lately.” 

Shinsou couldn’t help but smile at how cute they looked trying to stop themselves from falling asleep. 

“Then go to bed stinky. You gotta wake up early tomorrow,” With a light hum and a slow nod with their head, Y/N waved him goodbye. 

Shinsou was afraid of course, if Y/N found out the truth, that their childhood friend was a disgusting liar with a villainous quirk so of course he would manipulate them into believing everything he said. His mind was full of self-sabotaging and self-despising thoughts. He could only shove his mind into his studies to cover up the screams in his head. 

News of the attack in USJ spread across the school like wildfire, the thought of a villain attack sent a shivers down the spine of every student. Of course, the news spread to the rest of the country, with Y/N spamming Shinsou’s phone with endless missed calls and messages. Shit. He was so busy lately with his studies that he forgot about Y/N thinking he was with the hero class. 

12 missed calls from Y/N ☆ Hitoshi answer me Pls Pls answer me R u okay?!?? Pick up my calls!

“Hello?” 

“Hitoshi! Where are you? Are you okay? Did you get hurt? I saw the news and- oh God I can’t even- Please tell me you’re not hurt!” 

Y/N’s mind was spiralling out of control, endless visions of Shinsou hurt and pinned down by a villain flooded their mind. They felt sick with anxiety, they had cried themselves to sleep the night before thinking the worst because Shinsou hadn’t responded to them. 

“I’m okay. I’m fine, luckily I called in sick.” He mumbled. 

Relief flooded over their body, Y/N physically felt the weight of worry be lifted from their soul. 

“Thank goodness, how are your classmates? Are they recovering okay? I’m so sorry you guys had to go through that. You know can always talk to me Toshi. I know we’ve been busy lately to even talk but I’m always here for you.” 

Shinsou felt dirty, he felt disgusting for the lies that he had laid. He had dug himself in his own grave by this point. 

“Yeah, thanks Y/N. I’ve- I’ve got to go there’s some stuff I’ve got to do.”

“Of course Toshi, just message me when you get home! Stay safe.” Click. 

The two tried to speak regularly, but with the stress of their hero activities and Shinsou’s growing guilt turned resentful - they hadn’t spoken in over a month. The UA Sports Festival was fast approaching and Y/N had already been bragging to the rest of their friends about Shinsou. How excited they were to see him on the screen, hyping everyone in the room with their shining persona. Any mention of Shinsou, Y/N instantly beamed and everyone knew from a mile away how much the boy meant to them. The rest of Class 1-A at Shiketsu had their eyes glued to the screen upon the announcement of the UA Sports Festival. Y/N was busy writing their message to Shinsou wishing him luck. Despite the extensive chat history largely consisting of missed calls and messages from Y/N.

Shinsou tried to block out Y/N from his life the last few weeks, muting their messages and focusing their studies. Seeing Class 1-A at UA going about their days ignited a fire within him. He had been so spiteful of himself, for lying to Y/N about his hero journey, it only justified his own beliefs that he couldn’t become a hero like them. To then seeing the danger 1-A posed for the rest of the school, he felt cluster of emotions, ranging from spite, hatred, jealousy, envy and disappointment. Mainly towards himself. His self-sabotaging behaviour had only fuelled his disbelief over himself, seeing others succeed in the dream he and Y/N had made him sick. 

By now, he did not care for Y/N, he had become blinded by his envy. His self-hatred. His new found desire to win. 

“Guys it’s starting!” Y/N had invited their classmates and close friends to their parents’ home to watch the sports festival together. They huddled around the television screen, on the sofa, the floor and even on top of each others laps. Bags of chips and snacks messily spread across the table and multiple cups of juice were handed out. They were all excited to see the infamous Shinsou Hitoshi that their beloved classmate would fawn over. 

The silent shock that cast over the room was deafening, Shinsou walked out along with the general studies class and all of a sudden the attention was towards Y/N. It moved so fast that they barely noticed they had moved onto the next class. Nobody wanted to call Y/N’s bluff and continued to watch in silence. Each move that Shinsou took didn’t live up to the heroic version of him in their minds. Some even saw him as, villainous. Y/N didn’t speak, didn’t take a sip or eat anything. Their eyes were glued to the screen, jaw tightly locked in position and their fists balled till their skin turned white. 

The day was supposed to be a fun, class get together at their friends house to cheer for their favourite UA student. No one would’ve guessed that it was all a lie. Some of their classmates knew of Shinsou’s quirk briefly, some had no idea that he could brainwash people. So during the student-student battle rounds, they were left shocked at how unsportsmanlike Shinsou was, the way he manipulated his quirk to win. He was nothing like how Y/N described him, this boy who was full of wonder and was always determined to be by Y/N’s side. Some of the students felt sick, some of the students resembled the same kinds of people that swayed Shinsou away from his dreams of becoming a hero. Before the fight between Midoriya Izuku and Shinsou could take place, Y/N turned off the TV and walked out the room. No one tried to console them. 

Well done for today. Call me when you’re free.

“Y/N, you there?”

“Shinsou why did you lie to me?” 

His heart almost skipped a beat at his exposure. 

“I didn’t mean to lie to you.”

A new found anger filled Y/N’s voice, they screamed. “But you did! For almost half a year! You pretended to be a part of 1-A, I thought you almost died at USJ! Yet I see you on national television using your quirk like your some sort of-“

“Some sort of what?! Villain? I fought damn hard today, I’m not having you prove them all right!” 

The call cut abruptly, both Y/N and Shinsou were left aghast. Years of dreams together and years of friendship. Suddenly began to melt away. Had their feelings for each other, their dreams to be together side by side as heroes come to an end now?

Since they last spoke on the phone, Y/N became fully integrated into Shiketsu High’s hero course, ignoring the rest of the world around them. Allowing themselves to be swallowed whole by their hero activities. Despite their hard work, their mind was always elsewhere. Their last conversation with Shinsou left a bitter taste in their mouth that nothing could clean out. Maybe if they had been more understanding, they could’ve fixed everything. 

Unlike a few of their classmates, Y/N pass their Provisional Licence exam with a breeze. Only a few more steps closer to becoming a pro, was all that was driving Y/N to continue with their studies. Their endless spiralling thoughts had consumed them to the point of delusion that only a harsh voice from a certain pro-hero caught broke their train of thought.

“Are you Y/N L/N?” 

They whipped their head around to face the Erasure hero, Eraserhead. Aizawa Shota, who upon close inspection, was the older spitting image of Shinsou. Y/N cursed how the image of Shinsou followed them everywhere they turned. 

“You’re friends with Shinsou Hitoshi from UA, yes?” They gave a hesitant nod. 

“Well he reached out to me to train him, tell me. Do you think he can do it, train to become a hero?” His stagnant voice held no indication of hope nor malice. So this was Class 1-A’s teacher.

Y/N could only recall the memories of their childhood with Shinsou, where despite his smaller frame compared to other kids, his slight stammer as a child. He would always stand up for Y/N no matter what, he would always hold their hand whenever it would get dark sooner than expected. How Shinsou would always give them the other half of his candy to make sure that Y/N would always have something to eat or smile at. How no matter what Shinsou would be by their side, even if they were apart, the spirit of him was always leaning over them. Y/N knew, from the very first day they met him, that Shinsou was their hero.

“Yes. I know he can become the greatest hero, because he’s always been mine.” 

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part four —other parts

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader words: 2.8k tags: death. blood. zombies of course. lowkey cannibalism implication. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn't here yet. slow burn. enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: i'll try to get the next part quicker. my grandma wasn't doing well this past week but she is all good now~

Your fingers are decisive. You slot an arrow on the bowstring and release. It drives through the air with a silent whirl. Your aim is far from the best— it buries into the man’s shoulder rather than his skull. 

The revolver falls from his grip and skitters across the ground. Your lips part to warn Blue, to tell her to pick it up before he can, but now his eyes point wildly in your direction.

An inhumane snarl rips through him. He is withered by hunger, aged beyond his true years. Matted hair and leathery skin. Still, he moves quick. He doesn't bother picking up the gun. Something animalistic drives him towards you. You find yourself unable to breathe. This isn’t what you expected. You fumble for another arrow, but as you try to get it on the string, it slips from your hand. 

You are fucked. 

The realization splinters your bones with adrenaline. It takes only a few blurred seconds for him to reach you. A weight greater than your own shoves you to the ground and your bow is knocked out of your grip. A human stench fills your nose as your arms flail around to keep a snapping mouth from reaching your cheek, your neck, your nose. Close combat is not a skill you’ve mastered. You have rarely needed it. Range weapons and retreating have been the tactics to shape your survival so far.

You can’t hear much besides his growling. You think you hear Blue shout. Blood pulses thick in your veins. You can’t think. A knife— you have that, but it’s in your coat pocket. His body is pressed against it and moving an arm to grab it could be enough for your fragile defense to crack.

It feels like you are being attacked by a dog, one with ribs that poke out and teeth that flash viciously. 

Only when he pulls out his own knife does an idea occur to you. There is still the wooden arrow sticking out from his shoulder. It nearly pokes you in the face from all the movement. You wrap a hand around the base of it and snap the wood. You stab the splintered arrow into the first part of him you can reach - his torso. It doesn't stop him. Crazed eyes narrow. His blade goes for your neck but you block it. It cuts through the sleeve of your coat, earning you a gash to the plush of your forearm instead. 

“Fuck,” you hiss, and tears prickle. Where is Blue? Maybe she could get—

The man is on top of you, and then he isn’t.

The weight is lifted, and the snarling ceased.

Through stinging eyes, you make out the shape of a dark shadow against the grey sky. There is an abrupt sound - the crack of bone. A snapped neck. The man’s head is bent haphazardly to the side before it rolls forward, limp and silenced. You breathe heavily through lungs that hurt.

A growl.

This is one you are familiar with. 

But the arrival of it offers, for the first time, a sense of relief.

Your gaze slides over the form of broad shoulders and thick arms that toss the dead body to the side with ease. With the view from where you lay, Ghost looks even taller. Blue is dwarfed by him as she approaches his side, her eyes widened with concern more than fear.

She must have called for him. Or maybe he heard the snarling and rushed over.

Although you are the one laying on the ground, freshly attacked, she is the one he checks. Ghost touches a gloved hand to her cheek, moving his eyes to sweep over her. 

“You alright?” he asks, firm yet gentle. “Did he hurt you?”

She gives a dismissive shake of her head. Then, it is she who bends down to help you up. It is a feeble attempt with only a child’s arm as your crutch. Your body feels like it’s been pillaged of energy. The wound on your arm is not nearly as bad as what their caltrops did to you, but it is enough to make you choke in pain. 

“Fuckin’ hell," Ghost mumbles, before he gets the job done right by scooping you up. Only for a short moment are you in his strong arms, before he plants you on your feet.

"Did you know him?"

You press your palm over the gash, applying pressure over the oozing blood. Through tight teeth, you utter, “No.”

“Were there other camps in your area?”

You stand there bleeding, and he is interrogating you? 

“I-I think so. Yes. One or two.”

He speaks under his breath, more to himself than to either of you. “Maybe he had to run, too, huh? Crazy fuck.” He roughly taps a boot to the side of the man’s body, inspecting it without care for its corpse. He glances around the trees for a short moment. Then, he looks back at you.

“Can you walk?”

It is less caring and more practical. 

Can you?

“Yes,” you tell him, nodding lazily. Your eyes roll to the ground, having to watch each step of your boots to keep them moving steadily. 

The walk back to camp is silent. Before you leave, Blue fetches the fallen revolver in the snow and gives it to him. Ghost discovers only one bullet in it. He carries the bow for you. You keep hold over the gash, hand soaked red.

At one point, a small hand brushes against your free one until her father grabs it and tugs her back to his side. 

Everything feels like a blurred dream. Your brain decides to block out any thoughts of who that person was and where they came from. More importantly, what he could’ve done to you or Blue.

By the time you’ve made it to the cabin, you can’t recall what time of day it is. The boarded windows block out most light except a few stray strips. Ghost turns on a dim lamp. 

To your surprise, he instructs you to sit on the couch and disappears for a moment before returning with his medical kit, which you have been a patient of once already.

This time, you are awake for it. Blue stands near the couch. He pulls a stool beside you. You shuck off your coat and roll up your soaked sleeve to reveal the gash that runs from the middle of your forearm to the knob of your elbow. 

You know it could have been worse. If the blade had nicked bone, you’d be howling right now.

“Wet a cloth for me, Blue.” 

She does so. 

You twist your shoulder to offer the wound to him. Rough fingertips dab the damp cloth to the area and you roll your lips. You try to look at the wall to distract yourself, but find your gaze shifting to your nurse. He is a pragmatic one. All you can see are ashen lashes that line firm, shadow-cast eyes. Warmth rolls off his body in billows.

