#for my terminally ill uncle. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

deanswhiskey · 5 months

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𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐨𝐞 - 𝐬𝐚𝐦 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫

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summary; while stuck at home, you find some christmas decorations in a storage closet

wc; 1935

warnings; kissing, tooth-rotting christmas themed fluff, that’s really it

authors note; merry christmas and happy holidays!!

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christmas had always been your favorite holiday growing up. you hadn’t spent much time celebrating since you started hunting. your parents were hunters but they sent you to your uncle bobby’s whenever they’d hunt. you didn’t know what was happening, just excited to see your uncle.

when you started hunting, looking for whoever, or whatever, killed your parents, you didn’t get to celebrate much anymore. the days mushed together half the time.

after you met sam and dean, and eventually joined them, you tried to bring as much of the holidays as you could, seeing as they didn’t get to much.

you find little plastic decorations at the shitty gas stations you’d stop at in different cities and states. hanging christmas scented air fresheners from the mirror in deans car, even when he’d get annoyed, he couldn't say anything because he knew how much you loved it. you’d always buy funny little headbands for sam and dean to wear too, just so you could snap pictures of them on your camera.

it was midday in december when the boys were leaning up against baby while you were inside the gas station. “geez, what’s takin’ her so friggin long?” dean asked while checking his watch. he’d finished pumping gasoline what felt like a half hour ago.

you walked out of the gas station with a slightly full grocery bag and a huge smile on your face. they knew that smile. that ‘i-just-got-something-you-won’t-like-smile’.

you walked up to the boys and before you could even say anything, dean interrupted, “what did you get this time?”

you fake acted offended, “how dare you, dean!” you then giggled and pulled out two silly christmas headbands. one was reindeer antlers one had to little santa hats on springs that moved around.

they both gave you a look. they didn’t want to wear them but they were anyways. you ripped the little bit of packaging tbh eh had and held them out, silently telling them to pick one.

sam grabbed the one with the reindeer antlers and set them on his head. you continued to hold out the santa hat one. dean rolled his eyes and put them on. “don’t give me that, dean, you love it.” you chuckled at the dancing santa hats on his head.

you reached down into the backseat through the window to grab your camera out of your bag. “smile!” you said turning on your camera. and they did, they smiled for you. you snapped the picture of your two boys looking adorable in their christmas headbands.

when the three of you found the bunker, there were rooms upon rooms upon rooms to discover.

during a hunt, you got badly injured. one of the vamps had harshly shoved you and you fell down some old stairs, leading you to breaking your foot.

now the boys stopped hunting for a little less than a month so they could tend to you, even against your wishes not to.

sam spent most of the time right next to you; he didn’t want you out of his sight. he acted as if you were sick and could hardly stand.

“i’m not terminally ill, sam,” you said with a giggle as he picked you up to move you from the kitchen to the couch in the living room.

“i know, my love, i’m just being cautious,” he said stopping and giving your forehead a kiss.

once the doctor released you of your crutches, leaving you with just a boot, the boys finally went back to hunting. sam, reluctantly, agreed, with the exception that he’d call you multiple times to make sure you’re okay.

one of the days the boys were away, you decided to go through some of the storage closets you three had yet to go through.

you limped down the halls making your way to one of many. the room was lined with various boxes and cabinets that had a thin coat of dust.

you opened the first box which had nothing but spare bedding. thankful it was the first box you opened; definitely setting that aside to take out and put them in a closer storage closet.

the next box had old clothes, along with the next few boxes.

the next box you picked up and dusted off made a noise; a jingle sort of noise. you took your box cutter and quickly opened the box.

to your surprise, it was christmas decorations. the men of letters must’ve loved christmas. you couldn't find a tree in sight, nor any ornaments. that was okay, there were plenty of other decorations to do the trick.

you looked over at the pile the box was in to see if there were any more. you only found one more box which was full of string lights. you carried the boxes, one at a time, to the living room to start setting up what decorations you had.

your phone was set out on a table with a speaker connected to it and you had christmas music blaring through the bunker. you wanted to start with the lights. so that’s what you did. you grabbed the step ladder from a closet, the bag of push pins, and many extension cords and went to work. you wrapped the main staircase railing and many door frames and miscellaneous pieces of furniture with the yellow christmas lights.

next up was this little christmas village you found. there was a perfect table in the library for this. you grabbed the empty light box and put all the different pieces into it and carried that to the library. you meticulously placed each little building and extra pieces just the way you wanted.

the last of the decorations went up and there was only one left. the mistletoe. where could i put it, you thought to yourself.

it had to be somewhere where everyone could see but not in a doorway where everyone stands often. you decided to put it on the doorway to the living room. it was a simple and easy place to put it.

you grabbed a thumb tack and hung it up there, careful not to fall off the ladder with your boot. if sam knew that you were climbing on a ladder with a boot on your foot, he’d throw a fit, demand you sit on the couch and he do all the work.

not long after you hung the mistletoe, you made yourself some hot chocolate and cozied on up on the couch with the book you were currently reading. the christmas music was still playing but it was soft now.

sam had texted you he’d be home soon about 15 minutes ago and now you were just anticipating their arrival. you were so excited to show the boys the new and improved, and festive, bunker.

your ears perked up as you heard the best bunker door begin to open. you all but threw your blanket off of you and placed your book open face down and rushed to the door.

“holy shit,” you heard dean say in the distance. you fretted the boys as they were walking down the stairs. their eyes lit up and they scanned the room and beyond of the decorations.

“what’s all this, sweetheart?” sam said leaning to give you a kiss, half still distracted at all the decor.

“i was going through some closets and found a whole bunch of christmas decorations!” you beamed.

dean set his duffel bag on the table in the war room and went to go look around in the library and further.

sam set his duffel done too but stayed with you. you were admiring the joy on his face; you could tell he needed some holiday joy, especially since he never really got to have this.

“this is,” sam paused, speechless. he didn’t know how to describe this. “amazing. i can't believe you did all of this.” he smile wide as he looked at you.

you smiled back, impossibly harder since your smile was already big. sam interrupted you before you could get a word out. “wait,” you brows furrowed slightly. “did you climb up on a ladder to hang this stuff?” he questioned.

you simply nodded. you knew he was gonna be upset, he won’t be too upset with you, just concerned. “y/n, you could’ve hurt yourself further.”

“sam, baby, i’m okay. i promise i was extra extra careful. just for you.” you grabbed his hands, rubbing the back of them with your thumb to reassure him.

he just looked at you with worry in his eyes. “i’m okay, baby. why don’t you go take a shower,” you lean up closer to his face. “then meet me under the mistletoe.” you gave him a sweet kiss before patting his butt, the two of you giggling.

a little while later, you sat in the living room waiting for the love of your life. christmas music still softly filled the living room while you sipped on the last of your hot chocolate.

sam walked in, his sweatpants hanging low and his navy blue v-neck hugged him perfectly. his hair still wet but not dripping. he looked beautiful. he stood under the mistletoe and leaned against the door frame.

you looked up at him and smiled with adoration. you made your way over to your beautiful boyfriend.

standing in front of his tall frame you look up at him, “can we dance?” you ask.

“of course, my love.” he says contently taking your right hand in his left. his right went around your waist. your left rested on his chest.

the two of you just gazed into each others eyes while you rocked back and forth. elvis’ ‘blue christmas’ played softly in the background. it was one of your and sams favorite christmas songs.

occasionally, sam would spin you just to hear those melodic, beautiful giggles.

your head now resting on his chest; hearing his heartbeat was so relaxing to you.

“hey,” you look up at him. “we’re still under the mistletoe, you know.” sam smiled.

you look up and the mistletoe you hung up earlier, “huh, i guess so.”

the two of you kept your gaze before sam slowly dipped his head down. the two of you fit perfectly like a puzzle piece.

his lips soft against your as they moved in sync with yours. sams hands found theirs way to your thighs, lifting you up while your hands made their way around his neck, tangling in his hair; his lips never left yours.

sam blindly made his way to the couch, sitting down with you straddling him. the kiss didn’t last much longer. you pulled away and laid back against his chest, cuddling into him.

sam was the first to speak up, “this place looks amazing, baby, i’m proud of you.”

“thank you, sam.” you gave him a kiss on the cheek, laying back down against him.

the cinnamon candle you lit earlier was still burning and the christmas music still played as the two of you fell asleep on the couch.

the next morning, dean made his way to the kitchen and brewed himself a fresh cup of coffee. the coffee finished breeding and he added whatever he did necessary for the perfect cup. he took that cup and walked to the living room, unsuspecting of the two of you sleeping there.

he approached the living room and saw the two of you, you were in almost the exact same position as when you fell asleep. dean chuckled to himself, “those kids.” he said before sipping his coffee and walking back to the kitchen.

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#spn #supernatural #sam winchester x reader #supernatural fanfiction #sam winchester fluff #sam winchester fic #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester #sam winchester fanfic #supernatural fluff #supernatural fic

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especiallythewomenandthechildren · 5 months

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As If Destiny (part six)🌹

Part Five🌹

PLEASE READ WARNINGS FOR THIS PART! If any section makes you uncomfortable, please take care of yourself and stop reading. The beginning is especially dark so please feel free to skip ahead to the first line break:

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Warnings: Terminal illness, parent death, death and brutality (it is the hunger games after all) Witnessed death and accidental suicide. Insanity suspected and potrayed. characters may be ooc. I read the book a while ago but don't really remember much of Snows way of thinking (I mean I know its toxic and insane but yk the other things) so I will mostly be basing off the film and my own thoughts. Also I can't spell for the life of me so be prepared for bad spelling and grammar. Enjoy loves!

The flowers just seemed to keep on coming. And coming. And coming.

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Of all of the Capitals wealth, the flowers were only the deep color of blood.

It disgusted you.

But that's what it all looked like to your tear covered eyes. Your vision has been blurry since yesterday morning. Since the cold metal of the golden necklace hit your neck.

Reflecting the cold body of your mother.

The funeral feels as if it going on too slow yet too fast. The fake pledges of sorrow and shows of mourning were suffocating you. But saying goodbye is coming too soon. You've had months to say goodbye and yet you chose to run away, your consciousness hissed at you.

The necklace on your neck felt heavy as you picked up the two dangling rings. Those same rings have always brought a sense of comfort and nostalgia as they were a tell tale sign of your mother. You've seen them a million times but never noticed them.

One was a deep gold with vine engravings covering the entirety of the surface. In the middle was a beautiful light green colored stone that seemed to have endless mirroring panels that shone in the light. On the inside there was a small phrase: "To love, alive and ever lasting. "

The engraved words of commitment seemed to have brought new warm and silent tears streaming across your face. The ring must have been your mother's wedding ring as that was your father's declaration to always love her in his wedding vows.

Of course, you only know this because of the countless nights he stayed up watching her withering form. He kept on re-telling her his vows, remembering every word every time.

She never said a word back.

The other ring seemed far older due to the more dusty look of the gold surface. There were engravings of a family crest, symbolizing the Emberidges. Your mother's maiden name and what used to be one of the longest standing powerful families in all of Panem.

While the family blood lived on in you, the name was sacrificed as you took your father last name, the more recently powerful in comparison: Vaun.

You knew that your mother wasn't an only child but her funeral had no appearance of her siblings. Unlike your fathers dear sister who seemed to be in the act of consoling him in the moment and who has been a crucial pillar of care these past twenty eight hours.

No, any maternal aunts and uncles were butchered in the war. Your uncle Averic was deployed to District 12 and martyred in the dense woods. That day was a dark day for all of the Capital. Not only did the head of House Emberidge fall, leaving no children, but so did the head of House Snow, leaving behind only eight-year-old Coriolanus.

And of all the deaths that day, the one that crushed you the most, the heir of House Vaun. Your dear older brother. He was only fifteen when he reportedly butchered by the rebels. They did not deem him fit for a quick death.

While her brother and nephew fought across the nation, you aunt Fiora was behind in the freezing capital like most. She was the youngest of the siblings, only a mere twenty three years old.

When news came of Alerics death, she couldn't handle the suffocation she felt. And to all of the family's pleas to stay inside, she fled. It had been days of dread and being on the look out when you and sometimes Rhayen went searching for food. The coming day of finding her was a harshly rainy one.

You were once again scouring for something to eat when you had saw Clemensia doing the same. You both had shared a look of understanding in your sunken, tired eyes. Something that should have been beyond the years of two eight year olds.

You scoured for any viable sources of nutrition, jumping over and running around the countless dead bodies. Neither of you look at them too long. The sight horrifying for your young eyes and any in general. Clemensia noticed a few bags of moldy peaches and potatoes. You both nearly ran into the nearby wall in excitement. Splitting it evenly, you bid eachother goodbye and wished thr other to be safe. The streets of the crumbled capital were crawling with vultures and bandits who were more than willing to kill for any food. It could be the peaches and potatoes in your hands.

Or more grimly: your hands.

Those thoughts were intensified when you heared the crush of glass behind you.

Please no.

Please just let me get the food to my family.

You didn't have much of a choice but to run as fast as your little legs could take you. As soon as you picked up speed, so did the clearly heavier and older feer behind you. It was clear that you couldn't outrun them so you had to do what you were always warned of: run into the alleys.

You ran through murky puddles as the rain somehow intensified. The alley twisted and curved leading to who knows where. The feet behind you were not distancing themselves from you, motivating you as you began to naturally slow. You scanned the area for any stairs or holes or anything. Down the street, you found a shaky looking staircase. It was risky, but it was a better option than being someone else's meal.

Bags of food still in hand, you forced your tiny body to march the stairs, even taking two at a time.

As soon as you began stepping on the higher level stairs, the previous wooden step broke off and shattered on the ground on impact. That only made your feet go faster. The scream of the man behind you was heard. The same could be said for the sound of his body hitting the ground.

By the time the roof came into view, you were completely out of breath and collapsed onto the solid surface. You had only grasped your breath when you realized you weren't alone. You looked up to see an extremely dishevelled looking woman. Her hair was all knotted and looked as if it was ripped out in certain parts. She was pacing back and forth mubbiling incoherently.

You weren't sure what to do, absolutely horrified by her presence but you couldn't go down the way you came as the stairs were destroyed.

The roof was completely empty expect for a small unit of machinery. Rushing to hide, you didn't notice a few stones in your path. You fell head first but saved yourself with now scraped hands. However, the thud of your body alerted the frantic woman. She seemed feral to you but as her wild eyes searched you, she was no longer just a maniac.

She was your aunt Fiora.

"Cloria? Oh Cloria you are so young!" Her tear stained eyes ran over your figure and she quickly made her way to you, caressing your cheeks. This was the first instance of the now common occurance of your identity confused with your mother.

"Aunt Fi?" You asked wearily, using the nickname to possibly bring her back to reality. But all did was enrage her.

"Fi? FI? How dare you!" Her rage fueled her hand to hit you straight across the cheek. You face felt as if it was burning and tears began forming in your eyes. Your skin felt raw in the place of impact.

But Fiora was off in her own world. Her voice softend but not in realization of her actions. She drifted off into memory and nostalgia.

"Aleric was the one who made it up. Everyone called me that but he made me feel special. He always protected me you know!" Her voice began to crack and the anger came back to fill it. "I'm going to make them suffer. Every last one of them. I will burn their woods to the ground as each of them are tied to a tree for what they did. I swear it! You hear me!" Her impossibly loud declaration was told to the wind as she seemed to have forgotten your presence.

You took your chance to run to the hiding spot you intended. You grabbed the fallen bags and were nearly there when shrieks of insanity hit your ears. You turned to see your aunt clawing at her face while mumbling threats and death wishes.

Blood began pouring and an especially painful scream was heared as she cut her eye. But she didn't stop, the pain only seeming as more encouragement.

You could do nothing but watch the horror show.

You could do nothing as she got closer and closer to the ledge.

You could do nothing as she fell backwards over the edge.

You could do nothing as the sound of her body splattering echoed.

You could do nothing as you heard a group of men with swords ensuring themselves dinner.

Her screams kept on ringing in your ears as they began mixing in with the recent screams of your mother. They sounded so similar.

Is that how I will sound when I am about to die?

Any further thought was cut off by a hand on your arm. You look up to see who it belongs to when a pair of warm brown eyes filled with sympathy meet yours.

"The funeral is over y/n." He says it quietly in the now abandoned graveyard. What goes unsaid is now you have to officially say goodbye.

You look up to him, pleading for just a little more time. But you both know, you have to say goodbye eventually. You take a deep breath and slide your arm into Sejanus's as you walk over to the casket. You didn't know what to say as the words "goodbye" felt too heavy on your tongue.

Your finger brushed the fine wood untill your hand fully stopped on top of where you assumed her heart to be. You were speechless in sorrow and could do nothing but bend over and kiss the top of the casket, near her head. You gave one last look and turned to Sejanus. He gave you an understanding nod.

You both turned as he slide his arm around you for comfort. The walk to your car where a clearly broken Rhayen stood was silent. When you reached the door, Sejanus opened it for you.

"Are you sure you wouldn't feel more comfortable staying with us? Just for a few days?"

You shook your head in response. "I might stay with aunt Aeris with dad. But I don't want to abandon her home too." You said it heavily and he understood.

Sejanus always understood.

He gave you a small nod and weak smile as he gently closed the door. The closer you got to your home, the more gray the sky became.

How fitting.

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The silence of your penthouse was eerie. It seemed to strangle you with the lack of movement. The house felt cold and empty, void of all life. Rhayen had politely retreated to his quarters.

He had basically lost a daughter. There was no way you were going go ask him of any favors or demands. Not like you needed anything. There was plenty of food sent over by ma plinth. It smelled and looked wonderful but you weren't hungry. Your stomach was full with nausea.

You walked into the foyer, lit up by the open windows displaying the gray skies dimming the Capital. The stone was cold beneath your feet as you surveyed the darkly decorated room. It seemed that in that empty moment, every ounce of emotion rushed through your system. All you could remember was crumbling to the floor in anguish. You weren't sure how long you stayed like that, but by the time you had been interrupted with a knock on the door, the windows showed a night sky. You assumed it was Sejanus or his ma checking in on you, so you just quickly wiped your face and blew your nose and not taking a real moment to clean your appearance.

Your feet took hurried steps to the door and opened it to see two tall blondes staring back at you. Tigris and Coriolanus are definitely not your expected guests.

Tirgis took one look at your state and leaned over into your space to give you a comforting and genuine hug. You were slightly suprised but readily returned it. You felt protected in her hug, a feeling you've felt absent of lately.

She pulled back to look into your eyes and check over your face. You nodded in reassurance that you will be fine and shifted focus to her cousin. In his hands were stunning white roses.

"We know how hard today has been for you and we don't wish to stay long. We just wanted to give our sentiment and see if you needed anything." Coriolanus said in a tone of fright that he will make you uncomfortable.

You smiled, something that seemed to surprise you all. "Thank you both truly. Please come in!" You opened the door wider so they could follow you but they shared a look of discomfort.

"Y/N, thank you but we wished to just drop by quickly. We don't want to be a burden. You don't have to treat us with those guest pleasantries." Tigris contrasted.

"You said you wanted to help in any way you could correct?" The pair nod in agreement. "Well I think if I had some company would certainly help me right now. Being on my own doesn't seem to be the best option." You softly confessed. There was a shared look between the two before you grabbed Tigris's hand and dragged her in, Coriolanus following after.

Your three walked into your foyer that opened into your kitchen. You motioned for the two to get comfortable as you took the flowers out of the younger cousins hands. Taking a closer look, you realized that these pearly white flowers looked home grown. You laughed grimly.

"A bouquet of grandma'ams roses."

Tigris looked between the two of you, with a sad expression as she took in your deflated form and Coryo's clouded over eyes.

You turned to find a vase to put them in as the tall boy mumbled. You couldn't really make out what it was but Tigris heard him loud and clear.

