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miragemurder · 6 months

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Spotlight

Pairing: Veneer x GN Reader

Genre: Fluff

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A Oneshot/short story for all the Veneer lovers out there, since there are a few fanfics. ★ ★ ★

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Lights, Camera, Action. Mount Rageous was a bustling city with many young and talented people alike. The city was mainly known for their famous singers as every road had a sign showing off the different types of music the place was made of. Bright colors everywhere as the overall vibe gave off an 80’s and 90’s type aesthetic. It honestly was overstimulating but most people didn’t mind.

You were out partying with one of your friends when you first heard about these overnight stars. They were the talk of the town, everyone knew them, besides you.

“Who?..”

“You’re telling me that you don’t know who the Velvet and Veneer are?”

“Let me guess, artists?” You sighed. Honestly you didn’t really care to keep track of the next upcoming popstars of the week. You just wanted to enjoy the music. Everyone here was so involved in everything it seemed almost tiring, and boring.

“Only the best artists ever! Have you heard their new single Watch Me Work? It’s absolutely amazing!” Your friend shrieked, obsessed with the new stars.

You shrugged and continued on with the rest of the party, joining in and dancing along to whatever was playing. You were having a good time until eventually it became tiring. You tapped on your friend’s shoulder signifying that you were gonna head to the bathroom but in all honesty, you just needed a break.

You headed to the left side of the club, back to where the bathrooms were. There were barely any people here surprisingly. You thought there would be more since, well it’s a club there’s probably some sort of shady shit happening. It was quite calm and you quietly thanked the lord. All the music and lights could be overstimulating. You were just about to head into the bathroom when you saw a hallway with a ramp a little far right to the bathrooms.

‘Hmm… wonder where that can lead to.” You thought. You shrugged it off and turned back around to go into the bathroom. You were just about to enter as you felt someone knock into your shoulder. You turned around confused, staring at who just bumped into you.

“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry! Did I hurt you? These shoulder pads can be a bit… much.” The stranger stared at you, frantically apologizing and waving his hands around. You looked back with a wild expression. His hair was green and styled into a pompadour like mullet. He wore black pants that were oddly shaped and light pink shoes. His top was very extraordinarily as he had huge shoulder pads with a purple diamond on each side, and a smaller one on his chest.

“Oh no, you’re fine. I’m just surprised I didn’t see you there.” You laughed softly, watching his facial expression. He had a quizzical look on his face, like if you didn’t just realize who you were talking to.

“Heh.. yeah well honestly I don’t know why my sister picked this outfit, not my thing. Anyways, I got to get backstage, hope you’re enjoying the show.” He smiled and turned around, confidently strutting back out and heading up that weird hallway you were questioning earlier.

You looked at yourself in the mirror, questioning what just happened and why that guy was wearing such an outfit. You splashed your face with some water and closed your eyes, taking some time to relax before you went back out there. After a couple of minutes, you heard your phone buzz and quickly picked it up. It was a message from your friend.

“OMG! OMG! You have to hurry! Velvet and Veneer are gonna perform!” It read. You sighed, rolled your eyes, and put your phone back into your pocket.

You walked out of the bathroom and unwillingly went into the crowd of people. It was like the crowd got ten times louder, everyone excited to see the next performance. You groaned and continued to slide into the crowd, pushing around trying to get back to your friend.

“Hey I’m back, what’s going on?” You tapped your friends shoulder, making them aware of your presence.

“You made it just in time! Velvet and Veneer are gonna perform!” She squealed, holding onto your arm and jumping up and down. You pulled your arm back and nodded your head, not really caring about what your friend was talking about. Even if you didn’t care that much, you were still happy that she was happy.

The crowd quieted a little as the announcement over the speaker came on.

“Ladies and gentleman! Please welcome your stars of the show, Velvet and Veneer!”

Everyone started jumping up and down, dancing and overall going crazy. You watched as the two stars came out onto the stage when suddenly your stomach dropped. You recognized one of them.

Did you just accidentally meet Veneer?

You stood dazed and shocked while your friend was bouncing and cheering. They gave you a quick glance before they noticed your expression. Quickly, they stopped bouncing and came closer to your awkward self.

“Hey, are you alright?” They asked, putting a hand on your shoulder. They tried to comfort you but it was a little hard since the crowd of people were being pushed into you two.

“Yeah I just… remember when I went to the bathroom?” You glanced down then you turned your head to look up at them.

“Yeah of course, that was like fifteen minutes ago.” They laughed a little.

“Well, when I was waking in I kind of accidentally pumped into someone, and that someone may or may not have been.. Veneer.” You gave your friend an awkward smile, hoping that they would believe you accidentally just met a famous singer.

“Are you being serious? Like are you sure it was him?” Your friend questioned. They wanted to believe you but it sounded crazy. It’s very unlikely to accidentally walk into a celebrity.

“The guy had huge shoulder pads and green hair, I’m pretty sure it was him.” You tilted your head in a “duh” like manor. They gave you an amused look and then smiled.

“Well, what are we doing over here? We gotta get up close to see if he recognizes you!” They grabbed your hand and swiftly started pushing past people to get to the front of the stage. You were left shocked as you tried to pull your hand away from your friend’s monstrous grip.

“Wait I don’t think that’s a good idea-“ you yelled out, trying to get them to hear you.

“Of course it is! Come on!” They continued to push past the crowd of people until you guys got to the very front of the stage. You were terrified, your body was in a state of shock and panic as you watched the stars right above you. You watched as they performed their many songs, looking out into the crowd and waving at the audience.

You watched as Veneer looked down into the crowd, waving to people until he stopped and looked at you. His face faltered for a second before he got back into character. He smiled, waving at you until he did something a little unexpected.

He winked.

You felt like you just got set on fire, your face burning up to what felt like a thousand degrees. You gave him a shocked reaction, jaw dropped while you stood there motionless. He laughed and went back to looking at the rest of the crowd. You felt like you were gonna pass out.

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A while after the whole party died down, you were in a corner of the club with your friend chilling and talking about random crap from your younger years. Most of the people left while some stayed with friends to drink and chat. It was almost time for the club to close before you saw someone walk out from backstage.

“Oh hey! It’s you!” Veneer walked up to you and your friend, a huge smile across his face.

“Oh my gosh we are such huge fans, can I have a picture!” Your friend cheered, bouncing up and down with their phone in hand.

“Why of course!” He laughed. Your friend brought up their phone and took what felt like five thousand photos.

“Thank you so much!” Your friend squealed. You tried to calm her down until you saw Veneer staring at you.

“So did you like the show? Was it worth it? Did I look good” He said that last part smugly, shrugging his shoulders with a smirk on his face. You giggled and nodded your head.

“It was really good! You guys did fantastic.” You smiled. You meet this guy a couple hours ago but it felt like love at first sight, as cringe as that may be.

“Well… I know I’m technically not allowed to do this but…” he held out a piece of paper with his name and number, you stared at it in shock.

“Here’s my number, if you ever wanna talk.” He looked up at you and gave you a kind-hearted smile. You nodded and thanked him.

“Well, would you look at the time! I must get going before Velvet kills me!” He laughed, slightly worried.

“No literally, she might actually kill me. Anyways it was nice meeting you…?” He paused, giving you a questioning look.

“[______]” you said, giving him a small smile.

“Ah [_____], it was nice meeting you!” He smiled as he walked off giving you a ‘call me’ sign with his fingers. You laughed and turned back to your friend.

“I cannot believe that just happened! Oh my god congrats!” They yelled while squishing you in a huge bear hug. You hugged them back, laughing and spinning around with them like you just won the lottery.

You’ll definitely be calling him later.

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Hey guys! Hope you enjoyed this oneshot/short story I made. It was barely revised and I don’t really have a lot of experience so I hope it was decent lol (He’s a little out of character.) It was quite fun and I hope to write more in the future! Leave requests in the comments!

Part 2: Secret

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#trolls #trolls band together #veneer x reader #velvet and veneer #veneer trolls #fanfic #gn reader #veneer #veneer trolls x Reader #oneshot #short story

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ariesbilly · 4 months

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Has anyone done a fic where it’s like modern au or the 2000s, something where steve wasn’t a teenager in 80s or at least really young

So anyway he’s driving along the road one night and sees a kid about his age walking along, looks kind of dated with his curly mullet and leather jacket and unbuttoned shirt but maybe he just came back from a costume party or something. And Steve, being the good guy he is, pulls up to the guy and asks if he wants a ride home, is maybe looking for something more when he gets a look at the guys face and realizes what a knockout he is.

And the guy is charming too, smirking at him and accepting the ride, tho there’s something a little sad in his eyes, a little haunted.

Steve asks questions like his name (billy hargrove) and “haven’t seen you around here before, you from here?” (No, California)

He doesn’t really offer up much else and he doesn’t ask Steve about himself, which…is fine, Steve guesses.

But when he asks billy where he should drop him off billy gets a little panicked look in his eye. Repeats that he can’t go home, his dad’s gonna be so mad, he can’t go home.

And Steve’s like okay….quarry then? Because that’s his spot when he doesn’t want to go home, wants to avoid his parents.

Billy agrees and Steve drives them to the water. Parks the car. Steve tries to strike up conversation but Billy’s reluctant to say anything. When Steve, going out on a limb, suggests a late night swim, Billy agrees.

So they strip off their clothes. Steve runs to the water, dives in. Waits for billy to come but…he never does. And Steve can’t see him on the shore, the only light coming from the beemers headlights. He calls out for him, but nothing. Steve’s shoulders sag, he swims back to shore, assumes he’s been had, billys left to go…wherever. Steve sulks and goes home

It’s not until the next morning he gets in his car and notices a leather jacket in his backseat. Which…weird. But he’s kinda hopeful. He can use this to see billy again. He’s just…gotta find him

Problem is when he asks around, no one’s heard of a billy hargrove. It’s not until someone mentions knowing a Neil Hargrove that Steve finally has a lead. So he tracks him down to a house on a cherry lane. Knocks on the door. An angry old man answers, demanding to know what Steve wants

Timidly, Steve asks if a billy lives there? Or if the man knows anyone named Billy Hargrove?