He puts the cloth down and rummages around for a needle and one of the rolls of black thread.

Before he can pierce the first stitch, his daughter’s soft voice stops him.

“Ghost,” she murmurs to break the silence. She walks over to the kit and grabs a small tube. Antiseptic, you believe. “You… You forgot this.”

His eyes lift from your arm and he looks back at her. There is a silent language they share. You’ve acted as a witness to it a few times now. You are not fluent in it, but with the way Blue’s brows furrow together, you have an idea of what he is trying to remind her of.

He is willing to offer the stitches. 

You’ve spotted at least two rolls of the stuff.

But the antiseptic isn’t for you this time. 

None of their medicine is for you.

“It might get infected,” she argues against his stare, her voice congealing into something firmer. She studies him.

“I’m not having this conversation with you,” he tells her lowly.

“She saved my life, Dad.” She grips the tube in one hand. With the other hand, she rubs the heel over her eyes. “That guy went after her because she… she protected me.”

You stare at the shorn rug, finding a distraction in the worn threads of red and blue. This conversation thickens the air.

Blue continues, words pushed out in a ramble now, “I didn’t even see him there. I wasn’t,” and her eyes drift to the floor before she admits, “I wasn’t aware of my surroundings, okay? But she saw him and she helped me. That is why he—”

“And how many times have we helped her?” he interrupts harshly.

He is either unconvinced of your role as a savior or doesn’t particularly care, not when it means sharing vital resources. He hadn’t witnessed the whole thing. It all happened so fast.

“We can help her more,” his daughter insists. “We can make sure she doesn’t get an infection.”

Ghost’s voice travels a notch louder, “Then that is one less time we can make sure you don’t get an infection.”

You can remember this type of tone - your own father used it a few times on you as a kid, but never did it carry the weight of life or death. Your arguments usually involved doing your homework or eating an extra sweet after dinner. For Ghost and Blue, most of their disagreements are about survival and mercy.

He turns to face his daughter fully. “Do you understand?”

“I just think—"

“Look at me,” Ghost says. There is no room here for her to bicker with him. “Do you understand?”

She meets his gaze under lashes that flutter hesitantly, casting shadows across her pale temples. With a swallow, Blue quietly answers, “I do.”

She puts the ointment back. 

He stitches you up.

You bite your palm to keep silent.

Sleep evades you.

You jolt up against the floorboards when you hear the shed’s door creak open.

“Just me.”

With the light of a small flashlight, her eyes glisten. You sit up, spine sore. You didn’t eat dinner tonight; you hadn’t managed anything during your short-lived hunt, and you didn’t dare to ask for food. You didn’t think it was a good idea to further test Ghost’s generosity. 

“Hey,” you give her a small smile. “It’s late.”

“I know.” She carries something in her other hand - a lumpy pillow. She sits down on the floor of your shed and you scoot your legs over so she can have space. “Ghost said I could give you this. Something to sleep on.”

“Oh, thanks.” You can’t help it, the words leave dryly: “He’s so generous.”

A look passes over her illuminated face - something apologetic, something wary. She looks down at the pillow in her hands and runs a hand over the fabric. 

“I asked if you could sleep inside now,” she says quietly, sighing. “He said it’s a bad idea. You could steal our stuff and whatnot.”

“That’s okay. The pillow will help a lot. And—” you wave a hand around, “Kind of like my own hotel room here.”

“Maybe we could decorate it.” Blue looks around. “At least, in the spring when the flowers come back. There are these really pretty white ones by the pond."

You want to tell her you’re not sure if you will be here that long. Instead, you tell her, “Maybe.”

“I wanted to say thank you,” she then says. Her hair is still in the braids, but a few wisps have slipped out. Blue toys with one of them thoughtfully. “You really did save my life today, huh?”

“You’ve saved mine before."

Probably more than once.

She nods. She seems deep in thought, and the color of her eyes appears less youthful than usual. You really didn’t need to think twice about protecting her. A child’s life - her future - means more than whatever awaits you, anyway. 

“Ghost always says that the only person you can trust is yourself,” she mutters into the small space. “What do you think?”

“I think he’s right. I think that being careful with who you trust is smart.”

“Do you trust me?” whispers Blue. 

“A little bit.”

You can’t trust her fully. She still has a higher power to answer to, despite her innocent intentions. 

It is then that Blue flips the pillow over. Her hand slips under the faded, cotton case of it and reaches for something hidden inside— what you now realize to be the cause for the lump at the bottom. What she digs out and reveals to you in the palm of her hand has your breath catching in your throat. The tube of antiseptic. 

“I can’t,” you choke after a beat of silence.

Moisture dallops the rims of your eyes. You don’t know why; this kind gesture feels foreign, inviting a strange weight to your chest.

“Blue... thank you, but I can’t.”

“You can,” she says and begins to untwist the top. “You had my back, and I have yours. I don’t want your arm to get infected.”

But your hand reaches to cover hers, halting the removal of the top and pushing the tube closer to her chest, away from you. 

“Ghost will notice,” you explain. “And then you will get in trouble and he will make me leave, alright? Thank you, but I can’t.”

“Just a little,” she insists in a hushed voice. “He won’t notice if I put it right back.”

With great reluctance, you move your hand away and let her continue. Even just a little could be enough to save you from a nasty infection, and it’s not like you have antibiotics. If you did get an infection, you’d have to take the treacherous journey to a pharmacy and hope that there is still something left on the shelves. You’re not confident that you are in strong enough shape yet to survive a trip like that.

You shrug off your coat.

You’d rinsed out your shirt and dried it by the fireplace before retreating to your shed. Lifting up the cleaned sleeve, you reveal the gash sealed with sutures. The ridge of it is a swollen range of ugly mountains against the rest of your unblemished forearm. 

With soft fingertips, she dabs some on. You swallow and offer another thank you.

When she is done, you lower the sleeve and rub at your damp eyes. 

“I will put a liiiiittle more on tomorrow night, too. Just a little,” she tells you, and the youth sparkles back in her irises. She gives you the pillow. She puts the tube in her coat pocket this time. Not as great of a hiding place but you hope she knows what she is doing. 

Before Blue leaves you to sleep, she tells you:

“I trust you a little bit, too, you know.”

a/n: more sweet papa ghost in the next one i promise :)

taglist: @cool-0-n @savagemistresss @morganvoorhees @dinsverdika @cated18 @lolszass @jeswiii @all-good-things-have-an-ending @alternatealt @uvoiid @underatreedrinkingtea @ramadiiiisme @crissteetee67 @lexi-zsy09 @spikespiegell @littlezarp @rebel-soldat @4headkissess @mckenzieriley69 @moxxiestar @palomaxaxaxa @msjaeger @galacticstxrdust @anubiseqq @l-0-v-3-r-z @kakashiislut @a-queen-blr @random0lover @hehatesmati @ghost-with-a-teacup @konigbabe

[cntloup]

SUGAR

Mafia!Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Rival's Daughter!Reader angst, toxic relationship

Simon was never a man for fancy ball events but as the right hand man of John Price, had to be by his side at all times especially at times like these, meeting with the rival. As they arrive at their destination and get the formalities of greetings and introductions out of the way, he goes to settle by the bar where he can have his eyes on the whole room, just in case. He orders his usual Kentucky Bourbon. As he stands there, drink in hand, his eyes searching the room for any kind of threat, that’s when he sets his eyes on her... and he should have taken her for what she really is... a threat; he should have ran right then and there but he never did. He had heard about her, the daughter of their rival, but never seen her beauty and grace up close. She looks elegant with a charming smile... and that’s when he knows he’s fucked. She feels a set of eyes on her and looks for them in the crowd and finally faces him. She's heard about him too. She starts walking towards him to greet him properly and that’s when it all started.

“This can’t happen.” he mutters in between kisses as they hide in the hallway “Why not? Cause we’re rivals? Who the fuck cares? If anything I’d be happy to fuck him over.” “who?” “My dad of course. Who else? I hate his fucking guts.” he’s surprised to hear that then replies with a chuckle “Why? Not the lifestyle for you?” “Fuck no! I feel like I’m in a cage. His puppet that he gets to play with and show off whenever he pleases.” he thinks that he can understand her struggles as he has his own trauma too.

And you play a twisted little game, But I know in a way, You need to complicate it, Believe that though we never eat, We still know how to feed, We still know how to bleed, oh

At that time he thought that she’s too sweet and innocent for this life, but that’s where he was wrong. The arguments, the push and pull, the manipulations started not too long after they first felt something for each other which he thought of as pure. He felt used and abused, he started to feel paranoid even more than before, never trusting anyone, even doubting his peers, sometimes even Price. His head full of thoughts like ‘Is she just using me for information?’ ‘Am I just a guard dog to him?’. But there was another side to her; so loving, patient and understanding of his pain and torment... also she was an enchanting seductress. Fuck, she was intoxicating. She had him completely wrapped around her finger.

My arms keep you in the room, Barely let you move, Show me what you do, oh, Tonight, we're second-guessed again, Let me wrap the chains, Addicted to the pain

As he pulls her into his room, never taking his lips off of her, nibbling and kissing any part of skin he can reach, he kicks the door close and corners her against the wall, not letting her move an inch. “What the fuck are you doing to me? My mind is in shambles cause of ya! Do you hate me or love me? One day you stay by my side through everything even when I’m at my worst but the next day you act like I don’t even exist as you come to the meeting with another guy on your arm!” he grunts as he puts one hand around her throat squeezing just enough to make her dizzy, just how she likes it. She smiles devilishly with no reply and pushes her lips against his and he can’t stop her, he never can. He’s addicted, fucking addicted to the pain she puts him through, addicted to her taste, everything about her. If she wants to see how far he can go, if she wants to test him, he’s more than willing to play this game with her.

Do you wanna see how far it goes?, Do you wanna test me now, my love?, You must be crazy if you think, that I will give in so easily, Things we buried low, Coming to the surface now, my love, You must be crazy if you think that I will give up the game, Oh, whoa

Sugar, I've got a taste for you now, Sugar, I've developed a taste for you now

comments/reblogs are greatly appreciated ♥ 

[jackhues]

mmm, icing - mitch marner

notes: i hope you guys like this, second fic for 'it's the most wonderful time of the year', love mitch, and i love this!

likes are good, reblogs are better <3

part of naqia's end of the year celly!

gif not mine

"mitchell marner, don't tell me you put your finger in the icing specifically after i told you not to," you placed your hands on your hips.

slowly, mitch pulled his finger out of the bowl, licking it clean, "okay. i won't tell you."

you narrowed your eyes at his smug expression, unable to help the small smile that creeped up on your own face.

"since someone can't be trusted with this, it's going in the fridge until we need it," you decided, picking up the bowl of icing and placing it in the fridge.

"look what you did, zeus," mitch shook his head at his dog.

"don't blame zeusy for your actions," you defended the dog. "he's nothing but an angel."

"well of course he's an angel, he takes after his dad."

"stop talking."

"gladly."

you rolled your eyes, laughing to yourself as you pulled up a recipe for sugar cookies. it was a rare day off for mitch -- one where he had no training or game -- and you'd decided to try and bake some sugar cookies.

"okay, i need you to get the flour," you listed the ingredients, allowing mitch to move around the kitchen and grab them.

that was one good thing about baking with your boyfriend. he would gladly run around as your little henchman while you mixed together the ingredients.

you made a good team.

as mitch collected the items, you began mixing them together. you hummed along to the christmas music that mitch had turned on.

mitch grabbed one of the spatulas as you mixed the flour, singing loudly.

"but the fire is so delightful," he sung, using the spatula as a microphone. "and since we've no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!"

you rolled together the dough as mitch continued singing and dancing. zeus danced across the floor, excited to be a part of this. mitch laughed, playing with him.

"here, you wanna make the shapes with me?" you asked, holding up the cookie cutters.

"that's not even a question," he answered, taking the reindeer one from your hand.

the two of you made cookies in all different shapes, already planning on how to decorate them. once the last of the dough was used up, you propped the cookies in the oven and turned the timer on.

"mitchell marner, you better not be reaching for the icing," you threatened, fixing the timer.

there was a silent pause, before mitch answered, "what makes you say that?"

you turned around, finding him about to open the fridge door and motioned, "uh... that!"

"oh yeah," he grinned, leaving the fridge and making his way towards you. "it's not what it looks like."

"oh really?" you asked, putting your arms around his neck as he placed his hands on your waist. "then what was that? because it looked like you were trying to get into the fridge while i wasn't looking so that you could eat the icing. the icing that we need to ice the cookies we're baking."

"okay, maybe it's exactly what it looks like," he muttered.

you laughed, burying your head in mitch's neck.

you didn't realize sugar cookies were going to cause this much chaos. but still, you wouldn't trade it for anything.

