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total-dxmure · 9 months

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✦ INVISIBLE STRING THEORY →【ELLIE WILLIAMS】→ CHAPTER TWO

pairings: modern!marine ellie x reader

summary: the marines didn’t ruin ellie. ellie ruined ellie. after being medically discharged she feels lost. being sent to live with joel is more of a last ditch effort to save her and less of a fun reunion for the father-daughter duo. jackson is worlds different than chicago, but the fresh air and sprawling countrysides are a welcome reprieve. ellie finds herself finding comfort in more than just the change in scenery though. after losing your girlfriend due to an accident you feel as though you’ll never find love again- but that was before meeting ellie williams. the two of you figure out that you have more in common than just the fact that she and your girlfriend were both marines though. tethered by some invisible string, the two of you meeting has to be fate. who would have known that you were the golden ticket to ellie’s recovery?

warnings: eventual smut! lots of tension building and mutual pining. ellie falls first and hard. small town girl meets a frightening, strong ex marine. TW: talk of panic attacks, ptsd episodes and death. come for the ellie smut and stay for the plot and fluff. (A/N: this chapter is just plot/character building. next chapter we're getting to the good stuff)

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The old farm truck rocked back and forth as you made your way up the all-too familiar dirt path, heading in the direction of the greenhouses. You’d already let the hens out to graze and feed and the last thing you had to do before dropping today’s produce off was check on the nurseries.

Johnny Cash’s southern twang hummed gently over the speakers, your well worn-in cassette tape having been the first thing you reached for this morning. The sun had risen just a few hours ago, and after a few cups of much needed coffee you were ready to go.

The caffeine had done the lord's work, having cleared your brain of any anxious background noise. You could actually function when you had tasks at hand. The second you slowed down though… well, that was a different story. You were trying hard not to imagine Abby sitting beside you in the beat-to-hell red pickup, her blonde braid tossed over her shoulder as she stuck her arm out of the window. You used to joke about her being part dog, what with her loving the wind on her face so much. You missed being able to reach out and wrap a stray strand of blonde hair around your finger, only giving it a soft tug when those blue eyes of hers looked at you with a little too much heat behind them.

So instead of looking at the empty passenger seat you busied yourself with turning up the volume, country music crackling over the shot, old speakers. You all but jumped out of the car the second you put the car in park, ready to get your hands dirty and your mind preoccupied.

You couldn’t remember how many times the two of you had snuck off to the greenhouse when your mother had gotten a little too overbearing back when she still lived in the main house with you. There wasn’t a single surface in the old rickety building that abby hadn’t fucked you on or vice versa.

You walked along the rows and rows of seedlings, looking for any sign of water rot or bug infestations. Everything was perfect, every stem and leaf a vibrant green. Tomatoes, all different kinds of summer squash, and beans of every variety; you had the gift of a green thumb. Your father was more than happy to sign his company over to you right before he passed. All five acres of his property belonged to you now, and with that every bit of responsibility had been placed upon your shoulders. You used to resent the fact that you were so young and in charge of so much. Now you were thankful for the constant work. Distractions. You hated seeing your dad’s life work being summed up as a mere distraction, but it was the only thing that got you out of bed in the morning.

Everyone in the family knew that your dad had wanted a boy when your mother’s pregnancy was first announced. It was a family business, the job having been passed down to him by his own father. Still, he had been ecstatic to show you the ropes. Rather than taking up dance or art like most other little girls your age, you spent your free time elbow deep in mud. You wore the bows and fussed over getting new outfits, but overalls were your daily uniform.

You wore a pair even today, your work boots tightly fastened to ward away any unwanted pecks from overprotective mother hens. Today was bound to be monotonous, as it always was. All you had to do was repot a few strawberry plants. Maybe if you were lucky a goat would find a hole in the gate and escape. At least it would give you something to worry about that wasn’t Abby related.

You slunk over towards the sinks, pumping soap into your dirt covered palm to wash off the dirt. You rubbed your hands together to begin lathering but froze when you realized your right hand felt bare. You brushed your thumb against your middle finger only to realize that it was just as you had feared.

Your ring. It wasn’t there.

White hot dread locked your limbs as you turned your hand over, the dainty opal missing from your middle finger. You blinked, hoping that you were just seeing things. You didn’t even turn off the sinks before racing back over to the repotting table, as if the promise ring had grown legs and would escape you. Your eyes frantically searched the table, pain shooting through your knees as you dropped down on all fours, pushing dirt and leaves aside to get a better vantage point. Nothing. It wasn’t there.

“Oh god. No! No, no, no.” You all but screamed, eyes filling with tears as you pulled yourself off.

You broke out into a nervous sweat, the blood rushing from your head. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening right now.

You didn’t care if you killed the plants, you ripped the strawberries up by their stems, shaking their roots out as you searched their new pots.

Every. Single. One.

Empty.

Abby had given you that ring just before her last deployment, promising that she would be giving you the real thing once she got back. Of course, she never did. It was single handedly the most important piece of jewelry that you had ever owned, even above your grandmother’s pearls and engagement ring. How could you be so reckless? Why hadn’t you thought to leave it in the car?

“Stupid! I’m so fucking stupid!” You screamed, tossing a clay pot on the ground in a fit of anger. It shattered behind you, exploding into a thousand tiny pieces.

You spent an hour sifting through dirt and untangling roots before you finally realized that it was a lost cause. The ring was gone. You’d wrecked the entire greenhouse in your frantic search and the strawberries were just as you expected: dead.

You slammed the door shut behind you, the old window panes shaking with the force. You had barely thrown yourself into the pickup before your body was wracked with full body sobs. White knuckling the steering wheel you leaned your head forward, completely unbothered as the horn blared.

How could you lose something so precious to you? It had been the last gift that you had ever received from Abby. The last. There was no possible way to replace something that was that special to you. Her hands had touched that ring. She’d been nervous to give it to you in the first place, anxious that two years hadn’t been enough time to give you something that sentimental. It was the meaning behind it that had you clutching at your chest, your fingernails digging into your shirt as if you could rip your heart straight out from between your ribs.

She was going to replace that ring once she got back. Give you the “real deal” once she was back home and able to have a ceremony.

But there would never be a ceremony. Never another ring. Never another Abby.

Never. Never. Never.

It felt like you were losing a piece of her, and with that came the revelation- the same one that you’ve already had a thousand times- that she was really gone. There would be no do-overs; no alternate universes where the two of you could be together. The reality of your situation sat heavy in your throat, clogging your airway.

The loss of Abby had eclipsed your heart completely, and darkness was all that was left.

You stayed in the car until your eyes had practically swelled shut and there were no more tears to shed.

The car ride back to her childhood home was completely silent, the only sound being the engine of Joel’s shiny new truck. She did her best to compliment him on the new purchase, but Ellie was sure that she didn’t sound even half as enthusiastic as she had hoped she would. She didn’t feel like being an actress today. Not when he already knew how bad she was doing. Joel had taken one look at her as she got off of the plane and frowned, grabbing her bags only after giving her a bone shattering side hug.

“Well I missed ya,” He finally spoke, causing her to jump in surprise. The sound of his baritone voice soothed her nerves over though. “I’ve really missed you annoyin’ the hell outta me at all hours of the day.”

Ellie cracked a small smile at that, leaning her head into the plush leather seat. The last time she saw Joel was when she had first been transferred to the Kindred Hospital back in Chicago, which was where she had rotted away for a full week. Her eye and face healed up quickly but her back was a different story. She’d been burned badly and had all of the nasty scars to prove it. He had stayed by her bedside for the entire week and had helped her to readjust to being back home in her apartment. The nearly debilitating pain was the only thing that had distracted her from the gravity of her situation back then.

Her therapist said it was normal to disassociate for long periods of time when the body and mind are put under so much stress. Ellie still felt like Ellie back then, but it was only because she didn’t have any real grasp on reality. It was just a few days after Joel left that she finally snapped out of it. She was one of the only five that survived. She was told that landmines were the cause of so many deaths in Iraq.

“It happens all the time out there. You didn’t know. It’s not your fault.”

She didn’t want her unit to just be another statistic. They weren’t just numbers. They were people who had loved ones at home. Loved ones that they had to leave for months and months on end. She couldn’t help but shoulder all of the blame. Ellie was the one that had led them out there in the first place. It was her fault, so why hadn’t she died right along with them? She would have considered herself lucky if she had lost her life right along with them. These were the people that she saw daily. Ellie had developed deep friendships with every member of her unit. She knew the details of all of their lives- the names of their children and loved ones back at home, what they wanted to do with their lives once they were dismissed- how could she not feel like someone had ripped her soul to shreds? How could she not constantly remind herself, every second of every goddamn day, that she was the reason.

She was a ghost. A mere shell of the person that she once was and she had no one to blame but herself.

“I didn’t know you liked me being annoying so much,” Still, she turned to Joel and cracked him a small smile. It was more for his sake and less for hers though. “I’ll make sure to turn it up a notch while I’m here.”

The older man grumbled, shaking his head slightly as he kept his eyes on the country roads in front of him. “That sounds like a threat.”

Ellie could tell that he was playing with her. They were professionals when it came to teasing each other, often to the point that people thought that they were seriously bickering. The short haired female let herself settle into the normalcy of the moment. He hadn’t mentioned anything about the accident or her mental state yet, so it was easy to pretend that things were still…okay.

So that’s exactly what she did. She began to pretend. Ellie allowed herself to be transported back in time. This was just another Tuesday. She’d get back home and sweet talk Joel into cooking her an after school snack. Then she’d go up to her room and procrastinate doing her homework so that she could reread one of her comics.

“Got anything good in here?” Ellie asked before opening up the center console. “I’m not gonna find anything nasty, am I?”

Joel’s lips pursed as he tried to fight off a smile. “Don’t go rifflin’ through my shit, kiddo.”

Her eyes snagged on a familiar purple book, and for the first time in a while something yawned to life in her chest. Joy.

“What do we have here?” She pulled out the book of puns, using it to fan herself before she cracked the bad boy open.

“Ah, don’t start.” He groaned.

She didn’t take the time to wonder why he had put the well loved book in his brand new truck. Instead of allowing herself to be overcome with endearment she flipped to a random page, her lips turning up in the first genuine smile she’d had in months.

“Where can you find a tiny coke?” She asked him, turning in her seat so that she could face him, tucking one of her converse-clad feet underneath her.

“Hey! Get your dirty shoes off of my new upholstery!” Joel reached over and gave her knee a slap.

Ellie reared back, holding the book of puns tight to her chest.

“Come on, try and guess.”

He groaned, rolling his eyes as he leaned his arm against the door.

“I don’t know… tiny town.”

Her nose wrinkled, an eyebrow quirking up at his half assed answer.

“Shitty guess, but alright.” She mumbled under her breath. “Mini-soda.”

“Hilarious.” He said sarcastically, turning onto the familiar drive.

“I think I saw you smile though.”She leaned over to give his cheek a poke, but he swiftly batted her hand away.

The truck’s all-terrain tires crunched over the gravel driveway, revealing the only real home she’d ever lived in. The house and yard looked exactly the same as it had whenever she was a teenager. She sighed out a breath of relief, not knowing how much well she would have handled any sort of severe change. Ellie opened the passenger side door before Joel had a chance to put the car in park, eager to settle in after the flight. She wanted to shower, and that surprised her a bit. A welcome surprise.

Maybe things would be better for her here.

“You didn’t turn my old room into some perverted sex dungeon while I was gone, did you?” She teased as she grabbed her tan duffel bag, easily tossing it over her shoulder as she bounded up the stairs.

He laughed as a response, following close behind her so that he could unlock the front door. She didn’t know why he even bothered. He lived in the middle of nowhere, and they rarely got visitors.

“I’ve got some guitars in there that are worth a fortune.” He’d told her the last time she’d asked.

