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bradshawssugarbaby · 6 months

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All-American Girl - Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

summary: Bradley's every part the doting dad to your daughter Tatum, but after talking to some of the other wives on base in your mom's group, you're worried he may be hiding his true feelings about fatherhood.

A/N: not me procrastinating and adding to my country music series instead of literally anything else on my list. here's sickeningly sweet bradley as a girl dad fluff based off All-American Girl by Carrie Underwood.

pairing: Bradley Bradshaw x wife!reader

content/warnings: sickeningly sweet fluff, Bradley as a girl dad, mentions of sexism.

word count: 1.4k

Now he's wrapped around her finger, she's the center of his whole world And his heart belongs to that sweet little beautiful, wonderful, perfect all-American girl

Bradley groaned as he jogged up the front steps, his boots heavy against the brick as he walked up the veranda to the front door. An American flag flapped in the breeze, the pole nestled in the stand attached to the pillar on the front of the house, the mid-afternoon sun striking the front yard, basking over the dozens of plants and greenery that were planted there. Bradley kicked his boots off the moment he crossed the entryway, stacking them neatly by the door. He started unzipping his flight suit, his tanned skin slicked with sweat from the training exercises he’d completed earlier that day. He thought about the list of things he wanted to do before he settled in for the night with you - a shower was the first priority at this point.

Peeling the olive green suit off his skin, he discarded it in the laundry hamper in the bathroom. His white t-shirt and boxers followed suit, along with the thick, military issued socks. He’d plan on washing those tonight after dinner. He padded along the hallway to the bathroom, his balls of his feet sticking to the cherry wood flooring. The cool water flowing from the shower head was a refreshing comfort compared to how warm he was earlier, he contemplated asking for a transfer to somewhere colder after today - the hot Pacific coast sun was brutal, and despite having lived in California for a few years now, Bradley hadn’t adjusted. Not that Virginia Beach had been much cooler - at least, not in the summer, but it wasn’t as consistently warm as it was on the west coast.

As Bradley stepped out of the shower, he wrapped a plush, lavender coloured towel around his waist. Shaking his caramel coloured curls dry, he approached the vanity, reaching for the pomade - the same brand he’d been using to tame his hair since he was 14. His mom had taught him that trick - using a styling pomade to keep his curls intact, but less wild than they would be left to their own devices. Part of him wondered if he just never changed brands because it was the one she’d suggested for him, one of the last happy memories of his mother that he had clung to for the last 26 years.

“Bradley? I’m home!” you called out from the bottom of the stairs, having seen Bradley’s vintage Ford Bronco parked in the driveway.

“Upstairs, honey!” He yelled back, his deep voice echoing throughout the empty house.

He quickly pulled on a pair of denim shorts and a fresh, white t-shirt, grabbing his favourite floral print button-down on his way down the stairs. He beamed at you, leaning in to give you a loving peck on the cheek. He knelt down in front of the car seat you’d placed on the floor, smiling softly at his infant daughter as she stretched and yawned, waking up from the nap she’d taken on the car ride home.

“Good mornin’ sunshine! How’s my girl?”

Bradley held his index finger out to baby Tatum, smiling as she gripped it tightly in her hand. He began unbuckling her harness with his free hand as he spoke to her.

“Did you have a fun day with Mama? What did you do, princess? You and your mama go shopping for some new clothes, baby girl?”

Tatum let out a happy sigh as Bradley scooped her up in his arms, holding her close to his chest. He leaned his head down to kiss her forehead, his hand moving up and down her back in soft, slow, gentle strokes as he cuddled his baby. He took a seat on the couch, leaning back slightly so Tatum could recline on his chest. He smiled up at you, waiting patiently for you to start showing off the different outfits you’d purchased for Tatum. He’d always sworn that he’d never be the type of father who’d dismiss things he wasn’t interested in - whether it was baby clothes, or ballet, baby and me classes or going for walks around the neighborhood with her - he’d always try his best to be into it. It’s how his mom described his father - always interested in anything to do with Bradley when he was little.

You delicately sifted through the array of dresses and outfits, each garment infused with your hopes and dreams for little Tatum. With tender affection, you recounted where and when you had acquired each piece, your voice tinged with a blend of excitement and maternal pride. Tatum slumbered peacefully, her soft breaths creating a gentle rhythm against Bradley's shoulder, while you poured your heart into sharing your plans for her future attire.

As the last dress found its place, you sank onto the couch beside Bradley, seeking solace in his comforting presence. Nestling into his side, you felt the warmth of his embrace envelop you, his arm offering both physical and emotional support.

“Are you happy?” you murmured softly, a trace of uncertainty lacing your words as you chewed anxiously at your bottom lip.

A flicker of confusion danced across Bradley's features before he met your gaze with unwavering reassurance.

“Of course I’m happy, why would you ask that?”

“It’s silly,” you sighed, a moment of vulnerability surfacing before you continued, meeting Bradley’s brown-eyed gaze as you spoke, “It’s just that…you know how I took Tatum to that mommy and me group?”

"Mhmm, every Wednesday," Bradley affirmed, his attention fully focused on you.

“Right! That one. Well…one of the moms was saying how she was so thankful her baby was a boy, because her husband wanted a boy really badly and she didn’t want him to be upset if he didn’t get what he wanted…”

Bradley's brow furrowed with concern as he gently kissed Tatum's forehead, a protective gesture that spoke volumes.

“Babe, he sounds like a dick,” Bradley interjected, shaking his head as he gently kissed Tatum’s forehead again.

“I’m not finished yet!” You said as you held your hand up. “So anyways, she said that, and a lot of the other moms started talking and saying how their husbands were disappointed when they had girls or relieved when they had sons, and then they said how lucky I was that you were happy with a girl. The one of them said her husband pretended to be, but then he was totally different and genuinely happy when they had a boy next.”

“And you think I’m doing that?” Bradley queried as he tilted his head to the side, looking at you.

“Well, no, but…would you tell me if you’d wanted a son instead?”

The corner of Bradley's mouth lifted in a soft smile, his gaze softening as he met your eyes. "No," he replied emphatically, shaking his head. “Because I’ve never wanted a son instead of Tatum. Not once.”

“You haven’t?” You said as relief washed over you, Bradley's words washing away any lingering doubts.

“Not for a second. I’ve wanted Tatum from the minute you told me you were pregnant - I never really gave a shit whether she was a boy or a girl. She’s mine and that’s all I care about. It just happened to turn out that she’s the second Bradshaw girl around here to steal my heart, after her mama.”

“Really?”

“Mhmm, you know that song, the one where she says about how her daddy was praying for a boy, but got a girl instead and she was wrapped around his finger? Then she grows up and asks her husband one day what he wants, and he says he just wants a sweet, beautiful All-American girl like his wife?”

“Yeah, I know it,” You laugh softly as Bradley begins to hum the tune of the song, singing it softly as he looks down at Tatum.

“That’s exactly how I felt when you told me you were having a girl. I just wanted a beautiful little baby who looked just like you, and that’s exactly what I got. Now I have two beautiful girls who love me more than anything, and I would move mountains for the pair of you. We could have twelve girls for all I care - I’d love every single one of them just as much as I love you.”

#bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw fic #bradley rooster bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x you #rooster bradshaw fic #rooster bradshaw #top gun maverick imagine #top gun maverick fanfiction

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queen-of-reptiles · 7 months

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𝙳𝙾𝚆𝙽 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙲𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃

description: during kristie's first game at west ham against tottenham no less, her girlfriend is pushing as hard as she can against the wind. so hard she knocks herself out.

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kristie mewis x female reader

disclaimer: this is all just fiction - have fun!

warnings: t*ttenh*m, concussion, mentions of blood and injury, swearing, cute fluff

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y/n just posted on her story

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kmewis19 just posted on her story

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y/n just posted

liked by samanthakerr20, mackenziearnold and 309, 824 others

tagged kmewis19, kyracooneyx, and 8 others

y/n Beginning of Jan dump 😝

view 14, 999 comments

username1: cuteeeee 😭

username2: I love how Kristie is here now!!! 😍

viv_asseyi: We look so good!

y/n: Oh yeah we do!

username3: They sound like the beginning of a joke lmao - An American and an Australian play for West Ham

username4: 🤣🤣

mackenziearnold: LOVE YOUUU 💕

y/n: LOVE YOU MOREEEE 💕

caitlinfoord: I couldn't breathe I was laughing so hard ! 😂

y/n: don't - I giggle when I think about it 😂😂

kyracooneyx: A KNIFE! 😌

y/n: NO! 😶

username5: 😭

kmewis19: My baby <3

y/n: So glad you're finally here !

hawacissoko23: She really is, she wouldn't stop crying without you.

y/n: bro... 😔

westhamwomen: JUST SOLD MY CAR

y/n: TO LUCAS PAQUETA

lucaspaqueta: 💙💙

username6: 🤣

samanthakerr20: 💕💕

y/n: 💕💕

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y/n and Kristie had met years ago, by complete chance. They had never played against each other, but while y/n was on holiday in America happened to run into each other and the rest was history.

Long time phone calls and late night face times became a regular thing for them as they navigated their relationship with a bright smile on their faces.

However, ever since Kristie's big move to y/n's team of six years, the couple had been hardly spotted apart. Not that anyone could blame the two lovers.

They were simply making up for lost time, and months spent without one another by their side. Therefore, they were attached all the time, some part of their bodies always touching.

The west ham girls found it almost hilarious, y/n had come to earn the nickname of the Aussie Storm, from how dangerous she was on the wing, how formidable she was as a player.

Yet, the second Kristie was in her eyeline the once fierce storm turned into a sunny day, the woman's attitude and scary demeanour 180' ing completely.

Currently, the group were stood around Rehanne, listening to her pep talk for the game ahead, the wind was incredibly wild and y/n was grateful that her girlfriend had helped her pin her braids stiffly in place.

The group were huddled in the changing room, Kristie in front of y/n, her back pressed against y/n's chest as the taller woman ran her arms up and down Kristie's sides soothingly.

The wind howled as the group cheered, Kristie pecking her lover's lips in good luck as they ran out onto the pitch. Kristie was on the bench for the start of the game and watched as the game got underway.

It was clear very early into the game, that today's battle was not just a London Derby, but also a derby against the earth's elements. The storm filled wind pushing even the lowest passes off course.

Kristie watched as her girlfriend stood strong, battling with Grace Clinton for the umpteenth time in the first twenty minutes, the blonde Tottenham player being dispossessed by y/n.

By half time, even in the cold wind and even colder air, West Ham managed to be 2-0 up. y/n had hardly stopped, and even in the cold she was covered with sweat.

Kristie moved over to her as she panted, handed her a water bottle as they listened to Rehanne's critics for the second half, before they finally had a moment to breathe.

y/n felt light, as if she wasn't fully in focus with what was going on around her. y/n ignored it, instead taking small sips of her water as Katrina sat next to her, the two national teammates clasping hands.

"You're doing so well babe. Never seen you like this." Kristie says softly after Katrina gets up.

"Ah well." y/n says panting. "London Derby baby." She tells Kristie who grins, pecking her lips as they are called back out. y/n groans but stands up, crouching to get Kristie on her back who chuckles.

"Weee." Kristie says as y/n runs down the corridor and onto the pitch, the two holding their arms out like aeroplanes.

One of their social media crew runs at them camera in hand as they get closer, Vivi in front of them pretending to roll her eyes in annoyance as she shakes her head at the camera.

"Children." Vivi jokes at the camera as y/n races close to the lens.

"Come on you irons!" She grins, laughing as Kristie kisses the lens as she jogs off, putting her down as they warm up.

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twitter/X

username1: Kristie and y/n! I'm crying they're so cute! 😭😭

username2: Vivi pretending to be annoyed at them! The little 'come on you irons', Kristie's kiss. UGH CUTE. 🥺🥺🥺🥺

username3: WE LOVE THE WEST HAM ADMIN SM

username4: It is SOOO clear how much happier y/n is with Kristie here and I am SO happy for her ! 🥺

username5: YESSSSS

username6: I love y/n and Kristie sm 😭

BarclaysWSL: We NEED a relationship like West Ham's Kristie and y/n NOW PLEASE 💳💳

username7: 💕💕

see more comments...

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Kristie had made her debut on the 63rd minute, the blonde pushing against the wind as best she could as she tried her best to hold the ball as she went for a corner kick.

y/n watched proudly as Kristie tried to stop the ball from rolling away with little success, her jaw twitching from it's clenched position which she always did when aggravated.

West Ham were 2-1 up, Tottenham having snuck a goal past them ten minutes ago, in which y/n ended up rolling against the floor making her wince, but stood up quick enough to not be brought off, she just ignored the dizziness she felt.

Kristie kicked the ball finally, the wind pushing it around the air and almost into the net where Becky Spencer managed to bat it away, straight at y/n who pushed forward, trying to beat the wind.

y/n stuck her leg out, hoping to catch the ball and swoop it into the back of the next. Charli Grant, of Tottenham had the same idea but to defend.

y/n pushed her leg, swopping the ball past Becky and into the net, however her leg catches Charli's and with the speed y/n was running at, the girl falls and her head pushes against the goal post.

Kristie - who had ran toward the box in excitement - paused as she saw y/n's body fall lifeless to the ground, blood dripping down on face and onto her kit below as Charli held her national teammates head, crying in fear.

"Medics!" Kristie shouts, racing to her girlfriend, stripping Kristie's shirt off herself, leaving her in her sports bra.

Kristie's hands were shaking as Katrina hugged Charli, trying to calm her crying as Mackenzie held the other side of y/n, whispering begging words for her to wake up as the medics arrived.