"You weren't supposed to get them like this."

He shook his head in defeat as you began watering the precious roses, your back facing him.

You turned back around as you placed the case down in the center of the cabinet island.

"Please tell grandma'am thank you, it means a lot." Tigris smiled back in response with a promise to relay your gratitude. The sound of grumbling stomachs filled the now empty room and you jumped to action.

"Y/N please! Just sit down, we will be out of your hair in no time, please just rest!" Tigris was quick to intervene as you scurried around the kitchen, fixing the two a plate from the plentiful food Ma Plinth cooked up. You refused any sort of opposition and claimed that it would be a waste of such food.

Tigris turned around, expecting support from her younger cousin but was met with nothing but distracted eyes. He knew what you were doing.

If you stood still too long, you would begin thinking. Thinking would lead you to drowning in your sorrow. That's why you took any distraction and threw yourself in it. He knew it wasn't healthy and reality would hit you hard.

But maybe when it does, he will be there to help you back up.

For now, he looks at you with such emotion and rawness in his eyes as he thanked you.

You felt that he was the one who deserved thanks, letting you work out your emotion. Eventually, Tigris realized that she wasn't getting anywhere and surrendered to the delicious meal set in front of her. You placed a small amount of food for yourself to not make them feel awkward. However, much to your relief, your conversation was anything but.

The topics ranged from literature to the most recent capital gossip and everything in between. Who would have thought that on one of the worst days of your life you would be laughing so hard. You may have drowned yourself in guilt if you thought too hard on it but it was impossible with every quip and bicker between the three of you.

It was a few hours in when the sudden thought of Coriolanus's pen hit your mind.

"Oh Coryo, I completely forgot to give you back the pen I stole!"

That made Tigris laugh a bit more. You seemed so concerned for such a small matter. The boy who was supposedly "robbed" try to assure you that no harm was done but you refused.

"I'll be right back! Please feel free to grab anymore food and don't you dare be shy!" You demanded as you walked backwards and turned around when you hit the stairs, rushing up to your room.

The path to your room wasn't very far and as soon as you entered, you saw the shiny white and red pen on your desk. It had been a useful distraction yesterday in the painful drive back to your home infested with death and sorrow. You took a deep breath, pushing away the thoughts and grabbed the pen.

You walked back out in a fast pace until you came to a sudden stop. You stood right infront of the doorway of your mother's old makeshift hospital.

Oh how quick the new becomes the old.

The room looked as if it had never even been touched. No cords, pillows, tissues, or mess anywhere. Clean, tidy, and no trace of a cold, decaying life. You weren't sure how long you stood brooding before the sound of glass shattering shook you out of your haze.

In a panic, you rushed down the stairs to be met with the screams of your enraged father. Rhayen was also there and seemed to try to calm him but he kept pushing the elderly man off of him.

"How dare you both! I know the Snows never had any shame but how dare you walk into my home after such a tragedy! Were my son and wife not enough for you?! What need do you have to take the last good thing in my life?!"

You could hear the rage clearly but the heartbreak in his voice was even more evident.

What broke your heart was the sight of Tigris, clearly holding back tears as she thought over all her actions to see what she did wrong. Your eyes shifted slightly to Coriolanus who no longer held the soft expression he showed around you and his cousin. He had his mask shifted back into place, simply taking the attack from the older man.

"Sir please! I know they meant no harm, they are friends of young y/n!" Rhayen's pleas did nothing more than shift your father's anger towards him.

"Friends? And you knew of this and yet did nothing?! You vowed to protect her and you let her associated with such monste-"

"STOP! They are nothing of the sort and simply came to check in on me! They care for me. Nothing but pure and good care and concern!"

You felt your emotion being held back but such a slim shield you put up to ensure as much authority and confidence in your voice.

Your sudden presence shocked your father as he tried to get you to go back up to your outright refusal. His patience had worn thin.

"Your mother is barely cold and you have brought shame upon her memory!"

You couldn't hold back the tears any longer. They weren't violent as you would have expected but silent and delicate. Your body felt nauseous and faint as if you had just been pounced on. The words cut your already shambled heart and formed little scars of pain.

With a deep breath, you looked past your so called father.

"Thank you Tigris and Coryo." You put and emphasis on the nickname as a message to your father. "I am so sorry, please make it home safely."

They both nodded solemnly and Rhayes began to show them the door before being violently pulled back by the man he was now employed under. Even after everything he said, your father still felt the need to show that the Snows were not even woth a servants time.

Tigris looked straight ahead as she walked past the hate filled man and a quick look at you, which you met with an apologetic smile. Coriolanus, however, met his eyes with no sign of emotion expect defiance. You knew how proud Coryo was of his family's name and it was one of the few possessions of his that he could flaunt.

And to have it so openly dragged was not going to be let down easily. You wondered if he would it against you.

But right before he would have vanished from your viewpoint, he looked back at you with those ever melting deep blue orbs. Even after all he endured, he wanted to check if you were okay.

Any possible communication you could have sent his way was cut off by your father moving in between the sight of you two. The blonde boy got the message and with a soft scoff, made his way out the tension filled apartment.

As soon as the door shut, your father turned his gaze to you. Noticing you were still crying, he softened. But you didn't care. You just shook your head and Rhayen's arms came over your shaking body in comfort. Even in the silence of the penthouse, it was hard to hear your paind and soft voice. But they were sharp enough to cut your father's fury.

"I miss mom.You made me realize just how much I miss her."

You didn't want to see his expression or hear any lecture so you made your way up to your room as fast as you could.

You broke away from Rhayen's embrace, leaving him to be in the uncomfortable presence of your father.

"I did the right thing Rhayen. History was repeating itself!" He tried to justify his actions towards the young heirs of Snow.

Rhayen walked past the disgruntled man to the kitchen where the shattered vase and flowers now lay.

When your father walked into your home looking for his daughter, he was met with two blonde heads who looked far too comfortable for his taste. Then the sight of the pristine white roses came into view and memories flooded his system and rage. He couldn't throw the vase against the marble fast enough.

Rhayen sighed, exhausted as he swept up the victims of anger. "You can't say history is repeating if it isn't the same story. Different story, Tyre."

The man in question wasn't convinced and kept on going, pacing back and forth on the other side of the mess.

"I thought she was with Sejanus. He is a good boy. She is safe with him. Why can't she be satisfied with safe? And his parents love y/n! They always rave about her, especially his mother. It even makes me feel jealous!" That made Rhayen scoff.

Oh Tyre sure was jealous but not of the Plinths.

The glass was nearly all cleaned up now, the long serving man was just taking extra measures as Tyre couldn't seem to stop ranting. He knew the man was struggling with the loss of his wife and taking it out on young y/n was just an unfortunate reaction to it.

"Do you know what Casca told me? The Snows are poor. Dirt poor Rhayen! And that peasant has the audacity to walk in here and act as if he is worth a second of my daughter's time! And did you see the way he looked at me! THE WAY HE LOOKED AT HER- Hey! Throw those out! I don't want to see them for a second longer."

Your father declared his distaste to the flowers Rhayen had brushed off and ensured protection.

"I am sorry sir but they seem to be gifts to miss y/n. And if what you heard was true, such roses as these must have been quite expensive and precious, a luxury the Snows could not afford. Yet, the bouquet was gifted." Rhayen offered and began his trudge up the large stairs.

Tyre Vaun couldn't think of anything that would change the elder man's mind. However, at the top of the stairwell, Rhayen turned with one last message.

"The boy grew up without his father. And I think in this case, it was for the best."

Maybe in the case of the son of Crassus Snow, growing up without the cold father really was for the best.

⋆✦⋆⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋆✦⋆

You stared up at your textured ceiling as you twirled Coryo's pen in your hand. You stopped thinking a while ago. You just let your mind be taken over the fog as your finger played with the odd texture of the pen. There was clearly something engraved but due to the white surface, you couldn't tell what.

Your little escape of peace from today's activities was interrupted by the knock and subsequent opening of your cream colored door. You turned your head and a relieved sigh was breathed between your lips. Rhayen walked in with one hand behind his back.

He opened the small light near your desk for some light in your dark room but not the overhead ones as to to not burn your eyes. The small action brought a small smile and warmth to your heart.

But that warmth spread all over as you saw what he was hiding behind his back. The beautiful roses of Coriolanus. You looked up at him with a look that you warm even the coldest of men.

He smiled at your joy. "I couldn't save the vase, but I think these are what matter." You take the roses in you hands as you just sat there astonished.

Even though they were flung across the room and smashed, they seemed even more beautiful than before. In the dim dark light, their little rips and dips just added to their radiance.

You were so engrossed with the roses that you didn't notice Rhayen leave your room, closing the door behind him. Getting up, you moved the bouquet to the vase that stood proudly in the middle of your vanity with the other white flowers Coryo picked for you on your walk.

It brought you a great amount of joy that the flowers that joined it were from the same charming boy.

When you walked back to your bed, a small note caught your eye. You unraveled it and a shiny ring fell out. In fear of losing it, you quickly pick it up. Taking a brief look, it was a bright silver with small dazzling blue diamonds surrounding the surface. Your attention is returned to the note.

"This was gifted to your sweet mother when she was your age. You wear her face, her character, and now her rings. It would be an offense to her not to share this last part of her. Don't tell your father but be patient with him. And remember your mother's words: don't change sweet girl."

The letter wasn't signed but you could tell from the slightly messy and angled handwriting it was from Rhayen. He had taught himself to write and you knew he would use the skill whenever he had the chance. And you were most glad that he used it now.

Even though the note and the words within them suprised you slightly. You put the note by the flowers and took the ring in your hands.

Beneath the light, all the details were brought out. The small diamonds were more than there for show. In fact there placement was quite intentional. It seemed that thousands of miniature diamonds were placed to form a beautiful shape, each a bit different than the others on either side.

As you slid the ring in place with the others on your neck, you take a moment to look at yourself in the mirror. On either side, there was a golden ring but in the middle stood out a bright silver.

A ring that dazzled in the light and the dark.

The ring of a thousand snowflakes.

The ring of Snow.

⋆✦⋆⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋆✦⋆

A/N: Hey guys! Sorry if you got notification that it posted earlier and saw nothing, tumblr was freaking our on me and kept on posting my drafts! I know this was far longer than the last part, thank you for reading. And I am sorry if this was a bit too dark but I think it's important for context later in the story and especially readers struggle with the Hunger Games and morals. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated! Much love! ❤️

@notyourwildestdream 🌹@darktrashsoulbear🌹@fantasylovestoryme 🌹@nekee-lilac02 🌹@a-avengerparker 🌹 @queenofshinigamis 🌹@darlingisntit 🌹

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sebbianas · 10 months

Text

i woke up and my first thought was jegulus the fault in our stars au

terminally ill regulus black who has been living with his uncle alphard promises him that he’ll go to a support group just so he’ll stop worrying about him and there he meets james potter who was in remission after they amputated his leg

this idea is growing in my mind by the second i feel insane

#jegulus

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humanpurposes · 11 months

Text

My Heart Belongs to Daddy, part v, modern!Aemond

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist // She's the first one that I see

modern!Aemond x step-daughter

Warnings: 18+, smut, language, questionable relationships, you know the drill, also mentions of terminal illness.

Words: 9300

A/n: Aemond's pov here we gooo. This part gets its own header coz vibes. Also available to read on AO3.

Another summer brought another two months at Dragonstone.

The relief Aemond felt clambering out of his mother’s Volvo and into the coastal breeze was immeasurable. Helaena got the front seat, as always, which left the three boys to be packed into the backseat for two hours, in the middle of a June heatwave.

He somewhat resented Daemon and Laena’s absence this year. Generally they alternated summers between Dragonstone and Pentos with the Velaryons. It was a shame, his uncle often brought some much needed tension to family holidays, the entertaining kind as opposed to the depressing kind, and Baela and Rhaena were by far the most tolerable of the younger family members.

Viserys hadn’t arrived yet. He had some work things to catch up on and would drive down later, which just left the Strongs. Alicent had received a call from Rhaenyra while they were in the car to say they’d be a few hours behind them. Thank the Gods. At least it gave them a few hours of peace.

Dragonstone had originally been built as a castle, preserved over the centuries as a place for pleasure rather than a defensive keep. It had a gatehouse, turrets, arrowslits, parapets and ivy sprawling over the outer walls that turned red in the autumn. It looked idyllic, like a castle out of a fairytale.

After bringing his bag up to his room there was only one place Aemond wanted to be.

His favourite part of coming back to Dragonstone were the gardens, sprawling walks of greenery, sweet-smelling rose bushes and sandstone archways. If the weather was right, he could convince himself he was in some remote corner of an Italian manor house.

One of the gravel paths led down to the pool, overlooked by a patio from the back of the main house. It was a blissful little oasis, when he could have it to himself, of crystal clear water, tall hedges and blue and orange tiles laid out in intricate patterns.

He had his trunks on already and left his t-shirt and shorts on a sun lounger before he slipped into the water. The cold was a welcome reprieve, especially when he dunked his head under and pushed off from the side, cutting through the water with powerful strokes.

It had been a while since he’d had time for swimming and he felt slightly irritated at the ache in his arms from the unfamiliar movements. To be fair to himself, he hadn’t made time for any hobbies over the last few weeks on account of his exams, and it had paid off at least. He still had a few weeks until he would get his results but he knew he would do well.

As far as he was concerned, his future was set. He would get four A*s, then in September he’d be off to Oldtown to start university. In three years, he would graduate with a first and come back to King’s Landing to start at Targ Corp, despite his grandfather’s attempts to convince him to consider a career at Beacon, the Hightower family business. Otto had a vision that one day, his grandsons would run two of the largest companies in Westeros, Aegon at Targ Corp and Aemond at Beacon.

Although the offer of a generous salary and an internship during his studies had sounded tempting, it was a question of pride more than anything. The silver hair should have been evidence enough; Aemond was a Targaryen before he was a Hightower.

Despite his determination to live up to the family name, he had come to resent these summers at their ancestral home. The house and the gardens were beautiful, and he loved being so close to the isolated beach below the hill the house was set on, but he could think of no worse fate than having to spend ten weeks with his insufferable sister, their father’s pride and joy, her idiotic husband and their three sons.

He ran his hands over his face as he emerged on the other side of the pool, his left palm skimming over the scar on the side of his face. It was easy to forget it was there sometimes, until he’d catch someone frowning at it.

Rhaenyra was lucky his mother hadn’t pressed charges and publically issued a statement that the whole thing had been a “tragic accident”. Later he learnt Alicent had been holding it over Rhaenyra’s head ever since, waiting for a time when she’d need the leverage.

Ten weeks with the Strongs was all that stood between him and the rest of his life, some sick test of patience.

He wasn’t alone for long before he spotted Aegon and Daeron at the outlook up at the house. They sprinted out of view and soon came hurtling down the steps to the pool in their trunks. They leapt in, disturbing Aemond’s laps but he reluctantly let himself be happy that the three of them were in the same place for once.

Aegon had just finished a degree in criminal psychology. Alicent and Otto had had to practically buy him a place at KLU. How he had managed to pass was a mystery to everyone, Aemond wondered if he had pulled it together at the last minute purely out of spite. He had already been living in a flat in central with a few of his friends for the last two years. Helaena said he rarely visited the house.

Aemond and Daeron had barely been back from Duskendale before they were all in the car to Dragonstone. He hadn’t minded boarding school, in some ways it made him appreciate the times he got to be at home, and it meant he didn’t have to see his father on a daily basis or watch his mother drive herself insane with her self-imposed workload. Again, Helaena gave him updates on that. He supposed it would make the move to Oldtown less jarring.

For now he laughed as Aegon challenged them to swimming races and tackled Daeron when he lost. The oldest Targaryen brother was surprisingly strong for his shorter stature. Daeron towered over him but he was wiry, easy for Aegon to sling him over his shoulder.

They were making such a scene in the water that Aemond didn’t notice his mother until she shouted Aegon’s name from the bottom of the steps. “Put your brother down and get changed, seven hells!”

Aegon tossed Daeron’s legs over his head, sending him flopping unceremoniously into the pool. “What’s the rush?”

“Rhaenyra and Harwin are only half an hour away!” Alicent shrieked, as if this was something they should have cared about. “And they’re bringing a guest, so I want you all presentable and ready for dinner before they arrive.”

Daeron was starting to climb up the ladder, so Aemond pressed his palms to the edge of the pool and pushed himself out.

“What guest?” he asked, reaching for his towel from one of the sun loungers.

Harwin’s niece.

She’d been a flower girl at Harwin and Rhaenyra’s wedding, but he only knew that from the photographs. He didn’t remember the last time he must have seen her, probably some family gathering with the Strongs, before Luke slashed a knife in his face and they stopped seeing them as often.

Aegon seemed eager for “fresh meat” as they marched back up to the house.

Daeron was more sceptical and shot Aemond a concerned frown. “Just what we need, another Strong kid.”

After a quick shower, Aemond changed into a white t-shirt and a pair of dark green cargo trousers, and made his way through the maze of hallways and ornate staircases. He found his parents in the reception hall, a spacious room located at the front of the house, leading off from the entrance hall, going through to the dining room on one side and the drawing room from the other. It was where they usually lingered when the arrival of a guest was imminent.

Most of the visitors to Dragonstone considered this to be the most impressive room in the house, with its tall stained glass windows, silver chandelier, walnut panelling and carved columns supporting a gallery on the first floor.

The smell of smoke and charred wood drifted from the fireplace, mingling with the musk of antique velvet sofas. Alicent was torn between typing something on her phone and discussing some arrangement with their head of security, a deceptively young looking man with black hair named Criston Cole.

Evidently Viserys had arrived. He was sitting in a red armchair, taking small sips of a glass of whisky. He looked up when he heard footsteps against the floor, and offered his son a vague nod.

Helaena and Daeron weren’t far behind Aemond, and Aegon was of course the last to make it down. He insisted it was “perfect timing,” because the moment he walked into the room, Cole received a call from the front gate.

Daeron perched on the windowsill and jittering like a puppy as a black escalade pulled up before the gatehouse.

Within minutes Viserys was throwing his arms around his favourite child. Aemond cast a cold glare over Harwin, Jace, Luke and little Joffrey, clinging to his father’s hand with his thumb in his mouth. The sixth guest followed behind them.

Her hair was pulled away from her face, wide eyes sweeping curiously over the people, the paintings on the walls and the antiques in glass cabinets. The beginning of a smile spread across her lips, but her face fell when her eyes met his.

Aemond sucked his teeth into his lips. He was used to people looking at him like that, or averting their gaze altogether. He could only imagine what Jace and Luke might have told her about their cruel uncle and his horrible scar.

At dinner she sat on the other end of the table from him, between Harwin and Jace. She was a few years older than her cousins but they all seemed to get on well, joking and smiling at each other. It made Aemond’s blood boil.

Daeron made a point of introducing himself to her but he suspected this show of hospitality was mostly because she was pretty.

She really was pretty though, and quiet, but not necessarily in a nervous way. She seemed content to listen, smiling vaguely at the things people said, feeling no need to fill the silences. When she did smile– properly smile– it was wide, bright and unashamed.

He overheard her mention an interest in history as dessert was brought out, asking Rhaenyra and Viserys all sorts of questions about Dragonstone’s origins and architecture. He thought of a few books in the library he could recommend but dismissed the idea. When Aegon suggested giving her a tour of the house he felt his grip on his fork tighten.

Dragonstone was large enough that even with most of the family there it was easy to feel alone, and Aemond spent the first few days of their stay doing exactly that. In the mornings he’d go for a run, then head down to either the pool or the beach for a quick swim. He had his reading list for uni already and was making his way through a textbook on political philosophy, which he read either in the library or a quiet corner of the garden.