It had been one of the few times that Ellie had snuck out of the house after curfew. She’d been unable to haul herself back into her second story window once she’d gotten back home and had been forced to sleep in the beat up old hatchback that he had bought her for her sixteenth birthday. Breakfast that morning had been… tense, to say the least.

“I didn’t touch your room… but I did get a dog, so make sure not to let her out.”

She paused at that, turning to look at him with wide eyes. There had been a strict “no animals” rule back when she lived with him. She never thought she’d see the day where Joel Miller would adopt a pet, let alone a dog.

“You got a dog?” She was still in disbelief and half expected him to fucking with her.

“Buckley is a good boy. He shits on the floor sometimes and barks all hours of morning though. It’s almost like having you home.” He teased, bumping his shoulder against hers so that he could shove his key into the lock.

The deadbolt clicked open, and low and behold there was a dog. He looked like some sort of lab mix, his pink tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth as he anxiously waited for his owner’s return. Ellie was too excited to come up with a witty response to Joel’s joke. She tossed her duffle down on the couch, quickly getting down on her knees so that she could pet the dog.

“He’s not much of a guard dog, is he?” He asked, closing the door behind him.

The second that Ellie’s hand tangled into his thick black fur he flopped down, eager for love. Ellie smirked, looking at Joel over her shoulder.

“I don’t know. He looks pretty ferocious to me.”

The sudden knock on the door had Ellie’s lips downturning, eyebrows pinching in confusion. She didn’t like the idea of company right now, and the last thing she wanted was to socialize with anyone. For a second she feared that he had called a doctor or therapist to come out to the house to see her. She wasn’t sure if she could take another “come to Jesus” meeting this week, and she was barely holding it together as is. Ellie put her hands on her knees, pushing herself up to stand before she nodded at the door.

“Company?” She simply asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

Joel ignored her obvious distaste, wrenching the door open quickly before she could stop him. It sure as hell wasn’t Tommy. . . and Ellie doubted that most doctors wore overalls, even in Jackson. The sun was beginning to set on the horizon, the golden rays shone through the vast expanse of trees on the property, making it almost look like the world was on fire. The warm glow behind the beautiful stranger made her look ethereal almost, her eyes watery and cheeks flushed. At her feet was a cardboard box packed to the brim with fruits and vegetables. All at once Ellie became startlingly aware of the fact that she looked like absolute hammered shit. Her hair was a frizzy mess, her skin was paler than it had ever been before, and she was wearing an old NASA shirt and dingy sweatpants. If she noticed her disheveled appearance she didn’t show it.

The smile that she beamed in Joel’s direction didn’t quite reach her eyes, and a strange sense of understanding flickered in Ellie’s gaze as she took a few inquisitive steps forward. Ellie Williams knew what suffering was like; true suffering. Looking at her was like looking in a mirror, her well hidden misery plain as day to the auburn haired female.

“Sorry I’m so late, Mr Miller. My truck was giving me problems.” Her voice was beautiful. Melodic in a way that Ellie’s wasn’t.

Spring. . . this girl was spring incarnate.

And she was lying through her teeth.

She’d been crying. Ellie could tell. Still, Joel was already peeking his head out of the door, looking in the direction of where she had parked.

“I could take a look at it for you.” He was being dismissed with a small wave of your hand before he could even get the words fully out.

“That’s so nice of you, but I’ve got it cranking up again. It shouldn’t give me any more trouble today.” Her hair fell off of her shoulder as she leaned down to pick up the box.

Ellie moved forward without thinking, picking up the heavy box for the girl before her fingers could even grip the sides of the cardboard. “Here, let me get it.” She said, craning her neck up so that she could speak directly to the woman.

There wasn’t a single thing about you that Ellie found undesirable. In that moment she was completely certain that you were the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, even with the pain and memory that swirled behind your bright eyes. Their eyes locked, and much to Ellie’s embarrassment, she held her gaze. She watched her with the same sort of silent appreciation.

“-I think it would be good for her. What do you say?” Ellie hadn’t noticed that Joel had been talking the entire time.

The woman blinked a few times, tearing her eyes away from Ellie. “Huh? I’m sorry, do you mind repeating that?” She was nervously tucking a few strands of unruly hair behind her ear, shifting in place on the front porch.

“I was just saying that Ellie is going to be staying out here with me. I think working with you on the farm would be good for her. It would help her to get out of the house, and I know you’ve been pretty busy since it’s just you running things now.” Joel put a hand on Ellie’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. Supportive. Non-judgemental. He was reminding her what would be good for her mental state right now, and having something to do with her hands would certainly help to take her mind off of things.

“O-Oh!” The girl’s lips parted in shock, her eyes flickering between the two of them. “Yeah, I don’t see why not. I get a pretty early start though, so don’t feel obligated to wake up as early as I do.”

“I’ll wake up.” Ellie said quickly, nodding her head.

Her words held a tone of desperation and it had Joel’s head whipping around in her direction. He probably wasn’t expecting her to be so supportive of his last minute idea. She couldn’t be sure if it was because she genuinely wanted to get her mind off of things or if the farm girl’s looks had anything to do with her enthusiasm. Ellie couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt drawn to someone like this. Relationships were the last thing on her mind these days.

“Can you start tomorrow?” The other girl asked, shoving her hands into her front pockets.

Adorable. She was adorable. Ellie felt her breath hitch and all she could do was nod as an answer for your question.

“Alright. . . “She began to trail off, backing up a few steps on the porch. It seemed like you were in a bit of a hurry. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Tomorrow.” Ellie repeated back to her.

She leaned back, lifting the box higher up on her chest so that she could watch the woman get back into her mud stained pickup truck. She only took a step back when Joel started to close the door on her.

“So you’re actually fine with that? I didn’t think you would go for it, honestly.” Joel rubbed at his stubbled chin, flashing her a small smile of approval.

“There’s no way I want to be stuck in a house with your ass all hours of the day.” Ellie quipped, walking to the kitchen so that she could place the vegetables on the countertop.

“I think workin’ there would be good for the both of you. That poor girl has had an awful year. . . I think you’d be good for each other. She needs a friend.” Joel’s voice was somber as he followed her into the kitchen.

Ellie turned to face the older man, swallowing hard as he leaned against the doorway. He was being a bit cryptic. It seemed like he didn’t want to be the one to tell Ellie the girl’s business. Still, she was curious, and she didn’t want to be blind sided tomorrow just in case she wanted to talk about it. Ellie wasn’t usually nosey, but she had a strong urge to get to know her.

“What do you mean by that?” Ellie’s first guess was that she had to be going through some sort of divorce. Joel had mentioned the fact that she was on her own now, so coming to that conclusion was natural.

“No, nothin’ like that,” He cleared his throat before pushing off of the door frame, slowly beginning to unload the box's contents. “She lost her girlfriend and her father this year. She’s the kindest girl. . . you’d never know how much she’s sufferin’ based on how she acts.”

“Oh.” Ellie frowned, having realized that your mourning must be the reason for your sad, sad eyes. She understood how it felt to lose so many people so close together. Better than anyone, really.

“Oh.”

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spurbleu · 2 months

Text

rendezvous

ch.1 mother’s advice

[ johnny ‘soap’ mactavish x f!stripper!reader ]

▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎▅︎

S. mother left you with very little aside from her cat, calloused advice, and a legacy at your local brothel.

warnings. shameless men, customers service industry, mentions of abuse

a/n: lore drop and y'alls first meeting :) again, slowburn so be patient

word count: ~3.2k

‧︎༚︎☉°︎༚︎‧︎༚︎✳︎☉︎︎°︎‧︎༚︎‧︎

“Only eva’ let the good lookin’ ones get dirty wich ya, darlin,”

your mama had said rather plainly one night as you fixed her tea, voice coarse under cigarette,

“no use ina ugly fuck.”

Strange, how the only good advice she had given you (alive, at least. plenty of lessons from her dead), was about sex. She’d never been gentle enough with your hair to elicit the idea she might be with her words (but being a daughter meant you hoped). So, when you buried her, outdated ramblings and boorish tongue, most of what you took with you was boneless.

You packed the vulgar with the rest of the house, strapping it to the back of your truck and hoping it would nestle in the tobacco-less walls of your new apartment (a different shade of yellow- little kinder- absent of bile). Or maybe the newer wooden floors, eroded under boot heel, sturdy still.

On arrival you discovered it had found a less subtle home. Must have been some twisted fate (a mother’s memory- hardly sweet), that your new apartment was neighbors with your town’s brothel.

Funny, how a broke, orphaned woman like yourself, sun bleached elbows and sore neck, was given an opportunity to finally test the merit of a mother’s advice.

The withering building paralleled one of her last gifts to you, a lingerie set. Old brick red, lace trim gauze between blocks. Thick straps bridging bralette to panties like the iron beams holding up a raunchy sign- Rendezvous.

Stench of sex fogged up greasy windows, drunk mumblings of wifeless (or, a more depressing thought, married) men on its porch, wearing crucifixes in bogus devotion. The oak beneath their leather was rusting by their print of dust and the grooves beneath a bottle of beer- sorrel glass broken at the foot of creaky stairs.

Recently, your old church pews found their way back to your mind. You pushed the last of your boxes through the door, knees blushing purple with guilt. No, you had decided upon arrival- you wouldn’t even look at the place.

Pig stye, you’d convinced yourself, whore house. You turned your nose to it all, prissy and ornery even as they whistled from the railings, red knuckles itching for your attention. Hasty for the day they’d see you in dusk light, starting your shift. Only for you to leave them, day after day, cockdumb and unsatisfied.

And you had been doing so well, too.

That was until you opened the envelope- your mother’s allowance. The one useful thing that the drunken, deceased mess of a women could’ve given your hopeless soul. Magnum Opus of her faulty motherhood, forgiven with just some fucking money.

But she was always more complicated than that, wasn’t she. Peaking from the back of the white fold was, indeed, that wonderful, faded green of cash- but in front of it was a depressing beige- capitalized by black ink.

Girl,

Leave this apartment to you, take care of the old thing. That brothel knows me likes me; they’ll give you a job. Make yourself some real money, use my looks, darling. Be good. without me

Much love,

Mother.

You tossed the note aside before your hungry fingers tore the dip of the paper apart- revealing, and you counted a dozen times to be sure, sixteen dollars.

Sixteen dollars is what you’re worth. Cheap cattle at a fair, squalid men drooling as your mother snickers. Your scrawny legs buckled under the weight of the gold bell- which, you’ve now discovered, costs more than you do.

You’d be angrier if you were surprised. But you weren’t. Hell, sixteen wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been- with the way her money was spent on dozens of those cancer packs a day, cig smoke stealing your wages one stick at a time.

You plucked up her note, reading between the pen’s blood to find anything else. Searching, like you had in her for decades, for a little more. A secret message between your fiber taught liaison, written in the tone she had used with you (old spice on dry meat) up until she couldn’t anymore. You could hear it now, reading the note to you, and suddenly you were five again, tugging at her shawl as sleep nipped the last pages of your Goodnight Tales.

You didn’t fail to notice the way she signed it, either. Mother. You had always opted for the simpler, casual name, ‘mama’. It felt truer to what she was, an apparition of a parent spared by a younger nostalgia- lacking the reliance, the respect, of an actual mother.

Yet another opinion where the both of you seemed to diverge.

No, of course you weren’t surprised.

But you were now extremely aware she had limited your options to the worst one. No southern shop, built on dirt and sweat, was going to take a labor virgin without a foot in the door. Which meant the only place desperate enough to take soft, vestal hands and good hair was that ratty brothel.

So, stubborn oxen halting actual progress, you watched the bar for a week.

Perched on a chair by the sill, the last bags of honey tea in your cup as you observed the lulls in its busy. That way, when you eventually forced your ass from the dips it made in the old seat, you’d walk to the door with as little shame as possible.