And the man goes cold. Stares Steve down in a way that has him wanting to run for the hills.

The man says “Billy was my son. And he died years ago.”

And that…can’t be right. Steve just saw him last night so… he has his jacket for christs sake

But before he can say anything else the door is slammed in his face.

Later that day Steve’s hanging out with his best friend Robin. Tells her about the weird interaction he had today. And Robin loves a good mystery so she drags Steve to the library or pulls up her laptop and searches the obituaries for a billy hargrove and sure enough…July 4, 1985 a billy hargrove died in a car crash along the same stretch of road Steve found him on the previous night. And right there in black and white is the face of the boy Steve had in his passenger seat

Steve doesn’t know what the hell to think

#local cryptid billy my beloved #harringrove

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 3 months

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Napoleonville [Chapter 10: The House Of Saint Honoratus of Amiens] [Series Finale]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, smoking, drinking, drugs, weddings, Willis Warning, infidelity, kids, parenthood, Rice-A-Roni.

Word Count: 6k.

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

Taglist: @marvelescvpe @toodlesxcuddles @era127 @at-a-rax-ia @0eessirk8 @arcielee @dd122004dd @humanpurposes @taredhunter @tinykryptonitewerewolf @partnerincrime0 @dr-aegon @persephonerinyes @namelesslosers @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @daenysx @gemini-mama @chattylurker @moonlightfoxx @huramuna @britt-mf @myspotofcraziness @padfooteyes @targaryenbarbie @trifoliumviridi @joliettes @darkenchantress @florent1s @babyblue711 @minttea07 @bungalowbear @bluerskiees @herfantasyworldd @elizarbell @urmomsgirlfriend1 @fudge13 @strangersunghoon @wickedfrsgrl

Thank you so much for loving this strange, sexy, sweet story. I hope you enjoy the finale. 🥰🧁

Your bare feet in warm grass, your hands around the ropes of the tree swing, no sounds except the ancient psalms of the earth: cicadas, mourning doves, goldfinches, bumble bees, bullfrogs, wind in the leaves of the dogwoods and southern live oaks. The adolescent alligator is at one end of the front yard, sunbathing up by the mouth of the gravel driveway; in the opposite corner are several nutria nibbling on cattails. The sky is a calm, cloudless blue. It’s hot, mid-80s, even when 5:00 p.m. comes and goes; but the breeze is cool as it evaporates the sweat from your temples, your palms, the nape of your neck. It’s as close as Louisiana ever gets to Heaven. It’s a good day for a wedding.

You remember thinking that it was the end of the world when you found out you were pregnant almost exactly eleven years ago, and then again when you realized you would have to divorce Willis, and so you have lived through enough moments like this—these quiet, infinitesimal apocalypses—to know that there will be a future beyond Aemond marrying Christabel. The sun will rise tomorrow, and then it will set, the lightning bugs will appear and the stars will tell myths in the night sky, and the phone will ring as orders come in for the bakery, and Cadi will be back in her bedroom playing her Nintendo, and life will roll on like currents through the bayou: slow, opaque, inevitable. The world isn’t ending, you know that. It’s just full of beautiful things that aren’t for you.

Out on Route 401, a Plymouth Gran Fury zooms by the house, squeals to a halt, and then reverses until Willis can take another look, squinting through his tinted windows. He turns down the driveway and steps out into golden July daylight. He doesn’t pay any attention to the gator as he strides past her. He belongs here, in a place that is old and strange and savage and full of beasts. You have carved out a home for yourself in the swamplands; Willis was born with veins like the roots of a mangrove tree and ancient silt instead of marrow in his bones.

“Hey, sugar,” he says, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair. The wind ruffles the dark curls of his mullet, the bumble bees flee as he tramples clovers. “Ain’t ya supposed to be at the weddin’?”

“I’m sick.” A lie. “But Cadi’s fine, she’s with Amir. She was so excited she actually wore one of the sundresses my mom bought her and had Amir braid a dogwood flower into her hair to match his. You should have seen it. You would’ve been so proud.”

“I’m always proud of her,” Willis says, smiling. And then: “Ya don’t look sick.”

“I am.”

“Ya got one of your headaches?”

You pause. You don’t, but this is a convenient excuse. “Yeah.”

Willis stalls, his hands on his belt. His pistol is there; you remember how he used it in the bayou, how he helped save your life. But he wasn’t the one who jumped into the water. Aemond was willing to risk his body for me, but not his soul. What kind of sense does that make? “Ya had me scared for a minute there,” Willis says.

“What? When?”

“When I thought ya were goin’ to end up with that Rockefeller boy.”

“Aemond?” you say, like it’s so shocking. “No. Absolutely not. It’s impossible.”

“And why’s that?”

You stare into the trees so Willis can’t see the tears welling up in your eyes, the tension in your throat as embers kindle there, pulsing with heat that could char flesh to the bone. “He can’t marry someone like me.”

“I could,” Willis replies, grinning. You glare at him until he recants. “Alright, alright, oublie ça. Pardonne-moi.”

“Why would you be afraid of me and Aemond being together?”

“An oil tycoon? A millionaire? He would never stay here for long. In a town like Napoleonville? Soon as he was done getting’ those rigs up and runnin’, he’d go jettin’ off to some other corner of the world, and he’d take you with him. And Cadi too. I wouldn’t be able to fight that. What’s a parish sheriff to a Targaryen? Who would listen to me? Cadi would be gone and I’d never get her back. It would kill me. It would rip the heart right outta my chest.”

You look up at Willis from where you sit on the tree swing, the soles of your feet colored with soil and grass. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“No?” he asks, perhaps suspicious, perhaps hopeful.

“No,” you promise. “Cadi loves you. Cadi needs you to be in her life. I would never try to take her away from you, Willis.”

He nods; he seems to believe you. And something relaxes in him, like there’s been a tension in the lines of his spine and shoulders that you didn’t notice for years. “I’m sorry about your petit ami.”

“Yeah. Me too.” It comes out like a whisper, brittle and frail. “I’m sorry about Lake Verret.”

“They might be able to fix it. Talk around town is they got some kind of desalination”—he says this with each syllable enunciated distinctly, like he’s put great effort into memorizing it—“process that can take the salt back outta the water. And if that don’t work…” He shrugs with a sly smile. “I’ll survive somehow. The world’s a big place. There’s always another lake.”

You consider him, and you remember—like a dream from the night before that just returned to you—how Willis can be unexpectedly deep, randomly tender. “They should put that on bumper stickers.”

He chuckles and waves as he heads back to his car. “I’ll pick Cadi up on Tuesday. Back to the usual schedule.”

“Sure.” Back to real life. Back to before I met Aemond. And you find yourself wishing that you could forget what it had felt like to be with him; the absence he left feels so much heavier than the nonspecific longing that existed before. Willis’ Plymouth Gran Fury rolls out of the driveway, and you stay precisely where you are on the tree swing, absentmindedly pushing yourself back and forth with your tiptoes and trying to believe that tomorrow this will feel easier, and then even easier the day after that, and eventually it will cease to be anything but a vague recollection, a relic in a rarely-opened drawer, a whisper, an echo. One day, you will stop missing Aemond. One day, you will stop wondering whether a sliver of his life would have been better than none at all.

Inside what Cadi calls the Fall-Down House, the phone rings. You ignore it; if it’s an order for the bakery, they can leave a message. But then it rings again, and again, and you have to answer it. What if your mother had a heart attack? What if Cadi and Amir were in a car accident? You hurry to the kitchen and grab the phone, pink to match the little Panasonic boombox that is presently silent.

“Hello?”

“Hiiiiiii,” Amir says, slow and something else too. Disoriented? Evasive?

Your forehead wrinkles with confusion. “Where are you calling from?” There are definitely no phonelines running to the Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens, a tiny brick-and-stucco edifice built in the 1830s.

“I’m at a McDonald’s up the road. I’ve paid them $5 to let me use the phone.” And then, because he knows it’s the first place your mind will go: “Cadi’s fine. She’s eating Chicken McNuggets. Everyone’s fine.”

“Okay…?”

“I think you should come over here.”

“What, to the chapel?!”

“Yeah.” He’s talking to someone; you can hear an indistinct tangle of voices through the hand he undoubtedly has clasped over the transmitter.

I can’t see Aemond. I can’t see Christabel. There is a lurching in your guts; you are a fish that swallowed a hook. “I thought we agreed that I wasn’t going to go to the wedding.” I can’t handle it. It might kill me.

“Yes, we did, but now…um…I think you will want to make an appearance.”

“Amir, what happened?”

There is more muffled conversation on the other end of the line. “Look,” he tells you. “Things, uh…things are…occurring. And I think it would be better to explain in person.”

“Did you drop the cake?”

“No,” he says, defensive. “The cake is perfect, thank you for your concern. Not a single frosting wildflower was mutilated in the delivery.”

“Then why—?”

“Do you trust me?” Amir asks.

The answer is obvious. Of course. More than anyone. “You know I do.”

“Then go get in your car.”

You glance at the clock on the wall. “Okay, but you know it’s going to take me like 40 minutes to drive to Belle River.”

“That’s fine.” He confers with someone else. “Yeah, that’s good actually, that will work.”

“Great,” you say uncertainly.

“See you soon!” Then Amir hangs up, leaving you alone in the creaks and groans of your ailing house.

You take Route 70 around Lake Verret, gliding past fields of soybeans and sugarcane, paddocks of cattle and horses, marshes of cordgrass occupied by blue herons and white egrets and prowling alligators, stirring awake as the sun begins its descent into the west. More than once, you notice that your Chevy Celebrity’s odometer reports you are travelling well below the speed limit. You aren’t in any hurry to reach the chapel; you don’t want to carry the weight of what you will see there, Christabel in her wedding dress, Aemond in his suit, Alicent anxiously fidgeting and gnawing at her fingernails, Viserys parading around triumphantly. You can’t imagine that there is anything less than torturous for you there. You don’t remember what you’re wearing until you reach Belle River, a small, old town full of double-wide trailers and jetties that run far out into the lake: a simple cotton sundress you threw on this morning without much thought, modest but white and therefore forbidden for a wedding guest. The sky is turning from a sun-drenched cerulean blue to something more soft, more muted, as dusk lurks just a few hours away. The radio is playing Tracy Chapman’s Fast Car.

The Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens was built by a man in extremis. An acclaimed mason by trade, he had been born in France and settled in the New World in Louisiana when it was still in the possession of Napoleon. The mason had a wife and children—some people say 5, others say 8 or 10, though details always seem to grow more elaborate in the retelling, don’t they?—and he loved them dearly. But tragedy struck when every single member of the family, except for the mason himself, fell ill with tuberculosis. When healers of the earth failed to offer sufficient remedies, the mason appealed to a higher power. He built the chapel to implore Honoratus of Amiens, his wife’s favorite saint—she was a baker and a florist, both professions that Honoratus presides over—to intercede with the Almighty on their behalf. This effort proved futile, and as each member of the family died, the mason interred them in a brick vault beneath the altar where they would spend eternity together. Perhaps this makes for a peculiar wedding venue, yet for over a century couples rich and poor, religious and secular have traveled to the chapel to exchange their vows. Perhaps there are few things more romantic than loving someone in the face of total futility: illness, distance, unrequitedness, prohibitions, death.

The chapel sits in a clearing surrounded by live oak trees, massive, hundreds of years old, hanging with Spanish moss, blotting out the sunlight as aisles cascade through gaps in the leaves. As you park in the grass—joining an army of Lexuses, Audis, limousines, Porsches, Ferraris, Cadillacs, Aston Martins, Alfa Romeos, and Amir’s blue Ford Escort—you observe that there are perhaps fifty guests in formal attire milling aimlessly around the building. You peer down at your white sundress, frowning. Well, I can’t go naked. The faux pas will have to be forgiven. You step out of your Chevy Celebrity and make your way across the clearing towards the chapel.

There is a long table set up in the shade with a tower of champagne glasses, an ice sculpture of a dragon, and the banana bread cake you and Amir baked for the wedding. Grim-faced servants in black suits are cutting slices and handing them out to guests on green china plates. You recognize Aegon’s wife Stephanie chatting with a flock of young women in extravagant gowns, golds and emeralds and sapphires. Helaena is among them, wearing a shimmering blue-green color like the scales of her chameleon Dreamfyre. Evidently, the Targaryens’ exotic pets have been left at the mansion for this excursion.

“Well,” the princess of Monaco says sardonically as she takes a bite, the white cream cheese frosting covered with a kaleidoscope of wildflowers. “At least the cake is good. What is this, banana? Whoever heard of a banana wedding cake? I mean, it’s delicious, but still. I knew that Christabel girl was daft. Did you see her positively absurd dress? It looks like children doodled all over it…”

Is it over? you think as you weave through the crowd, largely unnoticed. Is the ceremony done already? Why would Aemond want to see me? To try to convince me to be his mistress one last time? To show me what I’m missing by severing ties with him?

But no: something else has happened. Viserys and Christabel’s father the marquess are embroiled in a heated argument; a nun and two priests are trying to haul them apart.

“You’re dead to me, Viserys!” the marquess roars. “And you’ll be dead to everyone back home once I tell them what you’ve done!”

“I did my part! This has nothing to do with me! Wait…wait…we can figure something else out! Wait! Wait! You can have Daeron!”

Wedding guests are gawking and snapping photos with their polaroid cameras. Upon hearing his name, Daeron glances over towards his father wearily. Alicent’s youngest son is kneeling beside where she has collapsed to the grass, patting her encouragingly on the shoulder as she sobs into a green cloth handkerchief. Criston is there too, trying to soothe her with sympathetic murmurs and a flute of pink champagne glittering with bubbles of carbonation.

“How did this happen?” she wails, peering up at Criston with her vast, dark, glassy eyes. The gold rings on her fingers clang and glint; they match the single hoop earring that Criston wears. Alicent’s gown is purple like royalty, but Criston is dressed in a suit of pale pink; it’s the exact same one Daeron has on. Groomsmen? you wonder. “He knows better than this! We raised him better than this!”

You think, stunned and petrified: Aemond, what the hell did you do?

As you approach the chapel, you note that it appears empty inside; you don’t spot anyone in the pews. Somewhere, a boombox is thundering Higher Love. At the entrance of the building, Christabel is sitting on the brick walkway in her wedding dress. It’s the one you told her to choose: elegant and timeless, long train and short flowing sleeves, silk wildflowers sewn into the white lace. Her bouquet is lying forgotten on the ground beside her. Her lips are a deep, lovely pink; her eyeshadow is gold. She’s smoking, something you’ve never seen her do before. There is a half-crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter in her left hand, a single lit cigarette in her right.

“Um, hi, Christabel,” you say. And then, something equally brainless: “Is everything okay?”

“I should have known.” She’s staring out at the crowd, not at you. Her large blue eyes are dull, vacant.

“You should have known what?” Your heart is in your throat; blood pounds in your ears like the hooves of a racehorse.

“That he didn’t care,” she says listlessly. “I could tell that he didn’t. I could feel it. But I didn’t want it to be true, so I told myself it wasn’t. Isn’t that interesting? How we can lie to ourselves? Not that it was entirely my error. Other people meddled plenty. ‘Oh no, Christabel.’ ‘He’s just emotionally stunted, Christabel.’ ‘He’s busy with work, Christabel.’ What man is too busy with work to handle a five-minute phone call? It’s not like he was on the moon. He could have made time if he wanted to. I bet he made lots of time for you.”

“Uh.” You try to decide what to say. “I broke up with him, if that’s what you’re asking. I didn’t want to be his mistress. I didn’t think that was fair to you.” Or me, obviously, but right now doesn’t seem to be the opportune time to voice my own grievances.

“Next time, I’m going to choose who I marry,” Christabel insists, puffing on her cigarette. “He has to talk to me. He has to like me.”

Aemond called it off? What did he say? What is he going to do now? “Christabel…do you know where Aemond is? Or Amir and Cadi?”

“Alicent is so upset,” she says instead. “Poor woman. She’s sweet, in her own way. But I don’t want to end up like her.” Christabel holds up the pack of Marlboros and the lighter. “She feels guilty, I think. She gave me these. She had them in her purse, she has so many neurotic little habits, doesn’t she? It’s not very ladylike to smoke, but it’s not ladylike to get left at the altar either, so fuck it.”

You ask, afraid to know the answer: “Do you hate me? I didn’t know Aemond was engaged when I met him. And then…” Why lie now? What’s the point? “Then I was in love with him and it was kind of…too late to try not to be. But I’m sorry.”

“I don’t hate you,” Christabel replies immediately. “I know he would never be allowed to marry…someone like you. Your options were limited.”

You don’t know if this is meant to be an insult or not. “Thanks.”

“I don’t think I ever loved him either,” Christabel realizes, exhaling smoke. “I think I idolized him. I think I loved my fantasy of what our marriage would be like. But I didn’t love Aemond. I didn’t even know Aemond. You did, I suspect. Good luck with him. He’s a bit…complex.”

“I’m sorry,” you say again, rather compulsively. You aren’t sure what she expects from you. Abruptly, from wherever it’s coming from, Higher Love is cut off. “So, is Aemond, like…around, or…?”

“I don’t regret the sex part.”

“Okay.” You examine the crowd in the clearing again. You still don’t see Aemond.

“That went well,” Christabel muses. “I’m glad my first time is over and done with. I was terrified it would hurt like hell. And so few people know, so it’s almost like it never happened, right?”

“Right,” you say obediently.

“I think I’ll have a new rule. I won’t marry anyone unless he likes me and we sleep together first. Life is too long to spend it with the wrong person, don’t you agree?”

“I totally do.”

“He’s waiting for you inside,” Christabel says, flicking ashes towards the gaping doorway of the chapel.

“Really?” you peer into the shadows; there is indeed a solitary figure standing at the altar. “So…what exactly is happening…?”

“Go,” Christabel urges, and takes a drag on her cigarette. You leave her and cross through the doorway into the chapel.

The light is dim and gentle; fading sunbeams slant in through the glass of the cathedral-style windows. The mason’s inspiration was Gothic architecture, imposing, cavernous. Two candlelit iron chandeliers hang from the high ceiling; the floor is made of tiles of black and white marble. Small stone sculptures of angels watch over their realm like benevolent gargoyles. There is a single stained glass window above the altar: circular like a ring, red and gold like the sun.

He’s waiting for you in a pale pink suit, long disheveled hair, thin mustache with flecks of white powder in it, mischievous smirk. “Hey cake lady,” Aegon says.

“Um. I’m not marrying you.”

“No, you’re definitely not.” Aegon offers you his hand and you take it with some hesitation. “I’m here to be your guide. Just like on the Oregon Trail.”

“What…?”

“Let’s go.” He pulls you out of the chapel, past where Christabel is still sitting at the entranceway, and across the clearing towards the trees. When you look to the crowd, Otto is elbowing his way through disgruntled guests towards a limousine, already idling.

Viserys bellows at him: “Where the hell are you going?!”

“Back to Kiribati!” Otto shouts back, not breaking his stride. He vanishes into the limo.

“Hurry,” Aegon says. He leads you into the forest, a thick canopy of verdant leaves and Spanish moss and the narrow rays of sunshine that tumble down through the gaps.

“Aegon, I don’t think we should be in the woods, it could be dangerous—”

“No, this part is fine. We already checked.”

“Who’s ‘we’?!” You’re wearing flip flops that catch on gnarled roots; the shrieking of cicadas grows loud. One of them buzzes towards Aegon and he screams as he backhands it away.

“You good?” Amir’s voice calls from farther within the trees.

“Yeah. I’m fine. We made it.”

You turn to Aegon. “What’s going on—?”