Daeron and Aegon were far better at being civil with Jace and Luke than he was, and she seemed happy to tag along with their antics. Aemond avoided them where he could.

One afternoon he decided to take his textbook to the patio at the back of the house, and winced at the shrieks of laughter coming from the pool. He was going to head back inside but found himself stepping towards the balustrade, looking over the greenery to the unnaturally blue water.

She was sitting on the edge of the pool in a red swimsuit, with her legs in the water. Even from so far away he could make out the details of her smile, her teeth, the roundness of her cheeks and the way she squinted her eyes.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, until a gentle voice pulled him from his trance.

“Aemond?”

His heart almost stopped and he spun around immediately. An awful feeling sank into his chest, like he’d done something wrong.

Helaena was standing in the doorway, in a pale blue sundress and purple sandals. “Me and mum were going to drive into the village, if you’d like to come?”

Maybe some time away from the house would do him good. He nodded and uttered a quiet “yes.”

She came onto her tiptoes, trying to peer past his shoulder, but from where she was standing she wouldn’t have been able to see what he was looking at. Maybe she didn’t need to see. Another few howls of laughter drifted up to the patio, and a cry of “Aegon, you bastard!”

Helaena sighed and smiled. He left his book on a table in the entrance hall and followed his sister out to the gatehouse where Alicent was already waiting in the Volvo.

The village was just over a ten minute drive away from the house. Aemond leaned his head against the window in the backseat, feeling content in the blur of vibrant greens and blues. He could have fallen asleep to the hum of the air con and the voices of his mother and sister.

Until he heard her name.

“What?” he mumbled, absentmindedly, shifting himself in the seat and catching Helaena’s eye through her overhead mirror.

“She’s starting her A Levels in September,” Alicent said. “Politics, philosophy and history, same as you.”

He had also taken an extra class in High Valyrian, but he wasn’t going to hold it against her.

“You’d get on I think,” Helaena added, pushing her John Lennon-esque sunglasses on top of her head. He could see she was smirking.

Aemond huffed and went back to staring out the window at the fields, the sky, the sea and the wildflowers growing at the side of the road. He could say he didn’t care about their guest but it would have been a lie. He couldn’t get that red swimsuit out of his head.

Eventually he started agreeing to the occasional beach trip or tennis match. Turns out he quite enjoyed spending time with his nephews when he could beat them at something. And it meant he could see her more often.

There were these odd moments, when he’d catch her staring at him over breakfast or by the pool, that got his hopes up a little, only for her to quickly look away and find someone to fawn over, usually Aegon or one of her cousins. But then she’d find him in the garden and ask about the book he was reading, or sit next to him when they lit a campfire on the beach, just brushing her leg against his.

They could be confusing but he liked those moments. Every day he woke up ectatic that he would get to see her, and that they might talk about politics or philosophy or a shared love for Daphne du Maurier or the Great Gatsby.

He needed her alone, just once.

He got the chance on the last weekend of July. Alicent, Rhaenyra and Helaena had gone to Rosby for the day, while Harwin had been talking about a trip to Dragonstone harbour to go fishing, something Daeron sounded rather enthusiastic about. Leaving him, Aegon and Viserys at the house.

After a late breakfast, Aemond went up to the library with the next book on his reading list, An Introduction to Essosi Regionalism. He was rather taken aback to see her sitting at the writing desk by the window. He had assumed she had gone to the harbour with the others.

In a sudden and awkward motion she stood and turned to face him, with wide eyes and a small smile.

“Sorry,” she said, pointing at the desk, “did you want to–”

“No.” He instantly regretted how short and final he sounded.

Her eyes dipped and he realised he was clutching his book far too tightly.

“I was only looking really,” she said, reaching back for her book, a biography of Queen Alysanne.

“You like history,” he said, intending it to be a question but it sounded more like a statement.

She smiled again, at his mistake, he guessed. “Yeah, it’s incredible getting to spend so much time here, it’s a beautiful house.”

He stepped forward to place his book on the desk behind her, noticing the sweet citrusy scent of her perfume and the way she tensed up when he came too close.

“I could show you around, if you’d like? I mean, you’ve already been here long enough and you’ve probably seen most of it by now–”

It was only when she put a hand on his shoulder did he realise his head had dropped down to the floor.

“I’d love to,” she said.

Suddenly his chest felt a little lighter.

He showed her his favourite parts of the house, except the library which she had already seen, obviously. She had so many questions, noticed every detail and traced her fingertips along the ancient stone walls with a look of wonder that made his heart flutter.

Then they came to the long gallery overlooking the reception hall. He pointed out the fan vaulted ceiling detailed with gold and the line of portraits of hundreds of years of Targaryen history, monarchs and more recent family members. She was especially fascinated with a portrait of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne with children. She could put a name and a story to every face.

She turned her head towards him and her breath hitched when she realised he was looking at her. His first instinct was to back away and apologise, but she didn’t move or say anything, just looked up at him with those pretty eyes.

He wondered if he should kiss her. He’d never tried to kiss someone before. It should have been simple enough but it felt so daunting. What if he did it wrong? What if she didn’t want him to?

He saw her eyes flicker to his scar, and felt like he understood.

“Do you want to look at the old solar?” he asked, already walking towards the north door at the end of the gallery.

Behind him he heard her mutter a quiet “yeah.”

He rushed through the last few rooms. He could hardly catch his breath or think beyond the choking feeling in his throat or how hot the house seemed all of a sudden.

“Do you want to go outside?” she asked when he suggested going to the Maegor suite.

He nodded, and followed her down to the entrance hall, where they ran into Aegon. He was in trunks and an unbuttoned shirt to show off the tan on his abs.

He glanced between them with a strange look in his eye. “Beach?”

“Sounds good!” she said with a bright smile. “I just need to get some stuff from my room.”

Aegon grinned at her, then at his brother.

“I’m good, thanks,” Aemond grumbled, and went to spend the rest of the day sulking in his room.

Something was different about her after that. She stopped asking so many questions and rather than smile at him when they passed each other in the hallways she sighed and put her head down.

He really didn’t have much experience with these kinds of things, and he sure in seven hells wasn’t going to ask Aegon for advice.

He wished there was something he could do, but every time he thought about trying to talk to her he pictured her eyes on his scar and decided he’d rather spare her the trouble.

August went by far too quickly and then she was gone.

His time at the University of Oldtown brought some interesting experiences.

People seemed to respect him in a way he wasn’t used to. His lecturers complimented his work and his commitment to his studies. His classmates listened to him when he spoke in seminars, asked for his opinions on current affairs and invited him to lunches and parties.

He felt like a novelty in Oldtown, people wanted to befriend him, be seen with him, earn his approval. He felt shallow for admitting it, but the newfound attention felt good.

When he went back to King’s Landing that first summer, everyone said he was different. He’d always been interested in sports but he’d committed to a gym routine, shed some of the baby fat and toned out nicely. He traded the trackies and sports trainers for black shirts and leather jackets, got his ears pierced, drank whisky and smoked cigarettes on nights out.

And it turned out he wasn’t as hideous as he thought he was, in fact more often than not, the scar worked in his favour when it came to flirting.

After graduating he spent the summer in Oldtown, on an internship at Beacon, until Alicent told him she needed him in King’s Landing. She needed a contender of her own to pose as Viserys’ successor against Rhaenyra, and it was obvious neither Aegon or Helaena were going to live up to her expectations. So he did as he was told and moved back home, just in time for everything to start going wrong.

Viserys made his will. Rhaenyra was set to inherit Targ Corp and just about everything else he owned, including Dragonstone. Fucking typical. She had always been his golden child, all that was left of his beloved first wife. His mother always said he never got over Aemma. Singling out Rhaenyra was his way of making it up to her.

But Alicent had been the one helping Viserys run Targ Corp for twenty years, while Rhaenyra’s only real talent was her ability to get whatever she wanted out of their father.

If Rhaenyra were to succeed Viserys, everything his mother had worked for would be for nothing, but Aemond could be the one to change that. He could bring Targ Corp to new heights and live up to the legacy of the Targaryen name. All he needed was for Viserys to give him that chance.

Alicent had been in talks with Borros Baratheon of Storm’s End, an energy company based in the Stormlands. A deal with them would open Targ Corp to a whole new industry, and maybe then Viserys would recognise the lapse in judgement.

The Storm’s End contract was everything and Alicent had trusted Aemond to see it through. Only it fell apart in his hands. One seemingly minor mistake and Baratheon was out.

Alicent was devastated and it killed him. The late nights and weekends working in the office when she should have been with her children, the constant spite and security from the corporate world, the tabloid news stories that called her a “gold digger,” and the years she spent chasing her husband’s approval had all been for nothing.

She never said it, but Aemond knew she blamed him.

It had been a shitty three months and by December he was exhausted. Daeron was back from Duskendale, Aegon was staying for a few weeks, and Helaena was adamant that they were going to have an enjoyable Christmas. She covered the house in fairy lights and put up a tree in the living room, decorated with colourful baubles that really had nothing to do with Christmas; rainbows, butterflies and bees.

The other three agreed to indulge her. Aegon suddenly became an expert at Christmas cocktails, Daeron was in a baking frenzy and Aemond put his old piano lessons to good use. He sat at the baby grand in the hallway for the first time in forever and played some old hymns mum used to make them sing. Until Aegon put the chords for Fairytale of New York in front of him, which he agreed was a much better song.

Alicent came in from the office on the 24th, rain soaked through her coat and her eyes red. She’d had a call from Lyonel Strong.

Harwin was in the hospital. Pancreatic cancer. He’d been ignoring the symptoms for years apparently, and by the time Rhaneyra made him get a diagnosis it was too late.

Nothing was an isolated issue. Mum, dad, Rhaenyra, work… everything fed off each other in a single spiral of chaos and grief.

He needed the space, he decided at a fundraiser on New Years Eve. He and Viserys had arrived together but they didn’t so much as make eye contact the entire night. Rhaenyra was understandably inconsolable, mum had refused to go, Helaena wasn’t cut out for these kinds of events and Daeron was studying for mock exams. He at least found solace in the knowledge that he was preferable to Aegon.

A woman with black hair caught his attention. She moved effortlessly throughout the room, martini in hand, which she sipped through dark red lips as she struck up conversations with the other attendees. Did she realise she was targeting the richest people in the room? Probably. She blended in well, in a black slip dress and a pearl necklace, but there was something else, glaring him right in the face.

She was familiar, but he couldn’t place where he might have seen her before.

She smirked when she realised he was staring at her. After ordering herself another drink she waltzed over to him and introduced herself as “Alys Rivers.”

He must have let a little of his shock show on his face, because she smirked again.

Alys Rivers. Harwin’s cousin. The woman with the pretty daughter who’d spent a summer at Dragonstone.

They chatted for hours, she was very curious to hear about the company politics at Targ Corp, the few months he’d been working there and the whole debacle with the Storm’s End contract. She told him about herself too. She worked for Harrenhal PR, alongside her brothers, but was looking to start her own company.

He asked about Harwin.

That was the only time her perfect persona faltered, just for a moment, but then she took a sip of her drink and she was back to business. She said she was doing alright. It was a shock, he was like a brother to her, and she was trying to make the most of the moments she had left with him.

“It makes you appreciate what you have,” she said. They had found a table in a corner of the bar, ordering too many cocktails. She sighed heavily and put her hand on her chest, over her heart, “I’m so lucky I’ve got my darling girl.”

He didn’t even need to ask before she started telling him more. She was in her second year of studying history at KLU, a bright student, a sweet and serious girl.

She said Harwin adored her, always had, even once things got serious with Rhaenyra and he started having kids of his own.

“Poor thing,” he said, “this must all be so hard on her.”

“She’s like me,” Alys insisted, finishing off another martini. Her words were starting to slur, but even when she was drunk she did it gracefully. “Nothing phases her.”

He could still remember the smell of her perfume, sweet and citrusy.

Alys’s perfume was dark, bitter and boozy. When he kissed her the taste of her martinis burned on his tongue. Vodka. He was more of a gin man.

Generally he tried to avoid one night stands, but it didn’t take much convincing before he found himself in her hotel room.

He spent the entire night on his back while she edged him relentlessly, with her hands and her mouth, before she finally rode him, whispering praises in his ear as she did it.

He decided it would be bad manners not to text her, so the following Friday night, they went to a steakhouse on Conquest street. It felt more like a business meeting than a date, they talked more about Targ Corp and her plans for her own PR firm. She had the ambition and industry knowledge, but needed the strategy and the connections to make it work.

“You and I could be a match made in heaven,” he said.

She paused midway through a sip of red wine, and raised her eyebrow ever so slightly. “I don’t usually go for younger men,” she said, “but you’re smart and uncomplicated. I think we could work something out.”

The line between business and pleasure was non-existent. They looked over contracts and business plans over coffee, accompanied each other to conferences and fucked in hotel rooms. She was straightforward, blunt at times but he found it impressive and refreshing. He never had to guess what she was thinking because she didn’t see the point in trying to hide behind niceties. Every time he complimented her confidence she said it was “a consequence of age.”

Things moved faster than he realised. Suddenly winter was turning into spring and Alys asked him to work for Rivers PR full time.

He found the wherewithal to tell Alicent and Viserys on a rare occasion that his father actually bothered to eat with them. He tried to be as casual as he could about his sabbatical from Targ Corp. It ended with an explosive row over the dinner table, leaving both Helaena and his mother in tears. Viserys was still shouting from the hallway as he packed an overnight bag and stormed out to his car.

He had to call three times before Aegon finally picked up. “Good for you!” his brother cheered down the end of the phone. “Who would have thought you’d end up like this though? Six months ago you were mum’s favourite son.”

“She just kept telling me I was selfish,” Aemond said, first the Storm’s End contract and now this. “And apparently Rhaenyra’s been up in arms about Alys branching off from Harrenhal, especially with everything that’s going on with Harwin.”

“Will you go to hers then?”

He was already heading towards central. “That’s why I called, I need somewhere to stay, I thought you could put me up for a bit.”

Aegon drew out an exaggerated “uhh,” and Aemond hung up, not in the mood to listen to some long winded excuse.

He gripped the steering wheel as he came to a junction and a sign for Queen’s Park. So much for being “uncomplicated.”

Alys was in a silk robe when she opened the door. “Mummy and daddy kicked you out?” she asked with a pouty frown.

He insisted he had left of his own accord.

It was a beautiful terraced house, plaster fronted, overlooking the park. The interior was understated and elegant, dark wood floors, white walls and bursts of muted greens.

It was quiet too, and the only light came from the kitchen.

“Where’s–”

“She’s out with a few friends,” Alys said.

He followed her through to the kitchen, where she poured out two glasses of wine and he told her everything.

By the time he was done she had finished her glass. She looked into it, like she was surprised to see that it was empty. He hadn’t touched his.

“Are you planning on staying for long?” she asked.

For a moment he felt stupid for coming to her at all. He couldn’t quite figure out what they were to each other, and suddenly he was showing up on her doorstep and using her like a therapist.

“I called Aegon first but I think he’s busy. I can be gone in the morning if you want.”

She took hold of his shoulder, stroking her thumb over the fabric of his shirt. “You can stay as long as you need to.”

He looked at her. He was used to her expression being so smug and severe, but she looked gentle now, her eyes wide and full of pity. When he took a shallow breath he realised she was wearing the same, dark perfume from New Years.

He kissed her slowly, nudging his nose against hers and slipping a hand around her waist to pull her in closer.

She chuckled softly as she pulled away. “I’ll be off early in the morning. Take some time if you need to, sort something out with Aegon or…”

“Right,” he said, swallowing down the lingering taste of red wine from her lips.

They slept in her bed, with their backs to each other.

When he woke in the morning Alys was gone. He checked the time on his phone, 8am, and he had a text from her: Help yourself to coffee. Let me know what your plan is.

He threw on a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants before he headed downstairs. He quickly figured out his way around the expensive coffee machine and settled on a stool at the island with a cup of black coffee.

His hands were restless, tapping against the coffee cup and the counter top.

She was in the same house as him, probably sound asleep upstairs, though he hadn’t heard anyone come in during the night. Did she know he was here? She must have seen the car outside, but she wouldn’t know it was his.

He’d hardly even considered the possibility of seeing her again until now, but he hadn’t expected things with to Alys to go this far.

He looked down at his phone. Maybe staying with Alys wasn’t such a good idea. He started typing out a text to Aegon when he heard the door to the kitchen open.

“Hello again.”

She stood in the doorway, squinting her eyes at him, hair loose and tousled, in nothing but an overused Black Sabbath t-shirt that covered the tops of her thighs. She looked a little dishevelled and utterly perfect.

“Hi,” Aemond said, putting his phone down and reaching for his cup. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

“No, I got a text from mum. She said she had a guest and I was free to ignore him or kick him out.”

“Have you decided which?”

She huffed a laugh and there was that smile again, though not as wide as it had been that summer. “I felt like being nosy,” she said.

She moved towards the sink and filled a glass of water, which she finished in one go, with a sound of satisfaction. She drew the tip of her tongue between her lips and set the glass on the counter before she turned to look at him again. “So you’re mum’s new boytoy?”

“Is that what she calls me?” he said, trying to play off the tight feeling in his chest with a small smirk.

“She doesn’t call you anything, actually. She’s been going on these little dates, calling them ‘work calls’ and hoping I won’t notice.”

“How do you know they’re not work calls?”

“I wouldn’t have until she brought you home with her.”

“That was my fault…” he looked down at his coffee. He was convinced he could already feel the caffeine buzzing in his fingertips.

“You look different,” she said.

His eyes shot back to her. “How so?”

“Your hair’s longer. It makes you look older.”

He raised an eyebrow and smiled at the way she recoiled into herself.

“I meant it as a compliment, honest.”

She looked different too. Her face hadn’t changed much from what he could remember, but mostly he noticed that she seemed more subdued. Her eyes were set in dark circles and they weren’t as wide, and when she wasn’t speaking her lips fell slightly. She looked older, but then how long had it been since Dragonstone? More than three years, less than four.

She told him where everything was in the kitchen, which he could have figured out himself but he didn’t want to interrupt her. She asked how long he was going to stay and he said until he heard back from Aegon.

That turned out to be a week later, and by then Alys insisted she liked having him around.

Initially he looked at a few rentals, which Alys discouraged and insisted he should buy his own place. Between work and the daily mass of texts he was getting from his siblings about Targ Corp and their parents, he couldn’t find the time to truly consider it.

It was easy to fall into a routine with Alys. She left for work earlier than him so he took his own car every morning. Everyone at the office guessed they were ‘together’ but they kept things professional. If he so much as put a hand on her shoulder she scared him off with a warning look. She always stayed later than him so he’d go back to the house, sort out dinner and have it waiting for when the girls got home.

The girls. He was going domestic.

She only had lectures a few times a week and when she was at home she stayed in her bedroom, only occasionally bringing a book down to the garden or the lounge while he worked in the kitchen. He wondered if she was avoiding him. Considering the awful impression he made at Dragonstone, he didn’t blame her.

But eventually she started to warm up to him. They found some common interests and small talk turned into in-depth discussions of history and politics and their favourite films and albums. She loved Mazzy Star especially. Sometimes, when he had the house to himself, he’d listen through their albums and imagine her listening to the same songs.

He soon learned just how elusive Alys could be. She always had something going on, a work event, a conference or even trips to Pentos with her old uni friends. When she was at home she was usually in the study on the top floor of the house, on a call, looking over contracts or managing some kind of crisis that only she could solve. If he joined her on work trips it was by her invitation.

So he often found himself alone with her. Movie nights became a weekly ritual, usually late in the week, and every week they seemed to sit a little closer to each other than before.

One night she fell asleep against him. His arm was around the back of the sofa and her head gently fell against his chest.