As you scurried across the street at dawn, sunrise made the old cobble appear prettier than it was. Light finding the gaps between stone, serenity’s veil cast over the Dutch Gables in early morning. The birth of day scared off the grimier patrons, leaving you in the barren womb to watch it’s first breath. You paused there, relishing the one time the small market looked…worth it.

Seconds after you slide through the saloon doors, barely given enough time to drink up the sandy lighting and timber walls, a voice calls from behind the bar.

“We’re closed.”

She’s a natural blonde, you can tell by her lighter roots. Freckles contour a round face under eye bags- and you even catch the subtle crease of crows’ feet next to her grey eyes- blemished and old. Her lips screwed into what you think might be a permanent frown- that is until you speak,

“I’m here to apply.”

and it turns into a snarl, skin pitching at the bridge of her nostril, “We ain’t hirin’.”

Your mother’s note comes back to you, and you loosen the resentment in your voice as you say her name. “I’m her daughter. ‘Said I- you’d let me work here.”

The wrinkle laxed, and her snarl came down to a thin neutral line. “Did she finally kick the bucket?”

You nodded, unsure how to feel when her lips curled. “Damn. Y’had a firecracker of a mother. Worked alongside ‘er iner prime. Solid woman,” her eyes ran up your shoulders, “terrible mother, I reckon.”

You swallowed- she grinned. Her hand beckoned you to the stools, and you took a seat, shaking her outstretched hand. “You got ‘er looks. You’ll do fine ‘ere. Names Francesca.” Her eye narrowed to slits, “Nobody calls me Franny. Its Francesca, or Miss- got it?”

You nodded, and she flashed you another glimpse of her yellow teeth.

“I’ll start ya at the bar. See ‘ow long ya last.”

Turns out, you lasted a lot longer than she thought you would.

Swatting advances away as you gave patrons bottles, but smart enough to never get mouthy. You caught more flies with honey anyhow- so as your boots became comfortable in the mop-clean lumber floors, you’d occasionally entertain some of them.

“You single, sweetheart?” Slurred from a regular as you filled his tab. Grisly looking fellow, got years on you. Too many to be talking.

“Enough to work here.” You slid him a drink with a smile. Syrup on a glass rather than salt. The spread of his lips was telling- he tasted it.

Boisterous laughter- too loud to want just liquor- “’nough to sit on an old man’s lap?”

No. Not enough that they thought they’d get lucky- but that was the trick, wasn’t it? Just barely easy enough to send them wily looks over your shoulder, cover the spite in your voice with flirts- onion layered by a blushing red skin- weak enough that it kept them hoping. But never truly easy, moving to the next customer before the last could lean for a fat kiss.

You rolled your eyes with your back turned to him, jaw clicking in thin patience.

“Not over here. That’s for the other rooms.”

His eyes followed your pointer finger, attention sinking its dull teeth into the cardinal doors.

You pretended not to mind your position as the face of the brothel rather than the body of it. Why would you anyway? You’re sure the girls back there would kill for an easy job like yours- given the chance to politely navigate around advances rather than being forced to feed them. You only had to serve the dry slacks- and watch them as they left soiled. You didn’t have to see- no, make- that filthy in-between.

Church taught you enough. Nothing but festering confessionals behind that door.

But goodness, could you be childish. Curious mind, insecure heart- all of you greedy. You were positive they made bushels more than you- and all for some more skin, done up hair and lidded eyes?

You could do that.

Bitter, confusing envy. Makes you mad when Francesca gave you a hard no after asking for a promotion- but sorry as you curl in thin sheets before dreamless slumber.

(Did your greed weigh more than morals? Did church and your father’s absence teach you that little? Nothing should be this existential- but maybe that’s why it’s uprooting. Forked road- giving up a part of you either way.

You hate to admit you buried something of your own with your mother’s body, but what you hate more is that it’ll take this decision to figure out just what it was. Your innocence- daughterhood and a sweet virtue, or your hearth- the fight to survive and earn. Living for a little vice.

You’d dream in saturation on these nights, colors crisper than they’ve ever been- even young. You were never sure why the colors were so bright.)

So here you are, another night drawn as a sloppy line under a bar, marking…3 months? Sunrise and sunset look so similar nowadays, and it made the silhouette of an hourglass harder to etch in the tan pages of your moleskin.

However, it did give you more time to sketch out the pub.

The booths pulled the same wood of the wall forward in a curved seat, split by a table and cushioned by yellow pillows- filled with rice, those damn things must have been harder than the booths themselves.

Around them, dark oak tables and creaky chairs- makes any working man feel ten pounds heavier with the way they whine when sat on. A candle and 3 coasters in the center of every round table, beckoning more drinks as the day died. In fact- those wax sticks were everywhere along the tavern- even in a chandelier that dangled above the liquor shelf, occasionally dripping hot tears on the bar.

Just the kind of place you’d expect to see the men you do.

Seedy- dusting in the corner of your bar are built scrawny- diet of yeast and grass evident in the hollow of their back. Mouths they hide from their mothers, hands that hit harder than their fathers. But in the redness of their cheeks- bloated by the sun and the contents you served them- was a weakness.

Masculine insecurity that had them calling you a ‘pretty bitch’. A compliment, but derogatory enough their clam tongue wasn’t revealed under the folds of their shell. No pearl, no wealth- just a common, beached, animal.

“’nother round, for mah fellows, baby.”

You glanced up. Sullen face, grey beard- twisted lips that cracked under ale. He flashed crooked teeth, and you strained a smile, forcing the tired plump of your cheeks to spread. You slipped your journal beneath the bar, taking his cups and filling them until the clouds of foam kissed the rim.

He flipped a couple coins on the counter, and you slid them into your palm.

You sighed, running your tongue along the cast of your teeth. Late hours were so boring- never new- repetitive that even the loud, sudden laughter from that back corner didn’t phase you anymore.

There were no more surprises- because everyone was here.

Ned and his calloused farmer men. Not too much of a hassle, sat in the back and called you names- but let you work. Callum and his wallowing ass in the center tables, nursing his umpteenth glass of the evening ever since his wife left.

And Silas- sweet boy- young and excited to drink. He’s more often than not by himself, drunk silly as he draws. You liked him more than the rest- brother feeling about him. Kinder.

So, it surprises you when the bell rings, well into the night, and he walks in.

Brutish arms- hung by shoulders that nearly reach the door frame. The rest of him was just as big- military fed, you had to assume. Strong jaw, buzzed skull except for a well-trimmed bush down the center. He stood out like a sore thumb, the slender builds of farmer boys a third of the bull that stood in front of you.

You weren’t the only one who noticed, as you heard the laughter behind you hush and Callum’s wallowing come to a lull. He didn’t seem to mind- especially as he made his way to the bar- eyes and smile beguiling- and directed at you.

Now you weren’t easily charmed- but you knew a handsome man when you saw one. It’s the particular weight on their shoulders- making their feet come down heavier and gate smooth.

Nothing wrong with looking at them- just as long as you don’t get too comfortable. Just because they’re clams with nicer shells, maybe even a pearl between clean teeth, doesn’t mean they’re any less washed up.

“Welcome. What can I get’cha tonight.” You offered him the same smile you gave everyone.

“Aye. A pint ‘il do.”

The thick arches of gaelic in his voice caught you off guard. Deep timbers, pine rooted in his throat, leaves lime with humor. It pooled in the back of your mouth- an aftertaste you found yourself liking.

You filled his glass, rolling the shock off your shoulders. “We don’t get many scots ‘n here.”

He chuckled as you handed him a glass, blue eyes unwavering as he took a sip. “Nae? Though’ it’da be fool of ‘em.”

He pulled a genuine laugh out of you- the sound of sarcasm familiar- comforting. “What brings you here.”

“Work.” He said plainly- but the twitch on his knuckle told you he wanted you to ask more.

“Military?”

“What gave ye tha’ idea?”

You hummed, eyes running up his shoulders. You didn’t miss how they squared, conscious under your gaze. “You don’t look like a farmer. Too much of you.”

“Aye, ere’s neva too much of me, darl.”

You sucked in your bottom lip. Charmer.

“So, you are military, then?”

“Yes ma’am.”

You idled your hands with one of the many dirty glasses that blistered under old soap studs and dried foam. The rags bumpy fabric prickled your fingers- enough to keep them from trembling when he spoke.

“What branch of the military brings you out in the middle of nowhere?”

“Most of em.”

Your lips thin to an embarrassed line. Right, of course. “I…guess I’m really asking what branch you are.”

He took another swing of his beer, and you watched as he tipped his jaw back- revealing the catch of his throat as he swallowed. Must have been on purpose- show off. “SAS. On leave, yer place looked tidy,” his eyes gave you a once over, “good tae see ’m right.”

Turning to set the glass down gave you an excuse to avoid his eyes. Demin blue but not casual, deep-set and sharp. Military grade, you could tell by the way they really saw. Accessing you, ran up the hunch of your spine and the click of your wrist- aiming to find spare bullets and threats.

He’d come up empty, though. No, not in you. All he’d find was the jump of your heart against your cervical.

“Mmm,” you offered, “Its cute, I’ll give it that much. Good for the drinks.”

He nodded, “’N maybe somethin more…”

These are the moments when your mother’s voice comes back to you. Thick spit, coarse hair- tangled and suffocating- your lungs sting almost as much as the red print on your cheek.

“Foolish child.”

Your back was turned, so you thought maybe you’d finally been tempting enough to something pretty. That the lilt in his voice, the gravel as it went an octave deeper, accent blooming under light o’s and rolled r’s- meant for your company.

That maybe, the looks you had been told were your only asset, had finally done some good.

You were left disappointed when you turned back around, cheeks a hopeful rose, when his eyes had left you. Instead, past your shoulder, to the red doors.

You’d never seen what was actually behind them, Francesca made sure of that. You could only assume it was the collection of every mans desire painted pretty- shelves of toys, women in bright, expensive lingerie, red lips on rum ones. A childish image, really, but what else were you to do?

In a way, you were just as desperate to get behind those doors as every man here. Not necessarily in the same way- not to satisfy some sick desire, dig up a buried, old arousal that their poor wives didn’t anymore.

No, for you it was to satisfy your own insecurity. Hungry creature, eager to prove and ready to sweat. To be something- pretty, ugly, didn’t matter. As long as you had a place there, you’d be rich.

“Oh, yes,” you let your customer smile come back, editing the script you were given in your head, “pretty gals over there. If you wanted a-“

“Ye work tere?”

You choked on nothing. “What?”

“Do ye work ‘n ta brothel?”

Genuine curiosity. Maybe he was hiding something else behind thin lips, but the question came out too casual for its boldness that you wouldn’t’ve caught it. You found yourself unsure in your own body, standing stiff as your bones questioned whether to lean, sit, or run.

You chose none of the three, and instead you spoke.

“No.” Not yet. You wanted to add. He hummed, taking a last swig of his pint before placing the cup on the table with a…hefty tip. You opened your mouth to say something, but when your eyes met his you were quickly hushed.

Ripped denim, now razor blue. The yellow of the lights seemed to bring it out, and if you weren’t confident he had killed a man, you were now.

“Shame,” he said, standing, “Such a bloody waste.”

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 5 months

Text

1968 [Chapter 8: Demeter, Goddess Of The Harvest]

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

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

Word Count: 6.2k

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

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Is it a story worth telling? I think so. It’s better than nothing. It’s better than watching raindrops slither down the cracked concrete walls until the prison guards come back to bloody us again.

Today I’m sending John McCain taps in the shape of the tale of Io. John has a hard time tapping back—they’re doing something to his shoulders, they’re destroying him—but he likes to listen. He’s getting it a lot worse than I am; perhaps even the North Vietnamese fear Aemond’s retribution if I die here. They should be afraid of him. He thinks he owns everything he touches, and he’ll snap bones to keep it.