Kristie could feel herself being pulled away but she tried to shake her head, tears shrouding her vision as Mackenzie finally got her away, her shirt being left against y/n's head, now dripping with blood.

The stadium was silent as the group crowded around y/n's body, the blood now stopping with the medics working hard and whispering to each other.

Kristie was in Mackenzie's arms, crying into her shoulder as she tried to keep herself calm, Hawa and Vivi were gripping each other tightly, Bethany England by their side as they all paled in worry.

Charli was slowly stopping her tears, staying clung to Katrina who was calming her down with soothing words as they watched y/n be stretchered off.

"Can you continue?" Mackenzie asked Kristie kindly, understanding if she would rather be with her lover.

"She'd want me too." Kristie nods, taking a wipe to scrub the blood off her hands as they went into a five minute water break.

Kristie pulled on her top, listening to Rehanne's talk about how they now played the rest of this game for y/n and the second she knew anything she would let them know.

The game continued, but it was clear everyone was shaken up, passes had become sloppy and shots were off completely, even the crowd was hardly paying attention.

During the 80th minute, Grace Clinton scored, narrowing the gap to 3-2 to West Ham, but no one celebrated, and then Kristie shot her corner on the 88th. The ball flying in due to the wind. No one celebrated.

The ref called the game at 98 minutes, no one complaining about the few minutes shaved off as the West Ham team tore down the tunnel and to the medics room.

The medics explained y/n had already been taken to hospital, the injury not looking past a major concussion and some blood loss, which had been hopefully rectified now they had stitched her up.

Kristie's hands were still stained red and shaking as she sighed out in relief, Charli burst into tears again, having followed the West Ham team.

Kristie's next hour of taking photos and showering was blurry as she drove to the hospital, finding the look of it so different to her home country as she walked into y/n's room, the girl sat up somewhat and wired up.

"Hey my love." y/n smiled weakly, her skin pale and sweaty as Kristie blinked away tears.

"I can't believe you're okay." Kristie sighed out in relief. "I was so worried." She adds and y/n nods, as she shuffles over, letting Kristie slide off her trainers and slide into the bed with her.

"Welcome to London love." y/n chuckled and Kristie sighs out. "It's a rough concussion, but no lasting damage, need to get the stitched taken out in a week, and then ease back into training over the next few weeks." y/n tells her.

"Looks like I'm gonna be playing nurse." Kristie sighs, pressing a relieved kiss to y/n's head.

"Hmm. Only if you wear the outfit we bought at Christmas." y/n jokes and Kristie snorts.

"Dude, gross!" Mackenzie says as she leans against the door way. "Entire teams are here, Spurs girlies too. You feel up to visitors?" Mackenzie asked her.

"Yeah, alright." y/n nods. "We won yeah?" She then asks and Mackenzie chuckles.

"Yeah, your mrs scored a goal." Mackenzie says and y/n grins.

"Had to do it while I wasn't there, huh?" y/n asks Kristie who chuckles and pecks her lips carefully.

"Well, I guess I will have to score one next week." Kristie says and y/n smiles.

"Okay my love." y/n smiles before the rest of the teams trudge in.

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kmewis19 just posted on her story

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y/n just posted on her story

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END

my cutie girl <3

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greetings-fiends · 29 days

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[Edit: meant to post this to the campaign's dedicated blog @khawla-gfm you can follow along with this campaign more there]

Khawla's Family Campaign Update: 11

We got 1 donation early today but none so far after that! no new donations in 14 hours!

Help me reach the short term goal of $1,000 [or more] before the end of this week. the campaign was officially live on August 13th and and it's been 12 days and only 11 donations to it's name.

please if you're reading this, donating even just $5 or $10 can mean the world to me, and Khawla's Family.

Please. help me share a little bit of hope?

[tag list under the cut]

if you want to be taken off the tag list just let me know 👍

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whencyclopedia · 5 months

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Sitting Bull

Sitting Bull (Tatanka Iyotanka, l. c. 1837-1890) was a Hunkpapa Sioux holy man, warrior, leader, and symbol of traditional Sioux values and resistance to the United States' expansionist policies. He is among the best-known Native American chiefs of the 19th century and remains as famous today as he was when he led his people.

He is widely known for his part in the Battle of the Little Bighorn in June 1876 and his later celebrity as a performer in Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show, but, for the Sioux, Sitting Bull is celebrated as the embodiment of the four cardinal virtues of his people: courage, fortitude, generosity, and wisdom. He is also recognized for his refusal to abandon the traditions of his people and his efforts to preserve their culture. Although famous as a holy man, prophet, war chief, and hunter, Sitting Bull was also a poet and composer, as well-known among his people for his rapport with wild animals and herbal knowledge as for his leadership.

He was killed while resisting arrest at the Standing Rock Agency Reservation in South Dakota on 15 December 1890 and was buried at Fort Yates in North Dakota. His remains were exhumed by family members in the 1950s and interred at Mobridge, South Dakota, near where he was thought to have been born. Debate continues over whether these remains are those of Sitting Bull, and historians also offer differing views on his legacy. His reputation as a great leader of his people, however, is unchallenged as he continues to be recognized as a symbol of Native American pride, honor, and traditional values, as well as for his stand against injustice.

Youth & Name

Little is known of Sitting Bull's life before the age of 14. His date of birth, given as 1831, 1832, 1834, or 1837, is debated, as was his birthplace until fairly recently. He is now understood to have been born on the Yellowstone River (known to the Sioux as Elk River) in modern-day Montana and was named Jumping Badger (Hoka Psice). He quickly earned the nickname Slow (Hunkesni), owing, according to scholar Robert. M. Utley, to "his willful and deliberate ways" (6). His father was Chief Sitting Bull of the Hunkpapa Sioux, and his mother was Her-Holy-Door from a respectable Hunkpapa family. He had two sisters and a half-brother but would later adopt others as his brothers, and these are sometimes mistakenly referenced as biological siblings.

Chief Sitting Bull taught his son to ride, hunt, and shoot expertly before the boy was ten years old. Young Slow was an excellent shot with bow and arrow and became so closely associated with horses that his peers joked how he even walked as though he were on horseback. When he was 14, he joined a war party against the Crow and "counted coup" against a Crow warrior, knocking him from his horse where he was then killed by another of the party. For this act of courage – defeating an enemy without killing him – Chief Sitting Bull gave his name to his son and assumed the name Jumping Bull. "Sitting Bull" – Tatanka Iyotanka (literally "Buffalo Who Sits Down") – fit the youth's personality as, "according to fellow tribesmen, suggested an animal possessed of great endurance, his build much admired by the people, and when brought to bay, planted immovably on his haunches to fight on to the death" (Utley, 15).

Later acquaintances and writers would claim the name was given him due to his stubbornness or, according to Sioux writer and physician Charles A. Eastman, that he was given the name after forcing a buffalo calf to sit down. The name was actually given in accordance with the tradition whereby a father passed his own name to his son when the boy was recognized as attaining manhood.

Between the ages of 14 and 20, Sitting Bull led his own war parties, and his name became famous among his enemies as a formidable warrior. Utley describes him at around the age of 20:

A heavy, muscular frame, a big chest, and a large head, he impressed people as short and stocky, although he stood only two inches under six feet. His dark hair, often braided on one side with otter fur and allowed to hang loose on the other, reached his shoulders. A severe part over the center of the scalp glistened with a heavy streak of crimson paint. A low forehead surmounted piercing eyes, a flat nose, and thin lips. Although dexterous afoot and superbly agile mounted, he appeared to some as awkward and even clumsy. (19-20)

Around 1857, in a clash with an Assiniboine band, Sitting Bull spared a 13-year-old boy whom he later adopted as a younger brother. When Sitting Bull's father was killed in battle with the Crow in 1859, the boy took the name Jumping Bull and would remain by Sitting Bull's side for the rest of his life.

#History #SittingBull #Sioux

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penciled-palominos · 1 year

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Hello Horseblr!! It's your resident horse girl once again! Today I come with a gift!

MY OWN HORSE-TOBER PROMPT LIST!!! I've never seen one of these done before but I thought hey! Why not make my own!! Sorry, it's so close to october when I'm posting this for the first time, I meant to make this like a week ago but I forgor

I actually made 3 different versions, just for fun, all technically have the same words but they're split differently, we have all 31 days of October in the first list, then only the odd days, and only the even days, just for people who may choose to only do it bi-daily :))

PLEASE FEEL FREE TO TAG ME IN ANYTHING YOU MAKE WITH THIS LIST IF YOU SO CHOOSE TO USE IT!!

Feel free to also do any days you feel like and don't feel pressured to do all of em or even do to em on the day they're meant for! Just have fun!!

[Image ID: Above is pictured 3 peices of paper reading at the top in bigger lettering "Horse-Tober 2023" [a mix of the word horse and october] Below that is each day of October numbered out 1-31 followed by a prompt placed to the right of the number, they read as follows:

1. Desert

2. Food

3. Pinto

4. With other animals

5. Mythical

6. Fandom

7. Draft Horse

8. Party

9. Donkey

10. Pottery

11. Spirit

12. Ocean

13. Meadow

14. Games

15. Relaxation

16. Old West

17. Plushie

18. Skeleton

19. Painting

20. Foal

21. Flowers

22. Vintage

23. Buttons

24. Wild

25. Fear

26. Technology

27. Racing

28. Fairy

29. Costume

30. Pumpkin

31. Kelpie

The other two photos read off the exact same header of the page "Horse-Tober 2023" but each only has either the even or odd numbers of the 31 day list End ID ]

This is my first time attempting to add like an ID to a post, so I really hope I did it well?? If there's something to fix, please let me know

#Horse-Tober 2023 #< oh also use this tag maybe #thatd be pretty cool if you wanna #but i hope yall have fun if you choose to do any of these and please tag me i will be going feral if i see even a single drawing #id #horseblr

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christeli4 · 9 days

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TMNTtember DAY 14 - Favorite couple

I would say that Ramona is my favorite couple in the series, but I think the other one that deserves attention is Mikey and Renet!

I've never reblogged or talked about them (than Apritello lol), but I think people got upset because after Mikey said he wouldn't think about girls, he falls in love with her right after she appears.

But actually, after seeing their development, I think they were able to establish a relationship because they are so freaking similar and cute together (while Donnie and Leo can't handle girls, because they sucker lol).

And yes, this is the same reminder that Donnie told Mikey that he kissed Renet in the wild west ;) (wanted: Bebop and Rocksteady)

#tmnt 2012 #tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnttember2024 #tmnt2012artchallenge #12yearsoftmnt2012 #tmnt michelangelo #tmnt renet #renet tilley #renetangelo

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skeelly · 9 months

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"when im fat and old and my kids think im a joke"

"who cares if im pretty if i fail my finals??"

"who's your daddy?" (IYKYK ;))

"im tired and it's winter"

"i wish i could block me out"

"wanna die"

hi!! welcome. i suggest putting a seatbelt on and i will pay for your therapy, dont worry. :)

☘ "hi, it's me. im the problem it's me.": im kristen! you can call me kristen or kris. minor (im 14 if you really wanna know). she/her. intp-t. ambivert. 🇵🇭. reader (sort of). notes app writer (sometimes). i could not care less about my dumb typos so deal with it. i suck at math. biiiiiggg ophelia wilde fan. delulu swiftie no.9273737277. rodrigoxpartidge's biggest supporter. claire rosinkranz is the reason for my existence. gracie abrams ily. "how long can we be a sad song?". im married to grayson hawthorne. mirrorball//tolerate it girlie 4 life. stromboli fan until the day i die. nick girlie by heart. pjo stan at this point. harry potter simp. hermione granger is my mother. sherlock and enola holmes stan. "no body, no crime". haylor (sorry not sorry). one direction is my life. FREE PALESTINE. kenji, my spirit animal. jude is so ughhhhh perfect. javery shipper cause jameson for avery, grayson for me :3. massive k!nye west hater so if you like him, please leave. but i love rap. certified professional procrastinator. capricorn (not a believer in those things though). i love reading poetry. correct grammar = non existent. i can (technically) fluently speak 3 languages. i can speak (basic, not much) about 5 languages?. piano enthusiast. very big sport girly (football *soccer. america football can kiss my toes. that sport sucks*, f1, volleyball, badminton, basketball, tennis and hockey fan). walker scobell is perfect and i love him. c²>>>>. sharl leclerc. max the axe. oscar paistry. ankara messi. sewy. leah is my bestie. dior is the best artist no cap. pookie nation frfr. charlie's luke is best luke. andrew is underrated. olivea is jusssttt.

☘ rappers i like//listen to: eminem, lil skies, ysbtril (does he count?), nicki minaj, doja cat (:3), cardi b (rarely), dominic fike (does he count? yk, melodic rap). tbh idk who else lol.

☘ all around favorite artists: taylor swift, olivia rodrigo, claire rosinkranz, gracie abrams, the weeknd, doja cat, lil skies, ysbtril, selena gomez (?), harry styles, niall horan, louis tomlinson, zayn, liam payne, one direction, clairo, conan gray, lana del rey, one republic, why don't we, the neighborhood, billie elish, ariana grande, abba, michael jackson.