He wasn’t sure what to do, if he should wake her, but she looked so peaceful with her eyes closed, lips parted and breath fluttering down the collar of his t-shirt. Her body was warm and she was wearing that same citrusy perfume.

He wanted to keep her there. He could lie down, hold her in his arms and fall asleep pressed into her back.

Guilt told him otherwise. So he moved away from her, as carefully as he could, and guided her to lie fully on the sofa with a pillow under her head and a blanket draped over her body.

Alys came in from a dinner sometime after 1am and slipped wordlessly into her side of the bed. Within minutes he could hear her gentle snores.

He closed his eyes but he didn’t sleep. All he could think about was her breath on his chest, the way her shorts had ridden up her thighs, and that fucking perfume.

He was probably just tired, getting excited by some old crush which he was way past by now. He was sure he would forget about it by the morning.

If only it had ended there.

By the time spring came around she had warmed up to him. They spent Sunday mornings drinking coffee together in the garden and went for drives out to Blackwater Bay. They had inside jokes and talked about their families. Some nights she’d come crying to him over uni, arguments with her mother and a stupid boy who broke her heart. She was so pretty when she cried.

When she asked him to help her with a particular exam he couldn’t help himself. He noticed everything about their study sessions together, the way she shuddered when he put a hand on her shoulder, the way her breath hitched when he praised her.

His heart swelled when she came home from that exam with a wide smile, throwing herself into his arms and telling him all the details she could remember. Her eyes were so bright and gazing up at him almost adoringly.

He was so happy for her, and so proud.

She didn’t pull away when he kissed her. She met him with soft touches to his neck and a hummed whimper that threatened to spark something primal in him.

They smiled at each other when it was over, until the haze started to wear off. He cleared his throat, and muttered that he still had work to do. She nodded but they kept staring at each other, his hands on her waist and hers drifting down from his neck to his chest.

She was the first to step away. He watched her disappear through the door and wondered how he had managed to make such a mess of his life.

For the entirety of the next week he couldn’t get that muffled whimper out of his head.

Every time he saw her he wanted to drag her into him and kiss her again, harsher, hungrier, with his hands tracing over every inch of her body.

He told himself he was being stupid and he just needed an outlet. For the most part, he and Alys doing well together, but on the few occasions they actually fucked he found the novelty of being beneath her was starting to wear off.

Frustratingly, everything else seemed to be working well for him. He was good at his job; working for Rivers PR was certainly helping to distract him from his family and the company was thriving. He didn’t have to put up with his parents and the Rivers girls seemed happy enough to have him around. The only problem left was him.

In June Alys was accompanying a client on a trip to Dorne, a few days in Salt Shore, Lemonwood and then a week in Sunspear. Aemond wasn’t sure if he was elated or dreading her absence. Every time he’d been around her lately he held his breath, waiting for her to realise something was wrong.

She remained perfectly normal though. Her exams were finished and she had an internship at Lion Publishing lined up for the month of August. In the meantime she was living life as she pleased, lunch dates and picnics in the park with her friends, but she spent a lot of time at home too, mostly reading or writing in a leatherbound notebook.

The kiss was a mistake. A stupid mistake. He kept looking for a chance to talk to her, but decided it might be best until Alys was away.

Alys’ flight was due on a Friday evening and he dropped her off in the afternoon. They sat in silence for most of the journey but silence wasn’t a rarity for them.

When they reached the airport they both went to take the bags out the boot.

“I’m a big girl, I can manage,” she said dryly, but that was just her sense of humour.

“I don’t doubt it,” he said.

She set her suitcase by her side and slipped her arm through her Prada tote bag. “The two of you can look after yourselves well enough,” she said, fussing with the collar of her blouse. “I don’t need to tell you not to answer the door to strangers or anything?”

He smiled unenthusiastically. “No.”

With her eyes one the pavement, she brought her fingers to the styled waves of her hair, bringing a few tresses over her shoulder.

“She’s fond of you,” she said. “I know I can’t always be there for her when she needs me, but I know you helped her with that exam and I appreciate it.” There was no sign of shortness or irritation like there usually was when she spoke about anything remotely personal. She was being sincere and it just made him feel worse.

“Don’t mention it,” he said.

She shrugged her shoulders and the businesswoman was back. “Right then. I’d give you a kiss goodbye but I have lipstick on.”

How devastatingly practical, as always. She threw an arm around his shoulder and he pecked her cheek before she headed for the terminal, quickly and gracefully, heels clicking against the ground.

He had plans to meet Helaena for dinner at a restaurant in central. With her mother out the way, she had invited a few friends to celebrate the end of exams and he figured she’d appreciate the space.

He didn’t realise how much he missed not living with his sister until he saw her. That was the downside of the new circumstances, he never got to see his siblings as much as he wanted to.

Helaena asked him about Alys and her, how they were dealing with Harwin still in the hospital. He told her the truth, they didn’t really talk about it much, but by that point it was a matter of waiting for the inevitable.

Apparently Rhaenyra was a mess. She would be. Her husband was dying, she had three kids to look after and Harrenhal PR was falling to pieces now that Larys was in charge and Alys had poached half of their best clients.

Helaena was exhausted. She was getting ready to start a PhD in Highgarden and she should have been excited, but she hardly had the wherewithal to think about it with Alicent and Viserys’ constant rowing. At least Daeron would be back in a few more days so she wouldn’t be the only child at the house.

“Are you coming to Dragonstone this year?” she asked.

He took a telling breath through his nose and finished off his glass of wine.

“Aemond, please, it won’t be the same without you.”

He scoffed. “No one wants me there.”

She frowned at him with those sad blue eyes of hers. “Don’t say that.”

“Did you know mum hasn’t called me once since I left? It’s been five months. Do you really think I can just show up and we’ll play happy families then go back to hating each other when we get home?”

Her face twisted like she might start crying.

“Sorry I just–” he held his forehead in his hands and dragged them back over his hair. He didn’t want to think about Dragonstone, it just made him think of her.

He felt her hand gently take his wrist and guide it down to the table so she could see his face.

“What’s up with you?” she asked.

“Nothing. I’m just tired.”

She raised her eyebrows and hummed like she didn’t believe him.

It wasn’t long after 10pm when he got back to the house. He heard voices and giggles in the front lounge. He walked softly through the hallway and slowed when he came to the door.

“... that’s always been a fantasy of mine.”

“Jo, you’re sick.”

“Oh step-daddy!”

Laughter followed, with a few disbelieving sighs. He recognised her laugh, and made out two other distinct voices. He guessed they hadn’t heard him come in.

“Is he hot though?”

He listened for a reply but she stayed quiet.

“Oh come on! I bet you’ve thought about it.”

“No.” She said it so simply he almost believed her.

He moved through to the kitchen intending to get some water. There were two empty pizza boxes and an assortment of empty wine bottles on the kitchen island. He went to clean them up when the door opened.

“Hi,” she said softly. Her face was dewy and a little flushed. “I didn’t hear the door.”

“I only just got in,” he said, “don’t worry I didn’t hear anything incriminating.”

She tilted her head at him with a slightly dazed smile. She looked gorgeous and the pair of jeans she wore fit her perfectly.

She refilled the glasses from a new bottle and nodded to an empty glass on the counter. “Do you want to join us?”

“Only if you want me to.”

“I wouldn’t have asked otherwise,” she said.

He followed her through to the lounge, bringing the glass and the bottle with him.

Before he opened the door she leaned into him and whispered, “don’t worry, Margarey has work tomorrow and Jo’s waiting for her boyfriend so they won’t stay long.”

Margaery and Joanna were effortlessly charming but he distrusted them for being law students. They both grinned when he sat on the sofa by the window and were eager to ask him about his time in Oldtown and his job.

Joanna kept glancing over to her, but she remained unphased until Margarey mentioned Targ Corp. Her face slowly fell in irritation. He found it quite endearing.

“So why did you leave?” Joanna asked, “it was something to do with Viserys’ will, right?”

“It’s none of your business, is it?” she said shortly.

Aemond gave her a quick smile to let her know it was alright and she settled back to contentment.

Just as she said, they were both gone before midnight. She saw them to the door and when she came back to the lounge she fell beside him with her legs against his and her head on his shoulder.

“Did you have a nice evening?” he asked. If he turned his head just a little further his lips would brush against her temple.

“Really lovely,” she sighed.

He considered asking about the kiss, but she was definitely tipsy and just sitting with her was too peaceful. He couldn’t bring himself to disturb the moment and the sound of her breathing.

Her fingers began to trace up over the fabric of his shirt, up and down over his stomach and the lines of his abs underneath.

He put his hand over hers to stop her, but somehow it only seemed to spur his own want. He closed his hand around her, tracing his thumb over her knuckles.

She shifted her head so she was looking at him and her breath echoed over his neck.

She leaned in first. Their lips met with gentle grazes, just feeling each other and breathing the same air.

Gradually they deepened their movements. Her tongue slipped into his mouth and he melted at her softness and her warmth. He cupped her jaw to pull her into him despite the gnawing feeling in his chest, like he was getting too close, like he could never get close enough.

She started to move and he tried to keep hold of her, expecting her to slip from his grasp, until he felt her weight on his lap. She straddled him, wrapping her hands around the sides of his neck and threading her fingers through his hair. She gave him another dazed little smile before she continued to kiss him fiercely, desperately.

It was a bad idea. It was such a bad idea, but for now he would take the guilt if he got to feel her like this, her lips trailing along his jaw and down his neck, her heavy breaths and whimpers as she started to rock her hips against him.

He reached to take hold of her hips, moving with her at first before he set a new, steadier pace, dragging her against the tightening bulge in his jeans. “You alright there, pet?” he hummed.

She nudged her forehead against his. “Please can you just…” her eyes followed her hands as she propped herself against his chest.

“What do you want, baby?” he whispered.

She let out a whine that went straight to his cock.

“Come on,” he hissed, “talk to me.”

She clenched her fists to tug at his shirt. “I want you,” she breathed.

He strained an exhale as he tried to stop his hips from bucking into her. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he said with a groan, but he was already trying to rationalise it.

She could be the outlet, just once, just to get it out of his system.

“No it’s not, but I still want you,” she said.

Or maybe it didn’t have to be about him. He could just give her what she needed.

“Please,” she whined trying to fight against his hold on her hips, “I want you so bad, it fucking hurts.”

“Oh you poor thing,” he cooed, moving his face down to tease the skin of her throat with his lips and tongue.

He knew they were on the cusp of something dangerous and damning, but it was her, the girl from that summer, the girl with the pretty smile and the curious look in her eyes, Alys’ daughter.

When he looked up to her face her eyes were wide and pleading.

Maybe he felt he owed it to a younger version of himself, or maybe it was the wine he’d had at the restaurant but he couldn’t bring himself to care about the consequences.

He pressed his palm against her stomach, feeling her body tremble and her quick, shallow breaths. He trailed lower to undo the buttons on her jeans. “Take these off for me,” he muttered.

She didn’t hesitate to follow his instruction. She drew the jeans down her legs, leaving her in her top and a black thong. He told her to straddle him again, which she did.

With firm but gentle hands he felt along the bare flesh of her thighs and her ass, positioning her over his thigh. He pulled the thong against her until she was squirming and trying to rut against his jeans.

He chuckled softly to himself and held her waist tightly to keep her still, and she followed the silent instruction so well. She was panting, leaning in closer to him, but waiting for his lead. He was slightly scared of how much he loved it.

He brought his hand to her cheek, stroking and toying with her bottom lip. “Do you want to be good for me?” he whispered.

She hummed her agreement.

“Fuck yourself against my thigh, pretty girl, show me how desperate you are.”

With a small nod she started to move, letting out little moans when her clothed clit rolled against his leg.

He kept her movements slow, even when she tried to fight against him and go faster.

“No,” he said, “be a good girl for me, do as you’re told.”

The pace was agonising for her, eyes screwed shut and jaw hung open as her hands got restless, running over his jaw, his neck and into his hair.

He kept her steady and pressed her down against his jeans with each drag of her hips, playing with the change in pressure and smiling at the way it made her whine and her eyes water.

“Aemond… I need more…”

He still kept the movements nice and slow. “Just let it happen– there you go, good fucking girl.”

She didn’t hold back her moans as her climax hit her, tensing hard and falling into him. He kept her moving through it, until her thighs were shaking and she begged him to stop.

He was sure he’d never been so hard in his life, but he held her there, breathing in the smell of her hair and her perfume.

Then he brought her away from him so he could see her face, beautifully blissed out. There was that light, hopeful feeling in his chest, but it was starting to crumble under the realisation of what they’d done.

“Is that actually a thing, the step-daddy thing?” he asked.

She huffed a breathy laugh. “According to Jo it is. Why, do you want me to call you daddy?”

He wouldn’t admit it then, but he liked the way it sounded coming from her.

General Taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy

Series Taglist: @marthawrites @urmomsgirlfriend1 @aaaaaamond @boundlessfantasy @sahvlran @tinykryptonitewerewolf @arcielee @tssf-imagines @aemondsfavouritebastard @skikikikiikhhjuuh @queenofshinigamis @lost-and-founds @izzydlb @dc-marvel-girl96 @xcinnamonmalfoyx @padfooteyes @castellomargot @pet1t3 @okfashionista @khaothick

#my fics #aemond targaryen #aemond x original female character #aemond smut #aemond fanfiction #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen fanfic #hotd fanfic #hotd fan fiction #hotd fanfiction #modern!aemond #modern au #house of the dragon fanfiction #stepdad!aemond #my heart belongs to daddy

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ohtobeleah · 1 year

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#4 of pregnancy prompts with Rooster, where he just does everything for her and won’t let her lift a finger and she gets annoyed at him but still adores him for it #PL3

Prompt #4 "I'm pregnant, not terminally ill."

“Javy, I'm gonna need you to sit down before I tell you what I’m about to tell you—“ There wasn’t an awful lot you could say to help back yourself up in your current predicament. “And I’m gonna need you to promise me that you won’t freak out.” And there was no easy way to tell your older brother that you were pregnant, especially since you weren’t actually dating anyone—but what made it harder to explain that you were expecting was the fact that Bradley Bradshaw, Aka Rooster, was the father of your bastard child. “You have to remember I’m an adult—“

“What’s wrong? What happened?” Javy asked as he sat down on the barstool. You thought perhaps a public setting would help deter him from assaulting the naval aviator who you’d hooked up with a few times on the down low. The one who got you pregnant.

“Nothings wrong—“ You reassured him. “I’m totally fine, actually, uh—we’re totally fine.” You corrected yourself as you placed a protective hand over your stomach and fished out the ultrasound picture you’d brought with you to show your brother. “I’m pregnant, surprise.” You sheepishly smiled and passed Javy the sonogram. “I know that mum and dad are gonna be like super crazy about this so I haven’t told them yet.” You added nervously. “But I thought if I told you, and you were as understanding as I know you can be, then I might make it a little easier to tell them soon enough.”

Javy Machado sat quietly taking in the image that had been presented to him—he was gonna be an uncle. His little sister was pregnant, about to bring new life into the world. But there was one question he needed to know that sat on the very top of his tongue that he couldn’t go a second longer without knowing.

“Who’s the guy?” Javy asked with a raised brow, you held your breath as you quickly made eye contact with Rooster over your brother’s shoulder. He was gearing up to run. “Y/n? Who’s the baby’s dad?”

Again, let’s circle back to the fact you thought a public setting would be more beneficial to Bradley Bradshaw's survival. Jake Seresin reached for his phone and opened up his timer, he had a vet going with Phoenix and Fanboy that Rooster would be shit outta luck in five seconds. Mickey bet ten, Phoenix however had been more generous—she’d bet Bradley had a solid twenty seconds to live after Javy found you were carrying Bradshaw's bastard child.

“Ready Rooster?” Jake teased as he slapped his wingman’s back as Bradley finished his beer. Standing from the stool he’d been perched on as if he were about to run for his very life.

He was.

“It’s Bradley—“

“Bradshaw!” Javy turned around to see Rooster standing there with a shit eating grin smeared across his stupid face. “Are you messing with me?” He turned back to you. “Y/n tell me you're messing with me and you haven’t been—“ Coyote paused as he cringed, he couldn’t even say it. “I’m gonna kill him.” Javy hissed through gritted teeth as he looked at you on final time and stood from his stool. “You!” He shouted at Bradley with anger seeping from his pores. “I’m gonna kill you!”

“That’s your cue man—“ Jake laughed as he shoved at Rooster. “Run, run!” And that’s exactly what Bradley did, he ran straight for the front doors of the Hard Deck as Javy chased him down.

“It was consensual!!” Rooster shouted as he laughed through a childish grin. “Bro! It was an accident!” Bradley ran as he tried to explain himself, he ran as he tried to make the situation easier to digest for Javy—the over-protective big brother.

“You did not accidentally have sex with my sister!” Rounding one of the outdoor tables, Rooster stood on one side as Javy stood on the other—ready to pounce.

“Okay well that part was intentional.” Rooster smirked, remembering every amazing, blissful and very intentional touch. “But the whole impregnating part was totally accidental—!”

It goes on like this for the rest of the night, Javy is deathly serious about sending Rooster to meet his own father and Bradley is constantly looking over his shoulder until you take your brother home to cool off.

“You know, Rooster isn’t a bad guy.” You mumbled under your breath as you drove back to your brother's place. The place you’d been staying at while you were in North Island. It wasn’t meant to be a permanent thing, but as it turned out your plans had since changed. “I was the one who thought it was better that you didn’t know we were kinda, well—not officially together but I thought it was best if you didn’t know we were seeing each other until we knew what we were?”

“I get it.” Javy sighed as he let his head rest against the passenger seat. “It’s just, god I trust that guy with my life everyday and he’s been messing around with my little sister behind my back?” Javy tried his best to explain where he was coming from as he looked your way. “Doesn't feel good.”

“Can you just promise not to kill him?” You chuckled softly. “I kinda don’t wanna have to have this baby on my own and co-parenting amicably sounds a hell of a lot better than dead baby daddy.”

Javy promised you there in that moment sitting in the car trying to process you were pregnant, that he wouldn’t kill Bradley—although he spent the better half of the next two weeks giving him the cold shoulder and silent treatment purely because he knew if he spoke it wouldn’t be to exchange pleasantries.

But one morning, Javy broke. He couldn’t hold it in any longer. He needed to put the fear of God into Rooster, not that there was any doubt Bradley Bradshaw wasn’t about to be the best father and co parent or significant other that he could be.

So after the last hop of the day when the daggers were all busy showering and de-stressing and getting ready for drinks at the Hard Deck, Javy saw his moment and struck. Bradley had his guard down, he was vulnerable, a pair of boxer briefs the only thing that stood to protect him as Coyote slammed him into the lockers, pinning him there with his forearm across his chest and the other fist balled and ready to strike.

“Javy—“ Rooster Damn near pleadeas he held his hands up in surrender. “I swear to god I didn’t do anything she didn’t ask me to!”

“Listen up and listen good Bradshaw, because I’m only gonna say this once.” Javy hissed as he pressed the mustache clad aviator into the lockers a little harder. “My sister doesn’t lift a goddamn finger during her entire pregnancy so I make myself clear?”

“Crystal man, clear as day.” Rooster shuttered, it wasn’t like he would have it any other way himself. “She’s my number one priority, so is that baby.” When Javy was content with Bradley’s answer and only when he was content did he let Rooster go. Watching as he dusted himself off and picked up his clothes that had fallen in the unprovoked attack.

“She doesn’t lift a finger—“

“I got it.” Bradley snapped back, groaned as he tried to put his jeans on. “I’m not going anywhere Coyote, I’m not that kinda guy, I thought you knew that?” Javy thought that was far too rich coming from Rooster after he’d been sleeping with you behind his back.

“I thought you were a good guy man.”