So anyway, Io was a king’s daughter, a mortal who Zeus saw and wanted and took when her father kicked her out to avoid the god’s wrath. That’s easily half of Greek mythology, right? Zeus appears, irrevocably fucks up someone’s life, vanishes in a plume of clouds and thunder. He leaves human rubble behind him: ribs, nerves, disembodied hearts that leak blood from torn ventricles, minds broken in two. Zeus impregnated Io and then turned her into a cow to hide her from his wife Hera, ever-watchful, ever-vengeful, an aspiring mass murderess. When this disguise failed, Hera condemned Io to wander ceaselessly through the wilderness, tormented by the constant stinging of a gadfly. Eventually, Zeus returns Io to human form and she pops out a few bastard kids, as if Zeus needs any more of those. Then he ditches her and she marries some Egyptian dude. There are other details that I’ve forgotten. I don’t think John McCain will know the difference.

I’m sure you’re wondering how I acquired all this fabled trivia. I don’t seem like the type to lie around under trees reading folklore from religions that died thousands of years ago. You’re right, I’m not. But Aemond is. He would tell the stories, and Helaena would embroider scenes on quilts for us to burrow under in the winter, and I would dramatically act out the best parts (mostly murders), and Aegon would scribble comics in jagged black pen strokes. He has all these notebooks down in the basement filled with his new versions of ancient myths: Poseidon as a horny dolphin, Aphrodite as Marilyn Monroe.

Wait, I remember what I skipped. While Io was roaming across the globe, she bumped into Prometheus—chained to a rock for giving humans the gift of fire—and he cheered her up somehow. I guess meeting a guy who gets his liver continuously chewed out by a giant eagle would make me more appreciative of my circumstances too.

I have a lot of time to myself here in solitary confinement. My social circle is microscopic. I tap to John through the wall, I have dinner dates with Tessarion the rat. And I think about my family. They’re fucked up, but I miss them. I miss going to Monmouth Park with Fosco to bet on horse races, I miss getting hammered with Aegon while he sings Johnny Cash or Beatles songs. I miss my mother and Helaena and Criston. I even miss Aemond’s wife, though I only met her a few times before I deployed. She’s sharp, she’s hilarious. She’s mean as hell to Aegon, and sometimes he deserves it.

At first I wondered why Aemond hasn’t gotten me out yet, but I understand now. It sounds a lot better to have a brother being tortured as a prisoner of war than one who received a Get Out Of Jail Free card. It’s the kind of thing Aemond would consider. He understands which stories are worth telling.

I feel kind of bad for her. Aemond’s wife, I mean.

I don’t think she knows about Alys.

~~~~~~~~~~

On a chilly mid-September morning cloaked in fog, Mimi is laid to rest in the Targaryen family mausoleum at Saint George Greek Orthodox Cemetery in Asbury Park, New Jersey. Most of the golden plaques already have names chiseled into them: Viserys and Alicent, Fosco and Helaena. Aegon will one day be interred beside his wife. You have a spot reserved next to Aemond. All of you have already lived and died and been entombed; all of this was predestined by the stars eons before you had blood or bones.

Ari’s vault—an unnaturally tiny drawer, less than half the size of anyone else’s—is located just above yours. You can’t stop staring at it. You can’t hear anything the bearded priest in his black robes is chanting. Then Cosmo squeezes your hand and you look down at him. Mimi’s other children are somber but seem to be coping well enough—they are used to being raised by consensus, they would probably be more affected if one of the nannies died—but Cosmo always wants to be near you. He gazes up with those vast, wet, murky blue eyes, so much like Aegon’s, and you offer him a sad, reassuring smile. Cosmo smiles back. And you think: Life goes on.

Alicent is sniffling noisily; it echoes off the walls of the mausoleum. Criston—a man with no plaque assigned to him—is trying to console her. Aegon is watching you from across the cold granite chamber, grim and red-eyed in his black suit, the first time you can remember seeing him in one since your wedding. He wears no small gold hoops, only a row of stitches in his right ear. He wants to say something, to do something, but he can’t. Aemond is beside you, a hand heavy on your waist but muttering something to Otto. Back in Omaha, Otto had spent a few hours alone with the medical examiner, and when the death certificate was issued it revealed that Mimi died of a heart defect, a perfectly blameless sort of misfortune, an innate impending disaster. And so that’s what the newspapers printed, and any gossip to the contrary is confined to salacious rumors, untrustworthy and unproven.

When the ceremony is over, journalists are waiting to scavenge for photos and quotes under the guise of expressing their sympathies. It’s a shameless display, though they at least have the decency to wait by the cemetery gates. Aemond and Otto go to meet them. Alicent, Criston, Helaena, and Fosco, protective of the children, keep them far away from the feeding frenzy, hungry-eyed reporters like sharks without fins. Ludwika is reapplying her lipstick. Aegon is smoking a Lucky Strike and talking to his oldest son, Orion, a stilted exchange that holds the promise of turning warm with time.

You sit on a stone bench and Cosmo curls up beside you, rests his head in your lap, dozes off as you thread your fingers through his wavy blonde hair. In the mist there are shadows of gravestones and trees that turn skeletal as they shed their leaves.

“He is okay?” Fosco says as he ambles over, meaning Cosmo. He has his hands in the pockets of his slim black trousers that stop at his ankles. His suit is velvet, his eyeglasses speckled with drizzle from the slate-grey sky.

“He’s alright. He’s resting. Are you okay?”

“Oh,” Fosco sighs mournfully. “I keep thinking someone is missing. We came into this family together, Mimi and I. We got married six months apart. I have never had to do this without her. And I know she had her problems, but she was different when she was younger. She always liked a party, that’s why she and Aegon got along so well at first. But she was so loud and so funny, always telling these long stories, and everyone in the room would be grinning as they waited for the good part. Viserys loved her. Otto loved her. And then she had all those children one after the other, and that was hard, and Aegon self-destructed when he was the mayor of Trenton, and that was worse, and she was supposed to fix him and she couldn’t, the harder she tried the farther he ran from her. She started drinking her Gimlets before dinner, and then after lunch, and by the time you showed up it was never ending. But that wasn’t who she really was. She was like a moon that got smaller and smaller until the only thing left was a sliver.”

This family breaks people. This family kills people. “We’ll make ossi dei morti for Mimi tonight. I’ll help you, and we can teach the kids.”

Fosco smiles, swipes a tear from beneath his glasses, squeezes your shoulder with one wiry hand. “I am very glad you are still here.”

“I’m not trying to race you to that mausoleum.”

Fosco laughs. And then he says as he spies Aegon approaching: “Um…I will go avoid the paparazzi somewhere else.”

“You don’t have to leave, Fosco.”

“It is no trouble. And I suspect you enjoy your very rare privacy.” Fosco gives you a knowing glace and then heads back to where Helaena, Alicent, and Criston are lingering with the rest of the children. Now Ludwika is fluffing her blonde curls with her French tips, a smoldering Camel cigarette tucked between two fingers.

Aegon comes to you through the mist, plops onto the bench, and looks fondly down at Cosmo—now fast asleep, his face smooth and peaceful—before he speaks. “I can’t grasp that she’s really gone. We barely spoke for years, but she was always there, you know? Christ, she deserved better than this. She could have been happy somewhere else.”

“Your children need you.” It’s not the first time you’ve said it, but it’s the first time he believes you. He nods, staring out into the fog. “They have to get away from this whole circus for a while. And you have to learn how to be a real parent.”

“I’ll have time to work on it. I’m staying here. I’ve already been informed.”

You are alarmed. “What? By who?”

“Aemond and Otto.” Aegon says. “When the rest of you fly west, my kids and I will be at Asteria.”

“They’re getting you off the campaign trail,” you realize.

“They’re putting me on house arrest.”

Not seeing Aegon, not being near him? How long can I stand that? “I’m sure you’re relieved. You hate the grandstanding and the media.”

He shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“I won’t be alone. I have Fosco and Ludwika.”

“I’ll talk to them.”

“About what?”

“About the fact that they need to look out for you.”

“Aegon, I’ve been doing the political wife thing for over two years.”

“But it’s different now.”

He’s right, it is.

“You’ll call, won’t you?” he asks. “You’ll let me know how the trip is going, you’ll tell me if anything bad happens? Because I can always get on a plane and meet you wherever you are. Otto might pay someone to murder me, but I’d risk it.”

“Of course I’ll call.”

“Hey.” Gently, he turns your face so you can’t hide from him. “Will you be okay without me?”

I have to be. I don’t have a choice. Instead you reply: “I’ll miss the weed.”

The tension breaks and Aegon smiles, and then he pats your cheek twice with his open palm. “Behave yourself.” He waves Ludwika over, interrupting her meditative chain smoking.

“What, what?” Ludwika says. “Are we leaving soon? Yes, it is so sad what happened to Mimi, but us standing around in the rain won’t resurrect her. And I look terrible in black.”

“I can’t be there for the last leg of the campaign.” Aegon points to you. “I need you to pay attention and check in with her at least a few times a day.”

“This is a common request. I should get a degree in it so I can charge people.”

Aegon furrows his brow at her. “What are you talking about?”

Ludwika smirks as she puffs on her Camel. “You are not the first person to ask me to keep an eye on her.” She nods subtly towards Aemond, then sashays off to give a quote to the journalists.

~~~~~~~~~~

In San Diego, Aemond meets with residents of a new public housing complex to hear their concerns about neighborhood jobs and infrastructure. In San Jose, he visits labor activist Caesar Chavez—being treated for debilitating back pain at O’Connor Hospital—and expresses support for the ongoing boycott of all grapes produced in the state. In Sacramento, he attends a Jimi Hendrix concert and receives a standing ovation from the audience; the next day he joins high school students protesting for a more inclusive curriculum. In Oregon, he makes a speech at Portland State University acknowledging the tremendous cost of the Vietnam War—in money, in time, in blood—and pledges to begin dismantling U.S. involvement as soon as he is sworn into office in January. Aemond talks about hope and despair, the bleak reality and the American Dream, and he is so overwhelmed by the crowd that he doesn’t even notice when someone takes his cufflinks as souvenirs. His lack of concern for his own safety exasperates Criston, but Aemond can’t be convinced to increase his security or his distance. If he expects the disaffected masses to carry him to the White House, he has to be real to them.

“What if another Wallace supporter tries to shoot you?” Criston demands. “What if a Nixon stooge stabs you or a crowd tramples you?”

“No one can kill me,” Aemond says, grinning wryly. “I’m not supposed to die yet. I’m supposed to be the president. It is God’s will.” And how can anybody disagree when that appears to be so true?

The earth dies as you drive north, summer withering into autumn. That familiar brisk cuttingness reappears in the air. You shake thousands of hands, smile for countless photographs. Mothers and wives of dead soldiers sob into your shoulder as you embrace them; teenage girls ask how they can get a good man like Aemond. Only one thing is missing from his glorious pilgrimage: something he wants desperately, something he cannot have (though he’ll never know why), you conceiving his child in time to announce it before Election Day. Each morning you sneak a pill and every night you bite the bullet. As often as you can, you duck into Dairy Queens to order lemon-lime Mr. Mistys.

George Wallace is in the South, galvanizing segregationists and accepting the endorsement of the Ku Klux Klan. Richard Nixon is working his way across the Midwest. He has chosen a politically moderate Greek as a running mate, Spiro Agnew; this does not strike you as a coincidence. He even shares a name with Aegon’s second son.

Nixon promises “peace with honor” in Vietnam, which means no immediate end to the draft. He makes speeches about “states’ rights” and “law and order,” ambiguous euphemisms designed to attract Wallace’s white supremacists without alienating too many suburban moderates. He commiserates with those lamenting the proliferation of sex, drugs, and divorce. He says he will return the nation to a more moral time. You wonder what he means. You can’t think of any such refuge in the bloodletting, spine-crushing history of mankind.