☘ navigation?:

rambles: #kristenstedtalk

anything i don't proof read: #i didn't proof read this lmao

grayson hawthorne: #loml

cringe posts that idk why i posted: #/j or #post to delete?

asks: #askaroo or #ty for answering <3

sturniolo triplets: #stombolis

☘ follower count (as of march 20): 313 (im actually not sure lol)

☘ DNI: racists, homophobes, sexists and anyone that's ok with any form of discrimination

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼ 　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼ 　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

☘ safe space for: everyone lol

☘ my other accounts: @crysten my writing and other stuff @skeellymellows book rants (AAAH I CANT TAG)

☘ books/movies/series: harry potter, pjo, aggtm, tig, sherlock/enola holmes, little women, black beauty, tsitp, better than the movies. hp, pjo, enola holmes, tsitp, gilmore girls, gossip girl, mean girls, legally blonde, little women, hunger games (haven't read the books), marvel (barely lol), secretariat (my favorite :>>). tbh idk what else lol

☘ my people:

@stvrgirl111//@stvrlighhttt (mare) #maree

@urbanflorals (em) #walkers wife

@gergthecat (scouty) #evil batman sourdough guy #bread man #george

@mqstermindswift (quason) #nickyy

@nqds (NADS) #nads! or was it #NADS! ??

@reminiscentreader (JAS) #theworldneedsmorepeoplelikejas

@sophiesonlinediary (fifi) #fifi <3

@myster3y (kiaraah) #kiaraah

@regisdvmb(reggggg) ✶ @coco6420 (cocoo) ✶ @eddiethebanished (finn :)) ✶ @themidnightarcher ✶ @starchasers-stuff ✶ @what-about-wendy (wendy <3) ✶ @lucinda-008 ✶ @foaming-sea ✶ @lonelycatsblog ✶ @good-old-fashioned-lover ✶ @my-mind-is-frozen ✶ @dandelions-fly-in-summer-skies ✶ @baboland ✶ @blocked-zombieartist ✶ @sturn-wrld ✶ @swiftieannah ✶ @weeping-in-the-willows ✶ @s1xseasonsandamov1e ✶ @the-red-archer ✶ @svnflowermoon ✶ @helpimhopelesslyinlove ✶ @doyoujustnotwantto ✶ @atwtmvftvtvsgavralpsss ✶ @oh-whale13 ✶ @bonesofnixie ✶ @art-of-fools (stephanieee) ✶ @percabeths-blue-cookies ✶ @imthatweirdratinthecorner (a rat <3) ✶ @letmeseeallthefrogsinthecity ✶ @that-multi-fandom-hijabi (novaaa) ✶ @rachellelizabethhdare ✶ @sluttypoetsdepartment ✶ @kimu-dem ✶

#kristenstedtalk #intro post #re-done

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oonajaeadira · 10 months

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For the Love of Fic: December 9

I'm doing my best to get through my massive reading list by the end of the year, so buckle up, fam, you're about to get served a buffet of fic. There's so many tasty morsels here, even Mama Flores has to appreciate this feast.

🪐 = Year of Themed Creation Fics!

FRANKIE MORALES

Sheer Desire by @the-blind-assassin-12 Okay so imagine you're Frankie's +1 to a Millerboy wedding. And there's dancing and yearning and flirting involved. And the knowledge that after the reception, you're going to have him all to yourself. Now add in black thigh-high nylons. And the desire to see them in his hands. And his desire to have those lacy tops pressed against his ears.... IT'S HOT LIKE FIRE. DID YOU THINK IT WOULD NOT BE. GO GET IT.

2023 Summer Kiss Prompt #2: Frankie Morales - Kiss in the Hammock by @something-tofightfor I mean, who doesn't want to be cuddled up in a hammock with Frankie? Who doesn't want those soft curls and soft lips and warm arms all pressed up against you?

2023 Summer Kiss Prompt #12: Frankie Morales - Kiss in the Dark / Break Up Kiss by @something-tofightfor A little angst and a lot of love are on display here. Frankie's here to show his responsible and protective side, and while there's plenty of hurt, he does it oh so softly and I'm just glad we are left with hope.

2023 Summer Kiss Prompt #14: Frankie Morales - “I miss you” Kiss / Angry Kiss by @something-tofightfor So remember that hope I just mentioned up there? Same pairing here, and the hope pays off. It's not without some real talk, but perhaps that's what makes the love even more deliciously sincere.

The day Frankie both loves and loathes the kitchen counter by @undercoverpena This is such a wonderful domestic Frankie POV piece. The way he wants to be better for reader, to provide more, to keep promises...the way he adores everything about her, including how she loves to bundle up in his clothes... Getting a peek inside a man who is sweet and loving and seeing the motivations there is such a treat. I really got swept up in this one.

MARCUS PIKE

The Thing About Second Chances by @artemiseamoon 🪐 This is exquisite. The pain of walking away really hurt. But then, when they met again it is so masterfully done...there are all these little impulses of his, wanting to do everything for her that could easily be overbearing except that he's just so damn loveable and it's hard to watch two people who clearly live each other be denied. I'm not sure he can really change all that much, but I am really pulling for them. Sometimes a little time apart can really drive home how much you can miss someone. Beautiful.

The Moon in May - Full Moon by @hopeamarsu Alpha Marcus. and. sitting on lap. purring and. teasing and soft and spreading you open but requiring go slow. is a tasty treat. brain mush. purring chest at my back. yes please.

JOEL MILLER

Something Wild and Unruly by @ezrasbirdie Okay, remember when I said that there was a fic that was so beautiful it made me want to quit writing? This is it, and I mean that as a high compliment. Like, I finished it and just put my head in my hands and stared out the window with a big smile on my face. It's outlaw!Joel and old west sex worker!reader with a heart of gold and a good attitude about what she does. It's got so so so much feels and yearning and softness and bathing and the ending is beautiful and full of hope...this fic is up all of my alleys and making all of my jams and is my entire life mood. It is my new official Fave Birdie Fic™️ and I need to sing that to the world.

Small Joys: Wheelbug by @keldabe-kriff 🪐 The whole point of Lyr's Small Joys series is just that--joys. So it seems antithetical for Ellie to have found a bug that's big and bitey and for Joel to freak out about and try to bat it away. But the joy part of it comes from reader's reaction--to the wonder at finding a wheelbug in nature where it wasn't expected--and Ellie's, who of course will always find wonder in something new. Simple and beautifully done.

Small Joys: Leaf Pile by @keldabe-kriff 🪐 Yes, the joy here is jumping in a leaf pile, but the joy I got from it was being able to hear Joel and Ellie perfectly in this. I also love the process Ellie gets to have in collecting the leaves and talking to a neighbor. It's really delightful.

The Sun Will Shine Again by @foli-vora I can't imagine dealing with crippling depression during the years after the outbreak, how hard and crippling it would be. And yet, I think I'd be able to manage if Joel was on my side, telling me he'd carry me as long as he could just to make sure I made it through. This is just such a beautiful piece. I want to curl up in it like a blanket.

Tangled Triumphs by @planet-marz1 I think my blood sugar levels hit an all-time high with this one and I ascended into the heavens. Joel learns to do Sarah's hair and it's so sweet and precious and I love them. Please read this. I need other people to share my squeals.

JACK DANIELS

Cast Iron Sunshine part 1: Think I'll Call You Sunshine and part 2: Daisy by @blueeyesatnight Color me intrigued. We got ourselves a cocky cowboy in the wild west and a female doctor reader with some determination, sass, and willingness to sport a revolver, and I want more of that push and pull I'm sure is coming. The first meeting is just enough tingle to rub my hands together with glee. HE'S SUCH A SHIT. But then comes Daisy and she's here to lay some hearts open...

What Happens in Vegas.., ...Never Really Ends in Vegas, and Forever by @wildemaven A beautiful drabble trio that encompasses the realization that you've accidentally-in-Vegas married Jack, trying to quit him, and being unable to do so. Do yourself a favor, don't think about it too hard, and give into your cowboy.

Remember Me by @toomanystoriessolittletime This twisted my little heart and melted me in so many ways. When Jack is brought back and can't remember his girlfriend? Can I just cry a river? No worries though, the ending's a happy, hopeful one.

DIETER BRAVO

Thought That I Was Dreaming by @haylzcyon Salty, spicy, and sweet all at once...this may just be my dream Dieter smut. I very much love a "did he really say???" but then the reason for her not asking was perfect. How does Haylz make the very filthiest filth the sweetest sweet?

Sleazy Santa by @morallyinept This what happens when Dieter's not an actor, just a tremendous sleezebag working as a mall Santa (he's respectful to the kids) and you can't stop wanting that scummy D and go bang dirty in the Grotto. There's candy cane action. It's real nasty. And written like a fkn gourmet meal. The sweatier Jett writes this slimeball, the more I want. I don't know how. It's like Christmas magic. Delicious.

Crawling Back to You by @prolix-yuy This fic is a feast and all of my favorite dishes are on the table. Monsterfkn. Demons. Blasphemy. Sexy contracts. Dieter being a menace. And softness????? This is smut and it is hot hot hot, but there's enough here that's sweetness and fondness that it's going straight to my forever faves list. HE RUINS HER SO NICELY. UGH!

Rendezvous in Reno by @theywhowriteandknowthings A Dieter with small-dick insecurities? Please and thank you, this is super cute. I'd love to get called out for describing his junk wrong in my fics and get a personal correction.

It's Never Over by @pennyserenade We don't get enough exes-to-friends fic around here, and this one is really nice. As much as I hope for them to connect again, I respect their love for each other and their need to just let themselves be special to each other. There were moments here that were bittersweet, but I really loved that about it.

DIN DJARIN

Birfday--Din by @writeforfandoms Listen. Is it so wrong that I want to cook a nice breakyfast to show Din how much he's loved? Is that too much to ask? Thanks, Jen, for something soft and sweet.

Then We'll Find Out Together by @missredherring A lovely little drabble about settling down in a new home with Din, getting used to the slowness and softness and niceness of everything. And when reader can't sleep, the one thing that's familiar--Din himself--is what calms her down. A lovely little drabble that I would like to live in.

Bounty and Hunter by @never--doubt 🪐 A soulmate fic wherein soulmates can't hurt each other. How interesting then that one of you is being hunted...and makes quite a game out of it?

Significant by @softlyspector He's been calling you riduur for months and you still don't know what it means. Once you find out, that's when the fireworks start. I don't know that I've read dialogue for Din and his sweetheart that affected me the way the last two lines of this fic did...... *swoons*

PERO TOVAR

Watercolor by @iamskyereads I mean, give a sellsword a bath and you may be in for trouble. But not this man. This man just needs a little care, and while he may not say much, he make good on all kindnesses. I would do anything to give this man a bath and have him speak kindly to me.

Date or Inseminate by @sirowsky Now listen. You're gonna have to read the warnings on this, because I for one get really squicked by dub-con mixed with medical malpractice. I didn't read the warnings and it came out of nowhere....but I'm telling you my eyebrows shot up and then I just giggled through the whole thing like WHAT IS HAPPENING. Sometimes fic is just there to be fun and slap you silly. IRL? No please. But this? Go in with the right mood and it's just strangely and shockingly delightful smut.

JAVI GUTIERREZ

Formula 101: December to Remember Part 2: Take What Comes by @littlemisspascal There's a lot to love about Rae's F1 media fic. Even outside of the easter eggs in the worldbuilding and the lovely way Javi and Oddball's relationship develops, there are the delightful media interludes--emails, texts, instagram posts complete with character comments--that use pictures and dialogue to move the plot along in a unique way. I love how a short text chain not only sets up a later story locale, but illustrates a history and relationship between two characters so fluidly. Every chapter is a delight to see how the media enhances the storyline...a storyline that is moving in a very interesting direction...

SPECIAL GUEST CORNER

BO KATAN KRYZE

Hiding Away from the Galaxy by @ghostofskywalker 🪐 I love a good reunion story. Here, you're an ex-Jedi who has a past with Bo and come to find her when all the wars are done. I'd agree that it's worth the wait when she takes you in her arms....

MARC SPECTOR

My Knight in White by @flightlessangelwings 🪐 Jey's been doing a year of protectiveness, and you know I don't mind that AT ALL. I would love nothing more than to have Marc follow me home and protect me. And then, yeah, if he let me follow him home...and into his bedroom....I wouldn't complain..... *swoon*

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red-dead-tastic · 1 month

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I finally got a donkey in rdr2.

It'd mods of course. Because the donkey in the rdr2 vanilla game is unable to be saved and kept in a stable and is more for laughs and giggles

His name is Rowan.

I decided to equipped him with gear similar to the photo from the mod page since it fit my preferences.

He sadly doesn't make donkey noises in the stable like the mod page says he would 😞 so he still makes horse noises sadly.

Donkeys and mules helped shape the wild west! I'm even surprised quarter horses aren't in rdr2, as they are in rdr1, as that was also a animal that helped make the wild west as it is today.

Here's the mod page to download if you're interested. I also used why em's dlc also for his rump cargo and the fancy saddle that can only be found online otherwise.

Thank you, SunOfLordran, for this mod on Nexus mods!

This is for week 3 of @yeehawgust : Bucking Bronco; 14: Packing Heat

I chose packing heat because donkeys were usually used in the desert. Mine was anyway. And he's a pack animal. People would use these animals for bringing along important supplies into the mountains or desert areas for mining, for example. Wild burros were used during the gold rush and were left abandoned. Eventually, they grew wild and found a way to thrive on the tough, unforgiving terrain in the American wild west.

Where they still roam to this day!

#yeehawgust #rdr2 horses #rdr2 #red dead fandom #red dead redemption two #red dead 2 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 community #rdr2 photography #red dead redemption community #rdr2 virtual photography #virtual photography #rdr2 fandom

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eris-snow · 2 months

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𝐑𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Tags: Revelation (Deku's birthday series 2024), izuku x fem!reader, revelation, stabbing, blood, angst, no fluff, sorry, pain, this is late, ft bakugou and ochaco,

Masterlist

15th July: Doomsday.