Suddenly, there is booming music that startles you: “Ooh, baby, do you know what that’s worth? Ooh, Heaven is a place on Earth! They say in Heaven, love comes first, we’ll make Heaven a place on Earth! Ooh, Heaven is a place on Earth!”

“Aegon, what is that?”

“Uh, I think it’s Heaven Is A Place On Earth.”

“Yes, okay, but why?”

“Ask that guy.” You round a thicket and there under a colossal southern live oak tree, surrounded by hundred-year-old branches that twist down to the earth, is Aemond; but he’s not looking at you. He and Cadi are lighting the last of the candles. She picks them up, he ignites the wick with the same lighter he uses to smoke his Marlboros, and then Cadi places them back on the ground or on top of a branch. Amir is standing by the large black boombox, the same one Aegon always listens to by the Targaryens’ pool. Amir grins craftily, pushing his tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of his nose. His suit is orange, the single dogwood flower in his hair white.

“Did we get them all?” Aemond asks Cadi.

“Yeah, I think so. Wait, no, there’s one over there!” Cadi darts to it and Aemond lights the candle, then spins around and sees you. He smiles. “Hi, Cupcake.”

“Hi,” you say, so shellshocked you can’t form any of your very vital questions.

“Okay, so we have the candles,” Aemond informs you as Cadi and Aegon go to join Amir. “White with wildflower patterns.” And you recall how Alicent mentioned needing to pick out candles with Christabel, and how you didn’t see any scattered around the chapel. They brought them here. They did it for me. “And we have some actual wildflowers.” He takes the boutonniere off the lapel of his white suit and tucks it into your hair behind your left ear. “And we have Heaven Is A Place On Earth.” He gestures to the boombox. “And I think those were the three things you said you wanted if you were ever going to get married again.”

I did say that. Just once, months ago, the first time he ever came over, the first time he ever touched me. “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered.” He takes both of your hands in his own. Amir lets out a little squeal and covers his mouth as his eyes begin to glisten. Aemond takes a deep breath. “So, I don’t have a speech, because this is very last-minute. I mean extremely last-minute. But you were right about everything. And I realized I couldn’t live that way. It wouldn’t be fair to you or to me, but it wouldn’t be fair to Christabel either. So I broke it off.”

“Literally at the altar,” Aegon says. “In front of everybody. It was so fucking awkward.”

“Those are not necessary details!” Aemond snaps, then looks back to you and is smiling again. “I know what I want. I’ve known it for as long as I’ve known you. But I wasn’t a strong enough person to make it happen. I’m so sorry. I should have done things differently. I can’t change the past. But everything is going to be different now.”

You gaze up at him as Belinda Carlisle sings, thinking: This can’t be real. I’m going to wake up now.

“On the night we met, you told me you’d never felt chosen,” Aemond says. “I’m choosing you. And, you know.” He nods to her. “Cadi too. And Amir. And the bakery. And dealing with Willis too, I guess. All of it. I’m choosing you and your whole life and that’s exactly where I want to be.”

You can feel the warmth in your face, beaming and hopeful and full of possibilities. Under the shade of the southern live oak, the first lightning bugs are blooming in the air like stars. “What about your family?”

“I’ll figure it out. I don’t think my father can entirely disown me…turns out I’m the only one who understands how the stock market works. But no matter what, you and Cadi are the priority. And my father will have to learn to live with that.”

“Or he can drop dead,” Aegon says. “Whichever.”

It’s possible? We can be together? Not just for a night, an afternoon, a stolen moment, but forever?

“I said I don’t have a speech.” Aemond tells you. His right eye is bright, elated, gleaming like a mirror. “I don’t have a ring either. But I’m going to get you one, if you’ll let me. So I’m asking you, Cupcake: Will you marry me?”

“Say yes, Mom!” Cadi yells, and Amir bursts out laughing.

“Say yes, cake lady!” Aegon adds. “Unlimited Cap’n Crunch Treats!”

When am I going to wake up? When is this going to end?

But it’s not a dream. It’s real. And Aemond reads the answer on your face before you can say it, and so it’s only a murmur as he kisses you, a whisper, a prayer: “Yes.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The three of you drive from the new house all the way to San Francisco; you still call it the new house, even though you’ve owned it for a full year. The journey takes seven days, with overnight stops in Dallas, Wonderland Amusement Park in Amarillo, Albuquerque, Flagstaff, Las Vegas, and Bakersfield. Aemond sold his Audi Quattro and replaced it with a Dodge Caravan. It’s July 1989, and Tom Petty’s brand new single Runnin’ Down A Dream is strumming from the radio. It’s always temperate in San Fran, in the 60s even at the height of summer. The sky is overcast and grey. When Cadi complains that she’s cold despite the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles hoodie you packed for her, Aemond gives her his Marlboro jacket.

Amir, his boyfriend, and two other roommates share a sunshine yellow Italianate townhouse in the Castro District. Aemond parks his wood-paneled Caravan on the steep, inclined street—he narrowly misses colliding with a whooshing cable car, which he blames on poor depth perception—and then helps you carry the luggage inside. There are no alligators on the front porch, but there are neighborhood cats that Amir puts out Friskies for; there are no screaming cicadas, but there are swooping seagulls and the melodies of sidewalk musicians. When Amir opens the door, he nearly tackles you with enthusiasm. He still wears his loud colors and short shorts, but he’s traded in the dogwood flowers he once wove into his hair for dahlias.

Amir’s boyfriend is named Don, but everyone calls him Donald Schwarzenegger because he looks so much like the Austrian bodybuilder turned actor. When Amir first arrived in the city, he got a job as a cake decorator for a very popular bakery, and quickly segued into handling much of their marketing as well. He’s thinking of getting a degree in advertising and trying his luck in corporate America. You very much enjoy teasing him for being a sellout; what would socialist Bayard Rustin say?

“Call your Daddy and let him know we made it safely to the West Coast,” you tell Cadi once her things are unpacked in the guest room she’ll get all to herself; you and Aemond are consigned to the living room futon. Cadi chats with Willis for a while, then says he wants to talk to you. You take the phone, slightly concerned; you hope nothing is amiss with the house. “Hello?”

“What the hell is wrong with this horse?” he demands. “That ain’t no pet. That’s a demon. It’s a goddamn Rougarou.”

“I told you not to try to touch him,” you say, amused.

“I feed him and water him, don’t I? Ain’t that the least he can do? Lettin’ me scratch his big ol’ idiot head?”

“Patches is not very well-behaved. But Cadi loves him.”

“And don’t even get me started on the dog. Ugliest fuckin’ dog I ever saw. Growls every time I show up. Shows its teeth and everythin’. I’d take twenty gators over that son of a bitch any day.”

“Vhagar is a girl,” you say. “Thanks for watching them while we’re out of town.”

“Sure thing, sugar. Although I still don’t understand why the bon a rien can’t do it.”

“Aegon isn’t always…reliable.” But he does seem to be improving. He’s cut back to mostly just booze and marijuana, because otherwise he and Sunfyre aren't allowed to stay at the new house for sleepovers. There’s a guest bedroom, but Aegon prefers the sunken conversation pit in the mauve pink living room. He likes to be where anyone can stumble across him if they wake up in the middle of the night for pancakes or ice cream. He likes to be where people are; he likes to be included. “Anyway, I gotta go. Cadi will call again tomorrow. Enjoy your fishing.”

“Will do. Maybe I’ll toss your accursed animals in as bait.” Lake Verret is still a bit too brackish for a proper freshwater lake, but that’s changing gradually with Daeron’s desalination efforts and a subaquatic plug affixed to the opening of the breached salt dome. He views it as a pioneering experiment in reversing such drilling accidents, potentially for application globally. Now there are more bass and lampreys and catfish, and less breams and gars, but life goes on in Napoleonville’s 14,000-acre lake. Daeron has replaced Aemond as Viserys’ heir apparent, and he is thriving in the role. He is bookish yet empathetic, focused but never ruthless. Furthermore, he happens to be genuinely in love with his aristocratic fiancée: Princess Alexandra of Denmark.

Aemond was right; Viserys didn’t disown him, but he did fire him, ban him from the mansion, and reduce his available funds to a modest living stipend. Fortunately, Viserys has a very limited comprehension of how money works for normal people, and he considers $200,000 per year to be “modest.” With that plus your bakery earnings and a paid-off house, you, Cadi, and Aemond will be living comfortably for the remainder of your lives. Also fortunately, no one else will enforce the no-Aemond rule at The Last Desire, so anytime Viserys is out of town—which is far more often than not—you get to visit the Targaryens at the mansion as much as you please. Cadi loves the water slide and the koi pond. She’s named the fish after Greek deities, her latest obsession: Zeus, Narcissus, Athena, Dionysus, Artemis, Apollo, Echo. Viserys will not acknowledge you, but the rest of the family is polite enough now that the drama of the broken engagement has blown over. When you finish the cookbook of Southern baked goods that you’ve been working on, Alicent had pledged to mail copies to all her friends and relatives back in the U.K. Otto has offered to take a box of them with him next time he jets off for Kiribati; the wealthy housewives marooned in paradise are always on the hunt for new reading material.

On your first night in San Francisco, Amir serves a dinner of cioppino, sourdough bread, and (not homemade) Rice-A-Roni. You provide dessert, a recipe you’re still perfecting: Saint Honoratus cake, a pastry that dates back to Paris in the 1800s. You want to be able to include it in your cookbook, along with photographs from your wedding in the chapel this past May, almost exactly a year from when you and Aemond first met. Your engagement ring has a gold band and pink diamonds arranged to resemble a rockrose, a dauntless little wildflower native to Aemond’s ancestral homeland of Greece. For over a decade you have loved that wildflowers are grown and not bought, small but tenacious, humble yet untamed. They do not wait for other hands to tell them where and how to grow. They are the architects of their own fortune.