Javy shrugged, he didn’t know how to judge Bradley’s character anymore. “Then my sister told me you knocked her up.” Rooster wasn’t a malevolent guy, he knew that Coyote was still trying to process all of this. You were his baby sister after all. So it was only natural and to be expected that Javy would go above and beyond to protect you. So the sting in Javys' tone ran straight across Bradley’s back like water off a duck's feathers when he turned around to walk away—leaving the daggers completely stunned. “So now we got problems.”

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~

As the months ticked over and your baby grew, so did your relationship with Bradley. He was in this just as much as you were and although things started casually? The two of you seemed to just meld into each other's lives seamlessly and ever so effortlessly.

It literally came as no surprise to anyone who knew the pair of you and who had witnessed the ever growing and ever evolving love affair that had bloomed into a budding romance before their very eyes when Bradley and You, Baby Machado as the group had dubbed you—made things official. Which brings us all to right now.

“Rooster!” You shouted as you stood in the cleanest house you’d ever been in. For efficiency purposes, you had decided to move in with Bradley when he asked you to one night as you sat on the back porch eating a pint of ice cream each. “Roos! Get in here will ya?”

“What’s wrong?” He asked with a raised brow, doing up the buttons on his flight suit before he zipped up the zipper as he got ready for work. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Look around and tell me why you see?” You huffed out as you rubbed your stomach protectively. Six months had come and gone in the blink of an eye. Bradley did as he was told as he slipped behind you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders as he leaned in to kiss your cheeks between everything he said.

“I see—“ *kiss* A perfectly clean. *kiss* Home fit for a queen. *kiss*

“You also meal prepped last night and I don’t have work today or tomorrow!” You sighed as you spun out of Bradley’s warm embrace. He looked at you like you were from planet Mars as you picked up one of the throw pillows from the corner of the lounge and threw it haphazardly on the ground before you plopped with an exaggerated sigh.

“Okay, what are you trying to get at here sweetheart because I gotta be honest with you, I don’t see what the issue is?” Rooster asked as cautiously as he could. He had alway gone above and beyond to make sure you never had to lift an unnecessary finger. Did the acts of service technically come from Javys threat? Sure—but that didn’t mean Rooster was always going to do whatever he could to make this pregnancy as easy as he could on his part. He loved you so much, he just wanted you to relax. Enjoy your down time.

“The problem is Bradshaw, I'm pregnant! not terminally ill." Bradley didn’t know what to say so all he did was chuckle softly, that didn’t bode well in his favour. “I’m serious! What am I supposed to do all day if you’ve done everything there is to do around this place!”

“Relax?” Rooster replied as he reached down to pick up the pillow you’d purposefully dropped on the carpet. “I agree and honestly I’m pretty thankful you aren’t terminal I’ll honey—“ He grinned ear to ear as he placed the pillow back on the lounge. “But like you said, you’re pregnant and the last thing I want the mother of my child doing on her days off is unnecessary housework.”

“I’m gonna go insane if I don’t do something!” You groaned like a petulant child. This was the first time in your life that you felt like you weren’t totally independent and reliant on yourself to do everything. “You’ve even stocked the pantry with a copious amount of random foods! So if little spud here wants something I don’t even need to go out and get it I just gotta walk into the kitchen.”

“It kinda seems like I’ve done everything I can to make this easy for you yet I'm still in trouble.”

Rooster challenged you as he leaned in over you and kissed your lips softly. “I have to get going mama.” He mumbled against your lips. “Why don’t you watch one of those true crime documentaries you’ve been talking about for the last few weeks? Veg out. Put your feet up.”

Although you were annoyed that there was nothing to keep you busy, you felt somewhat blessed to have someone as caring and as thoughtful as Breadley Bradshaw as a partner. There could be worse things to complain about. There could be worse things to put up with.

“What’s a girl gotta say to get you to say home hey?” You held Bradley down by the zip on his flight suit that ran up his buttons. “Why don’t you stay home and you can keep me busy by recreating what got us into the situation in the first place.”

“You don’t know how badly I wish I would honey.” Rooster cooed against your lips as he pulled away and stood up straight. “But I’m government property baby.”

“Yeah well, the government can kiss my pregnant ass.”

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~

#Leah’s 4K Celebration 🎊

#submission #Leah’s 4K celebration 🎊#bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw angst #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley 'rooster' bradshaw #rooster bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradleybradshaw #bradley bradshaw x female reader

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maculategiraffe · 4 months

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okay spoilers for the little girl who lives down the lane (1976) but here's what had happened: this little girl's dad was terminally ill and her estranged mom was abusive and her dad was worried that when he died she would either go back into the care of her abusive mom or into the foster system. so he was like okay honey listen. you're a smart girl, you got a good head on your shoulders. here's what we're gonna do. we lease a house, the rent's paid up for the next three years. I'll leave you a big pile of traveler's checks in a safe deposit box in the bank, joint account with both our names on it where you're authorized to make withdrawals. I'm going to check tide charts and then go drown myself in the sea so they'll never find my body. and you just pretend I'm still alive to everybody in town so they won't bother you for the next three years until you're old enough to (unclear. not need a legal guardian? I don't know what the emancipated minor laws were in 1976 but they keep saying three years like that's the magic timeframe so whatever. she is thirteen so I guess when she's sixteen she's officially a grownup). and if your mom comes sniffing around just put a spoonful of powder from this little jar in her tea and then read this textbook on home embalming. good? good. okay I love you I'm going into the sea now

which is all fine and good. now here are the dumbshit mistakes her stupid father made:

-chose, for the location of the house, a nosy small town where everybody knows everybody and everybody is all up in everybody's business all the time. it takes two seconds for the landlady to be like I never see you or your father at the market. I get he probably doesn't want her living in a big city (although, why? good public transport, good cultural opportunities, libraries, museums) but at least pick a place that has more than one grocery store

-chose, for the landlady, a nosy obnoxious anti-semitic old bitch who is on the school board and also has an adult son who is a known child molester. have like ONE conversation with the townspeople before you sign this three year lease. literally anyone in this town would tell you about this old bitch and her molester son if you gave them half a chance

-speaking of the school board why is part of the plan that your daughter doesn't go to school. sure she's super duper smart and special but aside from depriving her of a major source of automatic social support not going to school immediately makes her look suspicious and (depending on truancy laws in 1976) possibly puts her in the wrong side of the law. just let her go to school like a normal kid and then come home and teach herself quantum physics in the evenings

-doesn't teach her the slightest bit of common sense self defense. like if it was me I'd teach her to shoot and give her a nice little lightweight handgun of her own but if you don't like that idea then at least teach her to keep the door on the chain and not open the door after dark no matter who knocks. and for christ's sake warn her about halloween

-ya dingus

-come back out of the sea and explain yourself at once

-anyway little jodie foster is fantastic and so is her little manic pixie dream boyfriend and so is his check suited cop uncle. great movie but the father is a dingus

#movies #psir #the little girl who lives down the lane

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mulderscully · 1 month

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i feel like oversharing today.

it's an odd feeling to be moving out at 30. i'm doing what i "should" have done over ten years ago and i keep going over and over how i ended up here.

there is the basic element of the pandemic & the housing crisis but for me, i cannot help but feel like my family failed me and i don't feel like me saying that is pity seeking or asking for sympathy. it's just true and i deserve to say that.

when i was 16 my mom died, she had been terminally ill for THREE years. my aunt and uncle knew she was going to die, they knew they would take me in. they promised her to take care of me.

the summer after my mom's death was one of the worst years of my life, but the summer after my senior year was even worse because that is when the situation genuinely became abusive and i just couldn't see what it was.

until i graduated high school at 19 (yes, i was always a little old in school for some reason) i was allowed to keep my mom's social security benefits, so i would recieve about $200 a month for my needs. at the time $90 of that would go to a storage unit that held all of me and mom's stuff from our old apartment. it got to the point that i couldn't keep paying it so me and my family decided to empty it out.

it gets messy here because my aunt is a hoarder, and i did not understand the gravity of that til that day. she didnt want to donate anything. at all, we physically had no space for the stuff so we went against her, this ended up in her throwing herself at me in the car and kicking me onto the street, grabbing me so hard she ripped my bra and i had to wait for my uncle to come and get me.

i did not understand this was abuse.

that night she jumped at me and choked me until my uncle pulled her off me.

i did not understand this was abuse.

because we threw "her" stuff away that entire summer she was a constant ball of fury that i have never seen. i would sleep and wake up her banging on my door, screaming to let her in.

i would feel dread when i was walking home cause i knew she would be yelling and throwing things because i "betrayed" her.

i did not understand that this was abuse. i JUST let myself start calling it that.

somehow as time went on this stopped happening as often. a lot of other things happened, my aunt also assaulted my uncle and my cousin and was arrested multiple times. but i just... got used to it? because i did, and DO love my aunt and felt like... i owed her bc she took me in.

so when this calmed down, and would only happen every few months, i stayed because i was so depressed. i would sleep until 3 pm every day. i worked nights around that habit. my bedtime was 4 am. i didn't ever wanna be awake when everyone else was. i did not understand how fucked up i was. no one asked me if i needed help,

it wasn't until right before the pandemic when i was 25 that i was like... finally waking up. the pandemic was hard because i had to be in the house all the time and the hoarding got worse bc all of us are too defeated to help now. the house is swallowing me. i come home and feel like i want to go anywhere else. i have a constant stomach ache that i fear is cancer but logically is probably just stress.

i cannot live like this anymore and i will not anymore. i never thought i would actually say i'm moving out and mean it but it's happening. i had to crawl my way out of the grief of my mother's death for thirteen years because my aunt considered her own more important, because she abused me.

i don't know how to even explain my life to people without them looking horrified, but i'm excited for that to change.

#personal #abuse tw

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jessnotfoundd · 1 year

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how many kids does the boys want to have? any specific age gaps? i wanna know everything

Dream

He wanted to have two, after Dylan, your son, he begged you to please start with a baby trying so they won't be so different in age, but you decided to wait a year, and then try again because you would be super tired having to take care of Dylan and be pregnant. At least a year to get used to the parenting life. He was okay with a year.

What he didn't expect, after that year, and you got pregnant again, the very big surprise was when at one appointment, the doctor told you both that you were having twins. Istg he almost passes out there.

Sapnap

He wasn't sure how many kids he wanted to have, but after Ashley, he was sure to want another one, but he didn't want to pressure you.

But 3 years later, you tell him, you're pregnant. He's shocked. The happiest man standing on earth.

-Hope this time's a boy, so we can play basketball together.- he jokes and both of you laugh. Ashley sleeping, and you both sitting in the kitchen.

-I'm super lucky to be with you.- I lean my head to rest it on his shoulder.

-Yeah, I'm the reason these kids are gonna be the prettiest at school.- he whispers and he goes again.- We should be tagged as "the hottest people alive"- he left a kiss on your head and drinks his last bit of coke so he could throw the can.

And yes, the baby arrive, and Ashley was obsessed with her little brother. You couldn't happier. You both formed a perfect family.

George

Well, he was so happy to be a father, he wanted a girl so you tried three times, and she finally came. Aaron and Isaac were 6 and 4 when she was born. Madison was the princess of the house, and George was always telling the boys that they have to protect her at all costs. The boys would take this very seriously and would try to be with her all the time. They would be so gentle when playing with her. The British were proud of them.

-So, you're telling me, this- you point at the broken cup- was about to hurt Madison?- the two boys have their eyes on his feet.

-Okay mom, we broke it, and not, he was not gonna hurt madison, we are really sorry.- and it's there when you realized you both did a good job.

-It's okay, I was worried about you two getting hurt with the broken cup, I'm glad you're both safe, go play with your dad.- they run straight to George.

Karl

Only one, a little girl, Sarah Anne Jacobs. He was terminated because he was okay with only one, and the fact that you had a dangerous pregnancy. It was hard for him when the doctor ask him aside when labor started if in any case, who should he save, you or the baby.

He couldn't decide, both were terrible and left him shaking in the waiting area. When he saw both of you he knew it was a miracle, and he didn't want to go through that again.

Quackity

Two girls, Olivia was 4 when Victoria arrived, she was a little jealous, but he made sure to let her go that none of you would love her less just because you were gonna have another baby.

-plus, you'll have someone to dress as a princess- he says smiling.

-Uncle Karl is not gonna dress as a princess with me anymore?- she pouts and you admire how pretty she is, so like Alex.

-You'll be three then.- he pinches her little cheeks and she smirks.

Punz

A girl and a boy, Matthew was 2 when both of you got the news, Luke was happy, but he drive you crazy about he wanted to have a girl.

-If it is not a girl, well keep trying- he has you seated on his lap, Matthew just fall asleep like a minute ago.

-This is the last pregnancy ill go through.- you smirk.

-Fine.- he sounds offended.

When the baby turned out to be a girl, he was all over you, super proud of saying that he manifested it.

-You can't manifest a baby's gender- you insist.

-Then how do you explain?- he looks at you with a smirk and then his eyes are on the road again.

You just rolled your eyes and let him think he manifested the baby's genre.

Foolish

Angela was enough, he was happy with the baby girl and you, so the baby's factory was momentarily closed. Not wanting more kids.

At least for now, she's 5 months old and she's calm basically perfect.

Wilbur

Jessica was 6, Emily was 5, and Lily was 2 when you both settled down and decided to be 5 members of a family. Wilbur was in love with her three girls. Four actually.

Tommy was proud of both of you and he was the funny uncle the girls would run every time you say no to something they asked.

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randomfoggytiger · 6 months

Text

Mulder: Jewish and Religious References (and His S8 Funeral)

Is Mulder Jewish?

Canonically, it's never explicitly stated; and, intriguingly, there are more hints that Mulder had a Christian background than a Jewish one (though he later became an atheist, agnostic, or a fluctuating blend before meeting Scully.) Although these hints abound, Scully's strict Catholic beliefs are completely alien to him: meaning, whatever religious exposure he had was either loose, lax, or only served as a distant backdrop in his day-to-day childhood.

Chris Carter clarified that the name "Mulder" was of Dutch origin (literally: he took the name from his Dutch uncle, here); and (according to Google) Tena's maiden name Kuiper was of Dutch origin as well. However, because ancestry, heritage, or culture for Mulder didn't seem to be Chris's focus then (and doesn't now), in the absence of communication or specificity (or interest) David Duchovny played Mulder as a Jew by default.

On the other hand, Jewish show writer Howard Gordan-- the man who wrote Kaddish-- stated that he didn't believe Mulder was Jewish "or even half-Jewish"; and set Mulder up as an outsider to the culture-- not knowing Jewish customs or being able to read Hebrew or to even identify a Jewish book-- as well as equipping him with a joke about Jesus and the resurrection from the dead. Vince Gilligan, meanwhile, wrote a few (deleted) lines wherein Mulder owned his heritage while sniping at Crump:

Crump: You know... what kinda name is Mulder, anyway? What is that, like, Jewish?

Mulder: Excuse me?

Crump: Jewish. It is, right?

Mulder: No it's not, yes I am....

The conclusion? Nowhere in canon is Mulder or his family's cultural background confirmed; but his vulnerable moments with religion show him kneeling in a Christian church or being buried by a (I think?) nondenominational minister who reads from the Christan New Testament text. Bill Mulder was buried by a separate, more formally attired minister; leading me to assume that Mulder's only exposure to religion was from his father's side (and would explain the ending of Conduit.) Perhaps Tena arranged Bill's affairs and buried him according to her own beliefs-- we never saw (to my recollection) Tena's funeral, so we'll never know how she chose to be buried-- and perhaps Scully copy-pasted Tena's funeral plans and called up whoever officiated her funeral to do so again for Mulder's funeral. Not to mention S8's ridiculous brain disease: if Mulder accepted he was terminally ill and bought a headstone, then he would have had to set his final plans in place ahead of time-- including who officiated (but since I reject that plotline entirely, it's more logical that Scully would be doing what she could with whatever scraps she was left with.)

I think, like The X-Files itself, this mystery is a blend ultimately created from a lack of confirmation in any particular direction.

(And on an unrelated note: if, as I suspect, there were any ties to Jewish culture from Tena's upline, then that could be used to disprove and further explain The Field Where I Died: Mulder could have been meshing his mother's or her family's past into this messy regression therapy session, illuminating why the episode was not only canonically unbalanced but also made no sense, period.)

As always, the Truth is out there, but so are unsolvable questions.

Thank you for reading~

Enjoy!

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callsignspark · 10 months

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Bradley and Mary

straddling your partner's thighs

look at what you've done, anon. I've gone and written something ridiculously long.

send me a physical intimacy prompt for any of my Dagger, Sword & Shield couples!

your lap is my safe place - part i

pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Mariella “M&M” Vertucci (fem!OC)

warnings: 18+ minors DNI, uterine cancer (discussions of a terminal illness and treatment), death due to cancer (established universe death), grief over losing a parent, funerals, panic attacks, vomiting, you don’t need to read Mar[r]y Me to read and understand this but you should anyway

word count: 7.1k

part ii - coming soon

note: originally, this was supposed to be a short, simple prompt answer - one part sad and one part smutty - but it's gotten extremely out of hand due to my inability to be brief. so this is part one (the sad part), and the smutty sequel will be coming (ha) sometime early next week. and when I say this part is sad, I mean sad. some of this is very much based on my experience with loved ones who have had cancer and/or were terminally ill. it was very therapeutic to write, even if I did cry a whole lot.

Tuesday, September 3, 2002 | 06:35 A.M.

Bradley wakes up to his alarm clock blaring in his ear, feeling like he’s going to throw up, which is weird for him. Mav says that he’s never met anyone with a stronger stomach. Eighteen-year-olds have stomachs of steel, his mom jokes when she’s having a good day.

He stumbles down the hall and hangs his head over the toilet. Nothing comes up. The nausea goes away in a few minutes, but his gut still feels twisted. He brushes his teeth and decides the likely culprit is the new recipe Mav attempted for dinner last night. He choked down a few bites of the horrible fish tacos before his uncle called it a failure and ordered pizza.

Back in his room, it doesn’t take him long to finish getting ready, pulling on his new first-day-of-school outfit and shaping his mustache. He doesn’t care what Slider says; it’s looking good, much thicker than when he started growing it in April.

“It’s my first day of senior year, my last first day of school. Until the academy, anyway. But with the summer training, the first day of classes probably won’t even feel like a first day.”

His father’s official Lieutenant-JG portrait stares back at him. Unanswering as he fixes his hair.

“Mom is getting worse… She’s getting weaker; I don’t think we have very long before she has to go into hospice. I really want her to get better - I wished for it - but I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

He swallows hard and fights back tears, remembering his birthday just a few months ago. Everything hadn’t seemed quite as bad then as it is now.

“I hope she can make it to Christmas. I almost have enough money saved up to buy her that pair of earrings that look like the ones Princess Diana had at her wedding. They’re not real pearls like hers, obviously, but the lady at the jewelry counter told me they’re replicas, so I think she’ll like them anyway.”

Brown eyes identical to his own stare back at him. Hints of the mischievous, prank-loving man visible in the polite smile captured. The old photo is carefully tucked into the edge of his mirror; it was his mom’s first, but she gave it to him when he was eight. She had caught him staring at it every day for a week, quietly talking to it about his day.

“Wish me luck, Goose. It’s gonna be a big year.”

Downstairs, he’s greeted with the second weird thing of the day. First, his stomach, and now his mom is flipping pancakes. She’s hardly had the strength to use the bathroom by herself in the last six months, but this morning, she’s standing at the stove, singing along to the radio, and making his favorite breakfast.

She’s always said that bad things happen in threes, but strange things happen in pairs.

He thinks she might be right, but if she feels good, he’s not complaining. She never feels good anymore.

“There he is! Oh, Mav! Look at my baby boy, all grown up and ready for his last year of high school!”

“Ma…” He groans, and without prompting, he bends down to let her kiss and pinch his cheeks like he always does.