[irishmammonagenda]

Types of Dogs I Think The Obey Me Brothers Would Have

Disclaimer: i know nothing about dog breeds other than my dog is better than every other dog in the world because i said so. this is all obviously my opinion because im 100% not holding off looking at my inbox for requests rn 😰

(wee emo anon + réalta and then the other random one ilysm for not doxing me fir being atleast a month late and not having even started with your reqs yet🙏🙏🙏)

post dividers by @saradika-graphics, images of the brothers below the divider are from amias on pinterest + all animal photos found on pinterest

LUCIFER

Irish Wolfhound

He already has a dog who he obviously loves very much (Cerberus) who is a hellhound, so he thought to himself that another hound would be a good idea since Cerberus gets lonely sometimes :(

He calls the dog 'Tuireann' because he thinks he's fucking funny.

You know that stereotype of the dad not wanting the dog but the dad ends up loving the dog like its his own child or something?

If you do know, then you know Lucifer.

Tuireann gets on very well with Cerberus. Lucifer makes a commitment to taking breaks more often and taking both out on walks, which terrifies his brothers, but has made Diavolo very happy with him. (Yay Lucifer taking care of himself for once!)

He cuddles up to both of them more often. Both dogs are very happy.

Will kill for his dogs btw :)

Laughed one time when Tuireann saw Solomon as a threat.

MAMMON

Golden Retriever

Someone told him he could win 'gold' at a casino. So he gambled, ended up winning (for once) and got his 'gold'.

This man was almost outraged when the 'gold' in question was a golden retriever puppy.

He was about to say something in outrage, then the witch plopped the little guy down into his arms and her little nose started sniffing at his exposed collarbone. He closed his open, outraged mouth and pet the little thing, blinking back small tears because it was so cute.

Mammon would like to argue that this did not happen but it did. The witch in question has proof and has sent Lucifer the video in apology for trying to summon him. Said witch is now a good acquaintance of Lucifer's, and has not been punished brutally. She has learnt her lesson and will not attempt to make a pact with the Avatar of Pride ever again. *Unlike Solomon. That bastard never learns.)

Mammon probably calls the dog something like 'Bailey'

He was originally going to call her 'Goldie' but then remembered that was his credit card's name. So he thought about the name 'Retrievie' but even to him that sounded fucking stupid.

He loves this dog so much and buys her so much dog toys and treats.

Gets his crows to play with her.

Mammon basically is a Golden Retriever if you think about it. (A Golden Retriever with mental issues that thinks its an awesome scary dragon or something, but a golden retriever none-the-less.)

He buys Bailey a bed but she literally only sleeps on him or on his bed.

When he lets her out into the garden while he's busy he always has atleast 2 crows watching her/playing with her.

He tries to train her to dig for buried treasure. Instructions unclear, they both dug up the whole back garden. He now has to fix the garden.

They say that a 'Dog is a Man's Best Friend', but this dog is Mammon's whole life.

There is dog hair all over this man. Atleast he's not an emo and doesn't wear all black.

Hair rollers are a must.

He cries when they're separated for more than a day in case you were wondering.

LEVIATHAN

Kokoni

Lucifer gave him it in an attempt to get Levi to touch grass once in a while.

At first Levi was scared of the dog, then he decided she was cute. Watches an anime about a dog and realises he should be a responsible owner and take her out on walks!

Leviathan has now touched grass. I repeat, Leviathan has now touched grass.

Calls her 'Ruri' you know he would.

He almost called her Henry 3.0

He has to make sure Henry 2.0 is unreachable to Ruri. He's scared Ruri might eat Henry 2.0

He's still kind of scared of Ruri but loves her.

Since getting Ruri he's actually been remembering to take care of himself. As a reward, once a month for a day or two, Lucifer will take over taking care of Ruri so Levi can have one of his gaming marathons uninterrupted.

Levi plays the Devildom equivalent to pokemon go while walking Ruri

Levi rants to Ruri about the anime or manga he's currently obessed with while playing with her with some chew toy or something.

She lays beside him in his bathtub sometimes and lays her head on his lap while he watches anime.

Lucifer is very happy with this outcome. So is Levi.

SATAN

Rottweiler

He originally saw something in some article or whatever he read about Rottweilers being aggressive, possibly saying that they weren't a 'good' dog breed.

Satan knows what its like to be labelled as aggressive and unsafe, so he has sort of a soft spot for 'bad' dog breeds.

So one day, he's talking to one of his various acquaintances, and for whatever reason, they visit an animal shelter.

Satan hears another couple say they wouldn't get a dog because 'isn't that breed really aggressive?' and he feels sad, he's not mad at the couple, it's a reasonable concern, but poor dog :(.

He approaches that worker a couple of minutes after his acquaintance leaves and asks them about the rottweiler.

Long story short he walks out with it on a leash, standard food, and a bowl courtesy of the shelter.

Calls the dog 'Julie' because he had just finished pirating a preformance of Romeo and Juliet. (which he enjoyed criticising, but he liked the name Juliet and also Belphie likes the band Julie so)

He makes sure to take the time and effort to socialise Julie with cats because this is Satan we're talking about for fuck's sake.

He takes Julie on walks before stopping at a dog-friendly café in the Devildom.

Julie also sleeps on Satan's lap when she's tired and he's reading.

Satan gets a lot more into audiobooks after he adopts Julie so he can still technically 'read' without having to ignore his new pooch.

Will write several books on why she's the best girl ever, and will make you read them.

ASMODEUS

Westie

A fan gifted him a dog for his birthday for some reason. At first he accepted the gift and devised a plan to give the dog away but the shelter was closed over the weekend, so he elected to let the dog stay with him until then.

Ends up getting attached. This is his baby now.

Calls her 'Angel' because he thinks she's an angel. She also kind of reminds him of Luke so.

This little rat is all over his Devilgram.

So much so there are fanclubs for her now.

This little rat has fanclubs.

Angel gets walked everyday. Asmo loves the excerise and says its done wonders for his skin.

He doesn't like when she digs, but oh well.

Loves grooming her.

Cuddles galore.

He trains her how to do tricks.

His excitable nature really goes well with hers, and they really bond.

The fan that gave her to him is now one of his friends.

He loves that rat.

BEELZEBUB

Bernese Mountain Dog

Two words. 'Gentle Giant'

He probably names her something like 'Bernie'

Bernese Mountain Dogs are massive, I feel like Beel would be the type of guy who loves big dogs. Given how big this Demon is, I feel like he'd be scared of hurting a smaller dog. He probably got an already adult rescue from a shelter.

It was one of those cliche things, meeting eyes with this big sad dog in a cage and Beel just knowing, "This is my baby."

Bernese Mountain Dogs DROOL, and I feel like Beel wouldn't mind that seeing as he is the Avatar of Gluttony.

Speaking of being the Avatar of Gluttony, Beel's dog 100% gives him puppy eyes while he's sitting at the table eating, and what does Beel do? He sneaks his dog food under the table.

Given his workout schedule this doggo gets atleast one walk a day. ATLEAST.

Beel one hundred percent cuddles up with that dog. You thought he had a mental bond with Belphie? Well that man has a mental connection of that caliber with his dog.

He is covered in dog hair but he sees that as making him part of the pact with Bernie so he couldn't care less. (He does clean up shed hair with a roller when going out though)

Bernie might've been a rescue and maybe could've lived a hard life before Beel adopted her, but Beel loves her like she's his own child that is his BABY.

BELPHEGOR

Shiba Inu

It reminded him of Beel, okay??!

Normally Belphie can't be bothered with animals, but when he saw the ad saying 'FOR SALE: NEEDS BETTER HOME' and saw that closed eye Beel smile his grinchy little heart grew three sizes that day.

He adopts the dog.

He calls her something like, 'Bella'

No thats not because it sounds like Beel. Piss off.

Bella isn't too high maintenence and actually does well for Belphie's productivity.

The seventh born actually goes on regular (though albeit) short walks with Bella.

Beel bonds with the dog as well and is very happy to take her on his morning runs with him.

Bella is affectionate but fucking stubborn. (Just like Belphie if you think about it)

Sometimes while cuddling (which only happen on Bella's terms by the way), she will not get off of Belphie, no matter how much Belphie asks. (Not that he minds, its an extra excuse to be lazy)

The cuddling in question is literally just Bella laying on top of Belphie like she's some sort of cat.

Bella is more of a brat than Belphie and thats saying something. The man spoils her.

Finally, a being (other than you and Beel) that understands him.

as you can tell I love big dogs and think small dogs are little rats. (said affectionately)

all of these dogs are female btw bc i got humped by my cousins dog recently and i wish that pain on no one. not even my worst enemy (which is solomon btw)

by the way unhinged anon im still waiting for you to go through with that threat 🤨🤨

[lethalchiralium]

canon happiness series lore:

if simon ever dies, he would make price promise to be a father to his daughter and keep you happy.

ghost made price swear on the little cross he wears after his first meeting with mellie that price has to protect both his daughters and keep you happy.

price breaks his promise every day by keeping simon alive. he couldn’t die when he has two beautiful children waiting up all hours of the night for him, simon couldn’t die when he was all you had.

UNCANON LORE:

if simon did die, price would move in and immediately be at your side. he’d take care of the funeral, he’d take care of the girls, he’d sit with you when you needed to sit under the shower spray and cry.

it would be years later that the lines would get blurry, the girls older and their memories hazy of their real father - only winnie remembers simon. mellie only knows price as her dad, the one who walked her and her sister to and from school, the one who showed up to career day, the one cussing out the principal for not disciplining the boy who had hit winnie. mellie wouldn’t remember the days where she clung to her real father, crying whenever anyone dared to take her from him.

he would sleep in your bed. his arms around you and your back to his chest. you didn’t know that you subconsciously face away from him, because you always faced simon when he slept and now he’s dead. if you face away, you won’t feel the pain when price leaves too. price’s presence doesn’t replace simon’s, he just creates a new mold to fit into - being the loving father and doting husband that simon was. just now, he wears a silver wedding ring and you still wear the gold one from many years ago.

you would have a son. a little creature that simon was so scared to love, but john cradled that boy in the delivery room like the most precious thing in the world. john’s little boy murmured in that little blanket and all you could feel was simon’s fear. simon had rubbed off on you more than you thought. you loved your son, he looked beautiful but you were so scared that that little boy would become something that price could still be - lifeless, a bullet to a heart with only his best friend to comfort him as he went.

price would love him anyway. he loved you anyway. he had retired right after simon was killed, so taking care of all of the kids would be no hassle. even as little oliver got older, he was just like his sisters, which in turn meant he was just like simon. loving, caring, emotional. price took pride in the girls and his son. god might have taken away his best friend, but He gave price a chance to see simon again.

you told price once that you hoped you went before he did so you never had to live without him, and you did. peacefully, on a wednesday afternoon in your sleep. winter grace, melody ivy, and oliver simon were by your side, captain john price held your hand and told you that it was okay. your babies were grown, kids of their own; little kittens and big dogs to keep them company. that he would be okay, that simon was waiting for you.

he had passed two days later of a broken heart. the woman who gave him a family, even if you didn’t mean to, had given him the one thing he wanted in life and now you were gone. only melody was with him, helping him pick out photos that he wanted to use for your funeral. she had asked a question about simon when she found a photo of him and you, price couldn’t utter a word. her whole life she believed price was her father, you wouldn’t correct her as it would bring up too much pain. only winnie would talk about him. he told her what flowers you wanted, that he would like white tulips when he goes. melody only laughed, saying, “dad, you’re not goin’ for a while.” price made sure that melody knew you were to be buried next to lieutenant simon riley, that price’s grave stone be smaller than the lieutenant’s. he wanted to be buried next to you, and to make sure that you got your favorite flower every month and that the cross that you wore when you died be kept by winnie. he had promptly gone upstairs to take a nap and simply never woke up.

mellie kept his wishes. she, winnie, and oliver attended the joint funeral - burying them together next to their mother’s lover and their dad’s best friend. the two children named by simon riley and the one named after him stood over the gravestones, all three children grieving a different parent. captains mactavish and garrick, as well as colonel vargas and his husband former sergeant major parra would stand with them. the four soldiers left dimes on price’s grave. three soldiers left dimes on riley’s, but only one placed a quarter. captain mactavish.

those men would watch over the riley girls and the price boy, walk the girls down the aisle and hold oliver’s son when he was born. they would take care of any of their needs, did anything they asked.

the 141 was buried together, and when they joined their friends in the afterlife, everything was finally alright. your hand held onto simon’s, price’s hand on your shoulder. a little boy was on simon’s hip, one who looked exactly like him and you. the son you lost. and that little boy squealed at the arrival of every one of his uncles, a little boy that was full of happiness.

you had a good life.