When everyone is finished with dessert and gathers around the tv to watch The Golden Girls, Aemond says he’s going outside for a smoke break; but you know he’s trying to quit. You follow him into the small backyard and as soon as your bare feet touch the grass, he’s pushed you against the wall of the house, forced your thighs apart, slipped his hand down the front of your shorts as he watches the amazed, electrified desire rise in your face like heat from a stove. “It’s been a week, and I need you,” Aemond murmurs, his lips ghosting across your throat, his hips braced insistently against yours, and then he kisses you to stifle your moans as you bury your fingers in his hair, to swallow down the vicarious ecstasy of every wondrous thing he’s ever done to you and ever will. “I don’t even need you to get me off. I just need to see you like this.”

Trusting him, wanting him, letting him make me come.

Aemond has been accepted into UC Berkeley’s History PhD program and will start there at the end of August. He wants to write books about underrecognized heroes, extraordinary and yet unassuming people like Bayard Rustin and Bobbi Campbell and Phillis Wheatley. You’ll miss him of course, but there will be breaks for holidays and summers when he can return to Napoleonville, and you can fly out to visit him too, and there are phone calls, and postcards, and one day you’ll be able to go anywhere together—

You gasp, a shaky, starving breath, your lips grinning into Aemond’s. You’re close, you’re so close.

There is a shrill whistle from the back porch of a townhouse from the row behind Amir’s. “Get it, honey!” a man in a leopard-print robe cheers, waving the newspaper he’d been reading. You and Aemond unravel from each other, laughing hysterically.

“Okay,” you tell him, still panting. “Bad plan. We are clearly not accustomed to city life.”

“Tonight,” Aemond says, low and commanding. He returns to you, kissing the side of your face: temple, cheekbone, the curve of your jaw. His voice is dark, jagged glass; his lips are soft like kind dreams. “On the futon, on the floor, anywhere.”

You want it too, but you know the game. “No.”

He pins you to the wall again, powerful, irresistible, his hardness grinding against you through his jeans, everything about him—voice, flesh, rhythm, soul—promising you the peace only he has ever given you, proving that being at the right person’s mercy can make you free. “I’m in charge now. Let me take care of you.” And for a split second you almost beg: Just do it, Aemond, right now, please touch me again, I don’t care if a stranger sees. I want you now, I want you forever.

Instead you smile up at him, the whirls of your fingerprints skating harmlessly over his scarred left cheek as you answer: “Yes sir.”

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond

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thevalleyisjolly · 6 months

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As an intrinsic part of their Mortal heritage, I like to think that all the Half-Elven in Middle-earth have at one point in their lives (but most especially their youths) had a fairly unflattering haircut that they genuinely believed was the hottest shit ever:

Dior had a long feathered mullet that was a pure flex to show off how naturally full and voluminous his hair was. He only cut it once the twins were born and it became too much work to maintain while looking after two babies.

Elúred and Elúrin got their hands on an unattended bottle of hair dye when they were five and gave themselves skunk hair bangs that took months to wash out.

Elwing once experimented with teasing her curls into a big 80's hairdo because people told her how her father used to have big hair.

Eärendil had to cut his hair after a lice scare onboard one of Círdan's ships and went for a bowl cut that he thought would be quick and easy to do. Unfortunately, the bowl he used was a little too small and the high fringe made it look like he was wearing a small hat made out of hair. Idril had conniptions. Tuor managed to hold in his laughter until he could reach the privacy of an inner room. Elwing demonstrated the incredible power of love by both saying yes to his proposal and offering to neaten his fringe so that it at least looked a little less choppy.

Elrond stubbornly sported a man bun undercut for two whole years after he lost a bet with one of Maedhros' Mortal retainers and Maglor made a sighing comment about how he shouldn't worry because his hair would soon grow back out "nice again."

Elros gave himself curtained hair in solidarity with Elrond so that Maglor would get off his back, and kept it until the first time he commanded a war party and got good-naturedly ribbed to hell about looking like a 14 year old kid.

Like father like son, Elladan wore a rat tail for a few years after one of the Dunédain wagered he couldn't pull it off. He really couldn't, although he thought it looked great and was forever trying to do fancy styles with it until Elrohir staged a sibling intervention.

Elrohir maintained a buzzcut for nearly fifty years after his parents a little too amusedly said that he could do whatever he liked with his appearance now that he was of age.

Arwen went through a phase in her 200s where she dyed her hair with whatever colours she could get her hands on. The silver was very nice (Celeborn was extremely proud) and the blue highlights were interesting but still managed to work. She even made a decent ginger. However, the attempt at Arafinwëan gold just ended up a washed-out bleach blonde that is to date the only thing that has ever stunned Galadriel into utter speechlessness.

+Although not born Mortal, Lúthien spent a full Valinorean year with feathers instead of hair while trying to shape-shift into a nightingale. It actually made for quite an aesthetic when she took the time to preen them properly, but as she was far too busy running around having adventures with Daeron, the effect was more often ruffled bird's nest than sleek wings.

#lotr #silmarillion #dior eluchil #elúred #elúrin #elwing #eärendil #elrond #elros #elladan #elrohir #arwen #peredhil headcanons

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variksel · 10 months

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dndads characters' appearance quirk headcanons LIGHTNING ROUND GO ok so

glenn and jodie are mistaken for brothers often because they look weirdly similar despite obviously not being biologically related

henry always has a tiny bit of sand in his pockets. all the time. just a little bit at the bottom where its annoying and doesnt come out even in the washing machine

ron still owns the first tie he ever wore to a Business Interaction. he calls it his lucky tie despite that first deal failing. he wore it when he met samantha for he first time

jodie really likes ironing and is really strict about his shirts being perfect. nicholas mirrored this but he didnt particularly like doing it

this is the opposite behaviour to glenn who hates ironing and would never buy anything thatd need to be ironed

terry owns at least one mitski shirt

the oak boys always wear little crystals from mercedes around their necks. rose quartz for henry, clear quartz for sparrow, and amethyst for lark

darryls socks ALL have that dad condition where they all eventually end up having the exact same huge hole in the exact same spot

on his first birthday post-forgotten realms, terry jr. gave ron a gift for the first time. a tie ron now calls his luckier tie

darryl had a mullet phase when he was younger

grant was DELIGHTED when he found this out

after settling in to hell, nicky weirdly developed a habit of always making sure his shirts were perfectly ironed

before losing like 80% of his hair, ron used to slick it back with an INTENSE amount of hair grease. he thought it made him look "credible" (nobody knew what that meant)

henry has a manbun. enough said

surprisingly enough, glenn absolutely eats up a good, fluffy robe. he loves those bitches

carols hands are more weathered and calloused than darryls, whose hands are soft like a babys

#to be continued #for s2 maybe #or the wives #I HAVE SO MANY THOUGHTS GUYS.#IM INSANELY HYPERFIXATED #dndads #dungeons and daddies #dungeons and daddies odyssey #glenn close #darryl wilson #henry oak #ron stampler #dnd #dungeons and dragons #shitpost

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bucknastysbabe · 1 year

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Cruel Summer - Jace Velaryon x Reader

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Virgin!Jace, Nerdy!Fratty!Jace, 80’s AU, frottage, male m4stürb4t10n, pining, Jace’s huge mf schlong, babysitter reader, Dornish!Reader, fluffy, awk first times, Jace working that thang, horny ass mofo, multiple o’s, pnv!sex, so much lube, wet n messy yeah

Taglist: @godrakin @lovelykhaleesiii @fairysluna @ilikeitbetterangsty @xfancyuu @borikenlove @aemondsversion

Jacaerys Velaryon was fucked. Sincerely fucked. He was home from his freshman year of college and there she was. Playing with little Aeg and Vis in the pool. Olive skin gleaming with droplets, a one piece fiery red and high cut. Revealing those thighs for days.

She could put Jamie Lee Curtis in Perfect to shame. Fucking Dornish babysitter that was unimaginably hot. She was back from her study abroad in Essos apparently. Luke laughed from behind, “Don’t bust the window out with that wood, Jacey.”

“Shut the fuck up Luke,” Jace barked and turned away to stomp to his room. His younger brother’s laugh echoed from downstairs. The brunette flopped down on his bed, staring up at all the old posters in his room. God, he was still such a nerd.

Joined a frat and everything, met his best friend Cregan. Cregan could pull any girl he wanted, like many others in the fraternity. Jace got a tentative handy and many attempts for pussy actually. Apparently he had a horse cock. That’s how that crazy Greyjoy bastard put it anyways.

But he still didn’t lose his v-card. Not because of an embarrassingly small prick of course, no, he ran the normal chicks off and the real sleazy ones made him wilt faster than a dying plant. A nerdy Virgin who still stuttered around chicks unless he had a couple drinks in his system.

And for the the love of the seven he was still hard as nails from baby’s perky tits. Baby. That’s what the Velaryon clan called her since little Viserys pointed at the girl and called her, “Baby! Mah babysidder!” So it stuck. Drove him fucking nuts.

The other side of the family came over for dinner and Aegon was all over Baby. But she smirked and ate it up. Why would she even want that idiotic slimeball? He’d gained, like, so much weight at college.

Aegon didn’t give a fuck though. He had that confidence border lining delusion. Jace stuttered and grinned like a fool in front of their long-time neighbor. He palmed at his cock, shifting to slide down his track pants and get his cock out, imagining himself chatting her up.

She’d giggle and press her pretty tits closer to him, purring in that Dornish lilt, “Mhm baby, want that big cock of yours so bad, kiss those pretty lips while you split me open, mmm.” Jace was stroking himself rough and quick, other hand tugging heavy balls. Biting his plump lower lip the brunette moaned, “Yeah, yeah, gonna fuck you so ha-ah-ard! Suck on those tits of yours-oh fuck!”

Jacaerys gasped as his thick cock spurted on his hand and chest, whining through his nose as he tugged his balls one good last time. He flopped back, heavy cock slapping luridly against his exposed thigh. It wasn’t long until he dozed off into sleep. Just to wake up with more cum on his belly, dreams of her dark lips enveloping the blunt tip of his cock.

Jace grumbled, “Seven forgive me, I’m like a fucking middle schooler.” He stripped his ruined clothes off and hopped into a long, hot shame shower, scrubbing the residual embarrassment off. His mom would be home soon and Uncle Daemon was probably cooking dinner now.