He’s not sure how many good days she has left, so he tries his best to behave and make her life easier.

He doesn't complain when she asks him to take the garbage out after he already did; her memory hasn’t been as good since she got sick. He keeps the anger inside when everyone forgets his baseball games because she had chemo; it’s more important for Mav and Ice to take care of her than to watch him throw a ball around. He even offered up his college fund to help pay for another round of treatment. He was denied before he could even finish the suggestion, but he just wants her to get better more than anything in the world.

Needs her to get better.

She sets a stack of pancakes in front of him, and again, he has the urge to cry when she kisses the top of his head. Her perfume takes over his senses, and if he closes his eyes, it’s almost like he’s little again.

A massive stack of fluffy, perfectly round pancakes, slathered in butter and syrup, filled with his mom’s love.

Mav sitting across the table from him, drinking the worst black coffee to exist on the planet.

His mom humming off-key at the stove, her beautiful, golden hair swishing as she gets into a song.

But then he opens his eyes, and he’s not little anymore.

The pancakes are still covered with butter and enough syrup to give him a cavity, but they’re not the same. They’re flat and mishappen; her arms aren’t very strong anymore, so Mav must’ve had to help her.

Mav still sits across from him, terrible black coffee in his mug, but now he looks old. Too old for someone in his thirties. They’ve been lucky he’s been able to be here this past year. After Mom got sick, Ice and Viper pulled some strings to get him assigned to a shore-duty desk job. Bradley knows he hates it. Can see it in the way he watches every plane that passes overhead - civilian, military, it doesn’t matter - his fingers twitching to be the one controlling the powerful engines. But he never complains, is steady and strong, taking Mom to appointments and Bradley to school.

His mom is humming at the stove for the first time in a long time, somehow more in tune than she’s ever been. He wants to make a joke about how the treatments must have fixed her tone-deafness, but it would just make everyone sad. A reminder that it’s the only thing her treatment has fixed.

It’s taken everything else away.

Her skin, once bright and youthful, is now dull and gray-toned. Her energy has been zapped; she doesn’t even have it in her to make it through their Sunday movie nights. Her body is frail. She was always slim, but now she borders on gaunt, her appetite nonexistent most of the time. Her hair was the first thing to go, a rotation of brightly colored scarfs and hats replacing the blonde strands that used to reach her shoulders. He looks at today’s choice. A bright red scarf that matches the white sundress and red cardigan she’s pulled on.

She looks pretty.

“You look pretty, mom.”

It grabs the attention of both adults, the two of them staring long enough that he squirms in his chair.

“Thank you, baby.” Her pleased smile tells him it was the right thing to say. “You don’t want your pancakes?”

“I do. They look great, but my stomach kinda hurt when I got up, so I don’t want to eat right now. I’m sorry. If you put them in the fridge, I can eat them for dinner.”

“Oh, don’t be silly! It’s a special day; we’re going to have something special for dinner! Something that Mav won’t be making.” The teasing smile she sends to the table makes the knot in his stomach unwind some. It makes him feel good enough to take a small bite.

The shape is wrong, and they’re not fluffy enough, but the taste is the same. The flavor melts over his tongue. The pressure in his chest, the one that showed up around the same time as his mom’s cancer diagnosis, lightens a little bit.

I should fake sick and stay home.

The thought comes out of left field, but he’s immediately on board. She hasn’t had a good day in forever, and he doesn’t want to miss it. Who knows when the next one will come. If there will even be another good day. He wants to spend time with his mom while she knows what’s happening.

“My stomach hurts; I don’t think I can go to school.” He groans and grabs his stomach, trying to look as pathetic as possible to sell his story.

He’s forgotten how sharp his mom is, how well she knows him. “Nice try, honey. You were fine two seconds ago, and you’re not missing your first day of senior year. Now, c’mon! It’s photo time!”

Carole is marching towards the front door before he can argue, so he tries to sway Mav in his favor. But the dark-haired man just shakes his head and avoids eye contact, grabbing the camera off the counter. Bradley stands in the middle of the kitchen, the knot retwisting itself.

He suddenly realizes that his upset stomach has nothing to do with yesterday’s tilapia trying to get its revenge and everything to do with what he overheard in the waiting room during his mom’s last checkup.

“I know, I heard. Isn’t it terrible? He'd been sick for a while, but it seemed like he was getting better. He even took his kids on a bike ride, and then - BAM! - he was gone the next day!”

“Oh, that happens a lot with people who are sick for a long time. Toward the end, they get this sudden burst of energy. It’s like God’s way of giving a happy memory to them and their loved ones. Letting them have one last good day before they go.”

He’s actually going to throw up this time.

Bradley drags his feet all the way to the front door, delaying his departure as much as possible. He doesn’t want to leave, but he knows he’s not going to win any fight against her right now - he’s going to school, come hell or high water. And he doesn’t want to fight with his mom; instead, he chooses to commit the moment to memory.

The gentle touch of her hands as she fusses with his hair, making sure it’s just right before any photos.

The brightness of her smile, how it’s the one thing that’s never dimmed despite everything she’s gone through.

The teasing barbs she exchanges with Mav, the man who has been family to her for longer than Bradley has been alive.

He looks at Mav, the man who has done his best to help raise him. Tried so hard to be a fatherly figure in place of the man who was lost too soon. Mav looks tired, Bradley wonders if he’s thinking the same thing as him.

She’s going. She’s going, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

Just like every year since kindergarten, they squish together on the porch, his mom wrapping her arm around his waist. He thinks about how she used to have to squat down so their heads were together. Now, she’d have to go on her tiptoes, and he’d have to crouch down for that to happen.

He knows his smile looks fake; he has to force himself because this might be the last photo he gets with his mom, and that makes him sad beyond words. Carole quickly fixes that, tickling his side on that one spot that always gets him. He giggles and tries to squirm away, his smile turning happy and real as she laughs at him.

“You’re just like your father; he was ticklish in the exact same spot.”

Even the talk of Goose doesn’t bring them down like it usually does. Today, it lifts everyone’s spirit to realize how much he’s like the father he didn’t get to know.

After Mav has taken an ungodly number of photos, Bradley asks for the camera and stands next to his uncle. He snaps photo after photo of his mom, hoping that if he takes enough, he won’t ever be able to forget this moment. Then he shuffles Mav on the porch and takes photos of the pseudo-siblings. He rearranges them one last time, setting the camera on the porch railing and hitting the timer.

He doesn’t know it yet, but that photo of the three of them standing in the yard with the Bronco just visible in the background will be the last photo taken of his mother. As an adult, it will be tied for first place with five others as his favorite photo of all time.

After the last flash, Carole pulls him close. “I am so proud of you, Bradley. Your dad would be so proud of you. You’re such a good boy. I love you so much.”

He hugs her tighter than he should; he can’t help it. The little gasp she lets out at the intensity of his hug makes him feel a bit guilty, but he doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t want to let her go.

“I know, honey. I know. It’s okay.” She tries to soothe her baby, who isn’t a baby anymore. He’s a full-grown man who is so much smarter and wiser than any 18-year-old should ever be. He’s been through so much more than any kid should ever have to go through. She feels bad about how quickly he’s had to grow up. “Everything is gonna be okay.”

No, it’s not going to be okay. But he holds back his tears because he doesn’t want her to cry when she’s having a good day. He reluctantly lets go and slips on his sunglasses - aviators, just like Goose - before heading for his car, knowing that if he doesn’t go now, he’ll never be able to make himself leave.

With his stomach in even more knots than he thought possible, Bradley heads off to school, waving as he pulls out of the driveway. Trying to burn the image of his mom waving, one hand on her hip as Mav nudges her and makes her laugh.

From the moment he parks the Bronco in the seniors-only lot, the entire school day feels like torture. He can’t even enjoy the beginning of his senior year, something he had been waiting for.

Senior year means graduation. Graduation means going to college. College means packing his stuff for Annapolis. Annapolis means he can finally start working on his dream.

He’ll learn how to be an aviator while roaming the same halls as Goose while he learns the ins and outs of aeronautical engineering. He might even be lucky enough to get placed in the same dorm room. Being an aviator means he’ll be just like his father. And Mav. And Ice. And Slider. And all of his other uncles from the class of '86. But he can’t bring himself to be excited like usual.

Instead, he’s on edge the entire day. Waiting to get called to the nurse’s office. They all had agreed as a family - Bradley, Carole, Mav, and Ice - that if she passed when he was at school, they would have the front office call him down to the nurse’s office. Ice would pick him up, Mav likely busy dealing with the doctors and the funeral home and everything.

He can barely eat the lunch his mom packed. A peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich, cut into triangles like when he was little. Chips, cucumber slices, and a chocolate chip cookie round out the meal. He tosses most of the food but is careful to keep the little note she had put in the brown paper bag.

I love you, Bradley. You’re going to do great things.

He presses it between the pages of his calculus textbook before he goes to gym, making sure he doesn’t bend the pink sticky note, preserving her swirly handwriting as best he can.

Finally, the bell signaling the end of the eighth period rings. Relief washes through his body. There’s been no call from the nurse, and his school day is over. He hastily packs his bookbag and practically skips towards the parking lot, waving at some friends still in class. He’s one got free period during ninth period, and as a senior, he gets to leave early if he has no class.

He’s planning his route home - he wants to stop at the corner store to grab a treat for his mom - when he skids to a stop where the concrete sidewalk meets asphalt.

Ice is leaning against the bumper of the Bronco.

“Happy birthday, Bradley!” His mom yells before blowing a kazoo.

He couldn’t be happier. It’s his birthday, his mom is having a good day, and he just got the keys to the Bronco. It’s officially his, just like he always dreamed it would be.

“Your dad’s dream was for you two to fix it up together and give it to you on your eighteenth birthday,” Mav explained. “I know I can’t replace him, but we had a good time working on it, right?”

Bradley nods and hugs his uncle. Mav will never be his actual dad, but he’s the closest thing he has to one. He helped raise him. He had sacrificed so many weekends to spend time with him, showing him how to fix the Bronco or throw a football with a perfect spiral. He’d even taken him on motorcycle rides, but they agreed not to tell Mom about that.

“Okay, knock it off, you saps. It’s time to blow out your candles, Baby Goose!” Slider enters the dining room, looking ridiculous with a crooked party hat on his head. He’s concentrating hard to balance a cake that’s much too big for the six people in attendance at his birthday dinner.

It’s set in front of Bradley, and he laughs when he sees the cake is covered in little plane toys. It looks like a cake made for a little kid, and he loves it. Aunt Sarah lights his candles and starts singing. He sits there for 30 seconds, watching his family sing off-key and thinking about how he loves his family so much his heart hurts.

“Okay, baby! Close your eyes and make a wish!” Carole smooths a hand over his hair.

He smiles up at her. “Only if you help me, ma.”

She bends down, doing a quick countdown before they close their eyes and blow out the candles together. For the first time in years, Bradley actually makes a wish.

Please don’t let my mom die. I need her.

Ice is talking to Slider, who’s parked in his white Jeep, and even from this distance, he can tell they’ve been crying.

Slider has obviously given Ice a ride to school, and now they’re waiting for him. If Ice doesn’t have his truck, that means he’s going to be driving Bradley. And that can only mean one thing.

She’s gone. My wish didn’t come true.

His backpack hits the ground at the same time as his knees, and he throws up. It’s not a lot; he’s barely eaten today, and by the time his uncles reach him - their feet pounding on the pavement - he’s just sobbing and dry heaving into the grass.

“Breathe, Bradley. You gotta breathe, buddy.” He can’t tell which one is talking; blood is rushing in his ears, and he just keeps crying.

“Bradley.” It’s Ice, holding his face up. “Listen to me. Your mom is not dead. Do you hear me? She’s not gone. But she had to be taken to the hospital; we’re still waiting for the test results. We’re gonna go there right now, but you need to breathe first, okay? You gotta breathe.”

He does his best to stop crying and take in air. His body literally shudders on the first breath, his lungs greedily sucking in the oxygen. After a few breaths, a water bottle is shoved in front of his face. He doesn’t even know where it came from, but he drinks, his throat raw.

Slider pops a mint into his mouth before helping him stand. “It’ll help your throat and your stomach.”

He races to the car, throwing the keys to Ice, who almost drops them. Both adults speed out of the parking lot, heading directly for the hospital.

Halfway there Ice has a chilling realization. The car is silent. If he’s learned anything in the last twenty-odd years, it’s that a car ride involving a Bradshaw is never silent. There’s always talking and laughing. Usually, you can count on singing and bad seat dancing, but today, it’s silent. There’s not even the sound of crying. And when he looks over at Bradley, he’s startled to find him catatonically staring out the windshield, his face bone dry. He looks like a statue, and it freaks Ice out how quickly he’s shut down. He hasn’t attended Sunday service in a long time, doesn’t even know if he believes in a higher power, but at that moment, he sends off prayers to every deity he can name, hoping that one of them can pull off a miracle for the boy who’s already dealt with so much.

It’s even worse at the hospital, Slider nabbing the spot next to them seconds after Ice shifts into park. The three of them hurry towards the ICU, where a nurse lets them all in after she hears who they’re visiting. Technically, only Bradley and Pete meet the requirements to be allowed in, but the entire ward is aware of the situation and are prepared to let as many people visit as needed.

Bradley freezes halfway to Carole’s room, Slider almost running him over. A priest is walking out of her room. He shakes hands with Mav and somberly nods at the frozen trio when he passes.

Mav watches as his best friends gently nudge his godson forward. His heart feels like it’s splitting in two as tears start streaming down Bradley’s face. A face that looks so old and so young at the same time. Maverick feels like he’s watching his 18-year-old nephew transform into the little boy who just lost his dad. His lower lip trembles just like it used to when he would fall and scrap his knee. Except this time, there’s nothing Mav can do to make it better. There’s no antibacterial spray, no Spiderman band-aid, no over-dramatic kiss with magical healing powers. This time, there’s only a young man who’s now taller than him. He stands in the doorway with red eyes and a mustache that makes him look so much like Goose.

“What happened?” Bradley croaks, afraid to enter the room. He hates the way his mom looks when she’s hooked up to all those machines. The beeping hurts his ears. “Why was the priest in here?”

“I don’t know, kid. We were about to eat lunch, and she collapsed. The doctors don’t know either; the test results didn’t show anything that’s telling them what’s going on. Everything is just suddenly worse.” Mav gets choked up; he can hardly continue. “They uh- they said this is probably it. That we should say our goodbyes. That’s why I had the priest come in. When we talked about her final wishes a while ago, she made me promise she would get her last rites.”

Bradley tackles him in a hug before he finishes talking. They cry together, mourning the loss that hasn’t happened yet.

The four of them have been sitting in silence for hours, listening to the beep of the heart monitor, when Bradley speaks up from his post beside his mom. “What else does she want? I know she wants to be buried next to Goose, but what else? She didn’t tell me.”

“She wants yellow carnations in her arrangements. Her wedding band stays with her, just like Goose, but her engagement ring goes to you. She wants to be wearing that blue dress she wore when she first met your dad.”

“That’s it?”

“There are a few more legal things, like with the house and the cars, but that’s laid out in her will. She made me promise I’ll take care of you, which I was always going to do no matter what.”

And she made me promise I’ll never let you fly.

Mav doesn’t add that final promise to the list; it’s not the right time for that conversation. He’s not sure it’ll ever be the right time.

Carole can feel herself getting weaker, but today is a good day; she feels good. Strong.

“Peter Howard Mitchell! Listen to me, you stupid, stubborn, obnoxious jackass! We don’t have a lot of time before Bradley gets back, and we need to talk about this!”

Bradley had felt guilty about leaving to go to the movies with Tessa Richardson, but Carole had insisted - he’d had a crush on that girl for years. It was about time he had his first kiss. And she was 95% certain it was going to happen today. Her motherly instincts were tingling.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Carole! I’m sick of every conversation we have being about you dying!”

“You think I like talking about it? Knowing that I’m leaving behind my little boy?” She gets in his face, yelling with every ounce of strength she can summon. “You think I like knowing that my body is giving up? That I’m dying? I can feel it happening, Pete! I can feel myself drifting away! And nothing the doctors are doing is helping! I know that it’s scaring Bradley, scaring you, but it’s scaring me most of all!”

Maverick catches her, and they sink to the ground; she sobs in his arms. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry; I’m so sorry, Carole. What do you need me to do?”

“Bradley can’t fly.” She pulls back, wiping her eyes. “He can’t fly for the Navy, Pete. I know he wants to, but you can’t let him.”

“But Carole, it’s his dream to-”

“To die just like his father?” Her words shock him. “I love Nick more than anything, Pete, you know that. But do you know what I would do to have him here with us today? Do you realize I’ve lived three times as long without my husband than I did with him? It’s been fifteen years - almost sixteen. I only knew Nick for five, and we were only married for three before he was gone. I would do anything to have Bradley know his father.”

“Care…”

“You’ve been incredible, Mav. You’ve done your best to be a father to him; he loves you so much. I love you so much; you’re my best friend. But I've missed my husband every day for the last fifteen years. He was the love of my life, and I miss him so much my heart hurts. I’m not going to be here, but I can’t stand the thought of the same thing happening to Bradley. I won’t let that happen to my baby. So, you have to promise me, Pete. Promise me you won’t let him fly.”

They sit on the floor in silence, staring at each other. The internal debate roars inside Maverick, hurting his chest. He loves the Bradshaws more than anything. He would do anything for them. He still feels guilty about his best friend’s death, knows it was his fault, even if the investigation said he was innocent. The guilt of Goose being gone eats away at him, little by little each day.

Carole is right.

He can’t - he won’t - lose Bradley the same way.

“I promise I’ll do my best to keep him out of the air. But Carole, he’s almost an adult. Soon, there won’t be much I can do to control him. I can’t stop him from applying to the Academy or joining the Navy.”

“Yes, you can. Get Ice to pull some strings, indebt yourself to Viper. Do whatever you have to do. Do everything you can to protect him, Pete.” Her voice is cold and emotionless, knowing it will destroy her son, but at least he’ll be alive.

It was the one and only time they had talked about it, but every time Bradley excitedly talked about his future, Carole would look at him with this face that made Mav feel awful. It’s her request, but he was going to be the reason Bradley’s dreams were crushed.

Mav leans over in his chair, guilt and hopelessness consuming his body. The knowledge that his godson was about to be more like him in all the ways he never wanted.

Orphaned. Mother dying, with a broken heart, years after his father was killed while flying.

Denied entrance to the Naval Academy due to something beyond his control.

“She doesn’t want anything else?”

“No.”

It’s the last word spoken. A lie.

Slider and Ice spend the night just outside the door in some extra chairs an orderly had been kind enough to scrounge up. Mav shifts between standing at Carole’s side to hold her hand and sitting ramrod straight at the foot of her bed.

Bradley stays by his mom’s side the entire night, clutching her left hand. He plays with her wedding band, twisting it around her finger like he used to when he was little. He thinks about how different everything is going to be. He’s going to be alone a lot more now. He’s legally an adult, so when Mav gets deployed or transferred, there won’t be a need to scramble to make sure he’s taken care of. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do with the house or if it’s even his to worry about. Mav, Ice, and his mom had taken care of the legal stuff without him. He wonders if Slider would loan him some money so he can get those earrings. She won’t be able to appreciate them, but he still wants her to have them. It’s the last thing he’ll be able to do for her. They’ll go nice with her blue dress, he thinks. He sits there and thinks. He’s there the whole time.