———

yeah i just rambled for thirty fucking minutes. what did you expect from me. i’ve cried over this. now i want to write a price family fic because FUCK that’s why

also if you know the coin rule that we do in america, good on you.

also oliver’s name will make more sense in the lover chapter of happiness

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Comet Donati [Chapter 9: Why Don’t We Go There]

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (+18), beef cattle, drugs, alcohol, smoking, Walmart, vegan baking, David Archuleta, mental health struggles, pregnancy, pigs, bodily injury, death, miscarriage, Jace acting vaguely human, angst, Southern Baptists, Cookie Monster pajama pants.

Selected Chapter Quote: “You have no idea how much I’ve kept from you.”

Word count: 8.6k.

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

Taglist: ​​@doingfondue​ @catalina-howard​ @randomdragonfires​ @myspotofcraziness​ @arcielee​ @fan-goddess​ @talesofoldandnew​ @marvelescvpe​ @tinykryptonitewerewolf​ @mariahossain​ @chainsawsangel​ @darkenchantress​ @not-a-glad-gladiator​ @gemini-mama​ @trifoliumviridi​ @herfantasyworldd​ @babyblue711​ @namelesslosers​ @thelittleswanao3​ @daenysx​ @moonlightfoxx​ @libroparaiso​ @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics​ @mizfortuna​ @florent1s​ @heimtathurs​ @bhanclegane​ @poohxlove​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @heavenly1927​ @mariahossain​ @echos-muses​ @padfooteyes​ @minttea07​ @queenofshinigamis​ @juliavilu1​ @amiraisgoingthruit​ @lauraneedstochill​ @wintrr13​ @r0segard3n​ @seabasscevans​ @tsujifreya​ @helaenaluvr​ @hiraethrhapsody​​​

Only 1 chapter left! 💜

The last day of summer, the first day in Kansas City: emerald seas of soybeans, cornstalks taller than you are, massive tractors rolling laggardly on the shoulder of the road, red-tailed hawks perched on utility poles, cloudless cerulean skies, sunlight that beats down like soft rain. There is a long, rambling dirt driveway that leads from Route 210 to your parents’ farm. When you climb out of the Escalade, you cannot hear traffic or voices or some playlist of bygone pop hits or ice cubes jangling in misty glasses or the roar of jet engines. You can hear only the sounds of the Midwestern earth: wind in the leaves, cicadas humming, the distant mooing of black angus cattle. For a moment, Comet Donati just stands there breathing in the unhurried, golden air like the atmosphere of a new planet, their lungs acclimating, their eyes wide and peering around. Where have we landed? Any signs of intelligent life?

There are footsteps and then the squealing creak of the screen door as your dad throws it open. Along with your parents pour out five Australian cattle dogs. They bark uproariously, herding the new arrivals like errant calves. Aemond laughs and crouches down in the dust of the driveway to pet them. Rhaena screams and clings to Luke.

“Belmont! Bel, you git down!” your dad scolds, pulling her away from Rhaena by the collar: pink, so everyone knows she’s a girl. “Don’t be scared, sweetheart, she don’t bite none.”

“Unless you’re a cow, of course,” your mom adds, tittering merrily. She starts handing out glasses of sweet tea, already dripping with condensation. Outside it’s 80 degrees even.

Your dad whistles as he studies Aemond’s scar, his sightless left eye like a pool of blue fog. “That must’ve hurt like a son of a bitch.”

“Jeff!” your mom objects mildly; she abhors swearing.

Aemond considers your dad: a man who doesn’t flinch away from him, who doesn’t bury truths under the cover of night. “It did.”

“My uncle came back from ‘Nam with something like that. Was never right again.” He taps his own skull. “You must be tough as nails to be carrying on like you are, son. What happened to you was a damn shame.”

“Jefferson, please!” your mom says.

“The man’s been to New Jersey, Carol! I think he’s heard worse words than bitch and damn!”

“Her name’s Belmont?” Rhaena says, frowning nervously at her canine tormentor: rust-orange, brown-eyed, tail wagging eagerly at the prospect of making new friends.

“You betcha.” Then your dad informs Aemond: “That’s Lone Jack you got there.” He points to the remaining dogs. “And the others are Carthage, Kirksville, and Island Number Ten. We call her Tenny.”

“They’re all named after Civil War battles,” you tell Comet.

“Civil War battles in Missouri,” your dad says. He turns to his guests. “Were you aware that over 100,000 Missourians served in the Union Army? Ulysses S. Grant’s first military assignment was in Missouri. He met his wife Julia here.”

“Daddy, they’re English. They don’t know what the Union Army is.”

“Were they for or against staying colonies?” Aegon asks, and Criston covers his face and groans.

Your dad spots the motorcycle Aemond rode here from the airport, weaving between the Escalades until Criston stuck his head out a window to yell at him. “Lord almighty, is that a Gold Star?! Made by the Birmingham Small Arms Company?”

“Yes sir,” Aemond says, smiling down at a delighted Lone Jack and scratching his long pointy ears.

“An ingenious piece of machinery! ‘55?”

“1960.”

“Remarkable.” Your dad admires it. He’s wearing red flannel, Wrangler jeans, the UChicago hat that you bought for him your freshman year of college.

“We’ve been told you don’t eat meat,” your mom says to Aemond, with a gentle, sympathetic tone like she’s conscious of some bad luck that’s recently befallen him: a grim diagnosis, a storm that carried away his house. “So I’ve got some chicken soaking in buttermilk to fry up for supper.”

Aemond chuckles uncertainly.

“No, she’s serious,” you tell him. And then: “Mama, we went over this on the phone. He’s vegan. That means no animal products at all. No meat, no poultry, no fish, no dairy, no eggs, nothing that came from an animal.”

“Well I’ll be, what the heck does he eat?!” your dad says. “Carrots? Acorns? Sticks and leaves? He can graze out in the pasture if he likes.”

“We’ll find you something,” you promise Aemond.

Your dad surveys Aegon (white cargo shorts, neon pink tank top, sparkly matching Crocs) and then Jace (black skinny jeans and a violet sequined blazer with nothing underneath except a mosaic of tattoos). “I suppose you two will be wanting to share a room. Well, it ain’t my place to pass judgement, I reckon. But I don’t want to overhear nothing that couldn’t be done in church.”

Jace is confused. “Huh…?”

“No, Daddy, they’re not gay.”

“What, me?!” Aegon exclaims. “Gay?! For Jace?!”

Jace says: “Sir, if I ever start looking at Aegon that way, I give you enthusiastic permission to take me out back and shoot me dead like a horse with a bum leg.”

Your dad guffaws, a deep gruff rumble like an earthquake. “I don’t think I could oblige you, buddy.”

Your mom gestures to the front door. “Y’all go on in and make yourselves at home. We got a few extra bedrooms and a nice big den if anyone’s willing to sleep on a couch. But be warned: you’ll probably end up having a dog or two snuggled up with you.”

“We are guests here!” Criston shouts at the band as they begin dragging their luggage inside, suitcase wheels bumping up the creaking wooden steps of the wraparound porch. “You will not humiliate me! You will not break things! You will not cause any problems whatsoever or you can stay at the Hilton with the security guys and I’ll have them handcuff you to a bed!”

“He will,” Aegon warns the others. “I’ve seen him do it before. To…um…somebody.” He disappears into the five-bedroom farmhouse: mint green paint, white accents, two rambling stories plus an attic and a cellar.

Criston waves to the security detail as the Escalades turn around in the driveway—stirring up dust like a parched cough of earth—and then head back towards Route 210, towards the light pollution and acclaimed barbeque joints of Kansas City. Now Aemond is standing by the barbed wire fence of the pasture and looking longingly at the black angus cattle grazing on tall swaths of windswept, green-gold switchgrass. Lone Jack, Carthage, and Kirksville are all bounding around him hoping to elicit praise and scratches. Tenny has taken a liking to Baela and follows her and Jace into the house. Belmont, still held captive by your dad, whines and struggles.

“Aemond, you can’t pet the cows,” you say. “They’re beef cattle. They spend most of their lives out in fields, they don’t get handled very often, they’re not used to people. They can be aggressive.”

He is disappointed. “Oh, okay.”

“You can pet the pigs though,” your dad says.

“Pigs?” Cregan perks up. “There are pigs?”

“Sure are. Well, they’re pigs now…come Thanksgiving, they’ll be hams! Hahaha. They’re right ‘round the back of the house. You’ll show ‘em, chickadee?”

You reply: “Yeah, Daddy. I’ll show them.”

As the rest of the band claims sleeping spots and unpacks their suitcases inside, you lead Cregan and Aemond—and Lone Jack, Carthage, and Kirksville, all blue speckled with random splatters of white markings like stray dabs of paint—to the pigs. They have a large, muddy enclosure surrounded by a wooden fence that stops at your waist; pigs, fortunately, cannot really jump. They immediately come trotting over to their visitors, tails swishing and snouts twitching, spewing a chorus of guttural oinks. Aemond leans down to pet them, beaming, then takes a Ziploc bag of raw cauliflower out of his jeans pocket and starts dropping pieces into the pigs’ gluttonous, slobbering, gaping mouths.

“Wow,” Cregan says. He’s grinning broadly, something that’s rare for him. He slips out his phone and starts taking pictures. “Iris is going to love this.”

On the second floor of the farmhouse, a window slides open. “Aemond!” Aegon calls. “I need help! It’s an emergency!”

“What’s your problem?” Aemond snaps.

“Tell Jace I need the bigger bedroom!”

“Please go away.”

“Aemond! Do not betray your favorite brother!”

“Hey!” comes Daeron’s muffled objection from inside.

“Aemond! Threaten to break Jace’s face again!”

Aemond exhales in a loud sigh and then makes for the house.

Still taking pig photos, Cregan glances over at your belly: ten weeks. Not enough to be properly showing, but enough that you can feel a difference, an extra inch here and there, a heaviness that settles in you like stones plinked in a jar. Your parents don’t know. Nobody knows but Aegon. “So,” Cregan says. “Have you told Aemond yet?”

Your attention jolts to him, a lightning strike, a surge of adrenaline. “What?”

“I remember what it looks like when someone’s trying to hide the fact that they’re pregnant.” He smirks. “And I remember that night at Club Camelot.”

People are going to start figuring it out eventually. Aemond is going to figure it out. “Do you think he’ll take it well?” you ask hopefully.

“No,” Cregan says.

In your chest, a sinking like dead weight: “Oh.”

“But he’ll probably come around to the idea eventually.”

After he’s said something unforgiveable. After he buries another knife in me, spilling blood and scraping marrow. You stare down into the pigpen, observing them root around for remnants of cauliflower and blink their awfully intelligent eyes, too clever for the fate they’ve been assigned.

Cregan lights a cigarette and puffs on it, taking advantage of a rare moment out of Criston’s line of sight. “When I first found out about Iris, I did not behave in a way that I would consider to be honorable. But fortunately, nature gives everyone time to adjust to these things. I had my head right by the time she was born. If I had to guess, I’d say it will be similar for Aemond. Then again…” He takes a deep, meditative drag. “I’d like to think I was never as fucked up as he is now.”

You study Cregan. “So you’ve been watching me. I’ve been watching you too. You haven’t been partying as hard. A few vodka shots, a secret cigarette on occasion. But no more disappearing with Aegon to do lines in the bathroom or arranging drop-offs with drug dealers.”

He shrugs. “Someone has to be the adult. Someone has to help Criston look out for the others. It used to be Aemond, but not anymore. He’s different now. One day he’ll figure out where he’s supposed to be and he’ll stop touring with Comet altogether. So I’m going to do it. There are people who need me.”

“Comet is your family,” you say. “Just as much as your mother and siblings and Iris. They love you. They belong to you, and you belong to them. And that will never change.”

He smiles; his greyish eyes are teasing but kind. “Good luck, Stargirl. You need it.”

“Thanks, Cregan.” And together, you leave the pigs and join the rest of the band inside.

Your parents’ farmhouse, the same one you grew up in—a different world, a different you—is painted in shades of gold: late-afternoon sunlight, chicken thighs and drumsticks browning in canola oil, mashed potatoes wet with cream and butter, corn cut from the cob, an enormous pan of baked macaroni and cheese, homemade rolls, a butterscotch pie cooling on the windowsill. You find a vegan alternative for Aemond in the pantry: a box of Barilla spaghetti, a jar of Ragu marinara sauce. Criston insists on cooking it so everyone else can enjoy their supper. Cregan asks your parents about tips for raising pigs; Rhaena asks about the history of the farm; Aegon eats butterscotch pie until he has to roll out of his chair and lie sprawled on the hardwood floor for a while, Australian cattle dogs licking at his pink palms and cheeks. And when Aemond finally receives his spaghetti and marinara sauce, you think: That’s the same thing he was eating in Rome. And you remember the razored sting of the comet tattoo, the nightscape motorcycle ride, the incomplete truth about Aegon, the realization of what you felt for his scarred, perfect, brilliant, haunted younger brother.