No one dwelled on Uncle Daemon. Targaryens are weird. Baela and Rhaena were awesome though. Half of his clothes were unpacked so Jace put on a polo button-up, jeans, and loafers. How fratty of him. He may have spent too long trying to manage his hair mullet in the mirror.

He trudged downstairs, Joff arguing with Luke over the Nintendo. Jace hollered, “It’s a stupid game you idiots!” Baela and Rhaena were curled on the couch while they ogled over a magazine with Motley Crüe or something on the cover.

Daemon was cooking, chatting with her. She turned and flashed a shining smile, Viserys in her lap. Baby cooed, “Jacey, you look all grown up! College looks good on you, when did you get home?”

Jace’s cheeks reddened and he mumbled, “Uh, a couple hours ago but I was wiped, my bad. How was Essos?”

Daemon snorted at his lame response, working on stir fry. She launched into a spiel about the culture in Braavos, chatting in that warm way of hers. He needed a drink of water. Badly. The moment was interrupted when his mom came into the kitchen, unloading her briefcase and opening her arms for little Aegon and Viserys.

She grinned at him, “Jacaerys, my sweet boy, you look so handsome. We’re all back together!” Daemon lamented, “What a joy!” She shushed the blonde and cooed at the boys, grinning. Jace looked up to make eye contact with Baby, her dark eyes hooded and intense. She sipped her orange juice, pink tongue coming out to lick away a stray drop.

Jace darted to the cabinets to get a glass for water. Ice fucking cold. He mingled a bit, answering questions about grades, the frat, making new friends. Daemon was intrigued about Cregan, his best friend. “A Northman! I guess you need a frigid bastard.” Jace rolled his eyes and sat down at the table.

Across from Baby. Who was wearing a pretty green blouse tucked into sinfully tight shorts. The blouse in question was showing off her tits, making his cheeks redden again. Everyone milled in, filling the huge table while Daemon passed out the plates of food.

He remained quiet as Rhaena talked about her tennis matches. He almost threw his fork when a bare foot nudged his own. Baby was smiling around her drink, eyes on Daemon’s girl. The eldest son chewed on some chicken slowly so he wouldn’t start choking. Because Baby’s foot was traveling up his thigh, stroking along, then toeing at his thighs. Jace whimpered, covering it poorly up with a cough.

Rhaenyra’s thin brows furrowed as she asked, “You okay sweetheart?” He nodded, making an excuse about ‘the wrong windpipe’. Baby smirked and scooched her chair forward, ball of her foot rubbing Jace’s erection.

He stood up abruptly, croaking, “Ah- I- I don’t feel well. I think it was the fast food earlier. I’m going to retire early.” His mom told him to stay in touch if anything got worse, the rest, including her, gave well wishes.

Half waddling up the stairs Jace slumped on the ground, propped up on his bed. He stared at the Star Wars poster, wondering why he couldn’t have super self-control powers like Luke Skywalker or something. But she was obviously flirting with him, sultry eyes and teasing toes evidence of that.

Jace’s heart beat rapidly, unsure of what to do. Baby was actually a very sweet girl, never a bad word spoken about her in highschool. She’d see his cock and run away screeching. He held his head in his hands, groaning in displeasure.

“Man up and fuck the girl!,” Dalton’s voice echoed.

“Obviously she’s into ya’ just give it a try,” was Cregan’s deeper tone.

Jace would just do what he did best— brood until further notice. His cock had already died down some from his anxiety. And brood he did, turning up the radio to Bananarama’s cruel summer. How fucking apt.

He laid back on his bed and stared at the ceiling.

The door cracked slightly, a thin light of illumination coming through. Jace groaned, “M’fine mom.” Her sultry accent came back, “No silly, it’s me.” He bolted upright and opened his mouth to get a manicured finger pressed to them. Baby whispered, “Hush, they think I’m gone for the night. You ran off on me?”

Jace stuttered, “I-I was going to cum at the table.”

She cocked her head and climbed onto the bed next to him, hand rubbing his chest tenderly. Baby murmured, “You never played a little footsie? Look at you, I know you were beating the girls off with a stick.” Jace miserably laughed, “Yeah, that didn’t go as planned.”

“What do you mean?”

Jace flushed and whined, “Oh god, I’ve messed around and stuff. It’s embarrassing.”

“You’re a virgin.”

The Velaryon turned away from Baby and murmured, “Yes, big whoop, Jace is still a stuttering virgin bitch.” She laughed and climbed onto his lap, grinning. He moaned, “It’s horrid, not funny Baby.” The girl played with his hair, scratching as she sought his dark eyes.

“I don’t think it’s funny because you’re a virgin. I think it’s funny because you’re so handsome. What is it? Anxiety, I get that. I was nervous too at first,” she pressed closer to whisper, “But I’ve had an awakening in college.” Jace couldn’t help but moan softly at her warm breath and soft tits.

He stammered, “Y-yeah?”

She purred, “Mhm. Found out I like em’ big. Bigger the better. Gods it feels amazing.” She shifted on his lap, his cock already back in full form. She gasped, “Oh- seems like you’re just my type too. Not every girl can take something like you’re packing. Not a girl that cares about you Jacaerys Velaryon.”

His eyes boggled. She? The most gorgeous girl who has tormented his wet dreams since puberty, cared about him. He grew serious, eyes narrowing, “Are you joking?”

“Why would I lie? I’ve been trying to get your damn attention for ages Jacey,” she turned to look down, Jacaerys pushing back her thick locks as she admitted, “I kinda, hah, would accidentally say your name in the height of passions.”

“So, do you want me? I shared my embarrassing moment and feelings.” She stared in earnest, breathtakingly gorgeous.

He nodded vicariously, “I’ve always wanted you Baby, fuck, like so bad.” He carelessly moved forward, cradling her head as he kissed the darker girl. She titled her head so they didn’t collide noses, rutting further on his cock, rough denim against his briefs. She moaned into the kiss, keeping one hand in his hair, the other trailing down to the slit in his underwear.

Jacaerys lapped at her warm tongue, lips sensually moving against her own. He softly whined through his nose when she pulled him out, getting a feel for the heft and length. She hummed, “Big boyyy, gods, stupid girls don’t know what they’re missing.”

The brunette blurted dumbly, “I don’t want those stupid girls. Like. At all.”

“Good. I get jealous. Dornish blood runs hot.”

“So does Targaryen.”

They returned to desperately sharing kisses, the girl unbuttoning her shorts desperately, Jace yanking them off and tossing the denim. She remained in a scrap of clothing desperately humping her wet pussy against him. Jace groaned, “Baby, baby, god, need you?”

She tied her thick hair back in a flurry of movement, unbuttoning and slinging off the blouse, heavy tits on display. Jacaerys instinctively covered them with his calloused hands, squeezing at flesh and thumbing at pebbled nipples, relishing in her soft whining,

She rasped, “Lube?”

“Lube?”

“Do you have lube Jacey? You have a monster cock, remember?” She began to snicker as Jace rifled around his bed and side drawer, eventually finding the tube of KY. Jacaerys stuttered, “Oh-ah, how do you want me?” While she yanked down his underwear Baby responded, “Missionary, can fit you better that way, just need a pillow under my back. You can, fuck, move my legs up for more.”

Jace flipped them around, panting with excitement. He grabbed a condom too, about to tear it open but she stopped and hummed, “M’on the pill, you’re good sweetie.” He was going to combust. But he liberally squirted lube on his fingers first, he’d done that before. “Good boy,” she rasped as Jace slid the substance around.

He dove two thick fingers into her slick cunt, stretching and rubbing at that spot making Baby call his name and squirm. He added more KY just for the hell of it, enjoying the slick and lurid noises. Then a third finger fit and he was vigorously fingering the Dornish, leaning over to suck and bite at those huge tits. She whined and clawed at his biceps, but Jace was lost in the pleasure.

He couldn’t stop, this was like crack, every sweet noise and her sloppy cunt driving him further into the need to send her into an orgasm. She did after he managed to stuff his pinky in, abusing her g-spot. Baby slapped a hand over her mouth and gushed on him, howling behind her hand, squirming and shaking.

Jace’s eyes rolled back at the wonderful sight; tear streaked face, swollen lips, heaving breasts. Baby rasped, “You fucking monster, hah, c’mere and kiss me. I know you’re excited but I want that cock more than a couple o’ pumps.”

In a sensual, lazy embrace, they twisted in the oldest dance, laughing, whining, moaning. Baby nipped his plush lips, murmuring, “Such pretty fucking lips, want them on my pussy next time.”

He kissed her harder, tucking that idea away for later.

Their make-out had turned into sloppy humping again, the eldest Velaryon gasping, “Oh, m’ready, lemme have you please!” Baby goaded him on, “Yeah, yeah, lube it up ‘kay?” Jace did so with expediency, liberally coating the heavy member.

When his blunt cockhead began to breach her entrance his mouth fell open, eyes rolling around. Baby purred, “Mmm, yeah Jacey, gonna feel s’good, slow slow, ease into it.” The brunette did his best to take it slow but the tight, wet grip around his cock had him sucking in breath and whining on every other breath.

He was about halfway now, sweating from holding back, maneuvering those perfect legs of hers to over his elbows. She arched her back and moaned, “Yes, yes, stuffing me all up baby boy.” Jace could only garble nonsense as he bottomed out, cock sleeved in her cunt. He was in heaved, Baby’s pussy so hot and ridged, pulsing around him.

“Cuh-can I?,” he wheezed.

“Mhmmmm,” she sighed with dreamy eyes.

Jacaerys tentatively pulled back and slapped back in with a wet noise. He cried out helplessly, tucking his mouth onto a perky nipple. Then instinct took over. Fuck. Breed. Fill. Jace could get very one-track minded and focused it all on fucking his Baby silly, trying to keep that need of blowing in the future.

The bed shook, she cried out, Jace keened her name, pounding her roughly. So much for keeping it quiet. “Oh gods, you feel s’good, fuck, it’s s’good,” he repeated.