A kindergarten teacher tells you in Olympia, Washington, her eyes alight with reverence usually reserved for heroes, saints, gods: “People are voting for Aemond, but they’re voting for you too.”

And you find yourself thinking as a thousand miles roll by beyond the glass of limousine windows: How many people will I condemn if I don’t help Aemond win? How many lives is mine worth?

~~~~~~~~~~

The Hotel Sorrento in Seattle insists on giving you and Aemond the honeymoon suite: a retreat from the breakneck campaign, a romantic oasis for the future president and first lady…according to half the country, anyway. You are in the impractically large pink bathtub, surrounded by snowy dunes of bubbles. The wall to your right is a mirror, foggy around the edges; just a few yards to your left is the king-sized bed. In the top drawer of your nightstand is the card Aegon gave you in July. You aren’t sure where Aemond is, and you don’t especially care. You are relieved to be alone.

There’s a passion-red phone built into the rim of the tub, conveniently located for sudden room service revelations, champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries, steak and lobster. You have a different idea. It’s 7:15 p.m. here, so after 10 on the East Coast. On the steam-slick keypad, you dial the number for the main house at Asteria.

Eudoxia picks up and demands gruffly: “Geiá sou? Ti?”

“Hi, Doxie. Is Aegon around?”

“Where else would he be? Making himself useful somehow? Killing communists, driving a rocket to the moon? No. He is a burden as always.”

“Please be nice to him. His wife just died.”

“And so he cannot put his empty cups in the sink?” Without waiting for a reply, she sets the handset down on the kitchen counter with a clunk. There is distant, muffled shouting in Greek; she seems to back and forth with somebody. Then Eudoxia returns. “Antio sas,” she says, and hangs up just as a phone elsewhere in the house is lifted from its cradle.

Aegon answers with something halfway between a groan and a yawn. “Yeah?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Hey!” You can hear it riding the wire like electricity: a rustling as he sits up, a fresh clarity in his skull. His voice is deep, hushed, still husky with sleep. “What’s up, little Io? Any interesting happenings to report from your neighborhood of the solar system?”

“I just left a riveting tea party. Apple cinnamon scones and smoked salmon sandwiches. We talked about what kind of couches I should get for the White House and I wanted to kill myself. Are the kids okay?”

He’s smiling; you can tell. “They’re alright. I could have used you this afternoon. I was trying to help Spiro with his math homework. Trying, not succeeding.”

“Well he’s in middle school and thus beyond your skill.”

“How’s Jupiter?”

You know who he means. “I don’t want to talk about Aemond.”

“Okay.” Aegon says, curious. “So what should we talk about?”

A few seconds tick by, silent and perilous. “Where are you right now?”

“In my lair. Like a beast.”

“Alone?”

A transitory pause. “At the moment.”

“On the shag carpet or your futon?”

Now he’s very intrigued. “Futon. Why?”

“I just want a visual.” Beneath the water, your free hand is resting on the velvety inside of your thigh.

“Where are you?” Aegon asks.

“You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Maybe I want a visual too.”

You chuckle, peeking over at yourself in the mirror. Your skin is dewy with steam; stray wisps of hair stick to your face. “I’m in a gigantic pink bathtub. It’s ridiculous, it’s shaped like a heart and everything. They have a phone installed right here in case I find myself in desperate need of filet mignon.”

“Oh.” And then he hesitates, like he’s afraid to say the wrong thing. “Big enough for two?”

“More like five. You should get a tub like this for your basement, it would delight the campaign staffers.”

“My basement’s been pretty empty recently.”

Softly, vulnerably, glass offered for him to shatter: “You aren’t seeing other girls?”

“Nah, babe. I want something they can’t give me.”

You picture him, messy hair falling over his forehead, drowsy eyes that gleam with clandestine wisdom. You can smell the smoke and rum that bleeds from his skin. “I wish you were here.”

“In Seattle?”

“No. Right here.”

Aegon exhales shakily, swallows, takes a few seconds to collect himself. “How’s the water?”

“Extremely hot and full of bubbles.”

“So I wouldn’t be able to see you.”

“No,” you say, baiting him.

“But I could touch you.”

“You already have.”

“Not enough,” he murmurs. “Nowhere close to enough.”

“Do you remember what I felt like?”

“Oh God,” he whispers, and you envision him closing his eyes, rubbing his face with the open palm of his left hand. “Yeah. Of course I do. I can’t get it out of my head. But I’ve been trying not to…you know…it felt wrong to think about you that way unless you were cool with it. Like I was betraying your trust or taking advantage of you or something.”

“No, I want you to think about me.”

You can hear Aegon moving around on the green futon, repositioning himself, yanking down a zipper. When he speaks again, his breathing is quick and jagged. “Where’s your other hand, huh?”

“Under the water,” you reply coyly.

“You bitch,” he says, laughing. “I miss you so fucking much. The house isn’t right without you in it. You belong here, you belong where I am.”

Beneath the veil of bubbles and steam, there is no scar on your belly, no infidelity, no campaign, no distance of almost 3,000 miles separating you and Aegon. Your fingers slip between your legs, finding slickness the water can’t wash away. It’s a familiar sensation, though you haven’t felt it in a while: rising steadily until you hit a plateau like a jet reaching cruising altitude. From here, it will either glide along smoothly until it dies out, or eventually turn sharp and painful. “Tell me about you,” you pant.

He can hear it in your voice, a needful surrender that sets him on fire. He can’t believe this is happening; he never wants it to end. “I mean, I’m…I’m insanely hard.”

“Stroke yourself, imagine it’s me. I wish it could be me.”

“Oh fuck,” Aegon whimpers. “Okay, okay…I want you. I want you with my fingers, I want you with my tongue, I want you to beg for it, and then…”

Impossibly, incomparably, your own pleasure is climbing faster than you can reconcile yourself to it, no longer a hunger but a violent aching, a crushing gravity you can’t fight against, a ship being dragged to the floor of the ocean. What’s happening? When will it end? You moan into the phone, amazed yet petrified. You can’t get enough air; it feels like drowning, like dying.

“I need to see you,” Aegon says. He’s close to the climax that you know men experience, he has to be; he’s gasping. “I need to be with you, let me give you what you want.”

“I want you to finish inside me.”

“Io…babe…oh my God, you’re gonna kill me…”

There are sounds out in the front room of the suite: a lock clicking, footsteps, keys and a wallet tossed onto the kitchenette counter. You’re so consumed you almost don’t notice. Aemond is back. Aemond is back!! And every ion of your ascending euphoria evaporates. “Gotta go, bye.”

“Wait—!”

You hang up just as Aemond is opening the bedroom door. He walks in—immaculately tailored dark blue suit, polished black leather shoes trampling soft pink carpet—and turns to you. He has already taken his glass eye out and put on his eyepatch. Vaguely, fleetingly, you wonder where he’s been. His gaze darts to the red phone, your fingerprints in the condensation. “Who were you talking to?”

“My parents.”

If Aemond doubts this, he doesn’t show it. He crosses the room, sits on the edge of the bathtub, peers down at you with an omniscient metallic glint in his eye. He’s always been less a man than a force of nature. “I know this year has been hell.”

You envision Persephone being stolen by Hades, Orpheus searching for his dead wife Eurydice, Charon ferrying souls across the River Styx. “You haven’t made it easier.”

There’s a flash of something in his scarred face, blazing and instantaneous like lightning, and then it fades. He reaches out to touch your hair, swept up and neatly bound with clips and pins. “We can’t forget everything we’ve accomplished together,” Aemond says. “I still need you. You’re my Aphrodite.”

He’s going to tell you to get out of the tub, to lie down on the bed, to open yourself so he can fill you. You distract him, forestalling the inevitable. Each morning Prometheus dreads the return of the eagle that pecks out his liver; as every summer ends Demeter mourns the loss of Persephone. “Any luck with Nixon?”

Aemond sighs, furious, brooding. “He still won’t agree to a debate. Wallace is onboard, he’s rabid for it, he’d show up if we held it in the fucking asteroid belt, any opportunity to spew his idiocy. But not Nixon.”

“Because he knows standing on the same stage as you can only hurt him. People thought he looked bad in 1960, can you imagine now? Television has gotten so much clearer. They’ll be able to count his sweat drops from their living room couches.”

“So how do I get him to do it?”

You look up at Aemond. It’s not a hypothetical question; he’s really asking for advice.

“I have to debate Nixon,” Aemond insists. “It’s close in the polls, which means it will be even closer on Election Day. I’ll underperform whatever is projected, my coalition is less likely to show up when it counts. College kids, hippies, transients. That’s just a fact. But the old people vote. The suburban housewives vote. Nixon’s resting on his political experience and accusations that I’m a communist, an agent of chaos. But I could slaughter him in an hour on ABC.”

You think of the mutilated Vietnam veterans waving their signs and screaming at LBJ from the other side of the wrought-iron gates of the White House. “Challenge him in public. Say that the American people deserve to see the candidates debate, and do it where everyone can hear you.”

“What if Nixon still refuses?”

“Then you call him a coward. You say he must have something to hide. You ask how he’s supposed to square up with the Russians and the Chinese if he can’t even face you.”

Aemond grins admiringly. “You’re vicious.” And he lifts your hand from the rim of the tub so he can kiss your knuckles. Once you licked up drops of his approval like Tantalus, cursed with eternal thirst. Now it is poison that turns your veins black.

“If there’s a debate, everyone should go,” you say, seized by sudden inspiration. “We should have a united front, including Aegon. It can be his return to the public eye. A month will have passed since the funeral, the timing is right. He can pose for a few photos with the kids to show the nation that they’re doing well and distract from any lingering rumors about Mimi.”

Aemond isn’t grinning anymore. He’s studying you with his cold blue gaze; no, he’s trying to intimidate you, to overpower you. “Otto and I will decide what to do with him.”

“He’s a Targaryen. He should be with the rest of us.”

Aemond stands and motions for you to follow, a snap of his wrist like a man calling a dog. “It’s late. Let’s go to bed.”

Panic, tension, an iron sinking in your belly. The water is only lukewarm now, but you don’t want to leave it. “I’m not done yet.”

“Yes you are.”

There’s nothing else to say. Legally, a wife’s flesh is one with her husband’s. You slip as you step out of the bathtub, and Aemond grabs your forearm. Not like he’s helping you; like you’re something he owns.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two knocks, swift and forceful. “Hey, it’s me. You ready? Everyone else is downstairs in the lobby waiting for the limos.”

You hurry to open the door, almost twisting your ankle as you stumble in your heels. They’re an inch higher than what you’re used to. Aemond chose them, and your dress too, and your sapphire teardrop earrings, and the silver chains around your wrist and throat, and your future and your past, and your life itself. It’s mid-October, and the night of what will almost certainly be the sole presidential debate of 1968. Aemond’s retinue is staying at the Hotel Saint Louis. It’s harvest time, the fields beyond the city being reaped of their soybeans, wheat, corn, cotton, and rice, the beef cattle culled in mechanical underworlds. Aegon’s flight must have just landed.

As soon as he sees you his eyes drop, wide and bewitched, ensnared everywhere except your face. You say: “Can you help me zip this, please?”

He blinks a few times, then shakes it off. “Sorry, what?”

“The zipper’s stuck. I need you to get it.”

“Yeah. Sure.” He steps into the suite and stands behind you. The gown is a vivid blue like the Greek flag, gorgeous and shimmering but a size too small. It wasn’t tight a week ago, but now it is, and you aren’t pregnant just always gaining and losing weight in new places, first the baby and then the pill, and it wouldn’t bother you if Aemond didn’t seem so confounded by it. Aegon says as he tugs at the zipper: “I don’t think it’s gonna fit, babe.”

“It has to fit.”

“Even if I miraculously get this closed, you won’t be able to breathe.”

“Do whatever you have to. Just…just…” You push every last molecule of air out of your lungs, suck in your belly, and you hear the triumphant squeal of the zipper. “Yes!” Oh, but Aegon was right: you really can’t breathe. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“You’re not gonna last the whole debate in that. You’ll be sweating more than Nixon.”

“I’m fine.”

“Io…”

“I’m fine. Come on.” You snatch your matching purse off the coffee table by the couch, check your makeup one last time, and hobble in your heels as you walk with Aegon out into the hallway.