Class starts off normal. Yeah, that’s it. Cool, normal, totally not like your childhood best friend is burning holes into you like you were going to get slammed by a semi-truck at any minute.

Izuku’s eyes are pools of crystal lakes. Like Narcissus looking into his own reflection, Izuku’s eyes compelled you to look his way. Maybe it was sorcery or witchcraft—his eyes seem to sparkle, and they’re mesmerising beyond any precious jewel.

I get it. It’s your birthday. Doomsday.

And maybe, you were just the slightest bit peeved at his actions. All through yesterday, he’d been avoiding you like a plague. Wouldn’t talk to you, speak to you, hell, he wouldn’t even look at you. Then all of a sudden, he decides that he wants to shower you with his gaze and attention, or peer at you with those fucking eyes like he hadn’t been avoiding you these past few days.

You thought you knew dense, but this? Izuku was a fucking mineshaft.

Just as you’re about to address his intense gaze during homeroom, Aizawa calls you out for the second time in the span of one week. You pretend you don’t feel all eyes on you as you exit the classroom. There’s a certain aloofness you can never mirror from Kacchan. There isn’t the “I’d die for you in a heartbeat” mentality ingrained in your bones just like how it is for Izuku. You wish to emulate both of them, for a trait special to your personal, but when you stop to think about it, you draw a blank.

Ugly, ugly, plain and boring, you remind yourself, as you step out the classroom to meet Aizawa. You’re getting called out so often because you can’t even act fine correctly.

There’s a hand in your face before you know your mouth is open. “My turn first,” Aizawa says, dead serious. “You aren’t in trouble, and this isn’t about Midoriya.”

Your mouth clangs shut, and your throat constricts. What else would he want to talk about?

“An opportunity has been presented to you,” Aizawa says, trailing off a little. “By Star’s former agency in America.”

The world tilts sideways, and you actually stumble to keep yourself on your feet because of the floor’s disequilibrium. “W-What…?”

“One of them wants you there as a sidekick.”

America?

That’s more than, what, 6000 miles to the great wild West. The land where dreams came true (supposedly).

“Ever since you aided Stars and Stripes in her last battle, the agency’s been keeping an eye on you. There’s an interview, and paperwork, and a contract but I suspect those are simply formalities.” Aizawa says nonchalantly, but you can see the pride in his eyes. The pride of a teacher, when his student has soared high. That battle was intense, but it was ashes compared to Izuku’s heart-moving victory that had saved the world.

“B-B-But…” You stutter, “I-I don’t think I’m the best candidate! Won’t they want one from the Big Three? Did they get the wrong person? Ask them to double-check because I don’t think—”

Aizawa gives you an unnerving stare, and his words that come out flat. “Kid, they phoned me 14 times. Pretty sure they got the right person.”

Hesitation lines your face, as Aizawa pats your shoulder. “More details will be given should you accept. They want you from next year onwards, which I am willing to compromise for as long as you have fixed times with you to revise the necessary topics. You, Bakugou and Midoriya have finished most of the syllabus, correct? Should you feel necessary, I possess revision materials and suitable dates should you want to take the final exam earlier.”

It’s a beautiful opportunity. A ‘I-found-a-golden-ticket-in-my-chocolate’ kind of opportunity. It was so tempting to take.

But…

You were just 17. A teenager that won the lottery, who now had to deal with consequences. What about family, housing, language, oh God, your English was so bad you would die before they asked you ‘dine in or take out?’ And besides…

Aizawa sees the look on your face, and sighs loudly. How many times are you going to stupidly throw your life away for Izuku?

You can’t keep doing this, but clinging to Izuku and this ever burning love you have for him is all you ever know. Running of to America? You don’t think you could comprehend the distance across oceans paired with the distance of time. Aizawa stares at you and shakes his head in disappointment. “Give it a thought. It’s okay to be selfish sometimes, L/n. Don’t let anyone hold you back from chasing your dream.”

You swallow thickly. It’s all you’ve ever wanted, someone wants you, and you’re being called to help other people, be a real heroe and drop the ‘in-training’, to fight crime and kick as in a country with crime rates so high they could rival the Empire State Building.

You’re a terrible mess, and when you think about it more, the more miserable you get.

It’s my dream to be a hero, but what if my dream is you too?

—

“We need to talk,” Izuku’s voice is gentle, but it’s plush pillows wrapped up in caution tape. Assessing him doesn’t take too long, because by the way he grips your wrist as your foot is halfway out the door, he wants to tell you something, and it’s urgent.

Shrugging his hand off, you fold your arms and project aloofness, although it’s not very convincing. You feel your lips threaten to break into a false smile, and mentally slap yourself when it almost flits across your face. Izuku had caught up to you on that ever since his fragmented memories started returning, so you’d tried to stop.

Bad habits and sticky fingers.

“What is it?” You try to soften the edge of your voice like sandpaper, but you still see the way he flinches at your voice. Patrol is in half an hour, and if you don’t book it, you’ll be late. “Oh, and if this is about your birthday party and how you don’t want it, too bad, Mina already bought silly string and Sato bought ingredients for the cake, so you can’t—”

“It’s not, about my birthday.” He insists, shoving the topic aside. A hand runs through his curls, as if trying to soothe his nerves, but you can see the way he has to forcefully drop his hands to the side and avert his gaze. His outer shell had slowly crumbled off the longer he was around you, little fragments chipped off until gone is Hero Deku, and underneath is a more human Izuku, with nervous habits and mistakes.

“Look, I’m sorry I haven’t been…around.” He says, trying to phrase it nicely. It does him no favours. “There were a couple of things I had to figure out and rearrange in my head, it’s just—”

He looks desperate, and you’re feeling bad. Emerald green washes over your eyes, mirroring the calm of a forest even though he’s nothing but.

“I’ve gotten hold of how the Quirk Accident happened, and-and a way to lift the Quirk, but…” He swallows thickly, before his eyebrows furrow. “Are you even listening to me?”

Your eyes had strayed to a clock, thoughts wandering, but you jerked back to reality when a scarred hand tugged your own. “A way to lift the Quirk?”

It’s only when you repeat his words do you really understand the weight of them.

Joy bubbles up and exudes from you like an air freshener on crack.

Hey, aren’t you excited? The little child that always hoped for another way whispers, tugging your arm with a beautiful smile. Izuku’s gonna remember you.

But the logical side of you, the side with squandered hope and broken dreams makes you think through your feelings. The longer you think about it, the more it doesn’t make sense.

If Izuku had found a way to lift this curse, then why hadn’t he done it yet?

The clocks tick, and the minute hand moves. How many minutes do you have left until he forgets?

“Yeah, but that can wait.” He says in a rush. “There’s some guy I met—on the streets! He’s related to my Accident. I don’t think he’s the exact person, but close, brother, probably, since he said ‘Nii-san’—”

“What?”

Your heart rate spikes and colour drains from your face. Chisuke and Izuku made contact, oh God, and you didn’t even know. Now that you see it, you can’t unsee it. The redness on his neck, like he’d been held at knifepoint. Worry blossoms in your voice.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone? Why didn’t tell Sensei?”

“I just met him yesterday,” Izuku defends, eyes blazing. “And he’s not targetting me like you thought, he’s targetting you!”

Time slows. The declaration was like a veil lifted from your eyes, a shiny revelation that stares at you in the face. The target…

Is me.

Your eyes flicker back to Izuku’s face, huffing and puffing like he fought a bull to stand down. You stare at him. He’s all muscle, baby fat thinning, freckles sprinkled across his face like stars in the sky.

“It’s me?” You whisper, voice small.

Izuku watches you look at him dumbly, words caught in your throat.

“Please,” He whispers, features lined with worry, the same worry you once felt for him now reflected right back at you. “Don’t go for patrol, stay here, where it’s safe. Starlight—”

The name feels like ants on your skin.

“You’ve done so much already,” he takes out a hand, the same one as in that dumb, snow-white hospital room when he got concussed from pushing himself too hard.

I’ve done nothing.

“I…” He swallows. “I don’t want to lose you when I’m this close to figuring it all out.”

The last time you’d taken his hand it tasted like victory. Everything felt perfect, as if fireworks had painted the sky a vibrant colour shows, an artist’s masterpiece for all to see. But now, as you lock eyes with his hand, you can’t help but wonder if it really mattered anymore.

It doesn’t matter if Izuku remembers or forgets—Chisuke would still be hunting you down, looking for a way to wipe your emotions until the heroes lock him up.

All the memories, flashes of moments he’s gained from agony and tears—they’ll be locked behind reinforced walls by the stroke of midnight.

The karma of this exact day, 7 years ago is finally catching up to you after all this time. What will Chisuke do this time? Cut you up? Drown you in your blood? You taste ash on your tongue, throat clogged up.

If it really comes to it, maybe it wasn’t completely undeserved.

Isn’t that for the best? Someone whispers in your ear, voice a whispy and taunting.

Because this entire fiasco is because of you.

The minute hand ticks again, and your phone buzzes. Your patrol, your shift—

Izuku’s still there, waiting for you to take his hand.

Walls constrict on you, and feel your ribcage squeezing the air out of your lungs.

You’re gonna die, you’re going to flatline, you’re—

You only hurt when you let it hurt, and it all goes away when you don’t think.

Don’t think.

The answer comes to your hazardous grappling, and you’re so desperate to stop spiralling, you do something that you haven’t done since Izuku started talking to you again.

It comes as easy as breathing, as you let that rope snap. Up goes the walls, and gone your thoughts.

Don’t think.

Dissociate, detach, let go, don’t cry, you can’t start now.

Eyes flash upwards, and you force yourself to steel. Stars aren’t supposed to break.

“Move.”

Izuku’s eyes widen at your shifted demeanour, and his legs carry him out of my way as his face collapses with confusion. “Starlight, what’s wrong with you?” He whispers, pleading for you to listen. “Starlight—”

“I’m going for patrol,” You exhale sharply, looking at him with dull eyes. Expressionless, head empty, come on, just a little bit more, don’t break now—

“I’ll be careful out there, and I’ll come back safe.” Maybe.

“Starlight, you’re not listening to me—!”

“You never listen to me either, so I guess we’re both even!” You shout, swinging the door open.

The anger is foreign at your fingertips. You’ve felt disappointed, sad, longing and desire, all shrivelled up in balls of tissue paper as you wake up screaming at night. But anger? It was fresh, a band-aid ripped from raw skin.

“We’re both shitty teenagers who want to do what we think is the best for each other, and there’s nothing more to it,” You whisper, rubbing your eyes at where the tears start to leak out. This is bad, you’re out of practice, and the mask is peeling off so quickly.

You’re just so, so tired.

“Leave me alone, Midoriya.”

Hurry up and get your memories already.

“I’m not worth it.”

Haven’t I waited long enough?

Tears prickle Izuku’s eyes, pools of green watering. He’s always been such a crybaby.

Voice shaky, he echoes. “You’re worth it.”

A terrible, unsightly smile crawls up your face, and the laugh that drops from your lips is bitter and humourless.

“Goodbye, Midoriya.”

The door slams shut, and Izuku’s tears bubble over. What hell of a birthday is this?

A shadow creeps up on him, and, oh look it’s Kacchan. He messed up big time, of course he blew it with you. Furiously, he wipes his tears away and sniffles. He has no right to cry.

“God, dammit nerd, what the fuck was that?”

“I know—” He sobs, as Katsuki punches him in the face. The burn is well deserved, as the blond yanks him by the collar and spits in his face. “Good job, dumbass! You lost someone who’s been chasing after you for fuck knows how long. How’d you manage that?”

Katsuki’s voice is like a slap in the face, one he knew he very much deserved. “What, you gonna sob about this like a baby? Fucking man up, Izuku! You have a game to play, asshole. Ball’s in your court, so what’s your move?”

His mind whirls, gears turning. You’re probably halfway to the station, he knows how fast you run. Especially from him, always, always him.

“Oi, shitface!” Katsuki spits, red eyes blazing with fire from the Underworld. “What’s. Your. Move?”

A sharp bolt stabs his cornea, making him writhe in agony. Kacchan’s yelling recedes into the background, his mind sprouting words like it was trivia night on Saturday.

White lies, eyes, smiles, laughs—

He squeezes his eyes shut, pain blooming.

Starlight, Zuku, Secrets—

He gasps, unable to breathe.

Sketcheswillowtreesforgetmenots—

His mind glitches, and images flash. A lush forest that’s always lathered in colour, beautiful branches like streamers with a lake as pure as waters from springs.

Almost instantaneously, One For All crackles from the ends of his hair to the tips of his toes. Izuku tosses himself out of Kacchan’s grip, eyes wild and frenzied. “I need—” He cuts himself off. “I need to go.”

He zips past Kacchan, and bolts out the door.

Fuck the bus, he’d get there faster on foot. He knows exactly where he’s going, because he’s going back to where it all started.

Back to the memories that resided in your glade.

—

The overcast sky greets your gaze as your hero partner frowns. “Oh, man, it’s gonna rain!” She wails, lamenting the bad weather. You look up, watching the sun disappear behind the curtain of grey clouds.

What’s a little bit of pain without a little bit of rain?

—

Izuku never ran so fast in his life. He’s probably a flying, leaping safety hazard, but he doesn’t care. Stormy clouds roll in, as the sun bids farewell for the day. The news drones on about the rainy forecast prediction.

Yeah, no shit. He thinks, as one drop lands on his jacket.

Not a minute later, it pours.

Trespassing seems like a small feat too, as he leaps over the fence and stumbles. He doesn’t fall, though The rain makes everything slippery, so it’s a fight for balance as he reroutes his way to his destination like his body is a satellite.