“I- mm! Know!,” she whimpered.

He moved her legs over his shoulders, living in the moment, all the noises and heavenly feelings. She had bit down on a pillow to keep from screaming, shaking from head to toe. Baby was milking him like a vice now, pussy just dripping and messy. Messier when he came in her poor slit.

That thought felt like a gut punch and she bit harder, squirting on his cock. He must’ve spoken that thought out loud, desperately panting her name as he emptied his heavy balls into her cunt, stuffing it with load after load, Jace shaking and whimpering at the intensity.

They stayed locked together, both too oversensitive to move. Jace had dropped her pretty thighs, rubbing them as he laid on her chest. Her shaky hand played with his hair. Baby hoarsely muttered, “You’re mine forever. I mean it.”

“Guh- uh- yes Baby.”

They needed a shower. Then maybe Jace could try that whole pussy eating thing. Clean her up good and well, make her cry from the third orgasm. Fuck. He sure had some stories to tell Cregan when he got back.

#jace velaryon x reader #jacaerys smut #hotd smut #dornish!reader #afab!reader #wwcd: what would Cregan do?#this was fun

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fordtato · 1 year

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The complicated historical context of Stan's mullet

I never did fully save/combine the collective 4 minutes on the history of mullets in my video, so let me tell you more here on tumblr.

Something interesting about mullets is that for the better part of the 80s, we didn't actually call them mullets in the United States. They were just A Hairstyle Men Had. I don't know how to express that mullets were so ubiquitous as a men's hairstyle that the term was largely unnecessary - it was The Look.

So where did "mullet" as a term come from?

Though the hairstyle itself dates back to ancient times, with the Iliad — written around 750-700 BC — including descriptions of warriors with “hair long at the back”, many credit the Beastie Boy’s 1994 titular tribute song ‘Mullet Head’ with being the first to actually use the term to refer to men with the hairstyle (complete with a description of the hairstyle: "Number one on the side and don't touch the back, number six on the top and don't cut it wack, Jack") though BEFORE then, the term mullethead was a term dating back to the 1800s that just meant a foolish person.

But some have pointed out an earlier usage, before 1994, which may have predated the Beastie Boys (though the jury is out on whether or not it was part of their songs' inspiration).

French fashion guru Henri Mollet was among the first to notably wear this style in the 20th century, in the 1970s (though David Bowie wore it around the same time, with a bigger societal impact). This led to Mollet's hairstyle being described in France as a "Mollet."

The thing is that, for the most part, while some in France called it a Mollet (pronounced like moe-lay, I believe), the term did not make it to the United States. It barely left France, but the term may have been anglicized to the surrounding areas as "mullet," where it existed in Europe to describe Mollet's signature hairstyle.

So if it was a European term and not even in the US, how would Stan have learned this term?

Well, according to his Stetson Pinesfield ID (the ID from "Not What He Seems" that greatly matches his appearance from his date with Carla McCorkle at the Juke Joint, but there's more on that in the video), he's been to London.

It is of note that there are very limited records of the term Mollet being used, so some historians disagree that this is a true origin of the term outside of a hyperlocal sense surrounding France, but it WOULD would make it within the realm of possibility for Stan to have heard the term before 1994, and use it in 1983 (and yes, it's 83, not 82, more on that in the vid).

Which means that Stan was WAY ahead of the curve and the only person on earth to think that mullets were not fashionable, and also that Ford had no idea what he was talking about.

Stan was like, "I have a mullet, Stanford!"

And Ford was like, "Oh? We're just making up made up things now? Cool, that's rad, I have a demon inside my brain, Stanley."

#mullet stan #stanley pines #gravity falls #the gravity falls timeline #stanford pines #mullet history

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hashketchum2 · 2 months

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recent(ish) doodles bc i keep forgetting i can post things here. i got very briefly fixated on the idea of pre-ash era pallet; the mid 80s before he was born — pallet 1985.

some younger giovanni ideas; back when he had his long hair and still hung around town, long before ascending to the head of team rocket.

younger sam, before gary was born (and before he lost his daughter). and some sketchy ideas for ash's dad! it's the 80s, SOMEONE has to have a mullet.

#shan.art #pkmn omens au #hoping to work on more designs soon - I feel like I have more impetus now I've got the server watching

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jheselbraum · 6 months

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One of the most underrated things about Danny Phantom is that Vlad always talked Like That. That is not a speech pattern he purposefully picked up after getting his powers that is his god given natural accent. He was talking like he was cast in the Jekyll & Hyde (1990) and rent was due back in the 80s when he had that stupid mullet.

#danny phantom #Vlad Masters

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ruben-the-cowboy · 4 days

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More Vandermatthews modern AU headcannons!

(Since y’all liked the last one)

Here you go @soullessni 🫶

Hosea is/was VERY good at skating (both roller and ice) and taught Dutch how to skate (that’s primarily what they did on dates)

Hosea LOVES ABBA. Dutch sometimes plays it on their speakers and Hosea can’t resist a dance because it’s ABBA. (Their favorites are Take a Chance on Me, or Why’d It Have to be Me?)

Hosea’s best era was the 70s and Dutch’s was the 80s.

Branching off of that; Hosea totally sported a short sleeved button up tucked into flared pants with white GoGo boots. Meanwhile Dutch totally had a mullet and mustache combo in the 80s. (He misses it) (yes this is in reference of what he canonically looks like in rdr2, I think what he currently looks like is similar to rdr1 Dutch)

Some of their dates back in the day consisted of:

Skating dates

Disco dates

Sight seeing

Bicycling/hiking

Museums

Dates they do nowadays (when they have time) :

Museums (still)

Going out to dinner (a classic)

Drag shows

Staying home with a movie/show

Karaoke bars (with friends too)

They met through Susan in 1979 (Dutch was 22 and Hosea was 33) (they did not expect to fall in love with each other)

Dutch asked Hosea out everyday until he finally said yes

They always used to have hour long conversations which was VERY expensive, and Dutch’s line would PILE UP with everyone trying to reach him.

Hosea is a white wine drinker and Dutch is a red wine drinker

Gazing longingly to each other is their love language. (Whether that is across the room/table/street you decide)

Their actual love languages are:

Hosea- Quality time, physical touch (especially receiving), acts of service

Dutch- WORDS OF AFFIRMATION (especially receiving) , physical touch, gift giving

Dutch used to idly twirl the phone cord while talking to Hosea (tell me he didn’t..)

Dutch only drinks coffee, but Hosea loves both coffee and tea equally

Dutch can’t cook but he has PERFECTED the way Hosea makes his coffee

They often visit each other’s lecture rooms/classrooms at work

Dutch delivered Hosea flowers to his house everyday while they were dating, and nowadays Dutch buys him some still every so often (Hosea would always play it cool around Dutch when brought up, but he was always giddy to see a new bouquet everyday on his doorstep)

Branching off that; Dutch would leave him little poetic lines clipped to the flower baskets. (Hosea saved them all no matter how grammatically incorrect they could be sometimes) (he’s a stickler for punctuation)

Nowadays when Hosea says: “hmm?” Dutch over annunciates what he just said to make fun of his old age (receiving an eye roll from Hosea) (could also apply to the cannon timeline)

The types of conversations they have belong on a podcast (neither of them know how to/want to run one, but they’re hysterical nevertheless)

They both gossip about everything that’s happening in the gang. No one can possibly gossip more than they do

#god damn it I’m thinking about these old men again aren’t I?#red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr2 fandom #rdr2 modern au #dutch van der linde #hosea matthews #dutch x hosea #vandermatthews

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bratshaws · 2 months

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through the hourglass 381. brb x oc

a/n: not me being an idiot and SAYING 40 INSTEAD OF 80 AAA (comments and reblogs are super welcome and encouraged!)

pairing: plus size!oc x rooster

warnings: just some suggestive stuff uwu

goodness gracious (pls read this one to know more what this fic is about!!)

chapter

/316/317/318/319/320/321/322/323/324/325/326/327/328/329/330/331/332/333/334/335/336/337/338/339/340/341/342/343/344/345/346/347/348/349/350/351/352/353/354/355/356/357/358/359/360/361/362/363/364/365/366

/367/368/369/370/371/372/373/374/375/376/377

(pls let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! )

taglist: @mirandastuckinthe80s @roosterschanelslut @wiipes @lcahwriter @novastories @gretagerwigsmuse @frenchtoastix @lizzie-rdj @fanboyluvr @atarmychick007 @comebacktoearthpls

@peachiicherries @mak-32 @lizziespidiepridie @roosterswifey @ollyoxenfrees @piceous21 @sqrlgrl22 @hofficoffi @lexhalstead3 @lorilane33 @legendarydreamersharkparty @luckyladycreator2

@emilybradshaw @louisahale @leobabbyyy @booklover2sblog @ktjmac @graciereads @bigpoppajes @taytaylala12

@caitsymichelle13 @becks-things @caatheeriinee07 @fanboyswhore9 @jesfreedark @katiemcrae @lilmonstrjedi @hobiismyhopeu @teacupsandtopgun @insominac23 @gh0stsgoodgirl @mygyn @chavivaelisheva @kmc1989 @enchantingharmonyalpaca @callsign-magnolia @mrsbradshaw01

@lyn-js

He did something he hadn’t done in years.

He checked his yearbook. it was tossed somewhere inside their closet - to be honest he hadn’t even shown Bea that it was there. Rooster walked out of the shower and beelined towards the built in shelves, moving boxes out of the way, patting around until he finds it.

It was a thick yearbook, red leather cover. He looks down at it, exhales, then inhales, then repeats it all over again. Dr.Paulson,when Rooster told him about it, said that this should be a restart for him. To finally accept the healing he’s been working on. He got the promotion, now he had to deal with some demons.

He looks around, hearing Beatrice moving downstairs and then sits on the bed, placing the yearbook on his lap…why was he nervous to open it?

Rooster sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of the yearbook heavy in his hands. He traced his fingers over the red leather cover… It had been years since he last looked at the pages within, the memories of his high school days buried deep within his mind.