He’s there, wide awake, when Carole takes her last breath at 3:14 AM on September 4th. He’s there when the doctor comes in to declare her dead; he shakes Bradley’s hand, giving him the first of the thousand condolences that will follow. He’s there when the nurse comes in to turn off the monitors and unhook the IVs; she gently asks if he wants to leave while she cleans his mom up, but he refuses. He doesn’t have a lot of time left before he’ll never see her again; he can’t waste any time. He’s there for another hour, trying to say his goodbyes through sobs. He’s there until his uncles drag him out, promising him that he’ll see her again before the funeral. He’s still there, mentally, when he goes to sleep at Uncle Tom’s house. He and Pete are sleeping over, neither of them ready to face the house.

He’s there three days later, shyly asking the funeral director if it would be too much trouble to change his mom’s earrings. When he asked Uncle Ron about the money, he put them both in the car, drove to the mall, and paid for the earrings without question. The two of them hugged for a long time before they went home. He’s there at the viewing, next to his mother’s casket for hours, numbingly accepting condolences and hugs from hundreds of people. The one bright spot is being reminded how many people loved his mom. How wonderful she was to everyone she met.

He’s there at the graveside service, the first to place a rose on the polished wood. He stays there once it ends, refusing to leave, watching as the casket is lowered and the hole is filled with dirt. He’s there to place a bouquet of yellow carnations, her favorite, on top of the fresh earth. He pats the dual gravestone, one half still blank, before he lets Mav pull him to the car. He looks back one last time, and as the sunshine dries his tears, he swears he can hear his parents' laughter in the wind.

As an adult, now with two dead parents and one estranged, he’s there every year that he’s not deployed. He clears away any weeds and leaves before placing a bouquet of yellow carnations on the gravestone that now bears two names. Sometimes, there’s a single red rose already there when he arrives. Those are the years he knows Mav beat him to saying hello. He’s there for hours at a time, sitting with his parents and eating a bag of trail mix with extra M&Ms added - Goose’s favorite.

The first year that he and Mary are together, he’s there alone. He trusts her implicitly, and she knows the whole story. He told her what happened with Mav and everything that followed; it was a conversation they had early on. But this is something too raw, too personal, to share so soon in a relationship. He’s spent so many years doing this by himself that he’s not sure how he would handle having another person with him. Even if it was someone he loves so much.

Mary understands.

“Of course, you understand, you’re perfect.”

“I’m not perfect, Bradley. I just care about your feelings.”

“You’re perfect for me.” He kisses her before she can protest. “Thank you for caring about me.”

The day of, she kisses him softly as he leaves, pushing a sandwich bag of trail mix into his hand. Her only ask is to tell her when he gets home safe if he needs space, letting him know that her house is always open if he doesn’t want to spend the night alone.

He spends that first year catching them up. Now that he’s stationed in San Diego, it’s easier to visit more often, but several things have happened since his last stop. Usually, he talks for a bit and then sits in silence, choosing to reminisce on the happy memories. This time, he spends most of the time talking. Telling his parents about Mav, the shenanigans of the Dagger Squad, about Mary. He tells them all about Mary. How much he loves her, how he hasn’t said it yet because it’s only officially been two months, how he’s pretty sure she can tell anyway. He goes on and on about her eyes, her kindness, her intelligence.

“I love her so much; I’m going to marry her.” He blurts it out, a small gasp following his declaration to the etched granite stone. It’s not the first time he’s had the thought, but it’s the first time he’s said it out loud. And now he can’t stop thinking about it.

Mary in a white dress with a veil sitting on her pretty brown hair, a gold band on her ring finger. The two of them committing themselves to each other in front of all their loved ones. Twirling her around the dance floor to their song, dipping her at the end to kiss her and make her blush. Everything that would follow. A house. A dog. A few kids. Diapers and dance recitals to gray hair and wrinkles.

“Holy shit… I’m going to marry her.” The breeze ruffles his hair, and he knows it’s his parents. “Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll make sure we’re married before I get her pregnant, unlike you two.”

He decides to stay the night at Mary’s, feeling better than he ever has on this day. He goes to find her the moment he enters the house, using the key she recently gave him. She’s on her office floor, organizing her bookshelf, when he presses himself against her, devouring her in a kiss. Bradley’s added weight throws her off balance, and the two of them topple over, sprawled in the paperbacks.

When he finally pulls back, he’s pleased to see that she’s flushed and her chest is heaving.

“I’m not complaining, but what was that?”

“I’ve never had someone to come home to after visiting them; I’ve always done it alone.” He talks into her neck, enjoying the way her fingers tighten in his hair when his lips brush her skin. “I’m just really thankful I have you.”

“Oh, Bradley…” Mary doesn’t know what to say. She loves this man so much, and she knows it’s too soon to say that, so she shows him. The night ends with a shower and papercuts in places where papercuts should never happen.

The day sneaks up on him the second year they’re together. They’ve been busy; between work, helping Jake with his surprise, and preparing to move in together, August went by in a blink. It leaves him with no time to mentally prepare.

Bradley jolts awake, sweat covering his temples and his heart thumping. It’s the worst nightmare he’s had in months. It was a twisted mess of awful moments. Some real, some imagined. Reliving his mother’s death but worse, almost dying on the uranium mission, losing Mary to cancer, same as his mom. He woke up just as a doctor was telling him she was gone and he wasn’t allowed to see her.

“No, sir, I’m sorry, but you can’t go back there. Her husband doesn’t want anyone else back there. You’ll have to wait for the funeral… if you’re even allowed in, asshole.”

He whips the covers off and trips his way to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before his dinner makes a return trip. The commotion wakes Mary, and she quickly makes her way to him, finding him laying on the floor, his shirt whipped into the tub.

His chest is so tight it hurts. He can’t believe he’s having a panic attack. He hasn’t had a full-on panic attack in years. There’s been anxiety, moments where he can’t easily catch his breath and his heart beating faster than it should, but nothing like this. He feels like he’s drenched in sweat, his heart is pounding, and he can’t breathe.

“Bradley? Look at me, sweetie.”

Mary.

“Can you look at me, Bradley?” He can hardly see through the tears. “I know it’s hard because you’re crying so hard, but look at me.”

It takes all his strength to turn his head, but he does it because he knows she’s worried.

“There you are. Okay, baby, I need you to breathe with me.”

He’s not exactly sure how she does it, but she helps him calm down. His body listens to her instructions before his brain realizes.

It takes a while, but he can breathe normally again. She helps him sit up, propping himself against the tub and letting his head fall back. He hears the sink run before there’s a soft touch on his shoulder.

“Gonna touch you, that okay?” He nods, appreciative of how considerate she is, always thinking of him.

Mary gently wipes his face, cleaning it of tears and sweat before brushing the washcloth over his arms and chest. It helps ground him, feeling more inside his body than before.

“What time is it?” Bradley rasps as she rinses the cloth.

“Late. Or early, depending on how you want to think about it.” She peeks out of the door, checking the time. Her face is somber when she comes back to him. “It’s 3:20, honey.”

“Twenty years… she’s been gone for twenty years.” He reaches for her, and she easily complies, straddling his thighs when he tugs her hand.

They sit in silence, wrapped tightly in each other’s arms.

“I had a nightmare.” He starts, answering her silent question. “It was her death and the uranium mission back-to-back, losing her and then him.”

She hums, encouraging him to continue. She doesn’t know the details of that mission - her clearance level is high but not that high - but she knows that he and Mav barely made it back. Both of them brushing hands with death multiple times.

They have nightmares. Less frequently now that they’re a few years down the road, but they still happen. Mav dreams that he doesn’t save them, that one of the bogeys gets them before Hangman reaches them. Bradley’s feature him missing the helicopter, having to watch Mav bleed out.

“Then it was you. You were sick. It was the same thing as Mom, uterine cancer. And I couldn’t even say goodbye. You married someone else, and I wasn’t allowed in.”

She takes a sharp breath. That’s new.

“I don’t want to lose you, Mary. I love you so much, I think it would kill me.”

“Oh, honey.” She cradles his face, forcing him to look at her. “You listen to me, Bradley Bradshaw. You are the best thing to ever happen to me. I love you more than anything. In two weeks, we’re going to be living together. When the time is right, we’re going to get married and have a family.”

She can't help but press a quick kiss to his mouth. “And I’m healthy. There’s no history of uterine or breast cancer in my family, and I just had my annual appointment last week. All the tests came back negative for bad things. Nothing is wrong. I'm totally healthy, okay? I love you, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“You can’t guarantee that.”

“You’re right, I can’t. We can’t control everything, and sometimes bad things happen. But I can promise you that I will do everything in my power to make sure I don’t ever leave you.”

“Thank you.” His voice is quiet and scratchy. “I know it’s hard with what I do, but I promise you’re my number one thought when I’m in the air; coming home safe to you is my top priority.”

“Now, I’m gonna cry, Bradley.” They both let out watery laughs. “You’re such a sweet man.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too. Now let’s go back to bed; I need my beauty sleep before I meet your parents.” She pulls him up, and they fall asleep quickly, tucked together as the early morning light peeks through the curtains.

When they get to the cemetery the next afternoon, a red rose sits on the headstone. One step in front of him, Mary picks it up and brushes some leaves off the base. He watches as she places the flower back in its spot, plucking a few dandelions before she stands.

“There,” she says, brushing dirt off her hands, “that’s better.”

The wind picks up, twisting her long hair around, and he rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, Mom, I know. She’s very pretty. I’m working on proposing. We gotta do some stuff first, but it’s coming.” He mutters under his breath.

“What was that, honey?”

“Nothing, baby doll. Want to help me put the blanket down?” His hat blows off, and he scowls at the tree that’s nearby, smiling when he hears her muffled giggle.

Miss you, dad.

part six will be coming next week! have a great weekend everyone!

fic tag | Mar[r]y Me masterlist | credit for dividers here

#top gun maverick fic #top gun maverick au #top gun maverick imagine #top gun fic #top gun au #top gun imagine #bradley rooster bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley rooster bradshaw x oc #bradley bradshaw x oc #bradley bradshaw imagine #rooster imagine #DSS universe #MM fic #ask game #asks answered #anon <3 #elle writes #mar[r]y me fic

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kitmon · 1 year

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S'That Metal? | Eddie Munson x Fem!Musician!Reader

Series Masterlist

Summary: A new neighbor just moved in a door down and Eddie can’t reign in his curiosity.

Pairing: Eddie Munson (Stranger Things, 2022) x Fem!Musician!Reader

Chapter: 1/? [wc: 6.3]

Part 01

Tags: swearing, Eddie falls and hurts himself (talk of aching pain and soreness), probably some bad guitar talk because I’ve only been playing for a few months, reader is a bit mean but, I mean, she’s totally justified, Eddie's kinda a creep but he has innocent intentions, vague discussion of a parent with terminal illness

Author’s Note: It's here! Finally a full first chapter of S'that Metal? I know it took me literally forever but I hope that despite the long wait you guys will enjoy it. Thank you to my lovely @queenimmadolla for beta reading as always now please enjoy!

Chapter One: S'that Metal?

The sun is hanging low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the tops of the pine trees that decorate the edge of Forest Hills, indigo darkening the east as day gives way to night. Eddie’s van rumbles along the dirt road as he pulls into the lawn, tapping his fingers over the steering wheel while the sweet licks of Saxon’s Graham Oliver blare through the speakers. He flips the ignition off and steps outside, skipping to the front door with a satisfied smile over his lips as he fumbles with his ring of keys.

Another successful Hellfire session, he thinks to himself as he inserts the right key into the lock. Though the freshman can be rowdy at times, he enjoys their enthusiasm and it makes nights like this, where a devastating blow is dealt to one of his obstacles, all the better, with cheering, celebration, and pats over the shoulder. He couldn’t care less if they destroyed his entire fleet with one critical hit, as long as they were having fun, he was doing his job as Dungeon Master.

Just as he’s about to push the door open with his shoulder, the familiar sound of a whining guitar could be heard nearby. He looks to the trailer situated next to his uncle’s. A moving van has been parked in its lot since yesterday morning and the front lawn, even now, had boxes, empty and full, littering itself. That isn’t what interests him though. It’s the muffled voice of that guitar, piercing the paper thin walls of these shitty trailer homes.

All the more curious, Eddie pulls the key out of its socket and pockets it in his leather jacket. He takes a few wide steps towards his neighboring trailer, attempting stealth but really only achieving looking like a complete dork. His steps are soft and as he moves closer the sound becomes much more clear. He’s pressing his ear against the side of the mobile home and— is that Whiplash?

He’s turning his head to stare at the wall in disbelief, eyebrows furrowed as if it could quench his confusion. He notices a warm light seeping through a window only a foot overhead and he begins whipping his head around to try and find something that could operate as a temporary step stool. With the natural light of the sun nearly gone, the star having hidden behind the tall pine trees to the west, he can hardly see anything too far away but he can make out the outline of a thrown out milk crate, holding a few empty liquor bottles and soda cans. He reaches for it and dumps out all of the contents onto the dirt and he swears that the next morning he’ll collect it and throw it in the trash but as for right now, he just needs to see who or what is playing that song.

As he takes a step onto the crate, the blue plastic of it groaning under his weight, he can barely peek his eyes over the window’s sill but it’s enough to see the makings of a very small kitchen. Just past the small bar he can see into the living room and that’s where the sound’s coming from. He can see your figure cradling the guitar— a sleek cherry red Jackson Pro, he could make out with some difficulty from his position— held up tight against yourself. Your eyes are focused on the lower length of the fretboard as you chew at your lower lip in concentration, your fingers gliding across the strings with a mastered practice and as a particularly intense part of the instrumental kicks in, you start to curl in on yourself, really feeling the music as you shake your head to the sounds of the solo screaming and crying to the will of your fingers.

Eddie watches, spellbound by the way that your picking hand flicks up and down with a practiced precision and as he’s leaning on the tips of his toes to try and get a better look, your eyes fall to the window in passing before doing a double take, your eyes wider as they fall upon half of Eddie’s face. You both share a panicked look, your fingers halting over the strings as you drop your pick, the thin piece of plastic slipping from your fingers and disappearing into the jungle of your shag carpet. In the frenzy of being caught, Eddie’s foot slips and the crate is tipping over, sending him tumbling to the ground.

As the image of his eyes to the top of his head disappears from your sight, almost in a flash, you’re detangling yourself from the guitar strap and setting the instrument so that its propped against the coffee table before you’re jogging into the kitchenette and leaning over the sink to try and see where he went. You climb onto the counter, your knees and shins resting awkwardly with the dip of the sink, and push the window open.

As you poke your head out, you see the mysterious set of eyes and unruly bang-ed figure writhing in the dirt and rubbing at his hip. He looks like the wind has been knocked out of him as he groans and begins to prop himself up on his elbows, lifting his head to catch your eyes.

“Who the fuck are you?” You question, your words strict and serious.

Eddie whines at the embarrassment of it all before giving you an answer.

“Uh, I’m Eddie… Eddie Munson,” he clarifies, before pointing to his trailer, only a bit away. “I’m your neighbor.”

Your eyes flick to his trailer next to yours before scanning over his figure and determining how much of a threat he actually poses.

“Is looking through people’s windows normal in this town or is that just a you thing?”

Eddie chuckles as he lifts himself back up with creaking joints and a pained grunt.

“Uh, no,” he laughs, “I just heard you playing and um…yeah, I don’t have much of an excuse for, uh… peeking through your window.”

“Okay,” you mumble to yourself before speaking, “Well, don’t let it happen again, weirdo.”

You reach for the handle along the window to close it before Eddie interjects.

“Wait, wait, wait!”

Your hand falters as your gaze falls back to him.

“I just— Was that—” He huffs a sigh before asking, “Were you playing metal? Like heavy metal?”

As he asks the question he mimics shredding on the guitar, wiggling his fingers like he’s hammering on a fretboard.

You puff your cheeks up with air and blow out a sigh, rubbing your fingers over your forehead as the absurdity of this situation causes a mild migraine to bloom out from your temples.

“What? Are you gonna file a fucking noise complaint or something—”

“No, no! I love metal! Just— fucking look at me!” He chuckles, dragging his hands over his frame to draw your attention to his Dio t-shirt and ripped jeans adorned with his glinting chain catching the low moon’s glow. He’s lifting his hands to tousle his disheveled head of hair and show off the length and the volume of his curls. “I just didn’t know that anyone in this park cared for it. You just moved in, right?”

You squint your eyes before tossing your attention from left to right, seemingly confused by his curious line of questioning.

“Yeah.”

“Cool, cool. I’m Eddie, by the way,” he says, throwing his hand up in a curt wave.

“You already said that,” you notify him, your voice dull and devoid of any humor, and his hand balls up into a fist before slamming into his thigh as it falls in disappointment.

“Right,” he laughs at himself under his breath before sucking his lips in towards his teeth.

“Ok, well, this really has been a lovely chat but I have work in the morning, so, bye.”

He tries to protest you leaving but his voice catches in his throat as you’re slinking back into your home and slamming the window shut behind you.

“Welp, “ he sighs to himself, “screwed that one up big time.”

He ambles back to his trailer and brings his hands to rub over his tailbone and backside, groaning with each limped step he takes.

Late in the morning, the minutes inching towards midday, Eddie croaks a grumbled hum, tucking his hands and rubbing his face into his pillowcase before arching his lower back in a strained stretch. He flops his stomach back onto the mattress as it shakes with his weight and groggily brings his arms out from where they’re bundled beneath his sleep-flattened cushion to lift him up so he can brush the tangled strands of hair out of his eyes and away from his mouth.

After a bit of dawdling, he’s pried his sweaty limbs away from his sheets and makes himself a bowl of Froot Loops. He takes large spoonfuls into his mouth and drips a bit of milk over his chin before wiping at it with the back of his hand. As he walks back into his room and stalks towards his guitar, hung lovingly over his vanity, he notices the snapped little e string he marred a few days earlier during a night of mindless fiddling, accidentally turning the knob too tight while forgetting what's clockwise and what's not. The string hangs sadly in a loose ringlet and he sighs, reminded by the sight that he needs to go into town and buy a new pack before his next rehearsal.

The bright white glare of the September sun peirce’s Eddie’s retinas and makes his face scrunch up in distaste at the shift in lighting, hand lifting to shade his eyes as he skips down the few rickety, weatherbeaten steps. He fiddles with his keys and twirls the ring around his index finger, making jaunty steps towards his van. As he fingers through the keys and hums a violent tune to himself, he looks over his shoulder and chances a glance at your trailer. In the window, there’s a note; a hastily torn away yellow pad page, the message reading in bold black pen, “USE THE DOOR, WEIRDO.”

His lips curl in on themselves and he bobs his head in silent embarrassment as he takes his key and jams it into the lock.

Eddie swaggers into Marty’s, the bell above the door tinkling with his presence. His head travels from left to right, looking around, hiking the sagging seat of his pants up by the belt loops as he enters. He makes note of the wall adorned with strings of varying purpose, some meant for cellos and violins, others for basses and guitars and as he makes to step towards it, something stops him. His eyes travel to the minimal practice room and, behind the glass, he finds you, a warm, mild smile stretching your cheeks as you sit next to a little girl on the piano bench. You’re speaking to her, instructing her, encouraging her, all of which he fails to hear through the barrier as you point your finger to the keys and demonstrate the proper notes and tempo. There’s a clear joy overcoming your features as you watch her adhere to your advice, surely improving if it incites that reaction but, as your eyes wander and you look over your shoulder, your smile falters at the sight of him.

With your lead-like stare, his muscles contract as if faced with the threatening glare of a starved tiger, shoulders tensing before he tries, as inconspicuous as possible, to turn back to the strings and pretend as if he hadn’t even noticed you, let alone been enthralled by the foreign image of your easy smile.

Your hardened and, frankly, frightening expression shifts as you placate said smile back onto your face and address the child once more.

“Keep practicing your scales, Sweetie. I’ll be right back, okay?”

She nods her head at you dismissively, too focused on biting the tip of her tongue as her untrained fingers do decently well at replicating the D major scale you’d demonstrated to her. You stand up from the bench and push past the door, letting it fall slowly so as to not disturb your pupil. That gentleness dissipates instantly and all that remains is the annoyance that has been irked out of you by this guy’s persistence.