The voice, your voice, gets louder and louder as he nears the clearing. It’s splitting his skull in half, and he’s fighting to keep himself from doubling over.

“Save you—”

“I’m so sorry—”

“Come back to me—”

Gritting his teeth, his hand brushes past the leaves that reveal the toneless clearing that you’d adored so much. It’s so bare, without its colour. A step forward is all it takes for his legs to buckle, forcing him to kneel as his hands trace the willow tree’s rough bark.

“Who are you?” “I’m Y/n! What’s your name?”

“Race you!”

“I’ll call you Zuku! It’s shorter, and nicer!”

Wax on bone, flesh peeling and blood dripping. He screams, loud and broken, the pain more than he could ever imagine.

“I’m not a transfer, I’m not a stranger—”

“Izuku, please—”

“I love your eyes.”

“I love your smile.”

“Don’t leave, Zuku. Stay here with me.”

“I love you.”

The world is burning, and upside down, right? The cool pitter-patter on his skin feels like acid, oh, make it stop, please make it—

Tit for tat, this for that. A brother for a brother, and pain for bits and scraps.

You want to find your memories? I understand. My Quirk is simple, very simple. Pain is not worth the weight of knowledge.

The world goes dead silent, as his heartbeat thumps in his chest. Erratic, frantic, as the world seemingly explodes. Izuku isn’t so sure if he’s dying, though it certainly feels like it.

“I love you.”

The words thrum in Izuku’s head like a martyr, echoed in your voice at all different ages. Fragmented across different timelines, the world stops, and along with it, silence engulfs his being.

He blinks, and he’s standing in front of the wall again. It’s fragmented so badly, his breath hitches at the beautifully ugly sight.

In the silence’s place, is the faint but distinct sound of a heart monitor beeping.

Izuku looks up to see the wall crack once more, and shatter in front of his very own eyes.

Your trade is sufficient.

In return, I’ll return you everything that was once yours.

—

It all happens instantaneously. Suddenly, someone dials the decibel level back up to max, and Izuku’s memories arrive like a mountain avalanche.

He jerks his head up, the ringing in his head fading as he’s thrown back into the world of senses. The rain pours, and the thunder booms.

His mind feels comfortably full, sharper, and he’s horrified he didn’t realise how empty it was in the first place.

“Oh, Starlight,” He whispers, voice wobbly as he sorts through the different years. So many things make sense now, from your words to actions and your expressions that always screamed help me. A hand comes up to cover his mouth as he lines the memories with gold. He’s been so daft this entire time, and you—

Guilt rises to his mouth and it tastes awfully like bile. It’s getting very difficult to breathe.

How could I ever forget you?

Arms wrapped around himself, he lets out a strangled cry, shame chewing him up more and more because this? This was what you went through? 7 years of obliviousness, white lies, and a whole-ass relationship that he was never meant to have with Ochaco. 7 years of putting up to him, clinging to him, oh gosh, this year was such a dumpster fire—

“I love you.” Your voice rings in his head, and his words pile on top of each other in his throat. The revelation is warm sunlight in the cold shower of rain, and he sobs when he finally understands the gravity of them.

I love you, even if I can only have different facades of yourself.

I love you, so I’ll chase you as long as I have to.

I love you, even though you will never love me back.

“I love you too,” He whispers brokenly, gathering up the pieces of his ruined memories in scarred hands. “I’ve always loved you.”

It was always meant to be you, that’s why nothing ever felt right.

From the times you brought him your bentos in middle school when the bullies would throw his own away, to the times you sat there with him for hours. Those times you never said anything but just listened to him, made him feel heard and respected and—

loved.

Izuku knew he was whipped the moment the nickname ‘Zuku’ sprouted from your mouth in that sandbox all those years ago.

Can’t even survive a Quirk Accident right, some love, he scoffs at himself, staggering as he pulls himself to his feet.

Your trade is sufficient. The voice at the back of his mind reminds him, causing blood to drain from his face. There’s only so long that you can overlook one factor, and this one was a ticking time bomb that got his brain throbbing and searching hungrily for the answer.

What exactly has he traded?

His phone alarm blares in his pocket, causing him to fumble with it as it automatically starts to play the latest news.

“—Currently facing off against a villain! Two of them, although it’s difficult to see as one of them has a wind manipulation Quirk. It seems he’s at least partially responsible for the storm right now. Hero/n and Everblaze continue to push for the capture of the villain behind the recent cases police cases of officers found waking up unable to feel joy—”

All colour drains from his face. There’s nothing more that needs to be said. He pockets his phone, fires up One For All, and leaps for the city.

Izuku’s lost you once. He refuses to lose you again.

—

Seeing Chisuke tastes like shit. Not that you would know or anything, but this is how you’d imagine shit would taste like.

Izuku was right, of course he was.

Chisuke was here for you.

You dodge the incoming blow swiftly, back to back of your senior. The rain pours, but it doesn’t stop the attack, because you’re a lighthouse in a storm.

“This lot is targeting you, Hero/n, what did you do?” Everblaze grits, flipping her smoke bomb of to buy time.

“Something stupid that involved crashing into a man at age 10.” You mutter, hands lighting up with your Quirk.

She curses, before reporting to comms. “Hero/n and Everblaze on the scene, requesting for backup now!”

“The guy with the knife, get him first.” You say, a strange calm settling under your skin as you navigate through this with professionalism and detachment. “He’s the most dangerous, in terms of long-term setbacks.”

You never know when he’s going to strike. A warped version of Toga, but at least Toga loved her victims. This person…he just liked stabbing people and getting revenge.

With the precision of a neurosurgeon, you toss the man sneaking up on you over your shoulder pinning him to the ground.

Cold blue eyes stare up at you, with a twisted smirk framing his face. He’s older than you last saw him, stubble growing fuzzy under his chin and hair shaggy in the rain.

“Starlight, I found you!” He breathes, cackling you when you twist his arm behind his back. The laughter will forever haunt your nightmares. “I finally found you…”

“Don’t call me that,” you hiss, digging your elbow into him even more. Everblaze’s voice is radio static in your ear.

“Deal with Knifey, I’ll manage the Whirlwind!”

“Copy,” You grit out, struggling to hold him down. “Backup ETA?”

“10 minutes, counting!”

A flash of silver flickers in your peripheral, and you lunge back the minute he takes a swing at you. Water makes you slip, and he contorts his body, pulling yours forward as he lifts up his knife and—

Your thoughts evaporate like steam over a hot pot. He wedges the dagger between your shoulder blade, and its acid corroding your bones. Grunting, you yank his knife out of your shoulder, tossing it to the side.

You look back just in time to see him pocketing a vial of your blood.

“Two more to go!” He cackles over the thunder as he brandishes a shiny new knife.

Dread pulls in your gut as you clasp your shoulder. Water makes the blood runny, and if it weren’t for the adrenaline, the pain would have exploded like fireworks on the 4th of July.

“Backup 8 minutes!”

The rain drones on. Donning dirty clothes and an ugly smile, he looks feral, crazy, and the determination behind his voice rivals yours.

“Pay your price, Starlight!” He yells, eyes gleaming. “Give my brother back!”

What comes around goes around. The tables have turned, and the roles have swapped. The water blurs your blood into a murky red, and you grind out your response.

“No can do, Chisuke.”

You don’t have the heart of gold Izuku does. The heart to understand, to hear him out or try to empathise. Maybe for other villains, but this was too close to home.

You move expertly, but with his wild knife swings that looked random but were deadly accurate, you’re forced on defence and the back-burner. Kacchan would be so mad because you aren’t moving well. Your defenses are sloppy and the rain makes everything worse. You feel like you’re back in year 1 again, still a fragile bird learning how to fly.

Even still, you’re wearing him down because of the puffs of his breaths that are ragged and rushed. Good, you think, just as the knife lunges too close.

Oh, shit–

There’s another stabbing, and you kick him off just as he grazes you with his knife. Blood drips from your cheek, and you bite your lip when the pain flares.

“That’s two!” He beams, knife dripping red.

“Back up ETA 5 minutes!” screams the voice in your ear.

I don’t have five minutes, shit I don’t even know if I have one! You want to scream, but you know you have to pull this out. Quickly surveying the field for something useful, you hastily grab a discarded metal rod from a broken fence just as he’s about to plunge the dagger into you. It collides with a clang, and now that you see his face up close, you see the myriad of emotions flashing across his face like a light show.

You squeeze your eyes shut, and refuse to feel a thing.

No feelings, no pain, no feelings, no pain—

“You should be grateful,” He whispers, eyes wide with light. He genuinely believes that he’s helping you. “I see it in your eyes, that agony and sorrow…you want it all gone, and I can help you with that.”

Panic shoots up your legs like it’s water from a fire hydrant, but you hold firm. It’s difficult to see in the pouring rain, but his expression is too hard to miss. “You don’t have to hurt anymore, isn’t that great?” He says, rain falling like confetti on someone’s birthday.

“You don’t have to love anymore.”

You hate how deep his words cut.

Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think—

Pain explodes in your abdomen as your eyes widen. Chisuke deflects your rod with ease.

It isn’t his knife in your chest.

“Three.” He whispers, smile widening further.

There’s a small body behind you, one lithe and quick. The face doesn’t even look at you. “Got her, boss, just as you said.”

It isn’t the Whirlwind guy.

There was a third? You think helplessly, staggering as the knife is drawn from your chest. Maybe if you’d had been more observe, better prepared, you would have caught it.

But you weren’t and now, you’re paying the price

Not vital, of course not, he doesn’t want me to die—

Your hands burn with blisters, and when you look down, they’re coated in red.

“No—” You lunge forward, but your legs buckle beneath you like your body is nothing but lead.

The ringing in your ears blooms, along with the pitter-patter of the rain. “What did I tell you, Starlight?” He coos, fingers locking around the final vial.

“I don’t miss twice.”

—

Izuku arrives on the scene and sees you drenched in blood.

“Sir, please, I need your ID—oh! Deku—” The police officer stumbles over his words in surprise, apologising profusely, but his eyes never leave your frame.

His heart rate racks up, and he’s staggering to your lifeless body with his world falling apart around him. No.

He starts to run, slipping on wet tiles as he stumbles to your side, your blood tainting his hands.

“Starlight,” He whispers, checking your pulse in a desperate attempt to convince himself you are alive. It’s weak, but it’s all he gets and isn’t a cause for celebration.

You don’t look fine at all.

Red soaks your entire body, battered up and bruised as your shoulder twists at an awkward angle.

“No, no, no…” He yanks his jacket off and covers the nasty gash on your stomach. There’s water running down his face, but it isn’t rain.

“She’s still alive,” calls a voice. Izuku whips his head to the source, and finds himself staring at smug blue. “It wouldn’t be any fun if Starlight dies from this.”

The whole world is painted red.

Chisuke looks at him, pearly whites glistening as the rain dampens his ragged hoodie further.

“Do you like my birthday present, Izuku?”

He may be in Quirk cancellation cuffs, being sentenced to a hell worse than his brother but he looks so happy.

“Why would you do this?” He whispers, pulling you closer. His voice is wobbly, soaked to the bone in rain. The last time he felt this defeated was when he lost Kacchan to the League over two years ago.

Look at this, a voice in his head whispers.

You’ve lost Starlight too.

“If you wanna say anything to her, you should do it now!” He yells from the police car, getting shoved in. “I hope you like my gift.”

Izuku’s breathing is all that he hears, as he stares desperately down at you and your wounds, your face, everything, everything, everything—

This is all my fault.

“Zuku…?” You cough, eyes wandering and searching for his. His heart jumpstarts to life. “Hey, don’t say anything,” He shushes, trying to project a smile. It’s too shaky to pass off as one.

Your eyes find his, and a lazy smile spreads across your face. “Hey, it’s you,” You whisper, eyes so bright they could be stars in the sky. “You’re Zuku.”

Raindrops splatter around you, diluting your blood and hiding your body. Izuku almost breaks on the spot.

“Yeah, it’s me.” He says, holding you tightly in his arms. “I’m back, Starlight.”

The smile on your face doesn’t widen, but the tears that fall are painfully washed away. You’ve done such a good job all these years, always his ray of sunshine. Now, he’s seeing all your feelings suppressed underneath.

“Welcome back,” You wheeze, as if it’s difficult to speak. It probably is.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

This isn’t how it was supposed to end.

Your trade is sufficient.

In return, I’ll return everything that was once yours.

Izuku shakes his head, a sob bubbling against his throat.

“I never meant for this to happen.”

You force out a laugh, and then wince in pain. Izuku misses your laughs. “I’m the one that got stabbed, so stop crying, you crybaby.”

“But you were never supposed to go through this.” He whispers, cradling you gently, but hugging you tight. “I’m so sorry, Starlight. For not knowing, for not trying to know, just…oh God, when I think about it, I want to slap myself so hard, get Kacchan to Howitzer Impact me a couple of times too when we get back. I didn’t know, and I hurt you so, so badly.” He inhales, looking around, eyes surveying his surroundings. Frustration builds, and his desperation grows. “Goddammit, where’s the ambulance? Why aren’t they here yet?”

Hurry up, save my Starlight.

“Zuku, it isn’t your fault,” You rasp. His first love is someone strong enough to move hearts on the daily, and has patience that spans as wide as the Pacific Ocean. His first love is someone extraordinary, even though no one will acknowledge it as deeply as Izuku will.

“Starlight—” Izuku chokes, watching your eyes go glassy. “I love you.”