“I didn’t know the weather would be so nice here,” Baela says as she scoops herself a third helping of macaroni and cheese. Tenny lies by her feet under the table, her muzzle resting on her paws.

Your dad nods, but his words hold a warning. “It can turn quick.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“He could be a stay-at-home dad,” Aegon suggests. It’s the next day and you’re up in a hundred-year-old white oak tree, killing time until the Escalades arrive to shuttle Comet to soundcheck and their first of two shows at Arrowhead Stadium in downtown Kansas City. You’re sitting on a colossal, sturdy branch only four or five feet off the ground, your feet dangling; Aegon is a few limbs above you, alternating between swinging like a monkey and lying on his stomach so he can peer down at you with those large, oceanic eyes.

“No. If he chooses to, sure. But not because he has no other options. A baby is not something to paper over a quarter-life crisis with.”

Aegon thinks, then is struck with inspiration. “He could work for your dad on the farm!”

“The beef cattle farm?” you say. “You want the traumatized vegan to spend the rest of his life as a cog in the blood-drenched machine of American industrial agriculture? Besides, I’m sure he hates Missouri.”

“I don’t know, I mean I thought I hated Missouri too. But lowkey it kind of slaps.” Aegon closes his eyes and smiles as the warm, sunlit breeze breathes through him, tousling his hair. It’s long again, it’s almost down to his shoulders. He smells like sunscreen and Axe body spray and the homemade waffles your mother made for brunch, soggy with dollops of butter and a river of amber-colored maple syrup. Something’s missing. It takes you a moment to realize it’s the scent of beer. Your parents don’t approve of drinking, the house is bone dry. Aegon hasn’t complained about that yet, a miracle, Moses turning the Nile to blood. Maybe Missouri is good for him after all. “How’s Starbaby?”

“Good, I think. I’m not nauseous anymore. Now I’m just super hungry and horny.”

“Oh my God, you can’t say stuff like that around me, now I’m having immoral thoughts.” He squeezes his eyes shut, frowns mournfully. Goodbye forever, pornstar pussy. “When are you going to tell Aemond?”

“Soon,” you say noncommittally, like a coward. Not a coward: someone who’s been hurt before. Not just hurt: slaughtered, buried, exhumed, robbed for the jewels on the bones of her fingers. You’re finally whole again. You’re in no hurry to imperil your resurrection. “Cregan knows.”

“Rhaena knows too.”

“What?!”

“She asked me in Dallas, but she waited until I was sloppy drunk first. Smart girl. I tried to deny it, but honestly she already had it figured out.” Aegon looks at you meaningfully. “If you wait much longer you’re going to lose control of this thing. It’ll get to Aemond before you can. And I think it will be worse if he finds out from somebody else.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. I’ll tell him, Aegon, I promise. Before Comet flies out of Kansas City.” They’ll be leaving you here, though no one except Aegon and Criston know that yet. Their private jet will take them to New Orleans, and then Miami, and then all the way to South America: Rio de Janeiro, Sao Paulo, Bogota, Buenos Ares, Lima, Santiago.

Now someone is trekking across the field behind your parents’ house and towards the centenarian white oak tree. It’s Jace. He’s wearing a rather understated outfit today: a lavender polo, denim shorts, boat shoes. His dark curls whip and tangle in the wind.

“Ugh,” Aegon says once Jace close enough to hear. “Why don’t you go try to pet a rage-filled, 2,000-pound mound of unprocessed cheeseburgers?”

“I’m here for my complimentary therapy session.”

Aegon stares at you. You stare back. The only sounds are made by the earth and the sky and the animals, air in the leaves, the low mooing of cattle. You both wait for Jace to rescind his request. He does not. At last, you relent. “Okay. Fine. Aegon?”

“You want me to leave you alone with this inked-up ogre?”

“Confidentiality is important. I’ve always given it to you, Jace deserves the same.”

“Does he really?” Aegon flings back; but he obediently climbs down from the tree and walks to the farmhouse. Your parents have no booze, no internet, a landline telephone, and a single tv with basic cable. Everyone else is in there playing Uno, doing animal-themed puzzles, and baking apple cider cookies in honor of the first day of autumn. You’d think Comet would be losing their minds after adapting to months of nonstop, breakneck excitement, but they seem to be enjoying themselves. You feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. You don’t miss the jet, you don’t miss the bars or the five-star hotels, you don’t even miss your apartment in the city that is still being sublet by some grad student with a Flemish Giant rabbit. You wonder if you ever wanted to leave the farm at all, or if you only wanted to leave the way you felt about yourself the last time you called this place home.

Jace grins and hauls himself up onto the tree branch to sit beside you. “Want to see my new tattoo?”

“Comet has definitely already been to Kansas City.”

Still, he’s acquired one, left wrist, black ink: a single star the size of a quarter. “For you, Stargirl. So I don’t forget about you. So I don’t lose you in the sea of gorgeous women I have marooned myself in.”

“It looks like a pentagram,” you say. “That’s appropriate, since you’re basically Satan.”

He’s not offended. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I want to talk about?”

“I already know.”

“Do you really?”

“You’re happy, but you feel bad about it. You wanted to be the leader of Comet, but you wish it could have happened a different way.”

Jace opens his hands and offers you a crooked, wry smile. “I might jibe at Aemond, but I don’t hate him. Why else would I let him knock out four of my teeth without expecting any penance in return?”

“No, you certainly don’t hate Aemond.”

“And what happened to him…it sucks. I mean, obviously, it was life-ruining for him. Not ruining, I shouldn’t say that. I’m sure he’ll get a new life someday. But it wrecked him in ways I’ll never be able to understand.”

“You’ll have to let him go when the time comes.”

“Yeah,” Jace says, unusually somber, gazing out across the field of white wild indigo, prairie dropseed, blue star, yarrow.

“And if Baela gets into ballet school, you’ll have to let her go too.”

Now Jace turns to you, startled. “I can’t. I’d miss her.”

“Yes, but you aren’t right for her. Sometimes we have to give people the freedom to realize they want something more than us. It’s the greatest act of love we can do for them.”

He laughs, a disdainful little snort. “That’s what everyone says. If you love someone, let them go. But then nobody ever really does it. They cling and they manipulate and they beg. Nobody helps the people they love leave them. Nobody escapes the indignity of becoming a regret.”

Please don’t let that be true. Please don’t let Aemond regret meeting me, touching me, maybe even loving me. “Why do you think that is, Jace?”

And he says, like it’s obvious, like you should already know it: “Because letting go is too fucking painful.” He hops off the branch and drops into the tall grass below. Then he extends a hand to help you down. “Come on. I bet those apple cider cookies are ready.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You see glimmering dresses, incandescent string lights, neon signs, the winding reptilian sheen of the Missouri River in the distance, faint dots of stars muted by the city’s synthetic luminance. You taste your faux Bramble: ice, cranberry juice, a sliver of lemon on the rim, sweet and tart and cold. The speakers are thumping out Prayin’ For Daylight by Rascal Flatts. Aegon is in neon yellow. You almost wore the same, but the flowing yellow gown you bought in Reykjavik suffered an unfortunate Australian-cattle-dog-related incident before Comet left your parents’ farmhouse for the concert. You opted for the short sparkly black dress embroidered with silver stars instead…and hurried out the door before your parents could catch a glimpse of your comet tattoo.

“No way!” Baela cries as she checks her phone. “Look, look!” Liam Payne has just posted a selfie on Instagram. Cuddled up next to him on a beach in Ibiza is Shelby, tan and with her long blond waves flying everywhere. The comments are a smorgasbord: Cutest couple EVER! Aww, did you and Aemond break up again :( Enjoy your vacay, girlie! Guess love really can’t conquer all. You are stunning, Shelby! I’m still hoping you guys get back together. You deserve better! What is Aemond even doing these days?? Is this why Comet took A Girl Named After A Car off their tour setlist :(((

“Damn, poor Liam,” Daeron says. “Should we warn him?”

Aegon replies: “Bruh, this is so tragic. That dude has enough demons already.”

“Good luck, Liam,” Luke says, toasting his Mai Tai against Aemond’s fully-alcoholic Bramble. “Thoughts and prayers.”

“Maybe he’s dumb enough to sign up to be her boy band baby daddy,” Aemond quips. You and Aegon exchange an uneasy glance. Then Aegon gets an incoming FaceTime call. It’s Taylor Swift. He beams—he lights up, he glows—and rushes away to find a quiet spot where he can talk to her. Criston chases after him, extra vigilant since Aegon’s overdose in Las Vegas.

You gulp down the rest of your not-cocktail cocktail. The bartender calls over: “Another cranberry juice, ma’am?”

“Cranberry juice?!” Daeron says. “That sounds…healthy?”

“Why aren’t you drinking?” Baela asks you. It would be a rude question if you didn’t know each other so well. Though not quite as well as she thinks. Cregan and Rhaena peer awkwardly down into their glasses, eyebrows raised.

“Because. Um.” You hesitate. Aemond looks over at you curiously. “I’m an alcoholic.”

Baela blinks. “You’re what?”

“Um. I was developing an alcohol problem so to be safe I stopped drinking altogether.”

“How mature of you!” Rhaena chirps, then drags Baela towards the dancefloor. Luke and Jace go with them. Daeron and Cregan depart to charm some potential paramours: a flock of Kansas City University students for Daeron, a bachelorette party of flattered, giggly soccer moms for Cregan. You procure another cranberry juice from the bar and then return to Aemond. You are alone together, a strange combination of adjectives: solitary, secretive, appreciated, known. You migrate towards the edge of the roof and sip your matching drinks, wearing your matching black clothes, wind in your hair and the sounds of late night traffic on the streets below.

“So this is the place,” Aemond says, playful, wistful. “Where you and Aegon…met.”

“It feels so different now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You look out over the city, breathing in humid night air and a verdant, ancient wildness. “You know how when you’re a kid, you’ll go somewhere and it feels endless and magical, and then you go back five or ten or fifteen years later and you’re disappointed? Like, that’s it? Is this even the same place?”

He swigs his Bramble. Ice clinks; the glass is frosty in his hand. “I know what you mean. But it hasn’t been that long. A little over a year.”

“I guess I’ve changed.” More grounded. Less restless. Less aimless. More pregnant.

“I hope Comet hasn’t traumatized you.”

You laugh, and he’s looking at you like you’re the only two people at this rooftop bar, in this city, on this planet: one river blue eye, one pool of sightless otherworldly mist. He hasn’t worn sunglasses since Shelby’s deportation from the band’s retinue. “Not yet.”

He is mischievous. “There’s still time.”

Not much of it. Aemond’s iPhone rings, Mr. Brightside. He checks it. “Is that Shelby offering you ten thousand blowjobs if you take her back?”

Aemond smiles. “No. It’s Helaena.” He answers and puts it on speakerphone. “Hi, LaeLae. Can I call you tomorrow? I’m at a very loud, very crowded rooftop bar.”

“With her?” Helaena asks, delighted.

“Yes, actually.”

“Okay. Call tomorrow. I wanted to tell you about the praying mantis I found in the garden. Check the weather. Goodbye!” She hangs up before Aemond can.

“Weather…?” he muses, then shakes his head and slips his phone into the pocket of his dark jeans. He returns his attention to you. “Ten thousand blowjobs, huh? I think I’d rather have another ten minutes in a bar bathroom.”

You are so game. It’s humiliating how game you are. Dear Starbaby, today I had slutty bar bathroom sex with your slutty dad, the same place I hooked up with your super slutty uncle. “Really?”

“No,” Aemond says sheepishly. But the corners of his lips are curled up in fond nostalgia. “That’s not my usual style.”

“What is your style?”

He drains his Bramble and turns to you. “Do you want to get out of here?”

You want few things more. “Yeah.”

You leave your empty glasses on a tray by the edge of the roof. Aemond lets Criston know that you’re taking one of the Escalades back to the farm. Aegon pauses his conversation with Taylor Swift just long enough to wink at you. No need for condoms, he mouths with a grin. And then he shouts, as the opening notes of Starboy blare from the speakers: “Stargirl, it’s our song!”

The Escalade makes one pitstop: the Walmart just off Route 210, the same one you always shopped at growing up. Aemond piles the requisite ingredients for vegan chocolate chip cookies in the screechy-wheeled cart, flour, baking soda, salt, white sugar, brown sugar, dark chocolate chips, rice milk (Aemond swears it tastes like Rice Krispies), vanilla extract, coconut oil. You wander down the aisles together talking, joking, finding excuses to touch each other, hands on wrists and collarbones and waists.

As you scan the items at one of the self-checkout kiosks, two guys buying frozen pizzas and White Claws peek over at you and start snickering. You grab snippets of their conversation like fireflies from the air: critiques of your body, critiques of your soul. You ignore them. This happens sometimes when you’re home. Someone from high school will recognize you, someone will remember.