At the Kiel Auditorium a few blocks away, the Targaryen children—Aegon’s five and Helaena’s three—are presented for photographs before being escorted back to the hotel by the nannies. And even in the few weeks that have passed since you last saw Aegon’s kids, there have been extraordinary changes. They talk to their father, and he talks back, and he ruffles their hair and rests his hands on their shoulders and asks them about what they’re learning from their private tutors. Cosmo tackles you before he leaves—a powerful bear hug, though he can only reach your legs—and he says he hopes you’re coming home to Asteria soon.

“Me too, kiddo,” Aegon tells him, and then smiles at you; but above his gleam of teeth his cloudy blue eyes, like the Atlantic in a storm, are gloomy and troubled.

As the audience takes their seats and the journalists are poised to capture the best images and quotes of the night, the three candidates and their wives (minus Wallace’s dear departed Lurleen) meet briefly backstage to exchange the perfunctory well-wishes. Pat Nixon is introverted and bookish, though she tries to hide it; but Aemond reels her in like swordfish until her eyes are filled with him. George Wallace gets one glimpse of your venomous glare and escapes, claiming to need one last trip to the restroom before the debate begins. But Richard Nixon beckons you to accompany him to a quiet, discrete corner of the room.

“I tried to call,” he says. He’s a remarkably normal man: medium height, receding dark hair, rough voice, weathered skin, not a god but a mortal, and—you have the impression—more aware of his flaws than his fiercest critics will ever be. “But no one at that damned beach house would ever put me through to you.”

You aren’t sure what he means. “Oh?”

“I never got the opportunity to tell you how sorry I was for your loss in July, Mrs. Targaryen,” Nixon says with unglamorous, plain, genuine compassion. “Pat and I, when we heard, we wept for you. We truly did. And for your husband to be clear across the country…I can’t even imagine. It must have been awful for you. A parent never gets over something like that. It stays with you like a scar.”

“It does,” you say softly.

“I lost two brothers. Arthur died when he was seven, tuberculosis killed Harold in his twenties. God, it just about destroyed my mother. You’re a remarkable woman. You’re lightning in a bottle for Aemond, do you know that? You’re like one of those Kennedy gals, but even better. More personable than Jackie. More intelligent than Ethel…although, to be frank, who wouldn’t be? And you’re not afflicted with any ghastly vices like Ted’s wife Joan. What would Aemond do without you? He’d lose, that’s what he’d do.”

Nixon’s smart, but he’s wounded. He’s capable, but he’s so desperate to prove it. Power could ruin a man like this. “You’re very kind, sir. You did some great work under Eisenhower. Self-made like my father was, a devotee of the American Dream. I believe you have an important role to play in this country…” You smirk, a bit mischievously. “Just not as the president.”

Nixon chortles. “No matter what happens tonight, rest assured that I hate Reagan more than I could ever dislike your husband,” he says, meaning the Republican governor of his home state of California. “You know that bastard tried to primary me?”

“Actors don’t belong in politics.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Nixon says, and then bids you farewell as the lights turn blinding and the curtain begins to rise.

As soon as the adrenaline begins to fade, all you can think about is that you can’t breathe. You take your seat in the audience between Aegon and Ludwika, who won’t stop making jabs about Nixon: “He looks like a troll,” “He looks like a sasquatch,” “Do you think Pat makes him wear a Creature from the Black Lagoon mask in bed so she is not so repulsed by him?” The most you can offer is an occasional distracted nod in response.

“You alright?” Aegon whispers.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t look alright.”

“I’m great.”

“Sure,” he says, and he acts like he’s teasing, but there’s something tremendously sad underneath. He can’t save you from this. He can’t save you from anything. What must that feel like?

On the debate stage—broadcast to a national audience—Aemond performs brilliantly. Nixon salvages what could have been a bloodbath with a handful of clever retorts that Aemond pretends not to be rattled by. The real loser of the night is Wallace, who is brutally attacked by them both: Nixon because Wallace is commandeering some of his voting bloc, and Aemond because of his near-assassination back in May. After an hour, the contest concludes and the candidates descend to the main floor to pose for photos and get lassoed into brief interviews with various journalists. Everyone in Aemond’s entourage besides you and Aegon flock to his side. By now you’re gasping in shallow gulps, close to tears and in agony from your ribs to your wobbling feet.

“I told you,” Aegon says. And then: “Come on. We’ll take the first limo back.”

In the front room of your hotel suite—one yellowish end table lamp glowing dimly, the rest of the space like twilight—Aegon wrestles with the zipper as you struggle for every breath, trying not to pass out. “Ow,” you whine. “Oh fuck, this was so stupid…”

“Don’t let him make you wear shit you don’t want to wear.”

“I have to do what he says, Aegon.”

“He doesn’t own you.”

“Legally, he does.”

He’s tugging futilely at the jammed zipper. “Are you planning on using this again?”

“I believe that would be wistful thinking.”

“You probably look better out of it anyway.” He grabs his Zippo lighter from the pocket of his emerald green suit jacket and flicks it to life. “Don’t move, okay?”

“Okay.”

“At all.”

“Got it.”

You can feel heat, intense but not painful. Aegon has pulled the edge of the fabric as far away as he can from your skin and is singeing it until it turns black and charred and brittle. Then he tucks the lighter back into his pocket and with both hands rips your dress down to the small of your back. Cool air rushes to meet the ridge of your spine; goosebumps prickle all over. Aegon is marveling at you; you can see it when you glance over your shoulder at him. Then he lays a palm against your bare skin, leans into you, inhales everything you’ve ever been: smoke and sex and starlight, strategies, shadows, secrets.

The others will be pouring into the hallway from the elevator any minute. Aemond. Aemond could find us.

“We can’t,” you whisper, hating yourself for it.

Aegon kisses the nape of your neck—so slow, so kind—and then goes to the doorway. You wait for him to leave, but he doesn’t. He’s looking at you as you hold up the ruined gown so it covers your belly and your chest. You gaze back helplessly, wanting him, needing him, a moon chained to another world’s gravity.

We can’t, we can’t, we can’t.

“I’m so sorry,” you say.

And only then does Aegon vanish.

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

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reality-detective · 2 days

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𝙏𝙖𝙮𝙡𝙤𝙧 𝙎𝙬𝙞𝙛𝙩: 𝘼 𝙎𝙣𝙖𝙠𝙚'𝙨 𝙏𝙬𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙏𝙖𝙡𝙚

• Tranny • Trafficking • Satanism • Murder • Bohemian Club

Taylor Swift isn't just a pop star—she's the clone of Zeena LaVey, daughter of Anton LaVey, founder of the Church of Satan. Think about it: how do you get millions to worship Satan without them even knowing? You make her the most famous pop star on the planet.

First Indictment will trigger a mass POP awakening—Taylor Swift will be the first domino to fall.

Taylor Street in San Francisco connects directly to the Church of Satan and is tied to the Bohemian Club, a hub for the Freemasons, Satanists, and Bohemian Grove. This isn't some random street—it’s part of the satanic grid. The Golden Gate Bridge, located nearby, has seen over 1,500 deaths in 30 years. Suicides, or sacrifices? The fake news covered it up, but the truth is bubbling to the surface.

The Bohemian Club, sitting on Taylor St, hides the darkest secrets. It’s not just a club, it’s a gathering of elites who sacrifice behind closed doors. Grace Cathedral on the same street has tunnels linking it to David Bowie, the Bush family, and more. It’s their secret satanic cathedral!

What's more, Taylor St turns into 6th St, crossing Folsom Prison. Ever wonder why Johnny Cash sang about the Ring of Fire? He was trying to warn us! It's all connected to Operation Mockingbird, the CIA’s secret plot to control your mind through movies and music.

Follow the Yellow Brick Road—from Alcatraz through San Francisco to the Bohemian Club. Kids are trafficked underground, following the same path that Dorothy took. This isn't fantasy; it's the hidden reality of the elite’s trafficking ring. The Golden Gate Bridge will fall, and when it does, the bodies and tunnels beneath will be exposed. The elite won't be able to walk freely ever again.

Nuremberg Trials 2.0 start November 20—popcorn ready? 🍿

The fall of the Golden Gate Bridge signals the rise of Bridge Currency. Taylor Swift dies, and the financial system upgrades to XRP, backed by gold.

Time to wake up, Alice.

Follow the rabbit hole—Charles Manson, the Zodiac killer, all lived in San Francisco. The elites' playground is about to crumble.

Welcome to the Great Awakening! 🤔

- Julian Assange

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perotovar · 1 year

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JOEL'S MIX ▶ songs i could see joel listening to pre-outbreak | template

"Really, dad?" "C'mon, Sarah, this is a classic." "Classic is just code for 'old'." "You call Loretta Lynn 'old' in this house again n'you see what happens to you."

track list under the cut:

insignificance - pearl jam

gold dust woman - fleetwood mac

alone and forsaken - hank williams

down in a hole - alice in chains

flowers on the wall - the statler brothers

given to fly - pearl jam

blue bayou - linda ronstadt

rain on the scarecrow - john mellencamp

oh well (pt. 1) - fleetwood mac

coal miner's daughter - loretta lynn

a horse with no name - america, george martin

luckenbach, texas - waylon jennings, willie nelson

me and bobby mcgee - janis joplin

a boy named sue - johnny cash

i am mine - pearl jam

bad moon rising - creedence clearwater revival

when someone wants to leave - dolly parton

american remains - the highwaymen

cherry bomb - john mellencamp

folsom prison blues - johnny cash

blue eyes crying in the rain - willie nelson

indifference - pearl jam

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crystlizabeth · 10 months

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Dad!Prices Little Angel isn’t as innocent as she seemed, sneaking around with one of his most trusted…

Johnny ‘soap’ McTavish x price!femreader

Somthing filthy for you guys!

Lil age gap 19-26, smut, degradation, use of a pocket knife

.˚₊‧ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ‧₊˚.

Price's oldest was his good child well at least to an extent, she was a bit of a fighter in high school. But she was a good girl, had good grades, listened well, and stayed away from boys which was John's favorite part never worried about boys. But now she was attending college, the University of Birmingham doing god knows what but he didn’t have to worry about that right?

But even good kids have their fun, her mom never caught on when she said she would go to a friend she was getting fucked up at parties, returning home the next morning as if nothing had happened. Even when her dad was she still did John was never able to say no to his Angel handing her some cash as he kissed her forehead before she left.

The whole thing started in the summer when John invited the boys over for dinner sometime after her graduation. Her dad did this often inviting them over just because you had been familiar with them for the past 2 years.

“You shouldn’t be doing that..” Johnny said looking over at her as he got a drink from inside while everyone else was outside her short sundress short enough that if she bent over you would see everything. Which she had done earlier making sure Johnny had gotten an eye full.

“Doing what Johnny?” She asked innocently her hands behind her back looking up at him through her lashes.

“You know what.”

Yeah, she did and she was having fun with it knowing that she had him all hot a bothered. It’s not like they were far in age and met each other not long before she turned 18, so she’s always been legal for him. But she was his captain's daughter, she was off limits a forbidden fruit yet to be bitten into.

And god was she tempting.

All he could do was sit there keeping his hand to himself, don’t touch her, he kept repeating to himself. Don’t touch Prices Angel.

“Aww common Johnny don’t be like that my daddy’s busy. It’s just us big boy.” She whispered her fresh French tips dragging down his chest her glossed lips having a sinister grin displayed on them.

He grabbed her wrist her eyes shooting to him “your a Fockin’ tease lass.” He glared at her.

She only shrugged “My bedroom door is always unlocked,” she spoke pulling her hands out of his grip and letting them loop on his belt loops.

He was gonna stay the night leaving in the morning, and she knew that inviting him up.

The door to the garage door opened the two stepped apart drinks in hand they both looked up seeing Price, “Foods ready, got ya drinks. Everything alright Angel?” He spoke.