I love you so much, please, please, please, please—

There, where the wind blows strong, and Izuku’s eyes spill tears, you reply with a breathtaking smile.

“I love you too.”

His lip trembles, and he does his best to shield you from the rain.

“Zuku?” You whisper, voice cracking like spoilt leather.

“I’m tired.”

The life is slipping from your eyes, and Izuku shuts his eyes and tries to find the right words to say. “I know, Starlight, just hang on a little longer. You can do it.”

Your voice is thick with a sob. “I don’t wanna stop loving you.”

There’s a fire that lights in Izuku, as he clenches your body tighter.

“Then don’t go,” He says, voice a whisper. “Stay with me.”

The tables have turned, and now it’s his turn to say those words. Please don’t go. Stay.

Your eyes shift upwards to the sky. Even through the rain, stars peek out from behind the clouds, mapping out a land unknown.

“The stars,” You rasp. “They’re so beautiful tonight.”

Izuku’s laugh is endearing, clogged up with snot. “They are. You’re prettier, though.”

You look at him, eyes pearling with tears. “I’m sorry you had to see me like this,” You heave, eyes ever-gentle and love everlasting. “But it’s so nice to see you again.” You murmur, breath shaky.

“ ‘m love you, Zuku,” you whispers, breath floating out from your lips like an angle from above. Your eyes shut, and you don’t reopen them to meet his gaze.

The sobs that are jamming in his throat bubble over, and he weeps, and cries and screams because you were never meant to be coated in red like this.

Your trade is sufficient.

In return, I’ll return everything that was once yours.

“Why?” he wails miserably.

Why did I have to lose you to find me?

—

Your heart beats steadily, as someone screams in the background.

And then all of a sudden, a rope snaps.

A torch snuffs out, and plunges the world into darkness.

—

The trip back to U.A is a beaten path. It’s 2 buses from the Central Hospital and a hundred metres from the school entrance. You open the double doors to dorms, only to be bombarded by your classmates whispering sentiments of worry and concern.

“Oh, Y/n, thank God you’re okay!” Ochaco fusses over you like a second mom, and the others all give you relieved smiles and offers to help you catch up with homework.

There’s a boy edging the group, barely inside your peripheral. He’s a boy with green eyes and a heart made of gold, someone you’re supposed to care for very, very deeply. Your mouth opens as you lock eyes with him, drawing up feelings that you knew were once your entire world.

You draw a blank, and grasp at nothing.

“Welcome back,” Izuku says quietly. You look…better, albeit after being brutally stabbed. Your eye bags are slowly disappearing, and you look lighter than you had ever been before.

Your mouth shifts upwards to a smile, and it feels genuine for the first time in a long time.

“Yeah,” You say, giving him a half smile.

Ochaco drags you over to the couch and distracts you with food. You hold his eye contact for a moment, before breaking it in favour of food.

Huh, you wonder, the weight of love dispersing into the soil down, down below.

What a strange, foolish person I was, falling in love with him.

#Revelation #Deku's birthday series 2024 #mha #mha fanfiction #deku x reader #izuku x y/n #izuku x reader #midoriya izuku #izuku midoriya #tags #midoriya angst #bnha midoriya #discovery #plot #angst #my hero academia #bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugō #sad ending

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matttgirlies · 5 months

Text

Matt & Me🎀

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

a story heavily based on Priscilla Presley’s Book “Elvis & Me” based in the 1950’s - 1970’s.

fem! reader x singer! matt

disclaimer!! - in no way am i saying matt would ever support or do these kind of things, for the sake of the book certain unethical things do happen at times.

warnings - mentions of drug use,, mentions of cheating,, physical violence

y/nn = your nickname for any confusion🩷

Chapter 12

Now I could spend every minute with Matt. There were times when we’d shut ourselves off from the rest of the world for days. Matt would leave word that he wanted “no calls unless it’s my dad or an emergency call from Colonel.” It was my time, and no one could interfere. He was all mine.

When we got hungry, I phoned down to the kitchen and ordered our food, which was brought up and placed outside our bedroom door. After we finished, we stacked our empty trays neatly back in the same place.

We saw no one, nor even the light of day. The windows were insulated with tin foil and heavy blackout drapes to prevent any hint of sunlight from entering. Time was ours, to do with as we pleased, for as long as we pleased. Matt had a few months free between film commitments, and there was no pressure to return to Hollywood. We always seemed to be more in love when we were alone. I loved those times, when he was just Matt, not trying to live up to an image or a myth. We were two people discovering each other.

Only in the privacy of our own quarters did Matt show me a side of himself which had rarely, if ever, been seen by others. With no Colonel, no scripts, no films or music, nor any other people’s problems, Matt could become a little boy again, escaping from the responsibilities of family, friends, fans, the press, and the world. Here with me, he could be vulnerable and childlike, a playful boy who stayed in his pajamas for days at a time.

One day he was the dominant one and would treat me like a child, often scolding me for an incidental action. On other days I was the stronger one, looking after him like a doting mother, making sure that he ate everything on his plate, took all of his vitamins, and didn’t miss any of his favorite TV shows like Laugh-In, The Untouchables, The Wild, Wild West, The Tonight Show, and Road Runner. We listened to early Sunday morning gospel singing—our favorites were the Stamps, the Happy Goodman Family, and Jake Hess—and we watched the old movie classics that Matt loved: Wuthering Heights, It’s a Wonderful Life, and Miracle on 34th Street.

When we weren’t watching movies, we played silly games like hide-and-seek, or we’d have pillow fights that often ended in heated discussions of who hit whom the hardest. Our arguments were usually playful, but I noticed that they could become serious, especially after we’d each taken a couple of diet pills.

One evening we had both taken uppers and were wrestling with each other. I threw a pillow at him. He ducked it, and then, laughing, threw it back. I hurled another one at him, and then another, and without giving him a chance to recover, I threw another one. The last one hit him in the face. His eyes flashed with anger.

“Goddamn it!” he snapped. “Not so rough. I don’t want to play with a goddamn man.” He grabbed my arm, throwing me on the bed, and while demonstrating how hard I had thrown the pillows, he accidentally hit me in the eye. I flung my head to the side and jumped up, accusing him of hitting me on purpose.

“You can’t play without winning,” I yelled, “even with me. You started throwing harder and harder. What did you expect me to do?”

I stomped off to my dressing room and slammed the door as I heard him yelling, “You’re not a goddamn man.”

That night, we went to the movies. My arm was bruised where he’d grabbed me, and my eye was swollen black and blue. To make matters worse—and to make sure he felt bad—I wore a patch over the bruised eye. Everyone teased me, and Matt joked, “Couldn’t help it. She tried to get rough with me. I had to show her who’s boss.”

That night I got named “Toughie.”

Despite his teasing, Matt felt terrible about the incident. He had immediately apologized to me and kept apologizing for days.

“Baby, I’m really sorry,” he said. “You know I’d never hurt you in any way, that I’d never lay a hand on you, don’t you? That was a real accident.”

Yet the incident frightened me.

From then on, I began taking fewer pills and eventually stopped. I tried to persuade him to do the same. I started to question the quantities even though I knew he had various ailments causing pain which necessitated taking prescribed medication. I did everything I could for Matt and we shared many wonderful happy times together. However, his harsh objection to stopping made me realize that there could be a problem. I assumed he knew best for himself.

Colonel William’s theory was: “If you want to see Matt Sturniolo, you buy a ticket.” Once you started passing out freebies, it meant a lot of lost income. He stuck to that policy.

Matt agreed with the Colonel, feeling that Colonel knew best, saying, “Colonel doesn’t mind taking the blame.”

When life got boring you could count on Matt to concoct some new escapade. He was extraordinarily inventive. One particularly dreary day he decided out of the blue that he didn’t like the looks of an old house located on the grounds in back of the mansion. His uncle Travis had once occupied the place, which was now used for storage. Matt took a long look at it, called his father, and told him to get a bulldozer over there right away and get rid of it.

I could imagine what was going through James’s mind: Good God, what’s he up to now? He knew if Matt was at home and bored between films, anything could happen.

When the bulldozer appeared, Matt insisted that he was going to do the honors, convincing his father—and the local fire and demolition departments—that he could handle the job himself.

Wearing his football helmet and his big furry Eskimo coat, Matt proceeded, as his entourage cheered him on, to bring down the house and set it afire. This brought the fire trucks screaming through the gates. “You’re a little late, fellows,” Matt said, a happy, mischievous smile on his face.

Another time, he ordered his go-carts to be brought out and readied to ride. He held the record, of course, for the fastest time around the large circular drive.

Trying to prove that I was just as good as the guys, I tried to equal his time. Terrified, I would speed along as Matt clocked me on his stopwatch, giving me an approving grin when I reached the fifteen-mile-per-hour mark.

He turned Graceland into a private playground for us all. He’d have gun-shooting contests and also “screaming thrill rides” when he’d pack several people into his custom-built golf cart and race around the grounds at top speed.

Graceland’s backyard had more holes in it than the moon has craters—all from Romancandle fights. On the Fourth of July Matt always spent a fortune on fireworks, which arrived by the boxload. The boys would team up sides, aim candles directly at one another, and fire.

Although there were casualties—burned fingers and singed hair—no one seemed to care. Matt himself was as carefree as a young kid, hiding and then sneaking around the opposition with surprise attacks. Matt knew how to play hard and have fun.

Unfortunately, the time came for him to go back to Hollywood. He was due to begin his new film, Viva Las Vegas. His bus was parked in front of the white stone lions flanking the front steps of Graceland, loaded and ready to go.

I hated to see him leave. Arm in arm, we walked out the door.

Suddenly I pulled him back and tried to tell him what I was feeling, but there were distractions all around—people saying goodbye, music blaring from inside the bus, Alan yelling to George Klein to keep the sound rockin’ and rollin’.

I thought, If only it were quieter, if only Matt would take me aside so we could have some privacy.

But his attention was on all the activity and he was caught up in the excitement of going back to work.

“What is it, Baby?” he asked.

“I just wish you didn’t have to leave so soon,” I said, still unable to tell him what was really on my mind. “Just when we were starting to get used to each other, you have to go. I wish there were more time.”

“I know, Little One. Just give me a couple of weeks to get into the film and maybe you can come out for a while. Be a good girl, and I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He gave me a quick kiss on the lips and boarded the bus, the doors slamming shut behind him. Then I heard the familiar shout, “All right. Let’s roll it!”

With a roar, the bus cruised down the hill and through the Music Gates where, as always, his fans were loyally waving goodbye and urging him to “hurry home!”

I watched until I could no longer see the red taillights fading out on Highway 51.

Cursing myself, I wondered why I couldn’t tell him what I feared. I’d been upset ever since I’d learned that his new leading lady was going to be Julia Ernst, the fastest-rising starlet in Hollywood. Julia Ernst had made only a few movies, including Bye-Bye Birdie, but she’d been dubbed “the female Matt Sturniolo.” Matt was curious about her, pointing out that “imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”

I realized that even had I told him my fears, he could have said nothing to put my mind at ease, because one evening he had made the mistake of telling me about the romances he’d had with many of his costars. Trying to listen calmly to these stories, I justified his behavior by reminding myself that I’d been living in Germany during those years and that we’d had no real ties then.

Now I was in his territory, living in his house with his friends, his family, and mementos of the past. It didn’t occur to me then, but I was living the way he wished—out of Hollywood society, the girl back home. I adapted. I wasn’t with him, but in a sense I was. And I assumed that he would be as faithful to me as I was to him.

Each time I would get ready to join Matt in Los Angeles he would delay my visit.

“Baby, now’s not the time to come out. There’s a problem on the set.”

“What kind of problem?”

“It’s just that all hell’s broke loose. I’ve got some crazed director madly in love with Julia. The way he’s directing it, you’d think it was her movie. He’s favoring her in all the goddamn close-up shots.” He paused, his anger rising. “Not only that, they want her to sing some of the songs with me. Colonel ’bout blew a fuse. Told ’em they’d have to pay me extra to sing with her.”

As I listened to Matt rant and rave, I tried to sympathize with him and his situation, but emotionally I was far more concerned about his leading lady than his director.

“Well, how are you and Julia Ernst getting along?” I asked.

“Oh, she’s okay, I guess.” He casually dismissed her with the line, “a typical Hollywood starlet.”

My concern was temporarily allayed. I knew that his attitude toward actresses was unfavorable. “They’re into their careers and their man comes second,” he’d say. “I don’t want to be second to anything or anyone. That’s why you don’t have to worry about my falling in love with my so-called leading ladies.”

I wanted to believe him, but I couldn’t help noticing the national gossip magazines and the headlines about the torrid affair on the set of Viva Las Vegas. The problem was that the affair was not between Julia Ernst and the director. It was between Julia Ernst and Matt.

We were talking on the phone one night and I asked, “Is there anything to it?”

“Hell, no,” he said, immediately becoming defensive. “You know how these reporters are. They blow everything out of proportion. She comes around here mostly on weekends with her motorcycle. She hangs out and jokes with the guys. That’s it.”

But that was enough for me: She was there and I wasn’t.

Infuriated, I declared, “I want to come out now.”

“No, not now! We’re wrapping up the film and I’ll be home in a week or two. You keep your little ass there and keep the home fires burning.”

“The flame’s burning on low. Someone had better come home and start the fire.”

Matt laughed. “You’re beginning to sound like me,” he bragged. “I’d better watch it. There can’t be two of us walking around. I’ll be home soon, Baby. Get everything ready.” By the end of our phone call, I was eagerly making plans for his return.

I took out my calendar, counted the days until his homecoming, and then crossed them off one at a time. Threatened with doubts and fears, I did everything I could to please him, from educating myself about the gospel music he loved to taking good care of Graceland.