Aemond is staring at them. Not staring; glaring, seething, mentally splitting flesh and dislodging teeth.

“Aemond, it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.”

“It’s not a big deal. I’m not upset. Just ignore them.” He walks away from you. “Aemond, don’t!”

He grabs the closest man’s shoulder and spins him around. “You got a problem?”

Both men gawk up at him, mouths hanging stupidly open and eyes inane like fish. The one he’s clenching sputters: “I’m sorry, are you…are you…are you Aemond Targaryen?!”

“I’m the guy who’s about to go to prison for second degree murder if you don’t shut the fuck up.”

He puts both hands in the air. “Hey man, I am actively shutting the fuck up. You have a nice evening.”

Aemond releases the man with a shove that sends him staggering back into a rack of tabloids. He returns to you, puts the bags in the cart, starts pushing it out to the parking lot.

The man turns to his friend. He is starstruck, elated. It might be the best day of his life. “Bruh, I just got assaulted by Aemond Targaryen…!”

The Escalade glides through the dark to your parents’ farm and drops you and Aemond off in the dirt driveway before zooming back towards the city. Aemond insists on carrying the shopping bags…but he doesn’t go inside. He stands near where his Gold Star is parked and gazes up at the night sky: moon, stars, the hazy white shadow of the Milky Way, all unmarred by the arrogant, buzzing radiance of electricity.

“Aemond?”

“You can see everything out here,” he says. “Maybe Kansas isn’t so bad.”

“Missouri.”

“Missouri,” Aemond agrees. “But you’re still the best thing about it.”

You smile. “I don’t know the names of any of those constellations.”

He points to show you. “Ursa Major. Ursa Minor. Perseus. Draco. Hercules.”

“Heroes,” you say.

“And animals.” He ascends the steps of the front porch. They creak beneath him, weight that will soon be gone, to New Orleans and Miami and South America and God knows where else.

Your parents are watching the 11:00 news in the den. The weatherman is issuing tentative warnings for tomorrow. Summer is gone, storms are coming in. They politely ask what you and Aemond are up to and then try not to look repulsed when you mention vegan cookies. You’re actually pretty excited; you love cookie dough, and because it will have no raw eggs in it, you can eat as much as you like without endangering Starbaby.

On the kitchen counter is the same CD player that your mom has owned since 2008. You press play on whatever she has currently spinning around in there. MercyMe? TobyMac? Danny Gokey? What you hear instead is Crush by David Archuleta.

“That’s a throwback,” Aemond notes.

“My parents love David Archuleta. He’s Christian, he’s cute, he’s gracious, he doesn’t swear. I remember them incessantly calling in to vote for him when he was on American Idol. They put in a prayer request at church to help him win the competition. I guess God used his executive veto power.”

“Do they know he’s…?” Aemond draws an invisible rainbow in the air with his fingers.

“No, they don’t use Google.”

“We won’t tell them. He needs the record sales.”

You and Aemond mix the cookie dough and then portion it out on a baking sheet. He slides the sheet into the oven, sets the timer, and then notices the reserve of dough you’ve left in the bowl. You dip your pinky finger in and then lick it slowly, savoringly: sweetness, chocolate, fats obtained without the sacrifice of a soul.

“Looks good,” Aemond says, a little hoarsely.

You swipe your index finger around the curve of the bowl and then offer it to Aemond. He holds your hand still and licks your finger clean, his tongue dragging over your skin, goosebumps rising on your arms, heat stirring up everywhere. You’re transfixed by him; you can’t stop watching. Then he closes the gap between you and cups your face in his palms and kisses you, not in some glittering city or on a stage or for an Instagram post but in the kitchen of a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, the home of nobodies. His lips are sweet, swift, seeking more. He only pulls away when the noise of heavy footsteps approaches the kitchen.

“Smells great in here, chickadee! Even if they are vegan cookies.” Your dad says the word vegan like someone else might say the name of a tourist destination halfway across the globe. He can’t quite get the pronunciation right. His eyes snag on the bare skin between your shoulder blades. “Lord almighty, what is that on your back?!”

Your comet tattoo, that’s what. “Uh, Daddy—”

“It was my idea,” Aemond says quickly, seamlessly. “They’re my lyrics. Lyrics I wrote before the accident, I mean. And I was feeling just…purposeless, and useless, and really doubting myself. She wanted to show me that my work still mattered. So when the band was in Rome, Jace got a tattoo and I suggested she get one too. It’s entirely my fault.”

“Huh,” your dad replies uncertainly. “Is that right? Well, I suppose there’s not much to be done about it now.” He chuckles and moves your hair so it’s covering your tattoo. “Let’s not mention it to your mother. She’s already got high blood pressure. Say, can I try one of them cookies when they’re ready?”

Criston and the rest of the band arrive back at the farmhouse just as the cookies are coming out of the oven. Miraculously, no one is drunk enough that your parents are aware of it. Everyone samples the vegan chocolate chip cookies and agrees that they are nearly as delicious as the cruelty-enhanced version. You and Aemond watch each other from across the kitchen that’s now crowded with people, hearing them but also not, wanting more and knowing you can’t have it, here in this place with little privacy and very few remaining secrets.

Comet scrambles to get ready for bed, racing to claim bathrooms and banging on doors to peer pressure people into finishing their showers faster. Back in your bedroom, clean and alone and wearing an oversized Backstreet Boys t-shirt and your favorite Cookie Monster pajama pants, you rearrange your pillows over and over again and try not to think about the band leaving in two days. Strangely, you don’t really want to go with them; you don’t want to board the jet, you don’t want to sightsee, you don’t want to be surrounded by people ingesting poison in all its forms. But the thought of being away from the band—from Aegon, from Aemond—is impossible, unbelievable, horrifying. You’re humming something as you crawl into bed. You don’t even realize what song it is until you’re under the covers and sinking into sleep: The Man Who Can’t Be Moved.

You’re only asleep for ten or fifteen minutes. When you wake your eyes are watery and you can’t remember your dream—you almost never can—but you know that Aemond was there. Now he’s here in your room as well. He’s gently stroking your cheeks, your forehead, sitting on the edge of your bed.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay,” he’s murmuring, only a silhouette in the darkness. But you would recognize him anywhere. “You had a nightmare. You were crying, I heard you.”

“Were you lurking outside my door or what?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead he asks: “What were you dreaming about?”

“You.”

And when you reach for him, he meets you without hesitation, his hands in your hair and his lips on yours, blankets thrown aside, his weight between your thighs, your fingertips ghosting against his face, reading his past and future like braille. He bites your lower lip, nips at the curve of your jaw, kisses a path down your throat like the contrail of an airplane. You yank off his t-shirt. He lifts away yours. He’s touching you everywhere, fingers beneath your pajama pants, smothering his moans against your neck so no one else will hear.

He whispers breathlessly: “I don’t want to rush this time.”

“I’m yours for as long as you want me.” Forever, I hope. And then: “Can I turn on the light? I want to see you.”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. And then he reaches out to click the lamp on. The nightstand is cluttered with your souvenirs: refrigerator magnets, snow globes, figurines, cosmetics, snacks, crochet celestial objects, the frisbee from New Jersey, your plushie sika deer nestled together with the hammerhead shark from the aquarium at the Mandalay Bay. In the weak golden lamplight, you study Aemond like a painting, a marble statue, a comet you’ll only see once in a lifetime.

You say, softly like a prayer if you believed in such things: “You are so fucking beautiful.”

He doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t stop. He wants to see you too. Your clothes are gone, every scrap of fabric and concealment; if he is cognizant of any minuscule changes in your body, he is not suspicious of them. Now he is bare for you as well, now he is pushing your thighs apart so he can marvel at you, taste you, drench his mouth and chin in your wetness, bring you to the edge of a cliff with no bottom, no rocks to rupture against. Now he is inside you, tremendously big but also careful, listening to you, watching every line of your face, slowly, so exquisitely slowly, his tongue darting between your lips and his palm against your cheek. And you remember how Aegon felt—always so simple and yet transient, soothing and welcome but never necessary—and Aemond could not be further from that. Nothing about what you have with him is simple. It is profound and intense and singular, and the thought of it not lasting forever is agony.

Afterwards, he retrieves his vintage metal lighter—small, square, Targaryen etched into one side—and a shimmery gold pack of his Benson & Hedges cigarettes out of the pocket of his pajama pants that are crumpled on the floor. He lies on his back and takes deep, drowsy drags, smoke like opaque morning mist in the air, one arm draped across you as you rest your head on his chest, lungs and heart and bones and blood.

Secondhand smoke isn’t good for the baby. You get up out of bed and sneak across the treacherously creaky hardwood floor. “Let me open a window.”

“So your parents won’t know?”

“Yeah.” You push the window open and then turn to him. “You should stop smoking. It’s really bad for you.”

Aemond smiles faintly. “Why would I care about that?”

“It’s bad for the people who love you too.”

He looks at you for what feels like a very long time. “Come back,” he says at last.

You do: to Aemond, to his warmth and lust and tenderness, to the space he occupies that will soon be empty like the vast expanses between comets, between stars.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I would like to say something.” You rise from your seat at your parents’ long dining room table, perfect for hosting judgmental-church-people gatherings and family reunions. Lunch for Comet Donati is steak and baked potatoes, lovingly prepared by your mom just before she and your dad left in their Ford F-150. It’s Sunday, and your parents will be at church socializing with their friends until late afternoon. Aemond is suffering through another meal of boxed spaghetti and Ragu marinara sauce. He doesn’t seem to have much of an appetite; not for food, anyway. You take turns glancing at each other and then looking away, smiling, flushing. Now he is intrigued by your announcement. His brow knits into thoughtful little grooves. The Australian cattle dogs scuttle around under the table for scraps. The television is on in the den. A tornado watch has been issued for the greater Kansas City area; no big deal, they get alerts like this once or twice a week here sometimes. It rarely amounts to carnage. Outside the sky is a tumultuous grey but not especially sinister at the moment: no greenish hue, no cloud rotation.

“You agree that Aegon hooking up with Taylor Swift would be disastrous for everyone involved,” Jace jokes.

“No, I know what it is,” Aegon says. He pokes at his baked potato with his fork, melancholy.

“I want to thank you for giving me this amazing opportunity,” you tell Comet. You have perhaps not dressed for an occasion of this significance: flip flops, a tie-dye One Direction hoodie, an old pair of shorts you found in your bedroom dresser. You like the way Aemond watches you when you wear them. “And I’ve experienced so many things, and learned so much from all of you, and I sincerely hope that we’re going to be in each other’s lives forever. But for right now…for this tour…Kansas City is my last stop with Comet.”

“What?!” Baela cries.

“No!” Rhaena gasps, her dark doe-like eyes glistening.

People are asking you why, people are asking you to reconsider. Aemond only stares, a sharp hostile look, menacing like storm clouds.

“I really, really appreciate everyone’s concern. But it’s been over three months, and this was never intended to be a permanent arrangement. Right, Aegon?”

“Right,” he reluctantly agrees.

“And it’s time for me to figure out what the rest of my life is going to look like, because I can’t just follow Comet around the world forever.”

Cregan nods to Criston. “Did you know about this?”

“I did, yeah,” Criston confesses. “We finished up the paperwork last week.”

“But we’re going to miss you,” Baela says. She sounds shockingly close to tears. Jace tries to soothe her and she shrugs his hand away.

“I know,” you concede. “And I’m going to miss you too. But we’ll still talk all the time, and I’m always willing to help you guys with anything, and maybe in the future I can visit—”

Aemond stands, his chair squealing against the hardwood floor, and flees from the dining room.

“That went well,” Jace says.

Aegon points towards the doorway Aemond left through and asks you: “Do you want me to…?”

“No, I’ll do it,” you say, and go after Aemond. He’s outside by the pigpen, his hair and t-shirt whipping wildly in the strengthening gusts of late-September air. Sparse raindrops fall from the sky. The pigs are agitated, pacing, oinking, scampering in and out of the shed they have for shelter. Aemond is smoking, embers glowing on the end of his cigarette; you purposefully stand upwind from him.

His voice is stunned and dazed and beneath that dangerously angry. “You’re leaving the tour.”

“Yes.”

“When we get on that jet tomorrow, you’re not going with us.”

“No, I’m not.”

“And you told Aegon and Criston but you didn’t tell me.”

“I had to tell Criston. And Aegon…” What can I say? What is the truth? “Aegon is easier to talk to about things like this.”

“So you feel like you can’t talk to me?” Aemond demands.

“Well, yeah, because sometimes you’re kind and patient and the single most incredible man I’ve ever met, and then something rattles your demons awake and you’re this…this…this vengeful, mistrustful, irrationally insecure person, and I can’t do anything right because you’ve already decided what my intentions are.”