She nodded walking over to him a sweet smile on display “Just came in to grab ya a beer and me something ran into him while at it Daddy.” She said looking back at Johnny and then to her father.

John nodded taking the beer from his daughter the two shared a look she only shook her head.

She walked inside not glancing back at Johnny, “Watch yourself son yeah?”

“Pardon Sir?” Johnny asked.

“Keep off my daughter.” Price warned before walking into the house.

Yeah that didn’t end up happening, her playing footsies with him under the table as they ate. She only ever glanced at him as she let her foot rub the inside of his thighs before he grabbed her ankle Johnny watched as she gripped her fork harder. Now he laid under her, her plush thighs squeezing the side of his face as he devoured her. His fingers squeezed her thighs keeping her down on his face her white laced bra still on her head fell back gorgeous moans falling from her mouth.

Even after she came for the first time he continued to eat her pretty pussy out her legs shaking as she clawed at his scalp. “Common lass keep quiet,” he muttered the lewd sounds of her arousal heard.

“Fuck you.” her hips shuttered starting to become overstimulated.

Johnny let his hands hook under her knees pushing her off him. Whipping his mouth her looked down at her his hand going down to her cunt grazing over it. “What was that?” he asked his face close to hers.

“Fuck. You.”

Johnny clicked his tongue letting his hand slap her cunt not only enough to hurt her but enough for a gasp to escape her lips. “Your greedy pussy would like that, huh slut?” he growled. His fingers dipped into her only pulling out and giving her cunt a harsh slap again.

Johnny placed himself between her legs his calloused hand wrapping around the age of her neck setting pressure. A breathy moan came from her lips, “fuck me, common.” she spoke her breathy tone greedy.

He shook his head grabbing the pocket knife he placed on her nightstand popping it open. He let the cold metal drag along her skin from her neck down her cleavage stopping at the middle of the bra the small part that held it together. He hummed bringing the knife to the fabric from under “Yer such a needy whore ya know that.” he spoke catching her eyes.

The feeling of her nails clawing at his arm let him know to lossen the grip he had on her, “don't you fucking dare.” she spoke watching johnnys knife.

He lifted the knife cutting through the fabric a cheeky grin on his face the Scotsman laughed hearing a small cry come from her.

Johnny's cock buried itself inside her his hand covering her mouth to keep her quiet, “yeah that's my pretty little whore.” he groaned her gummy walls adjusting to him and his size that she felt pules as they sat there Johnny balls deep him her.

That's how the night would go Johnny bullying her needy pussy as it clamped around him as he pumped in and out of her. A white ring formed at the base of his cock, her wetness becoming messier the sticky arousal sticking to his thighs as he fucked into her. Her begging for the Scotsman to cum in her flilling her greedy cunt with his thick nut.

His grip around her throat tightened as he pounded into her letting his second load fill her up. Him pushing his cum in and out of her the cum spilling out of her with each extra thrust.

Pulling out of her was a sight, his load dripping out of her aching cunt, her heavy breathing, and a big wet spot could be seen on her sheets.

He leaned down pressing a kiss to the side of her head “did so well f’ me. Takin' me so well..” he spoke kissing her lips.

.˚₊‧ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ‧₊˚.

Okay maybe I’m becoming a Soap girly! Hes fun to write for!

#x black reader #black fem reader #johnny mctavish x reader #johnny soap mctavish x reader #johnny soap mactavish #johnny mactavish #Johnny McTavish x black reader #soap x black reader #johnny soap mctavish x black reader #soap x reader #soap call of duty #soap cod #soap mw2 #john soap mactavish #soap mctavish #cod mw2 #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #task force 141

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espresseo-cafe · 11 months

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life is still beautiful | johnny | ch.1

genre: cappucino, romance, angst, university!au, dad!au, drama, slice of life

pairing: collegestudent!johnny x fem!reader

bean count: 4k

a/n: i’m so excited to be sharing this with you! it has been in the works since 2020 on and off and omg i can finally post this fanfic. this whole series has mentions of characters from different groups other than nct- red velvet, dreamcatcher, seventeen, sf9, etc to avoid confusion with people of the same name! note: this is only a work of fiction, it doesn’t reflect the artists’ personalities in any way.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

growing up, the continuous tingling feeling whenever you see your parents arguing at the end of your hallway always broke your heart. the raised voices, objects getting thrown around, and the banging of slammed doors against the doorframe deafened your ears. you remembered you had to knock on every single apartment on the floor; same, above, and below- to apologise the nuisance your parents caused. some with good hearts would understand out of pity for you, others would provoke to kick your family out of the building. so far, you’ve made it to several years without any notice from the landlord.

with that background, there weren’t any doubts that it affected the way you perceive everything in life. silence overpowered the joyous you like a large coat, it has been that way. the younger you wouldn’t understand the clash of your parents. the younger you wouldn’t know the problems they had. most importantly though, the younger you wouldn’t receive any love or support from them at all.

it was like you never existed.

as you hit the eighteenth mark, you’ve made the bold but practical decision to move out. the toxicity they emitted were too much for you to handle. with every penny or dime you’ve been saving everyday since you were twelve and some extra cash from various part time jobs since you were sixteen, you had your small carry on luggage packed and left first thing in the morning one summer. a dilemma kind of held you back whether to leave a note for your mom and dad, only deciding not to and tell them not to find you.

if there was anything you were blessed with even if you were put in a dire situation of a broken home, you had to pat yourself at the back for never failing your grades. just average and sometimes in the honorable mention’s list. thanks to that, you’ve secured a place at a university far from your family home.

and of course, choosing a location far off was more than intentional.

the first few months were a challenge, the surroundings took you sometime to familiarise. adjustment was never an issue though, running away from home was worth the change. as you expected, your parents didn’t bother to look for their only daughter. scoffing at the past, you realised it had almost been three years since you left.

making friends was easy too, to your surprise. known as the loner and depressed type in high school, you tried to change yourself a bit and managed to befriend a new crowd of people. of course, you were discerning on people who are worth to befriend, not the ones who’d waste your time. one of them being kim yoohyeon, who’s now your best friend and roommate.

“y/n, i’m going out to the store, want anything?” she asked while putting on a cardigan.

you hummed and rolled your eyes playfully, “hm, two packs of ramyeon and chips. you’re paying alright?” she threw a crumpled ball of tissue at you, gasping at the very direct response. “what? it’s two in the morning and i’m helping you pull an all-nighter for your fashion thesis due in two months and a half. i deserve a treat. be thankful i don’t have class tomorrow and that my part-time’s in the afternoon.”

“okay fine.” she dramatically slouched her shoulders down, “be back in a jiffy bub!”

as the door closed, you sighed and stretched your almost numbed body. yoohyeon’s project was half done, just needed a little more tweaking and you could say hello to a convenience store feast.

yoohyeon was the first person you met at orientation, she seemed to extract innocence at first glance. though as you got to know her, she was a meme in real life who possessed extreme talent in singing. you and her clicked, she had problems in her home but they were immediately managed. so she was all smiles from ear to ear. it was something you were envious of; to have a healthy relationship with parents, however, it wasn’t working with you at all.

sometimes you wondered how it felt like, to have someone love you like family. your aunts or uncles would message you to check on you, and whenever they brought your parents up, you shoved down the topic back to its grave. it’s dead conversation anyway. the latest update you heard from them was two years ago. they still lived in the same damned roof where they argued a lot, you wondered why they were still stuck to each other like glue. the only difference was that your dad worked the night shift while your mom on the mornings. so they probably never see each other eye to eye.

when they did though, all hell broke loose.

you were brushed off your thoughts when yoohyeon opened the door, “okay, here’s your food, time to pig out!”

“finally, i’m starving.” you had the hot water boiling before she arrived, immediately putting the ramyeon in the pot.

“so,” she started, opening a bag of potato chips.

“when are you planning to date? it’s been theee years since uni started and i’ve never seen you on dates before.”

you pressed your lips into a thin line, “not right now.”

“why not? you’re pretty, you can cook; you’re even taking an early childhood education course, specifically in special education.” she plopped one into her mouth and chewed shamelessly, “i bet you’re good with kids too.”

“so apparently that makes me an ideal girl?”

“an ideal girl worth to have!” she exclaimed, later reaching for your unlocked phone. “guess what, download this app and go have some fun.”

“if that’s tinder you’re planning on brainwashing me with, i’m not interested.” you joked, mixing the sauce and toppings with the now cooked noodles.

“you never know, it might work.” she singsonged.

you sighed, yoohyeon has been pushing you to date because she felt like you were like a hermit, always stuck in your own shell and would only go out if needed to. not that you were interested, you just wanted to get school done and make a stable living. love will come anyway.

she clicked on the app store and downloaded a trendy app named ‘love click’. “it’s an app solely made for university students within the state. kinda like tinder but you play anonymous with a made up nickname, no one will know how you look like.”

you raised a brow. “that’s dangerous than tinder, y’know?”

“this is different, they can detect fake accounts and do a facial recognition. anyway, once you put your actual photo and real age, it will automatically pair you with others similiar with yours; interests, and hobbies. then it will change your face to a random avatar if ever you do a video call.” she tapped away. “that’s how i met hwang minhyun.”

“eh, i still think it’s risky. besides, you just got lucky. you scored a hottie.” you slurped on the noodles. “i could never.”

“just try, you could always quit and they’ll never find you. and who knows? you might even receive the whole package.”

you sighed, “okay fine. i’ll do it just once, for you alright?” you finished the rest and threw the excess soup away. “i’m not doing any after that.”

“cool! all your details are in here already. let me know if someone messages you.” she gave you a playful wink before working on her project once again.

—

johnny stretched his limbs after a quick power nap, he haven’t had enough rest since he was on the clock 24/7. he turned to his side to check the time, sighing a relief when it was only 3pm. as if it was waiting for him to be awake, a text message from his mom appeared on the screen.

[ mom] : “don’t forget to eat, my dear john. you’ve got two mouths to feed ❤️”

johnny smiled at his mom’s reminder, he was relieved that the messages were reduced to a low, knowing how protective she was.

a loud thud on the floor made johnny stand on his feet and rush to the door next to his. his worried demeanor soon changed to a soft one when he saw a little smile beamed at him from the ground.

“youngmin-ah, what’re you doing on the floor? did you hurt yourself?”

the child just giggled, softening johnny’s heart every single he did so.

he remembered the night when the almost two year old came into his life. it was a rough beginning, but he managed himself and was proud how he actually did while still in school.

his friends were in full support of this unexpected scenario and would take turns in looking after the child while he worked the night shifts at a café. like any other people, his friends were in doubt at his decision of bringing him to lectures.

johnny again proved them wrong.

what surprised them wasn’t how the baby managed to be quiet in all of the classes, but how johnny effortlessly handled him if ever a fuss was made. kun recalled that in one of their exams in biology major, johnny had the baby cradled in one arm as the other wrote the quiz. the professor wanted to hold the baby boy while johnny did the exam, but young man refused to, saying that he could handle it. he wouldn’t want the baby crying in a stranger’s hold while everyone was so stressed for the exams. adding that the baby’s wails would be a distraction.