My eagerness to please Matt was so overwhelming that it almost angered him. He always had an excuse why his other relationships hadn’t worked out. “They were either too hometown and couldn’t fit in with my Hollywood life-style,” he said, “or they were actresses too into their careers.” But how could he get out of a commitment to such a willing partner as me?

I often felt sorry for myself, and angry at Matt for putting me in a situation in which I was forced to be alone for literally weeks at a time.

Bored, I resorted to exploring the attic at Graceland. I’d asked Grandma once what was up there, and she’d answered, “Oh, nothin’, Hon, jus’ some old junk. God, I haven’t been up there in ages. No tellin’ what’s up thereor who.”

There was no question that something was stirring around in the attic. Many nights strange noises were heard above the kitchen. Grandma said she’d heard the noises herself, lying awake, praying for daylight before even closing her eyes for sleep.

She imagined that it might be Mary Lou’s spirit up there, watching over Matt.

“Do you believe in spirits, Grandma?” I asked.

“Ah, yes, Hon. Sometimes I wander through this house and I can just feel ’em all around. Ask Hallie, she knows. She’s felt ’em too.”

Hallie was a large dark-skinned woman, our faithful and devoted companion. She stayed with Grandma and me at night while Matt was away, guarding us with her life—and a small gun that she tucked securely under the bed each night.

One evening, after Hallie turned out the lights, I asked her, “Hallie, do you think there’s spirits there, like Grandma does?”

“Well, Miss y/n, all I can tell you is that I hear strange voices I ain’t never heard before in any house I’ve ever been in, and sometimes it gits awful quiet here, a kind of stillness that I ain’t never felt neither. But don’t you lay there and worry, child. If there are any spirits, they’ll do you no harm.”

“Amen,” Grandma said.

The next day, I decided to venture up to the attic, to see for myself what was there. As I walked up the stairs, I rubbed my hand up and down the gold-painted banister, noting the chipped paint. I called out, “Don’t you think this should be repainted, Dodger?”

Grandma, standing at the bottom of the stairs, lifted her dark shades to get a closer look. “Yes, Hon, we’d better tell James. That does look bad.”

“Maybe we should do it before Matt gets home and surprise him. I’ll ask Mr. Sturniolo in the morning.”

At the top of the stairs I entered the attic and discovered Matt’s world.

Several trunks were filled with his military gear. There were old television sets and furniture that had been in his bedroom years before. I ran my hand over a couch, wondering who’d sat there with him. Jealous, I walked away.

I found two closets side by side and opened one. It was filled with clothes from Matt’s early days—black leather jackets, motorcycle hats, and a pink shirt I’d seen in pictures. I loved the way he looked in that shirt and wished he’d wear it again.

With growing curiosity, I sorted through everything. I felt closer to Matt just by touching his things, and all I could think of was what girl he’d been with at the time—Lucy, Judy, Nicole, Bonnie? I was so possessive, I had to know.

Then I came across some letters hidden under an old sweater, letters from Nicole, all addressed to him in Germany. I put them in dated order, from his arrival in Germany to his departure, and sat there for hours poring over every one.

Nicole had written at least two letters a week, all saying basically the same thing: she loved him, missed him, and was counting the days until his return—just as I had done. She had been in the process of acquiring him as a lover just as I’d been losing him. Clearly Nicole had been telling her that she was the only one in his life. Confused and hurt, I realized that he had been writing to his “Little Bit,” as he called her, that he couldn’t wait to come home and see her, at the same time that he had been holding me tightly, telling me he couldn’t bear to leave his “Little Girl.”

I felt betrayed, as I’m sure she felt when she read and heard about me. Returning the next day to investigate the adjoining closet, I came upon Mary Lou’s belongings—her clothes, her old photos and papers. It was strange to see all her dresses, hanging neatly. I knew Matt had had them put there. He couldn’t have faced throwing away any of her personal belongings.

I tried on one of her dresses and could tell that she liked soft materials on her skin, just as I did. By the size of her dress, I could see she was a small woman, and by the texture, I knew she cared more about the feel of a dress than about fashion or style. She liked to dress simply and comfortably. I felt guilty in her dress, but it gave me a better sense of Mary Lou Sturniolo: a woman, as Grandma had described her, with a heart of gold—yet you never wanted to cross her. When she was angry, “she cussed like a sailor and had the wrath of God in her.”

I felt sad—for Matt, for Mary Lou, for us all because we have to contend with death. Life could be so different if Mary Lou were here, I thought, weeping as though she were my own mother. I felt Mary Lou’s presence in that little room, also her grief and loneliness. Maybe it was her spirit that Grandma and Hallie sensed.

All of a sudden, Hallie’s face appeared in the doorway. We both screamed with fright, yelling, “What are you doing up here?”.

“Child, this ain’t no place you should be. Too many sad memories. B’sides, it’s dark and scary. Only reason I come up is ’cause Miss Minnie was worried ’bout you.”

Then, as Hallie walked away, waving her hands above her head, she said under her breath, “No ma’am, I don’t like it up here.”

The next time Matt returned to Los Angeles, where he was to begin filming Kissin’ Cousins, I flew with him. I loved L.A. It was exciting compared to the slow pace I had grown accustomed to in Boston. Best of all, I felt a part of Matt’s world. His hectic schedule and daily life were realities to me now, no longer just remote events chronicled in our nightly phone calls.

The problem was that his life still included Julia Ernst, despite the fact that their film, Viva Las Vegas, had been completed six weeks before. The newspapers were reporting their “blossoming” affair daily, each article hitting me like a slap in the face. I thought, When will this be over—the news, the gossip, the headlines, the affair.

Matt returned from the studio one afternoon, carrying a newspaper and fuming. “I can’t believe she did it.” He flung the paper against the wall in disgust. “She had the goddamn nerve to announce we’re engaged.”

Though I was pretty sure of the answer, I asked, “Who?”

“Julia Ernst. Every major newspaper in America’s picked it up. The rumor’s spread like a goddamn disease.”

Turning to me, he said, “Honey, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave. The press will be hanging around the gate and following me all over for a statement. Colonel suggests maybe you should go back to Boston till it calms down.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Suddenly all the months of unbearable silence broke and I screamed, “What’s going on here? I’m tired of these secrets. Telephone calls. Notes. Newspapers!” I picked up a flower vase and hurled it across the room, shattering it against the wall. “I hate her!” I shouted. “Why doesn’t she keep her ass out of here where she belongs?”

Matt grabbed me and threw me on the bed. “Look, goddamn it! I didn’t know this was going to get out of hand. I want a woman who’s going to understand that things like this might just happen.” He gave me a hard, penetrating look. “Are you going to be her—or not?”

I stared back at him, furious and defiant, hating him for what he was putting me through.

After a long pause, our tempers cooled considerably. Once again desperate to please, I said, “I’ll leave tomorrow. I’ll be waiting in Boston.”

Excerpt from: "Elvis and Me" by Priscilla Beaulieu Presley. Scribd. This material may be protected by copyright.

a/n - 3 songs for extra long chapter!! (can you tell i like ultraviolence😬) 🎀

#matt stuniolo fanfic #matthew sturn #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo edit #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo imagine #sturniolo smut #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo x reader #nick sturniolo #Spotify

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brickcentral · 4 months

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🤩 ARTIST SPOTLIGHT: paps.bricks Hello everyone! It's time to direct the spotlight toward our community members, and today we will get to know better paps.bricks!

"Hi everyone. I am Skevos Papageorgiou from Nicosia, Cyprus and I work as a teacher at a primary school.

During the pandemic, I stumbled upon the fascinating world of toy photography, initially experimenting with Playmobil figures. Yet, it was the captivating LEGO creations that truly sparked my imagination.

Despite never owning a LEGO set before last year, I started collecting my first modulars, finding endless inspiration for my snapshots.

My favorite photo subjects derive from the Wild West, pirate adventures and the medieval era. But I also tend to like the simplicity of everyday life scenes.

In my photos I always include some sort of building like workplaces, rooms, or facades etc because they add depth and give viewers more to explore beyond just the minifigure. These details enhance the storytelling in each image, inviting viewers to immerse themselves in it.

Once my setup is ready, I always shoot at the eye level of the minifigure for reasons we're all familiar with. From there, it's all about experimenting with the aperture, lighting, angle, and more until I achieve the desired result.

Drawing ideas from Pinterest, my main goal is to create narratives and capture moments infusing each photo with a unique story. I only wish the process from conception to setup and finally the photo wouldn’t span several days. I must admit I envy people who complete their work in the blink of an eye.

Despite the time-consuming nature of this hobby, every moment spent orchestrating these miniature scenes is incredibly soothing and enjoyable. Though, I must admit, once the shoot is over, the eagerness to tidy up and store everything back in drawers is undeniable!

For my photos I use an Olympus M. Zuiko Digital 14-42mm f/3.5-5.6, a couple of RGB lights by ulanzi and A4 papers as a reflector.

Thank you to the LEGO community for embracing my creative endeavors, and here’s to many more adventures in the world of toy photography!"

Thank you for accepting our invitation and let the community knows you better!

If you want some insights on the exclusive picture and for a better view of the others, head to our blog at https://brickentral.net/.

- @theaphol, Community Outreach Manager

#lego #lego photography #brickcentral #afol #toy photography #legophotography #toyphotography #minifigures #brickcentral member #brickcentral artist spotlight

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nepalalser · 1 day

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🍉We are a family of 9 members. ♥️I am Mohammed Al-Sir, 42 years old, and my wife, Nepal Al-Sir, 41 years old. 🫂The eldest daughter, 💁Batoul, is 15 years old, the daughter, 💁Siddall, is 14 years old, the 👫twins, 🤹Majd and 🙎Judy, are 12 years old, the daughter, 🧚Sidra, is 8 years old, and finally the 👬twins, Ahmed and Mahmoud are 5 years old 🧒We were displaced from northern 🇵🇸Gaza due to the October 7 war. Now we live a miserable life in displacement tents under shelling, terror, sounds and explosions. There is no safe place to take shelter in. Our day is about how to provide food, drink and safe sleep for the children.

https://gofund.me/f784eeba

Your donation is a 🙏support and encouragement to us. 🫂Thank you to everyone who stands with us, whether by donating or spreading.🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸

⬇️⬇️⬇️

Vetted by @, my number verified on the list is ( #66 )

#television #beastars #charles leclerc #cult of the lamb #critical role #artists on tumblr #bill cipher #deadpool and wolverine #gravity falls #naturecore #fashion #football #free gaza #free palestine

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humanpurposes · 11 months

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Karma is a God

Chapter 14: The God's Eye

The Dance of the Dragons begins on a lie, and Aemond owes a debt, one Lucerra will see repaid in Fire and Blood // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond x Lucerra Velaryon (fem!Lucerys)

Warnings for this chapter: spoilers for F&B and future seasons of HotD, canon divergence, descriptions of violence, angst, grief, death

Words: 3.5k

A/n: Also available to read on AO3.

It comes to him in a dream first; the ghost. Faceless, colourless and shapeless, he knows it is coming for him. It follows him wherever he goes, until he can hardly tell the difference between waking and dreaming.

He can scarcely remember his burning of Pinkmaiden. He remembers heat, screams of terror and then agony, the light of Vhagar’s fire, burning as bright as the sun and banishing the darkness of night. He was reminded of how his brother had sounded in the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, his raw, throaty screams as his flesh mingled with his melted armour. Which would be a worse fate, dying or surviving to endure the pain for so long?

Where Aegon’s suffering had made Aemond the equivalent of a King, Pinkmaiden had only made him more of the monster that he is.

He feels it, settled on the edge of a cliff overlooking Ironman’s Bay, the empty feeling in his chest, as though the Gods are withholding fragments of his soul.

He doesn’t know where his brother is now. Perhaps Aegon had found some sense after all and crossed the Narrow Sea to seek refuge in the type of life he always wanted, far from the Keep, far from the crown. He doesn’t know why their men fight for a King who could be dead, or who could have abandoned them altogether. And yet he knows his role in this war has been set out for him, one which he follows mindlessly. He is his family’s terror, the only one who can give Daeron and Cole enough time to rally their forces.

He hears so little as of late. He hasn’t seen another person’s face for weeks. For a time he allowed himself refuge in a tavern with his hood over his hair and his sapphire eye hidden in shadow but eventually he decided comfort was not worth the risk.

Daemon is in the Riverlands, he knows that much, hunting him but never able to catch up to him. So far his uncle has not thought to look this far north, where he can see the Iron Islands clustered in the west and Seaguard to the east. Ships pass the sea before him but he remains unnoticed, as does Vhagar, buried on the shoreline amongst dirt, sand and rocks. If she is hungry she will find a flock of sheep or a herd of cows, but for now she is content to lull herself into a long slumber, occasionally letting out a low grumble as she breathes.

He hunts rabbits and does little to shelter himself from the harsh sea air, the rain and the spray of the sea when there is a storm. He is numb to the cold and the discomfort, retreating into his dreams in the hopes he might find some comfort in a vision of his mother or his sister.

More than that, he prays the Gods will show him an image of Lucerra. He would take anything. The small, stubborn girl disturbing him in the library, grinning as she presented him with a winged pig. Her furious little face when he held her by the throat in the cave below Hightide. He would take the tears she shed in the Hall of Nine, her silent, wide-eyed pleas for forgiveness. He would take the woman who stood before him at the Red Keep, at Storm’s End, the feeling of her skin, the sound of her breath.