“I want you to stay with Comet,” he says suddenly.

“I can’t, Aemond.”

“In Tokyo you asked me what I want, so now I’m telling you. I want you to stay.”

“Why, so you can sometimes love me and sometimes hate me, and refuse to build a new life for yourself, and relive what happened at the Budokan over and over and over again because that’s the background noise of everything you do now? Why?”

He gestures vaguely. “So we can figure things out.”

“I’m figured out, Aemond! You’re the one who isn’t and I can’t help you anymore, you have to do it for yourself, you have to want it!”

“You’ve never wanted to stay with me. You’re a liar, you’re a user. I’m glad Comet could fill that gap in your resume.” He takes a forceful drag and exhales smoke that the wind snatches away. “All you do is keep things from me.”

Venomous, violent disappointment blooms dark and scarlet in your veins. “You have no idea how much I’ve kept from you.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

You watch him, mourn him, commit him to memory for when you can’t see him anymore, every thread of him, miraculous and doomed. Saint Jude, you think, a man your parents as good Southern Baptists do not pray to. You tell Aemond: “You’re a lost cause.”

“And you’re a nobody.”

You turn away from him like ripping a page in two. You don’t want anyone to see the tears welling up in your eyes, escaping down your cheeks, marking you as someone who was weak enough to believe you could save him. You know that’s not the way it works, you know people have to be willing to accept the truths you help them uncover like prehistoric bones. Still, you believed in him. Why? Why?

Because I wanted to. Because I love him.

Your flip flops pound against the soil of the driveway, raindrops leaving spots like freckles, dust flying everywhere. You swipe at the tears that blur your vision. When you are far enough away that nobody can see you from the farmhouse, you rest your trembling hands on your belly. The life in progress there is half-built of Aemond, you carry pieces of him around with you like coins jangling in you pocket. You can’t forget him. You can’t forgive him. It shouldn’t be possible to be so close to somebody and yet so far away.

There’s no one out on Route 210. Your flip flops cross from a dirt road to black pavement. You lose track of how long you’ve been walking. Five minutes, ten minutes, it doesn’t matter. What are minutes when your mind is years away?

How will I keep Aegon in my life without tabloids finding out about the baby? What will I tell my child when they ask who their father is?