he became viral at the university page when a photo of him feeding youngmin a bottle of milk, that certain scenario made girls want him as a husband. sometimes they would stop by to say hello to him and the child.

“dada.” johnny smiled at title, the little toddler fiddling the bottle in his hand while his feet stretched up.

“seems like you’re alright.” he poked his nose, earning a giggle from the two year old. “i still have to check any injuries. say youngmin, your birthday’s coming up soon. what would you like?”

youngmin hummed, as if he understood the question clearly.

“well?”

“mama.”

johnny was caught off guard that he tickled the little toddler as he smiled. “buddy, you already have a mama though.” his phone dinged, indicating an incoming text message. “speaking of her, she just texted me.”

[ kim minji ]: sorry babe, couldn’t make it tonight for dinner. i got singing rehearsals.

[ johnny ]: it’s cool. how about tomorrow?

[ kim minji ]: i’ll see first, pretty busy.

he put his phone back into his pocket, sighing at the same excuse his girlfriend gave. he didn’t want to overthink but it had been like this for a while, he wondered if she had fallen out of love. shaking his head, he shrugged off the thought to the back of his mind.

youngmin turned his full body to the side before standing and climbed onto johnny’s kneeled figure, the bottle still in between his baby teeth. “mama, where?”

“she’s not coming home tonight. maybe some other time.” he ruffled youngmin’s soft hair, eyes closing due to exhaustion. but then the little toddler smiled and patted his cheek and johnny wrapped his arms around the little frame. “come on, let’s get you dinner, we’re having your favourite!”

“lasagna!” youngmin put arms up, and johnny could melt anytime.

“hey you said it perfectly this time! well done my so-“ he paused as his phone dinged, a snapchat notification from taeyong appeared on the screen. making the toddler tilt his head to why the young man stopped mid-sentence. “let’s go to wash your hands alright?”

while youngmin nodded then hopped away towards the bathroom, swiping to unlock his phone, a snap video that his said friend sent made his eyebrows meet in an ugly mood.

[ taeyongss ]: bro is that jiu? your mj?

it was his girlfriend giving a lap dance to someone he couldn’t seem to recognise due to the flashing lights, she was enjoying it and the shocking thing was, she wasn’t drunk at all.

kim minji, his girlfriend since senior high, had a few names labeled on her. one of them was jiu (pronounced as ji-yoo) a nickname everyone called her in school, being one of the main solos for the choir.

some of the juniors called her a pink princess because of her obsession with the said colour. owning almost everything in it.

and mj was a form of endearment that only johnny used. his expression changed from a smile to a frown, throwing his phone on the bed that it bounced off and landed on the ground; earning his phone a crack on the screen.

“dada?” youngmin peeked through the bedroom door. now it was him to hear the thudding sound. “happen?”

johnny jumped a little seeing the child standing by the door with a towel in his hands. “my phone fell. come on, let’s eat.”

lasagna was a favourite dish youngmin adored eversince he brought him to an italian restaurant. meatballs were a favourite too, but something about lasagna topped it. as youngmin was busy making his hands dirty, johnny called his mom at this hour, she was probably home by now.

“ah my love johnny! i’m glad you called, what is it?” her voice still bright and lively.

“um, i was wondering if i could drop youngmin off tonight?” he played with the fork. “taeyong messaged me and i think i need to have a drink and hang out for a bit.”

his mom’s soft laughter brought relief to his ears, “oh sure my dear, your dad and i could need some company. it’s been quiet around here since you’ve grown.”

johnny smiled at the reply, “great, we’ll be there in ten.”

“see you later.” she singsonged.

after dropping youngmin off, he made his way to the bar where his girlfriend was. everyone who met johnny knew that he could be reckless when someone crossed over the line, who knows what scene he’d make tonight?

“johnny.” taeyong called out after seeing him enter the bar, johnny walking towards the bar where his friend was stationed at. “please don’t make a scene. my boss let you off the hook the last time you broke loose.”

johnny’s eyes scanned the area, looking for mj before looking at back at taeyong. “don’t worry. i won’t. this johnny won’t do anything.”

“better keep your word. she’s by the corner over there.” taeyong pointed with his head, “she’s been here for the past three months. good thing i’m the only one from campus who has seen her. if anyone else did she’d lose her solo spot at the choir. so called ‘angel’, huh? no offense.”

“none taken, but thanks bro. see you later at the dorms.” johnny said, then he walked through partygoers, the blasting music was deafening so much he hated it.

“i know right? he’s such a sweetheart.” mj said to her friend as she patted the guy’s shoulder who she danced with earlier. “i’d love to-“

“mj.” johnny’s cold voice rung in her ears, sending shivers to her spine. what is he doing here? “i’m guessing rehearsals ended early or it never existed.”

“babe i-“

“ey johnny suh!” the guy seated next to her greeted him drunkenly, the more he looked closer in the dimmed light, his blood boiled. “haven’t seen you since you had a baby! minji has been great to me recently.”

it was his high school rival, takuya terada.

“we’ll catch up soon won’t we?” johnny said sarcastically. takuya wouldn’t know anyway, his vision probably already blurry to even comprehend a straight conversation. he looked at minji, who averted her gaze towards him as she rolled her eyes. “we need to talk, outside.”

he took her by the wrist and he didn’t care if he was hurting her. she hurt him first; for a while now actually. he just had to put up a front before he vent out when they exited the bar.

“what the hell, minji.” he threw his grip away, minji holding her wrist and tsk-ed at the attitude. “is that why you’ve been missing out lately? you were cheating on me with takuya?”

“missing out? johnny you’ve been missing out too!” she raised her voice, “i don’t know if you have noticed but it’s been straining on the both of us recently!”

“so your solution was to hang out with another guy when you could’ve voiced out to me about your feelings? mj, we’ve talked about this!” he wiped his face frustatingly. “i don’t think-“

“i don’t love you anymore, john.” she said blankly, her face didn’t emit any pain she felt, it was like she wanted it out there. “that’s why i’ve been ‘missing out’.”

“you don’t.. love me anymore?” johnny stood in shock, his voice shaking a little.

“i fell out of love. i’m sorry.. i’ve been planning to tell you but i couldn’t.” she hugged her arms. “i didn’t want to hurt you.”

“my gut feeling told me there was something up. i was hurt just thinking about it. i don’t know but somehow i knew it all along that you were out of it. i didn’t bring it up because i held onto hope and believed my guts were lying that you cheated on me.” he said, his hands rested on his hip. “turns out i was right.”

“i’m sorry.”

“save it. i’m not hurt at all. maybe i just had to come here to confirm if it were true. you can live with that guilt that you’ve broken me already before you even said anything. i’ll raise youngmin myself. we’re done.”

johnny walked away while the cold wind sliced through his cheeks. usually in a breakup, one would break down. him and minji dated since high school, and there were on and off arguments here and there. they would always make up through talking, but to be told that she was cheating on him by another person sure sucked. he’d rather find it out himself and vent out right then and there.

guess this timing was actually better. though he told minji he was broken, he was actually so much more than that. he expected to at least shed a tear, he didn’t, for youngmin’s sake. even though he felt like an elephant was lifted off his shoulders, his heart was anchored deep below.

he felt so heavy with betrayal that his heart ached so much in a way he didn’t expect.

he wanted to break down so bad.

the door swung open of his family home and youngmin screeched a high pitched tone loud enough to startle the old man beside him, who was reading a newspaper. “oh john’s back.”

“dada.” the little one ran towards him, hugging his long legs for a second before johnny picked him up. “back!”

johnny’s mood changed like a shooting star whenever youngmin’s in sight. “hey little buddy! i’m back, i had to meet a friend earlier.” he kissed his cheek, “were you good to granny bear and papa bear?”

“he was an angel, john!” his mom gave her son a quick peck on the cheek. “who knew you could raise him very well? plus singlehandly!”

“he got it from me, my dear.” his dad took the chance to say, “are your studies going well though?”

“still a dean’s lister, dad.” johnny’s ears tinted a light shade of pink.

“that, he got it from me.” his mom winked at his dad, who scoffed at the remark. “where’s minji? you haven’t brought her here for a while.” the look on johnny’s face was too readable that his mom knew in an instant.

“we broke up. she had another guy behind my back.”

the sudden snickers from his parents left him in question, were they laughing? “great ‘cause we didn’t really like her for you!”

“really?.. wait, what?” he asked in disbelief, “anyway, i broke it off and i kinda knew she was out of it already.”

“took you a while to realize it, john.” his father just sighed, “are you going to get a new one?”

“what? no.” johnny chuckled awkwardly, “anyway we’ll take our leave now.” johnny shook youngmin a little before his parents bid them a goodbye. he walked towards his car and buckled him up. “ready to go, buddy?”

“ready.” he wiped his eyes, sleep covering him very soon. “music please.”

“which one?” johnny asked as he set the rear mirror to get a good look at him, knowing well what youngmin was going to say.

“coldplay!” they said simultaneously.

“now that, you got it from me.” he laughed heartily while they made their way back to his shared apartment with taeyong, jungwoo, and kun.

the clinks of the apartment keys had the boys look up from their game on playstation. jungwoo sighing frustratedly when kun defeated him thrice in a row. “seriously? you’re cheating, kun hyung!”

kun stretched, “clearly not. you’re just a bad player.”

“could one of you dumbasses get the kimchi from the table?” taeyong shouted from the kitchen, only to be greeted with youngmin having the wanted side dish in his tiny hands. “see, youngmin just got here and he did a better job than you two!”

“it’s loud in here, damn.” johnny took his shoes off while youngmin had his phone in his hands.

kun sat on one of the couches, eating the kimchi fried rice taeyong just made. “so you met up with minji, how did the dinner go?”

taeyong nudged the younger boy, and jungwoo looked confused. johnny couldn’t blame the two, they didn’t know what actually happened. “these two lovebirds called it quits tonight.”

“what!?”

“yup.” johnny popped his lips, “takuya terada”

kun’s eyes widened, “like.. takuya from high school?”

“they suit each other anyway, the biggest flirts of ____ high.” jungwoo chewed on a kimbap. “no offense.”

“none taken, i feel relieved anyway.” he sat down spotting taeyong busy typing on his phone. “you still looking for girls on love click?”

“well yeah, someone should at least find me attractive.” he replied.

jungwoo snickered before choking on his food, “as if anyone would see your face through a filter system on the app. just what is the university thinking?”

“ha, wait until they see this handsome thing for real.” he turned to johnny, “bro you should try looking for new love, you’re in need of it right now, you know?” taeyong locked his phone to continue eating the almost midnight dinner.

“please, i’m still freshly ‘heartbroken’, don’t tempt me.” johnny rolled his eyes.

“mama.” youngmin shook the huge phone, a selfie of johnny and minji flashed the screen.

“not mama anymore.” he told him, then youngmin clicked on another app.

“mama.” he showed them the love click app; the color scheme of red and pink caught his attention. and johnny scrunched his brows, the other three smirking at each other.

“seems like he wants a new mama.” kun teased, earning a death glare from johnny. “what? that whole daddy look of yours is attractive to almost every girl in campus. just wife someone up already!”

shaking his head, he couldn’t believe the encouragement from his friend. “too soon my bros.” johnny chuckled, “maybe i’ll give it try after a few weeks or so.”

johnny sat by the bed while youngmin slept with his sausage pillow. now that he thought about it, the little boy hadn’t seen minji in months. it was obvious that he’d look for her. but what he didn’t get was that he showed love click; a dating app he didn’t remember installing.

“mama.” he recalled youngmin say.

he dimmed the lights and sat beside youngmin, patting his bottom gently as he drifted away into slumber, he too was getting sand in his eyes. he pressed his lips into a thin line, halfheartedly created an account just in case he really needed it.

“this is stupid.”

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taglist: @titanmaknae29 @joepomonerof @lovesuhng @studyingthemind @cheyehc

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