With a deep breath, he opened the yearbook, the pages yellowed with age. As he flipped through the pages, faces from the past stared back at him, frozen in time. He found himself smiling at some of the familiar faces, memories flooding back to him with each turn of the page.

There were pictures of his classmates, their names scrawled in elegant handwriting beneath their photos. He lingered on each page, reminiscing about the friendships and rivalries that had defined his high school experience.

And there were many rivalries.

But as he turned the pages, Rooster couldn't help but feel a sense of sadness wash over him. He paused on a page featuring a group photo of his baseball team, memories of late-night practices and incredible victories flooding back to him.

He shakes his head, flipping back to the beginning to find his photo. He looked…crazy. But then again this was the 2000’s and everyone looked crazy then. His mustache was already thick and— was his hair a mullet???? He stares at it for a few seconds, he could NOT remember his hair like that, but it was a kind of mullet.

“What the f-” he narrows his eyes, trying to remember it…why did he…oh. That picture day he told his mom he wanted a haircut, since his hair was growing long but…but she wasn’t okay, so he decided to do it himself. It wasn’t bad, it just wasn’t good.

He looked very angry then, even while smiling.

He clicks his tongue against his teeth, looking back at his younger self with the strained smile and low brows. Almost glaring in a way…he was so fucking angry back then, so angry,so stressed so–”

“Hey.”

He immediately snaps the yearbook closed, widening his eyes towards Bea, who gave him a confused look ,”...hey…gorgeous.”

Beatrice crossed the room to join him on the bed, her brow furrowing with concern as she took in Rooster's expression. "Are you okay?" she asked softly, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder. "You seem...distressed."

Rooster sighed, running a hand through his hair as he struggled to find the right words. "Yeah, I'm okay," he replied, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "I was just...looking at my old yearbook."

“...what?”

“Oh, it’s…nothing.” he tries to put it away, “Just, you know, it’s nothing.”

Bea blinked at him, smiling in surprise, “You never told me you had your yearbook!”

"Yeah, I guess I never did," he admitted, his voice tinged with regret. "It's just been sitting in the closet for years, collecting dust."

Beatrice's expression softened as she reached out to take Rooster's hand in hers. "Well, why don't you show it to me?" she suggested gently. "I'd love to see what you were like in high school."

Rooster hesitated, unsure of how to respond…"I don't know, Bea," he said hesitantly, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's...not exactly a happy trip down memory lane."

Beatrice squeezed Rooster's hand ,rubbing his knuckles with her thumb, her eyes warm. "I understand," she said softly. "But I'm here for you, no matter what. And if looking at your yearbook brings up difficult memories, I'll be right here to support you. If you want to"

She had a way of making him feel seen and understood, even when he struggled to articulate his emotions.

Always did.

With a deep breath, he nodded, his resolve strengthening.

"Okay," he said, his voice filled with determination. "I'll show it to you."

With that, Rooster opened the yearbook once again, flipping through the pages as Beatrice leaned in to look over his shoulder. She blinked, because he opened exactly on his picture, ‘...Roos.” she whispers, “...You never told me you had a mullet in school!’

‘Yeah,I…kinda forgot.”

“You make it look good.” she whispered, “...gosh I’d have such a crush on you if we studied together.”

Rooster chuckled softly at Beatrice's remark, feeling a warmth spread through his chest. "Well, lucky for me, I have you now," he replied, his voice tinged with affection. "And I wouldn't change that for anything."

Beatrice smiled up at Rooster, her eyes shining with love. "I feel the same way," she said softly, her voice filled with sincerity. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me." she was so sincere, only to drop her gaze back down at the yearbook, “...so, tell me a little bit about this. You did tell me some about your life in Virginia but,well, anyone here you’d like to introduce me to?”

“Ah,pft,I think you’ll meet most of them at the reunion.” he mutters, flipping a page, ‘...I can’t believe I said yes.”

She looks at him for a few seconds, she could see how much this whole ordeal made him conflicted and she felt her heart hurt for him. Rooster had so much in his mind and she always means what she says when she says she’ll respect and support his choices… “We can still cancel the flight if you want.” she suggests ,”Is that what you want?”

“...no, it’s fine.”

“You sure?”

He rubs his eyes then runs his hand down his face, “I…I need to do this, close the chapter, you know?” he looks down at his yearbook, inhaling before he closes it, “...I haven’t seen these people in almost 20 years, gorgeous….”

"I understand," she said softly, her voice quiet. "Closing that chapter can be difficult, but I'll be right here with you every step of the way."

Rooster smiled gratefully at Beatrice, feeling a sense of warmth wash over him. "Thank you," he murmured, his voice filled with sincerity. "I appreciate that.”

"Hey," she said softly, breaking the silence, "You don't have to do this alone. We're a team, remember?"

Rooster smiled at Beatrice's words, feeling a surge of gratitude wash over him. "I know," he replied, his voice filled with warmth. "It’s just…weird."

They sat together for a while longer, finding solace in each other's presence.It was then that Bea finally noticed that her husband, her very handsome and physically attractive husband, was wearing only a towel. “...baby?” she asks, “you…are not dressed.”

He blinks, “...Oh. I…forgot about that.”

Beatrice laughed softly, reaching out to playfully swat his arm. "You are too silly sometimes" she teased, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Go get dressed before you catch a cold."

“I mean…would you be opposed if I…you know, lost the towel?”

Oh he was relentless.

“Normally I’d be all for it baby but we have things to do today,” she whispers, albeit her eyes dropped to his jutted hipbones, “Okay?”

Rooster nodded, smirking before standing up from the bed and making his way to the closet to grab some clothes.Beatrice watched Rooster with a fond smile, feeling a rush of affection wash over her.

And something else.

Once Rooster was dressed, they settled back onto the bed, enjoying each other's company in comfortable silence. Beatrice snuggled up against Rooster's side, feeling a sense of peace wash over her as they basked in the warmth of their love.

As they lay together, lost in their own thoughts, Rooster reached out to take Beatrice's hand in his. He squeezed her hand then brought up to his lips "I love you," he murmured, his voice filled with sincerity. "Thank you for always being there for me."

Beatrice smiled up at Rooster, her heart swelling with love. "I love you too," she replied softly, her voice filled with warmth. "Don’t mention it.”

He smiles, his cheeks dimpling as he rubs her ring finger gently, inhaling, ‘...is it weird to say I’m kinda scared for the reunion?”

"It's not weird at all," she replied softly, her voice gentle as she caresses his chest. "It's natural to feel nervous about facing the past, especially when it's been so long."

Rooster nodded, his gaze dropping to their intertwined fingers. "Yeah," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "I guess I'm just worried about...what they'll think of me, you know? It's been so long since we've seen each other, and I've changed a lot since then." he frowns, “I don’t know why I am worried.”

Beatrice squeezed Rooster's hand reassuringly, her touch warm and comforting. "You're still the same amazing person you've always been," she said sincerely. "And anyone who can't see that doesn't deserve to be in your life."

Rooster smiled gratefully at Beatrice, feeling a sense of warmth spread through his chest. "Thank you," he murmured, his voice filled with sincerity. "It’s just this whole thing with John, him being a weirdo, i don’t know…made me remember why I stopped talking to some of them.”

Rooster wrapped his arm around Beatrice, pulling her close before he continued, “I mean, he looked at you weird too.” he purses his lips, “I didn’t like it.”

Beatrice leaned into Rooster's embrace, feeling a sense of security wash over her. "I know," she replied softly, her voice tinged with concern. “I do love when you get all protective.” she smiles softly, kissing his chin, “You are always so…vicious with your eyes only,it’s very attractive.”

He chuckles, arching his brow at her, “Well, you are a beautiful woman.” she blushes,dropping her gaze a bit ,”And you know,I do love all of you.”

Beatrice's heart skipped a beat at Rooster's words, feeling a rush of warmth flood her chest. She looked up at him with adoration in her eyes, "You always know how to make me feel loved," she whispered, “I really like it.”

Rooster brushed a strand of hair away from Beatrice's face, his touch gentle as he leaned in to press a tender kiss to her forehead. "And I always will," he replied softly, his voice filled with sincerity. "You mean everything to me, Beatrice."

Beatrice smiled up at Rooster, feeling a sense of gratitude wash over her. "”And you mean everything to me.” she whispers, touching his face, “...that’s why I don’t want you to be too worried, if you feel uncomfortable there,we leave. Plain and simple.”

He frowns, “I know…” he sighs, “I don’t know if we should take the kids to Virginia this time.”

“Yeah?”

“We’ll be there for what? One? Two days? There’s no need.” he frowns, “Besides, the long travel is going to take a toll on them, you know?”

‘Well, the twins are still pretty young.” she whispers, “And Nikki…mhm…yeah no you are right, it’s better they stay here. Maybe we can call Mav to babysit them, you know?” she says softly, “They’d have a blast.”

Rooster nodded in agreement, his brow furrowing with concern. "Yeah, that sounds like a good idea," he replied, his voice filled with thoughtfulness. "I'll give Mav a call and see if he's available to babysit."

Beatrice smiled gratefully at Rooster, feeling a sense of relief wash over her. "He’ll make time, you know that," she said softly, her voice filled with gratitude. "I think the kids will have a lot of fun with him."

Rooster leaned in to press a tender kiss to Beatrice's lips, his touch warm. They always do," he murmured, his voice filled with sincerity. "I just want to make sure our family is happy and safe."

Beatrice melted into Rooster's embrace, feeling a sense of warmth spread through her chest. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close as they savored the moment together.

“They are.” she whispers, kissing his chin, “You know they are.” she then sits up, “Come on, there’s a lot of stuff we have to pack–” he groans in annoyance “And we better get on with it, the sooner we do it, the better,right?”

He sighs, but relents, “...fine…” with a little grin, slapping her ass as she turns around, making her yelp, “After you.”

#im happy yall are still here #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x oc #top gun maverick #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw x named reader #tgm oc #tgm fic #tgm fanfiction

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