A vicious wind, so strong it snaps branches from trees and almost knocks you over. And then you hear it, that sound that every inhabitant of the Lower Midwest knows: a deep rumbling like a train. You peer up into a sky that is dark and murderous and glowing a strange sickly green. And above your head, spiraling with increasing speed: a funnel cloud, an emergent tornado.

~~~~~~~~~~

Criston is herding everyone towards the cellar, bellowing, waving frantically: Aegon, Luke, Rhaena, Jace, Baela, Cregan, Daeron, five yelping Australian cattle dogs. Through the window, they can see the tornado approaching the farmhouse, a column of shadowy atmospheric fury, unpredictable and unstoppable, here and then gone, the meteorological version of a comet.

Aemond slams the door as he sprints inside from the field behind the house. He breaths heavily, his chest heaving as his clear right eye studies the band’s panicked faces. “Where is she?”

“What the fuck do you mean ‘where is she’?!” Aegon pitches back. “She was with you! She’s with you, right?!”

Aemond looks at Aegon, looks through the glass at the tornado, grabs the keys to his 1960 Gold Star off the dining room table.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re running, but you can’t see; there’s dust and debris everywhere, there are pieces of trees and fences careening through the air, when you breath you choke on airborne earth. The wind keeps pushing you off the road and then you have to fight your way back. You have to find your parents’ driveway. You have to get to the house. The sun is gone, and the roaring like a freight train is louder, louder, louder. And now there is another sound too, a different sort of growling, mechanical and familiar. Punching through the haze like a bullet, Aemond and his Gold Star screech to a stop beside you.

“Get on!” he screams over the storm, then helps drag you onto the seat behind him. You link your arms around his waist and then you’re flying together, just like Rome, just like before Reykjavik or Paris or Singapore or Tokyo or East Rutherford or Las Vegas or any of the other cities happened, back when you believed you could cure him like a witch with a spell, back when you wanted him in a way that was unburdened by truths you wish you didn’t know.

The Gold Star rockets by trees, utility poles, fence posts seconds before they are ripped from the ground by 200 miles per hour winds. Aemond steers roughly onto the dirt road of your parents’ driveway. You cling to him, breathing him in: smoke, cologne, memories, nightmares, dreams. In the rearview mirror is a maelstrom of dark, churning grey peppered with wreckage.

Something collides with the motorcycle, a fence post, a tree limb, you don’t know, it doesn’t matter. The Gold Star is knocked off the driveway like a bloodied tooth from a jaw. You sail off of it as it begins to roll; you hit the ground hard on your back, loose a pitiful wounded howl, try to start crawling towards the farmhouse.

“No, stay down, stay down!” Aemond is saying over the roar of the tornado. He covers you, he shields you, he pins you to the ground, he puts his hands over your eyes. The last thing you see is the Gold Star lying on its side a few yards away, its wheels still rotating. It’s over 400 pounds, too heavy for Aemond to lift even if you helped him, even if that couldn’t hurt the baby.

The baby?? Your own hands go to your belly. You try to ascertain if the heat throbbing in your back has traveled anywhere else, reached with blood-red, needle-sharp talons to your child, to your future.

The wind is letting up; is that your imagination? No, the tornado is receding, the debris fall to the earth, the deafening runaway train made of rogue air evaporates. Cautiously, Aemond rises from you. When you look at him, the right side of his face is riddled with shallow, bleeding gashes; but his eye is mercifully unharmed.

“Aemond,” you say, pained, reaching for him, trying to clean the blood from his face with your sleeves, a hoodie with some boy band on it, men you don’t know and don’t care to meet, fantasies that pale in comparison to the reality that stains you like rust.

“I’m fine, are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I think so…”

They come stampeding down the driveway: Criston, the rest of Comet, the barking Australian cattle dogs.

“Oh my God, they’re alive!” Jace exclaims, and soon everyone is there, surrounding you and Aemond like a circle, a ring, an orbit, something that goes around and around and might fade but never ends.

You aren’t worried about the baby. There’s no cramping, no pain except the throbbing in the curve of your back, blood loosed and then trapped, indigo bruises tattooed under your skin like ink. You press your palms to the earth and brace yourself so you can stand. No one is helping you get up; why is no one helping you? Why are they only staring, gasping, covering their mouths with shaking hands?

“You’re bleeding,” Aemond says, a panicked voice through fog. Slowly, like trying to run in a dream, you look down. There are thin rivulets of scarlet snaking their way down your thighs, calves, shins, ankles, painless ruinous tributaries, constellations unraveling until the patterns cease to exist, no myths, no monsters, no men, just senseless pinpricks of distant light you’ll never know the names of.

“No,” you whisper, like you can stop it from happening if you refuse to believe it, like it’s a mistake you can talk yourself out of. You gaze up at Aegon. Knowledge flies between you, something shared like an heirloom or an oath.

“Call an ambulance,” Aegon says to Cregan. “Tell them that she’s…” His eyes dart to Aemond and then back to you. “Tell them to hurry.”

Aemond is holding you, he is touching your face, he is asking: “Are you cut, do you need stitches—?”

“I’m alright, it’s nothing, it’s—”

“What are you talking about?! It’s not nothing, you’re bleeding, why are you bleeding?”

“Aemond, it’s nothing—”

“Tell me what to do, tell me how to help you!”

“It’s just…” And a sob breaks from your throat, and your words are brittle and splintering, and you can’t lie to him anymore. You’re out of time in so many ways. “It’s just the baby.”

[up-to-some-good]

Moonstruck

Written for @wolfstarmicrofic prompt 22 February - moonstruck (650 words)

The first time they saw the wolf, Sirius was stunned. Remus had made them wait outside during the transformation. He told them to make sure they were in animal form before they came in. He didn't want to take any risks, none of them did.

So the first time Sirius saw the wolf, it was muted. He was in dog form, colours washed out and scents overwhelming his senses, but he was still amazed. The wolf was huge, almost as big as Prongs, with sharp teeth and predatory eyes. But he was also skinny, ribs sticking out through his fur, and had patchy fur from years of being left on his own to destroy himself. He didn't seem to want to attack the new animals in the shack either. He approached them slowly and sniffed them apprehensively. Eventually, with some persuasion from Padfoot, he began to trust them, and the nights of the full moon became full of games and running freely in the forest.

10 years later, the amazement of seeing the wolf had faded. They had spent almost every full moon together for a decade, and Padfoot and Moony were almost as close as their human counterparts. It had been just the two of them for years now. Peter had stopped joining them at the end of school, when his job at the ministry got too busy for him to take the time off. James had stayed on until Harry was born and he decided to become a stay-at-home dad. Both of them had offered to come back in the years since, but Sirius and Remus had never needed them. They had their routine down: dinner, apparate to the edge of the forbidden forest, walk to the clearing, wait. The next morning, Sirius would heal any injuries and get them back home, and they'd sleep it off for the next day, snuggled close to each other.

The February full moon of 1985 was different for the first time in a decade. Damocles Belby and Lily Potter had had a breakthrough. After years of development and testing, the Wolfsbane potion was complete. And it worked. The Sleekeazy company had funded the project and as a result the potion was now available for any werewolves who needed it. For free.

Remus had been taking the potion for the days up to the full moon, wincing and retching at the taste, but trusting Lily's judgement and expertise. This was a life changer. He could stomach the awful taste if it meant keeping his mind at the full moon.

The transformation was the same as always, despite a change in location. Sirius had to hold back tears as he listened to Remus's screams echoing throughout their flat, grateful for the silencing charms keeping their neighbours from hearing the noise.

When Remus emerged from their bedroom, still insisting on transforming out of sight, Sirius was struck by the sight of the wolf for the first time since he was fifteen. He was used the the size of the animal by now, as well as the lush fur and healthy appearance that had come in the years the marauders had spent with Moony, but this was the first time he had seen the wolf in his human form. For the first time, he could sink his fingers into the coarse fur and bury his face in the wolf's neck the way Remus did with Padfoot.

The wolf flopped down on his lap, crushing his legs beneath his massive body. Sirius laughed and leaned back against the couch, burying his hand in the wolf's fur as he got comfortable. Moony fell asleep there, his breath coming in heavy huffs. After a while, Sirius fell asleep too, mindless of the spasm his neck would surely be tomorrow and fully aware of the way he was falling more in love with Remus every day.

[merowkittie]

My mind is literally.. everywhere rn. Here’s what I was listening to while writing this >

My baby — Carl Grimes

Warnings: Major Character death / parents death / talk about corpses / Lori. / Spoilers for season 7 or 8 I forgot / Kind of Proof read

Summary: You reminisce about the boy you once loved.

He smelled of wood and the pages of a new book, your baby. He was the prettiest boy you’ve ever met in your life. The last boy you’d ever even think of loving. He had you wrapped around his finger tips, ready to use and be for his disposal.

Carl was your light. Overused yea but he got you through the darkness of the undead. He was the reason you were still were alive and not a mindless creature in the shell of who you once were. You wouldn’t be here without him. You wouldn’t be, it’s true.

He found you in a ditch laying with parents corpses. Just laying there buried in your daddy’s arms and your mothers head supported by your shoulder. You were softly crying, praying to a god you knew would not answer.

He was walking with his own mother and father, until he looked into the ditch and saw you. You two made eye contact and he pulled his mother to show her the once small girl in the ditch with her dead parents.

“Oh my god, Rick!” The lady called out to who she could only believe was the father.. Rick.

“What’s wrong Lori? Talk to me.” Lori.. that was her name.

She pointed to your still body in the ditch, keeping your breath steady. Maybe if they thought you were dead they’d leave you alone.

Nope.

Carl wanted you out of there. “Mom, what if she’s still alive?! She doesn’t look like one of those things! Look at her dad!” He tugged harder onto his fathers sleeve.

Your once soft silent cries only got louder as you finally given up on trying to stay quiet. Your emotions were everywhere. You did not know what to do. Who are these people? Why is this boy so persistent on saving you?

The ditch wasn’t too deep. Rick jumped into it finally giving In to the Pleas of his son. He slowly walked over to you, reaching out a hand. You were hesitant, with every right to be.

This man whom you did not know could easily be here to hurt you or do even worse.

“Hey.. it’s alright honey.. we ain’ here to hurt you. I wanna help you. You just gotta take my hand now, yea?” He spoke in such a gentle tone. Far different than the other men you met whilst this war of humans against undead started.

Your eyes stayed on his eyes as you placed your much smaller hands on his and he slowly pulled you up from underneath your mothers corpse. He checked you over for bite marks before boosting you up out of the ditch and jumping out himself.

The boy who’s name you did not know yet just stared at you with wonder. With curiosity. Who knew you’d eventually also be the last thing he looked at like that huh?

Years pass and you two were still as close as ever.

“My baby..” is what you whispered to each other every night as the sky grew darker and the nights got cold.

Huddled in each others arms and kissing skin that was visible for your lips and your lips only. The difference between your chapped and his soft sent shivers down your spine sometimes. His hands and his eyes.

His eyes.

They were so.. cold when you looked into them. Life less. Your baby.. buried now along side your other family.

His eyes used to shine so bright and had such a pretty blue. The way they looked at you with every emotion known to man. You knew just by making eye contact with him what he’d be feeling in that very moment.

He was your everything. Your fucking everything. You wanted nothing more than to be with him. To proclaim your love to him once again. To look into his eyes filled with so much love and life. To hold him. To hear him call you his. To call you baby.

“NO! NO! HE- HES ALIVE RICK! PLEASE!” Your voice felt like it’d give out at any moment. You were distraught.

Daryl was holding you back from trying to attack Rick. You didn’t mean to hit him, you don’t mean to scream at him. It’s just.. what’s a world without Carl Grimes? I mean what’s the point of waking up the next day without his warmth or the sheriff hat that hides his beautiful cerulean irises from you.

“He’s- He’s gone Y/n.. He’s gone.” Rick cried softly. His own eyes filled with the same sorrow as yours.

“Oh.. no no no no!” A hoarse scream left your throat as Daryl pulled you closer to his chest trying to console you.

He wasn’t any good at it but it felt nice. Your sobs only got louder as the sheriff hat was handed to you by Rick and a little Judith. You took it and pulled it to your chest. Holding it as tight has possible.

Carl didn’t get a proper funeral, there were no last words exchanged between you two besides an I love you but his letter sufficed.

Y/n

I’m sorry I’m breaking my promise to you. I know we said we’d love and live with each other forever even though we both knew how foolish that was. There’s no marriage in the apocalypse. No proper future. Baby, the only future I want is where your safe. Where Judith is safe. Where everyone is safe. We’ve already lost so much and here I am writing this letter to you with a nasty bite on my side. I want this war over. Now. I want my dad and Negan to stop fighting. It’ll only hurt them both more. Maybe my death would stop that. Im not sure. I should’ve told you, but I knew how you’d react. I didn’t want you panicking, didn’t want you crying. I bet you are now though yea? You were always a cry baby.. but you were my cry baby. I’m gonna give you all the affection I can while I’m still here. We can cuddle and talk about crappy movies you remember when you were younger. Kiss and make a mess in the kitchen since Dad and Michonne ain’t here. I just want to see you smile. I love you so much, and I only hope you still feel the same too. All I can think about is you right now. Stay strong for me ok? You stay here for me. You’ll love me forever like we promised right? I know you will. Take care of Judith and my dad for me.

- Love Carl

Carl.. Carl Carl Carl. The only thing going on In your mind right now was him. You held the Polaroid of you two together close and never let go. You wished that you could’ve said it back. That you left hilltop and went back to Carl before all of this shit went down. You were there to help care for Maggie and her baby with Enid but fuck!

Carl was gone and you couldn’t prevent that.

You lost the only thing that mattered to you. Everything was gone now. Everything.

[starkidlabs]

For anyone on the Gravity Falls website type in ‘PlatinumPaz’ into the computer for the story of how Bill nearly convinced Pacifica to make a deal with him.

Story below 👇

Pacifica stormed into her palatial bedroom and slammed the door so hard her chandeliers shook. (There were at least 3 chandeliers in Pacifica’s room, including a teensy chandelier over her nightlight.) She buried her head in a velvet pillow and screamed for an inhumanly long time, then flopped over and stewed at the painted cherubs on her ceiling. It wasn’t FAIR. After everything she did for her parents- get up at 5 for fencing lessons, beauty pageants, fox-hunting, butler-hunting, cleaning up the black feathers after dads weird “grown up masquerade parties”- THIS is how they repay her? HER! PACIFICA ELISE NORTHWEST?!

It had been a rough summer for Pacifica- first she came alarmingly close to losing a Party Crown, then her golf skills were called into question, and now her parents grounded her for literally saving the entire family from a Category 10 ghost and shut off the spigot on her caviar tap for rest of the year. What was she supposed to eat now? Dog Food? She angrily opened her mini-fridge and pulled out an UpperCrustablesTM brand snack pack and angrily spread the caviar on the tiny baguette. “Ugh, why does it come with this dumb little stick? The caviar always gets stuck in the CORNERS!”

She looked at a napkin where Dipper had written the shack’s phone number in case killing the ghost might have created a “double ghost.” Ha! As if she would put HIS number in HER phone.

Everything in her life used to make so much more sense before those PINES twins came along and screwed everything up. That stupid Mabel and her baffling, undeserved confidence. That know-it-all sweat stain Dipper who’s giant head was always butting against hers. Something about Dipper’s words had knocked over a domino in her mind that started a chain reaction that was causing her whole identity to come crashing down. He told her she had potential to change into…a better person? How do you become a better person when you’re already the best person?

It didn’t make sense!

Thinking about it exhausted her, and soon, her eyelids began to droop.

Soon she was...

she was...

Zzzz...

In Pacifica’s dream, she was freshening up at a party washing her hands when she noticed something...

red

swirling in the drain.

In horror, she discovered her hands were covered in blood, and no matter how hard she scrubbed them, they wouldn’t come clean. On the mirror, words slowly started two write themselves on their own, as if by an invisible hand…

BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS

“NO, NO, IT’S NOT MY FAULT!”

An overpowering sense of guilt swelled inside as she fled to the ballroom for help, where she spotted her friends gossiping by a tapestry. She tried to flip them around, but when she grabbed their shoulders, they fell over, flat, They were... cardboard? She turned to her parents, and they fell over flat too. The entire party was filled with flat, 2D people, everyone was fake. Blood began to fill the ballroom, pouring from the clock, from the paintings, from the ceiling. Why was this happening?! She raced through her manor in a blind panic, when she discovered she was no longer in the mansion, but outside in Gravity Falls. When she looked down, she realized she was now 100 feet tall, and every step she made was wrecking the town. She knocked over the mudflap factory, polluting the river. She knocked over the orphanage, sending coughing soot-covered children out into the cold.

She kept apologizing, but she was too big, too public, every step hurting more and more people. Everyone could see that the town’s problems were her fault. She was a monster. She always had been. She always would be.

Pacifica started sobbing and suddenly, she was a little girl again, hiding behind the vine-covered tombstones in the graveyard behind the Manor after another one of her parents fights. The graves of her ancestors loomed above her like gargoyles, great Northwests in history. What would they say if they could see her like this?

One of the statues slowly turned to face Pacifica. It was Nathaniel Northwest.

“Get a hold of yourself. You’re a Northwest, people can’t know you leak shame-water.”

“You’re right,” Pacifica apologized, and hastily took out her compact to clean her smeared makeup. She cursed as she saw how dishevelled she was.

The statue watched her like a cat hungrily watching a mouse.

“You have a lot of anger, don’t you.”

“Anyone whose not angry is an idiot. There’s so much to be mad about.”

“Yes. Anger is good. Anger is useful. Who are you angry at, Pacifica?”

“Everything was better before the PINES came to town...”

“You know, I might be able to help with that... there’s something I want. The Mystery Shack is going to be getting some new merchandise very soon. A small snow globe, nothing anyone would miss. If you could shoplift it for me, I could guarantee things would change. You’d never deal with the Pines again...”

Pacifica closed her compact. Would that fix everything?

“It would be so easy... all you have to do to get your old life back is shake...my...hand”

The statue extended its stony hand. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

Slowly she reached out to shake- then abruptly stopped. Something was off.

“My old life... wasn’t really mine, was it? All I ever did was follow my mom and dad. Maybe... it would be better to...make a new one.”

The STATUE BELLOWED with RAGE.

“MAKE? HA! YOU INHERIT. YOUR FAMILY LEGACY IS ALL YOU’RE WORTH. YOU MAKE NOTHING.

YOU CAN’T EVEN MAKE FRIENDS.”

This had always been true... in the past.

His hand extended toward her. Looming. Trembling.

She remembered a time when a hand extended toward her, offering a free snack in the back seat of a car.

“MAKE THE DEAL YOU LITTLE FAKE BLONDE IMPENDING PATERNITY TEST”

Pacifica’s face relaxed.

She knew it was cliché, but she knew she had to do it.

She slowly extended her hand.

Just as the giant lichen-covered hand was about to close around hers like a cage of stone fingers, she swung her arm up and behind her head.

“Sike.”

“WHAT?!”

“Too slow!”

“YOU WORM!!!! YOU WORTHLESS WASTE OF STOLEN INCOME!!!! YOU’LL NEVER AMOUNT TO ANYTHING. I SEE A FUTURE WHERE YOU’RE PENNILESS, WORKING AT THE DINER, YOU’LL HAVE NOTHING, YOU-”

The statue shook with rage, sending cracks from its hand all the way up to its shrieking head.

It crumbled apart in front of her, screaming in pain.

GONG!

Pacifica awoke with a start, panting. The clock in the hallway had struck 3 AM. She was covered in sweat. What had she been dreaming about? She couldn’t remember.

She didn’t want to remember.

She wasn’t quite sure why, but she removed a tapestry that she’d always had on her wall. Something her family had no doubt looted ages ago- of a glowing triangle over the mountains. She rolled it up and put it in the closet and locked the padlock. Maybe she should hold onto Dipper’s number just in case. She entered it into her phone and felt an odd sense of calm suddenly wash over her.

It was quiet once again in Northwest Manor.

Pacifica slept better than she had in years.

The end of the story has a hidden message. “STAY AWAY FROM HER CIPHER. SHE HAS THE PROTECTION OF THE LUMBERFOLKS SPIRITS.’

[skankinator]

Complications Ch. 9

Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x Fem Reader

18+ MDNI

Luckily your plane was parked far away from the man you were trying to avoid. The aviators showed some promise during flight training today. None of them won their dog fights, but they still showed promise. After changing out of your flight suit, you head back to your office to make notes about today.

You were trying to read this paragraph for the third time when you heard a knock on your door. You yawn and stretch trying to wake up a little bit. “Come in,” you say and the door creaks open. Bradley walks in wearing a new Hawaiian shirt. You wonder how many he owns.

“Hey,” you smile.

“Hey,” he smiles back. “You ran off earlier.”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Sorry about that. I just wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“Me neither,” he laughs. “So. What do we do now?”

Here it is. The conversation you were avoiding. Will you continue seeing each other or stop the relationship here? You know what you should do, but it’s not what you want to do.

“I don’t know,” you bury your head in your hands. “If we continue and people find out, I could lose my job. Me deciding if you will fly this mission is a clear conflict of interest.”

“You’re not the only one,” Bradley mutters disgruntled.

“What do you mean?,” you perk your head up.

“Hmm?” He had hoped you didn’t hear that.

“Who has a conflict of interest?” You ask happy to change the subject.

He sighs, “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“If there’s an issue with the squadron, I should know about it,” you say letting the captain side of you out.

“It’s not that,” he looks around contemplating what to say next. “It’s Maverick.”

You huff, “I’m not a big fan of the guy either.”

“What did he do to you?” Bradley asks with a hint of worry.

“He wasn’t supposed to be on this mission. I’ve done all the research and paper work and he shows up for the fun part,” you say annoyed. “What is the issue between you two?”

He pauses for a second before explaining their history. He tells you about his dad and how Maverick set back his career. Their relationship is a complicated one.

“I’m so sorry,” you say quietly. “You shouldn’t have had to go through that.”

“What happened happened. But I am worried he will interfere with my placement in the squadron,” he expresses his concern.

“I will make sure that doesn’t happen,” you reassure him with a smile. “But I can’t do that if anyone finds out about us.” Your smile quickly disappeared.

“You know we haven’t actually done anything wrong, right?” He states as a fact. You look at him with a furrowed brow. “I didn’t know you were going to be my captain when we met at the bar. We were just two consenting adults enjoying our Friday night.”

“I guess so. I mean, yes you’re right. I just don’t know if HR will see it the same way,” you bite at the tip of your pen in thought.

“No one has to know,” he says bring your attention back to him. “It was one night. We can just forget it ever happened and everything will be fine.”

You can’t argue with his logic. The only issue is you don’t want to forget. That was the best, most chaotic night you’ve had possibly ever. “We forget it ever happened and only see each other as work friends,” you state the plan. “We can be work friends, right?”

“I don’t see why not,” he confirms. You sit in silence for a minute. “I often have a drink with my work friends after a long week,” Bradley says finding a loophole in your agreement.

You smile, “I’ll see you at the Hard Deck on Friday, Lt. Bradshaw.”