Her voice is less than an echo in his head after so many moons. The memory is elusive, he fears he will never picture it clearly, but he can remember her words. My blood is precious, uncle, if you want it you shall have to earn it.

In Rainwood, they say a ghost circled Shipbreaker Bay in the days after his niece’s apparent demise.

When the dragon with pale grey scales finally comes to him, he knows what it means. Not a ghost, not the one he had been imagining. Grey Ghost, the wild dragon, the beast that attacked Daeron and Tessarion in the Reach, now the second mount of Princess Lucerra.

He mounts Vhagar as the sun sets, its light bleeding across the sky like an open wound, spurred on by desperation and something hungry, like bloodlust. Grey Ghost is quick, flying out of his view but he can guess where the dragon is leading him, southeast, towards Harrenhal. Aemond does not know if they fly to death or salvation.

There is hardly any blue left in the sky when the five towers of Harrenhal fade into view. The setting sun burns in the west like dragonfire, licking at the darkened clouds and shining down onto the surface of the God’s Eye.

The black banners of the pretender, Rhaenyra, hang over the gates to the castle. Below its walls, by the lakeshore, is not the opponent he had expected to meet.

Caraxes rears his head to the sky and lets out a shrieking roar, teeth bared and eyes ablaze. He can feel Vhagar lurch in anticipation. All of her battles, save for Rook’s Rest, have been like bloodsport to her. She wants to fight, wants to rip her talons into flesh, sink her teeth around something larger than a farm animal. But he feels something else, a slight hesitation, a sad sort of growl sounding in her throat,

Daemon has donned his riding leathers and stands beside his dragon. He holds Dark Sister before him, resting his hands on the hilt.

He sees no sign of Grey Ghost, nor his rider.

He lands Vhagar along the lakeshore, keeping Caraxes out of reach to avoid premature violence. He is determined this will be done properly. His boots land with a crash against the pebbles once he climbs down, his hand lingering on Vhagar’s saddle.

He remembers the night of the dinner, Viserys’ final hours, as his uncle had stood between him and Jace, eyeing him like a parent stares down a petulant child, a faint smile on his lips. It had amused him, watching the bickering of boys.

Now there is no amusement in Daemon’s eyes, no sense of excitement. They have all suffered too many losses for anything other than pure hatred.

Jaehaerys and Jaehaera were slaughtered at his order, Helaena left to rot in her grief, to leave her last living child motherless. What were the children to Daemon Targaryen? They were his kin, his brother’s grandchildren. Their deaths didn’t put him closer to the throne, didn’t win him any allies, but it wasn’t about strategy, was it? It was about pain.

Aemond doesn’t care to count the seconds or minutes they spent in a silence, broken only by the rush of the waves and the hisses and growls of their dragons.

It is like standing face to face with a wild animal, anticipating what he may do, which move he may make.

He sees Daemon’s eyes flicker momentarily to the sapphire that sits in his left socket, and smirks. In some cruel twist of fate, a dull pain blooms at the base of his skull, but he endures it.

“You’ve come out of hiding at last,” Daemon says.

An unease pools in his stomach. For a moment he thinks he sees movement in the sky above him, but when he looks, there is nothing.

“I was under the impression I was being hunted,” Aemond retorts.

Daemon laughs. He means to mock him but it’s not quite careless enough to be convincing. “Do not flatter yourself, boy,” he says. “Your whore said you would come.”

An unsettling feeling washes through him, like he is being watched.

Alys. He had left her in a cell with the bloody remains of the rest of House Strong, evidently not long enough for her to starve before Daemon’s return to Harrenhal. “Did she care to say why?”

Daemon’s lips curl into a sneer. “Do you still believe you are owed a debt?”

He recalls a cold thrill that had come with killing Rhaenys. It hadn’t been enough to justify the anguish he had seen his family suffer, how they have continued to suffer. He wonders if killing Daemon will satisfy him.

Still, his uncle is not the reason he followed Grey Ghost to the God’s Eye.

She must be here somewhere and he doesn’t want to wait any longer. He hungers for her like a man starved. He wants to feel her, her heat, her blood, his hand around her throat and her heartbeat under her skin. He wants to see her eyes again, full of fire and fury.

He can feel Vhagar’s urge to fight beginning to boilin his blood. He welcomes it, lets it fuel his anger and his grief, pounding in his chest like a war drum. “You have lived too long, uncle,” he says.

Daemon sheathes Dark Sister and reaches up to grab at Caraxes’ saddle, ready to mount. His voice is solemn but his eyes are dark with vicious intent. “On that much we agree.”

And so Aemond mounts his own dragon, fastening the chains that secure him to the saddle. He looks to the sky, then to the castle, waiting for a flash of pale grey scales, a dragon’s cry or a girl with dark hair. He finds nothing. Grey Ghost must be here and yet there is no trace of him or his rider. He clenches his fists around Vhagar’s reins and digs his teeth into his lip. His patience is wearing thin.

Caraxes moves first, leaping from the ground with an ear splitting screech, breathing a stream of fire into the air as he flies.

Vhagar is slower to follow, scrambling over the pebbles to push off from the ground. He feels the force of her wings against her own body, hauling her to ascend, pursuing Caraxes into clouds of grey and red, the sea of flame.

He braces against the fire, roaring in his ears as they break through the clouds and come into the vastness of the sky. Daemon and Caraxes are nowhere to be found. Through the spaces in the clouds and the fire below them, the God’s Eye watches, bathed in red by the setting sun. Soon enough it will all be black.

Vhagar roars, deeply and furiously. A bait, a call to battle.

As suddenly as a thunderbolt, the red dragon breaks through the clouds. Caraxes surges towards Vhagar with eager teeth and talons. She breathes a plume fire unlike anything Aemond has ever seen. Caraxes avoids the stream as he goes for her side, slashing at her belly with his claws and screeches as he rears his head, ready to strike her neck.

But Vhagar gets there first. Aemond’s jaw clenches instinctively, the taste of blood pooling on his tongue as Vhagar sinks her teeth into Caraxes’ shoulder. The dragons writhe and thrash in a deadlock, unrelenting in their attacks but determined to escape each other.

They start to fall. It is a chaotic struggle, beating their wings, screaming in agony and rage, pulling away and ripping at each other.

There’s nothing Aemond can do. He tries to urge Vhagar with the reins, tries to scream at her to let go, to obey, but his efforts are all lost to the wind, the spurts of dragon’s blood rushing through the air, desperate bursts of flame.

Until Caraxes wrenches his claws away from Vhagar’s side. His wings struggle as they fall but he scratches at Vhagar’s head, urging her to release the grip on his shoulder. She does, only to close her jaw around his neck with another snap of her jaws.

The lake is getting closer.

For a moment he wonders if he could jump before the dragons hit the surface of the water. He probably wouldn’t survive the fall, and even if he did, his riding leathers and the chains that keep him fixed to Vhagar’s saddle would weigh him down.

They will die with their dragons then.

He hears the call of a dragon, not the aged roar of Vhagar, not the piercing cry of Caraxes.

Through the haze of blood and fire, his eye finds a pale figure on the lakeshore, another dragon.

His heart stops.

Grey Ghost darts into the air, and glides around Vhagar and Caraxes, coming clearly into view.

And he sees her.

He can hardly make out the details of her face and he feels all the more deprived of her. A silver breastplate glimmers on her chest like dragon scales, catching the final crimson glow of the sunset. Dark hair flies behind her with the force of the wind.

Her hands aren’t on the reins, her arms are outstretched. At first he thinks she is reaching for something, until he realises she’s holding a bow when she reaches for an arrow from a quiver strapped to her back.

He feels frozen, helpless as he watches her position the arrow and pull back the bow string. It would be a quicker death than drowning, and it would be by her hand. He might find peace in it, if only he could see her face on final time.

It is just, surely. He threatened her, demanded she repay her debt with her body and then her eye, pursued her through a storm and watched as she fell through the clouds with the pieces of her dragon.

He tells himself he deserves it, for the way his mother looked at him when he returned from Storm’s End, the way Helaena couldn’t stand to be near him, the screams echoing in his memories, for all the pain he has caused.

The anticipation doesn’t have a chance to set in. He feels himself knocked back by something lodging itself in his shoulder and even then he cannot take his eye from her.

Vhagar lurches, screaming in pain as something hot and wet seeps through his leathers and the shirt underneath.

The shock takes a matter of seconds to wear off, then there is just a searing pain.

His dragon releases her jaws from Caraxes’ neck. Caraxes’ claws continue their assault on her head, aiming for her eyes, but she is almost indifferent to it as she turns her attention to Grey Ghost.

Vhagar can hardly move from underneath Caraxes, but she can drag him with her. Grey Ghost seems to be larger than Arrax was, but it will only take Vhagar a single snap of her jaws to claim both dragon and rider.

He can’t watch Luke die again. He will not.

He can scarcely breathe, can hardly think straight or see anything clearly, but he musters all the force his lungs can manage and wrenches on the reins. “Daor, Vhagar!” he commands. “Ziry daor!” Not her.

Against her desire for blood and her own stubbornness, Vhagar obeys. She turns her head once more to Caraxes. With a slash of her talons, she makes another tear in his belly. Blood gushes from the wound like a river, streaming through the air as the black surface of the God’s Eye comes closer, and closer.

This will be a battle with no victor. As Vhagar delivers her blow, Caraxes twists his neck and sinks his teeth into her throat. She tries to cry in pain, but it is muffled as she gargles on the blood that floods her gullet.

Aemond tries to look for Luke and Grey Ghost again, but he cannot find them. He sees blood, he sees flames, he sees the colours of sunset in the sky and the lake.

He has to get out of the chains, but he does not know if he has the strength.

He looks up, or what he thinks is up, following along Vhagar’s neck, to where Caraxes’ jaws are clenched around her flesh, along his red hide, to his back.

Daemon is standing in the saddle, Dark Sister unsheathed and poised before him. He should be falling– in fact he is, falling with the dragons, down, down, down, his sword ready to strike.

Daemon means to kill him, before they can meet the water.

He would give his life to Luke, but he will not allow his uncle the satisfaction.

He doesn’t stop to consider if he has the time, he knows he has to act. First he takes hold of the arrow in his shoulder, snapping off as much as he can of it, bearing his teeth through the pain. Then he heaves the heavy chains to unhook them from the saddle.

As the point of Daemon’s sword comes to meet him, Aemond hauls his body out of its path. With his left hand he reaches for the hilt, and clasps his fingers around it.

With the force of Daemon’s falling, the Princes are dragged from Vhagar’s back.

Aemond has one final chance and seconds in which to take it.

He grips the hilt of Dark Sister as harshly as he can, crushing Daemon’s hand under his grip. He twists his uncle’s wrist, driving the point of the sword into his stomach and driving it forward into his flesh, as far as it will go.

He doesn’t hear a cry of pain, a final grunt or an exhale of breath before the treacherous waters of the God’s Eye consume them.

The noise of their battle, of screaming dragons and roaring fires, are engulfed in a cold, black void. Everything drags him down, his leathers, the force of two dragons hitting the water, and the weight of the limp body run through on Dark Sister.

Aemond does not fight it. He feels the sting of cold water against his skin and in his nose and throat. On his tongue he tastes blood but cannot decide where it is from, torn between icy numbness and pain. It is everywhere, his shoulder, his limbs, his chest…

Vhagar is gone. For the first time in so long he feels incomplete.

But even then the thought of grief fades into the cruel quiet of the lake.

Perhaps his end will be peaceful after all. He is not sure he deserves it, but he wants it all the same.

He hears his heart now, pulsing in his ears, echoing through his veins.

He thinks of Helaena and his mother and wonders if they are being kept together or apart. He thinks of Daeron, fierce, young, vulnerable, the only dragon rider their family will have left. He thinks of Aegon and Maelor and can only hope they are safe. He thinks of Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, little white nightgowns seeped with blood, and tightens his grip on the hilt of Dark Sister.

Something disturbs the water above him.

He can see their faces through the darkness, a thousand and one, constantly shifting. Without saying a single word they tell him he is safe.

Something like a limb curls around his torso and grabs him. The pressure on his chest is excruciating but he cannot scream with water in his lungs. It hauls him up. He feels the break through the surface of the lake but he still cannot breathe.

He wonders if this is the Stranger himself crushing come at last to claim his life and face whatever judgement the gods will pass on him.

Until he lands on solid ground, though not quite solid. It shifts beneath him, cold and sharp under the palms of his hands and the side of his face. With his heart drumming frantically in his ears, his body acts for its own survival, pushing him up onto his hands and knees, retching up blood and water, gagging on the taste it leaves in his mouth.

He hears something land on the ground before him and knows it is a dragon. Through his own struggle he recognises the sound of footsteps against the pebbles, slow and cautious.

His vision is blurry and the only light the sky can offer is a gloomy red. He can see the gleam of it against Dark Sister, the sword of Visenya, Maegor and Daemon, just beyond the reach of his fingertips.

A hand that is not his own closes around the hilt and brings it out of his line of sight, the point coming to rest at his throat.

Retribution will come with fire and fury…

He drags his body back to rest on his haunches so he can look up at her.

She’s covered in red, her skin under the sunset, her skirt and the sigil of the three headed dragon embroidered on her riding leathers. But she is unmarred by blood, either her own or another’s.

She looks eerily peaceful, a quiet rage simmering under the surface of tired eyes and a soft, rounded face. He does not take his eye from her and she meets his gaze without shame, without fear or pride. He thinks then, he would be content to die at her hand.

He waits for the blade to pierce through his throat, for whatever warmth is left in his body to fade and for the world to go dark again. He waits for the pain to finally end.

… and so it will be your salvation.

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