You stalk up to him and see right through his attempt at nonchalance, his fingers stupidly toying with the packaging of the banjo strings. He catches you, in the corner of his eye, standing next to him, arms folded and eyebrows set as you confront him.

“Are you stalking me now or something?” You do little to hide the impatience that laces your voice.

“What? No! No,” he laughs anxiously through the last word, the slip not helping his plea of innocence as he does his best to school his nerves. “I just— I had no idea you worked here, I just need some new strings.”

Your eyes cut him up like a steel switchblade before you turn to the wall and scan the various gauges, styles, and materials.

“What instrument do you play?” You ask despite already dropping to crouch down, becoming eye level with the guitar strings.

“Uh, guitar, the, um, electric kind,” he informs, leaning over your shoulder, all too intrigued by your process.

“What kind of music?” You’re entirely focused, astoundingly unbothered by Eddie’s childlike nosiness and lack of spatial courtesy as your fingers graze the plastic and the paper packaging, your eyes running over the names and brands printed in wild to mild fonts.

“Metal, mostly.”

“You’ll probably want a thicker gauge.” It’s muttered under your breath and, as quick as a viper, you snatch a fuschia package and shoot up from your place low to the floor, wordlessly stepping towards the register. He stares dumbly after you before scrambling to catch up. You ring him up and pop open the drawer, your hip taking the brunt of the unforeseen force, the mechanism delayed and unreliable as per usual.

“Your total is eight fifty-six.” There's none of that anticipated customer service charm as you deliver the line.

He surges into a disarranged scrabble of hands patting at his vest and front pockets before finding his wallet stashed in the back of his pants, kept close by the glittering chain that strings across his hip. He produces a 20 dollar bill and savors the way your fingers brush the joint of his, cold as they may be, like a kid in middle school, excited by the mere acknowledgement of a crush.

You go through the motions, flipping the bill clips up, placing and exchanging cash while scooping coins into your palm with your fingers. His eyes wander and he feels inclined to speak, to talk to you in hopes of hearing you talk back.

“You know, I’m actually in a band.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets and feigns nerve, the plastic face tested against the unimpressed and blatantly uninterested look you flick to him as you sift through the smaller bills in your hand.

You hum to acknowledge him, looking back to your cash, flicking the clips up in the drawer and laying the extra bills back, “You’d think with that experience you’d know how to pick strings.”

You offer his change out to him and press the dollars into his palm, letting the avalanche of coins spill from your fingers into the divot made by the crumpled paper.

“Hey! I know how to pick strings,” he defends. Your body shifts as you eye him, callous disbelief coating your features. “I do!”

“Mmhm,” you lean over the counter, elbows bracing themselves against the turquoise-speckled laminate, “And how long did your last ones serve you before they gave out and couldn’t stay in tune anymore?”

“I dunno, about three weeks?” You hiss at that number. “What? What’s wrong with that?”

“Just tells me everything I need to know.” You roll your lips in towards your teeth and give a listless shrug as you shut your drawer.

“Well maybe you don’t know as much as you think you do,” he challenges, taking your place over the counter, the leather on his forearms creaking as he adjusts himself. “Come to my show.”

He points over your shoulder at the corkboard hung behind the desk, advertising various events and services. You turn and find the handmade flier stapled to the board, lifting your hand to take the purple paper into your fingers and snatch it down from its place to examine the details. You flip the paper to perhaps find more on the back, noticing the bleeding of the black marker through the page, the ink making up the spiky, tendrilly name of the band, the font making the words hardly legible.

“Corroded Coffin?”

“Mmhm, we’re playing a show Tuesday,” he informs, his dorkish smile wrinkling his cheeks. “You should come, see how much you really know.”

“I’m busy,” you shut him down, leaving him with a dumbstruck expression painted across his face as you start to step towards the practice room, able to hear the faint tinkling of “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” played slow and choppy yet discernable from within.

Eddie’s quick to recover and calls after you, “So, I’ll see you there at eight?” It was phrased as a question but was spoken as an expected reality, entirely delusional yet charismatic in its dog-like hopefulness.

You turn your head over your shoulder, hand ready to twist the knob as you catch his impish grin, all teeth and obnoxiously cocksure.

You begin to correct him, “I said—”

“I’ll save a seat for you.” He’s backing up, heading towards the door, fingers occupying his back pockets.

“Wait! I didn’t—”

“Don’t be late!” He’s already out the door, the bell signaling his exit. You huff a peeved breath before directing your attention back to the flier you still held in your hand. You flip it open from being folded and rub your finger over the date and time highlighted near the bottom of the page. You shake your head in disbelief at yourself and step back into the practice room.

The bar maintains the mellow mixing of drunken grumbling and ice clinking into crystal glass. The floor is spare of any people save for the few slouching elders that nurse their drinks close to their chests and stare blankly into the wood grain of their tables. The atmosphere exists as if through syrup, moving glacially and almost frozen in time while Eddie and his bandmates make the most noise and the most movement as they ready their equipment.

Eddie adjusts the mic stand, fiddling with the knobs, and despite it not being very hard to tell, he lifts his head and lets his eyes scan over the bar, deflating when he realizes you’re nowhere to be found.

Eddie’s pulled from his scrutiny of your absence by Gareth calling. “Eddie, could you help me with this?”

“Uh,” his eyes are weary of leaving the door, afraid you’ll pop in at any moment and then leave before he could approach you, “yeah.”

The flier crinkles in your hold as your thumb makes an ineffective swipe over the material to smooth out the folds. You shift over the prickly cushions of your couch, the spines of feathers stabbing you as you chew at your lip and continue the silent debate you’ve been having. You drop the flier into your lap as you fall back into the cushions and regret it with the wave of tiny stabbings you receive.

This is stupid! You hardly know the guy, and even that is being generous towards the status of your relationship, yet you’re wasting your time wrestling with yourself over whether or not to attend his gig! That doesn’t even take into account the fact that he was peeking through your window less than a week ago. The answer should be no. And it is! The answer is no! You’re not going.

“Baby!” Your head snaps to the right and you stand at attention, ready to bolt towards the end of hall if need be.

“Coming, Mom!” You jog down the corridor and push past the door to find your mother out of bed and crawling along the floor in search of something

“I’m sorry.” She sits back on her calves and directs an apologetic look your way. “I dropped the remote and it fell under the bed.”

You rush to her side and slide your arm under her own, taking her frail, cold hand into your free one as you gently help her stand before guiding her to bed.

“You know you’re not supposed to be out of bed,” you scold with no real malice behind your words as she slips under the covers, “I would have helped you.”

“I know, Babe, but I don’t like to bother you.” Her eyes are glassy and pleading as she stares at you.

“You don’t bother me,” you reassure, kneeling to reach your arm under the bed, fingers running blindly along the carpet until you feel it under your palm. “I don’t mind helping you.”

You reemerge and hand her the remote, her hand shaking as she takes it gratefully. As she flips through the channels, your eyes slip over to her bedside table, finding the glass of water you’ve left out for her untouched.

“Have you taken your meds yet?” You turn to her, eyebrows ruched, and watch as her features go pouty.

“They taste like chalk.” You giggle at her dramatics as you place the flier absentmindedly on the bed and begin organizing her doses for the evening, popping open the orange bottles and pinching out a few pills.

“I know, but they’ll help you feel at least a little bit better,” you persuade as the small tablets slip through your fingers, plopping one or two, sometimes three, into the organizing tray.

The flier catches her eye with its hammy graphic design choices and she reaches out for it, eyes roving over it as she asks, “What’s this?”

You turn and find her with the advertisement, going a bit cagey and sheepish as you dismiss it. “It’s nothing, just a local band playing a gig tonight.” She brightens at that, eyes glowing as a smile threatens the corner of her lips.

“You should go!” She encourages, turning back to the paper, smiling down at the clearly homemade graphics. “You hardly go out anymore.”

You give a lighthearted scoff to her unintentional ribbing as you hand her the tray, “I go out!”

She side eyes you with a deadpan expression, “Work doesn’t count.”

You shake your head, a humorous smile testing your lips as you hand her the glass of water. She remains persistent.

“Baby, please go.” She accepts the drink but holds off on drinking, cradling the dish in her lap. “I want you to have fun, make friends, I don’t want you to have to be cooped up in this stuffy trailer like me.”

You chew at your lip, peeling off the long-dead skin before leaning forward and taking the flier, folding it up and stuffing it in your pocket. “ I just…” A deep sigh. “I like being here with you. I don’t need a party, I don’t need friends, I don’t need to go out. I just want to stay with you.”

Her mouth shifts and her eyes fall to her quilt before she plasters a tender smile on her lips and gazes up at you, reaching for your hand and rubbing her thumb to soothe the tension in your brow away. You tentatively look at her and she concedes, “Alright, then we’ll stay.”

You smile in thanks before dropping your eyes to the floor where your socked-toes burrow into the shag, communicating through the squeeze you give her hand. She squeezes back.

Their set began 20 minutes ago and as Eddie opens a song with his cool voice, fingers playing over the strings to the simple riff, you were still yet to arrive. Despite the obvious naivete of it, Eddie can’t help but let his eyes wander over the room, from wall to wall, stage to entrance, looking for your frame, your stern features. His fingers fly near-mindlessly from chord to chord as he sings, eyelids dipping to where his lashes tempt the height of his cheeks, lips ghosting over the mic.

Their set list is rather tame, consisting of familiar rock tunes and a few of Eddie’s more ballad-like numbers, a far cry from the band’s usual dark magic and cryptid descriptions of witch-like sanctums, with the expected girls, sex, and drugs dabbled in there, all of which is a bluff to the actual experience of any of the band members. But a gig was a gig and money was money, even if the glory of it was cheapened by the sanitary wash over his artistic voice.

At this point, he’s sure you’re not coming. You had said you wouldn’t be so he wasn’t sure why he even convinced himself of your appearance anyway. As he lets his fingers roam over the strings, he supposes he just wanted to know you better; you were someone like him, someone who liked metal and someone who liked disrupting the natural order of things and there were few of those in Hawkins.

His eyes fall to the planks of the stage as his vocals fall away and he puppets the strings of his guitar, playing a languid solo that matches the passionate intensity of the song itself.

As he bends the strings and sustains a note, he lifts his eyes to the door. It remains still, unopened, untouched and it’ll remain that way for the rest of their set. Even when they’re recoiling their cords over their hands and under their elbows and clipping their hardshell covers closed, he can’t help but allow his eyes to flick to the door, tongue darting out over his lips in a nervous tick.

When he slams the door to his van shut and drives far from the bar, as the minutes tick by into hours, despite his better judgment, he lets himself feel disappointed.

A rainfall of clutter trickles onto your carpeted floor; old concert tickets, jewelry, long-lost guitar picks, and other useless trinkets fall in a frenzied and disorganized flurry from your vanity drawer. You scrounge like a starved raccoon, pushing through what feels like a bottomless pit of stuff that isn’t what you’re looking for. You crawl to your bedside table and give the cabinets the same treatment and still no luck. Even in the lone sock you keep in your underwear drawer there’s nothing, not even a single crumb.

Your last blunt’s long gone and your stash from Michigan has been all used up; no bud left in sight. You huff and fall against your dresser, back leaning against the varnished wood as the metal adornments dig uncomfortably into the flesh of your back. You’d have to leave for your shift in 20 minutes and you dread the work day with no herbal relief. You sigh towards the ceiling and help yourself stand, tiptoeing over the piles of clothes and mountains of miscellaneous junk to steal a five minute shower.

It’s a slow day. Nobody ever comes in on a Wednesday and the shop is filled with the dull tap and scribble of your ballpoint pen scratching against the yellow pad paper, broken intermittently with the various noises that accompany your restocking of product. Marty does the same as you, making notes on his clipboarded printer pages before taking the item and slipping it onto the wall to hang.

Marty’s nice, father-like in the way he cares for your well being yet friendly as he jokes and talks of irresponsible endeavors, encouraging adventure and dismissal of the status quo. He’s understanding and frequently nonjudgmental and he’s lived in this town from the time you moved away to now so you figure your question isn’t entirely a long shot.

“Marty?” He grunts down at you, not distracting himself from writing and then placing, writing, placing. “Do you know any suppliers?” Your behavior is rather nonchalant for the nature of the question; voice subdued, eye glued to your notepad as it exits your mouth and rests out in the open. The noise that your simultaneous work makes comes to a stop and forces you to cringe as you fear you’ve made the mistake of asking an older person to allocate you weed. Your eyes twitch over to his shoes and you wait for his inevitable response; a clearing of the throat, a “you’re fired,” anything. But he surprises you.

He does clear his throat and continues making the mechanistic chatter of his chores before he speaks.

“Depends, what needs supplying?” The lilt in his voice seems to incline towards your cause and you follow in his lead, continuing your restocking.

“Relief…” You swallow but elaborate, “of the plant variety.” You look from the corner of your eyes from your crouched position at his legs.

“I may know a guy, I could call him up for you if you need.”

You have to restrain yourself from squealing like a little girl but make your ease known either way.

“Oh my god,” you sigh, pressing your forehead to an empty expanse of wall, “you’re a lifesaver, Marty, you have no idea.”

“It’s no problem, here.” His hand offers you a scrap piece of paper with a few directions scrawled onto it. “Meet him there and he can hook you up with whatever you need.”

Your eyes scrutinize the street names and the directional instructions until you come to a suspicious realization.

“The middle of the woods?” You ask as your eyes flit up to him a bit in disbelief.

“The guy likes to be safe,” he shrugs.

“I like to be safe too, Marty,” you assert.

“He is, kid, I promise.”

You sigh and forfeit your guard, “Okay.”

Mourning doves coo from the branches of the ash trees above, the smell of wet earth radiating up with each step you take as you trudge over the littered foliage carpeting the forest floor, not entirely sure of the exactness of your whereabouts or if you were marching straight to your deathmaker. But you press on, the twigs and graying leaves snapping and crumpling under your shoes as you notice the trees beginning to thin a bit, the light of a semi-open clearing appearing like a holy beacon that you find yourself gravitating towards. Through the cipher-ish lining of trees you make out the silhouette of a person standing idly by with their back turned to you, form tucked close, hands under armpits, as they hope to ward off the autumn chill that bites at unwrapped skin.

Your unhoned crunching alerts the stranger to your entrance, head perking up from where he’d been making trenches into the dirt with the toe of his sneaker, turning his whole body to meet you. You still as your eyes meet honeyed brown, irked as you watch that stupid, lordy smirk consume his face, his demeanor shifting into that arrogant slouch he displayed to you at the music store.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you mumble under your breath.

“Who’s stalking who now?” He haughtily inquires, chin raised and arms crossed over his chest.

“I am not stalking you,” you growl, already fed up with his antics. “I’m here to make a deal.”

You step towards the table and slip your legs over the bench to sit. He watches, studying you as you rub your hands together between your thighs, shivering under your light coat and burrowing your running nose into the mohair of your scarf. He swaggers towards the table, taking heavy confident steps before seating himself and saying, feigning aloofness, “Missed you at the show last night.”

“I told you I was busy.” Your voice is curt and serrated.

He pulls his lunchbox from its place next to him and places it on the table, beginning to pop the latches as he continues to stoke the fire.

“When I came home the lights were off in your trailer,” he relays his observation, rummaging around in his container of contraband.

“Jesus,” you laugh, all humor drained from the sound. “What is with you and spying on me!”

“I wasn’t spying!” He throws his hands up as he tries to defend himself, a clear plastic baggy with a few pinches of weed piched between his fingers. “I’m just curious! You pop up out of nowhere, you don’t talk to anyone! You know, us misfits, we need to stick together.”

“I am not a misfit,” you differentiate through a clenched jaw.

“Then why don’t you ever talk to anyone else?” He pushes as if it’s just built into his nature to be this maddening. Your eyes follow the eighth of an ounce that hangs between his index and middle finger, dangling it so close, almost taunting you with it.

“God, you see me intermittently for about a week and suddenly you think you know me! Look, I only came here for the weed and if you’re not gonna deliver, I’ll find someone else.” You begin extracting yourself from the bench, ready to leave this whole mess of a transaction behind.

“Okay! Okay, I’ll stop asking questions!” He yields, calling out for you. You eye him warily, unsure if you can endure much more of him before he emphasizes his words by dramatically zipping his lips shut and flicking away the key, wiping his hands free of any invisible evidence.

You sit back down and he tosses the baggy in front of you and you smile to yourself, things falling back in order. You pull your wallet from your coat pocket and flip it open to examine the bills inside. “How much?”

“Free of charge.” Your face falls and you halt your sifting.

You lift your face, features once again filled with scorn. “Listen, I don’t know what you hope to get out of this but I’m not flashing you for free weed or giving you a weak handjob, okay?”

His eyes go wide and he makes to argue your assumption.

“No! No, can you ever just accept that maybe people want to be nice to you?” He huffs. “It’s an apology, for looking through your window and assuming shit about you.”

Your eyes dart from the bag back to his gaze, unwilling to fall into whatever trap he may possibly be laying out for you.

“Would you just take it? Look, I’ll even throw in a free palm reading,” he wagers with a cheeky tilt of his head.

“You can’t read palms,” you scoff, narrowing your eyes at him as you shake your head.

He shrugs and juts his lip, “Who’s to say.”

You still don’t take the baggy and maintain your chary, distrusting enamel.

“Watch,” he begins as he slowly reaches for your hand, giving you enough time to pull away if you wanted to as if he hasn’t given you enough reason already, but you don’t. You let his inhumanly warm fingers draw your frozen ones towards the center of the table despite your instincts warning you of the ramifications of allowing him any closer.

He unfurls your hand, takes the bag of weed, and places it into your palm before curling your fingers over it and pushing it back towards you.

“In that hand, I can see peace and relaxation in your future.” He looks up at you through those wispy lashes of his, his flirty smile twisting your stomach as you avert your eyes and focus on the loose thread in your sweater, coiling and uncoiling it around your middle finger to distract yourself.

He reaches out for your dominant hand, the heel of your palm resting against the edge of the table before he leads you by your fingers to where the other had rested and unwinds it just the same. He rubs his own furnace of a palm over yours to untense the muscles and have your fingers rest in an unmanipulated state before drawing his fingers over the lines of your hand.

“Here, I can see a stubborn tendency, but the line bleeds into something soft and gentle.” You hold off on your scoff and settle for rolling your eyes as the trail of his fingers running along the streams of your palm tickles you.

“And here, I can sense a heavy burden and a looming fear.” His eyes peek up at you and as much as you know that all that he’s spouting is unfiltered rubbish, you feel your heartbeat quicken and your breath hitch as you have to restrain yourself from snatching your hand away and running as far as you could.

He draws the tips of his fingers towards yours and squeezes the appendages, rubbing his thumb along the joints, somehow sensing your unease and attempting to soothe that ache.

“And here, I can tell that you have terrible blood circulation,” he jokes as a dorkish smile dimples his cheeks.

Your body softens, slipping away from that state of panic as it shifts back into your unimpressed detachment, dragging your hand away as you call an end to the games. “Okay, that's enough.”

With the reason for attending this appointment held safe in the confines of your pocket, you figure it’s time to take your leave. You stand and turn towards where you came from, taking a step and hoping it leads you back to where your car is parked. You don’t get very far before he’s calling after you.

“That’s the wrong direction!”

You roll your lips into each other before turning and heading more South, miffed about his being correct.

He chuckles after you, the deep, throaty sound rattling his chest before he packs up his box and mingles for a second, sliding his foot over the trench he’d made, making the ground flat again before he walks in the opposite direction as you, shaking his head as he replays the softened, bashful tinge you’d spared him, over and over, all the way home.

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